by Stefon Mears
As for the innocent townsfolk between the inn and that bridge, they were easy to spot thanks to Maran’s magic, and even easier to avoid because the few that moved through the mist moved slowly.
Before long Cavan and his friends were out of town, across the bridge, and on the road again, riding between farms.
Cavan was only too happy to see Drien receding in the distance. A town where he had not gotten to fight his own battles, nor cast his own spells?
He couldn’t wait to forget it.
Far as Cavan was concerned, the best part of Drien was on the horse behind him.
What he didn’t know, was exactly what that meant.
3
The road out of Oinos was wide enough that it must have seen a good deal of caravan traffic, and dusty enough that the summer near here must have been hot and dry.
The air was cooler now, with fall around the corner, but the rains had not not come through yet. At least, not enough to make a difference to the dusty road.
No caravans that day though. Only local traders pulling wagons by hand and heading farm to farm, or into Drien.
The road held due west for quite a distance. Far longer than Cavan and his friends stayed with it.
Ehren, of course, had been against leaving the road. But that was only out of concern for Reesa, and the discomfort she would face if they rode overland before he could mend her wounds completely, by the light of the next dawn.
Reesa refused to let her broken foot slow them down any more than it had to.
And so, as soon as they were past the farms and somewhere into the kingdom west of Oinos — Cavan was pretty sure its name was Holfast, though he couldn’t remember who ruled here — they turned northwest and left the road behind.
Due north might have been the fastest way to reach the Dragon Spikes, but northwest was a more direct route to the particular dwarf Cavan had in mind to be the forger of a new weapon for Qalas. Assuming that dwarf still lived and worked where he had, when last Cavan saw him.
And assuming that Cavan remembered the lay of this part of the continent as well as he believed. He hadn’t ridden this way in a number of years.
Once off the road, their concession to Reesa’s condition was to give up concerns over speed. They may not have needed it anyway. From what Reesa said, Sarkis was west and south, and Maran was likely to let slip — convincingly — that Reesa would want to go that way first.
A tricky game, admitting a potential ultimate destination, but pretending it was an early destination. By the time they determined Reesa was not in Sarkis, it would probably be safe for her to go there.
Assuming that was what she wanted.
A day’s riding and walking their horses (Reesa still sitting her horse as they walked, of course), and Cavan still felt no nearer to asking Reesa just what she imagined life on the road would be. Nor what she really wanted, traveling with them as she was now.
Least of all did Cavan want to ask what Reesa wanted from him, but that was the question he came back to most often, in his mind.
They had had only the one night together, after all. Surely she did not, as her father appeared to, imagine that she would now marry Cavan…
Though Cavan could do far worse for a bride, when that day came. Beautiful, fiery, good at dancing and riding, passably good with a sword…
Thoughts like those, and their potential answers, kept Cavan quiet on the day’s ride.
The others seemed content not to press Reesa too hard as they traveled, either. Qalas, Amra and Ehren each took turns telling one story or another of their adventures.
Though, Cavan noted, they made sure that each such story demonstrated the dangers they faced in their travels.
Qalas did engage Reesa in some discussion of bows and shooting, which conversation Amra joined in as well. Cavan heard enough of this to conclude that Reesa was at least used to shooting her bow at small, moving targets such as ducks in flight and rabbits on the run.
She might be good with that bow after all.
And it seemed that Reesa was a true follower of Zatafa. Or at least, she joined in the songs Ehren sang throughout the day, and she never once complained about Ehren’s singing voice.
By the time they set their camp that night, Cavan was no more ready to ask the questions he dreaded. So he made sure to focus on checking their surroundings.
They set their camp in a clearing in a small woods. Evergreens, mostly, this far north, but pale puny things beside the mighty trees Cavan had seen in the Wailing Woods.
These trees grew no wider across than the length of his arm, and their heights scarcely topped what he might see in a common guard tower. Their bark was almost light as that of birch woods.
Cavan did not know these trees. So he collected a few fallen sticks, as well as bits of bark, and a handful of the thick, sweet-smelling needle leaves.
New trees might have interesting properties, and Master Powys had taught Cavan the tricks to learning the secrets of herbs, plants, and trees.
But the area itself looked safe enough. Their clearing had not been used for camps in the last several weeks, and even in looking around he could see no recent signs of riders, nor anyone marching in numbers.
Outside of the woods here, the land was largely rolling grasslands and thickened regions of brambles and thorny undergrowth. They were away from the farmed areas, and they were still well enough short of the Dragon’s Eye, the largest lake in the area, and the rivers it fed that Cavan suspected he was riding through a no man’s land.
Officially it likely belonged to one kingdom or another, but unofficially no one settled here, because it was too remote from the local towns and cities to be worth the bother, and not rich enough in resources to merit expansion.
Or perhaps Holfast and its northern neighbor had warred enough times to leave a comfortable uninhabited zone between themselves. A place to drive any raiding orc tribes, perhaps.
Amra would know.
But Amra had already begun the questions.
The bedrolls were scarcely laid out in the dying light, and Ehren had only just begun to roast a brace of chickens, along with a selection of vegetables, all from that wondrous pack of his.
And yet Amra had already begun the questions. Starting with the issue Cavan considered least important, himself.
“So,” Amra said, smiling at Reesa, “I’ve got to know. You were supposed to stay a virgin until whatever marriage your father arranged for you…”
“To Jace, eldest son of Count Vulyys,” Reesa said with a grimace. “Fair enough to look at, I suppose, but the kind of noble who thinks hunting should involve him pointing at a deer, someone else killing it, and him getting the credit.”
“Whatever,” Amra said, waving away the description and getting on with her question. “What I want to know is, was Jace supposed to be a virgin too?”
“Of course,” Reesa said, open surprise on her face that it was even a question. “Oinos takes a dim view of bastards among its nobility. It’s considered a sign of weakness. The fashion has begun to spread among the more successful merchants. Few major families would be willing … to … risk…”
Reesa paled and looked at Cavan.
“That explains why we didn’t meet any Oinbloods on our way through.” Cavan smiled. “Fortunately for me, King Draven of Oltoss doesn’t feel the same way.”
“Meanwhile,” Amra said, through the first strains of laughter, “the nobles of Oinoss go to their marriage bed with no idea what they’re doing!”
Amra fell backward onto her bedroll, lost in peals of hilarity.
“Wait,” Ehren said, looking over from the fire and talking over Amra’s amusement. “Then why did your father keep emphasizing Cavan’s bastardy?”
“Because I’d sullied myself, to his way of thinking,” Reesa said bitterly. “Not fit for a noble of Oinos anymore, but fit enough for a bastard of Oltoss.”
“How did you think he’d react?” Qalas asked, frowning.
“I
wasn’t really thinking at the time,” Reesa said, making a show of looking anywhere but Cavan.
“More urgent at the moment,” Ehren said, “is for us to know what you have in mind. You wished to leave Drien. Well, the whole world lies before you. Where would you go?”
“Keeping in mind,” Amra said, sitting up quickly, “that we are about our own business.”
“But we’ll make time to see you someplace safe,” Ehren said, aiming his sharp tone at Amra.
Reesa gave Cavan a helpless look.
“It’s all right,” Cavan said, then quirked a half-smile for his friends that belied the unease in his gut. “I offered you the chance to ride with us. So you can ride with us. We’re heading for the Dragon Spike mountains, to see a dwarf about a halberd.”
“Not exactly a safe route,” Qalas said. “Lots of orc territory, and worse. And I still worry about what sort of ‘favor’ this friend of yours will ask to make me a weapon.”
“The key is,” Cavan said, “there will likely be stops at a town or two between here and there, if you wish to follow a different path. And if your goal is Sarkis, well, unless you want to go there now, we might have to see you situated safely in a more northern town for a time, until we finish our business with the dwarf.”
“How long do we have, anyway?” Qalas asked. “Isn’t this a marching year?”
“Yes. And since we’ve been passing harvest festivals, the march probably starts in no more than a week or so. But that won’t matter. Ranka doesn’t join the march. Says the Black Shield Mountains in the south don’t produce any metals good enough for his anvil, so he won’t waste his time down there.”
“The orcs though. Most tribes will push east, unless they can unite enough to—”
But Amra cut Qalas off with a raised hand.
A moment later, Cavan heard the snapping of a twig.
They had company.
Cavan had been facing the fire before he’d heard that twig snap. His night vision wasn’t going to be worth much. Ehren and Reesa looked to be in the same state. Qalas … possibly.
So only Amra was likely to have persevered her night vision, even though she, too, had been facing the fire.
A trick she had yet to teach Cavan in their travels.
Still, this was only the first night past the full moon, and this small section of woods had little canopy over the clearing. Cavan could see well enough to the tree line.
But not well enough to see the intruder.
“We have food to share,” Ehren called out, using one hand to waft the smell of his roasting chickens and vegetables, though with the other he still picked up his goldenwood staff. “And a fire. There’s no need for trouble.”
Amra did nothing more than shift her sitting position, but she looked ready to fight. Her eyes kept moving though. As though even she could not yet spot who or what had snapped that twig.
Qalas had his hand on his weapon, and Cavan kept his hands near his belt, ready for sword or spell as he deemed necessary.
But something had sounded off about that snapping twig. If only Cavan could pick out what.
A war cry echoed into the night. Two dozen raiders ran into the camp, from all sides.
Ghostly raiders. Their skin, armor and weapons silvery and translucent. Their cries hollow.
Cavan and Amra drew their swords all the same, though Cavan did not take a ready pose.
More ghosts melted up through the ground. A dozen, men and women, kitted for war in full plate and shield, with longswords.
“Gah!” Qalas cried out, followed shortly by similar cries from Reesa and Ehren as the ghostly knights passed through them.
Cavan held his tongue through the experience. He’d had ghosts pass through him before, though it was not a sensation he relished.
The cold, wet sensation was famous and expected. What could never be planned on was the vivid flash of how that ghost had died.
And in the cases of these ghosts, their ends were bloody and quick.
The flash that Cavan experienced was like getting his throat slashed with a sword that hadn’t been sharpened in far too long. It tore as much skin and muscle as it sliced, but the muscles behind the blow were more than adequate for the task.
The sensation faded just as the splash of pulsing blood began.
Cavan had been ready for it, but still he shivered. And he sheathed his sword. An enchanted metal like licha might be able to disrupt this ghostly reenactment, and that could have … consequences.
He tried to content himself with studying the battle, that he might later learn the history of it. Perhaps even return, to help lay these spirits to rest.
The ghostly knights were sleepy. Slow. Perhaps exhausted from long days of marching or riding…
Riding. Cavan could see the ghosts of their horses off surrounding the clearing, being butchered by more ghostly raiders.
The hollow echo of steel meeting steel. Raiders dying. Knights dying.
Arrows flew into the fight, striking both sides interchangeably with unerring accuracy and chilling speed.
Elvish arrows. Even through their silvered forms, Cavan could see the spell-hardened bone heads, and the spell-aided fletchings.
Not many arrows. No more than half a dozen. But enough to swing the fight, as they struck down more knights than raiders.
Qalas hunched at his bedroll, halberd up and ready, but useless against the things that would not harm him anyway.
Reesa had a dagger in her hand, her face pale and drawn with fear, but she stayed steady.
Ehren had begun to pray, not that Cavan could imagine what good that would do. Zatafa was not a goddess of death, and she held no special means to lay these spirits to rest. Not in their current condition.
Only a psychopomp, a priest of the god of death, could do that.
Amra, of course, enjoyed the show more than Cavan thought was seemly. These people all died here, condemned for some reason to replay their deaths when the circumstances were right.
But Amra crouched, her sword in hand and fire in her eyes, as she seemed to be predicting each strike and each death to herself before they happened. As though she were studying this scene, not for its history, but for its tactics.
With her sword in hand.
That strange magic sword, that Cavan suspected to have been forged from the body of a demon…
“Amra,” Cavan called quickly. “Sheathe your—”
He was too late.
Amra turned, following the battle.
A raider rushed out of the woods, at just the wrong angle. Where she could see the movement, but only just detected the possible threat as the raider’s blade came down.
Battled tested reflexes did the rest.
Amra slipped backwards and cut for the throat of the raider.
Her strange magic sword cut right through his ghostly flesh. Sliced his head off in a fountain of silvery blood.
Her sword came away clean, Cavan noted through the shock of what he saw. Even the stuff of ghosts could not stick to that blade.
The flow of blood faded quickly, along with the rest of the interrupted battle scene.
The ground beneath them rumbled.
“That’s not good, is it?” Amra asked.
“Killing ghosts,” Qalas said. “How can that possibly be good? Amra, I can’t believe you—”
“I didn’t mean to,” Amra said, frowning. Though Cavan thought he saw a pleased sparkle in her green-and-gold eyes that her sword could cut through even the substance of ghosts.
“There was intention behind the strike.”
Words not spoken by Cavan, nor any of his friends. Words that echoed in a voice as deep as a dwarf’s mine, and as hollow as a goblin’s promise.
Wings unfolded in the blackness of the sky above them.
Cavan had only seen wings that large once before. In the Dragon Spikes, while attempting to scale the mighty peak known as the Dragon’s Tooth, Cavan had seen more than his share of nests belonging to rocs, the
giant birds that made their homes among the upper peaks, and hunted the nearby lands.
Among all the rocs he saw fly in and out of those nests, he had once caught a glimpse of the largest of them all. A roc so tremendous it could have carried off a castle in each of its claws.
The black wings unfolding in the air above Cavan now were big enough to have been carrying that roc.
Unfortunately, they were carrying something much worse.
Cavan had seen twenty summers since his birth.
He’d managed to live nineteen of them without ever meeting the divine face-to-face. Something he had not, until recently, regarded as an accomplishment.
Indeed, it was something he had managed to never think about at all.
And yet, only a few weeks ago, Cavan had passed through a gateway deep under a mountain that led to the Underworld of an ancient Dunaian god.
A god that recognized Cavan’s line, confirming that he was indeed descended at least partially from that lost, powerful race of people.
Cavan and his friends had managed to escape that Underworld with their lives, but the price had been high. Power, the like of which Cavan might not see again in his lifetime.
He remembered that encounter in his dreams on more nights than he would admit.
On the nights he woke from those dreams in an icy sweat, he heard echoing once more that god’s final words to him.
Farewell, Cavan Oltblood. We will meet again.
Cavan sincerely hoped that was not prophecy. So far as he was concerned, meeting gods should be left to their most devout followers. Like Ehren, with his Zatafa.
And yet, what floated in the air above him now could only be a messenger of Istanlos, the god of death.
Held up by black, batlike wings wider across than the small woods where Cavan and his friends had made their camp, was a creature large enough to need those wings.
It bore the shape of a human skeleton. Almost. Cavan could only see it from the torso up, and even what he saw was not quite human in design. Its elbows had spikes, and two ram’s horns protruded from a skull in which all the teeth were fanged.