by Peter Wacht
Along the way he had picked some berries to satisfy his grumbling stomach and he drank from every stream he came across. At what he had judged to be midafternoon, he took a short break by one stream and removed the strap from his shoulder. Taking a closer look at the blade, he read for the first time the words etched into the steel. He had always focused his attention on the raptors on each side of the blade, as well as in the pommel. Peering closely, he read the words out loud: "Strength and courage lead to freedom." As he trekked through the Highlands, those words danced around in his mind. No matter how hard he tried to think about something else, he couldn't escape them: Strength and courage lead to freedom. He had thought about their significance, hoping that doing so would banish them from his mind. The literal meaning was, of course, the most obvious. But he had a feeling that there was a deeper meaning, one that evaded his grasp.
The hours passed quickly as Thomas journeyed to the east. Though he still had several small mountains to climb, with each step the smell of the sea became stronger. When he had begun his journey, he had moved quickly, his fear of capture pushing him on. But his exhaustion slowed his pace now. As a result, his fear had ebbed. He tried to remain alert, but it was a losing battle. The events of the past night and day were wearing him down.
From time to time, Thomas extended his senses into the forest to make sure he was alone. Looking back over his shoulder and seeing the sun edge closer to the mountains, he judged that now was a good time to check again. Coming to a stop on top of a small hill, he allowed the essence of the forest to flow within him. Each time he had extended his senses during the day it had grown easier, the task becoming more familiar. He had also been able to push out his senses farther each time, now reaching for several miles around. Not far to the east, a river ran through the Highlands. The Southern River, he decided. On its bank a badger patiently stared at the water, waiting for a fish to swim within reach of its paws. He focused his senses on the way he had come. A frown settled on his face. Not too far behind him something felt wrong. It was the same feeling that had bothered him in the early morning that preceded the attack. He concentrated on that feeling.
There were men behind him, many men, traveling in what looked like a dozen groups, all cloaked in darkness. His fear returned, as did his energy. He abruptly lost control of his skill, wanting only to run. Thomas forced himself to relax and extended his senses once again. He couldn't afford to run blind. He had to know what he faced. Approximately ten groups of about twenty men each coming toward him in some sort of pattern. The path of one group slightly overlapped the path of another. Then he realized what was going on. They knew he was somewhere to the east of the Crag, but they weren't sure exactly where. To ensure that he didn't sneak around them, they had formed a loose semicircle to push him toward the river. Once the pincer groups reached the banks of the Southern River, he'd be easy to catch out in the open. A feeling of helplessness swept through him, and he struggled to beat it down. His odds of escaping had just narrowed considerably.
Still, if those following him didn't know exactly where he was, that meant he still had a chance. Thomas set off at a fast trot down the other side of the hill, judging that speed was his best ally now. If he could keep his distance from his pursuers until dark, then he would have the advantage.
He continued at a steady pace for several hours to conserve his energy, hoping desperately to stay ahead of his pursuers. Night approached quickly, and with every minute gone, the more confident he became. As he reached the bottom of a steep hill, he stopped at a tree that had fallen to the ground. His lungs burned. He would have done just about anything for a flask of water. He looked back in the direction he had just come, then ducked behind the fallen tree. On top of the hill, he made out the shapes of several dozen men, recognizing the black armor and clothing from the Crag. Reivers. They were gaining on him, and it was still at least an hour before full dark. If he kept running they would catch him before the sun set. His only choice was to hide.
When the reivers started their descent and disappeared from view, Thomas jumped out from behind the fallen tree. He ran through the forest as fast as he could, desperately looking for a place to hide. The sword on his back now felt like a dead weight, catching on vines and branches in his haste. It was slowing him down, but he couldn't get rid of it. He would do what his grandfather had asked of him. As the minutes passed, the shouts of the reivers following behind him became louder. He judged that they had closed the distance to no more than a half mile, but in the Highlands, with the ravines, valleys and mountains, sounds could be deceptive. Someone who was only a few hundred feet away could sound as if they were miles in the distance. The reivers might even be closer than that. He had passed several trees that he considered climbing, but none appealed to him. If they saw him in the branches, he would be an easy kill.
Thomas came to an abrupt stop as he broke through the trees, his feet only inches from slipping over a steep embankment into the Southern River. The reivers’ voices grew louder. He struggled down the slope. The snapping branches and the crunch of dead leaves so close behind him pushed Thomas on. Looking vainly to the other side of the river, thoughts of swimming across were swept away. He would never make it before the reivers saw him. The river was too wide.
As he frantically searched for a solution, the shouts of the reivers behind him made it harder and harder to think. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Then, he looked down at his feet. He had actually stepped into the river without realizing it. Thomas examined the riverbank. To his left reeds swayed in the slight breeze of the late afternoon. Thomas picked one that looked right. He sliced off both ends with his dagger and walked farther into the river, careful not to bend or break any reeds as he moved among them. Putting his dagger back in its sheath, he judged he was in water deep enough for him to not be seen from the riverbank. He heard curses now mixed with shouts. The reivers were almost upon him. He placed one tip of the reed in his mouth, then submerged himself in the water, shrugging off the cold that immediately seeped into him. Now, he was actually glad to have the sword on his back. Its weight made it easier for him to stay underwater. As he took his first breath from the reed, the reivers broke through the trees and stopped at the edge of the river.
CHAPTER SIX
Memories
Rynlin and Rya continued their journey along the coast of the Highlands as the sun moved closer to the horizon. They had traveled most of the way in silence, each occupied by their own thoughts. Rya spent much of her time wondering who wore the necklace. She glanced occasionally at Rynlin, noting his dark scowl. She guessed that curiosity was not his primary feeling at the moment. She would have thought that after ten years, his anger would have diminished at least to some degree, but she wasn't too sure now. When Rynlin had learned that Marya had run off to marry Benlorin against his wishes, he had been in a black mood for almost a year and had refused to speak with her, a tactic their daughter used against them as well. Then, when they had felt Marya die, Rynlin had taken it especially hard, believing that he was the cause. Nonsense, she knew. Still, it was a long time before they were both able to resume their lives. His anger and pain from the past had probably prevented Rynlin from feeling what she had felt when just hours before someone had put on the necklace that had once belonged to their daughter.
As she gazed up at the mountains rising on their right, memories of her daughter flooded her mind. She remembered when Marya was only three years old, wearing a dirty dress and no shoes, a huge grin on her face because she had grown a pretty purple flower from a seed in a matter of seconds. Rya knew then that the special abilities that ran through both her and Rynlin's blood had already manifested themselves in Marya, but she had still been taken by surprise by her strength. Marya had always been a headstrong child, which she knew came solely from her father. That's probably why Marya enjoyed spending time with her father so much. They were very much alike.
"Whoever it is," said Rya, trying to draw Rynlin o
ut of his cloud, "he's afraid. And he's in danger."
"How do you know it's a he?" asked Rynlin, his skepticism unmistakable.
"If you spent some time paying attention to what was going on rather than reliving what happened ten years ago," replied Rya sharply, "you'd know it was a boy."
Rynlin smiled at his wife. She always seemed more beautiful when she was angry. That's probably why he had fallen in love with her so easily — the fire within her. Rynlin wiped the smile from his face. He didn't think she'd appreciate his grin.
"I can feel him," continued Rya. "He feels more like Marya the closer we get to him, but there's something different about him."
They both quickened their pace, the look of concern spreading on Rya's face. She almost tripped when Rynlin grabbed her wrist. She was about to offer him a few choice words about manners, but Rynlin’s expression brought her up short.
"Slow down, Rya. There are others about."
She was so absorbed in figuring out who might be wearing her daughter's necklace, she had stopped paying attention to her surroundings. She glanced at her husband with a hard look, daring him to say something. Instead, he scanned the beach in front of them and the trees to the side, looking for signs of movement. At least he had grown somewhat smarter during the years. If he made a single joke about her almost falling face first in the sand, she would make him regret it.
Pulling her gently behind him, they stepped into the forest and slipped between two large oak trees. Crawling to the edge of a small drop, they looked down into the foliage. More than a dozen men clad in black leather armor combed the woods, sticking their blades into bushes and peering up into the branches.
"It looks like we're not the only ones looking for someone," whispered Rynlin. Rya nodded. The worry in Rynlin's eyes mirrored her own.
They waited until the black-clad soldiers moved away, then stepped forward among the trees. They continued to follow the feeling that emanated from their necklaces, pulling them south, the silver growing warmer with their every step.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Companion
At first, hiding beneath the water seemed almost like a game. The extra weight of the sword guaranteed that Thomas did not have to worry about breaking the surface, and the reed proved to be an effective tool for breathing. After only a few minutes, though, the chilly water began to turn his body to ice. Each hesitant touch of the current sent a shiver through his body. Soon, he desperately wanted to rise to the surface. But he couldn't. Not yet.
He had been submerged for only a few minutes, and it was still an hour before full dark; plenty of time for the reivers to do a thorough search of both sides of the river. He thought of other things to ward off the chill, remembering hot summers swimming in a hidden pool in one of the glades by the Crag. It didn't help much. Eventually, he simply resigned himself to the mind-numbing, bone-chilling cold of the water, doing his best to wait for the dark.
Thomas saw through the glimmer of the water as the sun gradually began to fade, until almost everything around him was in darkness. The reeds that were no more than a fingerbreadth away had disappeared, growing indistinct in the cloudy water as the day's shadows lengthened. Ever so slowly he stuck his head out of the water, the current pushing small waves up against his nose as they flowed toward the shore. Remaining motionless, he picked out several dark shadows on the riverbank no more than thirty feet away.
His breath caught in his throat. The reivers were still looking for him. Had his ruse failed? He hoped that with the darkness and the reeds surrounding him, he would remain unseen. To be safe, though, he unsheathed his knife, holding it in his hand just below the surface of the water.
"He couldn't have crossed it," said one of the black-armored men, spitting into the river to emphasize his point. "Not at his age. If he tried, he drowned." Several of the soldiers murmured their assent, others just nodded. They waited for another reiver to speak.
This was Thomas' first opportunity to get a good look at those who had attacked the Crag and killed his grandfather. The hate that filled his heart burned off some of the chill that had settled within his bones. His anger pushed him forward, the desire for revenge consuming him. These men had killed his grandfather.
The arrival of several more reivers on the shore snapped Thomas from his thoughts. He realized that he was now out of the water to his neck. He had taken a step forward, as if he was going to attack a dozen trained warriors by himself. Cursing himself for his stupidity, he quietly settled back into his watery hiding place.
He let the heat of his anger simmer. He felt like a cauldron; his insides were on fire, a roiling, boiling mass licked by a white-hot flame. He contented himself with studying his pursuers. Revenge would have to wait for another time. Most of the reivers carried short swords, though a few preferred battle-axes.
All of the reivers wore black armor, with their shoulders and upper body covered in steel plates or hardened leather and their thighs protected by chain mail. Flexibility and speed. The plate armor would stop most attacker's blows in battle, and the chain mail lessened the overall weight, allowing the men to move faster than expected for longer periods of time. Again, his grandfather's lessons had proven useful. Now he understood how they could follow after him so quickly. He wasn't strong enough yet to use his grandfather's sword properly, and even if he was lucky enough to succeed, he could swing with all his might and it would barely dent those plates. If he was quick with his dagger, though, one careful stab could slip right through the gaps. If you knew what you were doing, you didn't have to strike a man in the heart to kill him.
"Perhaps you're right, Oclan. Perhaps he did try to cross the river, and he drowned for his efforts." A single reiver stood by himself at the very edge of the river. He appeared to be the leader of this group. "Then again, maybe he didn't. Do you want to be the one to tell Lord Chertney that the boy drowned, only to find out later that he didn't?" The question was filled with menace. Oclan stepped back, though he wasn't one to be easily intimidated. A tall, massive man, his body dwarfed the armor he wore.
The reivers had the grizzled features of men used to battle, their arms and faces covered with the scars of war. They had long ago forgotten their fear, and that had helped them stay alive. But now, at the mention of Lord Chertney, they looked like raw recruits seeing a corpse for the first time. Their faces had gone a deathly pale, with some running their hands nervously over the hilts of their weapons. Others wiped their sleeves across their foreheads, catching the droplets of perspiration that had formed.
"No, Akala," said Oclan in a whisper, unable to meet his leader's harsh gaze.
"A very smart decision, Oclan. You’re right, though. The boy probably didn't make it this far," said Akala, speaking with all the confidence he could muster. He was worried. They should have found the boy by now. When they had discovered the tunnel, the boy was no more than a half-day ahead. They should have already been back at the Crag with their prize. "The river is our new line. We'll backtrack until we reach the Crag. He's probably holed up somewhere along the way."
"Finding him won't be easy in the dark," said another soldier. "I've heard a few of the stories about this boy. He enjoys the dark more than the sunlight, his eyes glowing a dark green. They say he's a goblin when the full moon shines."
Akala stared at the reiver. The soldier averted his eyes, unable to withstand the malevolent gaze.
"Yes, I've heard those stories about the boy as well, Rolan. But we don't have much choice, do we? Personally, I'm more concerned about the stories involving Lord Chertney. Do you want to find out if those are true?"
Rolan shook his head emphatically. Several of the reivers imitated the soldier instinctively. Lord Chertney was one person they would avoid at all costs.
"Then we begin our search again," said Akala, walking swiftly toward the forest. His men branched out to either side. "Keep your eyes and ears open. We can't afford to let him get by us. Oclan, sound your horn. Let the other groups know our p
lan. If we do this right, we'll catch him between here and the Crag. Then we won't have to worry about Lord Chertney."
Akala shouted out several more orders, but Thomas could no longer hear them. The trees of the forest swallowed whatever remaining commands he had given. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. He had escaped, for now.
He waited a full ten minutes before emerging from the water, just to make sure he was alone. Lips blue and teeth chattering uncontrollably, he desperately wished for a cloak. It was almost full dark, with just a touch of red in the western sky. He had to look at his hand in order to have it loosen its grip on the dagger he still held, as it wouldn’t let go easily. The wind, which carried a chill from the north, had picked up. He couldn't stop shivering. The sword made it feel like he had strapped a huge icicle to his back. Tonight was a time for a fire. But he couldn't take the chance of it being seen. Better to be cold than dead. Then again, the only difference between the cold and a steel blade was that the cold took longer to kill you.
Thomas started to walk north through the shallow water running along the bank, just a few feet from the river's edge. He didn't want to leave tracks for anyone to follow in the soft mud and dirt of the shore. The necklace pulled him in that direction. In fact, the necklace was the only part of him that felt warm. He had never before seen the Southern River, and he now had a tremendous desire to never see it again. Having wished for water earlier in the day, Thomas had forgotten that you often got what you asked for, just not in the way you expected. The Southern River was the only river of significance in the Highlands, fully a mile wide. The Southern River. He wondered who had named it. It actually was located in the northern part of the Highlands and ran all the way through the Northern Steppes to the base of the Charnel Mountains where it disappeared. If anything, it should have been called the Northern River. Thomas focused on this new riddle, finding that with his mind occupied, he had an easier time ignoring the cold that had permeated every part of his body. He couldn't even feel the water he was walking through. His feet were too numb from the cold.