by Glynn James
“No,” said Jonah. “Scouts don’t carry banners. That is the first warband of an army.”
“An army?” asked Solomon. “They’re here already?”
“Yes,” said Jonah. “The Cygoa have come.”
Chapter 39
Loner crouched behind the thick stump of a tree that had been cut down long ago and stared across the water. The causeway itself was maybe fifty feet across, and the sides had begun to collapse into the water after so many years unattended, but the blacktop that cut a line across the top, leading all the way across the water to the other side, seemed to have been untouched by time. No weeds grew up through cracks, and the reeds that lined much of the lake’s edge had somehow failed to creep along the causeway itself.
Nothing to hide in when they cross , Loner thought. Hundreds of yards of open roadway in full view of the wall that had been built on the other side. It will be a slaughter.
He looked across at the makeshift defense the clans had constructed and nodded. Their ideas about defense had improved in the last few months, and he almost wished he wasn’t facing the wall from the outside.
This hadn’t been part of the plan. In leaving Briar and the others, he had intended to head much farther north, into the mountains, to hide away for the rest of his life, avoiding contact where possible. That was the life he yearned for. But now he was stuck with the Cygoa, closely observed by Frantic, the scout assigned to watch him. The man may have been half a cup short of a drink but he had eyes like a hawk. Loner liked Frantic, but had come to realize over the last week that he would have to kill him at some point if he stood any chance of escaping from this chaos.
When, though? Soon the battle would begin, and he would be expected to join it, but on the other side, possibly facing people he knew, who could potentially recognize him. There was a much worse fate than being a prisoner of war, and he knew if he was captured, and inevitably recognized, he would be branded a traitor. Hell, they might even blame him for all the knowledge the Cygoa had in preparing their attack, and, honestly, he thought they would be right, to some extent.
It had been he who told the Cygoa of the Elk’s plan to come to this place, though he couldn’t take the credit for knowledge of the area. That had been the job of the scouts like Frantic, those who had already wandered this far south, checking the lands around for potential gains or threats. From what he had heard, Frantic and his men had travelled even as far as Eliz, disguised as other clansmen, wanderers and hunters. They had gone south from there too, much farther south than the causeway and the marina. They knew where the blight started in all directions, including all the way north to The Wash. They had been traveling these lands for a few years before the Cygoa even decided to come here.
They knew too damn much, he thought.
The bushes behind the row of scouts rustled, and the tall figure of Carlossa stepped into the clearing, followed by a dozen heavily armed warriors who spread out along the tree line and looked out at the water. Frantic left the bushes and jogged over to talk to the tall leader. Loner’s ears were good, but the two men spoke in low voices, and he could hear little of it.
“Mostly accurate,” he heard Frantic say, and “Difficulties with crossing without too many casualties.”
“Not your concern,” was part of Carlossa’s answer. “I will worry about that.”
So they would cross the causeway, Loner thought. Probably behind a wall of those massive shields he’d seen stacked on the carts that came with the baggage. Huge things, they were, taller than a man and lined with metal as well as wood. They would easily take arrows by the dozen and hide the men behind them, but they held another surprise when they reached the defenders of the wall. The backs of the shields were lined with strips of wood that formed a kind of ladder. They could dump the shield against the wall and negate the first six feet of height.
He wondered how high that wall over there was. Ten feet, maybe, in most places, but much higher in others. Knowing his luck, he would be the one behind a shield that struck the higher point.
“Let’s move out, boys,” said Frantic. The short man had moved back to the tree line and was standing a few feet away. “New orders.”
Loner stood and stepped back from the trees into the clearing and fell in with the other scouts as they followed Frantic out of the clearing.
“We go north and back around the lake,” said Frantic.
“The other causeway?” asked of the other scouts.
“That, yes,” said Frantic. “But not just there. Bossman wants to know just how many of them are spread out north of the lake, if any. He wants to know numbers on that north causeway, and he wants to know it without anyone being seen up there. So we keep low, and quiet, and if we’re spotted, we kill them all.”
The scouts started jogging through the trees, heading farther away from the water’s edge.
This could be useful, Loner thought. If we go far enough north, where there aren’t many Cygoa or Elk, maybe — just maybe — I can make my exit with little noise.
Chapter 40
Briar had been happy for the old man. Not many people could come back from the dead. Rav and Jonah spent most of the night eating and drinking, slapping each other on the back and telling stories. The exaggerations reminded Briar of the tales hunters told and fishermen passed down to their sons.
But despite the revelry, Briar was not in a mood to celebrate. He had seen too much, heard too much. The creatures from beneath the earth were on the move. They had become more aggressive, brazen. It seemed as though the Cygoa were no longer the primary threat to the existence of the clans. Starvation, sickness, disease—those things had always been around. Tribal warfare and invading armies had been a threat for generations. That had all changed, as if all the sounds and movements coming from deep within the forests had become real. In fact, they had.
“Is it your guard shift?”
“Yes,” said Briar. “I’ve got it.”
The hunter nodded and walked back towards the fire, not giving Briar a moment to change his mind. The leader chuckled to himself and shook his head. He would have done the same.
He listened to his hunters telling stories and laughing around the fire. Briar looked around and saw no immediate threat from the Cygoa or the Valk. He walked towards the north causeway and out of the camp where the air felt cooler, and one could hear the night songs of the few insects that still existed in the world.
Life before the clan warfare had seemed simpler to him. Briar longed for a time when his only responsibility was tracking deer and looking for buck rubs on the spring saplings. Now, alliances had been formed and deals made. He had managed to keep his clan on what he believed to be the right side of morality, but Briar was intelligent enough to understand that anyone could move that line and that the right side depended entirely on where you stood.
He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the flicker of the campfire through the thick trees. He had walked well beyond the perimeter of the camp and could no longer see the causeway in the distance. Briar turned right on the path and headed north. He broke a sweat as he steadily climbed upward in elevation and away from the rest of the clans. He breathed heavily and yet the cool night air made him shiver.
Briar kept walking, deeper into the forest as well as into the night. His mind drifted while his eyes observed the trees, watching the way they swayed, pushed along by the wind. He thought he caught a whiff of roasting venison which forced a rumble in his stomach. The hunters had most likely fallen asleep by now, leaving nothing but hot coals and bones from their evening meal. He struggled to figure out if the aroma was real or a figment of his imagination. In the end, it didn’t matter. Whatever smells or thoughts he had been manifesting had begun to make their way up from his unconscious mind. A decision needed to be made, and he was the one with both the duty and the responsibility to make it.
“We must go home.”
It was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Speaking those
words made the decision a reality, one that had been visiting him in his dreams since all of this began. Briar respected Jonah and all the clans that had followed the Elk. And yet, he could not continue to commit his men and their resources to the cause. As people died off, the world had become an even bigger place. Even if the Valk had swarmed to the surface and waged war on all the clans above, enough pristine forest existed for Briar to keep his hunters hidden and fed for generations to come—never worrying about running into another clan in the vast wilderness.
He pushed down the guilt that had been slowly creeping up in his throat like bile. That was a mantle of leadership, one that every man who made decisions on behalf of his people had to deal with.
He came to the top of a rise where the trees parted, allowing Briar to see for miles to the crest of the next hill in the waning moonlight. He could almost smell their sacred hunting grounds, and he knew which turns in the path would take them home. They had done everything asked of them and more. The hunters had protected the clans—their women, children, and resources. But it was not his responsibility to protect their future. That was Jonah’s job, and Rav’s by association. He would not abandon his new friends or leave them in the still of the night. Briar could empathize, and he would not appreciate that happening to him. He decided, while standing at the top of that hill, that tomorrow would be the first morning on their journey home. Briar would pull Jonah aside and explain the situation to him and fulfill any outstanding responsibilities he owed the Elk leader.
The impending fight was not his, and he could no longer justify his hunters’ role in it. Jonah had shown himself to be an intelligent and fair leader; he would understand Briar’s situation. And if he didn’t, there was nothing Briar could do about it.
It was time to go home.
Chapter 41
“This is no time to question Morlan’s orders,” Carlossa said, his voice low but calm. He stood just behind the tree line, staring across the causeway toward the defenses. A dozen other warriors stood nearby, all warleaders of the various Cygoa clans come together under Carlossa’s command.
“But annihilation?” asked the nearest. “I know reclaiming our lands was not the only reason we came south, but many of these folk may not even have been T’Yun. They come from other clans farther east, across the new breach. Some may even be descendants of our own people from before the exodus, the ones that stayed behind. Others must have survived. Not just those who fled.”
“Yes,” said Carlossa. “This is probably true. But what would you have of them? Slaves? You think they will not bide their time and do as we have done? The folk of these lands will not understand the reasons we take their lands other than for greed. They will not simply submit and forget, do you not see that? To them, two generations ago was forever. They don’t understand our need to take back what was owned by our ancestors. They just see us as the next threat, the new invaders. To them, we are the evil in the land. To them, this place is theirs. Their right and their lands.”
The other warleaders nodded, but Carlossa could tell that they were still not pleased at the prospect of what they must do. This, though, was good, he thought. He had no taste for slaughtering the young, the old and the weak. Warriors could stand and fight, defend themselves against an enemy, but those could not. Yet they were the worst threat of all. You leave the young to live and they remember. Was this not, as Morlan always reminded him, what brought the Cygoa south after so many years?
He paced the ground, looking over the causeway, then turned back to the other warriors. “Do you think Morlan really wants to slaughter as the T’Yun did? Some of the clans are more than happy to kill off entire clans of our enemies, but not all. Survival. We came here for survival. The north is growing more tainted and deadly as the years pass. The lands unable to produce crops, the lake and the rivers too poisoned to bear fish other than mutations that kill those who would eat them. We gathered our strength over two generations to seize back these lands, and in the end, we come not just for revenge but because we have to. Another few years and our clans would be no more. The people of these lands must be removed. To enslave them would be to keep our future enemies alive. Morlan gave this order because we must do this to survive, and we must. There will be no question.”
“There is one other reason this must be,” said another voice. Carlossa turned quickly, his hand moving to his waist but not quite reaching the handle of his axe. Across the clearing, another figure stepped into the sunlight, this one dressed in the long robes of a coven member rather than the skins and metal of a warrior.
“Gaston,” Carlossa said, turning back to look over the causeway once more. “Finally you have arrived. You certainly took your time. I apologize that we could wait no longer for you at Greensboro, but this is a time sensitive task.”
Gaston moved into the center of the clearing and was followed by half a dozen other coven members. Carlossa looked back, glancing at each in turn. They were all dressed in a similar manner to their new leader, though some wore robes that were older and less well kept. Some were spared, he thought. More than should have been. Each of the coven members wore a chain around their neck, though the item that hung from the chain was different for each man. Carlossa wondered what they symbolized, but he had never concerned himself enough to ask. It meant little to him. None of them wore armor or were prepared to go onto the field in a battle. Such men were a waste of space to him.
“Ah, Carlossa,” said Gaston. “Ever cheerful and welcoming. I would have thought you more pleased that we have come to support you in this, the final battle and the moment of our people’s greatest victory.”
“The battle is not yet won,” said Carlossa.
“But it will be,” said Gaston. “The signs say it will be so, as does the book.”
“And does your book name me specifically? Does it name this place?” Carlossa asked, immediately regretting the disdain in his voice. “Maybe now that you have arrived the signs are good,” he continued, trying to sound less irritated. Morlan had a use for this man and his coven, and it would do him no good to cross them, even if he didn’t understand the need for them. In Carlossa’s view, the coven should have been totally wiped out when Morlan had killed the council, not just some of them.
“Are the preparations for attack in order?” Gaston asked, showing no sign of being offended.
“All in place and ready,” said Carlossa. “Though I have one more thing to do before we launch our attack, one last possibility.”
“Oh?” asked Gaston. “Interesting. Maybe you could share this last thought?”
“Or maybe you can just bear witness,” Carlossa said, turning back to the forest and looking into the dark trees where a group of warriors waited. “You may find it amusing.”
Chapter 42
At first, Briar thought he had put his head too close to the campfire. He opened his eyes, the sunlight blinding him. There was a pool of drool on his roll, and his tongue felt as dry as kindling, so he reached for his flask and took a swig.
The camp had already begun attending to the morning necessities. Men had walked into the woods to take care of their personal needs while others reignited the previous night's coals as they prepared to breakfast. A slight breeze pushed the cool air across his face, a welcome contrast to the intensity of the morning sun.
“They are boiling water for the tea. I’ll bring you some.”
Briar sat up and nodded at the scout. “Thank you.”
The young boy bowed and walked toward the campfire.
Briar stood up, stretched his hands into the sky, and waited for his neck to crack. He tilted his head left and right and looked around. At some point, he had come back to camp, lost in a mental haze of sleep and hesitation. Briar knew what he had to do, but knowing it and executing the action were two different things.
Some of the hunters in the camp had already adjusted to their current situation. They had become skilled in the art of archery, no matter what their target. Several
of his men had become comfortable burying an arrow in the chest of human warriors instead of just the shoulder of deer. Friendships had formed between Elk warriors and Briar’s hunters. It would not take long for the old ways of his clan to give way for what Jonah needed—an army. It wasn’t as if Briar had any moral confusion surrounding his role in the battle. He had killed, and he had done so without remorse. But Briar could not ignore the dull, nagging itch that beckoned him home.
“Here,” said the scout, handing Briar a mug of steaming tea. “Have you spoken with anyone on guard duty last night?”
“I haven’t. Why do you ask?”
The scout shrugged. “They all heard something.”
Briar turned and walked to where the group of hunters stood, their brows furrowed and the conversation taken down to almost a whisper.
“We are leaving. I’m taking our clan home. If you have something that you need to tell me that would affect my decision, I need to hear it right now.”