by Peter Wacht
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.
He remembered what Rasoul had taught him about the river. The one thing that stood out in his mind was that all the other rivers that ran through the kingdoms flowed from north to south. The Southern River flowed from south to north. Perhaps that was it, he reasoned. Whoever had named it had wanted to stress the difference, with the source of the river near the coast and its end somewhere in the Charnel Mountains, rather than the other way around. The way you would have expected it to be. Thomas reminded himself that nothing was ever the way you expected it to be.
A quick movement among the trees jarred Thomas from his thoughts. A reiver burst through the brush, coming to stand on the bank no more than fifty feet from where Thomas had stopped. He held an evil-looking battle-axe in his hands. The reiver must have been separated from his search party and either hadn’t heard the horn or simply ignored it. Whatever the reason, Thomas was trapped. All the reiver had to do was turn in his direction and all his efforts to escape would have been for naught. Yes, he had killed an assassin the night before. But that was when he had the advantage, and surprise as much as skill had been the reason for his success. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think that he could defeat a reiver one on one and survive with just a dagger, especially with the icicle on his back slowing him down.
The reiver continued to look in the other direction, examining the trees and bushes running along the river for any sign of passage. Thomas only had seconds before the black-clad soldier turned in his direction. Then he would see his prey standing right before him, much like a deer cornered by a mountain cat. Even with the approaching nightfall, Thomas would be hard to miss. Feeling the current of the river tug gently at his legs, he wished with all his heart that he could be anything else just for that moment.
Staring at the water, without knowing what he was doing, he began to extend his senses, much as he did earlier in the day when he wanted to see what was going on in the forest. But this time, rather than pushing his senses outward, he pulled them inward, within himself. He focused all of his concentration on his immediate surroundings, pouring all of his energy, all of himself, into the river. He imagined the feeling of being submerged by the water, something he found very easy to do just then, since his body still felt like it was in the river’s grasp. A picture formed in his mind of himself standing in the river with the water flowing all around him, as if it was covering him completely. Quickly the image changed, until the shape of his body became invisible in the black water, though he had not moved a step.
Not realizing he had closed his eyes, he opened them. The reiver was just turning toward him. Thomas held his breath as the image he had formed, of him actually becoming part of the river, remained in his mind. The reiver’s eyes passed right over him. The reiver was staring directly at him, but he made no move to attack. Whatever he had done had worked. Thomas smiled. So far today his luck had held. He looked down at his feet. He could see himself clearly — his hands, his legs, his body — but the reiver saw only the river.
Though the reiver took a few steps toward him, his eyes were no longer on Thomas. The soldier was trying to look farther down the bank of the river. Thomas was so close, he could pick out the individual links forming the man’s armor. He fingered his dagger nervously. Maybe his trick wasn’t as effective as he thought. He relaxed somewhat. The reiver was still completely unaware that the one he was looking for was within arm’s reach. Thomas concentrated on maintaining the image he held in his mind. Now was not the time to make a foolish mistake. It wasn’t long before the reiver sighed in frustration, then turned and trotted back into the forest. Thomas waited several minutes, giving the reiver time to move deeper into the trees, before releasing the image from his mind. Whatever he had done had worked, but it certainly did take a lot of energy. He felt more exhausted than ever.
He needed time to think. What he had done was similar to extending his senses into the forest around him, but it was also different, requiring more strength and concentration. He had to figure out what he had done, how he had done it and if he could do it again. He was sure he could. And if so, maybe he could do some other things that he had never considered before.
Now was not the time to ponder his newfound abilities, however. He had only one immediate concern, and that was putting as much distance as possible between himself and the reivers. Night had finally covered the land, giving the trees of the forest dark and sinister shapes. Before yesterday, he might have felt some nervousness about being so far from the Crag, from what he thought of as home. But not anymore. Not after everything he had gone through. Now he welcomed the darkness.
Thomas began his journey along the river once again, careful to walk in the water to prevent any sign of his passage, allowing the warmth of the necklace to guide him. He had considered finding a place to sleep, but he didn’t want to take the chance. If he did stop he would have to start a fire; otherwise he’d freeze to death since he was soaked to the bone. But he couldn’t do that with his pursuers so close. At least if he kept walking he could improve his chances of escape and still work some warmth back into his body, however meager it might be. Judging by the current temperature, frost would greet him in the morning. The reivers certainly would enjoy that. Their prey had escaped, only to freeze to death during the night.
As the hours passed his fear and lack of sleep began to affect his mind. He felt like he was living in a dark cloud, and his eyes kept playing tricks on him. Several trees looked like men, setting his heart racing. And his thoughts were no better. More than once he thought he saw his grandfather’s ghost standing in front of him. He didn’t even remember when he had walked out of the river and into the forest. He only knew that he should follow the warmth of his necklace, now to the northeast. Thomas no longer thought of anything. He was too tired. He let his instincts take over, trusting his feet would find the best possible route on their own.
The ghost of his grandfather and the shadowy reivers finally left him, only to be replaced by something else. He envisioned his grandfather standing on the rock in the Hall of the Highland Lord, its walls and ceiling consumed by flames that licked higher and higher. His grandfather saw him there and beckoned to him, yelling that he should enter the Hall, now more flames than anything else. But Th
omas didn’t, and he saw the hurt in his grandfather’s eyes, the betrayal. Soon, all that remained were yellow-orange flames. His grandfather was gone, consumed by the fire.
Thomas seemed to open his eyes for the first time all night. He stopped for a moment to get his bearings and clear the cobwebs from his head. The sky was just beginning to color a bright yellow-orange in the east. He now stood on the summit of one of the last Highland mountains on the coast. To his right, the dark blue glitter of the Sea of Mist dazzled him.
He had walked through the night, not exactly knowing where his feet were going, but still ending up where he wanted to be. His breath frosted in the cold air. His clothes were still wet, but he had not caught a chill. Another thing to be thankful for. The rising sun just beginning to emerge from behind the mountaintops warmed him. He had escaped, at least for now. He chose to ignore the fact that he wasn’t sure where he was going or what he would do when he got there, or even if he would know when he got there. He took a moment to appreciate his home. The home he was now responsible for. The Crag was simply a manmade structure. The magnificent mountains rising up to meet the sky and the lush forest that covered the land were really the center of the Highlands, its core, its heart. It was a beautiful country, one that he did not want to lose.
Thomas started to make his way down the slope, placing his feet carefully because of the rocky scrabble under his boots and the steep drop on either side. His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything since hiding in the Southern River, so he promised himself that once he got into the next valley, he would find some food and fresh water.
He reached the base of the mountain by midday and located a small stream and some berries he could munch on as he continued his journey to the northeast. It was a lot easier staying awake when the sun was up. The salty smell of the sea tickled his nose with every gust of wind. The Sea of Mist was no more than a mile away. He stopped a moment to get a closer look at a particular tree. A heart tree. That was strange indeed. There were probably only a few hundred in the Highlands, and his grandfather had said they were out of place. Someone long ago had tried to plant groves of them, but only a few had survived. Those that did were truly magnificent, rising several hundred feet into the air, their trunks sometimes a hundred feet around and their roots growing as tall as a man above ground and then plunging for thousands of feet below. Many believed that these trees were the heart of the forest. Without them, the forest would wither and die.
As Thomas walked slowly around the base of the tree, trying to see up through the branches to get an idea as to just how tall this tree was, he heard a rustle in the bushes behind him. His dagger instantly appeared in his hand. He stood there on his toes, waiting to see what had caused the noise. Hearing the rustle again, he became curious and stepped on silent feet to the bushes. Whatever had made the noise was on the other side. He tried to peer through the dense foliage, but to no avail. Stepping through the undergrowth, careful not to disturb the branches or leaves, the scene surprised him.
A large black wolf lay dead beneath a tree, eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky. Several arrows stuck out from the wolf’s side. Reivers. The sight before him made him angry. Killing to eat was one thing; killing for sport was another. A squawk made him twist to his left, dagger held out before him. Thomas let out a slow breath and put his dagger back in its sheath. A vulture had followed the scent of death and now stood on the ground several feet away. In front of the vulture stood a wolf pup covered in thick black fur except for a streak of white that ran across its face. The vulture was surprised by the ferocity of the little wolf pup, standing there growling, teeth bared, ready to defend his dead mother. The vulture wasn’t sure what to do — ignore the pup or kill it? Thomas made the decision for it.
He ran forward, yelling and flapping his arms. Startled, the vulture flew into the sky, its powerful wings taking it quickly through the trees. It gave one last squawk of anger before it went in search of easier prey. Looking down, Thomas saw that the pup had now turned its attention on him, stepping forward slowly, growling. Thomas moved away from the pup, not wanting to upset the little wolf. Satisfied by the retreat, the pup walked over to his mother’s body and curled up by her paws. His eyes remained on Thomas, though, ready to attack if he came any closer. Thomas examined the wolf pup for several minutes, trying to figure out some way to show that he wasn’t an enemy. He felt sorry for him. He had just lost his family as well.
A thought occurred to him. If he could thrust out his senses and actually see what was going on within the forest, why couldn’t he use the same ability to communicate with animals? Trying something new had already worked once at the river, so what did he have to lose? Concentrating, he extended his senses, getting a feel for all the hidden activity of the forest. But rather than pushing out his senses he focused on the pup instead. The wolf was now on his feet, staring at him. It didn’t know what to make of the brief mental contact. Thomas wasn’t sure as well. He had done it. He had actually reached into the pup’s mind and felt all the emotions surging through there. The anger, the pain of his mother’s death, then the surprise of having Thomas there as well. He had not actually spoken to the wolf, but had instead used emotion to communicate. It had worked. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
Getting a grip on his excitement, Thomas reached out again. Using his emotions, he expressed his sorrow at the pup’s plight and his anger at those who had committed the murder. The pup continued to stare at the boy who had invaded his mind. Thomas then revealed his own sorrow and pain at the loss of his grandfather. Thomas thought that this time he felt something in his own mind, some emotion the wolf had sent back to him. Kneeling down, Thomas extended his hand, waiting to see what the wolf would do. The pup still stared at him, even shaking his head once as if to make sense of what was going on. Then, slowly, the wolf took a few steps toward him, sniffing the ground along the way. Finally, with the wolf no more than inches from his hand, Thomas communicated a feeling of friendship to the little ball of fur. The wolf stared up at him for a long moment before sniffing Thomas’ extended hand. Then, ever so hesitantly, Thomas thought he felt a touch in his mind, that of friendship as well.
“I’m sorry about your mother, little one,” said Thomas. “I’ve lost my family, too. Well, my grandfather anyway. But I guess one person counts as a family.”
The pup nodded his head. Thomas felt in his mind an acceptance, as if there was little difference between them. Thomas smiled down at his new friend.
“Let’s see if we can do something about your mother so she’s isn’t bothered again,” said Thomas, rising to his feet. He knew that he couldn’t afford to be in one place for too long a time, but he ignored the warning. Right now more than anything he needed a friend. Extending his senses, he found a small stream just off to the right. Before walking through the bushes, he motioned for the pup to stay where he was.
He was in luck. The streambed was dry since the fall rains had not yet arrived, and on its edge lay several large rocks. Thomas collected as many as he could, went back through the brush and then set them against the pup’s mother. After the first trip, Thomas took off the sword hanging from his back so he could move more easily through the bushes. The wolf watched his work, until finally his mother was protected from scavengers. Thomas didn’t have any way to dig into the ground to make a grave, so the rocks would have to do. Looking at the small pup, which stared intently at the rocks, Thomas perceived a touch of thanks in his mind.
“It looks like we are brothers of a sort,” said Thomas, strapping his sword onto his back again. The wolf rose from the ground and stretched his legs. “It’s time to go, I think.”
Turning to the northeast, Thomas set off once again. But this time, a small wolf pup followed at his heels.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Failure
Akala and his reivers returned to the Crag in frustration. They had failed. If the boy had been found, a horn would have sounded. Akala had wished desperat
ely for success, to hear that horn. As he played it all through his mind again he knew that he had done everything he could. He had divided his men into parties to cover a larger area more thoroughly, giving each a specific part of the forest to search. A small boy shouldn’t have been able to escape, but he had. The thought of reporting his failure to Lord Chertney made his throat dry, fear gripping him for the first time in years. Akala had seen death hundreds of times as a soldier, thousands probably. It didn’t frighten him as it did other people. But Chertney scared him. He took solace in the knowledge that Chertney terrified all of his men as well.
Akala walked through the still-smoldering buildings that once formed the boundary of the inner courtyard as he reached the place where the outer curtain of the Crag should have been. In many places, tall, graceful towers were now nothing more than piles of rubble. A group of women and children huddled off to the side, close to where the gate had once stood. Most were covered in blood and bruises. Those who could work would probably be sent to the mines. The Highlands was a rich land, but you couldn’t tell that from its harsh exterior. You had to dig for it. And he knew the men he fought for would begin that enterprise as soon as possible. He did not envy the fate of those who could not work. Ogren remained on the plateau.
On the far side of the plain reivers were forming into battle groups, this time to pursue any Marchers who had escaped. A small voice screamed a warning in the back of his head. He was the leader of the reivers. It fell to him to make the necessary preparations for this next task. But he had not been called back. He set his worry aside as best he could. He must deal with his failure first. Then he could find out who had usurped his authority and make an example of him.
Walking across the drawbridge, Akala strode toward the large black tent that sat in front of the entrance to the Hall of the Highland Lord. A single white pennant flew at its top with a black sword sewn along its length. Just looking at the pennant made him shiver. The mark of Lord Chertney could do that to the strongest of men. Drawing closer to the tent, he saw two Ogren standing on both sides of the flap that served as the entrance. Sweat began to drip down his face. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was a cool afternoon, but to him it felt like he had stepped into a fire pit. Glancing back, he was glad to see that his men felt much the same way.