Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  “I was supposed to...” he gulped, nearly gagged “...tell you something...”

  “Shut up and hold on to me.”

  The magic-limned hand fell to his chest. He tensed, power coursing into his bones. He wanted to scream. He wanted to die. Purple brilliance filled his vision, blasted the world away in an endless echo of thunder and screams of frustration.

  ***

  Purple blaze. Pain. Then the bite of wintry air in his lungs and ice under his backside. Anzo thrashed, blinking away afterimages. An instant later his surroundings coalesced into a forest clearing under an overcast night sky. Distantly, he though he heard an inhuman howl.

  Varya gripped Anzo, nearly fell over him in her efforts to control his convulsions. “Hold still, Anzo.” A horse whinnied and she looked up, searched the darkness. “Over here!”

  “Gah...” Anzo stilled finally, looked down at the blood washing across his belly. Agony roared through his core and he folded to one side and vomited. Blood mixed with mucous, splashing on ice-crusted grass. He heard footsteps. When he looked up, he saw a huge figure trotting into the clearing, leading a pair of horses.

  Heathen’s smile was huge. “I was starting to worry.”

  “How...how...?” Anzo tried to sit up but lances of pain pinned him motionless.

  “It wasn’t him in the casket,” Varya explained breathlessly, “just like it wasn’t me.”

  “Some dumb brute walking fire watch.” Heathen chuckled. “I almost felt sorry for him after we switched.”

  “Hurry!” Varya pointed at the saddlebags on one of the mounts. “He’s bleeding. The packs. Quickly!”

  Heathen’s eyes widened. He scrambled for the bags, fished out folds of linen and began tearing strips for Vayra. “How bad is it?”

  “I’ve lived through worse.” Anzo regretted the words—the lie—instantly, nearly vomited again.

  “Shut up.” Varya worked quickly, wrapping Anzo’s abdomen and chest. He grimaced, fought off black out as she tugged with all her might, tightening the bindings. He hissed, squeaked, felt as though blood would spurt from every pore. But the pressure helped, the gray edges of uncounciousness about his vision beginning to recede. Breath returned, slowly. He tried to sit up again, succeeded this time, with Heathen’s help.

  Horns sounded in the distance. Anzo glanced about, nearly wobbled as more nausea rose. He began to tremble, was aware of chill hammering through his extremities. Heathen flung a wolfskin blanket over his shoulders. “Where are we?”

  “Not far enough.” Vayra started wrapping again as the first layer of bandages began to soak through with red. “I’m only so far into the Third Circle. I can only warp the material plane for a little distance.”

  Anzo looked at her, some understanding beginning to dawn. “Like...like you did outside the Tomb.”

  “That was a little farther, maybe fifteen miles as the crow flies. But that fire hall was positively infused with...” Varya shuddered “...with Him...their demigod. My strength is only so much.”

  “But you were sick.” Anzo grabbed her arm, remembering in a rush the last few weeks, the long vigil at her bedside. “Varya, we thought...”

  “Easy, easy.” She forced his hand down, got back to work on his bindings. “It was a kind of hibernation. When those priests finally decided to work on me, they combined all their strength. Either I could try and fight them directly and maybe lose or I could outsmart them, let them think they had overwhelmed me. Aehemir was the worst. They call me a witch.” She spat to one side. “A vile creature, but she was not as strong as she thought. None of them are.” She paused, met his gaze for a moment, eyes quivering with terror long held in check. “Oh, Anzo, it’s so much worse than I feared! They have no way of knowing what it is they’re playing with.”

  Anzo snarled. “Just more dark magic...”

  “No!” She shook her head, wild suddenly to make him understand. “Not even that! Magic is the practice of bending the forces of the Universe to one’s will. What they do is let themselves be bent to...another’s will. They become the conduits for Him. They never have control. And when He decides He’s strong enough...”

  More horns joined the mournful chorus in the distance. The overcast was breaking up, allowing starlight to wink through and glimmer on the frost and trees. They were on a hill, Anzo realized. Through a part in the woods he could make out the shimmer of the campfire sea around Caerigoth.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Heathen rumbled, prowling over to the horses and checking their accoutrements.

  Anzo touched Varya’s face. “You knew what they were planning?”

  She shrugged. “Not totally. Not until Heathen told me.”

  He looked back and forth between them, overcome momentarily by something beyond pain. “You both waited for me.”

  Varya smiled, almost shyly. “We couldn’t leave you.”

  “Come on!” Heathen strode to Anzo’s side and gently levered him to his feet. “There’s no time. We’ve got barely enough lead and the Codir and Arriak bastards were born on horses.”

  “Thank you.” Anzo let the giant heft him up into the saddle. His guts felt like liquid fire and every motion set them to seething. But it didn’t matter. Looking at the pair of them—his friends—nothing did.

  “Thank you, both.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Flight from the Dark

  The cool wink of the Lydirian below was as welcome as one of Varya’s increasingly rare smiles. A train of five Vhurrian wagons crowded its bank, campfires sputtering about their wheels as women tended to food and men sharpened weapons or bunched together, sharing a jug of ale. A scattering of children played about the peripheries of the familial group. A few wandered to the river shore, where more men were nearly done fashioning the crude canoes of their kind from felled trees.

  Across the curve of the river, the limestone walls of an Aurridian fort glowered, men at the battlements obvious by the glint of sunlight on helms and spear points. It was one of the way forts, larger than the lookout towers, with a sizeable garrison. If the Vhurrs intended migration here, there would have to be negotiation first.

  So close. Anzo smiled wearily and put a hand to his bandaged gut. Varya had worked the healing magic but the drain of her ordeal had obviously sapped some of her potency. A week of riding and hiding hadn’t helped either. The fever that had made the first desperate days of flight a blur of sweat and sickness had lessened, but any movement sent twinges of pain through his innards.

  They’d tried initially for the Imperial fortified landing on the eastern bank. But the Arriaks had gotten ahead of them. They’d heard fighting at one point, the wastelanders sparring with Aurid cavalry. It had been enough to turn them north from their course, picking along the shore of the Salient, and Anzo couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being corralled further and further from safety.

  “Do we just wander down there?” Heathen asked.

  Anzo shrank back from the edge of the boulder upon which they crouched, overlooking the camp. “No. At least, not yet. There are a dozen men.”

  “We can handle that.”

  Anzo snorted, regretted it instantly as his abdomen cramped. “Not in the shape we’re in, we can’t.”

  Heathen scowled, clearly didn’t agree. “Well, we need one of those boats. They’re not just going to give us one.”

  “What is it?” Varya called softly from the trees behind them.

  Anzo began to turn in response when Heathen’s huge fist clenched the front of his ragged tunic and yanked him low against the rock. He put a finger to his lips for silence and pointed down to the river banks.

  A trio of riders was emerging to the north of the camp, from the trees. One of the women cried. The men scrambled for weapons, other women rushing for the children. But one of the riders laughed and barked something. A ripple of relief passed through the camp, followed by calls of greeting as the newcomers, now apparently recognized, cantered down along the river towards th
eir fellows. The nearest of the three, the leader, had a familiar stoop to his posture. When he drew back a mud-caked hood to reveal sour, narrow features, Anzo froze in realization.

  “Shit, that’s Endus.”

  Heathen scowled. “It sure is.” He scanned the wagons and camp. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognize them.”

  “Their numbers have thinned,” Anzo pointed out grimly. “I don’t think that’s even half of those who left Caerigoth.”

  “That rat-faced little wretch was right—” Heathen shook his head “—Theregond’s coming was his doom.”

  “What?” Varya’s voice from the brush grew more insistant.

  Anzo gestured for Heathen to follow and squirmed back from the overlook. Varya waited with the horses amongst wooded shadows. One of the mounts favored a forleg timidly with an abcess that had risen under a hoof. Neither looked well, ragged, blown by the hard passage. Varya hardly looked better, with her cloaks and tunic tattered, filthy, her face pale and haggard. Stress and exhaustion had carved lines into her face that might never go away.

  Sliding down against a tree trunk, Anzo grimaced and blew out a nauseated breath. His joints ground and his head throbbed. The sweats were starting again, a flare up of the illness quivering in his wounds. He felt beaten. He felt old.

  “It’s a migrant camp.” Anzo picked something from his beard, crushed its insectine squirm. “It’s the folk that fled with Endus.”

  Varya’s eyes widened momentarily before she nodded. “Scared folk, fleeing uncertainty.”

  “That doesn’t make them less dangerous,” Heathen glared at Anzo, “or less of an obstacle.”

  “We could try to go down there and parlay with them,” Anzo suggested. “He might be willing to hear reason.”

  Heathen shook his head. “You can’t be serious.” He gripped his axe. “There’s a quicker way.”

  “I told you—”

  “Enough innocents have died.” Varya put her hand on Heathen’s arm to calm him. “Certainly there’s a way without more bloodshed?”

  Anzo glanced at the horses. “We won’t need them anymore.” He nodded to Heathen. “Why don’t you release them? Keep only the barest essentials from the packs and set them loose.” He shrugged. “They might lead some pursuit astray.”

  Grumbling, Heathen trudged to the mounts and started unencumbering them. Anzo watched him nervously, noted the giant’s faltering temper.

  “He’ll be all right, Anzo Severnus,” Varya said gently. “He’s at his last reserves.” She gave a brittle laugh. “We all are.”

  “What about your powers?” Anzo touched her arm. “It’s not that far.”

  She shook her head. “They don’t work that way. To warp distance, to pass through the ethereal fold, there have to be anchors at both ends.” At his confused look, she continued. “That bauble I gave you, when you travelled to the Tyrant’s tomb, was the anchor then, my link to you. When I extracted us from the fire hall, Heathen had one, was the link, waiting in a place we agreed to ahead of time. Without that, it would be worse than a gamble. We could end up anywhere, even back in Caerigoth.” She sighed with a note of hopelessness. “If Kendu was still alive, in Terminus, or any Initiate I could sense, then we might have a chance. But there is no one.”

  Agony knotted in Anzo’s gut and he sagged back against the tree trunk. He coughed, hawked up and spat phlegm the color of old blood.

  Varya’s brows knit and she touched his bandaged abdomen. “You’re getting worse again?”

  “I’m great.” Anzo smirked at the lie. “I’m ready to take on a dozen armed men, just like that big brute wants.”

  Heathen had gathered the scraps of their supplies and was driving the horses into the woods. He stalked back to Anzo and Varya and cast the pitiful bedrolls that were all that remained to them at their feet. “Have you two come to a decision?”

  Anzo looked around at the trees. “Do you know anything of carpentry?”

  Heathen scowled. “You want to try and build a boat ourselves? We’d be better off making a swim for it, Weasel!”

  “Anzo’s already seen what a good swimmer I am.” Varya’s weary smile smoothed some of the strain from her features.

  Anzo grinned at Heathen. “I don’t suppose you could support our combined weight?”

  “I could,” Heathen smirked, “if I knew how to swim.”

  The three shared a bitter, forlorn laugh.

  “All right.” Anzo looked to the sky. “It’s a few hours till sundown, yet. When the light fades, we’ll have to gamble.”

  Varya frowned. “You mean try to steal a boat?”

  “Waiting around gives those eastern waste dogs more time to find us,” Heathen pointed out.

  Anzo shrugged. “You’ve got a better idea?”

  The giant made a sour expression. “Not really.” He brightened. “Stealing is better than swimming, any way. I know how to do that.”

  Anzo smiled at his friends. “We’re a sad party, wretched and reduced to thieving.”

  Varya touched his hand and Heathen’s. “But we’re together. It’s something.”

  ***

  Sunset came slowly, with the wine-colored shadows that mark spring’s slow encroachment back into the world. With those shadows deepening to black, Anzo’s little party sidled down from their rocky overlook into the tangle of trees and brush bunched up to the Lydirian. The air chilled with night’s approach, smelled of frost but of cooking fires, too. Laughter rattled from the far side of the wagons.

  Anzo followed Heathen with Varya lingering behind. They moved with the winds, moved when racket from the camp heightened to mask their passage. The Lydirian babbled ahead, tantalizingly close, the silty scent of it playing in the nostrils. Through the trees, Anzo could see the canoes, four of them lined up with two finished, cavities carved from the trunks and ends smoothed to some semblance of bow and stern. Curls of wood shavings littered the muck of the riverbank. More felled trees lay nearby, ready for the carpenters’ tools.

  Heathen crept to the edge of the trees, where they fell away sharply at a bank of slick muck. He halted, waved Anzo back. Water sloshed. Someone grunted.

  A Vhurr stepped into sight, his back to Heathen. He belched and Anzo could smell the reek of half-digested food and ale. The man hummed something, his eyes on the river and the fort across the way while his hands worked at his crotch. The confused tune cut out and the Vhurr chuckled drunkenly, turned to the tree line with a stream of urine already splashing forth.

  He had half an instant for his eyes to widen in shock at the sight of Heathen crouched a few handbreadths away before the giant’s fist took him in the jaw. He dropped senselessly, was caught before he hit the water, urine dribbling down his pant leg.

  “Good.” Anzo jumped to Heathen’s side to help him lever the limp form into the dark of the woods. Pain pinched in his guts. He’d moved too fast. A touch to his abdomen found fresh, warm wetness under tacky bandages. Grimacing, Anzo pretended to ignore it. “The nearest boat looks big enough for the three of us.”

  “We’ll have to run it out a bit first.” Heathen scanned the river, the way the water purled. “It’s shallow out quite a way.”

  “It always is, but...” Anzo shivered “...Theregond, the bastard, was right: the snows must not have been as heavy as usual and the melt hasn’t swollen the Lydirian.” He ground his teeth as the tremors worsened. “It’s going to be low this year.”

  Varya put her hand on his shoulder. “We can worry about that later.”

  “She’s right.” Slowly, Heathen edged out from the cover of the tree line until he was in the open. After a few moments, he sidled back. “That was the only one, it seems. The rest are all up by the wagons, around the camp fires.”

  Someone started singing and the tune was taken up by others.

  Anzo nodded. “Now’s the time.”

  Heathen gestured to the nearest canoe. “That one. Give me enough time to get her free.” He unslung his axe from his bag. “Not
a moment sooner.” He started forward, strides slow and careful, sloshing through the ankle-deep water rather than splashing.

  Anzo crouched back in the shadows with Varya. Pain wormed its way up from his belly. The nausea and dizziness were back. He pinched his lips together, fought for control. He put his hand to his midsection again, drew it away wet with blood.

  “You’ve opened it up again!” Varya gripped his shoulders.

  He shook her off. “I should be helping him.”

  “No.” She grabbed him again. “Hold still.”

  Heathen reached the canoe and knelt low at its side, watching the camp. Firelight winked through gaps under the wagons, between the huge, crooked wheels. Apparently sensing his moment, the giant set his axe in the cavity of the makeshift craft and crouched at its stern. Muscles bulged as he leaned into the weight, began shoving it into the murk of the Lydirian.

  Anzo tensed. “Only a few feet more...”

  A scream rent the merriment around the campfires. Shouts joined it, followed by the hiss of drawn weapons. A horse shrieked.

  “Damn it!” Anzo lurched to his feet. “They’ve seen—”

  Varya tugged at his cloak. “Anzo, wait!”

  Hoof beats hammered from the far side of the camp. A horn blared, sickeningly familiar. Howls and jeers lilted on the night air. The thunder swelled and riders were tearing from the dark. By the light of the campfires, shadows twisted and writhed. Sparks spouted skyward as a horse trampled one of the fires. By its wild brilliance, a white-haired figure in black leathers rose high in its stirrups, a saber glimmering coldly the instant before it came down with a sickening chop.

  “Now or never!” Heathen bellowed as he shouldered the canoe into the tossing current of the Lydirian. Releasing the craft, he scooped up his axe and turned back towards the riverbank.