“Well, elf,” said Kovol as he carefully returned to the fire. “We have food if you want some.”
“I am called Delsaryn, not ‘elf’ and I will care for myself,” he replied.
“Fair enough,” said Cazmeran. He gestured around the camp. “Our large friend here is Kovol and the boy’s name is Taelyn. I am Cazmeran the Astounding!”
“You are truly astounding,” said Delsaryn.
Cazmeran gleefully looked to Taelyn and said, “ Ha! See there?”
“I am astounded,” continued Delsaryn, “that you humans have intellect enough to remember to breathe.”
Taelyn and Kovol looked at each other before they both burst into laughter. Cazmeran sputtered as his face turned red with indignation. Meanwhile, Delsaryn the elf sat and glared at everyone.
***
Once Daniel had reached the far side of the pass, he’d been met with a puzzle. The greater number of tracks turned west while three people had gone east. After some consideration, he decided that the orc tribe was unlikely to head toward the empire. Taelyn the criminal, however ,would have reason to seek civilization to better trouble the empire. That there were three sets of tracks suggested followers. This explained some of the supposed shepherd’s success. If surprised and outnumbered three to one, even a trained knight could be overcome. Daniel led his horse east, moving quickly over broken ground. There were other passes through the mountains and he wanted to catch his prey before they reached one. Once into the empire, following them could prove more difficult. After all, Taelyn had convinced the residents of Byrkhill that he was harmless. Peasants elsewhere in the empire were no smarter.
Daniel drove himself and the horse well past dusk each night and awoke early. He ate little since his provisions were unlikely to last very long. However, he made a point of making certain the horse was well fed and watered. He would need it healthy enough to ride once able to acquire a saddle. Daniel drove himself onward by honing his hatred into something hard and sharp. As he walked, he recited the names of his fallen men.
William, Phillip, George, Henry, Jeffry, Andrew, Edward, Fredrick, Karl, Matthew, Nicholas, Oswald, Peter, Quincy, Samuel, Uller, Archibald, Charles.
Eighteen names, repeated over and over. Eighteen insults added to the injury Daniel had suffered. Eighteen men Taelyn would pay for. Daniel planned a dozen injuries to pay for each name.
William, Phillip, George, Henry, Jeffry, Andrew, Edward, Fredric…
The names became a cadence to which Daniel marched, day after day. Sometimes he spoke the names aloud. Sometimes, he hissed them through teeth clenched against encroaching exhaustion. Mostly, he simply repeated them quietly in his head.
William, Phillip, George, Henry…
After the first day, Daniel had lost the trail, but he had yet to find a pass and there was nothing out in the valley but trees. They would eventually choose to cross over. They would be unable to spread their taint unless within the empire. His plan, then, was to find passage eastward and then seek out a village where he could find a saddle and have his armor repaired.
William, Phillip…
Daniel found the pass back to the empire on the tenth day. He had been marching twenty hours a day to ensure he did not lose any trail that might be left by his prey. He was near exhaustion and the horse was little better. At some time in the distant past, someone had built a wall of loose rocks across the pass. There was little workmanship to the wall and no way to tell if had been to keep people in or out. However, there was a hole in the wall that tumbled out toward the unending forest in the valley below. Daniel spent an hour searching for a trace of his quarry’s passage without luck. If they had passed, it had been days ago. Since that wasn’t possible, they must have crossed the forest. Perhaps they’d been eaten by a bear. This thought did not please Daniel. He wanted Taelyn alive as he carved eighteen names into his flesh.
William…
William would have liked the mining town that Daniel stumbled into two days after running out of food and water. There were no less than three taverns, the sounds of drinking and wenching springing loud from within each as people came out to see the bedraggled knight that had come to visit. The rest of the town was full of hovels barely large enough to call houses. They at least had stone foundations, even if the rest of the construction tended more often to rough hewn wood than brick or stone. That was better than the grass and dirt shack of a sheep herder. If the place had been surrounded by a real wall instead of a wooden palisade, it might be worth something.
Outside one tavern, Daniel saw a warhorse tied to a post, its chestnut coat gleaming in the sunlight. Hanging from the saddle was a shield. It was blue with a golden rampant lion. It was the shield of an imperial guardian, an order of knights dedicated to the god Paladar. The order was full of worthless pretenders, mostly commoners who believed that a bit of training and belief in a strict moral code was what made someone a knight. They were tolerated because they made fair judges. Besides, every battle needed its fodder.
A peasant approached and said something, but Daniel didn’t hear. They repeated the question, once, twice, Daniel wasn’t sure. “Sir knight, are you ill? Do you need help?”
This peasant would be no help. The guardian, however, might be useful. It took a few attempts to make his parched voice work, but he eventually ground out, “I need the guardian.”
Then Daniel stopped, unable to continue. The horse passed him in the street, moving to stand beside the guardian’s horse at the water trough, pulling the lead from Daniel’s unresponsive hands. Then he could stand no more. He felt quick hands catch him and prevent a hard fall. He decided he would forgive the peasant for touching him without permission this once. The sky spun overhead and sounds became distant. For some reason, he could taste strawberries.
Daniel heard people calling for a healer and for water, but his mind barely noticed. Soon all that remained was a dull, throbbing gray.
Oabdi waited in the shade of the giant willow tree. It had become a regular meeting place for the gods who chose to join this final attempt to prevent Therraz from winning victory in the great game. Overgrown shrubs tangled with flowing vines discouraged spies, while hundreds of birds who lived in those bushes made eavesdropping all but impossible. The great roots of the willow spread out from the base of the tree, creating several benches already worn smooth by centuries of use. A wide lane of short grass grew between the tree and the marble railing that marked the edge of the terrace.
From where he sat Oabdi could see little of the rooftops and gardens of the terraces below as they descended, step by step to the edge of the plateau. Here and there a spire or tower rose into view, but most of the buildings rose no higher than a single story. Eons ago, the gods had competed to build the most elaborate rooms and buildings. Now the entire plateau was a single, vast building, bigger than any mortal city. Most of it was empty and neglected, though neglect was impossible to notice here. The overgrown shrubs in this garden were intended to be that way and had been so since it had been made.
The top of the mountain was covered in marble and granite even as snow covered surrounding peaks. When competing builders had run out of room on top of the mountain. some had dug chambers and catacombs into the mountain while others had slowly grown bored of the game. A few still labored, either adding new tunnels or remodeling abandoned areas to better suit their own tastes. Briefly, the historian wondered if anything built by Bartleby remained untouched. Considering the disdain the god of chaos had for most rules, such places were unlikely to be safe if they hadn’t already collapsed.
Oabdi’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his fellow co-conspirators. First to arrive were Pellas and Cennic. Pellas closely resembled his father, Therraz. He was fair of face and crowned with golden hair. Like his father, he usually wore a sword and armor polished to a gleaming shine. Unlike Therraz, the armor was of tightly woven chain instead of heavy plate, and the sword was a broadsword at his waist instead of a great sword strapp
ed to the back. Another important difference between the god of law and order and the god of knights and virtue was the warmth held in Pellas’s eyes, a warmth that was absent in his father.
Small, dark-haired Cennic in his gray leather armor seemed an odd match, but he and Pellas often arrived at these meetings together. The god of thieves wore his hair short and favored a neatly trimmed goatee. He also shared his father’s eyes, but in Cennic’s case, this made them green and often filled with mirth. Oabdi had once asked Cennic why, when the god had no need of wealth, he still chose to sneak around, picking pockets and burglarizing the other gods. “Because it’s fun,” he’d replied with a shrug. With all the sneaking and spying done recently, it was easy to understand his high spirits.
Following Pellas and Cennic were both the first member of the conspiracy and its most recent convert. Ayliaster and Aylathan arrived arm in arm. Oabdi noted that few who walked with Ayliaster could avoid that. Aylathan seemed to relax as he entered the garden. He had never been comfortable indoors. His black hair and green eyes marked him another son of chaos and he wore a new green doublet with elaborate silver stitching that suggested it was made of feathers instead of cloth.
Ayliaster led the god of forests to the root benches under the willow. Her light gown and radiant pale blond hair streamed behind her. Even though her blue eyes and cheerful smile were aimed at Aylathan, Oabdi could feel contentment warm within as the goddess of love approached. With some effort, he steeled himself against Ayliaster’s emotional influence and greeted the new arrivals.
“Hello, my friends,” he said. “What news do you bring?”
Ayliaster smiled and said, “I have brought our cousin, Aylathan, to join us.”
“I’m not certain joining was truly my idea,” Aylathan said, “but since I have acted on your behalf and your success likely means peace for my adherents, we appear to be allies for a time.”
“And you are welcome here, cousin,” replied Oabdi.
“Therraz is furious about losing the shepherd,” said Pellas. “One of Pangon’s minions not only failed to stop him but got a troop of father’s soldiers killed in the process. In his rage he’s chased us all away.”
“Not all of you left at once,” said Cennic. “Felith remained for a time and when she did leave, she seemed pleased with herself.”
“So,” said Oabdi, “it seems Therraz’s temper is not only his own. Hiellun and her children are putting plans into action.”
“I visited a scout where you said this shepherd would be,” Aylathan said. “He has been instructed to help. They should be through the forest, unmolested, in a short time. I will not ask that he risk leaving the wood.”
“Once through the pass, one of my favored followers will take the shepherd in hand,” said Pellas. “I’ve had knights sent to complete unrelated tasks near every path toward the heart of the empire since no other paths would seem to make sense. I’m not certain any follower of Bartleby is likely to seek one of them out, but they will offer aid to those who ask.”
“Very good,” said Oabdi. “We make good progress. I am certain we are the only ones who have figured out how to track the shepherd with any accuracy. I am disinclined to share that knowledge, so we have an advantage. We have precious few, so please take care.”
“Do you have any idea what Bartleby is planning, historian?” asked Aylathan.
“We don’t think he plans anything,” said Oabdi with a chuckle. “But if something seems logical and obvious, it’s most likely he’ll do the opposite.”
***
Delsaryn led at a slow and careful pace. A few patches of forest floor consisted of moss or earth without obstacle but most was a tangle of tree roots that offered a hundred opportunities to trip or twist an ankle. Every now and then they would have to cross a ravine carved by one of the many streams that flowed down from the mountains. Even during the day, the forest floor saw little more than twilight. The leafy canopy above only let pinpoints of light through, as if the stars and been multiplied by a thousand. The first day, Cazmeran had tripped over a root and crashed headlong into a fallen log. The scrapes and bruises were healing, but he’d been in a sour mood since.
“If you can’t walk properly,” Delsaryn had declared with an impatient sneer, “we shall walk at a child’s pace.”
True to his word, the four of them barely made ten miles a day, which primarily served to irritate Cazmeran even more. Kovol was also unhappy with the trip through the woods. While the terrain had yet to slow him down or even offer a hint of difficulty, Taelyn often caught him looking up and scowling at the trees.
“Why don’t you like the trees?” Taelyn had asked during one of their nightly sparring matches.
“My kind does not encounter forests often,” he had replied. “I do not like not being able to see the sky.”
Delsaryn had guffawed, the first laugh they had heard from him. “The poor orc is claustrophobic,” he had said.
“He’s afraid of the trees?” Taelyn had asked. For a moment, it had seemed Kovol was no longer sparring. The orc’s next strike had cracked Taelyn just over the ear. A long purple bruise still ran from his left cheek up under his hair.
“Do try not to kill him,” Cazmeran had said. “That is the point of your playing, isn’t it?”
No one had spoken the remainder of the evening.
The next day, Taelyn had watched Delsaryn practicing some forms with his sword. He was briefly startled by the realization that a week before, he hadn’t known there were forms to swordplay, let alone that he could see a pattern within the forms the elf used. He really had just been wiggling the blade around before. Delsaryn, however, moved gracefully from one form to another. The odd silvery blade shimmered even in the weak light under the trees. The sword swings all seemed defensive while every attack was a thrust. Many of the forms Kovol was teaching Taelyn required that the blade continue past the expected point of contact. Kovol said this gave strength to the blow as it cut. Delsaryn’s forms seemed far more economical. There was no energy wasted. Each block and thrust was precise.
“Delsaryn,” Taelyn said, realizing too late that he was interrupting, “why don’t you slash with your sword?”
The elf spun and leapt and aimed a thrust at Taelyn’s nose. The point of his sword stopped only a few inches away.
“I don’t slash because I don’t wield a cutting blade,” he said, the tip of the sword unmoving. Taelyn could see that the blade was thin, almost square in cross section instead of the flat blade he and Kovol used. Even to Taelyn’s barely trained eye it was clear that the sword could only be used for thrusts. Delsaryn’s exercises made more sense, though something else seemed odd about the blade.
“Is it made of wood?” he asked.
Delsaryn sighed and returned the sword to its scabbard as he said, “Yes. We call it springwood. It is stronger and more flexible than the iron you people prefer, but it does not hold an edge. We make use of its strength and set aside its weakness.”
“Can you teach me how to fight with one?” he asked.
“As I only have one, no,” replied Delsaryn. “But if you wish to spar with me in the mornings, I will gladly add to your collection of welts. I am used to skilled opponents. It would be useful to practice countering the clumsy flailings you call swordplay.”
So Taelyn’s training doubled, though the number of welts increased far more than that. Fighting Delsaryn was, as he’d expected, very different from fighting Kovol. Defending against the orc required strength to stop the momentum of the blade. Against the elf, so long as Taelyn’s blade got there in time, the attack could be deflected. Kovol needed wider openings than Delsaryn did and many of the new bruises were from pokes instead of slaps. Both hurt, of course. It also became clear that Delsaryn cared far less for pulling his blows. More than a few times, the elf drew blood. The stabs were very shallow but painful, and Delsaryn would never cease his offense when it happened.
“Your enemy will not give you time to whine over
an injury,” the elf had said, “Get used to pain and blood. You are a poor swordsman and will encounter it frequently.”
Taelyn believed Delsaryn wasn’t trying to cause serious injury, but neither did he shy away or apologize for it afterward. Kovol did not ease his training because Taelyn was sore, either. If anything, he pressed harder.
“Delsaryn is correct, little one,” he said. “Your opponents will not be easy with you because you ache or bleed. They will seek to take advantage of any weakness they see.” Even with that small warning, Taelyn was unable to block a sword slap that hit a stab wound Delsaryn had inflicted that morning. When Taelyn tried to defend that side more carefully, Kovol pummeled the other one.
The days quickly turned into two sessions of sword instruction divided by either sleep or exhaustion. Aches and pains became a constant companion and his shirt was often speckled with blood, even after fording one of the icy streams that were the only opportunity to bathe. Kovol’s training involved a repetition of shouted commands and chastisements while Delsaryn rarely said anything. Taelyn tried to begin conversations, but few went far.
“Why are you helping us, Delsaryn?” Taelyn asked one morning. There were already a number of new bruises and scratches.
“Why does it matter?” the elf replied as he swatted aside Taelyn’s sword and countered with a thrust to the knee.
Taelyn managed to deflect the blow, but he didn’t see the elbow that crashed into his chest. He toppled over a tree root and had to scramble to his feet.
“I should have killed you all,” said Delsaryn as he advanced, “but I decided you deserved pity. You are pitiful, after all.”
“I’m glad you didn’t choose to kill us,” Taelyn said, his parries growing wilder and more desperate as the elf closed in. “Was it the fall?”
Delsaryn advanced in a sudden charge. Taelyn tried to parry, but the elf deflected the iron sword tip into the soft earth where it stuck. In order to escape the elf’s next thrust he had to leave the weapon where it was.
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