by CW Thomas
The first viper he saw sprinted up the steps, lightly armored and with no helmet. The man’s name was Aengus Faolan. He was thirty-five and had a son with a whore on Edhen. Merek flung his body at Aengus, knocking him back into his companions. The soldiers growled and cursed as they tumbled in a disjointed mess of limbs and metal.
Merek hopped up on the stone windowsill, wetted by the afternoon rain, and ducked outside. He would have landed gracefully on the wood shingle roof ten feet below, but one of the soldiers snagged his cloak. Like a pendulum Merek swung back into the side of the tower before the soldier lost his grip. He fell to the rain-slicked roof, landed with a crash on his side, and slid toward the edge of the two-story barn house. Merek pulled out a dagger and drove it as hard as he could into the shingles. It didn’t stop his slide, but it did give him something to hold onto when his body tipped over the eave.
A door on the ground level of the tower flew open. A tall viper with broad shoulders rushed out. Gall Shea. Late twenties. He grumbled about working for the Black King so much that Merek almost liked him.
“I’ve got him!” Gall said. He ran into the house and stomped up the stairs to the second floor.
Merek managed to get his feet on the sill below him. He kicked out the right side windowpane in a shower of glass, grabbed onto the mullion and pulled himself into a small bedroom.
He dashed for the corridor just as the towering Gall hunched through the doorway, sword drawn.
“I’m gunna carve your face,” Gall said with a malicious grin.
He took a few vicious swipes, but in the tight confines of the bedroom his armor and height proved to be no match for the assassin’s lightweight quickness.
Merek found a coil of rope sitting on the floor. He ducked the soldier’s swipe, grabbed the rope, and then lashed it at Gall’s unprotected face. The desperate swipe served to push the soldier just far enough out of the way for Merek to slip by and out into the hallway.
He sprinted down the empty corridor while fashioning one end of the rope into a crude lasso. He stepped through the last doorway on the right and into another bedroom. The chamber contained a chair and an old bed frame. He tossed the lasso over the bedpost and dove through the window as Gall charged into the room. He made a grasp for Merek, but missed. In a growl of frustration the black viper turned to sprint out of the room. The rope went taut. Merek’s weight yanked the bed frame toward the window. Gall crumpled under the rush of wood that plowed him back into the wall, knocking him out, and slowing Merek’s descent.
Once on the ground, Merek took off running west through the wet grass toward the forest of trees that occupied the majority of the valley.
The rest of the soldiers ran after him.
Merek vaulted over a fieldstone wall and into the woods. A thick fog was rolling in off the lake just ahead, washing out the distant trees. Merek veered north. The woods thinned, and soon he saw the distinctive silvery light reflecting from the water between shaggy boles. Descending upon the brown shore he saw a small white boat waiting there for him on the sand, its bow pointed toward the water. He jumped in.
Upon finding the arrows and bow that had been placed there for him he launched a single arrow through the fog over the water. The noisemaker on the arrow’s shaft whistled like a bird as it soared through the air, into the mist, and out of sight.
Merek lay down in the boat and waited.
A few moments of anxious silence followed before he caught the voices of the soldiers drifting toward him through the trees. He heard Aengus and Dermot and the fat one he referred to as Snout. They were fanning out through the woods. They would find him soon enough.
Merek fidgeted with his bowstring. He peeked up over the rear of the small raft.
“Any time now,” he muttered.
He had one other whistling arrow in the boat with him, but using it would surely draw the soldiers in his direction.
“Over here!” came a shout from down the beach. It was Dermot. “I’ve found him!”
Merek ducked down into the boat. He grabbed the second arrow, figuring he had two options—he could send it out over the lake as another signal, or he could use it as a weapon.
“Come on. Come on!” he whispered.
The coil of rope tied to the front of the boat began to race out onto the water.
“Finally!”
Merek heard the footsteps of the black viper drawing closer. He notched the arrow, jumped up, and aimed it at Dermot’s face. A flash of terror flashed through the soldier’s eyes before Merek set the projectile free. The man collapsed inches from Merek just as the rope went taut and yanked the boat out onto the lake. Merek hunkered down in the raft, hanging on as tightly as he could while the vessel raced across the water. He glanced back and saw the rest of the soldiers sprouting from the forest onto the shore, looking after him in wonderment. Then the white mist closed in around him and he was ensconced by fog.
Merek tried to brace himself in preparation for the inevitable impact, but there was no securing his body for what was to come. The boat launched out of the fog and collided with the adjacent shore, knocking Merek forward in a violent mess of scrunched legs and battered arms.
Bruised and disoriented, he got to his feet, relieved to be safe at last.
He stepped out of the boat onto a thick patch of brown forest floor where angular trees hugged the water’s edge. Nursing a bump on the side of his head, Merek lifted a hand in greeting to the horsed rider who sauntered toward him.
“That worked well, I’d say,” said Patryk Brennan. His smile dimpled in an “I-told-you-so” sort of way. He untied the long wet rope from his horse’s saddle. “How was the ride?”
“Agreeable,” Merek said. “Until it ended.”
Patryk hopped off his horse. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.” He held out his hand as if waiting to receive something.
“Right,” Merek said. He fished a small leather pouch out of his tunic that he plopped into Patryk’s hand.
“And at this rate I like to throw in supper.” Patryk pointed to his horse’s flanks where two dead rabbits hung by their hind feet. “Come. I’ve got a proposition to discuss with you.”
Merek found a horse waiting not too far away, a grumpy brown spotted mare on loan to him from Patryk. They mounted their steeds and rode along the length of the lake until they were leagues away from the wizard’s tower. Descending the gentle arch of a woodsy ridge to where the ground leveled, they emerged from beneath the leafy canopy into an unexpected well of foggy evening light.
Patryk had built a small camp near the lake’s edge with two bedrolls under the cover of a curtaining willow tree.
While Patryk started a fire with some flint and a knife, Merek unsaddled the horses. He led them both to the lake’s edge and let them drink while he knelt and washed his face and hands. The coolness of the water was refreshing.
A full moon hovered over the lake, veiled a bit by wisps of lingering rain clouds, and yet bigger and brighter than he had seen it in some time. It made him think, for a moment, of his home country of Edhen, which sat a half world away to the west.
Now that he had collected the six pieces of the regenstern, he was ready to put Efferous behind him and return home.
Merek unbuttoned one of the pockets on his tunic and slipped out a piece of the gem. It was about the size of his thumb, milky white like a quartz stone, yet with the glittering colors of a rainbow at its center. Merek had stolen a lot of gems in his life, but he had never seen one quite like this. He wondered, for a moment, what it was worth, and briefly entertained the notion of getting it appraised and selling it. He could probably live the rest of his life off whatever price a rarity like this would fetch.
However, he couldn’t forget the matter of the sadistic Ustus Rapere, right hand man to the Black King. Ustus was famous for serving up the cruelest forms of punishment for nothing more than his own enjoyment. To cross him, Merek knew, would be sentencing himself to an excruciating fate.
Patryk kicked his boots off and reclined onto his elbow, the slight bulge of his belly rolling over his belt. He hadn’t aged well since Merek had seen him last, with many new lines and blemishes speckling a face covered with a thin blond beard. His teeth were yellower, and his eyes dimmer.
“You speak the language of Edhen much better now,” Merek said. Patryk’s Efferousian accent was still thick, but his enunciation of Merek’s native tongue had improved much over the years.
“What is the name of your language again?” Patryk asked.
“The ancient form is known as Tangya, but few speak it today. The common language is a more simplified version of it.”
“Is that what it’s called? The ‘common language?’”
“Tangmuta,” Merek said.
“Tangmuta,” Patryk repeated. “Tangya and Tangmuta.” Patryk said the words several more times.
“Why so interested?”
A wide grin spread across his companion’s face. “I know some local ladies who get all wet between the thighs when they hear me talking all smart about other languages and the like.”
“Do they speak Tangmuta?”
“Not a word.”
“Then why don’t you just make stuff up?”
“I do. All the time. They eat it up. Dumb heifers. Say, how is your Efferousian?”
“I get by,” Merek said, which wasn’t exactly the entire truth. Merek spoke as fluently in the common language of Efferous as he did in Tangmuta. He also knew quite a bit of Edhen’s ancient tongue.
Patryk shifted himself on his elbow to face Merek more directly, and said, “I don’t know what kind of loot you took from that wizard’s tower, and I don’t want to know, but, the way I figure, it must be worth a lot. Those were black soldiers guarding that tower, and don’t think I don’t know that. Don’t see many of them around here. And as for the wizard, that was Versch Leiern, and everybody knows he’s one sullied bastard you don’t mess with.” He paused. “Mind if I ask if he’s still alive.”
“That depends,” Merek said.
“On what?”
“Do you believe in resurrection?”
Patryk tipped his head back into a hoarse guffaw that made his belly jiggle. “So Versch finally got what he deserved, eh? It’s about time, too. Anyway, where was I?”
“You were trying to ask me what I took without asking me what I took,” Merek said.
Patryk lifted a hand. “Look, all I’m saying is, whatever we did over there tonight it was a big steal, and I’m guessing I didn’t earn half of what I could have if I’d known what we were really doing.”
“We’ve known each other a long time, Patryk. I wouldn’t cut you out like that. If you want more money just ask.”
“Not money. A favor.”
Merek thought for a moment. He had never liked the business of doing favors, and if it were anyone else other than Patryk asking he would’ve stopped listening right then. Instead, and against his instincts, he said, “Go on.”
“I…” but Patryk hesitated. “I’ve gotten myself in trouble with some bad folks. I owe them too much money.”
Merek sighed, disappointed. “I should’ve known you were too stupid to quit.”
“I needed the money, and it was an easy—”
Merek had heard enough already. “I’ve helped you out of too many binds, my friend. Remember this?” Merek pulled back his collar revealing a long scar just under his shirt. “Almost got my throat slit once for you and your debt.”
“And a truer friend no man could ever have,” Patryk said, “but do you remember this?” He pulled up his pant leg, exposing a long pink scar that ran down the side of his shin from the bottom of his kneecap to his ankle.
Merek looked away as the memories came sparking back into his mind, images that had haunted him for years. In an instant he saw the disappointment in his father’s eyes as his family learned the truth of who and what he was. He saw their grief as they took the burden of his mistakes and suffered the loss of their daughter, Awlin. When Merek’s enemies had taken her she was only nineteen, a quiet and beautiful girl who loved simple things like warm bread, music in the town square, and the colors on butterflies. Her fate was Merek’s fault, and his family rejected him.
His only friend back then was Patryk. Together they discovered that Awlin had not been killed, but sold into slavery on Efferous. That was two years ago.
Patryk gazed at Merek with piercing regard. “I stood up for you when no one else would. You never told me why you were dishonored, why you lost your knighthood, and I never asked. I know it has something to do with Awlin, and I know you think that if you get her back you’re going to be able to set things right, but, my friend, listen to me—”
“So I owe you? Is that it? I have to pay you for all your years of friendship?”
Patryk shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. Damn, you’ve been touchy lately. Look, I’ve been there for you. That’s all I’m saying. And I need you to be there for me. I’m in a tight spot right now. And…” Patryk’s voice trailed off as his eyes drifted toward the fire in thought.
“What if I told you I know where she is?”
Patryk’s words hit like lightning, words, Merek knew, that his clever gambling friend had waited for just the right moment to play. They cut through the slew of disjointed memories still swirling around in his mind and brought his attention into sharp focus.
“Awlin?” Merek whispered. “You know where she is?”
“I know more than that,” Patryk said, his eyes seeping with genuine sympathy. “I can tell you where she’ll be four days from now. I can promise to take you there, to do everything in my power to help you get her back.”
“Providing I help you settle your debt,” Merek concluded.
“There you go.”
Merek took a breath, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous. The gems in his pocket were burning a hole in the back of his mind. Returning them to Edhen in a timely fashion had to be his top priority, but there was no way in all the hells that he could pass up the chance to rescue his sister.
Returning the regenstern to Ustus, he decided, could wait a few more days.
BRYNLEE
The gray light of dawn blurred through her lashes as Brynlee’s eyes cracked open from a brief, but exhausted sleep. Dripping water from high branches pattered the ground and pinged the wagon bars. Nearby she could hear the gurgling of freshets running melodiously through the spring trees.
She sat up on the hard wooden floor of the wagon cage, hoping the sick feeling in her stomach wouldn’t give way to vomiting. The metal cuffs on her wrists and ankles had chilled during the night and bit her skin like winter frost.
The black vipers of the traveling brood were already awake, yawning as they mucked about on the trampled grass of their temporary camp, starting fires for breakfast and packing up their armor and weapons. She watched them through the bars of the cell, half hoping they would ignore her while at the same time wishing they would bring her hot food to fill the days-old ache in her stomach.
Next to her, Brynlee’s five-year-old sister Scarlett roused. She sat up, rubbed her tired brown eyes, and cuddled close to Brynlee.
The other girls in the wagon were beginning to stir. Brynlee had counted fourteen of them in all, fourteen frightened, cold and muddied girls ranging in age from as young as Scarlett to a few older adolescent girls well into womanhood. She recognized Cadha Rose, a blacksmith’s daughter who lived near the castle in the northern part of Aberdour, and Maidie Larnach, daughter of a castle guard who she occasionally played games with. Maidie had just turned seven and was only six months younger than Brynlee. The rest of the girls she had never seen before. They were all crammed into a
creaky wagon cage, shut behind black bars.
Othella, one of the older girls, jumped to her feet, taking great interest in something on the far side of the camp. “Oriana!” she exclaimed in a quieted breath.
Brynlee followed her gaze to see a raven-haired girl in a ratty blue dress who could not have been older than thirteen. Her posture looked despondent as she crawled out of a beige tent shivering against morning’s chill.
Behind her, a bear of a man, with arms as thick as Brynlee’s waist, emerged from the tent’s opening. He tied the drawstring around his pants, yawned a massive yawn, and blinked his eyes against the morning light. He slapped a beefy hand on the young girl’s shoulder and pushed her ahead of him.
He led her to the wagon cage where he rapped the bars with his knuckles. “Get back, you scrawny mutts.” He unlocked the door and shoved Oriana inside.
The stocky soldier regarded Othella with bright blue eyes that were full of lust and madness. “And you’re going to keep me warm tonight,” he said with a crude grin. He made a kissing noise at her, then slammed and locked the door.
Oriana fell into her sister’s embrace, burrowing her head into the dingy white sleeve of her dress where she unleashed a torrent of sobs.
“What happened?” asked one of the younger girls.
“What do you think happened, dummy?” Cadha answered.
Brynlee tried to conceal her shudder at the thought of any of the soldiers coming to take her or Scarlett away for the night. Her imagination conjured all sorts of torment involving spears and knives and ropes with pulleys, things she had read about in books that, according to her mother, were far too grown up for her to read. But as to what really happened between the girls and the vipers that took them, Brynlee couldn’t say, and she was too timid to ask.
“Shh,” Othella cooed as she stroked her sister’s hair.
Of all the girls in the wagon cage, Othella’s beauty stood out more than most. She had rich brown eyes typical of the women of Aberdour. Her long silky hair, almost as dark as her sister’s, was pulled away from her elegant face into a swift plait down her back. The soldiers had already taken Othella into their tents many times since leaving Aberdour.