The Living Sword 2: The Road Ahead

by Pemry Janes

  “That, and funny. I am awesomely funny.”

  Rock shook his head and Leraine couldn’t help a smile from forming. “Did you learn anything else?”

  “Slyvair was in Linese recently, but the only one that came with him was Perun. I’ll have to approach him if I want any answers.”

  “You can’t.” One look at his expression told her he didn’t know why. Sometimes, his ignorance could be exasperating. “You are the object of Slyvair’s anger, so the boy will choose his side. You do not give information to the enemy.”

  “But I am not Slyvair’s enemy.”

  “Are you not?” She shook her head. “Regardless, Perun will not see it like that. No, it would be best if I talked with him.” Not like Rock was going to let it go.

  “How so? If Perun is hostile toward me, won’t he be so to my friend as well?”

  Leraine waved that argument away. “It is about approach. I admit that I am curious what lies behind all this. And would like to see it resolved, for Slyvair’s sake as much as yours. To see a warrior of his skill be so twisted is a sad thing.” Rock did not have to say anything; she could see he didn’t follow. “Of course, Perun might not know much about the situation. We will see.”

  ***

  The days passed without Silver Fang so much as mentioning Perun. The land around them turned empty; the only sign of people was the crumbling road, more hard-packed dirt now with the occasional stone still sticking out. Their surroundings were a mixture of high grass, slouching boulders, and sparse trees.

  Once, Eurik saw the ruins of some fort atop a hill overlooking the winding road the caravan now followed. It looked different from anything he had seen before. A single round tower of roughly hewn stone reminded him of the one he’d seen in Campan in its general shape, but the material was different and it lacked the windows that tower had.

  To the south, Eurik could occasionally see the waters of the Elodrada glitter and beyond that an endless forest. The Woudanesee, the home of the elves, and the reason people preferred to live in the hills rather than by the river.

  They would frequently leave the main road to follow a dirt track that wound its way up and over a hill to a gathering of low-slung dwellings squatting in a valley, always surrounded by terraced fields and small flocks of regular sized goats. All of them had some sort of protection, too, a palisade or a wall of piled rocks. Even if sunset was still hours away, they would spend the night near these villages if practical.

  He’d seen one exception. It had been a little bigger, with a wall of earth and sharpened stakes. Someone had watched their passing from a wooden platform that towered above the houses, and he’d even waved at them. They hadn’t stopped at that one.

  Captain Slyvair still watched him every night when he raised the walls and dug the latrines, but from a distance. In the evening gloom he was practically invisible, but Eurik could still sense him through the chiri. He just stood there, his weight barely shifting the entire time. Eurik tried to approach the man, but the moment he turned toward him he had walked away.

  Chapter 8

  Cutting Through the Mists

  Her feet once more led her to Captain Slyvair’s tent. He shared it with Perun, but so far she hadn’t found the opportunity to talk to the boy. The moment was never right, didn’t feel right. Tonight wasn’t any different; it was much too late. They would both be asleep and her turn to stand guard was fast approaching.

  Leraine moved on, using the light of the moon to navigate her way through the tangle of rope and canvas. Her post was at the west wall, the least popular posting because the latrines were right next to it. As she ducked under a rope, her head came up just in time to see a dark shape before it collided with her.

  “Look where you going,” a young voice said in Irelian.

  Leraine gave a quick thank you to Ghisa. Though the Great Serpent would provide opportunities, it was up to people to use them. Leraine reached out to help Perun back on his feet. “I could say the same thing, but there is precious little light to see by.”

  “There’s enough to see what isn’t hiding in the dark.” The Irelian boy might be glaring at her, hard to tell with this little light. Certainly he brushed her hand away with some force.

  “Have I done something to offend you?”

  There was a pause, and Perun’s head turned away. “No.”

  “If this is about Rock and your captain, I’m concerned as well.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. And why do you call him Rock, anyway? Isn’t his name Eurik?”

  “I know how Captain Slyvair lost his arm,” she said, ignoring the boy’s attempt at distraction. A bare foot scraped over the ground at her words. “I know he was in Linese some months ago. That he was at an arena where a plant-man fought with Rock. And I know what he saw there, because I witnessed that fight as well.”

  “You did?”

  Leraine nodded. “Yes, it was impressive. I had never seen people fight like that, but apparently it is a common thing among the plant-people. What did you think of their fight?”

  Perun shrugged, but there was still a note of awe in his voice. “Never seen anything like it. Seen plenty of wizards sling their spells around, but never seen one move like that. I couldn’t tell where their fighting stopped and their magic took over, it was . . . it was one thing, you know.”

  Leraine knew what he meant. After seeing Rock both in practice and in combat, there was a certain rightness to it all. “I do. And what did Captain Slyvair think?”

  “You trying to trick me,” Perun said as he backed away. “I don’t know what your friend did, but he’ll be sorry he crossed the captain.”

  Leraine cursed her mistake. Truth be told, children were not her strong suit. She’d never known how to act around her nieces either, how to treat them, and they were at least of her people. As for her sisters, she was the youngest and they had been years older.

  “How could he have crossed Captain Slyvair? Rock spent his life on an island, never met an orc until Parmenorum.” She didn’t know if that were true, but it was a good bet. “So what did he do to offend Captain Slyvair so?”

  “He killed that plant-man,” Perun said at last. “Don’t know why that’s so bad, Captain didn’t like that green man any. But I don’t like how the captain’s been since. Half the time, he just stares into nothing or holds his left arm like it hurts. And he won’t tell me anything.”

  Something occurred to Leraine. This might be about something Rock did after all: he may have denied the sun-man something he craved.

  Perun stepped closer, into the moonlight, which illuminated his face. “Why are you making that face? Did you think of something? You know why the captain’s been so angry?”

  Leraine hadn’t realized it had shown, perhaps because she’d been stunned at how she’d missed the blindingly obvious. She should understand revenge after Irelith. But how did this knowledge help? She closed her eyes, then opened them again to regard Perun. “That plant-man took his arm away.”

  “I figured that already.” Perun stared at her. “That your big aha?”

  Sighing, Leraine squatted so she was at the same height as the boy. “And Rock took his revenge.”

  Perun snorted. “Revenge? Captain ain’t interested in something as useless as that. That’s something stupid people go for.”

  Leraine opened her mouth to argue, but relented. She couldn’t stay here all night to argue about it and what would it bring her? Perun had given her the insight she needed, but it didn’t get her one step further. Still, she couldn’t help giving the Irelian a few parting words. “If the loss is great enough, even the wisest or smartest can become blind to everything but that wound in their liver. Sleep well,” she said as she got up again and left.

  ***

  Ceran grunted; Leraine’s ears barely caught it through the wall. Above her, the sky had turned to a leaden gray as the sun prepared itself to ascend into the heavens. The camp, however, was still a mass of dark shapes
.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Mist,” Ceran said.

  Frowning herself, Leraine got up. Her sword had been resting over her knees and she picked it up as she got up to peek over the wall. They’d set up camp in a large clearing, surrounded by narrow-trunked trees. Now, from in between those spindly trees, mist crawled out toward the wall.

  “Is that all?”

  Another grunt. “Just odd, that’s all. Elodrada’s somewhere to our left and we’re so far inland. Didn’t expect to see it.”

  “Ah, I see.” Leraine took another look. The mist was thick; it rolled into the clearing and quickly reached the wall. Something nagged at her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A memory, a feeling, something. The mist slithered up the wall, and its fingers slid over the top and slowly fell to the ground.

  Looking to the left and right, she noticed it was coming from one direction. Before her, the trees had all but disappeared. Silence reigned, the little sounds of the forest smothered by a white blanket that now filled the camp as well.

  Ceran guffawed. “You can see anything in this?”

  Leraine’s laugh was swallowed by the mist. She could still see the little piece of the wall before her, but not much else. Even her feet were hidden from her sight now. She could still see the sky, though, enough to spot the first hints of blue. “You’ll have to give up your rest soon and get to work. What’s for breakfast?”

  She listened for a response, but all her ears caught was a scraping sound. Like someone hopping over the—

  Fear slammed down like a lightning bolt, making her aware of every fiber of her being. A single gasp escaped her lips before her training brought her breathing back under control. Her hand closed around the hilt of her sword while Ghisa’s presence filled her armor and armaments.

  She still heard nothing, saw only a roiling whiteness, but she ducked and felt something tug at the hairs on the back of her head a moment before it impacted the wall. Turning right she drew and struck in one motion. Not as smooth or as fast as Irelith—nobody could—but she’d been practicing.

  The mists strangled the resulting chirping keen, but Leraine had felt her blade part skin and flesh. Her scabbard of stiff leather was still in her left hand and she jabbed it forward now at the source of the sound. It impacted something, interrupting her opponent’s cry of pain.

  She should give a warning, but she wasn’t alone. Rolling out of the way of an attack she hadn’t seen, Leraine straightened out to face her enemy. It was a shadow in the mists, long, slender, like the weapons in his hands. She judged the distance between them and took a chance. “To arms! Elves in the camp! TO ARMS!”

  The short spear in her opponent’s right hand jabbed forward. Leraine didn’t block it, but pushed it aside with her scabbard and struck. Her blade easily severed the tendons in the elf’s wrist, then came down and opened the creature’s chest from right to left, from top to bottom.

  Something heavy impacted her in the side even as her enemy fell back into the mists. From the corner of her eye, she saw the carved war club that someone had thrown at her fall to the ground. Staggering, Leraine saw the mist billow and stir as something came in low and fast from that direction. Her sword out of position, she swiped at the elf with her scabbard.

  “Elves in the camp!” Leraine grimaced, her side protesting against shouting like that. The elf blocked her strike, a broad dagger in his hand. His free hand came around and struck her wrist, forcing her to let go of the scabbard.

  The elf’s face emerged from the mist as it stepped closer, giving Leraine her first good look at her enemy. Streaks of blue paint covered its pale skin, its big black eyes shone like polished glass. A beak-like nose flared as the elf bared sharp teeth. Its big ears twitched, nestled in a mane of golden down. Better to hear you with, the old stories said. The elf’s dagger came up.

  Her left hand was numb, but there was nothing wrong with the arm it was attached to. It slid over the elf’s arm, forcing it and the knife down while her own weapon came up between the people-eater’s legs.

  It danced back into the mist, chirping and wailing, while her nose was assaulted with the cloying scent of elven blood. Breathing hard, she listened.

  Hadn’t anybody heard her? Where was everybody? Did the elves get them all? The mist swallowed up her questions and gave no answers, and even the elf’s cries had vanished.

  This mist that had come out of nowhere and had gone straight for the camp. It had to be elven magic. Safe in Ghisa’s embrace, she still felt its fingers prying at her mind. A soothing whisper that nearly reached her ears kept trying to fray her focus. “Elves!” The pain was a good thing—it reminded her she wasn’t all alone in the world. That there were enemies all around her and allies that were counting on her. “Wake up already, egg-suckers,” she growled in her own tongue.

  A deep breath, less pain. “Elves!”

  ***

  There was noise, a voice pricking at his consciousness. Bleary-eyed, Eurik drifted out of sleep and tried to find the source. “Will you wake up already!” Misthell said. It took another moment for the distress in the living sword’s voice to trickle through, and even more time for the presence of someone standing over him to register.

  Hunched over, the person raised an ornate wooden club until it hit the roof of the stone tent. Between one heartbeat and the next, Eurik acted at last. The same motion that tucked his legs in also caused the plates to bend inward and trap the weapon. Not even bothering with gathering strength from the ground, he kicked out with both feet and propelled his attacker out of his shelter.

  The living sword lay next to him. “It took you long enough.”

  “Not now.” Eurik rolled to his feet. “Who was that?”

  “Elves, there are elves in the camp.”

  Eurik froze right as he was about to exit the shelter. “Elves?”

  It was a mistake. His assailant, the elf, had recovered and now sprang forward, slashing with his flint dagger at Eurik’s head. He fell back, the elf jumping into the shelter and on him. Eurik caught the elf’s arm, the dagger’s edge hovering above his jugular. The elf’s warm breath washed over his face, and Eurik’s nose wrinkled at the sweet smell.

  The elf said something in his language. It sounded like bird’s chatter, but his attacker’s eyes spoke volumes. Fear grabbed him by the throat, robbed him of thought. Only his own strength was available to hold off that knapped stone weapon.

  No, he had to calm down, slow down his racing thoughts and be steady. Be earth, be the mountain. Earth chiri flowed into his body, making him aware of so much more. He felt the panicky trampling of the goats, felt the mercenaries stomping around, the dwarven archers shuffling, and the light footfalls of the attackers speeding through the camp.

  But there was more. He felt the bones in the elf above him, so different from his own. Strong, light, hollow. Strengthened by earth, Eurik had no problem turning the hand holding the dagger away. His other hand came up to rest against the elf’s chest and closed; his attacker’s ribs obeyed his command.

  Struggling for a breath that would never come, the elf fell off. Horror stirred deep within him, but it found no purchase. The mountain could not flinch, only endure. Not looking at him, Eurik got up and left the tent. People were in danger; he felt them fall. Felt some get picked up, but not by the people of the caravan.

  He knew why: he’d read about it in the safety of the library. Back then, it had simply been another fact about the outside world. Another gruesome custom among many. That’s how the san who had written about the elves had presented it, but they had it easy. They alone, among all the intelligent races, were not fit for an elf larder.

  Not today, Eurik vowed. The mist did not hinder his senses, but he wasn’t dumb enough to believe he could save everybody by himself. He could level the playing field, though. Eurik let go of the earth chiri and began to dance, spinning around and around. Wind chiri swirled around him, which he used to go faster, which generated even mo
re chiri.

  Eurik jumped, still spinning, gathering yet more energy. He landed in a crouch, his arms spread wide, and the winds howled out in every direction, blowing the mists away.

  Two elves were uncovered right away, staring at him, their eyes wide. They were carrying a pole between them with an unconscious dwarf. He recognized one of the drivers, lashed to it by his hands and feet. Eurik said nothing. He stepped forward and switched Ways once more.

  His hands swept in their direction. Two slabs of stone hit them in the shins with an audible crunch and knocked them to the ground. Not today.

  ***

  Leraine strained her senses, but the mist still refused to divulge its secrets. She didn’t even know where she was, though she knew the wall had to be close by. But was it in front of her, behind her? She was a little more sure on where her opponent was. There was that.

  A gust of wind slapped her in the face, blowing the mists away to reveal a camp in chaos. Tents had collapsed as people had run straight into them, mercenaries in their underwear faced off against elves painted in bright colors. All had stopped as the battlefield had changed on them in an instant.

  Wall’s behind me, Leraine noted. She didn’t look, didn’t dare to with an enemy so close. He wasn’t looking at her, but rather at the source of the wind with clear surprise written all over his face. The elf died with that expression still plastered on his face.

  A sharp whistle pierced the stillness, and their attackers responded immediately and ran for the southern wall. The dwarven archers who finally could see something to shoot at loosened missile after missile at their backs. Another chirp, different from the first, and an answering volley of javelins flew over the wall and into the camp. One of the mercenaries who had tried to pursue the elves, Kristoph, cried out as the slender spear pierced his shoulder. The others quickly took refuge underneath some carts or their shield, dragging Kristoph along with them.

  A part of the wall rose up, blocking the javelins and trapping the last of the elves within the camp. They died quickly at the hands of the quick-firing dwarven bows.