by Pemry Janes
Leraine smiled, but there was no humor in it. “But one is more likely than any other. Given where they came from, they must belong to Duke Griffenhart. Most of the lands in this region belong to him or those beholden to him.”
“That name sounds familiar.” Rock scratched his chin.
“It should,” the living sword said. “Ghajir talked about him, warned there would be war. Looks like he was right.” His single eye shifted toward Leraine. “And if I remember right, which I always do, you know the guy. So why are you so eager on running if you knew who it was chasing us?”
Leraine sniffed. “I met the duke. I do not know him. And if that is his army, then we are enemies now.”
Rock leaned his head slightly to the left. “How come?”
Leraine shook her head. “Not now, we must keep going.” She saw Rock hesitate. “I will answer once we are on the move again.”
The pillar of earth grumbled as it slowly sank back into the ground and Leraine couldn’t help but glance at the horizon. She couldn’t see the army anymore, but it was still there. And so was her duty.
***
There was little shade on the Road and not the slightest breeze, no matter how hard the wind blew beyond the pillars lining it. It felt like they were traveling through an enormous oven and the water in his waterskin brought little relief. They weren’t quite running—they’d just had a rest—but Eurik could already feel what little strength his legs had regained leave him.
There was nothing to be done about that, though. Silver Fang was adamant that they couldn’t be caught by the army behind them and he trusted that she had good reason to believe that. It would be nice to know the reason, however.
“The army behind us is not just Griffenhart’s,” Silver Fang said before he could ask. In Linesan, too. She wanted to be sure he understood. “It is the Deposed, which means their goal is the Oathfellowship. Glinfell, I wager, that is the closest city.”
“And why are these Deposed and the Oathfellowship enemies, and why are they yours?” Though the name did give him suspicions . . . but it couldn’t be. The Oathfellowship had been created over eighty years ago and most humans didn’t even reach sixty.
“The wrong books.” Silver Fang grumbled so softly, Eurik wasn’t even sure he’d been meant to hear it. Speaking up, she continued her questioning. “Do you at least know how the Oathfellowship came about?”
“Yes, Glinfell rebelled over taxes. The local nobility moved to suppress it, as they’d done before, but Glinfell managed to get help from Metten, and together they threw the nobles out, claiming all the lands between the Glinster and the Dorv for themselves.”
“Basically, yes, though it was never that simple or neat. Which brings us to today and the Deposed, though that is not what they call themselves. Instead, the members of the Deposed still carry titles like Baron of Dorvhem, Count of Tvustreumenlaent, or Lord of Glinfell.”
She saw his frown and nodded. “That is right, they act as if those titles still have any meaning today.” Silver Fang shook her head.
“But that’s impossible! Humans don’t live that long.”
She chuckled. “No, they do not. It is their offspring and their offspring’s offspring who are working to get back what they feel is theirs. And they are getting desperate. They must be, for what merchant in her right mind would lend to one of the Deposed these days? The lands they hope to retake have been pawned twice or thrice, the treasures their ancestors managed to take with them as they fled have been sold of, and the other horse lords no longer fear the Oathfellowship and what they might bring. This army is their last gasp, more than I thought they could scrape together.”
“All of that does not explain why they are your enemy.” The lands of the Mochedan were far from here and Silver Fang had felt no fear visiting this Duke Griffenhart before. Though she didn’t say when this visit was. It couldn’t be too long ago, since Ghajir had called him the new duke.
“But it does. For while the Deposed have no quarrel with my people, we do have an agreement with the Oathfellowship to come to each other’s aid should one of us be attacked. So their enemies are ours and the ones behind us would know this.”
“And they won’t care that I’m not a Mochedan.” Eurik sighed.
Silver Fang grimaced. “There is more.” She looked forward. “The agreement was my mother’s idea, you see, meant to curb the attacks of the horse lords on our borders. As her daughter, I am expected to uphold it.”
“But you can’t be expected to stop an army by yourself. And it will take weeks to reach your home to let them know what’s going on.”
“Mother will learn of this attack soon enough.” She continued in a softer tone. “If she has not already. But there is something I can do. I can go to Glinfell and offer my sword in its defense.”
Eurik waited for more, waited for a question, but he got only silence. “Something I can do,” he repeated. His legs protested as he pushed himself to walk beside Silver Fang. “And what do you expect me to do while you fight a war?”
Silver Fang’s shoulders twitched, her gaze still fixated on the horizon. “You owe me nothing and I am already enough in your debt. I regret that I cannot guide you from here on out, but you should not have too much trouble finding your way.” Her lips quirked, but there was precious little humor in her voice. “It is straight ahead. You can not miss it.”
“While you head into danger alone?”
“I owe you enough already.”
“I thought you’d already paid by teaching me the sword and your language.” Eurik wasn’t happy. He . . . was afraid for her. War had seemed terrible enough when he’d read about it. Now he’d experienced real conflict for himself, and war was worse than that. And she thought she could go into it alone? That she should?
Silver Fang glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Your lessons are far from finished. But at least you will not get yourself killed right away. I give it a day before you do yourself in.”
He forced a smile onto his face. “See, you can’t let me out of your sight. For my own survival I must insist on accompanying you.”
Her answering smile was warm, but died quickly. “I . . . Thank you, but I cannot ask this of you. This will not be a skirmish, there will not be a quick battle. A siege can last for weeks, months, and combat is only one of a thousand ways you could die. You owe me nothing.”
Eurik held off replying and wished he understood her better. He’d interacted with her more than any other human, but there were such large gaps between their worlds that half the time he couldn’t even see hers.
Debt, payment. Why speak in such terms? Wasn’t he her friend? And he was fairly sure she thought of him as one as well. He shook his head. “Friends don’t let friends go off into mortal peril alone. I’m coming with you.”
Silver Fang didn’t acknowledge his words at first, then her shoulders slumped and she nodded once. She turned her face forward again. “Your company is appreciated.”
Misthell rattled in his scabbard. “What about mine?”
“Yours?” She tapped her chin with a finger and hummed.
“Yes?”
The Mochedan stopped humming and shrugged. “I cannot decide. Perhaps we should flip a coin on it?”
Chapter 14
Ghosts
The Glinster didn’t flow; it crawled underneath the Road, becoming a river of molten copper as it headed west and into the setting sun. Eurik could see a city to his left, perhaps an hour’s walk away. It looked untouched, yet he could still feel the emptiness of the land.
“The Ghost Land,” he said softly. The last of the Blasted Lands to fall, and it fell far more than any of the others when it did. People still lived in the Lands of Bone and Blood, however changed, using whatever means they could to survive, but not here; only the dead walked this land.
It looked different from the lands to Eurik’s right, but not in the way he’d expected after he’d read about the end of Boudicia. It didn’t look dead
; it looked wild. All manner of plant and tree grew as it wished, with the last hints of civilization drowning in greenery.
“Yes, we are safe for the moment. That army will spend much of tomorrow crossing this river. Which gives us some time. Come, there is a post of the Chained Hunters,” Silver Fang said, pointing at a long building of heavy timbers and white plaster which lay along the Road. A low wall of piled up rocks covered in moss surrounded it. “We can rest there for a moment before pushing on to Glinfell.”
“Sounds good.” He was tired, filthy, and hungry. They’d eaten as they went, but some hardtack and a bit of cheese was less than filling. Though the prospect of resting his feet for just a moment was even more alluring. His boots had carried him from one end of the valley to the other, but the soles were wearing thin now and there was no earth chiri to stave off the discomfort on the Road.
But his condition hadn’t killed his curiosity. “What are Chained Hunters?”
“The horse people call them Head Hunters. They patrol the Road, trying to keep people out of the Land of the Chained and destroy any corpse that approaches the Road.”
“Oh, those. And I take it the Chained is what Mochedan call the walking dead of Boudicia?”
“Yes. The curse has chained their spirits to their bodies, as they once bound their own dead to a place. I only hope that some of the Hunters have remained. It is too quiet.”
Eurik frowned as he listened as well, though he used more than his ears. “I don’t think anybody did. I don’t feel anybody moving around within the walled area. But why would they leave? Aren’t they protected?”
Silver Fang’s laugh was dry and brief. “Oh yes, by solemn oaths before the horse people’s gods. All the northern lords have sworn them, but this army comes from the south and many of the Hunters stationed here would have come from the Oathfellowship. And it seems the rest did not want to take any chances,” she said as they passed the open gate.
A door creaked as the wind nudged it, but that was the only movement. The earth was heavily disturbed by feet and hooves, a shattered crate and its contents trampled into tiny bits. Silver Fang kept walking and he quickly followed.
“Shouldn’t we leave? We came for food, but there’s nobody here.”
The Mochedan didn’t stop, but she looked over her shoulder. “They left in a hurry, so there should be something left for us.” She raised her eyebrow. “I can assure you, the army behind us will strip this place bare. Probably take apart the building itself for firewood. So why shouldn’t some of the food go to a better cause?”
***
“Almost there,” Leraine said when she spotted the dark shape rising from the land. The sun had set an hour ago but the moon was nearly full and gave them just enough light to see by.
“That is Glinfell?”
Somehow a laugh managed to make its way through her exhaustion. “It’s more impressive in the day.” But the humor didn’t last long as she eyed her surroundings. She could see several campfires burning well away from the walls of the city and they puzzled her.
Farmers fleeing to the safety of Glinfell? But why stay outside the walls? Unless they were being kept out?
It made sense, but not entirely. Leraine sensed she was missing something.
Rock whispered her name.
“Hmm?” Looking behind her she saw he had stopped without her noticing and was looking south. She saw nothing, only a sloping meadow with a copse of trees about a bowshot away, so what did he see?
It took too long, and she grimaced as she realized just how tired she was. “What are you sensing?” She made sure to keep her voice down and to act as if nothing were amiss. It could be a patrol from Glinfell, scouts to spot the advance of the army, but this close to the city? Could be bandits, taking their opportunity . . . no, still too close.
“Horses, about six of them. They were standing still, but now they’re moving toward us.”
Leraine closed her eyes, then had to fight to open them again. So tired. “Which means they’ve spotted us.”
The sound of breaking branches and hooves striking the earth confirmed it. Large shadows hurled themselves out of the trees and toward them, steel glinting in the moonlight. Indecision froze Leraine; the situation still made no sense to her. These could be Glinfellers thinking they were scouts for the enemy army, but their equipment was off.
Three archers, five brandishing spears, and at least two wearing chain mail. It was too dark to see any coat of arms, any colors, but the way these riders came at them didn’t feel like scouts; this looked like an attack by a raiding party.
A wall of stone rose up before her. Arrows struck it a moment later. “How did they get in front of us?” Someone chanted a short spell and something hit the wall with great force, but it held.
She could hear them shout at each other. “How did he?” The language was Irelian, with the accent of the Barren Hills. Mercenary, perhaps? “He didn’t use a spell!”
“Don’t care, just get around it and take them.” That reply had the softer tones of the upper valley, the southern half. But that included the Oathfellowship.
Leraine shook her head. The puzzle had to wait; she needed to act. “Distract them.”
Rock hesitated—only then did she realize she’d used Thelauk—before giving a sharp nod and taking a step away from the wall.
Ghisa’s power settled into the scales of her armor, silencing them as she crawled out on her belly. Horses whined in panic, curses flew as the field heaved and rippled like water. They were all very busy staying in the saddle, but Leraine took no chances as she slithered closer using every skill and trick Irelith had taught her.
She noted that Rock could have easily broken the beasts’ legs. Leraine was unsure why she wasn’t more annoyed about the fact that Rock wasn’t doing so. She, however, had no such qualms. Pushing herself up into a low crouch, she drew a spike and threw it at the bigger target.
The horse reared back, threw off his rider, and raced back the way it had come. Her next throw missed, hitting the leg of one of their attackers instead. The others had had enough and slid off of their horses. The ground calmed down and they spent a few moments handing off the reins to one of their number.
Leraine didn’t duck, and made no motion that would draw attention to her, instead trusting on the darkness and her enemies’ focus on the more obvious threat to keep her hidden right in the open. They began their advance, shields out as if they could protect them from the earth beneath their feet, leaving one of the archers behind to mind the horses; he was her first target when she resumed her assault.
Her aim was not true this time; her target cursed and yelled a warning before a second spike cut him off. Leraine was already up, her sword drawn, and charged them as half-formed slabs of packed dirt rose up around the soldiers like the arms of a lake monster.
The group didn’t hesitate, dodging the slabs even as they looked around for her. “Over there, me and Herrel will take him. You lot kill that mage.” One of the mail-wearing fighters had given that order. Herrel turned out to be another archer who had drawn a falchion as he now advanced toward her.
The other three turned their backs to Leraine and quickened their pace as they advanced on Rock’s position. She’d been counting on that. Her left hand plucked a spike out of her right bracer and sent it into the neck of one of them.
The two who had elected to “take” her hastened their advance, the one with the falchion circling to her left to keep her from attacking his comrades. The mail wearer brandished his shield and came straight for her.
Leraine flashed her teeth and pretended to meet his charge, only to hop to her left while she was still out of range of the shield bearer to fall upon the other. The archer slashed, the move clumsy and ill-timed.
A half-step, one more to her left, and her own blade sliced forward underneath the man’s arm and back across the knee. Herrel collapsed, barely catching himself with his free hand. “Ah! You bastard.” Her sword slicing through hi
s throat cut off his cursing.
Leraine paid him no further heed, her eyes set on her next target. Retrieving another spike, she threw it with the same motion. The man attending the horses didn’t catch it, not until the spike sank into his thigh.
There was no time to throw another. Leraine had to trust the poison to do its job. She drew her dagger and spun to face the last enemy, then hastily stepped back as a straight sword with a sharp point slid off her armor. Her opponent kept pressing her, shield up to deny her the chance at a counterstroke.
But he’d made a mistake and her blade flicked out at the man’s leg. Leraine missed the limb but broke her opponent’s tempo and they stopped. Her heart pounded in her ears, they stood just out of each other’s reach. He wasn’t going to waste his attack on her armor again, and if she tried to counter he would smack her with the shield. Attack . . . he’d block, she would parry, and he . . . might overpower her. Not good. What am I missing?
There was a solution, she knew there was, but she couldn’t see it. It kept itself hidden in the mists of her exhaustion.
Suddenly, her enemy bit off a curse. “A woman, and a savage!”
“That’s funny, I was about the say the same thing,” she said in his language. The horse man adjusted his stance; his face moved in the shadow of his shield but it was too dark to tell what emotion played across his features. His helmet was little more than a skull cap, the rest protected by a mail coif. “All I have heard tonight are simpering women, praying to Aethel to save their soiled pants.”
She sniffed for emphasis. That should do it. The men of Horse all thought they were stallions, the stud of the herd. Now he had to get mad, show the woman the place his gods ordained for her. But he kept still.
Very well, he called her a savage. So let’s play upon that ignorance. “Just as well, my goddess prefers women anyway. I’m sure I will be rewarded greatly once I bring my sacrifices to her temple.” She inclined her head toward his lower body.