by A. R. Wilson
Knowing the fire started to the left of the entrance, he felt his way to the right. Fabric met his hand. He grabbed the piece of hanging material. With a quick jerk he tore it free and tossed it toward the entrance. He moved on to the next piece and the next.
Thick smoke threaded into his nose and eyes, digging like serrated knives along his face and throat. Pushing himself to focus on his task, he clutched two more sheets, then two more and dragged them out of the shelter.
The fresh air outside slapped at his skin. He tore the shirt from his face and gasped. Coughing took over, followed by more gasping.
No time. The tree might catch fire at any moment.
He took two more choppy breaths then tied his shirt back over his nose.
Inside, feeling against the wall to the right, he bumped into the wine barrels. He felt around to the fire side of the barrels, hoping he would sense the heat before it touched his skin. Beyond, he discovered another sheet and pulled it down.
The next sheet dropped with the sound of crackling. He leapt back then kicked the sheet toward the center of the room. The muffled scrape of metal against wood protested his efforts.
Yes!
A few more kicks among the fabric and his foot butted against his sword. He fished it out and struck hard against one of the wine barrels.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Come on.
Thwack! Then the gurgle of liquid sloshing along the floor. He gave one more thwack for good measure.
Taking a few sideways steps to the left, he inched closer to the heat and crackling. He swiped his sword upward. Whoosh! Down came a pane of flickering orange and red flames behind a screen of black smoke.
Prickling increased in his eyes and chest. He needed air.
Just one more.
He took another two sidesteps then swiped at the wall. Orange and red flowed to the ground. Half-poking, half-dragging, Jurren used his sword to force the burning sheets toward the pooling wine. The sizzling shouts of the dying flames accompanied even more smoke.
It was too much. He started feeling for the entrance. Within three steps, his knees gave out. Wine swelled around him. Coughs came harder and harder, grating their way out.
The ground started to angle downward. Cool night air brushed over his hands, and he found the strength to push a little harder. As soon as he felt dry ground, he rolled onto his side and let the coughing spasms do their work.
Prying the shirt from his face, he tried to look around. If one of those boys wanted to ambush him, he would be ready for it.
The only thing coming toward him was the voice of Arkose. “Good thinking, Jurren. You are as bold as they come.”
Nodding, Jurren blinked up at him. Several more coughs sputtered out before he could speak the question nagged at him. “Where’s Ellam?”
The other man shrugged and shook his head. Jurren stood up, wiping his eyes. Looking around once, more he paused: where were the others?
A tickle in Jurren’s nose made him sneeze, and piercing jolts coursed into his eyes. He winced. Bracing himself for the sensation, he pressed the heels of both palms against the sides of his nose and pulled hard. Popping and cracking filled his ears.
“Did it set?” Arkose squinted, digging his chin into his chest as though debated whether to look away.
This was not the first time his friend had seen him re-set his own broken nose. With a nod, head ringing from the aftermath of the last several minutes, Jurren gave him a thumbs-up.
“We have to find Ellam.”
Arkose nodded, and the two men went in opposite directions with swords drawn. Within moments, Jurren heard Arkose calling for him. He ran over to find him helping Ellam up into a sitting position. Ellam made a punching gesture toward the side of his neck then pointed to the same spot.
“Got a throat punch?” Arkose asked.
Ellam nodded and turned onto all fours to release a series of coughs.
“Catch your breath, my friend. We’re right here with you.”
Jurren stared into the darkness around them, waiting to hear the snap of a twig or the singing of a blade slicing through the air. Nothing. Only Ellam’s gasping followed by heavy breathing, then grunts of coming to a stand.
“Guess we better assess the damage.” Jurren started walking toward the shelter.
The other two men nodded.
In all, six boys died in the attack. They could not be left to wait for proper authorities due to the threat of predators. Nor was a funeral pyre an option, though common decency demanded it. Even burial by rocks would be too laborious an effort.
But that task could wait. First, they had a wagon and pair of horses to track down. The results of that search would have much to do with deciding what they did from here on out.
By daybreak, the three men reclaimed what remained of their possessions. Fire and wine ruined much of their personal effects, including their sleeping rolls and extra clothing. Ellam salvaged a single shirt and gave it to Jurren to replace the bloodstained one.
Luckily, the tether between Ellam’s two horses entwined in the lower branches of a ghostwood a mile down the road. The wine barrels were safe, minus the one Jurren broke open to douse the fire. Even Arkose recovered all of his swords, untouched in their box.
Jurren stayed focused on calling the falcons until all his birds were accounted for and put into their cages. Zemarick gave him several screeches of dismay.
As morning waned through, the sight of blood along the road became glaringly obvious.
Jurren waited until they packed the last item on the wagon before he spoke. “We’ll have to take them with us.”
The wide-eyed look on Ellam’s face declared as much disdain for the idea as did the shudder of Arkose’s shoulders.
“We can’t leave them here. The best option is to take them with us to Kovarilos. It is the only way to get these youths reunited with their families.”
Ellam lowered his head, his eyes shifting as though waiting for an alternate solution to pop out of the ground.
“Jurren’s right. We owe it to their families to at least try to get them home.” Arkose ran his hand along the back of his shaved head.
The look on Ellam’s face wasn’t changing.
“We can use these sheets to wrap them up.” Jurren gestured toward the stack of neatly-folded sheets at the back of the wagon.
Ellam had started shaking his head, but it was more the expression of not wanting to perform the task rather than rejecting the idea. With tense hands, Ellam started pulling the sheets down.
All three worked as quickly as they could to wrap the boys and hoist them in the wagon. With the last youth aboard, Jurren volunteered to be the one to tie them down and sit as guard for the rest of the trip.
When they started out, the horses indicated several times they wanted to bolt. Jurren was grateful for Ellam’s skill in helping them to regain their calm. Sitting atop the wine barrels, watching the road behind them, Jurren listened to Ellam’s tone and the occasional tug of the reins to keep the horses at a steady pace.
Hopefully, their unbelievable story would be received by the leader of Kovarilos. Shevenor was a wise leader, capable of discerning even the most fantastic of tales. Would he understand that the men did what was necessary to defend themselves?
The wound in Jurren’s side caused him to shift his position again. He sighed, which triggered another sting in his nose. At least he had the wounds to prove some of his story.
Zemarick flapped his wings a few times, clipping Jurren as he did so, then tucked them back into his sides, shifting his feet as he readjusted his perch. The other white-cliff falcons took some sort of cue from that and made similar movements. Even the birds were on edge.
Arkose broke the silence a few miles down the road. “How did it happen? How did a robbery turn into a battle to the death so quickly?”
Jurren flashed through the last few exchanges before the situation came to blows. His thoughts settled on the look in Kase’s e
yes.
“I don’t think they planned it to go that way.” Ellam’s tone faltered a little as he spoke. “The men at Windervail Inn didn’t —”
Arkose cut him off. “We should have just let them have whatever they wanted.”
Even with his back turned, Jurren could hear the grit of Arkose clenching his jaw. Jurren furrowed his brow. Would that really have changed things?
He thought back to the fight. With the instinct for self-preservation calmed, he was able to concentrate on the moment-to-moment events. A strange yet familiar smell surrounded Kase. And still Jurren could not place where he knew it. A mix of rot and filth different from normal body odor. And that look on Kase’s face as he stood over him.
“I doubt it would have mattered.” Jurren turned to look over his shoulder at his companions. “Didn’t you see Kase’s eyes? So much anger, so much need. Something influences that boy. I’m not sure what it was, but he barely seemed human to me.”
Arkose started to say something then changed his mind and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. Ellam bobbed his head in rhythm with the horse hooves as though unable to respond or disagree. Turning back to his post, Jurren tried to ignore the eerie feeling of sitting in a wagon carrying six dead bodies.
“Did those men in Windervail Inn say anything more about how the people were being robbed?” Jurren didn’t turn to look at Ellam’s face.
“Some people believed spirits were responsible for the thefts, what with the tales of the ghostwood trees and all. Cursed giants living out their eternal prison with a vengeance.”
“Anything useful?”
“Only what I’ve already told you. The thieves sneak in at night, beat whoever is awake, and then slip away.”
“So this was the first time they saw someone waiting for them?”
“It would explain why those boys looked so stunned.”
Jurren nodded. “I’ll talk to Epilone, the record keeper in Kovarilos, and see that each village takes a tally of who is and isn’t accounted for. We need to know how many are in this gang and when all this started. Last night should never be replayed.”
The mention of Epilone was the last piece of conversation to pass between them until they were out of Gaulden Forest.
After a few hours, the scenery changed from over-lapping, immense trees to open fields. Jurren looked over his shoulder toward the farms surrounding Kovarilos. He gazed back at the ghostwoods as they pulled farther and farther away. Without the cover of the trees he, doubted the youths would try a second attack, but he could not help scanning the area until he heard the distinct hollow clap of hooves against a cobblestone road.
Turning, he saw several people milling outside the shops along the road. No one seemed in too big of a hurry. Must be that lull right after the midday meal when people were deciding whether to get back to work.
A sign up ahead caught Jurren’s eye, and he shifted to face the other side of the wagon. The black-haired shopkeeper who owned the sign walked out the front door, smacking his hands together to rid them of something.
When the shopkeeper looked in the direction of the wagon, he smiled. “Jurren! I was starting to wonder about you. Hello, Ellam, Arkose. Welcome to Kovarilos.”
Ellam tugged the reins, and the horses came to a stop immediately past the man. “Hello, Kayleem. Thank you for your welcome.”
Jurren put a hand on Ellam’s shoulder and patted it. Ellam wasn’t good at things like this, or anything overwhelming really, and his tone already suggested he was on the verge of tears. Taking care not to kick the cages as he moved, Jurren hopped down from the wagon.
Kayleem thrust out his hand toward Jurren then pulled him into a quick embrace. “These must be the birds you’ve been trading with to everyone except me.”
“I hate to be rude, my friend, but we need to speak with Shevenor.”
Kayleem’s eyes scanned Jurren’s face, noticing the broken nose for the first time. “Did you run into trouble on your way?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“They are here. The whole council is in town. I can go on ahead to make sure they are ready for someone to come see them.”
“Thank you.” Jurren gave a slight bow of the head.
Jurren watched the man go. Kayleem was thick in the middle, common for a man in his fifties, and he carried it well with the massive biceps bulging under his sleeves. Four decades of pounding a hammer will do that to a man.
Ellam gave a snap of the reins, and the horses complied. Jurren walked alongside, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs after sitting for so long.
A few heads poked out from the window of another shop down the road. The heads pulled back in, followed by three people coming outside to stare at them. Across the street, two more people came out, stopped dead in their tracks, and gawked. Jurren kept his focus straight ahead.
Kayleem quickened his pace a little, and it was just as well. The sooner they got this over, the better.
CHAPTER 3
“We never meant for it happen.” Ellam’s hands hung at his sides.
The Great Hall of the Council fell into a hollow silence. Twelve men sat behind a raised bench in long robes looking solemn and unsure. Jurren and his two companions stood side-by-side facing the council.
Shevenor, the leader of Kovarilos, sat leaned back with his fingers laced across his chest. Unmoving, almost unresponsive, he remained still through all three of the men’s stories. Ellam recounted the tales he overheard at Windervail Inn. Jurren told of waking to the sound of the youths on the second night. Then all three took turns giving every detail they remembered from the moment Kase first lit the torch until they came into town. While the Council members asked for more information about this or that, Shevenor sat with his neatly trimmed blond hair and square features, watching.
After what felt like a thousand rapid-fire questions, silence filled the room. Each of the three men had given their full and sworn testimony about the events from the night before. Not to mention the gut-wrenching examination of the six bodies when they first arrived. Though several on the council of Kovarilos could vouch for the reputations of the three men, no one seemed to want to believe what they heard.
Stepping forward, hoping it was worth the chance, Jurren decided to add one more thing. “I also wish to speak to Epilone, if at all possible. He would be the best suited to find out who the rest of the boys are and where they came from.”
Shevenor finally shifted forward. “The six you brought are all from Southam. It is fair to presume the rest came from there as well.”
The voice of Arkose speaking matched Jurren’s own thoughts. “How do you know they are from Southam?”
“The tattoos on their left thighs. They carry the mark of Baron Lestin Tahaleb. He is the man who runs the mines in Tutelage Pass between Southam and Evolni. The tattoos identify those who work for him.”
“He tattoos his workers?” Ellam pulled his arms up partway to his chest.
“It is a prerequisite for the job. The turnover rate can be high following an accident and the Baron has little tolerance for those not committed to the mines.”
Ellam lowered his arms. “Sounds like a stately man.”
Shevenor put his elbows on the bench and arched his hands so that his fingertips touched. “The leaders of Southam allow the practice. It is their concern, not ours.”
“That does not mean they’re all from Southam. It only proves they work for Lestin, or did at some time,” Arkose said.
“Yes, I suppose.” Shevenor looked down at the bench then back up at the three men.
Jurren chanced another two steps forward, bringing himself within arm’s reach of the Council’s bench. “Regardless of where they are from, I give you my word as a man, as a father, and as a member of the peoples of Bondurant that every word we have told you is the truth. There is no embellishment or softening of details to make the story work in our favor. It is only the truth. And now that it is done, my lord, I want very much to know t
o whom I owe my condolences.”
A few of the council members exchanged glances. Shevenor looked back and forth across the bench while the other members nodded at him. Jurren knew what that meant: Shevenor was to be the sole deciding vote for what should happened next. They needed Shevenor’s discernment on this one.
The source of Shevenor’s intuition had many rumors. Some more fanciful than others. Jurren chose to believe the one that matched the story about his own gut instinct. Some people were simply gifted with a natural anticipation for the truth.
So uncanny, so relentlessly reliable was Shevenor’s gift that anyone who refused to look him straight in the eye received a liar’s reputation. A stigma difficult to negate.
All eyes of the council remained on Shevenor. The leader of Kovarilos looked up and down the bench one more time then turned his gaze to Jurren. Clasping his hands behind his back, Jurren stared right back at him.
Several minutes passed. Jurren wondered if Shevenor feared believing such a thing. Like Ellam said, it was as though a spirit of forgetfulness had blanketed Gaulden Forest, preventing news of the youths from spreading months earlier. If it were true, if thieves wandered among the ghostwoods, then it changed everything. The norm of peace would no longer exist. Leaders would have to be notified, search parties sent out, and deputies named to bring the guilty to justice. The list could go on and on. And the single determining factor for enacting that list hinged on the response of one man.
Shevenor sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I believe you.”
The other members of the council scanned back and forth between their leader, each other, and Jurren. Gasps and shaking heads confirmed this was not the expected response.
Shevenor put up a hand to silence the growing whispers. “You men are free to barter, stay, or leave Kovarilos whenever you like.”
Jurren bowed in gratitude. “May I have your permission to speak with Epilone, as well, my lord?”
“I will handle everything concerning the thieves. I only ask that the three of you keep your mouths closed on the matter until I decide the best way to tell the people what has happened. The people do have a right to know the truth, and they will. Where, when, and how should be determined by the leaders and Bondurant’s councils.” Shevenor stood and turned toward the door behind the council’s bench.