Even once the fire had gone out, Cara stayed up for a long time. She didn't know why, but being alone with Ulton's corpse didn't frighten her. Squeezing his cold hand, she said, "I'll find Renna and bring her home. I promise you, your death will not have been for nothing." Having no idea what else to say, Cara said no more, and went up to bed. Sleep evaded her, and as morning came bright and clear, she wondered what the journey ahead would bring. The heroes from the old ballads always succeeded in their noble quests. But this isn't an old ballad, and we're not the heroes. Merick has no shining armor, Sandu's a stablehand, and I'm a girl. Who's ever heard of a girl saving the fair lady?
Chapter Two
Sandu
MONTHS BEFORE he found the Nellestere manor stricken with dark magic, Sandu had been a peddler. One night, ill luck caused him to sleep in the stables of an inn. Though the spring winds blew hard outside, here at least he was warm. A lantern shone with comfortable light, giving a soft glow to an otherwise dull scene. The hay on the floor had been replaced only that day and smelled sweetly. His horse, Galen, stood sleeping to one side, her tack piled haphazardly on the floor, her chin resting on the partition between stalls. If she were to unexpectedly stamp her hoof, it might land on Sandu's foot as he lay sprawled across the straw, propped up by the saddle he bought with his reward money. It wasn't quality, by any means, and had to have its leather straps and buckles replaced soon after he bought it, but it was his. All he owned in the world, in fact, had been carelessly strewn around this stall.
A man of the world – so he liked to think of himself – Sandu Crin often had no place to sleep but the natural world. This warm stable, sheltered from late snows, was a luxury he couldn't often afford. Most things, really, were luxuries he couldn't afford. His horse was a gift from another peddler, his gear bought second-hand and amassed slowly over the years. He couldn't remember the last time he had worn a new, perfectly clean shirt. Even his beard, which he preferred to keep trim, had grown unruly during his long journey through the mountains.
Tonight, Sandu had gambled away his money for a room. Since the stable had already been paid for, it was here that he would sleep. Galen wouldn't mind, as she was quite used to him sleeping near her.
I have to stop playing cards, Sandu chastised himself.
Sleep eluded him, and a nagging sense of responsibility finally pushed him to take a worn piece of parchment from the smallest pocket of his knapsack. He knew this list well: he had carried it for years as part of his duties for the Peddler's Guild. The first quinn he held it, he nearly threw it into the fire when a name crossed itself out and another one was added as if with an invisible hand. When he'd asked his master at the Guild, the master laughed and said, "Of course it's magic, dolt. How else are the peddlers supposed to keep track of marks if we don't have a way to communicate all over D'Ehsen?" Eventually, Sandu crossed names and jobs off, knowing that peddlers all over would see that he had completed the task.
Only after he had become a full Guild member did they trust him with the list. Peddlers, being known by most people and rarely questioned, had duties for the Guild beyond selling and buying wares: finding a missing person, collecting a debt or stolen item, delivering a sensitive message. Some jobs were more difficult than those, requiring months of spying and subterfuge. They paid the best reward, but...
But nothing. Sandu shook his head. Money is money.
Perusing the list, he noted the tasks still open, and the rewards. Good jobs. Simple ones, too. One name kept floating above the others. Sandu devoted a full second to it, then looked away, up at Galen, then back, holding the name as he would a stare. With an effort, he took out his quill, dipped it in nearly-gone ink, and crossed out the words 'Fauste's Shiv - Notably Jagger Cross.' If only I didn't have to. If only I had said 'no' to that money. Jagger might still be alive. Jagger was dead, not personally by Sandu's hands, but by his words. One report to the right soldiers, and an entire keep of people had been wiped out. Few of them innocent, it was true, for Fauste's Shiv had hired out criminals for various misdeeds ranging from larceny to murder. Yet how many lives had been ended too early? How many–
Stop it. Look to the next job, Sandu chided himself. You made that choice, you have to live with it.
As he scanned the list, Sandu saw a name that hadn't been there just the night before: 'Maid Caralyn Gellder. Reward of five marks for delivering to High Peddler Laris Stanthorpe.' Sandu chewed his lip. A reward offered by the high peddler himself! If Stanthorpe set a target...almost every peddler would be after it. But five whole marks. That could buy a good saddle, food for months, beds in decent inns, new clothes, a fine wool cloak...and possibly his father's freedom.
After pricking the back of his hand with the quill, Sandu slowly wrote his name in his own blood, marking his intention to find Maid Gellder.
The weather took a turn for the worse as Sandu traveled down from Skålland into Dotschar. Hail pounded the summer leaves to the ground before autumn had a chance at them. A blanket around his head provided Sandu's only protection, though it was a thin ratty thing. His brown hair turned black with the moisture. Poor Galen had nothing against the hail. She plodded onward, his stalwart steed, her coat desperately in need of brushing and her mane and tail tangled.
From village to village, Sandu made his slow way over the mountains toward Kell. After he circled the name, more information had been transcribed to his bit of paper: Maid Gellder is a young woman, about twenty, dark hair, Dotsch-Gall. Known to be working at the Nellestere Manor in Kell. To be delivered alive to Stanthorpe at the Guild's property in Riverfen.
For the most part, Sandu stayed on the larger roads, sleeping beneath wayfarer pines or in barns, though he left before the farmers woke up. A full two deshes after starting, he finally reached Kell. He paid for a drink at the inn (his purse nearly empty now), and listened to the talk of the town. From what he gathered, Maid Nellestere's father had recently died of the White Plague, leaving her a ward of Earl Stonetree. The lady and her household still lived in Kell, though she would be taken to Stonetree by the end of the summer.
What interested Sandu most, though, was the news that the manor's stable hand had also perished, leaving a position open.
As he rode alongside Cara and Merick, Sandu couldn't help but feel horribly under-armed. Each of them carried a sword and a dagger while he only had a small knife. Cara rode straight and tall, her hips flowing with the horse's gait, while Merick slumped in his saddle, one hand held tight around his stomach. Sandu noticed Cara's inquiring touch and Merick shaking his head. Curious. I wonder if he'll actually change his poultice as often as the healer ordered.
Only a deshe after Sandu came to the manor, Maid Nellestere went missing. He had only eaten dinner around Cara a few times in that span, as she often ate with the lady, and he hadn't tried getting to know Merick. Both of them paid him little attention. It was all for the best that the lady had been taken, otherwise Sandu hadn't known how he would extract Cara from the manor.
Late the first morning – after two candles of near silence – Sandu spoke up, "How long have you worked for the Nellesteres?"
"Must be abou' ten years, eh, Cari?" said Merick. As the morning progressed, he gradually straightened in his saddle, only wincing now and then as his horse corrected a misstep.
"Almost thirteen," Cara corrected him. "We started there when I was seven."
"Damn, that long?" Merick chuckled, then coughed. He waved away Cara's concern.
Cara turned to Sandu. "Merick and I stayed in a bunkhouse in the lowlands when I first apprenticed with him. But, my mother's coin ran out, and he had to take a position in order to keep me. That's when he became watchman for the Nellesteres."
"What are you apprenticing for?" Sandu asked. "I've watched you training in the yard each day, so I thought maybe you were to become the watchman after him. But then I wondered why Merick wouldn't take up a boy instead as his apprentice."
"My mother paid him–" Cara started, but Merick
said over her, "Shoulda asked for more coin! You've been more hassle than you're worth."
Rolling her eyes at him and smiling, Cara continued, "Merick used to be a mercenary, and Mother had him take me on. She wanted me taught to use a sword, as well as how to wear armor and lay out strategies for battle. Merick becoming a watchman was only to pay for our food and lodging."
"So...you're a soldier, then?"
"Of a sort. It's not as if any knights would take me on as a page, so this seemed the best course in Mother's opinion."
"But why?" Sandu had never heard of a female soldier, much less a woman taking up arms as a knight. True, there were stories and ballads of old that spoke of Skallish shieldmaidens, and he knew that faraway places like the Eadrion Empire conscripted women as well as men for their armies, but he had never seen or heard of it in Dotschar. "Why not smithing, or tailoring, or any other Guild trades? Why fighting? You've not exactly got a warrior's build."
"You'd have to ask Mother," Cara said. She looked sideways at Merick. "Whenever I ask him, he just tells me to shut up and keep running through my forms."
"Cause your forms are shoddy and your arms are weak," Merick grunted. Beneath his gruffness, though, Sandu thought he saw the hint of a smile.
"Your mother has strange opinions," Sandu said. "What does she do, then? Your apprenticeship must have cost a fortune."
"I've no clue. She's not very talkative about her life, even on the rare occasion I see her. She could be an heiress or the mistress of a grand lord for all I know. She also paid a scholar from Mott to stay with us and teach me to read and write, as well as basic mathematics and Dotsch history."
Sandu whistled. "Most noble ladies don't receive an education like that."
"No," Cara said simply. "I'm grateful for what Mother's done for me. And Merick, for that matter, despite his constant whinging."
"I don't whinge," Merick said. "Whingin's for women. I grumble."
"Where are you from?" Cara asked Sandu.
"Barrowfort originally. I've not had roots anywhere for a few years, though." Despite himself, Sandu enjoyed the easy conversation. He knew he couldn't afford to befriend this girl, and that the watchman would prove an obstacle, but he had never been one for stoic silence.
They passed the rest of that day chatting about light subjects. When evening came, Merick found them a place to camp. Sandu built up a fire and watched Merick bark out numbers as Cara went through her forms, first without a sword and then with it. She turned gracefully, her muscles fluid under her tunic. Unlike many other rustic women, she wore breeches under her simple dress. Her skirts were open at the sides, allowing her legs free movement.
Even with her unusual education, Sandu couldn't fathom why Stanthorpe wanted Cara Gellder. Her looks, while pretty, were common enough: she had pale yet ruddy skin and long, dark, curly hair in a single braid down her back. Her hands had calluses on them, and all of her dresses were torn, dirtied, or otherwise unkempt. People on the road barely looked at her or Sandu. If anything, Sandu would have expected Merick, the ex-mercenary with a checkered past, to be the target.
Why would anyone pay five marks for a rustic girl?
"Aren't you two going to spar?" Sandu asked when Merick and Cara unpacked their haversacks.
Cara looked to Merick. He shook his head. "Not quite up to it yet. Give me a few days an' I'll be fresh as grass."
The next three days passed in much the same manner: slightly before dawn, Merick had Cara go through her forms, then they'd all pack up and leave their camp not half a candle later and ride until noon. Once they'd eaten and their horses rested, they'd ride again until a candle before dark. Merick went off to change his poultice, refusing help from the others. When Sandu lit the fire to cook each night, Cara practiced. Their conversations never strayed beyond polite acquaintanceship.
The fifth evening, Merick called back, "There's a journeyer's tower up ahead. We can stay there tonight."
Saddle-sore and irritable – it rained on them nearly the whole day – the trio tied their four horses on the leeward side of the tower before stumbling inside. The tower had two levels, one below with a fire pit and room for blankets, and one above with yet more sleeping space. The ceiling of the second level was made of old wooden beams and covered in stale straw which had holes throughout. The creaking door didn't quite close properly, and windows on both floors had shutters hanging from their hinges. Merick lit his lantern to look around.
"Lord Hardenel isn' takin' care of this place," Merick commented. "Years ago, when his father ran this fief, this tower had logs piled up and fresh straw on the roof every deshe." He pointed to a wooden trapdoor near the fireplace. "They'd stock vegetables and dried meats in the cellar, too. No reason to check it now, though. I doubt there's enough for a mouse."
As they unrolled their blankets, Sandu paused. He strained, listening. Outside, the horses snuffled to each other and the wind blew softly against the door. But he heard something else, too: a scraping sound and low, guttural growls. Sandu crept toward the fire pit.
"What are you doing?" Cara asked. Sandu shushed her, putting a finger to his lips. Merick straightened, frowning. Stepping as quietly as he could, Sandu moved to the trapdoor and put his ear against it.
Nothing.
Feeling foolish, Sandu sat back on his haunches. He opened his mouth to apologize when a piercing cry from below stabbed the still air. Sandu scrambled back from the trapdoor and mouthed, Prowlers. The cry sounded again, joined by two more, both human and demonic.
Shit. Vecking shit.
Sandu hadn't encountered prowlers since he was a small boy, when they had come upon his Valadi caravan during the night. Smarter than beasts and faster than men, they had rampaged across the country for years. No one knew where they came from, but scholars made guesses on how the monsters reproduced: they poisoned humans and elves and turned them from rational to blood-hungry. Few had seen one and lived to tell of it. Some said they heard the beasts communicating to each other, but many more whispered that the prowlers were nothing more than animals. Sandu didn't know what he believed, just that he didn't want to find out.
Cara and Merick quickly gathered their blankets as Sandu grabbed his haversack. He wrenched open the door and peered out into the darkness. He saw nothing but moonlight and shadowy trees.
The trapdoor crashed open. Sandu whirled around, his knife held up. Merick drew his sword, and Cara stood riveted to the floor. An earthy scent mingled with rot and blood drifted into the room as the prowlers scrambled up from the cellar.
Light from Merick's lantern reflected in the prowlers' red eyes, which had lost any trace of the humanity they once possessed. Long teeth poked from their lips, and their noses twitched. Rough ridges of skin crested their brows where worry lines might be, their sunken cheeks sucking in and out as they breathed. Their claws scraped across the stone floor. Horrid scars crisscrossed their skin, which was pale, corpse-like, and covered with dried blood, dirt, ashes, and unspeakable fluids which crusted into the beasts' hair and ragged clothes. The prowlers snarled, creeping closer.
"Get out," Merick said quickly, edging in front of Cara and Sandu. "I'll follow."
Fear urging him, Sandu grasped Cara's hand and pulled her out the door. They ran to the horses and cut the pickets. From behind, Sandu heard Merick shouting.
"Get your horse saddled!" Sandu yelled. Cara stared at him a second, something strange reflected in her hazel eyes, before throwing her saddle and lead onto her horse and grabbing the spare gelding's lead. Sandu quickly strapped Galen's saddle and reins onto her, then ran to Merick's black charger. The charger reared back, snorting, and Sandu raised a hand to quiet it.
A cry of anger sounded by the tower, then the door slammed. Cara huddled by her horse as Sandu tightened Merick's saddle, peering into the darkness. Merick emerged from the gloom, breathing hard, his sword bloodied. Sandu helped him into his saddle.
"We've got to move," Merick gritted out. "The door won' hold 'em for long.
"
Sandu leapt onto Galen and turned her head to the road, pushing her to a gallop. Merick's horse had already sprinted ahead, Merick leaning low over its neck. Cara rode beside Sandu, her expression tight. As they rode, Sandu glanced back. Shit. The prowlers raced after them, their red eyes flashing in the moonlight.
"Give me your sword!" Sandu shouted at Cara. She looked at him as if he had two heads.
"What?"
"Just give it to me!" Galen ran right up to Cara's horse, and Sandu tore her sword from its scabbard. He let Galen slow, the spare horse catching up to them. He rode side-by-side with the gelding now. Its eyes rolled in terror. I'm sorry, he thought as he swung Cara's sharp blade down across the back of the horse's legs. The sword cut a jagged slice into its muscle. The animal dropped, its momentum carrying it forward a few feet in the dust. Cara's mount reared and she quickly cut the lead, releasing her horse from the downed animal. Both she and Sandu surged forward as the gelding struggled to rise, its back legs failing it. The prowlers fell upon it, ripping at its hide. The horse screamed – a loud horrible sound that hit Sandu to his bones – until the prowlers tore open its throat.
Damn shame. That was a fine animal. But with a meal in their bellies, the prowlers might not pursue them any farther.
"Good think'n, lad," Merick said when they paused to rest half a candle later. Their horses, foaming and lathered, drank deeply from a puddle next to the road. "Veck, those things were horrible."
Sandu nodded, too out-of-breath to say anything. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Cara's whistling breath, her heaving shoulders. Merick leaned over to her, and she shook her head.
The Lantern-Lit City Page 2