Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  The two women were content to let Mordecai lead. They walked together a few feet back of the ex slave, never pausing in their hushed conversation for more than a moment or two, but never speaking loudly enough to be heard by normal ears. Gregory, Ryan and Clyde, without having made a conscious decision, clustered around Alistair who walked a few yards back of the women.

  The main trail was visible to Alistair each time they crested a hill, a slender line of white wrapping itself about the mounds and valleys of the land before disappearing into the maw of the red-tinged planetlit forest to their south east. As they drew nearer the woods, it sounded as if they approached a violent ocean. The trees themselves danced to the rhythm of the wind, their trunks swaying, their branches fluttering and their leaves frenzied. The shadows of the trees, faint shades cast by Srillium’s perfect orb, gesticulated in macabre mockery of the wooden giants, their forms distorted this way and that by the terrain. Upon reaching the summit of the last hill before the forest, the group saw a dark shape moving along the main trail. Human in form and with a long walking stick, the figure was just passing into the trees. Wellesley put his hands to his mouth as if to call out, but Alistair gripped his shoulder, urging him to silence.

  “We’ll catch up to him soon enough,” said the Aldran rebel to his comrade. “If he can hear you, then so can anyone else.”

  Ryan’s aborted call was proved unnecessary a few minutes later as they arrived at the sea of rough, knotted creatures looming above them and still madly dancing. Though shadow hid him from normal eyes, Alistair perceived the form of Santiago several yards within the darkness of the forest floor, leaning against a tree, his arms folded and his spear within easy reach. He raised a hand to salute the Argentinean and got a delayed nod in return. The group stood unmoving at the edge of the forest entrance and finally Santiago grabbed his spear, hefted his pack, and retraced his steps to greet them. His eyes rested on Mordecai.

  “You have Issicroy’s slave with you. And two women. I would be interested to hear the explanation.”

  “We decided to rescue Alistair and his friends,” Layla said.

  “They kill rebels and these three were tired of living there,” Alistair added his own answer. “We found each other mutually useful.”

  “And Alistair claims you can take us to Odin,” said Giselle, drawing a finger across her face to capture and remove the hair blown across it.

  Santiago gripped his spear with both hands and leaned on it, sighing and saying, “So you find me useful too. But I am not sure what you have to offer me, other than about twenty horsemen who will be looking to take back anyone they don’t kill. You, Mordecai,” he said, nodding and leveling a severe gaze at the warrior, “will be lucky if all they do is kill you. All I stand to gain is a death sentence if I’m caught with you. I can find Odin easily enough on my own.”

  “We need you to help us,” pleaded Layla.

  “This land frowns on needs and charity.”

  “We spent the night together once,” Giselle blurted out.

  It was not the introduction to a larger point; she let the sentence, oblique as it was, hang in the air with no follow up. Santiago scrutinized her, his eyes betraying neither agreement nor dispute. His form, without perceptibly altering, yet exuded a sort of acquiescence left behind when his resistance dissolved. Even before he turned to trudge back into the forest, it was understood he would not bicker. Moments later, Alistair and the other six were at his side, moving along the uneven trail that at points had clearly been planned, with flattened ground and rounded stones placed at its edges, and at others seemed like the unintentional result of thousands of feet packing the dirt and beating the life out of the grass.

  It was a narrow path, scarcely enough for two riders to traverse while side by side. It looped around hills, it paralleled streams, it passed smaller paths branching off from it. Once it went through a small clearing of tall grass, and the trees ringing it blocked out a good portion of the sky so that Srillium seemed to encompass nearly the entirety of the heavens, staring down at them like an angry eye. When their trail plunged back into the forest, the branches of the trees crowded overhead and blocked the sky once more, leaving them in almost pitch black.

  Soon after traversing the clearing, Santiago announced by his actions he would be stopping to rest. He neither invited them to stay nor suggested they continue, but of course they stopped with him. Their little camp was just around a bend in the path. Alistair took up a position near the elbow of the road, next to a tree, to keep watch. The others sank to the ground, save for Mordecai, who fished around in a sack and produced a rolled up length of the weave which passed for money in Issicroy. He dropped it at Giselle’s feet as he stood over her, his direct stare unwavering.

  “Where did you get money?” she asked, unimpressed, or at least feigning it, and not meeting his gaze.

  “It’s been five years,” he said, his voice clear, strong and hungry. It was enough to make the rest of them cringe, for the domineering wooden hulks around them discouraged speech such that only short, whispered phrases passed between them. Mordecai’s loud words seemed like a violation. “You want my protection? That should be payment enough. Consider this a tip.”

  Fury flashed in Layla’s eyes. “She doesn’t owe you anything and I don’t—”

  Giselle, with a wary glance at Mordecai, laid a restraining hand on her younger friend. “It’s OK,” she whispered. Standing up, she held out her hand to the man whose jaw was stubbornly set and whose chest heaved in response to Layla. He had prepared himself for a fight he had no intention of losing, but Giselle’s gentle demeanor went a ways to pacifying him.

  After Mordecai grasped her hand and was led out of their sight, Gregory stood up and looked at the place where the dense forest swallowed them. Shuffling his feet and fidgeting with his fingers, he next looked to Alistair with an imploring expression. “Well? Are you going to…?”

  “To what?”

  “Are you going to let this happen?” His voice evinced anger now.

  Alistair busied himself with surveying his spear. “She agreed to it. Not my business.”

  Gregory shook his head but his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Alistair, you’re such a goddamn…” The Aldran doctor never revealed what Alistair was, letting his voice trail off to be covered by the rustling leaves.

  It was perhaps ten minutes later when Mordecai returned, and Giselle was only half a minute behind. Mordecai slumped down on the ground, his breathing still a trifle elevated. There was a brook on the other side of the trail, and Giselle went to it. The agitation in the trees covered the sounds of her rinsing. No one looked at Mordecai, and no one but Layla looked at Giselle when she returned from the brook. Mordecai and Giselle did not look at each other, the muscular warrior staring off into the trees with a bored but satisfied expression and half closed eyes while Giselle, as if nothing untoward had occurred, resumed a hushed conversation with Layla.

  There was an acute discomfort in the air, and when they moved at all it was gingerly, quietly, like small children when father comes home in a foul mood and broods. Things might have remained that way for some time if there were no interruption.

  “Riders,” Alistair calmly announced. “Five of them.”

  The others were on their feet, those with weapons hefting them.

  “Find a big stick,” said Santiago to Clyde and Gregory as he moved past them to take a spot near Alistair. “Move back into the forest a ways and guard the women.”

  Mordecai was already standing shoulder to shoulder with Alistair in the middle of the trail on the other side of the bend.

  “Anyone with night vision?” asked Alistair as he cocked an eye at Mordecai.

  The naked warrior returned the same understanding look. “No. These are good soldiers, but not enhanced.” Mordecai returned his full attention to the trail. “I’ll have clothes soon.”

  Santiago and Wellesley took up places on either side of the two muscular warriors.


  “Issicroy wastes his warriors sending them after us at night like this,” said Santiago. “In the forest. How far away are they?”

  “Couple hundred yards,” said Mordecai.

  “Ryan,” said Alistair, “hide yourself in the trees on the other side of the bend. Wait until they pass you, and when we attack rush out to one of the horses in the rear and chop off its leg at the knee.”

  “OK,” Ryan nodded, his breathing elevated, like a nervous boxer before a fight.

  “Then get the hell back in the forest.”

  “OK.”

  “If your axe gets caught in the leg,” said Mordecai, “drop it. You’re a sitting duck.”

  “And make sure you get a horse with a healthy rider,” warned Santiago. “Don’t waste your strike if we’ve already felled the man in the saddle.”

  “OK,” Ryan nodded once more and moved off to hide behind a tree. He stood with his back against it and gripped his axe like a drowning man grips a life preserver.

  Santiago, Alistair and Mordecai, as if they had rehearsed it, moved to the other side of the road, opposite Ryan Wellesley, and sank down behind some bushes and tall grass. Alistair found himself on the right, with Santiago on the left and Mordecai in the middle. For a time he lost sight of the horsemen, but eventually they came back into view, and he watched them in shades of gray, his view impeded by the clumps of grass and small bushes on the forest floor. The riders were moving along at a good trot and sparing little time to search the myriad possible hiding spots they passed. As he studied them, Alistair recognized Taribo riding in the back.

  “If we move farther back in the forest they’ll ride right by us,” he whispered. “They’re not even looking.”

  “But they’re bound to turn and come back,” Mordecai said. “They might come in daylight. We have the jump on them now.”

  Alistair hesitated, ground his teeth in indecision. Then he said, “I don’t want to do this.”

  “It’s too late,” Mordecai shot back in a harsh whisper. “Don’t get soft, soldier. These men are looking to kill you. Don’t tell me you’ve never killed a man before.”

  “Alistair,” said Santiago more softly, “it’s too late to let Ryan know. These men are trained and ordered to kill; there’s no shame in defending yourself.”

  “I’m rushing the one in the middle,” Mordecai informed them. “If both of you aren’t at my side when I do it, you’ll answer for it.”

  Alistair’s mind whirred, trying to think of a way out, but the riders were approaching fast and he could think of nothing. When they were almost upon them, Mordecai slipped out of his spot in the grass and Alistair’s body reacted without conscious direction. The horses whinnied and one of the riders shouted in shock. Alistair stuck his spear in the ribs of his target, the shaved stone of the spear head puncturing the lung. Mordecai skewered another, while Santiago ripped open the belly of the man on the left. Both Mordecai and Alistair’s targets teetered in their saddles for a moment before falling over backwards in unison and hitting the ground with a single thud, the spears still protruding from their ribs.

  Santiago’s man uttered a sick grunt, almost like he was vomiting, and he tried to stab at the Argentinean with his spear, but Mordecai intercepted the weak blow and tugged the spear, pulling the man forward and out of his saddle. Then there was a shriek from one of the horses in the back and the animal tumbled to the ground, tossing its rider to the earth. Only Taribo was left unharmed with an unharmed mount, and the African raised his hands in supplication, dropping his spear as he did so.

  “Wait! Wait! Alistair, is that you? Alistair?”

  Mordecai made a move towards Taribo’s steed but Alistair laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. The wounded and dying moaned as they clutched at their wounds.

  “Alistair, hold a moment! I surrender!” So saying, the Issicrojan warrior dismounted, his hands still held aloft in supplication, and he moved into a position where he might defend the one whose horse Wellesley crippled. Over the screams of the wounded animal he said, “Yes, we were sent out to kill you, but I wasn’t going to. I didn’t expect to find you on this trail. I thought you would stay in the hills. We weren’t even searching for you as we went. I swear I had no intention of killing you.”

  With a groan of tremendous effort, Taribo’s comrade extricated himself from the writhing mass of horseflesh, clutching his leg and scooting off to the side of the road and away from the kicking hooves. The injured men lay on the ground, two of them coughing up blood, their chests rising and falling in short, unsteady bursts. Taribo went to the man with the hurt leg and examined the bruised appendage.

  “That’s a likely story, Taribo,” said Mordecai. “But we can’t let you go this time. When you return without three of your comrades they are going to know where we are even if you don’t tell them.”

  Taribo snatched a stray spear off the ground and leveled it at Mordecai, but the naked warrior just sneered.

  “You’re going to fight me in the dark, Taribo?”

  “You’d be better off killing this one, Alistair,” said the West African, a note of panic evident in his voice. “Issicroy should have executed him when he captured him!”

  “They came to kill us,” said Giselle, stepping onto the path a few yards behind them. “These men have spent their lives here killing. We’re better off without them.”

  Mordecai stabbed at him but Taribo managed, just barely, to deflect the blow.

  “Let him be, Mordecai,” said Alistair.

  Mordecai stepped back from the reach of the Issicrojan and shot a dark look at Alistair. “This has nothing to do with you. Taribo and I have an unsettled score I’m going to take care of right now.”

  Mordecai moved back to attack Taribo but Alistair hit the back of his knee with the butt of his spear and the ex slave was forced into a genuflection.

  “I said let him be.”

  With a snarl, Mordecai was back on his feet but this time facing Alistair. Bearing his teeth in a feral scowl, he seemed for all the world like he was going to attack, but the Aldran held his ground with an impassive look, his spear hefted. Mordecai rethought the situation.

  “What the hell are we going to do with him?” demanded the former Issicrojan slave.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Taribo, his panic replaced by a desperate hope.

  “What about the injured?” asked Santiago, and Alistair was aware of Gregory kneeling by the side of the one he had felled, examining the wound and soothing the man with a few soft words.

  In response, Mordecai lashed out with his spear and shredded the throat of the man whom Santiago wounded. The man flailed about with his feet while his hands went to his wrecked windpipe. The move was so fast and so shocking, no one could form words. Only Gregory managed to fling out a hand, as if trying to reach a drowning man, but his cry was inarticulate, emerging before he formed a coherent thought. Taribo responded with an assault on the enhanced warrior, nearly managing to stab the spear in his shoulder before the two came together and, dropping their spears, began to grapple. Spinning about, Mordecai maneuvered them so that Taribo tripped over the dying warrior and they fell to the ground with Mordecai on top. The man with the wounded horse hauled himself to his feet and, as fast as he could limp, made for the fighters. Leaping at the two, Alistair tackled Mordecai, ripping him off of Taribo and Santiago was there to restrain Taribo from taking advantage. Gregory placed himself between the two combatants, both hands outstretched.

  “That’s enough of this!” the doctor fairly screamed. “Alistair, keep them away from each other!” Mordecai shoved Alistair, who was just at the point of letting him go, and regained his feet but made no aggressive moves. Taribo, chest heaving, arms held from behind by Santiago, never took his gaze off the former slave.

  “It was a mercy killing,” Mordecai said as if he were talking to simpletons. “He was either going to die in agony over the next two days or…” Mordecai trailed off and let a gesture with his hand, directed at
the now still corpse, make his point. “He was never going to survive that wound.”

  “Alistair,” said Taribo with the specious calm of an active volcano not yet erupted, “I implore you: do not trust this monster. He should have died years ago. My Lord’s vanity, Gaia protect him, is the only reason he still lives.”

  “The only reason your Lord still lives is because I couldn’t reach him before we had to leave!” shouted Mordecai, thumping his chest with his fist to underscore his point.

  “You didn’t leave; you ran away like a coward,” Taribo retorted, and when Alistair stepped in between him and a charging Mordecai he continued, “Like a sniveling coward!”

  “That’s enough!” roared Alistair, and he tossed Mordecai back a few feet.

  Taribo, gaze locked with Mordecai’s, moved to the side of his sole standing companion and helped him to a soft patch of ground off the trail. Mordecai, muttering inaudibly to himself and fiercely scowling, moved to the dead man to strip him. Upon seeing this, Taribo shot up to his feet and was on the point of protesting when Alistair raised a staying hand. Darkly glaring, Taribo consented to remain silent and sat back down.

  “Taribo,” said Alistair with the stern and commanding tone of a schoolmaster, “can we expect any other search parties to come this way?”

  The African shook his head. “We are spread out thin. I doubt we will run into anyone else. Certainly not on this trail.”

  “Good. We have four horses now. Four of us can remain behind and catch up to the group later. Gregory will want to attend to the injured, and I’m sure Taribo and…”

  “Miklos,” supplied the other warrior.