by D. A. Stone
The newcomer looked over in their direction. “And is that what they’re drinking?”
“Sure is,” Brock said.
Lanard’s flute still played, filling the air with a fluid melody.
“The brown will be perfect. Many thanks,” he said, motioning to Tenlon and Desik. “And another round for these two travelers, on me.”
Brock looked to Desik, eyebrow raised in question. The warrior refused the drinks with a subtle shake of his head.
The bartender smiled politely. “A kind gesture, but I think they’re content for the moment. Just the brown then?”
“Yes, please and thank you,” the man said, placing a silver coin on the bar.
Brock took a mug from the counter beneath the mirror and filled it with dark ale before placing it in front of the man. Picking up the ale, the young stranger examined the mug’s glaze work in the lantern light. Looking to Desik once more, he raised the drink to him before taking a long sip.
The air was tight with tension. Tenlon felt as though he should remain silent, though he couldn’t explain why. He didn’t think the man was a threat, certainly not to someone of Desik’s skill, but his companion’s mood had shifted at his arrival.
Desik still stood next to his stool, leaning one elbow against the bar and slowly spinning the mug on its bottom edge with his free hand.
“Where are you from?” the stranger asked them, running a hand through his hair to tuck it behind an ear.
Desik slowly brought the spinning mug to a stop. The words were left to hang open in the air so long that Tenlon wasn’t even sure he would answer.
“We’re not looking to make any new friends,” the warrior soon said.
The young man tilted his head back in laughter. “One should always be open to making new friends. Besides, I only wanted to buy you a drink.” He slid over onto a stool closer to the both of them. “Tell me, is it just the two of you here or…”
“If you don’t stand up right now and walk out of here,” Desik calmly told the man, fastening eyes on him, “I’m going to break your fucking jaw.”
The man smiled oddly, holding Desik’s stare.
Lanard changed tunes then, slipping into something more lively, completely oblivious to the hostility simmering within the tavern. Tenlon felt his limbs start to shake, but he still didn’t know if they were actually in danger.
“Well,” the younger man finally said, draining his mug with several gulps before placing it back on the bar. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
Sliding his stool back, he stood. After thanking Brock for the drink, he pulled the hood of his jacket up, slid his hands back into his pockets, and made for the exit. Pushing the heavy door open to the golden light of evening, he stopped, allowing it to close.
Walking over to Lanard near the fireplace, he dropped a few coins into the musician’s jar on the mantle.
Lanard continued to play, nodding his head in appreciation.
Before the man exited, he turned towards Desik again. “I’ll see you around,” he smiled.
The door closed slowly behind him. Desik rose to follow him out, and Tenlon leapt up in pursuit.
They were only paces behind the man, yet upon exiting the tavern found that he was nowhere to be seen. A cool wind blew swirls of dust across the street and a few vendors were boarding up their carts for the night, but the stranger was gone. It was as if he had vanished.
Desik stood out there for a time, dagger in hand. Sheathing the blade, he turned to head back inside.
“What was that about?” Tenlon asked.
“I’m sure it was nothing,” the warrior said, holding the door open and guiding him in. “Back inside, little mage.”
Tenlon was beginning to understand Desik’s reservations about their meeting. These were indeed dangerous times to be expected by strangers, and it was just the two of them. Their next moves forward must be walked with care. Should they vanish, no one would come looking for them and the egg would be lost. They were alone in this city, he thought, returning to the warmth of the tavern. And careful was better than dead any way you sliced it.
Chapter 16
Draz bent over the dying fire, gently blowing the coals to flame. Beside him sat a pile of leaves and a small pile of twigs and branches. The trick to restarting a fire, he knew, was long, even breaths. The inexperienced blew too hard and only fools used leaves to feed a blaze. The key to it was like so many other things in life: patience. Don’t drop the larger pieces on too soon, but work up to them, letting the fire grow until the blaze burns bright and hot. Then you’ll have a fire that lasts the night, instead of what happened here.
And this night was in need of a good fire, for it was both cold and dark with passing clouds that hung above them like shifting black cloaks. Looking up, Draz still could not see the stars or moon, but it bothered him little. He’d have the fire back to life shortly and knew exactly where he was.
The forest around him felt alive. The trees swayed softly in the wind, rubbing their leaves together in the brittle and rustling songs of coming winter. After a few more breaths, he saw thin flames rise from the glowing embers to dance across the edges of an already charred hunk of wood. Leaning a few dry pieces over the flame, he continued to blow.
The fire crackled to life, illuminating a disheveled campsite around its glow.
Eight silent forms lay around him in their blankets—on their backs, sides or stomachs, lying however men of such filth find sleep.
Draz tried to remain calm, but it was pointless. His thoughts were in a fury, his muscles twitching. He was in trouble. No sense denying it.
Maybe not this day or even this week, but soon they’d have to answer for their actions. What they did here would not go unnoticed for long. And when that day came, Trobe would be the least of their worries.
Patience. The word sat on his mind like an open sore.
There was a time for recklessness in battle, for haste and daring acts, a bit of risk mixed in with the safe and secure. Perhaps that’s what had kept him going forward with all of this. Risks had to be taken in war, so long as the reward was worthy of it.
Risk and caution. The two held seats at opposite ends of the table, but they weren’t completely separate. Both were connected by a common thread. For either to be successful— both the risky ploy and the cautious stratagem—patience was paramount. Timing was everything. Push anything too hard, move anywhere too fast, or reach for anything too high, and you run the risk of falling on your face. War rarely favored the impetuous for long.
Draz pushed a few glowing coals closer to the flame, wondering where this little venture would rank in the days to come. He grew nauseated just thinking about it.
He knew they were safe for the moment, that he and his brothers held the advantage, but still there was fear. Whether it was fear of what was to come in the next few minutes or fear of the repercussions for what had already been done, he could not say. Both maybe.
So now this sense of panic sat on his shoulders and chest like an iron breastplate left out in winter—heavy and cold, uncomfortable. He could feel its bite sinking into his limbs, chilling his blood.
Fear.
They shouldn’t have come looking for these men. He knew that now. This was a mistake. He was the leader, and his first decision in the field was that of a hotheaded recruit. Go after them? With a handful of boys, without telling anyone of their intentions? It was idiocy of the most magnificent measure. So much could’ve gone wrong, so many variables could have changed to put their lives in peril.
But they hadn’t. And it was too late to turn back now.
Draz moved the charred piece of wood around, feeding the flames a fresh side.
One of the sleeping forms slowly sat up, a dozen feet from the fire pit. Draz watched the man, the growing flames between them. He felt the need to piss suddenly and couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone.
The Volrathi tracker looked around the camp before his vile black ey
es settled on Draz, glittering in the firelight like shiny marbles of coal. An eerie chill accompanied the man’s stare, making his limbs tremble even more. Stretching a hand over the fire, Draz waited before speaking.
“You’re awake,” he finally said.
***
They’d lost a day finding them. A bit of rain had swept in over the ranges the night they left the Gambit, washing away long stretches of tracks. Vextis wasn’t upset about it though. He was as fine a tracker as Draz or the rest would ever meet. His father had led the hunting parties for King Dontanos when they all were children, and Vextis had the eye for it, too. Marks in the mud painted vivid pictures for him, bent blades of grass sang ballads. He was exceptional, and this was his gift.
As their first day came to a close and the sun set beyond the mountains, Vextis swore he’d pick up their trail again in the morning and he was true to his word.
Part of Draz wished they’d lost the men forever. It would have been a valid reason to turn back. The only reason, maybe. But what Vextis searched for, he found. Always.
Alongside Jornan and Vextis, Draz had recruited Bailen, Sedrik, and Persus. Bailen was chosen for his bow, Sedrik his stealth, and Persus was simply a talented young fighter. All of the students were itching for an opportunity to strike back against the men who had torn apart their capital. Convincing the select few had taken no effort at all, and they’d sworn an oath to keep what happened out here a secret.
Once back on the trail, the six of them had moved silently through the forest brush, hidden from sight. Only Vextis would slip out occasionally to read the tracks and make sure they were still going in the right direction.
They came upon the camp late in the afternoon, but there was no one there. They were likely, as Vextis pointed out, searching for any Amorians still fleeing Corda.
It appeared the Gallans had been making camp in the same spot night after night, seemingly unafraid of being followed. Such behavior was lazy and stupid, and Draz still couldn’t understand it. A smoldering fire pit and empty blankets were strewn about the small clearing surrounded by tall pines and spruce, along with several jugs of wine and a few stale loaves of bread. There was little to see and even less to learn from. Draz and the boys didn’t linger.
Long before the sky faded to the soft shades of evening, he and his brothers concealed their tracks and slipped off into the forest.
Quickly they dug a hide away from the camp but still within earshot, covering the crater with wide branches of pine and uprooted baris bush. The six of them were concealed well, crowded together in the cold and muddy pit. Not a word was spoken. They even breathed in silence. No more lessons, no more training. What they did now was real.
All were armed with swords and heavy hunting knives, with three bows amongst them. The plan was for Draz and Sedrik to have a look after the men fell asleep. Simple, yes, but simple was a good starting point.
The Gallans had returned at sunset. Loud with laughter and jests, they had sounded to be in fine spirits. Their voices had stretched to the Amorians through the forest, growing more raucous as the wine flowed before eventually settling to quiet.
It wasn’t until the dead of night, long hours after nothing more had been heard, that he and Sedrik had inched out of the hide and silently made their way to the camp.
Blessed clouds hung above them, a shield against the moon and stars. They moved as ghosts, their brown cloaks melting both into the darkness. The forest seemed to watch over them with whispers of wind that swayed the trees and shook the branches, providing a steady bustle of leaves that padded their already soundless footsteps. As they neared the camp's glowing fire, they fell still, barely moving at all, just shifting shadows in the wood.
Slowly they circled the camp together; two hours it took them. The men’s horses were tethered to a distant tree, but Draz wasn’t concerned with them. The mounts were used to people and far from watchdogs. They found two men standing watch on opposite sides of the camp, both spread out in the dark, hidden, one leaning against a tree while the other was nodding off on a small boulder. Draz could even smell the wine on them.
They must truly believe there is no danger, he’d thought. Only two on watch and both drunk? Beyond foolish.
Six others were spread out around the fire, sleeping off a day’s hard work of tracking down innocents to murder and rape. Draz saw the Volrathi was with them, looking smaller without his armor, curled up on his side beneath a warm blanket.
He watched the black-eyed man for a long moment before turning away. Shit-eating scum.
Satisfied with the scouting, he and Sedrik returned to the hide. There were enough shreds of passing star- and moonlight for them to still use their hand language, and Draz signed to the others what they had found and how he wanted everything to play out.
They gathered their weapons and quickly went over the plan. After each understood their role, they drew their hoods up and broke into two groups before heading toward the Gallan camp.
Draz, Vextis, and Persus slowly made their way to the man sitting atop the boulder, while Jornan, Sedrik, and Bailen wrapped around the camp toward the other sentry.
Draz was in the lead, and the silent approach of him and his two brothers was absolute. No branches snapped beneath their steps, and most of the leaves their boots trod upon were still damp from the rain. They’d had extensive training to stalk in such a manner, to move with such stealth as if they didn’t even exist.
Draz waved the boys off when they were within twenty yards of their sentry, moving forward alone. He approached the man from behind and off his right shoulder, carefully, slowly, mouth dry and blood vessels thundering at his temples, each step increasing the danger of being exposed. To his left he could hear the drunken snoring of the camp and the gentle sounds of the two tethered horses. The fire was burning low, casting dim shafts of light into the woods.
Finally coming up behind the small boulder, Draz bent and rested a hand on the side of it for balance, an arm’s length from the dozing Gallan. Sliding the heavy knife from his side, he waited. Slowly he pulled his hood back, once more feeling the cool night air against the skin of his neck and face. Everything was still, and time crawled to a stop.
The twang of Bailen’s bow from twenty yards off was barely audible, and the man jerked up suddenly with a grunt, his head snapping from the unseen blow.
Draz had hands on him in an instant, his left wrapping around the man’s face to cover his mouth, his right to bury the knife in his throat. The blade slid in easily, just beneath the jaw line. Wrenching the hilt away from him, Draz felt the steel pull through the flesh and cartilage before ripping back out into the air, flinging wet gore to the leaves at their feet. The body was dead weight.
As he lowered the man to the ground, his fingers felt the shaft of Bailen’s arrow firmly sticking out of his temple as if it were embedded in wood. It was an excellent shot, and Draz imagined the sentry was dead before his knife ever had the chance to strike, but this was a dangerous game and killing a man twice was safer than failing to kill him once.
Facing the camp, Draz listened intently. It had all seemed so loud, but the forest remained quiet. Their secret was still a secret. He pulled his hood back up.
Draz and Vextis linked up and moved toward the sleeping men in the camp, hoping that Jornan and the rest were faring as well. Bailen was kept on the bow, covering them from the shadows.
As they moved from the darkness into the glow of the campfire, Draz saw Jornan peeking out from behind a tree at the far edge of the camp, the sleeping men still between them. His brother gave him a nod, which Draz returned.
Both sentries had been silenced. All that remained now were the six sleeping trackers.
Draz and Vextis stepped out into the camp, while Jornan and Persus did likewise from the other side. By the light of a dying fire, they slit the throats of five men.
Some rode their dreams all the way into the afterlife, never feeling the steel that sent them from this world
to the next. Two seemed to wake, eyes opening as knives were drawn across jugulars, filling with realization and panic, but by then it was too late. They died with young hands clamped over their mouths.
Draz looked to the lone Volrathi he’d ordered untouched. The man rolled to his back beneath his blankets, oblivious to the death surrounding him.
Motioning his brothers off, Draz watched them vanish into the forest. Vextis would take up position with his bow along with Bailen and Sedrik, while Persus would wait nearby with sword ready. Jornan would no doubt be close by as well.
Bending down to the dying fire, Draz began to blow the coals to life. After adding a few sticks to the blaze, he saw the Volrathi stir from his blankets.
He suddenly felt the cold, as if it had been released upon him for the first time all night. His hands began to shake and he warmed them by the fire. He watched the man, and as his anger grew, so did his fear.
So much had been taken from them, but now they’d take some of it back. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
How it would all end, he did not know.
“You’re awake,” he heard himself say.
***
The man was confused, and it took a moment before his steely confidence began to waver.
“How did you get in here?” the Volrathi roared, his voice rising to awaken the men surrounding him.
None of the sleeping forms moved.
Draz idly poked the fire with a stick. He saw Jornan enter the camp on his left. His brother’s hood was up and he wiped a knife clean on his trousers as he walked, sliding the blade into a sheath at his belt. The youth stopped next to a tree, leaning against the trunk to watch the man, crossing his arms and saying nothing.
“Your friends can’t hear you,” Draz told the Volrathi. “We’re alone. It’s just us now.”