Arrowmask: Godkillers of the Shrouded Vast

by John Ruch

  “You will probably die out there,” she said, speaking her mind despite being self-conscious of her thickly accented south-tongue. “The northern forests have storms and witches, not wines and meat-pies. The gods and the wilds fight to see who can be harsher, even in the safe-homes where I lived.”

  “You’ll find that looking completely unprepared is kind of our main trick,” Arrowmask said with a smirky smile. “The element of surprise.”

  Elsbeth shrugged and stood up, spitting out the pine tar. She was at least a head taller than most of them, and even had a few inches on Rinka. This was the part where even the polite ones would stare at her like a “barbarian” freak animal in one of their zoos. Best to get it over with.

  They gawked at the chiseled muscles of her bared arms. The twines and knots of the war-badges inked into the skin of her forearms and neck. The thick scars on her chin and cheek and eye. The complicated, silver-banded braids of her white-gold hair, and how the rest was hacked short. The wolf-paws and fate-threads pressed into the edges of her green-leather vest and trousers. All the signs of her blood-won honor were just strange decorations to them, like bells and feathered headpieces on parade horses.

  They would have real freak animals to look at soon enough. “Come, then. I will show you the testabestia.”

  Axe swinging on one hip, shoeing hammer on the other, she strode down the packed-earth hall toward the farthest corner of the maze-like Imperial stables. She had made the place her home for the past half-month, ever since Gallatine hired her to this cause with promises of gold and glory. She wanted to live with these road-beasts so they could come to an understanding, to forge trust in each other’s instincts and signs.

  Elsbeth heard the men, three paces behind, giggling over a “barbarian” joke, the one hiding under his cloak-hood and the other whispering through his absurd otter-moustache, much like the local demi-god Kissyface. She ignored the cravens. Meanwhile, the squirrel-girl trotted beside her, half-skipping to match her long strides, staring upward like a dog begging at table. Elsbeth ignored her, too.

  “Are you excited about visiting the forest, or are you totally sick of it!” the child shouted like a jay-bird.

  The woman glided into step with them smoothly despite her rattling whore-armor. “Mieux, wouldn’t you like to be the first to see the testabestia, hmmm?” she suggested, sliding a friendly glance at Elsbeth.

  “Yes!” the girl cried, darting ahead of them down the now-obvious path. “I am excited about the forest!” she shouted without looking back.

  Elsbeth nodded at Rinka. A warrior and a mother. Maybe they had more in common than she thought. Still, she didn’t know what to make of the woman. Up-close, her face lacked even the smallest war-scar, but her eyes were death-mirrors.

  The squirrel-girl clung to the gate of the iron-barred testabestia corral, squealing louder than its rusted hinges. The others voiced amazement in their own ways. Elsbeth had done the same on her first look at the four massive pack-beasts.

  The testabestia moped around the corral like milk-cows, but stood nearly twice as tall. Fleshy knobs shaped like dagger hilts studded their long, heavy heads; two pairs on either side of the snout, running down to a blunt horn on the nose. Crinkled tresses of sandy fur hung from their thick gray skin. A fatty ridge ran the length of the spine and joined a pair of extra humps on the shoulders, looking like the stubby wings of a honeybee at rest. A flat, fan-shaped tail covered their hindquarters. Their feet were huge circles of toughened hide, like battering rams, but small toe-like bumps on the front gave them unexpected nimbleness. They stepped carefully over the generous piles of their own dung that littered the corral.

  Though they behaved now like a strange-faced breed of cattle, Elsbeth knew that was deceiving. They were beasts of pride—and temper. On their first ride, one had twisted its head to protest her overeagerness for speed and nearly hurled her from the seat by the rein. The stable-masters had named them for dead emperors; she ignored such man-pride and, after a time, gave them titles to match their qualities: Reidr, Fastr, Bitr, Soltinn. Names of warning, all.

  Elsbeth opened her mouth as she tried to think of something to say. The fat man immediately stuck his nose into the lull, like a bear in a honey-tree.

  “Behold, the testabestia!” he lectured, removing a riding crop from a wall hook and pointing at the animals through the bars. “The famed Lifeboat of the Dunes to the nomads of The Twelve; the Pantry of the Snow Fort to the Shrouded Vast explorers of yore; and once briefly known to the Weàlae of Greenarch as the Barrel-Backed Big-Bottom.”

  “Very briefly, I’m guessing,” said the man Arrowmask, leaning lazily against the bars. “During the reign of the Plant Lord, perhaps?”

  A skeptical look knotted the squirrel-girl’s brow. She suddenly appeared more mature than her years.

  “What is—!” the girl barked.

  The fat man held up a pudgy finger. “All will be answered in time,” he pledged, his moustache bobbing, as he wagged the crop. “Observe the immense body size and the fine fur, enabling the beast to live in virtually any clime—keeping warm where it’s frigid, deflecting sun where it’s blazing hot. Note the rotund feet, much like wheels of thick-rind cheese, which provide dexterity even in deep sand, mud, or snow. And of course, the various humps, which retain water and vitamins like a hunk of bread mopping up stew. They can go a score-night without water, more without food.”

  He waddled back and forth in front of the corral door. “When they do eat and drink, they can consume most anything, even seawater. In return, the females will produce a rich and hearty milk quite superior to that of the common moo-moo. Their fur may be knitted into fine mittens or, I daresay, a scarf or two. Even their excrement is useful, as it comes out dry as kindling and burns hotly, though with much smoke and a damnable aroma of sulphur and pea soup.”

  Rinka stepped forward and snatched the crop out of his hand. “Give me that before you hurt yourself,” she said lightly, twirling it in her fingers expertly before slapping it against her armored thigh. “I’m sure Elsbeth knows more about these creatures than any of us.”

  Embarrassment seized Elsbeth. She suddenly felt foolish about her great height as the foursome looked at her. But she was no pale-heart.

  “It is so,” she said firmly. “What this man says is true. You should know, too, that these are creatures with minds of their own. I have lived with them for a half-month and only now do they trust me. They can be deadly to those they do not know.”

  “How fast will they go?” asked Arrowmask. He looked like someone who liked to move as fast as possible in all things. But it was a good question. Elsbeth prepared herself to answer.

  “I boast now of my strength and skill in driving,” she began stiffly. “When I first hitched Fastr to a mail coach, he pulled it at speeds that would overtake a horse at gallop. The coach was not made for this, and its hounds and axle-tree became splintered as kindling. I gripped the jerk-line in one hand and the coach-roof in the other. Thus began our contest. If I won, I would hold the wagon together and it would slow as the pack-beast tired. If I lost, my arm would be ripped from its bone-house with savage fire-pain, the sinew and muscle torn bare, and I would fall under the iron feet of the broken wagon. There, I would die screaming, smashed to gore and pulp. The beast ran berserk for a half-hour, but my arm-steel did not bend, and so I bested it. So ends my arm-boast. Yet it is also a boast for the strength and endurance of the pack-beast.”

  “That’s totally great! But also super-scary!” the squirrel-girl yelled from her perch on the fence.

  Elsbeth spoke her answer to Arrowmask. “My bond with the water-beasts is greater now, and the new wagons are heavier and stronger. I have mastered their power and it will be strong in our use. I believe they can take us ten miles each hour, given a well-paved road.”

  Arrowmask fiddled with a small stone or gem and pressed its corner into his chin as he thought. “Impressive. So, a hundred miles a day?”

  “More. W
e can travel two-thirds of each day. Such is the endurance of the water-beasts.”

  “And what about your endurance? You can drive them for sixteen hours?”

  “No. I split the time with my road-helper Arnbold.”

  She had excused the stable-boy from this meeting because he was shy and she was protective of him. He was weak, though he was the smith’s son, and walked stiffly from a bad knee and ankle. He spoke rarely, hid from road-thieves, and, rather than drinking and boasting, he buried his nose in a magazine about puzzles and riddles. At first, she was disgusted by Arnbold, for in Skógr, he would be deemed no man at all. But one day, watching a group of drivers bully him, she remembered another honor-law of her people: The strong guard the weak, for battle-brightness is just one form of worth that protects others just as valuable. She broke the jaw of a driver from Faensacium that day, and had maimed and killed others many times since to protect Arnbold. In return, he had proven his road-worth, with a clever mind and tricky fingers for repairing wagons and a skill at heart-sharing with animals to know their thoughts and needs. She would tell him about these new strangers later, after she had taken their measure.

  As they walked back to Elsbeth’s makeshift quarters, the fat man asked her about her homeland as if he was an old friend to it. At least he knew its true name.

  “I say, lass, you must have left the Vast, which is to say, Skógr, not very long ago. What brought you out of the woods? Anything a bit off about the Old Ways there?”

  She considered her words. Imperials were talkers and merchants who often did not approve of violence. Talk of a death-cult might scare them. She tried to think of a way to speak politely and cleverly in the Imperial way.

  “A death-cult that calls for child-blood came to my village. It had to be destroyed. I am the only survivor.”

  She stopped, turned, met their shocked faces. She saw she was not very good at speaking half-truths. “That was years ago and I do not know if the cult survives elsewhere or if it is part of the mystery you seek. My tribe lived just west of the Stjarnafall. I do not know how the rest of Skógr fares. The Imperial wars gained nothing besides breaking home-ties. An Allmeet of tribe leaders has not been called in lifetimes. The Old Ways were not used by my people.”

  With nothing left to say, she stopped talking abruptly.

  She could tell that the mother and daughter—Rinka and the squirrel-girl—sensed the unspoken part of her story: the loss of her own child to the death-god. For the men, the story raised a different question.

  “If we have to fight the people of the Vast, is that going to be a problem for you?” asked Arrowmask.

  Elsbeth folded her arms defensively. “I will fight anyone who attacks us. That is the common law everyone lives by. I would have another answer if you plan to attack them.”

  “We’re not looking to killing anyone on behalf of Corcorid pigs,” Rinka assured her.

  Elsbeth doubted this band could kill many of her people anyway, except maybe the sick or lame. She kept her thoughts silently locked in her word-chest.

  “Maybe you can help us learn some of the language,” Arrowmask suggested when they were back at the campfire.

  This surprised her. No one had ever wanted to know the ways of her people and she had not suspected this weasel-like man of the city would be the first. She had thought they would use her to steer the water-beasts and to put their words into the ears of her people when need be.

  “I will do what I can to help you understand words. But it is deeds that will you need most to survive Skógr,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The men left soon after, but Rinka and the child were not done harrying her. Sitting on a hay bale beside her campfire, just outside the stable walls, Elsbeth pressed a hank of pine tar against her dagger blade with her thumb, then tossed the fresh-cut piece into her mouth. The evergreen flavor bit her tongue as she leaned back and eyed the odd pair.

  The squirrel-girl squatted like a toad on another bale, her hands on her knees, again giving Elsbeth the dog-at-table stare. Rinka leaned against the stable wall, her fingers twined behind her head and legs stretched out, as relaxed as if it were her own campsite. Her icy eyes moved up and down Elsbeth with an interest in more than war-badges.

  “What are you chewing on!” the squirrel-girl demanded.

  Elsbeth silently cut another piece and handed it to her. Just like a squirrel, Mieux took it carefully in both paws. She made a perfect circle of her plump lips and slid the pine tar through the hole. She chewed slowly, her eyes turned up to the skies. Her wispy eyebrows floated upward.

  “My stars and garters!” she cried. “It tastes like a pine tree is growing in my mouth!”

  Rinka chuckled as the girl gnawed as a cow upon its cud. Elsbeth had cut the piece too big for her tiny mouth.

  “Do not swallow the juices. Spit,” she advised.

  “It’s like chewing a piece of glue! Your teeth must be as strong as the eight winds all put together!”

  The girl was not a practiced spitter and dribbled from her chin as she chattered. With startling speed, she sprang to Elsbeth’s side and produced a stick studded with white crystals from within her jacket, poking it Elsbeth’s way.

  “Have you ever had rock candy! Also, do you like to see plays! Plus also, why is there a wolf paw drawn on your clothes!”

  Elsbeth crossed her arms and ignored the jabbing candy stick. The red-dancer within her stirred and kicked its heels. “These are questions that only kin and heart-friends ask of each other. It is not the right thing.”

  “How else will I find out the answers!” the squirrel-girl cried, rolling her eyes and holding her palms open. “It’s the only way!”

  The girl’s tiny hands looked surprisingly strong and toughened, the life-leather that skin becomes from delivering repeated blows. They were the hands of warrior. Elsbeth frowned down at her.

  “I will ask you a question in turn. How many years do you have?”

  “I am about twenty years old!” Mieux cried. “That is the amount when you hold up all your fingers two times in a row!” she added in the tone of teacher to student, flicking her hands open and shut in demonstration.

  “You are not sure of your own year-count?” Elsbeth asked quickly to cover her surprise, looking to Rinka in confusion. The armored woman leaned forward with interest, and it dawned on Elsbeth that Rinka did not know the tale, either, and thus was not the girl’s mother.

  “Where I am from it is not a big celebration like the kings of the Tetragate decree here! Plus also, my family was super-big and they did not have money to feed everyone!” Mieux explained. “So when I was born, they sold me to the Sénche-tasha! I passed the Thirty-Two Trials, which was totally hard, and then I became an equilibrique of the Sénche-do! But even though I can wander anywhere now, my family is all spread out and my parents have gone to the other world. So there is no way to know my birthday!”

  Elsbeth did not know many of the words Mieux spoke, yet she unknotted their meaning well enough. She frowned and pressed her lips together as she struggled to weave a word-robe to dress her thoughts in the Imperial way.

  “My people, too, have thralls who sometimes become fierce warriors,” she began awkwardly as Mieux looked at her, blinking. “We have trials as well to prove our honor. The hunt to test courage. Throwing the hammer to test strength. Writing rune-codes and drinking from fuddling-cups to test cleverness. All of these things we do.” She shifted uncomfortably on the hay bale, her ears reddening. “But these things are for those come of age. You have the build and bearing of a child. Now I know your year-count, yet still it is hard to believe you are a peace-breaker and grave-filler in defense of your people.”

  “Fighting words,” Rinka murmured with a light chuckle.

  Yet the girl Mieux remained motionless in her crouch, her eyes half-closed in calmness. “The One-Thousand-And-Three Fables say that what looks weakest may be the most destructive of forces.” She cocked her head up at Elsbeth and ga
ve her a fixed stare, her glossy bangs bobbing. “Like water,” she added.

  Elsbeth felt the hairs on her arm prickle as she thought of that black day atop the Mengroennfoss. Maybe they had trained the girl as a witch as well as a warrior. Well, there is one sure test of a warrior’s worth, she thought. With no warning, she swung her sword-arm at the girl’s head to cuff her ear, only lightly pulling the slap.

  With a squirrel-speed to match her squirrel-chatter, Mieux raised her tiny hand and deftly deflected the blow with astonishing power. Gripping Elsbeth’s forearm, which was nearly as big around as her own thigh, Mieux whirled over it like a windmill vane, landing with Elsbeth’s hand bent in such a way that a little more pressure could bring her to her knees.

  “You’re pretty quick considering you are as big as a cow standing on its back legs! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Mieux laughed, her gigantic eyes gleaming.

  Rinka stood smoothly like a rearing snake, but Elsbeth held up her free hand peaceably while shaking the other loose from Mieux’s grip. She grinned.

  “And you are as fast as a squirrel climbing a great oak. I pay you honor as a warrior.”

  Mieux wiggled her fingers in some ritual manner. “I can tell you are also a good warrior because of your trials and all of your markings and also how big your muscles are!” she cried.

  “We will spar together and someday we may fight side by side. We will come to know each other this way in time. That is how you will have your questions answered.”

  “Very well!” Mieux cried. “But I can still ask other kinds of questions!” It was hard to tell if it was a request or a demand. Elsbeth shrugged. She did not mind harmless questions.

  “What are the names of all the best-testa!” Mieux demanded, immediately shaking her head in self-correction. “Testabestia!” she cried, nodding at each syllable.