by CJ Whrite
His men roared in anger. “COWARD!” they shouted.
Roland reloaded the crossbow and aimed it at them. “This is not a game,” he said quietly, but his words carried to every man. “Life is a web of actions and consequences. Because of your actions, death has come to your camp.”
Two men charged and Roland pulled the trigger, shifted the crossbow slightly and then pushed the wooden nub with his thumb – both men hit the ground near simultaneously. Roland dropped the crossbow and flung his cloak wide open, the heavy cloth settling behind his shoulders. Left and right hand pulled throwing knifes from the leather band across his chest, and silver steel filled the air as his hands blurred up and down, one after the other. And then, a bowstring clapped, and an arrow soared from the woods, crunching into the side of a man’s skull. Bushes rustled and an unearthly howl pierced the night. Dragon burst from the woods and charged, his axe held high and pulled back over his shoulder. His wide-open mouth unleashed a continuous howl while arrows passed him by on either side as Andros stepped from the woods behind him, shooting arrow after arrow.
Even Roland was frozen in place as Dragon charged, his big feet slamming into the earth with every step. As Dragon reached the closest victim, he swung, and the butterfly-blades sang through the air. The blade entered the man’s neck and exited underneath the armpit, cutting through bone, muscle and sinew. Blood fountained and covered Dragon’s face and chest as a piece of the man fell to the ground.
Dragon hunched over, jutted his chin out, and grinned gormlessly at Agron’s remaining men, blood streaming down his face.
That was the final straw.
Terrified screams filled the air and men fled into the night, flinging weapons from them as if the metal had suddenly turned red-hot. There were muffled yells as they tripped over their feet in the dark, eager to get away, the sound growing thinner as they crossed the valley at great speed. Dragon threw his head back and a wolfish howl echoed down the valley – a reminder for the fleeing men to never return.
“You’re scaring me, Dragon,” said Jeklor, and pushed himself upright, clutching his ribs.
Dragon heehawed and dropped the axe. He lifted his shirt and wiped his face clean, once more turning into the Dragon they knew.
From the corner of Roland’s eye, he saw a shadow moving. In one fluent motion, Roland dropped to one knee, picked the crossbow up and swung around, his right hand slipping a fresh bolt along the track. The shadow dashed through the grass in irregular patterns and entered the woods, darting from tree to tree.
“Not as composed as you like to appear, Master Li Ho,” said Roland quietly and lowered the crossbow, an amused look on his face.
Chapter 17
Roland gripped Andros’s hand and said, “Thank you for everything.”
“No, Roland. Thank you,” growled Andros, his voice thick.
Roland held his hand out to Dragon, but the large man lifted Roland in a bear hug. Roland patted him on the back, and when Dragon finally released him, the side of Roland’s face was soaked, Dragon’s eyes puffed and red.
“Master Li Ho,” said Roland and bowed low. “You have taught me more than I can ever repay. The gold will never convey the true value, but I will have it ready for you within a year’s time.”
Li Ho snorted in indignation. “I am Master. Not want pay from stupid student.”
Andros’s eyes grew wide and Jeklor gave a dry snigger; not wanting the gold confirmed what he had been secretly thinking – the old man had finally lost his mind.
Roland lifted his head and placed his hand on Li Ho’s arm. “Then you must accept the gold as a gift from a good friend.”
In what Li Ho considered was appropriate for the seriousness of the situation, he considered for a long time in silence before he gravely said, “I accept.”
“Ready, Jeklor?” said Roland.
Jeklor lifted an enormous bundle of Dragon’s new wares onto his back and said, “I’ll be back in half a year or so. Take care of Dragon, Andros – and don’t you go killing them, Li Ho. Dragon is essential to Dragon East Apparel’s future.”
Dragon heehawed as Li Ho gripped his sword tightly, a muscle twitching in his face, and with that, Roland and Jeklor stepped from the cabin.
*
The last of the winter snow crunched under Roland and Jeklor’s feet as they headed for Drifters’ Hell. Twenty-two months have passed since Roland had woken up in prison and he marvelled at how quickly his life had changed and at how many things had happened. Through all the hardships and cruelty, he had been blessed with good fortune. The companionship he had with Jeklor, Andros, Dragon and Li Ho, was not something he would have ever experienced had he stayed in his village. Friendships made during easy times, had not the same bond as when you suffered together. For a moment, Roland wished that he could introduce his companions to Carla. She would have liked them, but she had never been given a choice – she never even had a chance. Roland almost choked in the bitterness welling up in him, and he once again saw Sirol Vanderman’s handsome face in his mind, teeth glinting and eyes mocking. His hand curled around the zhutou, his knuckles turning white before he let go.
If Rage kept the promise he had made to Roland, promising that Roland could count on the Swallow whenever he needed, the time should be close for the Swallow to reach Drifters’ Hell – and close to the oath Roland had made.
In the letter he had written to Rage all those many moons ago, he had told Rage everything that had happened with Carla and himself, and had called upon Rage’s promise, asking him to sail to Drifters’ Hell in two years time from the day he received the letter. Time had been a very important factor, and it had taken longer to escape from The Tomb than Roland had initially thought it would. He had wanted to be trained for a year and a half, but time had run out, and he had reduced the training to one year. But, as Li Ho had said: Can only teach basic of killing. One year – year and half ... no difference. Once basic down, must continue on own. Gain experience by self – find own style.
Roland smiled as he heard Li Ho’s abrupt voice in his mind; he was going to miss the bandy-legged man’s short bursts of wisdom.
They had taken the coin back from Agron’s men and more, and he and Jeklor looked to lodge in the village, awaiting the Swallow. The only problem now was the river leading up to Drifters’ Hell. Roland had gone to inspect it months before. From the village it was little more than a day’s walk to the ocean; Roland reckoned it would take half the time by boat. The river was broad and calm, but Roland did not know enough about the Swallow to know if the water was deep enough for the ships keel. He expected that the Swallow would anchor in the mouth of the river, and send a rowing boat further up –
“Never seen that hut before ...” said Jeklor, cutting through Roland’s reverie.
It looked like an old tree stump, the roof made of grass and leaves. There were no windows, and the door was an old blanket. The snow around the hut showed no footprints, as if neither animal nor human wanted to get close to it. Roland had walked the woods many times before, but had never noticed the strange hut.
He and Jeklor moved closer, both with puzzled looks on their faces.
“Reckon anyone lives here?” said Jeklor, his voice barely above a whisper for some reason.
Before Roland could answer, the blanket was pulled to the side and a wrinkled face stared at them. The eyes seemed unnaturally large, tufts of hair growing between the countless seams of the skin. It hobbled into the light, and Roland saw that it was a very old woman, a moth-eaten shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She stood hunched over as she peered at them, her eyes sparkling with intelligence ... or was it something else, wondered Roland.
“G- good day, lady,” said Jeklor, stammering a bit. “Sorry to have disturbed you. My companion and I will be on our way.”
“Wait!” she croaked. “Will you not visit a lonely old woman like myself? Come inside, and I will read your fortune – not you,” she snapped as Jeklor moved.
Rol
and shrugged at Jeklor who carried a scowl on his face and he followed the old woman inside.
There was only one room, and Roland had the feeling of standing inside a hollowed tree. He could see no evidence of life inside; there was no bed – not even a pile of blankets – no food, not a fire ... yet it was stifling hot inside. There was only a table in the middle of the hut, which looked as if it had grown from the earth, and two round stools. The smell inside was damp, like moss and rotten leaves, and Roland thought he caught a whiff of something very unpleasant hidden underneath, but he could not put his finger on it, although it stirred an old memory. The woman was exceptionally short, and Roland realised that she wasn’t hunching over at all. Her back was curved, so much so that her spine pushed alarmingly against her black dress. Her face looked shrunken with age; her features near undistinguishable underneath the loose skin, but her big eyes looked youthful and spirited.
“I can’t stay for long, lady” said Roland.
“Humour me for a while,” she said and sat down on a stool. “Take off your cloak and take a seat ... you must be very hot.”
Roland realised that he was sweating, and he untied his black cloak, swinging it from his shoulders. He saw a hook on the wall and hung his cloak there.
The old woman’s eyes slid over Roland’s weapons approvingly, her lips curling back ever so slightly. “Oh my, how promising,” she crooned and beckoned Roland to take a seat.
“Give me your hand,” she said as Roland sat down, and ran a nail along his palm. Her nails were quite long and yellowish. They were strangely tapered towards the ends, and curled slightly downwards ... Roland had to restrain himself from yanking his hand away – her nails reminded him of talons.
“What a find ... what a find!” she whispered, her voice rasping like dry leaves rubbing together. From her dress, she took a pitch-black coin and placed it in Roland’s hand. She pushed his fingers over the coin, closing his hand.
“I think I should leave now,” said Roland, his skin crawling from her touch.
A sudden urge to sink the zhutou into her frail chest welled up in him. Why did I think that, Roland wondered, shocked by his bloodlust.
“Not yet, almost there” she purred, and then she opened Roland’s hand.
Where the coin was wholly black before, halve the coin had now turned the purest white. She clapped her hands happily. “My, my. But you are a walking contradiction, Roland Belanu.”
Roland frowned at the use of his name – he could not remember divulging it. “Why is it a contradiction?”
“Do you not see ... If I were to give the coin to the fool waiting outside, it would turn dull grey, or maybe light brown –”
“Jeklor is not a fool,” said Roland, turning angry. He was glad for the anger – it pushed away his uneasiness.
“Yes, yes,” she said offhandedly, “that would be the white speaking.” She took the coin from Roland’s hand and the white halve immediately darkened, until it was once more pitch-black. She cackled at the change in colour.
“One of you is compassionate and caring and would go to any lengths to help and protect his fellow man ... but the other .... Oh, the other is a fearsome beast who will go to any lengths to achieve his goals. A river of blood will not satisfy his thirst – and he will never stop.” She smiled and Roland turned his head. Her teeth were short, yellow stumps, black and green stains between it.
“Not pretty am I ... but then I wear my heart on my sleeve!” She cackled madly and Roland jumped upright.
“Before you go, I have a gift for you, Roland Belanu,” She placed a tiny silver vial on the table, her eyes sparkling. “It will help in your revenge.”
“I don’t use poisons,” said Roland, turning pale. He did not know how she knew all this, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
“Again with the white ... but no, it’s not poison. A little prick on the skin, a drop of this and your victim will freeze in place; unable to move, unable to scream, but very able to experience pain ... yet, he will not die from the Potion alone.”
Roland wanted to back away – but the tiny vial intrigued him, capturing his fascination. “Who are you?” he asked, licking his dry lips, his eyes fixed on the vial.
“Oh, you can call me The Lady in the Woods ... but in time, you will affectionately recall me as The Hag in the Hut.” She cackled wildly, her voice grating in Roland’s ears. He tore his gaze from the vial, grabbed his cloak and stumbled from the hut.
“Let’s go,” he told Jeklor, swinging the cloak around his shoulders and setting off at a brisk pace, his eyes staring straight ahead, unblinking.
“What did she want?” said Jeklor, hurrying to keep up with Roland.
“Nothing. She’s gone mad from living in seclusion – she said nothing.”
Jeklor glanced at Roland but held his tongue.
After a while, Roland slowed down and looked back over his shoulder, but the hut was out off sight. He suppressed a shudder, letting out a slow breath. “The smell!” he suddenly shouted, halting sharply. “It was the smell of a canker!”
“Canker?” said Jeklor, nonplussed.
“It’s an illness that eats the body and there’s no cure. The stink of it is unbearable during the final days ...” Roland shook his head. Did she have canker? He did not think so. She was far too ... excited, he thought for lack of a better word. He resumed walking and heard a strange clinking noise, as if something hard was tapping against metal. Roland pulled his cloak open, and there, next to the zhutou, a tiny silver vial peered out from underneath his sash.
Chapter 18
“Heave, ho,” called the crew and the anchor splashed into the water, a trail of bubbles breaking the surface as it sunk to the bottom.
“Anchor away, Captain!”
“Lower the boat!” bellowed Rage.
“Lower the boat!” chorused the crew and swung a portion of the bulwark open. They heaved a six-man rowing boat over the side, the thick ropes tied to the breast hook and stern post of the boat running through their hands. Once the boat reached water, they lowered a rope ladder after it, and then tied the ropes to the rail, securing the rowboat.
“Boat secured, Captain!”
The Swallow bobbed lazily in the calm water, the rowboat gently knocking against her side. A cool breeze blew over the prow, and white riffles danced on the water. The square sail was taken in and she lay anchored – now, Rage just had to wait.
He had lost count of how many times he had read Roland’s letter. First in disbelief, then in anger, then in sorrow, and finally he had to accept the truth. That little girl who had first come to his ship, no taller than his knee was high, demanding that he should allow her to take the wheel, her mane of red hair like the setting sun, was forever gone. Her father had been devastated by the news, and it was equally devastating for Rage to watch as his old friend succumbed to heavy drinking. The last time he had seen his friend, he had chased Rage from his home in a drunken stupor, blaming him for taking his daughter to Darma. That was, of course, not Rage’s fault, but sorrow and drink made fools of all men.
“We are ready to depart, Captain,” said Jase, his face strained.
Rage thought that Jase had been a little in love with Carla, and her death had come as a heavy blow. Rage had read Roland’s letter to Jase, the only man he had shared it with, and strangely enough, Jase had immediately believed and accepted every word Roland had written.
“You realise this may be a fool’s errand,” said Rage. “The chances of him waiting at Drifters’ Hell are slim. And even if he did manage to escape, you should not count on him being the same man as you remember.”
“How so, Captain?”
“He wrote that he was send to The Tomb. Spending time there drives men mad with despair, kept underground for so long ...”
Jase flexed his arm and said, “The man who fixed me is not so weak. We talked much during the trip to Darma, and I know I’m not very bright, but he is the type of man who will never give up.”
“You’re bright enough, Jase. Who are you taking with?”
“I’ll take Brins.”
“He’s a good man. You’ve permission to stay in Drifters’ Hell for two weeks. If Roland has not turned up by then, we’ll come back in six months.”
“Captain,” said Jase and about turned. He called Brins and they walked to the rope ladder. Before Jase climbed down, he turned his head and said, “Captain, I believe he will be there – an’ I believe Carla’s death will be avenged.”
“I hope you’re right, lad,” said Rage softly as he watched the little boat disappearing up the river.
*
Tendrils of steam rose from the river, and Jase shivered. Ice on the riverbank was melting in the spring sun, but the air still had a sharp bite to it. The wooden oar was smooth in his hands as he and Brins cleaved the water, each stroke pulling the little boat ahead. Jase knew they would warm up soon from the exertion, and did not bother wrapping his blanket around him.
“How long before we reach the village?” asked Jase. Brins had been to Drifters’ Hell before, and Jase had brought him along for just that reason. Brins was a dour, hawk-nosed man, and not very good company, but an outstanding sailor.
“Five, six hours,” grunted Brins, as if every word uttered was robbing him of precious air.
They rowed in silence, the steam parting before the boat. Up ahead a doe stood at the rivers edge, its front legs comically splayed with its head lowered as it drank from the river. Its big eyes followed the boat as it came closer, and then it turned and ran, back legs kicking in indignation, gracefully entering the woods. Jase followed the doe as it disappeared, thinking of Carla as she had walked the Swallows deck, her feet as sure as a seasoned sailor’s.
Roland never wrote the name of the one who had murdered Carla. He had only said that it was a noble, and that he knew who it was. Jase thought he understood why. During the trip so many moons ago, he had found Roland and Carla alone on the deck many times with heads together, Carla laughing at things Roland told her. Carla had never laughed like that when he was with her, and he had felt a twinge of jealousy at those times, but because he liked Roland, he had ignored the feeling. The kill was Roland’s, but if he failed, then Jase would make sure it was done.