by A. C. Cobble
In a week, the road wound through a low pass and they descended down the other side of the range. There was more moisture there. Rolling through shallow creeks or over short wooden bridges became common. It also began to rain.
During one particularly dreary morning, when the ladies had again disappeared inside where it was warm and dry, Rhys steered the cart through grim, grey sheets of rain. The water made quick running rivulets on the road. The wheels constantly splashed through shallow puddles.
Ben adjusted the hood of his cloak, trying in vain to find a position that kept the cold rain off his face. Ahead of them, a small stream had turned into a rushing torrent, swollen by the rainfall. The donkey slowed and Rhys let it.
“Think we can make it through there?” asked the rogue.
Ben shrugged. “Get up some speed. The bottom should be rock, which won’t be a problem, but with the creek so high, we might have mud on the banks.”
“We could ask the ladies to get out to lighten the load,” jested Rhys sourly.
Ben grunted. The rain poured down.
Rhys glanced at Ben. “Well?”
Ben sighed. “Let me go check the bottom of the creek. If it’s firm, I think we’ll be okay.”
He clambered off the cart and dropped to the muddy road. His boots splashed in a puddle that came up to his ankle. If he weren’t already soaked to the bone, he would have been upset about it. He strode forward a dozen paces and looked down into the rushing water. It was muddy and dark, churned up from the unusually brisk current.
Ben looked around and found a long stick on the side of the road. He poked it into the water, pressing against the unseen ground beneath the stream.
His stick met firm resistance. Ben tossed it aside into the forest. Tall, skeletal trees and bright green ferns lined the side of the road. Moss clung to the trunks of the trees and any exposed rock. Ben found it quite pleasant when it wasn’t raining. It had been three days of downpour though, and somehow, he and Rhys kept pulling the shifts driving. He was ready for a nice dry evening, a campfire, and a skin of rich red wine.
“How’s it look?” called Rhys from the cart.
“Good enough,” answered Ben. “Get some speed, and we won’t have any problems.”
“Come on then,” replied his friend.
Ben started back to the cart then stopped. Standing near the back corner were two people. One was a tall man, a good hand taller than Ben. He had a thick blond beard and his hair was piled up on top of his head in a topknot. He wore leather-covered scale-mail. Two swords were strapped to his back. Despite the rain, he was smiling broadly.
His companion was short and engulfed in a thick, dark wool cloak. Ben couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. The cowl of the cloak hung limply in the rain, obscuring the figure’s face.
“Need a push?” called the man cheerfully.
Ben responded, “I think we are okay. Thank you for the offer.”
The man ambled closer, the hilts of his swords bobbing as he walked.
“Wet day, isn’t it?” asked the man.
The hooded companion followed in the man’s wake.
Rhys, from his spot on the driver seat, could hear the conversation but couldn’t see the newcomers. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Rhys shift to clear the hilts of his long-knives. The man walked to the front of the wagon, his eyes locked on Ben.
“Where is your friend, boy? Is she in the cart staying dry?”
Ben frowned. He pushed back his cloak and put a hand on his sword.
The man grinned. “What are you doing to do with that?”
When the cloaked figure reached the front of the wagon, its head snapped to the side, looking directly at Rhys.
“Harden your will!” shouted the rogue. He leapt toward the figure, a long knife in each hand.
A blast of air burst out from the cloaked figure, sweeping a heavy wall of water with it. Ben hardened his will an instant before the wall of water smashed into him. It slapped him like a giant’s hand. He was thrown to the ground and landed on his back, stunned.
Blinking, trying to clear the water from his eyes and scrambling to his feet, Ben saw Rhys standing in the muddy road, water pouring off of him. The cart wasn’t so lucky. When the water crashed against the side, it flipped it over. Their donkey went down next to it kicking, still tied to the harness. The top-knotted warrior had been knocked to his knees. He stood, drawing the two longswords off his back as he did.
Ben had been taught that swinging two longswords would be cumbersome and ineffective. This man didn’t seem to agree. The blades whirled in the falling rain and he stalked toward Ben.
The cowl fell back from the cloaked figure’s face revealing a mousy brown-haired woman. She stared in shock as Rhys charged toward her, blades held menacingly.
Ben didn’t see what happened with that fight. The top-knotted warrior was on him, slashing and stabbing. The man’s blades struck like lightning, flashing before Ben’s eyes then snapping back.
Ben defended frantically, stumbling backward. His foot slipped in the muddy water, and he stumbled to the side. It saved his life. A sword whistled over his head and would have cleaved into his skull if he hadn’t fallen. Falling wasn’t a good defense strategy, though, so he tried to switch to offense.
His first strike was met with one of the man’s blades. The other blade lashed out, slicing into the meat of Ben’s arm. Ben struck again, and the second attack was also met. This time, the counterattack stabbed into his thigh. Minor injuries, but they still stung with sharp pain.
Limping, Ben tried to escape. He dropped to the mud, rolling on his shoulder and scrambling to his feet as another tightly directed attack sailed over him. The second blade plunged into the mud where he’d just rolled away.
Ben spun and swung, more to slow his attacker than to do damage. The man parried the blow and continued relentlessly toward Ben. Backpedalling, Ben slipped in another puddle and flopped down on his ass. The wind whistled in his head, but it wasn’t the crashing force he needed. It was if it was confused, distracted by the other weather.
The top-knotted man towered above him, one sword poised for a killing stroke. Ben raised his longsword, but from a sitting position, he had no leverage to defend himself.
Rhys’ arm reached from behind, curled around the warrior’s neck, and yanked hard. Ben saw the rogue’s long knife carve a gaping hole in his assailant’s throat. Blood fountained out and the warrior pitched forward, falling onto Ben. Cursing, Ben pushed the man’s body away. Rhys stood in the rain looking down at Ben, grinning. Blood dripped off his long knife.
“Nice work,” remarked Rhys.
Ben grimaced. “I almost died, Rhys. I’m not really in the mood for sarcasm.”
Rhys shook his head and helped Ben to his feet. He pulled out a cloth to clean his long knife. “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I know that man. He works for the Sanctuary. He was exceptionally skilled, almost a blademaster. Surviving his attack even for a little was impressive.”
Ben glanced at the body of the woman, a mage, he supposed. She was lying on her back, staring sightlessly at the rain falling on her from above. A neat hole was punched through the front of her cloak.
“You made quick work of her,” admired Ben.
Rhys nodded. “When her magic failed, she didn’t know what to do. Mages never expect you to be able to defend yourself. Easier than killing a chicken.”
A cough sounded from near the cart.
“Are you two going to just stand there?” demanded Corrine.
She was helping Amelie and Towaal out of the flipped over cart.
“We were protecting you from a mage and a blademaster,” declared Rhys.
“They look dead, and you looked like you were just standing around chatting,” grumbled Corinne. She held a hand up, futility trying to block the rain. “It’s miserable out here.”
“I know,” responded Rhys. “We were the ones sitting up front driving!”
Corinne ignored him,
turning to the cart. She waved a hand at it. “Can you flip it back up?” she asked Towaal and Amelie.
Towaal shook her head.
“Could we use the gravitational force?” asked Amelie. “Temporarily reverse it somehow.”
“No,” replied Towaal. “That force isn’t localized. It is generated by the entire landmass of the world. It would be too difficult to separate part of it. Trying to use it all, well, no one has the will to do that.”
Amelie frowned. “Maybe we could use wind?”
Again, Towaal shook her head. “How would you get the wind underneath the wagon? Just because a force exists doesn’t mean we can manipulate it to achieve our purposes. Sometimes it’s best to use mundane means.”
“What do we do then?” asked Amelie.
Towaal pointed at Rhys. “He’ll come up with a plan.”
Rhys grunted.
He first released the donkey from its harness. The poor beast was irate but unharmed. He then directed Ben into the forest to cut down two six-pace long, wrist-thick trees.
“Can I borrow your axes?” Ben asked Corinne.
She stared at him. Her gaze flicked down to his longsword. “Can I borrow that?”
Ben sighed.
“Better get three of those poles,” instructed Rhys. He was sitting on a thick log on the side of the road. At some time, it must have fallen across the road and been cut up by blocked travelers.
Muttering to himself, Ben hiked into the woods. He didn’t like being sent on errands like this, but he didn’t have any ideas of his own on how to get the heavy cart back upright.
He found a stand of young trees, several suitable to their purpose. His mage-wrought longsword sliced through the trunks in a few powerful blows. It wasn’t easy, but he had to admit it was probably better than using Corinne’s axes. Still, it felt wrong to use such an elegant weapon for such a menial task.
When Ben returned to the wagon, he found Rhys had rolled his log and several like it near the wagon. He was squatting by the body of the mage.
“Lady Snee,” he stated.
Towaal nodded. “I know her. She was raised by the Veil five years back. She was certainly no match for me, or you for that matter.”
“A desperation play, maybe? They could be trying for maximum coverage and sending out anyone with a pulse,” speculated Rhys. He rifled through her pockets, finding nothing interesting until he took out a wooden oval. “This looks familiar.”
Amelie gasped. “It’s just like ours. A thought meld!”
“That bitch. Always keeping secrets!” growled Towaal. She started pacing back and forth, ignoring the steady beat of the rain and the ankle-deep puddles she splashed through. “Why would she trust a girl like this with a thought meld, and who was the girl speaking to?”
“I…” stuttered Amelie.
“I was speaking to myself,” apologized Towaal. “The Veil wouldn’t spend time with a mage like Lady Snee. In the Sanctuary, she wouldn’t even be given knowledge about something like this without senior approval. Someone must have been talking to her though, giving her instructions. She could have been a scout, but when she found us, why would she engage?”
“There is another possibility,” suggested Ben.
Towaal turned toward him.
“What if,” he speculated, “instead of scouting, she was meant to engage us?”
“She couldn’t defeat me,” protested Towaal. “The Veil or Eldred would know that.”
“Exactly,” agreed Ben. “But if the Veil, Eldred, or someone else from the Sanctuary was communicating with her regularly, now they’ll know something happened to her.”
Towaal’s eyes widened.
“I don’t know how often mages in the field turn up missing,” continued Ben, “but I’m guessing it’s not common.”
“Bait,” said Rhys. “That’s brilliant.”
“It’s common practice in some villages around Northport,” added Corinne. “When a demon is nearby, they’ll tie up a sheep on each corner of the village. Whichever corner has a dead sheep in the morning is where you look for the demon. It narrows down the search considerably.”
“If that’s the case,” started Ben.
“Then we need to get the cart back up,” interrupted Amelie. “They probably aren’t close, but they have a point to start looking.”
“They have two points,” remarked Rhys grimly. “Morwith and here. Any fool could draw a line and see where we are going.”
Towaal nodded. “If we don’t see them before, they’ll come for us in Irrefort.”
In a somber mood, the ladies watched as Ben and Rhys got to work. Rhys instructed Ben to wedge his pole as far under the cart and into the mud as he could then lay it on the log. Rhys did the same.
“We’re going to need your help for this next bit,” he said to the women.
He directed them to the end of one of the poles. Then he and Ben got on the other.
“What do we do?” asked Amelie.
“Simple,” answered Rhys. “Lean on it.”
With all of them putting their weight on the poles, the cart budged. Hauling harder, it lifted off the ground barely. They struggled and slipped in the mud, pulling down on the poles, using the log as a lever, slowly lifting the cart. Corinne jumped up in the air and wrapped her arms and legs around the pole. The cart jerked upward. Mud and water cascaded down its side. When it was high enough, Rhys directed Towaal to roll one of the spare logs under it. They relaxed and the cart came down to rest on the log. They’d moved it and kept it a pace off the ground.
Rhys repositioned and they started again, barely moving it but constantly shoving the logs underneath, moving deeper and deeper. At one point, they turned their logs on end to raise the height and continued to pull on the sticks. When Rhys was happy with their progress, he moved to the other side of the cart and looped a rope around a handle on the top of the roof. He tied it to the donkey’s harness and clucked to move the stubborn beast forward. The animal looked at him out of the corner of its eye and then strained against the rope. Rhys grabbed ahold of it and added his weight.
With a crash, the cart tipped over and landed hard on its wheels.
In the cold rain, Ben could still feel sweat pouring down his back. He looked around. All four of his friends had wet hair plastered to their heads. Mud covered them from the waist down where they’d slipped and slid, and even Towaal was bent over, hands on her knees, breathing heavily. Two dead bodies lay a dozen paces away. Their wagon was dripping sloppy wet mud down one side. A mage, a long-lived, two highborn ladies, and himself, all a complete mess.
Ben started to laugh.
They looked at him strangely at first. Then Amelie was infected and joined him. Soon, all five of them were laughing, which just made it more absurd. Ben couldn’t stop. For minutes, they stood there in the rain, laughing.
“This is ridiculous,” muttered Corinne finally, a broad grin splitting her face. “I was comfortable in Northport before you all showed up.”
“I was pretty happy in Farview,” said Ben. “Walking in the woods, hunting small game with my friend Serrot, and brewing beer.”
“I was a lady in Issen.” Amelie chuckled. “I spent my days learning to ride and being taught by the finest tutors my father could find. The kitchen hand-delivered every one of my meals.”
“I worked for the Sanctuary. I hunted and killed people who defied the Veil,” chimed in Rhys.
They all looked at him blankly.
“I think you’re missing the point,” suggested Ben.
Rhys grinned back at him.
Towaal undid her sopping wet bun, shook her hair loose, and then started gathering it again to retie the bun.
“I’ve never seen your hair down,” remarked Ben.
“I never let it down,” murmured Towaal. “Let’s get moving again. I want to find a good campsite or an inn tonight, somewhere dry.”
***
Two bells later, they rolled toward a small village. Three-do
zen moss-covered buildings straddled the main road. An ancient three-story inn stood in the center. It wasn’t much to look at, but since there wasn’t room in the small cart for all of them to lie down, it was better than sleeping in the rain. Rhys steered the cart toward the building and took them around back.
A young boy appeared at the entrance to an open stable. Rhys parked the wagon and the boy reluctantly came out to assist. Rhys tossed him a copper coin which vanished inside a dirty tunic. The boy unhitched the donkey and led it into the stable. Rhys, Ben, and the girls dashed across the flooded yard to the back entrance of the inn. Shaking cloaks and wringing water out of their hair, they clustered inside the door.
A short, pudgy innkeeper waddled over to them. “Welcome to the Dirty Goose!” he exclaimed.
Ben caught Amelie’s gaze. She raised an eyebrow at the name of the inn. Ben smiled back at her. He was happy to see the portly innkeeper. In his experience, skinny innkeepers were untrustworthy. If a man didn’t eat enough of the cooking to gain a belly, then Ben didn’t want to eat it either.
“Rooms and a hot bath,” said Towaal. “A very hot bath.”
The short man, almost ball-shaped, waved for a helper to show them rooms and take them to the baths. He promised a feast as soon as they were finished.
In the bathing chamber, Ben sank down into the hot water, feeling the heat soak into his bones.
“I don’t know the last time I’ve been warm,” he said to Rhys. “This feels good.”
The rogue was lying back, head resting on the rim of his tub with his eyes closed. He limply lifted a hand to acknowledge Ben.
“Is that ale?” asked Ben.
Rhys’ eyes flicked open, his gaze darting around the room. “That’s not right,” grumbled the rogue, disappointed when he realized Ben was joking.
“I actually did see some down in the common room,” offered Ben. “We could hurry the bath and go down there.”
Rhys’ eyes drooped shut again. “You know I’ve never been one to turn down ale, but damn, you are right. This feels good.”
Half a bell later, they finally dragged themselves down to the common room. The ladies had not arrived.