He mopped sweat from his brow. The afternoon was warm and humid, and without any shade in the cage, he was sweltering in the sun.
“How about some water over here?” Creel asked the guard posted a few paces away.
The guard, wearing the blue-and-white Ketanian colors, scowled and spat in the dirt. “You’ll get yer food and water at guard change. Not a moment sooner. You ain’t the only one standin’ here sweatin’.” He turned his bored gaze back upon the trickle of people filtering past.
Creel knew the guard detail for watching him was one of the least desired, possibly a notch just above digging latrines. A sign labeled Deserter hung from his cage, reminding all of what happened to those trying to shirk their solemn duty of fighting in the king’s army. Apparently, fighting on the front line and dying once simply wasn’t good enough. He knew the only reason for his unique punishment was because of Captain Palam’s ire.
Yet despite Creel’s situation, the guards let him be, for the most part. The rumor of his miraculous survival on the battlefield had circulated around town and the army camp, and he was regarded with a healthy amount of awe and fear. To hear it told, the peasant hero of Ammon Nor had singlehandedly slain two score Nebarans and taken a dozen sword thrusts himself, yet he still lived. He figured the latter part, at least, was fairly accurate.
He turned around, setting the cage to rocking, the chain creaking as it did so, and surveyed the town. The thudding of hammers and axes sounded continuously as the wooden palisade was fortified along the front of the town. When he’d first ridden into Ammon Nor nearly a couple weeks prior, the pace of construction was leisurely. Lately though, a fire had clearly been lit under someone’s rear, for the palisade had gone up swiftly. Ditches with sharpened stakes at the bottom were being dug on approach to the wall. He suspected the commander of the king’s vanguard had been anything but pleased upon arriving and discovering the lackadaisical pace of preparations.
It won’t be long until the Nebarans strike with their full force. Even with the bulk of the king’s army reportedly on the verge of bolstering the local garrison, they’ll be fortunate to hold the city.
Creel hoped to spot Ferret around, but he saw no sign of her, unsurprisingly. The streetwise lass knew how to lie low and avoid the town authorities quite well. Once he had been removed from the gaol and locked in the gibbet a week past, Ferret had somehow found out. Since then, she’d sneaked out to pay him a visit each night while the guard was struggling to stay awake. She usually slipped him some food and gave him a water skin to drink from, all courtesy of Enna, she claimed. He suspected that, had Enna not been available, Ferret herself would’ve taken care of him though she’d probably deny it. After a couple botched attempts, the two women had even managed to adequately prepare his herbal concoction for his pain. He smiled at the thought of the young women’s loyalty, heartened that his attempts at performing chivalrous acts hadn’t gone unappreciated.
Ferret’s a good lass. She doesn’t deserve the poor lot the gods have dealt her. As for Enna, well, I hope the war goes well so she can be with her husband again.
Eventually, clouds rolled in, blocking the hot sun, and a light rain fell, apparently a daily occurrence in Ammon Nor at that time of year. He sighed, bored and miserable, and turned his attention back to another group of approaching refugees. A mother carried a baby on her back, balanced a toddler on her hip, and held another young child’s hand. The father was nowhere to be seen, likely either press-ganged into the king’s army or already lying dead on the field.
A couple approaching town from the west drew his attention, an old man and a young woman with short-cropped hair. He idly wondered which category they fell into. Not sellswords or traders—their packs were too light to offer much for trade, and they hadn’t the look of warriors although the man carried a yew longbow and the woman a staff. None of the fear and desperation of refugees was present in their demeanor, either, which meant they must have been travelers. Their gazes were keen, passing over the crowds of people and the armed patrols with interest, as if searching for someone or something.
The old man, little more than a weathered piece of gristle dressed in woodland garb, walked past the cage, glancing at Creel curiously before hailing his guard.
“Greetings. What word on the war of late?” He took a sip from a wineskin then offered it to the guard.
The guard glanced around, making sure no superiors were in view, then gratefully took the wineskin. He took a long swig and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “King and his army are supposed to be reinforcing us any day now. But we been hearin’ that for weeks.” He shrugged. “At least the dogs haven’t moved from where we smashed them on the field across the river.”
Creel snorted softly. The battle had been anything but a rousing victory as he’d heard it. The Ketanians had been on the verge of getting routed when the vanguard of the king’s army, a force of two hundred cavalry and a thousand infantry, had arrived to turn the tide, smashing the flank of the Nebarans’ own vanguard and sending them fleeing. A Colonel Krige commanded the vanguard and had taken charge of the city’s defenses upon arrival. Despite the Ketanians’ momentary good fortune, he had no doubt the empire would attack with overwhelming force once the main army was in place, which he knew must be very soon.
The young woman had stopped short of the old man and the guard, who continued to make small talk. She was slim, wearing a loose-fitting gray tunic and breeches, a red sash wrapped around her waist, sandals on her feet, and a staff in hand. She gazed up at him curiously for a moment then turned her attention back to the conversation.
“You wouldn’t happen to have seen a pair of lads pass this way, have you?” the old man was asking. “Like to have seen about a score of summers. One of them with unusual rust-colored eyes? The other big and strong, the look of a warrior to him.”
Creel perked up at that, glancing over at the old man, who offered the guard another drink.
The guard took the wineskin and scratched his jaw. After another draught of wine, he shook his head. “Nay, can’t say I have, friend. But then, there’s so many people coming through here—hundreds, even thousands—I couldn’t keep ’em all straight. We rotate out, so coulda been one o’ my fellows on duty at that time.” He shrugged.
The old man looked disappointed. They chatted a moment longer, but Creel ignored them.
“I might’ve seen something,” Creel said quietly, focused on the young woman.
He wasn’t sure if she heard him at first, but then she sidled up closer to the cage and looked up at him with pretty brown eyes.
“I’ll tell you what I know if you give me a drink of water.”
Without hesitation, the woman unhitched her water skin and passed it to him. He took a long draught before handing it back.
“Ah. Thanks, lass.”
“And about the men?” she prompted.
“Aye. Yesterday evening, a couple lads slipped in shortly before twilight with a group of refugees. I remember them since the one lad wore an elven cloak, one that blends with its surroundings. He had unusual colored eyes and seemed ill. The other was tall and burly, and he inquired about joining the army. They were hard to miss.”
“Oi! Stay away from the prisoner!” The guard started toward them with a scowl.
The woman bowed her head respectfully and stepped away. “I thank you, sir.”
“Check the inns. They might still be here.” Creel turned away, giving the guard no reason to harass him or the young woman.
When he looked back, the pair of travelers were conferring quietly, heading toward the city gates, while the guard had ambled back over to his usual spot, leaning on the fence near the signpost.
He wondered what about the lad with the unusual eyes intrigued him and had others looking for him as well.
***
Mira glanced back over her shoulder at the criminal in the cage. He certainly looked imposing, with his scarred visage and piercing blue eyes, yet his manner didn’t see
m particularly untrustworthy or cowardly, as a deserter’s might. In fact, he had the cool confidence of one who could handle himself in a fight quite well, she suspected. However, she would be the first to admit she had no experience dealing with rogues and scoundrels, hence the reason Kennitt did most of the talking during their search.
The caged man stood watching them as they entered Ammon Nor, his keen gaze following their progress.
She returned her attention to the town before them as they passed through the gate of a newly built wooden palisade. Everywhere she could see, people bustled around, workers and soldiers fortifying defenses, messengers and porters making deliveries. Soldiers drilled and patrolled the streets. Whores flaunted their wares from street corners and dim entryways. Everywhere, refugees filled the open spaces around town, crowding the streets and squares until movement was difficult, many camping out in the mud for lack of anywhere else to go.
“Won’t be easy to find those lads in this madness,” Kennitt grumbled. His mouth twisted in distaste through his beard as he regarded the sea of humanity swarming around. “If you can touch your Weave again and point us in the right direction, ’twould be a big help.”
He misses the tranquility of the forest. I don’t blame him. Soon, I will find Taren, and Kennitt can return to his woodlands he so loves.
“I will make the attempt, but I could use a quiet corner someplace.”
The ranger grunted. “Good luck with that.”
After departing Taren’s farm, the Weave had directed them first to a small village known as Halstead at the edge of the Fallowin Forest. There, according to the locals, the lads had fled the Nebaran Inquisition, riding into the forest. Mira had been shocked to hear of the brutality the Inquisition had inflicted on the simple townsfolk. She was concerned to discover the inquisitors had followed close on Taren and Elyas’s heels when they fled although their departure was fortunate for the townsfolk, who had been spared further mistreatment.
Mira had next detected the Weave leading them toward Ryedale, and they skirted Fallowin Forest, for fear of coming in conflict with the notoriously unwelcoming elves. They bypassed Ryedale and headed directly for Ammon Nor, sensing they were gaining on the young men.
Now she just had to locate them amidst the surrounding mob of humanity.
Mira found a relatively quiet place in an alley behind a block of homes. She spread her cloak beneath herself on the ground, her chosen spot more stony than muddy, and sat in the lotus position as she began to meditate.
Kennitt chewed a piece of salted meat and drank from his water skin while he waited. He had sent Whisper off to await him in the nearby woods, for the owl was even less fond of civilization than the ranger was. They had been fortunate to have the owl’s keen eyes during their journey. On three separate occasions, they had been able to evade Nebaran soldiers along the roads, thanks to Whisper spotting them.
A skinny stray dog approached and watched the ranger hopefully as he ate. Kennitt finished his piece of meat, and the dog eventually wandered off, disappointed.
Mira thought of the burned book in her pack, focusing on it once more, for it had proven to be a fairly reliable token to help establish her connection to the Weave. Breathing deeply and evenly, she tried to summon into her mind’s eye the skein of the Weave once more.
At last, I am so near my objective. Let me have the wisdom to perceive the way to Taren. Despite her best efforts, though, she was unsuccessful in her attempts. Whether she was simply too distracted by the sights and sounds and smells of the city around, by her own excitement, or simply by the Weave’s own cryptic manner, she couldn’t know.
Kennitt let out a groan when he saw her face. “Guess that leaves us stuck with asking around, eh?”
Mira nodded, embarrassed at her failure, but still remained optimistic, for she knew they were closer than ever and their perseverance would pay off soon.
Chapter 31
Creel was roused from an uneasy slumber, his hunter’s instincts setting off an alarm bell in the back of his head. His back and legs ached from being confined in the damned cage, but he tried to ignore his discomfort and focus his senses to determine what was amiss. Something had awakened him, and he knew not what, only that his instincts had never let him down before. He glanced around, blinking at a gray soup surrounding him, at first thinking his vision blurry from his troubled sleep, but he realized a dense fog had crept in overnight—unnaturally dense, it seemed.
“Ho, guard!” he cried.
He could barely make out the indistinct shape of the guard posted a few short paces away. As usual, the man was leaning against the short pole at the end of the wooden fence leading up to the town although the fence had been dismantled after a few sections, to make space for the palisade.
The guard didn’t stir. Soft snores drifted from his direction.
“Fool’s asleep on his feet. Wake up, man!” Creel banged on the bars, making a racket and setting the cage swinging.
The guard remained sleeping.
Creel closed his eyes again, focusing his other senses on his surroundings. The smell and feel of the fog were wrong—it was magical in nature, of that he was certain. In his past life, he had gained the ability to detect magic, whether it be an enchanted item or spell effect. Perhaps this damnable fog puts one into an unnatural slumber as well. He was immune to such magic, but the guard clearly wasn’t.
“They are readying an assault on the city.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew them as true. He rattled the door of the cage and yanked on the thick iron lock, but it was solid. Other than setting the cage swinging again, his attempts made no headway.
“’Ware! The enemy attacks! All men to arms!” The mist seemed to strangle his warning, choking it off as the sound traveled. He realized shouting into the night was fruitless—surely, if anyone heard him, it would likely be the enemy, and they’d be more than happy to spear him like a fish in a barrel.
I wish Ferret would appear. The girl had promised to spring him from the cage, but the guards were ever present, and he’d told her to hold off, not wanting her to get in trouble if caught aiding him. On one recent occasion, she’d been spotted by the guard and chased away with curses. Had she freed him, the alarm would have been raised, and he doubted he’d be able to reach the Disarmed Bandit and recover his gear without being seen. Instead, he’d been counting on the army to march south before he made good on his escape. At that moment, though, he wished he’d attempted an earlier escape after all.
Now, the lass is likely asleep from this damned fog, too.
After a few minutes, the sound of footsteps reached him. At first, they seemed hesitant, stealthy, then becoming more daring. Soon, the tramping of feet was bold and numerous, and he could hear the jingle of armor and could smell sweat and steel as men moved through the mist a short distance away, splashing across the ford.
How many of them are there? he wondered after long minutes, when the footsteps kept coming, seemingly without end. Hundreds? Thousands?
Creel slumped to the bottom of the cage out of caution. A minute later, shapes solidified from the fog as Nebarans neared him. One of them hacked the sleeping guard’s throat open with a swift slash of his sword. The guard gurgled and clutched his throat, toppling to the ground. Creel could feel their eyes on him, and he forced himself to keep his eyes closed and breathe steadily. They would assume him asleep or perhaps even dead with his tattered, bloodstained clothes. A long, tense moment stretched, and he readied himself for a sword plunging into his chest or neck.
They didn’t bother, though. An enemy deserter, as the placard proclaimed, had no interest for them, for they had greater concerns that night. The Nebarans moved along.
Soon, they were all gone, moving into Ammon Nor to fall upon the unsuspecting men, women, and children therein with steel. The palisade wall still had gaps and posed no difficulty for a few men to sneak through and open the gate from inside. Creel guessed at least a thousand soldiers were there, p
erhaps as many as two thousand slipping into the city.
He rattled the cage door and yanked on the sturdy lock futilely. Damn that arsehole Palam—I could’ve sounded the alarm if that fool hadn’t been fixated on his petty revenge.
Creel slumped back, sickened at knowing he was powerless to prevent the slaughter that was nigh.
***
Ferret was on the verge of falling sleep when she was disturbed by a distant scream in the night, quickly silenced, as if someone was murdered. All these damn refugees and travelers in town. Some drunk fool got his throat cut in a back alley.
She rose from the grimy pallet she slept on in the flophouse and peered through a dirty window. Unable to see anything, she wiped it with her sleeve, but that didn’t improve the view.
“Fog,” she whispered, for the buildings nearby were all obscured by a thick mist. She could barely make out the hazy side of the adjacent building a few paces away.
She wished things would go back to normal, back before war had come and Mudge had forced her to become a corpse robber. At first, business had been good when the rumors began, and the tribe, as Mudge liked to call them—for gang would’ve made them seem low-class even though they were all urchins and thieves—had been making good money pickpocketing foolish travelers and the occasional refugee. Ferret drew the line at robbing the refugees, however, for those people already lost their homes and livestock, and the thought of taking their last few coppers didn’t seem right. Soon, talk of war really spun up, though, and the garrison started press-ganging townsfolk into service. Patrols became more prevalent, and Ferret knew a couple former tribe members who were lying dead in the mud after being arrested for thievery and sent to the front lines as Creel had been. Then refugees had arrived in such great numbers they swiftly overwhelmed the town, making way too many prying eyes for a thief to ply her trade. Mudge was constantly complaining about the patrols and the lack of funds coming in to pay for his cheap ale and tobacco.
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