by Damien Lake
Stone left the least trace for a tracker to follow. Colbey climbed from the water, then skipped from rock to rock until he could leap behind concealing vegetation. The patrol should waste time upstream before doubling back. By then the wet stone would be dry from the summer heat.
Since he exited the stream from the same side he’d entered, he picked his way back through the forest. With luck, he would penetrate the tree line close to where he’d entered the woods. He could run back to the ravine following the same trail he had blazed. Running across his own scent trail might cause the creatures to overlook the fresher signs.
Whether it was the water or the unexpected resumption of his original path, the patrol lost him. A hollow in a different wood provided shelter for the night, and once settled, Colbey silently growled all the things Thomas would have.
Overconfidence! Assumption! That’s a good way to separate your head from your neck!
The experience had taught him much about his foes, but that alone never justified foolish behavior. Living among the Galemaran outlanders for so long had made him overconfident in his abilities. He spent the night in serious self-evaluation.
In the morning though, his plans remained unchanged. Striking out to the nearest captured town, he moved with far greater caution. Observation of other patrols finally struck gold when one contained soldiers who saw no need to keep silent during a long day’s walk. Colbey focused his hearing in the hope of uncovering useful information. He did indeed learn more. He learned he could not understand a word they said.
Colbey had never considered that possibility. This development added new dimensions of difficulty to the mission. Long candlemarks passed in debate before he decided his best course would be to enter a town and observe what he could.
Surprisingly, life in the town seemed fairly normal when he arrived. From afar he easily distinguished Tullainian townsfolk going about their lives. Members of the invading force could be seen attending to their business, yet the bull-creatures and robed mages were absent. He placed his faith in the tinker’s clothing.
In town he blended into the population smoothly. He was a typical citizen minding his private affairs. Tension radiated from every Tullainian he passed, increasing tenfold whenever a uniformed invader walked past. His eye quickly picked out the signs everywhere that told of a recent battle.
The damage was limited, which suggested the townsfolk had fought the intruders without significant martial skill or army aid. This had not been one of the three major engagements Colbey had learned of in Jabberzian between the Tullainian army and these beast-tamers. No, the enemy had swept down on this town ruthless as a winter storm, unstoppable in its power.
What then? The people moved freely, doing as they wished, or so it appeared. Colbey entered a tavern crowded by uncharacteristically hunched men with little to say. Later, after the fourth evening bell, the place quickly emptied. A bizarre contrast to Jabberzian’s taprooms which were filled with drunken escapists until dawn threatened. He shared the room with only three others, and one of them spied him out.
Nervous as a first time thief, he had approached Colbey, whispering under his breath that he knew the sham tinker was a Galemaran. Colbey pressed his knife against the man’s gut quick as a striking eagle. The already pale stranger lost what little color remained in his face.
“I only…I only…”
“Sit,” Colbey growled, a low sound of pure menace.
Hastily complying, the man took the chair beside the scout, hiding his gut and the knife from the others, neither of whom had noticed or otherwise cared.
Colbey’s catch did not strike him as a snitch, else he would have approached others before the scout. Nor did he seem the comradely type. “What do you want?”
“I…I on-only wanted to kn-know who you are. I d-d-didn’t recognize you.”
He was a local merchant, far from the most prosperous though he made a decent living. As such, he knew the other merchants and peddlers in town, including those who regularly traveled through. His curiosity peeked, he listened hard when Colbey had ordered food, catching a faint twang which he associated with Galemar.
“Have you come to spy?” he asked quietly, having calmed the longer he spoke without having his gut pierced.
Colbey renewed the pressure on the blade.
“I-I-I only w-wanted to know,” the merchant hastily added. “If the G-Galemarans are c-c-coming to rescue us!”
“Perhaps they are,” Colbey responded, leaving the question unanswered yet allowing the man to interpret it however he liked. It was, after all, the plain truth. Perhaps the Galemarans were coming. Perhaps they weren’t.
But the merchant perked up. Eager to help Colbey, whom he decided was the forerunner of his salvation, he shared his knowledge regarding the enemy forces, little as it proved to be. “After the attack, they gathered all the survivors. They told us that from then on, we lived under their rule and must obey their laws. Travel is prohibited, and they marked everyone who lives in the town.”
“Marked? How?”
The merchant extended his left hand. A tattoo marred the slight webbing between thumb and index finger. Two bars and five dots. “Everyone in town was given the same mark,” the merchant continued, despair creeping into his voice. “Even my baby son!”
“Are the other towns marked with the same pattern thus?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen anyone from outside town in months. People have tried escaping. Each one is always brought back. They make an example of them for the rest of us.” He shuddered.
“Tell me how.” He wished not to, but Colbey’s cold indifference to his discomfort prevailed.
With great hesitancy, the merchant said, “They gather everyone, including the children. They make us stand around the platform they put in the square.” He finished the last swallow of wine in his glass. Colbey had paid for it to help fortify his source. Voice quavering, he finished, “They let those…things…eat them! They make us…watch.”
Colbey’s head shook in disgust, though he silently admitted that such tactics would be effective against the soft societies outside the Rovasii. After questioning the merchant about how the invaders had made their desires known in a different language, his man informed him that the foreigners spoke a distorted form of Traders.
This left Colbey wondering what to do. The only contact between these people and his enemies were with the forces controlling their town. Only people who happened to speak Traders could communicate, so finding a tavern boy who had overheard the soldiers talking while in their cups would be about as likely as finding a goat playing ‘Whiskey and Wine’ on the fiddle. Remaining in this town might uncover salient details regarding the invaders’ individual force structure, but he wanted bigger fish.
Having acquired new information, he needed to move, to attack. Except the time was yet unripe. And he was alone. A lot of trouble had been spent laying the groundwork with that mage in Kingshome. The man possessed surprising potential, having demonstrated that by surviving where one with his outlander talents should have perished many times over. Nor did stupidity cloud him in an impenetrable fog, leaving him unable to learn. Had Fate placed his birth in the Rovasii he could have made an effective Guardian. Given his mage talent, he could have become a seal master.
Colbey had recognized these truths once the mage’s displeasure with his magical abilities became apparent. That a mage should prove the best possible tool only demonstrated anew how sheep-like Galemar’s fighters were.
Coordinated with the mage, a strike would be far more effective than simply double what Colbey could manage. Their effectiveness would play off each other, increasing the potential damage to four or five times what he alone could inflict. He must remember not to lash out prematurely during the scouting phase. I must control my emotions!
“So,” the merchant pried, breaking Colbey from his spiraling thoughts. “What are you going to do next? Go back to the army?”
Colbey snorted. Did
this fool think he would confide the secrets of his movements after an acquaintanceship no older than a single candlemark? “I don’t speak Traders, but I must move on.”
He expected the merchant to nod before retreating to whatever hovel he called home. Instead, “I speak Traders.”
“I’m not about to bring you with me.”
“No, I can teach you! This is important to you, I’m sure! I don’t ask for much.”
Narrowing his eyes, Colbey asked, “And what do you ask for, other than my patience?”
“It would take you time to learn the Tongue anyway. You could stay here, or return to Galemar, but it would take you as long either way. I could teach you on the road!”
“The road? Speak sense!”
“That’s my price. You snuck in this far, you must be able to leave as well. Take me and my family away to Galemar. By the time we reach the border, I’ll have you speaking Traders!”
“No.”
“Yes!” the merchant asserted. “You can’t learn what you must without knowledge of Traders Tongue. Returning to your kingdom will cost too much time, and they will probably assign a different spy to the task! If they do teach you, then you won’t begin your lessons until long after you cross over!”
Why do outlanders always think they know so much? This one was nearly as pushy as the mage had been. Unfortunately, several points were in his favor, though he would never realize it. But the wasted time!
Would reaching Kallied within the eightday matter if he could not speak Traders? Would spending a month hiding in the closet of the commander behind these forces help him any if the words spoken were incomprehensible?
Patience, his instructors whispered to him. If something must be done while tracking your quarry, then it must be done. Bewailing the loss of time only means you lose even more.
Colbey hated it…but the merchant was right. It would take him as long to learn Traders no matter where he began, so he might as well start that day. Ignoring the voices of experience, especially those that spoke in his instructors’ voices, would be sacrilegious. They had taught him that to hear words in his heart meant seeing truth nakedly without his emotions blinding him. He must never ignore the voices from within.
The next morning he collected the couple with their two children. He brought them east through the patrol lines after several close calls. Only his enhanced Guardian skills kept them from discovery.
Once across the lines he stole three horses that they rode hard to the Stoneseams’ base. They left the mounts to roam where they willed and crossed via the Guardians’ hidden footpath.
The whole journey, he underwent full immersion in Traders Tongue. Only speaking Tullainian to explain what the strange words meant, the merchant never allowed Colbey to speak non-Traders unless in an emergency.
Until today, when he had seen the family off into Galemar. After two eightdays he understood enough to get by. Most who spoke Traders only knew half the words, their need for the language arising once in a great while with travelers. As such, he blended in better than if he commanded full fluency. With the tinker’s pack and a smattering of Traders, he would fit naturally into his role.
Colbey increased his speed to compensate for the lost time while he re-crossed the southern mountains. So much time had been lost that he could feel his quarry slipping away. He rubbed at the bars and dots gracing his left hand, checking that the dye still kept from smearing. It needed to be replaced every two days but he constantly rubbed it to test the endurance so he would know how much he could rely upon it.
Two additional acorns were pulled from his pouch. He decided he would run through the night after all. The high nutrition in the acorns would impart extra energy. Dashing faster over the twisting path, he ran westward into the falling night.
* * * * *
Dark forms, their heads hidden by cloth sacks with choppy eyeholes cut in them, erupted from connecting alleyways. Despite Marik’s wariness, Halsey had led them away from the populated streets. How he had pulled that off, Marik desperately wanted to know, but too many things were going wrong at the moment to be distracted.
Kerwin shouted warnings as everyone, including Hilliard, drew their swords. Landon’s bow was unstrung, tied to his back in its normal travel position, with no time available to ready it. Each mercenary glanced sharply at their surroundings. All four recognized the best method by which to meet their foes.
Taller and wider, the buildings to either side had changed from the earlier structures. Halsey had led them into a warehouse district, something else which had slipped Marik’s notice after the man had steered them true the first few times. The road they stood on closely resembled an alley. It was a thirteen foot leftover space between two larger warehouses.
The road was empty beyond the alley. Any pedestrians had fled at Kerwin’s shouting. Marik would never expect cityfolk to risk their skins for strangers in any event. Shadowy figures were pouring into the empty alley between their group and the intersection, cutting off a retreat in the direction they had come from.
It was evening. Marik had peripherally registered this and attributed it to the tall buildings cutting off the sun. A stupid assumption, he realized, glancing upward. The sky overhead darkened to the coming shades of night.
Though mostly an alleyway itself, other narrower passageways emptied into their road. With a dozen thugs blocking an escape back to the populated sections of the city, three men popped out from connecting alleys further ahead, all wielding long knives. None spoke but for growls, and charged while the larger group advanced from the rear.
“Come on!” Marik roared. If the thugs caught them in a pincer assault, the bodyguards would suffer losses if they escaped being destroyed completely. He leapt for the three ambushers. This surprised his chosen foe to judge from the widened eyes beneath the sack cloth.
Dietrik read his mind and paralleled him, rapier darting as he went. His foe, the one farthest right, raised his knife to block. It failed to save his life. A foot of rapier steel ripped through his chest.
Kerwin and Landon held the rear. They stood apart, their dancing blades weaving a wall of potential death across the alleyway. The larger ambush party had closed ranks fast, hoping to make a quick strike. Instead they pulled back at the resistance. Three of the four on their frontline nursed injuries, one probably fatal. Hilliard stood in the empty space between the two battle lines, his long sword in one hand, extra bag in the other, spinning to watch both combat fronts, resembling a windmill in a tornado.
Dietrik shifted to the middle foe. The clothing bag barely slowed his one-handed sword assault. Marik worked to dispatch the left enemy. The alleyway afforded little space to maneuver. It severely hampered his longer sword. He did not want to strike Dietrik by accident so he restricted his attacks to thrusts, which were far from his blade’s strong suit.
The thug was nimble, Marik gave him that. He dodged Marik’s advancing blade for a third time before lashing out at the mercenary with his knife, hoping to gash his foe’s flesh. Its arc swept past, too short. Marik’s sword length, a hindrance in these close quarters, also provided the advantage of preventing the thug from narrowing the distance.
A gurgling scream from the side made the thug jerk his head around automatically. Chance! Marik swept his sword up in a diagonal slash. It caught his foe’s leg. The cutthroat screamed. His knife tumbled away because he clutched at his leg. The pain blocked all thought, making him forget his peril. One thrust pierced the man’s throat.
Off center!, Colbey sneered in his mind. Though it had done the job, nothing less than a perfect strike would satisfy the scout. Marik fiercely drove Colbey from his head.
“Let’s go,” he bellowed while Dietrik withdrew his rapier from his second kill. A quick examination assured him no harm had befallen their charge. “Dietrik, find a way out! Landon, Kerwin, stay with Hilliard!”
The rear pair back-stepped, and the thugs followed warily. Kerwin and Landon passed Marik to either side. Once th
ey were clear, he put his longer sword to good use. From a center position he could sweep his blade the alleyway’s width and cover their retreat.
He slid backward with his friends, allowing the ambush party to advance before suddenly stepping toward them. One had drawn slightly ahead of the others so Marik targeted him. The satisfying resistance of a hit resounded through the blade. Marik ran while the corpse tumbled to the ground, tangling with the thugs’ feet and forcing them to pause. Twice Marik spun to challenge them. They always stopped as soon as he did.
“Flankers!” Landon warned, and Marik swore. He whipped his head left and right in furtive glances, seeing what Landon meant. They had been flanked. Additional masked thugs ran along side-alleys, these better armed with longer blades.
“Move it!” he shouted at Dietrik, who kept pausing to peer down each passageway. Marik sprinted fast as he could. He rejoined Kerwin and Landon before the new arrivals could burst into the alley between them.
Behind, he heard a newcomer swearing through the mask, clearly a woman’s voice. “You gutter dogs! Can’t you follow a simple plan?”
She yelled at the knife wielders. Marik hoped she would take them to task. But then running feet pounding from his rear testified that he would not be so lucky.
Dietrik turned onto an actual road at the next intersection. Hopes of escaping into a crowd were short lived. This road, though wider, was equally as barren.
Where in the hells are all the gods damned people?, Marik fumed. We’re in the middle of a city! Halsey led you straight down the garden path, you idiot!
Dietrik chose an alleyway barely six feet wide. He dashed in, Hilliard’s bag ricocheting off the narrow walls, taking turns at random in the hope of losing their pursuers. Unfortunately, they were also losing themselves. After a third alleyway narrow as his shoulders, Marik had no idea in what direction they ran.
That might have granted him hope except the thugs remained hot on their heels. This was their hunting ground. They knew every corner, whereas the mercenaries were running blind.