by Eric Lewis
Eventually Gant knelt next to Emony. “Did…did you happen to see Sally?”
“No. Allard?”
“No. Maybe they got away.”
“Maybe.” Emony looked around her at others who still needed care. “I don’t think we can go looking. If there are more of those bastards out there—”
“There are.” Ulnoth walked in between them, his eyes puffy and red, his voice even more leaden than usual. “I spotted some on the horizon, just past the trees. Think they’re hoping we’ll lead ’em to the rest. Don’t think they know we’re only three dozen. Or we were.”
“What do we do?” asked Gant.
“Give them what they want. Get everyone able together – we’ll lead ’em away. Don’t ask me where, just away from here. Emony, stay and care for the wounded.” He looked down at Dannek, still cradling his lost love. “All of them.”
* * *
Ulnoth and Gant took four of the least wounded in a close pack formation and crept out of the cover of the forest. They were high into the foothills now, miles from road or river. Wind whipped through the icy gorges where trees grew scarce. Not far ahead was the crest of the ridge.
Ulnoth pulled his cloak tighter. “They still behind us?”
Someone crawled up next to them. “Aye. Ten at least. Keeping up well enough. They think we don’t see ’em.”
“Good. We’re going over the top.”
The man blinked. “Over…over the top? But that’s—”
“Yup. Marchman country proper.”
“Don’t seem much of an improvement to me.”
Ulnoth looked at the fellow. “What’s your name again?”
“Verrell.”
“Verrell, when the odds are against you, you can give up, fight to a glorious defeat, or change the rules. Over the top things can’t get much worse for us than they are. For our friends back there, they absolutely can.”
* * *
“What by all the nameless saints is that?”
Ulnoth eyed the object of the fellow’s gape-mouthed question with a mix of terror, disgust and elation. “That, Kuther, is a Marchman Tel.”
They’d hoofed it for an hour, stopping only to make sure the mercenaries were still behind them. Gant had taken Dannek’s sparker back and used it to build a tiny fire to keep them from freezing. Then it was over the crest of the ridge where the land flattened a bit. Just beyond it loomed a village-sized hill, but not any made by nature: perfectly round at the base and a straight slope up to the pointed top like a perky tit towering from a maiden earth. The only trees clustered at the very summit, obscuring who knew what horrors.
“A Tel?”
“They build them, in high places like this. For their rituals.”
Gant swallowed hard, their pursuers – mortal men at least – momentarily forgotten. “To worship the Chthonii, you mean?”
“Nah,” replied Ulnoth, “that’s just tall tales. Marchmen don’t worship anything. But they honor their ancestors, make offerings for favors and such. At least that’s what Bed says.”
“We best steer clear then.”
Ulnoth shook his head. “No. It’s just what we need. Make for it.” Not waiting for argument, he ran. The others reluctantly followed, snow crunching loud underfoot. Closer and closer it grew above them – so simple a structure, yet terrifying. Finally they came close enough in the gray early light to make out a stream of smoke wafting from the high treetops.
“Holy hells,” hissed Verrell, “that thing’s occupied!”
“Just as I hoped,” said Ulnoth with an evil grin. “Half moon, right on time. Run hard right to the base, then break left for them bushes yonder. Whatever you do, do not set foot on that slope.”
“What is he doing?” breathed Kuther as he sprinted away what little reserve of energy he had left.
“Don’t…ask…me,” said Gant. “Too tired…cold…pissed off to figure it.”
“Quiet down!”
When they hit the base of the Tel Ulnoth made a breakneck leftward twist midstride then somehow managed to run even faster. The others followed as best they could. Half a heartbeat before they dropped from fatigue they crashed into a wall of frozen brambles. Ulnoth clawed a path before them using only fingernails and spite, and when the last of them was firmly enwombed in branches they collapsed, scratched and lathered but alive, breathing heavy.
“Hush,” spat Ulnoth. “If you fear death and worse, hush!” He maneuvered himself through the growth to turn around and watch the Tel. “Now we wait.”
They waited. Before long – frighteningly soon, really – the Cynuvik mercenaries came running into view, hot on their trail or so it seemed. But where Ulnoth’s crew broke for the thorns the mercenaries followed the signal of smoke, climbing right up the Tel’s slope.
“So that’s what you planned,” someone whispered.
“I hoped. Cynuviks might be tough customers but they don’t know the local riffraff. Now if we’re real lucky….”
No one spoke, even long after Ulnoth failed to finish his thought. They waited, eyes fixed on the summit of the Tel waiting for…what? When the first scream rang out high and mad like nothing you’d expect from big tough sellswords, all except Ulnoth jumped half out of their skin. Then there was another, then another, then ten others, screaming the screams of tortured lunatics. Even after all they’d suffered it was hard to listen to, and Gant covered his ears. After what seemed like an age they faded away, and the fires began. They flickered through the trees at the summit, then flared high and higher.
“Give my regards to the Chthonii, you babykilling pricks.” Ulnoth began working his way out of the thicket. “Let’s go, no one after us now. Stay close along the bushes and we’ll keep it that way.”
They crept back toward the ridge, seeing it now as some magical boundary between the violent but familiar world they knew and…this. A sickening smell like charred pork drifted through the air. But before they could reach their destination something reared up in front of them, something out of a drunken madman’s nightmares. Everyone froze.
It bore the rough shape of a human but surely could not be. Large, muscled and hairy, mostly naked with broad splashes of unnatural colors across its torso and sporting the antlers of a stag, it towered almost as tall as the Tel itself, or so it seemed. Its face was obscured by the gloom but the fires from atop the hill danced in its eyes. It smelled sickly sweet like rotting flesh and wildflowers. Before it the Heron Kings – how ridiculous that name sounded now! – cowered small and pathetic.
The thing glared at each one of them in turn. At their knives and bows and desiccated faces and tattered clothes and cloaks. Its gaze at last rested on Ulnoth. Somehow leaders always knew each other, even ones as unlike as these. The creature reached for something swinging from its waist. Something big and roughly round. What was it?
The growing light revealed the creature’s prize when it held it aloft – a head. A human head still dripping blood. The creature let out a hard, repeating sound. A cough? Or….
Is it laughing? It tossed the head, and it rolled to a stop at Ulnoth’s feet. The man – or was it truly some creature? – waited. Expecting? Slowly, cautious as a newborn fawn, Ulnoth knelt, picked up the head. He held it aloft, mimicking the creature’s gesture, and bowed, all without breaking eye contact. Still laughing, the thing made a waving motion and all around them as though from thin air a dozen like shades materialized, though none of these wore an antler crown. They rose from the tall dead grass with barely a sound from spots that a sane man would swear had held nothing a moment before. And just like that they left. They broke into a run back toward the Tel, a long loping run more like deer than men, swift and silent.
Ulnoth and the others stayed fixed in place for seconds that seemed like hours. Long after all sight and sound of the fearsome beings was gone they stayed while the wind whisper
ed softly through the grass. The Cynuvik head swung by its hair in Ulnoth’s grasp. At last Ulnoth forced himself to turn around and face his crew, knowing there would be more than one pair of wet braies in the bunch.
It was Verrell who spoke first. “Was that…?”
“That was a Marchman,” said Ulnoth after clearing his throat. “A chieftain. And yes, we’re still alive. They must’ve been watching the whole time.”
“But why did they—?”
“I don’t know. Maybe since we supplied their offering they decided not to make another out of us. Doubt we’ll enjoy that courtesy a second time.” Suddenly remembering what he held, Ulnoth threw the head away with a revolted grunt. “Come on, I want nothing more to do with this place.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
World Movers
“Hush,” Vinian insisted. “Keep quiet or they’ll find us!”
“…what…you wanted,” Alessia moaned.
From behind Corren Nan materialized, and together they scooped Alessia up with a practiced gentleness that took Vinian by surprise.
“Fast,” Nan said just above a whisper. “They’re not far behind.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter, just go.”
The slope was too steep to carry Alessia uphill, so they made their way north, weaving through the brush and boulders and trying not to go too long in any one direction. Alessia faded in and out of consciousness. After a time Vinian dared to comment, “We can’t keep going this way much longer.”
Corren didn’t bother to look at her. “Why not?”
“Because, this is enemy territory. Pharamund’s got patrols – um…oh.” She nearly tripped over the torn and bloody riding gown she wore. “Never mind.”
“No, that’s good,” Corren said. “If you wouldn’t come this way, neither would they. Means we can go back toward the road to move faster.”
“Doesn’t matter how fast we move,” Nan said, “without a kitted physic….”
“I’m…sorry,” Alessia mumbled. “I should’ve….”
“Ssh, you just relax,” said Nan, pausing to wipe sweat from Alessia’s brow. “You’ve taken care of us long enough. It’s our turn.”
Corren looked up the mountain. “But we’ll never find the others in time. All right, back to the road. Maybe…maybe someone will happen by.”
The highway to Thoriglyn narrowed after it split from the river road, and was not much used those days except for the aforementioned patrols. There were no waysides carved out for travelers, or if there were they were long overgrown. “Lay her down here, easy,” Corren said, choosing the least uncomfortable spot he saw. “I need some light. Nan, do you have any— good.” They tore up a top layer of grass to get at the relatively dry stuff underneath that was sheltered from the snow. After a tedious harvest they had a few handfuls of kindling and set it alight.
The bolt was buried through inches of thigh meat but not quite protruding out the other side. The look on their faces made Alessia come more fully to her senses. “Set me up…lemme see.”
“Are you sure—”
“Now!” They raised Alessia’s head and shoulders while hoping to avoid putting stress on her lower half, but she bit her lip trying not to cry out. “Chausse…off.” They cut her legging away from around the wound, leaving a skinny bloody leg sticking out. She felt the flesh around the bolt and winced. “Deep.”
“Tell us what to do, Lessi,” Nan pleaded. “Tell us how to help you.”
“Need my kit….”
“We don’t have it. I’m sorry.”
Alessia closed her eyes again. “Knife?”
Corren nodded. “Aye, girl, you know we’ve plenty o’ those.”
“Put two in the fire. Make ’em hot.”
“I’ll do that,” said Vinian.
Corren packed some snow atop the wound to numb it as much as possible.
“I don’t understand,” said Nan. “We can’t cut through you to get this out. We can’t pull it out – it’s barbed, it would—”
“You know,” said Corren, “what we have to do.” He looked at Alessia. “You do.”
Alessia nodded with gritted teeth. “Do it.”
Nan and Vinian held her down, and Corren put a twig wrapped in cloth between her teeth. Then he knelt over her, directly above the bolt. Not giving her the chance to lose heart, he held the bolt steady in one hand and with the other pounded the shaft further into Alessia’s thigh. It popped out the other side with a sickening squish, the broad head dripping. Alessia howled as much as her packed mouth would allow, which was still quite a bit. Nan squeezed her eyes shut and looked away while Vinian sat stony-faced.
Corren snapped the head off the bolt, then yanked the remains of the shaft back out of Alessia’s thigh. While Alessia continued to shriek he plucked the knives – not red-hot but they’d have to do – from the fire and pressed them onto both entry and exit wounds. The smell of burned flesh filled the air and Alessia’s cries went up an octave. Grinding his teeth almost to the bone, Corren forced himself to hold them there until the searing sound faded.
Alessia’s last thought before sinking into senselessness was of Lannie, the boy whose own arrow she’d removed. We need more practice….
* * *
“Let me guess,” said Vinian. “If she dies I die, right?”
“Don’t feel special over it,” Corren answered. “If she dies we all die. You see how well we practice physic. I should kill you now just to be safe, but you’re too good a castra piece.”
“That banker won’t put any value on me, that’s certain. He’d only want me back to make sure I—” Vinian suddenly realized Corren’s meaning. “Oh.”
“We’d just need her head,” Nan said, putting a hand to her sword. “No mistaking it for another….”
“No,” said Corren, “more than that. He wants that letter back. He’s the one, isn’t he? The one who wrote it.”
Vinian dug through the folds of her gown. She’d shoved the document down her front while they were fighting to get away, and though it was torn on one corner the hide it was rolled in still protected the essentials. She held it by the waning firelight. “I’m not surprised he’d pull something like this. It’s what banks do, after all. I am surprised he’d be so reckless to put it in writing and cast it into the world. Taurix switching sides must’ve really spooked him.”
“Why did Taurix betray Pharamund in the first place?”
“Well…I might’ve had something to do with that.”
Nan blinked. “You?”
“The right pressure, applied to the right place at the right time can move entire worlds. One ill-tempered Marcher lord is child’s play. Hard to believe you’ve survived out here this long without knowing that.”
Corren looked down at Alessia. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse weak. Her eyelids fluttered through what he hoped was a dreamless sleep. “We might not much longer. Can you get back to your queen and tell her what you know?”
Nan stood up, angry. “You’re not letting her go!”
“It’s half of what we aimed at anyway. We still have the letter. Well?”
Vinian shrugged. “Taurix is coming, should be here in less than a day. He won’t easily be convinced, not after that banker pours poison into his ears. But I still have my resources.”
* * *
Alessia awoke to a gray light and pain, and a certain face hovering above her that she’d hoped was only…. “Oh gods,” she rasped, “…wasn’t a dream. Water….” Vinian fed her some fresh snow, and Alessia nearly choked on it so dry was her mouth. Slowly but still too fast it came back to her – the meeting and the letter, the double-cross, the mad getaway…. “Aargh!” The pain burned anew even though her wound had been bound and packed in more snow, now red. “Where…are we?”
“North and east from where
we started,” said Vinian, her voice all fatigue. For the first time in a long time she hadn’t needed a bottle to fend off the nighttime jerks – sheer exhaustion had done the job. “Somewhere between certain death and unending misery. Disputed country all around. Your friends keep watch southward. Lie still – you don’t want to reopen those pokes now.”
“What…what’s it to you? You tried to kill me last night.”
Vinian shook her head. “Capture, ideally. Your little insurgency intrigues me. The killing would’ve come later at someone else’s order.”
“Your tenderness warms my heart.”
“Well, things seem to’ve changed around a bit – we’re in the same boat now. A funeral barge to be precise. But I might be in a position to help, should you survive. Her Majesty does not take kindly to being duped. We—”
“You’re awake! How are you feeling?” Nan and Corren had once again managed to sneak up on Vinian without notice.
“Like I been eaten by bears,” Alessia said weakly, “then cacked out and eaten again. But I’m still here.”
“We can’t stay out in the open,” Nan said. “Smoke on the horizon, lots of it. An hour off yet but definitely coming our way.”
Vinian nodded. “That’ll be Taurix. Slow and steady beats the race to a bloody pulp. Master ven Xedrusia won’t be far behind so I suggest you use that famous magic of yours to weave a concealing mist.”
“The only magic we have,” Corren said angrily, “is rumor and superstition.”
“You don’t think that counts? What about your friends uphill? Can we get to them?”
“With any luck they’re far from here. We’re on our own—”
“Oy!” The shout came from the road, from northward. “Oy, you there! What do you think you’re doing? Stand to!” The man wore a ragged tunic with a faded red badge hanging by about four stitches. His companion wore no badge but looked every bit as mean. Pharamund’s men, they all thought. The twists in the narrow track had concealed them until they were too close to avoid.
The pair came upon the motley crew with looks of half consternation, half suspicion and another half spite just for bad measure. “Who’re you sorry lot? Look like you done ten rounds with a frost giant then clawed outta yer graves. Declare y’selves!” He put a hand near the hilt of a ragged sword.