by A. D. Green
“It’s okay, it will be over soon,” Sand crooned. She gagged spitting globs of blood.
“Don’t worry about your babe I’ll take care of it for you.” He enjoyed the effect of his words, seeing her eyes flare. But her struggles grew feeble as she choked, her breath running out.
Sand revelled in her suffering as she drowned. Even that poisonous spike of self, screaming in the back of his mind brought pleasure. The darkness within pulsed and eddied as it fed.
Finally the woman ceased struggling, her hands falling limp to her sides. Eyes still open stared up at him but the light had gone from them.
Sand stood. It had been immensely satisfying but over all too quickly. The woman, Margarit cried behind him sobbing and muttering to her gods. He glanced at her, then at the mewling babe where it lay in the mud.
“Well,” he said, “may be just a little one.”
Chapter 50
: The Grim Road
Marron told herself over and over that Nihm would be all right. She'd experienced plenty of self-doubt over the last few days and that doubt still gnawed away, troubling her even now. Would Nihm make a full recovery, would she be the same? Her skill in healing and training with the Order in the use of poisons and their curatives meant she knew full well not everyone made a full recovery. Some might look the same but were broken inside, their minds changed or bodies wasted.
Nihm had been poisoned with deeproot, an insidious and fast acting agent that killed; none survived it. Nihm rightly should be dead Marron knew, feeling guilty for thinking it.
Marron didn’t know what resided in the container she'd emptied into Nihm. Something from the Order that allowed her to communicate with Keeper but also something that healed. Her perfect hand evidence of that every time she used the box. So what she did had been both a massive gamble and none at all. It would kill or cure and with the deeproot Nihm was dead anyway. Some intuition led her to it, now though doubt hung over her like a black cloud. Would she ever get her daughter back?
Morten drove the wagon in her stead whilst she cared for Nihm. They had devised a crude system of communication involving Nihm blinking her eyes. It seemed to work, as frustrating and slow as it was; one blink for yes, two for no, three for water, four for food.
Nihm’s mind was sharp, she could answer yes or no and Marron had tested her, asking a host of questions about her life and growing up to ascertain her cognitive ability. She'd been pleased with the results. As well, Nihm’s appetite was fierce, always a good sign in Marron’s experience. Nihm signed for food and water almost constantly whenever she awoke from the many frequent sleeps she had.
Nihm was in one of her waking periods now and was moving her hands, flexing them into fists and then stretching them out. The movement slow to start with but rapidly improving.
Nihm had no trouble understanding what was said so Marron knew her hearing was fine, but her speech was unintelligible still. That didn’t stop her from trying though. Now when she spoke Nihm could modulate her tone, even if she couldn’t form proper words. The frustration in Nihm’s eyes pleased Marron immensely. It was the kind of look she expected from her daughter at being unable to speak and showed her resolve to overcome it.
Marron played with her heart ring, a constant habit these days it seemed. Infrequently, a rider would pass heading south. Messengers for the most part, but at the sound of each one her heart would lift briefly in the vain hope Darion had caught them. She missed him fiercely, at least the ring gave her some small comfort.
The day had gone quickly for Marron, focused as she was on Nihm. Morten said they’d made good progress and were on the Grim Road, notorious in times gone by for its lawlessness and banditry. Such dangers were rare in recent years though, what with the frequent patrols from the Black Crow and local lords and barons.
“Ug gat muh.” Marron turned to her daughter who had a smile on her face. A proper smile too, not something resembling a grimace. Nihm had her hands raised clenching and unclenching, the movement smooth and controlled. She flexed each finger individually and then back into a fist.
“Well done Nihm!” Marron exclaimed. “You’re doing so well. Now what about your legs, would you like me to help you move them?” Marron had been worried about this. Nihm had shown no sign of moving her lower body at all. Nihm seemed to consider the question before blinking her eyes once.
Marron grinned. “Good girl,” she encouraged, even as she stripped the blanket from Nihm’s legs. She placed a hand on Nihm’s right foot and at a nod lifted the leg, flexing it back slowly. To Marron’s delight she could feel the muscles tense like steel chords under her fingers, and then Nihm screamed.
It was a funny muted kind of scream but there was no denying what it was. Marron looked fearfully at Nihm. Her eyes were screwed shut in pain as she groaned. Not paralysed then Marron thought, pleased at the realisation.
After a moment Nihm’s moaning ebbed away and she opened her eyes. Sweat beaded her forehead but Marron thought she looked better. Letting go of Nihm’s leg she watched as her daughter took the weight of it and lowered it slowly back to the bed.
Grimacing Nihm grunted. “Gu ogger egh.”
“Yes dear you did very well. The other leg?” Marron asked. Nihm blinked once, no pause or delay in her response this time. Marron repeated the exercise to much the same result. Morten stuck his head in at one point.
“Everything okay back there Marron,” he said, concern etched into the lines of his face.
“Its fine Morten, just you keep an eye on the road ahead,” Marron snapped, immediately feeling bad for it.
Marron joined Morten a short while later, Nihm having fallen asleep again. Despite sleeping, her body was in a constant state of twitching and trembling. So much so that Marron checked for signs of Nihm fitting or running a fever. She found none and reassured, tucked a blanket around her daughter before going for some air.
Sitting next to Morten she smiled at him. “Nihm seems much improved Morten,” she told him, saving him the need to ask it. “She can move her arms and flex her hands. It may take a little time but I’m hopeful she’ll make a full recovery.”
The relief on Morten’s face warmed her and mirrored her own feelings. Mercy riding up ahead looked back at the sound of Marron’s voice and dropped back eager for news herself. Marron gave her an update and Mercy’s face creased into a smile.
“So how are we doing?” Marron asked.
“We’ve made good time. We’ve passed no one headed north which helps,” Mercy said. The road was narrow and wagons and carriages were awkward to pass, the verge soft after the recent rain.
The half-moon of Nihmrodel was visible; a hand above the horizon to the south east Marron saw and a quick glance to the west told her they had at best an hour or two until sunset.
Mercy saw her judging the sun. “There’s a town up ahead, Fallston, maybe five leagues or so,” she said. “Figure if we push on we should get there an hour or two after sunset.”
That would mean a proper bed for Nihm. “That would be good Mercy, let’s do it,” Marron said.
There was a sudden yowling to the front and Mercy’s head snapped forward assessing where it came from. The dogs ranged all about and this sounded like one of them. She cantered forward and Marron watched her ride ahead with Stama, Lucky pulling rear guard this afternoon.
The howl was Thunder’s distinctive call and Marron knew it for a warning. Standing she clambered over the bench seat and into the back. Fetching her sword she deftly buckled it around her waist before reaching up and unhooking her bow and quiver, hanging from one of the ribs.
It was awkward to stand as the wagon rumbled along, but Marron kept her feet, swaying and rocking with the motion. Glancing out the back of the wagon and down the road she saw Lucky watching. He had a long spear in hand and at the ready. This was the Grim Road and its reputation was known to him.
Marron heard a grunt and saw Nihm peering at her, eyes intent. “There may be trouble up a head.”
Marron could see the tension in Nihm’s shoulders and the annoyance in her face at having to lie there powerless. Marron gave a whistle and called, “Ash, Snow.” The dogs were there instantly, never straying far it seemed from Nihm. Snow cleared the backboard, her powerful hind legs easily propelling her clear of it, Ash following behind.
“Guard,” Marron commanded, an unnecessary order for the dogs but it made her feel better.
The wagon drew to a sudden halt and Marron climbed back up front to see what was what. To her left, tied to a low tree branch were Mercy and Stama’s horses. They were on the edge of a wooded area full of shrubs and small trees.
Marron climbed down from the wagon. She quickly and expertly strung her bow before pulling an arrow from her bag, keeping it ready on the string.
“Erm, what should I do?” Morten asked. Marron spared him a glance. He looked worried. She saw his eyes flit to her bow and understood.
“This is just a precaution Morten.” She indicated the bow. “Always prepare yourself, if it’s nothing then no harm done. If it’s something then you’re at least ready as you can be.” She felt like Darion lecturing Nihm as he was so fond of doing.
“Grab that staff Lucky cut you and have it ready eh. Just in case,” she told him.
Morten nodded and climbed into the back of the wagon. She heard him mutter something to Nihm before she turned, walking towards the little grove and the horses.
Maise materialised by her side and trotted along, head forward and alert. If not for the dogs they likely would have trundled right past the little wood none the wiser. As she pushed past the low branches she saw signs of a struggle and blood.
She found Mercy and Stama deeper in the wood, out of sight of the road. What Thunder had found was disturbing. It looked to have been a man or woman or what was left of one. Stama was bent examining the ground and stood as she arrived. He looked briefly at Mercy before addressing them both.
“I ain’t no expert by any means but looks like these folk were attacked on the road and dragged back here,” he said gesturing to the remains of a campfire and beyond that the grisly remains of a person.
“Folk? I only see one body here or what’s left of one,” Marron said. There was a smell in the air, metallic and earthy with burnt wood smoke over all of it.
“Aye well this was a man.” Stama indicated the body, flies buzzing around and on it in a swarm. It was little more than a carcass, butchered with most of the meat striped from it. Only the head was intact and as Marron fought to keep the bile in her stomach from rising up, she saw now that it was indeed a man’s head.
“It’s unusual to be travelling this road alone but not unheard of,” Stama said. “But there's evidence of a struggle and at a guess I would say there were two of them taken, maybe three along with a horse or mule.”
Marron looked around the campsite. It was hard for her to judge how many there might have been. Nihm could probably tell them she thought Darion had trained her well, if she could’ve moved that is. “So what's your read on things?” she asked Stama.
“Well at a guess, they were set upon on the road. The man was shot with an arrow and they were caught and dragged back here. The man was cut up and eaten, no other reason to carve him up so. Then whoever did this left heading north.” Stama indicated where the shrubs were bent and twisted back.
“Not sure on numbers but I found this.” Stama held up a broken arrow head. It was bloody and the thick shaft had snapped off a hand above the head. He offered it to Marron. “Not seen its’ like. Figure it for urak.”
“It’s urak,” Marron confirmed, “similar to one my husband and Nihm found in the old forest.” It didn’t bode well. This part of the Grim Road ran west to east but advance parties this far out implied a wide front. Marron glanced at the ashes of the campfire.
“When?” she asked.
“Not sure,” Stama replied. “Fire is cold, embers not even warm to the touch so probably a day maybe more.” He shrugged apologetically. “This is more Jerkze or Jobe’s area than mine.”
There was nothing to be done. Marron could see that, they all could, but it left her feeling bad just walking away. As they wandered back to the wagon Marron pondered. If urak were this far south that was a real problem. They weren’t safe at all, the road followed the River more or less and that didn’t bend south for another day and a half, not till after they cleared the Reach. She’d assumed once they left Thorsten behind that they’d be safe. Clearly they weren’t.
Marron would’ve felt better if they could have travelled with the River between them and the urak but the west bank had no path and no bridge to cross to it even if there were one. Besides all that, it was the start of the Grim, deadly in its own right. She felt trapped, wedged in with urak to the north and the Grim to the south.
Chapter 51
: Not As the Crow Flies
Leaden grey smoke plumed the air. One of the holdstead’s outbuildings had burned collapsing in on itself and was smouldering still. A wagon lay wrecked in the field below and there were bodies, cattle and people alike, strewn about the fields and holdstead's yard. Not near enough to account for all the families that lived at the Encoma’s holding, thought Darion.
Incongruously, a chicken stalked the yard, pecking at the ground. It was the only sign of life Darion could see. He was on a rise that sloped gently for two hundred paces down to the holding.
“There is no life there ilf friend. No benefit, only risk to go down,” R’ell stated from his left. Bezal, a distant speck flew a lazy circle around the holding.
They were hunkered down in the long grass where they could observe the holdstead with little chance of being seen. Darion agreed with R’ell’s assessment and they had no need yet to look for supplies having enough for several days. Still it was heart wrenching to see Bert Encoma’s holding abandoned and his people lying dead, people he probably knew. He wondered if any had made it out, whether Bert and Hildi still lived.
A deep voice sounded from his right. “We was here two nights ago, afore we ran into trouble. Looks like the old man heeded the Captain’s warning too late.”
Darion faced Kronke. They were of a height the two of them, though Kronke a hand broader at the shoulder with arms to match. His body, too, was heavier, solid with muscle compared to his own lean hardness.
“Seems only right we go check. Might be someone still lives?” Kronke muttered asking Darion the question.
Darion found it unsettling how they looked to him for decisions. He’d bridled at having no control back in the old forest with no choice but to follow M’rika and the ilfanum; trapped in ilf lands whilst urak raided his own. Trouble was he was used to being on his own, relying on no one but Marron and Nihm. He guided his own hand, made his own decisions and had done so for near fifteen years. He hadn’t commanded anyone in as many years and was finding it uncomfortable after all this time.
“We move on,” Darion said brusquely, looking the big sergeant in the eye.
“It ain’t right,” Kronke growled back. “We’re meant to protect folk not run away.” He looked past Darion to R’ell as if to make his point.
Darion saw the angst in the big man’s eyes. Felt the same emotions that must be running through the sergeant; frustration, anger, indecision. He nodded in understanding.
“I don’t command Kronke. I’m looking for my wife and daughter and they’re not down there.” He glanced at R’ell who watched the exchange impassively. “Understand me well. We move in the same direction but I have no call on you. You’re free to do what you think is right, but I will be moving on.”
Kronke grunted, not happy. Darion could sense the sergeant mulling over his words, could see he’d backed himself into going down to the holding. Despite himself Darion tried once more.
“I was a soldier once for the Black Crow, a scout,” Darion told him. “From one old soldier to another I offer two things. First, R’ell says there’s no life down there and I trust this. Second, it’s a
strategic mistake to go. It's too open. Gains nothing but costs you time and may reveal your position to the enemy.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “You’ll never make Thorsten if it’s your intention to check every holding and farmstead on the way.”
Kronke grunted and the tension dropped from his shoulders. A decision was made then.
“All right,” Kronke said. He wasn’t pleased about it but said no more, simply backed away down the ridge.
Darion felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find R’ell’s dark eyes boring into his. Was that compassion he detected in the ilf?
“Humans talk much, yet say so little,” R’ell observed. He backed away following Kronke down the slope. The ilf had a point Darion conceded, edging after him.
Darion had hardly dropped below the crest when Bezal screeched over head with a fluttering beat of wings. He turned in time to watch the raven alight on R’ell’s back before hopping up onto the ilf’s shoulder cawing all the while.
R’ell fixed Darion with a stare. “A man and horse approach from the west.”
Wordlessly Darion crawled back up the grassy knoll and looked to the west along the dirt road leading to Thorsten. He saw nothing. He felt R’ell next to him and heard the rustle of grass as Kronke’s large frame joined them both.
“I don’t see nought. A horse and rider you say?” Kronke said, straining his eyes westward.
R’ell pointed just to the north of the road but it was a minute before Darion and Kronke could make out the distant blur of movement and another again before it resolved itself into man and horse. They waited silently, watching the rider’s approach. He’d seen the smoke rising and was riding hard.
Darion hoped it might be a scout for the Black Crow but as the horseman neared it was apparent he wasn’t. The rider wore rustic clothes and bore no bow or sword.
Cantering into the field below the man drew his horse up sharply when he saw the dead. The distant rider looked vaguely familiar to Darion who watched, as the man walked his horse through the field head twisting and turning at what lay before him. Approaching the broken wagon he gave a cry and slid from his horse rushing to a body lying half buried in the long grass. He started moaning.