As Jathen continued, Rathe hid his growing interest. He asked for more details, but the monk demurred. “As I said, secrecy is required. After you gain the first item, I will provide details of the second.”
Of everything, this was the part of the proposal that Rathe mistrusted the most. “Is this a lack of trust, or are we to serve as your puppets, blindly going where your strings dictate?”
“Think of it as you will,” Jathen said elusively, “but understand, these are the conditions necessary to forgive your debt.”
Rathe cursed the debt as much the honor that bound him to pay it. “So be it,” he said, wondering what he had gotten himself into.
Chapter 20
The winding road from Skalos to the village of Wyvernmoor was no road at all, but a cart path barely wide enough for the three men to walk abreast. The sunlight falling on Rathe’s face, not warm by any measure, helped him tolerate the abundance of ice, and the dizzying drop into a gorge off to one side.
He glanced back the way they had come, but the stronghold was lost among lofty crags. He tugged back his hood to scratch his neck. Jathen had given him and Loro coarse black habits, those worn by initiates of the Way of Knowing. “We cannot hide your southern faces, but as we have adherents from all known lands, these garments will grant you leave to go about unmolested.”
Posing as an initiate also required that they walk, as those new to the Way of Knowing were denied the convenience of riding. That suited Horge and Samba the yak just fine, but it had been some many years since Rathe’s feet had served in place of a horse’s hooves. Thankfully, to Rathe’s mind, the Way of Knowing had no edicts against going forth heavily armed. He and Loro openly wore their swords and daggers at their hips, and bows in leather cases slung over their shoulders.
Rathe glanced sidelong at Horge. He was still greasy, fidgety, gracious, and quick to smile, but there was a curtness to his manner. Rathe suspected Horge was a touch put out by Jathen’s insistence of a creating a fellowship to find his so-called trinkets.
At least Horge did not have to change his appearance, Rathe thought with a pinch of envy, scratching another itch. On second thought, he was not sure Horge’s fur cloak looked so comfortable, after all. It also had a musky animal stink to it. Itchy as his robe was, at least it was clean.
“Tell us of these Iron Marches,” Loro invited Horge, popping a handful of nuts into his mouth, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight. Before they departed Skalos that morning, on the way to meet an acquaintance of Horge’s who could help them, Jathen had filled the wicker panniers hanging off Samba with ample supplies, which Loro had promptly raided. Munching and grinning, he did not seem to mind his monk’s habit at all. “South of the Gyntors, little is known of these lands. Truth told, most folk in Cerrikoth don’t believe anything save snow and ice waits beyond the mountains.”
Horge, guiding Samba by a lead rope, walked between Rathe and Loro. “There’s little enough to tell, save that it’s good Brother Jathen provided you with disguises. These lands hereabouts are oft troublesome to strangers, unless you’re protected by the mantle of the Way of Knowing.”
Rathe looked out across what Horge and Jathen named the Tanglewood, dark-forested hills and valleys that went on as far as the eye could see. “There must be more than that.”
“Not much more I can tell,” Horge said with a shrug. “Hard folk fill the Iron Marches. Fur traders trap and hunt most parts of the Tanglewood. Miners delve deep into the feet of the mountains. Farmers furrow lowland valleys, and come winter share pasture with goat herders. Woodcutters cut wood, send it down the Sedge.”
Loro looked surprised. “Sounds like most places. I expect you have highborn to keep the peace, yet I have never heard of any northern kingdoms.”
Horge put on a guarded expression. “Long ago, the Iron Kings sat their thrones in all corners of the Tanglewood, and all through the Barrowlands, which go to the northernmost shores of the White Sea. So stories say. No one has seen or heard from such a king in half a thousand years.
“They were brutal men, with hearts colder than the frozen reaches they lorded over. More like brigands, than rulers, most folk believe. If any remain, they do so as ghosts to keep their forgotten tombs. Hereabouts, there are some few who pose as highborn, but they are really the offspring of jumped-up merchants who took enough wealth into their coffers to claim lordship. The true power of these lands,” Horge finished, “lies with the brothers of the Way of Knowing.”
“Monks to rule a land,” Rathe said, astonished.
“Aye,” Horge said with a touch of bitterness. “They rule, blessing those they deem worthy, and cursing the rest to survive as they can. Mind you, there are plenty who would see them gone, but for the few protections they offer.”
Rathe held his tongue. Most smallfolk carried one grudge or another against rulers, be they kings, queens, or lords. Apparently that resentment held even for monks.
“We must hurry,” Horge said now. “Wise men do not wish to find themselves sleeping in the forests round Wyvernmoor. There are dangers within.” The way he said it, full of fear, eyes darting, was enough for Rathe. Loro made a disbelieving face, but mended that with another handful of nuts. Behind them, Samba showed his contentment with sedate grunts.
The sun was beginning to fall before they finally descended off the rocky slopes, and fell into thick evergreens and groves of white-barked birch and aspen. Before the upper reaches of the Tanglewood fully embraced them, Rathe directed Loro and Horge to go on down the road. He paused in the shade of a hoary old fir to study their back trail.
“Do not delay,” Horge warned, looking about with big eyes, fingers twining restlessly round Samba’s lead rope. “Night falls swiftly, this side of the mountains. We don’t want to sleep under the stars.”
“I only want to make sure no goats or shadows are following us,” Rathe chuckled, hoping to put him at ease.
“Do not say it!” Horge admonished. “Not the goats, mind you, but that about shadows. ‘Tis not unheard of in these parts for souls of the damned to torment the living.”
A serpent of unease coiled in Rathe’s gut. Just as quickly, he dismissed it. The shadow swordsman he had faced on the other side of the Gyntors, the same who had followed him deep into those same mountains, was no damned soul.
“Fear not,” Loro said, clapping Horge on the shoulder and guiding him down the trail. “We have faced worse that man-hunting goats or moaning shadows, I assure you. Not so long ago, we faced down a Shadenmok and her hellish hounds, as well as a risen demon-god.”
“Truly?” Horge asked, awed.
“Aye,” Loro allowed, voice fading as they plodded along the trail. “Bear in mind that if not for this mighty sword arm of mine, the outcome would have been bloodier on our end, and you’d not be sharing the trail with trueborn heroes.…”
With a rueful smile, Rathe fixed his eye on the peaks of the Gyntors. They had gone red with sunset, and looked all the more menacing for it. If they concealed anyone who wished him harm, he did not see them.
He made to turn, but movement far up the switchback trail drew his attention. When he looked hard at the spot, he saw nothing. He waited until the peaks darkened to the maroon of old blood. Nothing showed itself. Nothing moved. No mocking laughter came to him.
Rathe set out at a trot after Loro and Horge. The path widened under spreading branches. Deep layers of old leaves and fallen evergreen needles softened his footfalls. Under the trees, dwindling light faded until he could barely see a hundred paces.
When he noticed the woman watching him from a little way off the path, his heart leaped into this throat. Rathe faltered and went still.
Her pale cloak and simple white dress blended with a stand of birch, and her form was as slender as theirs, making her nearly invisible. Light hair fell to her shoulders, but gloom obscured her features. She gestured, said something.
“Are you lost?” Rathe asked, finding it hard to raise his voice. “Can I help you?”
She came closer, picking her way through the forest as if born to sneaking. “Go,” she said, just above a whisper.
Rathe blinked, took an uncertain step toward her.
“Run,” she said, voice still low, but stronger.
“Horge says to hurry,” Loro called up ahead, one of two silhouettes beside Samba’s woolly bulk. “I tried to calm him, but … well, he’s about to shit his trousers in fear.”
Rathe looked back. The woman had vanished. Not so much as a leaf fluttered in her passing. When cold fingers brushed neck, he spun, eyes wide, a startled shout locked in his chest.
She stood not a pace from him, head bowed. Slowly she looked up, revealing a war of regret and need writhing across her face. Her shriek filled his head. “Run! Before it is too late!”
Chapter 21
Rathe thought his heart would burst before they pounded across a low wooden bridge on the outskirts of Wyvernmoor. Loro’s feet tangled in the hem of his habit, and he fell headlong. He wallowed in the dirt, clutching his side, sweaty face puffy and red with exertion. Shaggy black Samba came last, panniers bouncing on his back, the lead rope dragging between his legs. Horge was nowhere to be found.
“Gods,” Rathe gasped, “she took Horge!”
“Who took him?” Loro wheezed.
“The woman.”
Loro struggled to his feet with a lot of grunting and coughing. “I never saw a woman.”
“She told me to run,” Rathe insisted. “She screamed the warning. Did you not hear her?”
Loro fixed him with a doubtful eye. “I thought a bear was after you, mayhap a pack of wolves, not some howling wench.”
“We have to go back for Horge,” Rathe said, wondering if he could have imagined the whole thing.
“I’m here,” Horge called, shoving between a pair of broken-down wagons resting along the roadside.
“How did you get ahead of us?” Rathe demanded.
Horge stopped dead at the harsh tone, took a step back. “I ran, same as you.”
“I never saw you,” Rathe said.
Horge drew himself up, and said in a huff, “After you two heroes left me to face the horrors of Tanglewood, I had no choice but to steal off and find my own way.”
Rathe’s eyes narrowed. “You broke brush, and still managed to get here before us?”
“I took a shortcut,” Horge said, the indignant bluster going out of him.
Seeing Horge safe, even with his weak explanation, Rathe wanted the answer to a more important question. “Did you see her?”
“Her … you mean to say, a woman was chasing us? You must be mistaken. No sensible woman in these parts would find herself in the forest after dark.” Horge spoke with surety, but the nervous twitching of his eyes was more pronounced than usual.
“Gods,” Rathe said, “are the both of you blind and deaf? There was a woman! I saw her. She spoke to me, warned me away. ”
“I saw nothing,” Loro said irritably. “Horge saw nothing. And neither of us heard a damned thing. Mayhap, before you start doling out accusations, you should blame the touch of that fire mage. The unholy fever Durogg put in you must have scorched your wits, brother.”
“My wits are fine,” Rathe growled.
“Mayhap we should ask this friend of yours about that?” Loro countered, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Tell me again, what’s her name?”
“She did not name herself,” Rathe said, resolute.
“’Course not,” Loro said, more incredulous than ever. “Why would she? Mayhap she’s a relation of that shadow-man you say has been skulking after us since we rode into the Gyntors?” He finished with a snort of disbelief.
Rathe’s teeth clicked together on a retort. He had seen the woman, she had been at his elbow. Yet the unnatural way she had moved from the forest to his side, without sound or motion, made him doubt. And since he was in a doubting mood, of a sudden, could it be the shadow-man had been no more real than the rest?
“You need a mug of ale and a bed,” Loro said lightly, easing off a bit. “All this adventuring is hard work. Fearsome warrior that I am, even I’ve need of a hearty meal and a buxom wench to dandle on my knee. And ale, of course. A barrel of it, mind, to cut the dust and the haunts of the road.”
Not sure what to believe, Rathe said, “Perhaps you’re right.”
Horge had listened to it all, never making a peep. At mention of an inn, he perked up. “The Gelded Dragon, where my, ah, friend waits, can provide your needs. Women, wine, song, the best of all can be had at the Dragon.”
“Surely you mean the Gilded Dragon,” Loro said.
“Not at all. Master Gilip’s great-great-great-grandfather on his mama’s side lured a dragon into an old mineshaft up north, and gelded the beast with naught but a rusty cleaver …… or mayhap it was a belt knife?” Horge shrugged, as if details were of no matter.
Loro snorted. “A fine trick, that, as dragons are tales for children.”
Horge tilted his chin defiantly. “Master Gilip has the dragon’s crimson skull hanging above the hearth. He’ll tell you about it.”
“Oh, I’m sure if I put enough coin on his bar and guzzle enough ale, he’ll fill my head with all manner of foolery.”
Horge took Samba’s lead rope in hand. “Follow me, outlander, and I’ll prove you wrong.”
“Lead on,” Loro said, after a final concerned look at Rathe.
Rathe glanced once more back the way they had run. The woman’s shout still rang in his head, but his companions had not heard her cry any more than they had seen her. He thought again of the fire mage’s power, how it had nearly burned him to ash from the inside out. Sorcery was not unknown in the lands south of the Gyntors, but he was too unfamiliar with such to know what lingering effects spells and the like might have on a man.
Troubled, Rathe caught up with Loro, and they trailed Horge into Wyvernmoor, a village with more towering evergreens than high-peaked thatch roofs. Candlelight shone through the cracks of shuttered windows, and upon a few stoops bearded, hard-eyed men reclined in crude chairs. Puffing long-stemmed pipes, or whittling, or drinking, to the last they all watched the trio pass with an air of mistrust. Propped near to hand, most of these men kept bows or axes.
“A pleasant lot,” Rathe said, nodding to one smoking fellow, but not receiving any friendliness in kind.
“You wear the robes of monks,” Horge said quietly. “As much as they protect you, they mark you out for scorn.”
“Then we should be rid of them,” Loro advised, “sooner rather than later.”
“Hard looks are better than knives in the back,” Horge said. “You outlanders need all the protection you can get, hereabouts. Besides, these folk are just cautious of strangers, most who end up being men running from troubles the folk of Wyvernmoor want no part of.”
Instead of coming to finer homes the farther into Wyvernmoor they went, the village became more ramshackle. Rathe saw a handful of houses that had burned in some forgotten year, leaving behind charred timbers leaning all aslant, and chimneys that poked up like black fingers. Wagons listed on broken wheels at every turn, rotting middens stood the height of a man down dark alleys and side yards. Flea-bitten dogs sniffed or growled at them, scrawny cats watched from abundant shadows. Despite the uninviting air of Wyvernmoor, the sounds of distant merriment drifted on the cool night air. Horge assured them again that the Gelded Dragon would be warm and welcome. Rathe kept his doubts to himself.
They rounded a bend and, far ahead, saw a lively celebration on the village green. Under poles strung with colorful ribbons and hung with bright lanterns, men and women danced. Keeping time with the music of rattles and drums, lutes and pipes, those gathered at the edges of the green clapped and sang and cheered.
“A wedding,” Horge said excitedly. “There’ll be dancing and singing, all through the night.”
A gleam came into Loro’s eyes. “Aye, and show me the wench who does not become more loving at a wedding.”
Be
fore Loro could forget their purpose, Rathe said, “We’re not here for celebration. There is a debt that needs paying. The sooner done, the sooner we can be out from under Jathen’s boot.”
“Your honor,” Loro drawled, “your debt.”
“To which you obligated me,” Rathe answered, losing patience.
“Had I known you meant to hold it over my head,” Loro mused, “I would have spared myself the trouble of saving your life.”
Rathe pushed down his irritation. “After we speak with Horge’s companion, you can celebrate as you will. However,” he cautioned, “we set out at dawn.”
“Won’t be the first time I’ve marched with a head full of wine,” Loro laughed.
Between the three companions and the gaiety, a foursome of burly men detached themselves from the darkness along the street.
“What makes you think you’ll be joining our merriment?” a man asked, his hulking figure matching his deep voice. He stepped into the thin light, spun a woodcutter’s long-handled axe in his hands, planted the broad head between his feet. Even in shadow, the scars running through his short dark hair, down over a puckered socket, and ending at his jaw, were hard to miss. As he had spoken first, Rathe marked him the leader.
“We aren’t looking for trouble,” Rathe said, hand falling lightly to his sword hilt. They had moved beyond sight of any occupied houses. He guessed these men had planned the place of their ambush. “Unless you are, then let us pass.”
“Look, Wull! Methinks this wee brown monk fancies himself a swordsman.” This man was tall and slender, but Rathe noted a wiry strength in the easy way he hefted the iron maul in his hand.
“Shut your gob, Ander,” Wull said, the scar-faced man. He did not raise his voice, but Ander flinched like he’d been given a smart whack. “Mardin, you and Fedik get their backs.”
With a casual air, Rathe watched the two men circle round them. One was middling height, with a thatch of stringy red hair and squinty eyes—Mardin, if the way he had jumped at Wull’s order was any indication. He walked unsteadily, as if deep in his cups.
Lady Of Regret (Book 2) Page 12