by J. M. Martin
The Thrak grasped the spear in its guts, wrapping its gnarled fingers about the shaft and brought its bone blade around. The weapon sheared through the wooden haft with ease, leaving nearly a foot of wood protruding from its side. The Thrak paid it no heed. It rumbled a challenge and charged.
The boy’s leverage gone, he stumbled backward and fell, wide eyes locked on the approaching berserker. His hands scrabbled for purchase but he could find little in the soft wetness beneath him.
Cold sickness washed away Gryl’s hunger. He cast a wishful glance at the surviving knights only to see them focused on the other Thrak. They were winning the battle, but none had noticed their dwindling numbers. By the time they did, they would be down one more.
The boy—Kel—to his foolish credit, held his voice, though in bravery or fear, Gryl couldn’t say. He sighed, realization souring in his throat. To leave the boy’s fate in the hands of the knights meant the boy died. Gryl pulled his skullcap tighter across his scalp to ensure his scars remained hidden and sprinted down the rise.
He drew a throwing knife from the belt that crisscrossed his chest and whipped it underhand at the Thrak, just as it reared up, readying to bring its sword down upon the boy’s head. The blade pierced the small of its back. Sharp as it was, the knife was nothing more than an inconvenience, the sting of a wasp to a giant. It sank less than two finger joints into the berserker’s flesh, its handle quivering. It was enough to earn the beast’s attention, though.
As expected, the Thrak spun about with a guttural bark. Gryl knew the berserkers well, years spent on the battlefield alongside the hordes. The slats of the Thrak’s red eyes gleamed with rage as it spread the trunks of its arms in challenge. It went silent mid-roar at seeing Gryl, posed as though it were a morbid statue. Its upper lip peeled back in a confused sneer. Despite never having the knack of discerning one of the beasts from another, Gryl was certain this Thrak knew him, recognized him. Gryl closed in its confusion.
He reached out and clasped the end of the spear that jutted from the berserker’s side. The Thrak’s eyes followed Gryl’s hand, seeming only then to grasp its danger. Gryl’s free hand wormed its way into the beast’s wooly mane, closing about the knotted mess and pulling the berserker’s head down. The waft of rotten meat and rancid flesh flooded Gryl’s nose, but he clenched his teeth and exhaled hard in defiance of the stench. At the same time, he twisted the spear in the Thrak’s guts and drove the remnants of the blade upward into its chest until it grated to a halt. The beast shuddered and loosed a spray of bloody froth that peppered Gryl’s cheeks, tinting his vision red.
The Thrak’s eyes wavered and rolled in their deep sockets. It loosed a wet growl, a low rumble fading in the depths of its chest, before the last of its life spilled out warm across Gryl’s gloved hand. Its full weight sagged onto the spear, and Gryl let go. The beast crumpled to the ground with a sigh, its gaze still locked on him. There was accusation in its sightless stare. Worse still, Gryl felt its betrayal clawing at his conscience, a sting he was not prepared for.
“You there…halt,” a harsh voice called out, its tenor demanding obedience.
Gryl cursed his preoccupation with the Thrak, suddenly able to hear the crunch of booted steps at his back. He loosed his sword and swung it about, leveling it just inches from the nose of the approaching knight, bringing the man to a sudden halt. Blood dripped from Gryl’s fingers, the warm fluid hissing as it hit the snow. He tightened his grip on the hilt to keep the tremor rattling down his arm from showing.
Shorter than Gryl, the knight stared up the length of the blade. His stained falchion held too low to defend, he forced a grin. Its glimmer never touched his dark eyes. Gryl gave the faintest of nods and backed away with measured steps, circling to keep the remaining knights and the boy in his sight. He lowered his sword but didn’t put it away.
“That was impressive, stranger,” the boldest of the knights said. The coldness in his tone was equal of the chill in the air. “Never seen anyone take out a berserker so easily.” He shook the blood from his blade and slid it home in the sheath at his waist, ceding to the unspoken truce. “Name’s Brant; sergeant in the 101st company of Her Imperial Majesty’s Royal Army. And you are?”
“Gryl,” he answered simply, following suit and sheathing his own sword. Though he understood little of the hierarchy of the Shytan forces, he knew well enough that five knights and a boy hardly made up a squad, let alone a company. “Where are the rest of your men?” He glanced about, though confident they were alone. He’d seen no sign of any others from his vantage atop the hill.
While the soldiers wore the traditional black and red of their land, the swooping raven sigil of Shytan stitched into their sleeves at shoulder and wrist, Gryl had seen more than enough discarded uniforms scattered about the countryside to have doubts as to the knight’s sincerity. He’d almost taken a suit himself.
Brant glanced at each of the other knights in turn, a crooked smile forming as he turned back to face Gryl. He raised a finger to his roughened lips. “Shhhhhhh. We’re on a secret mission for the empress.” A sonorous chuckle followed.
Gryl said nothing, letting the laughter fade, the sharp edge to Brant’s voice confirming what he suspected.
After breaking the backs of the Avan Overlords, the Shytan forces had pulled south to shelter for the winter, leaving the frozen northlands to the still-rampaging Thrak they could not bring to heel. Gryl had followed in the army’s wake. While he dared only the furthest outposts in order to trade the baubles and coins he’d scavenged from the dead and the scalps of the berserkers, he’d tread a generous portion of the north since his freedom had been won. The only living beings he’d come across beside the Thrak were bandits or deserters, there being little difference between the two. These men could be either. Whichever they were now, Gryl was certain they were no longer beholden to the regimented forces of the Shytan.
Kel scrambled to his feet in the awkward silence. “Thank you, sir. I—”
“Shut up, boy,” Brant told him, motioning over his shoulder with his thumb.
Kel hurried to do as he was told, moving to stand at their backs with a sullen pout. Gryl watched him until he settled in place, childhood memories stirred awake by the boy’s meek compliance. He had known such fear himself.
All the while his thoughts churned, Brant’s stare seared his cheeks. Gryl met the knight’s eyes once more. The two stared without saying a word, hands hovering near their swords. There was no mistaking the knight’s disapproval, though Gryl could only guess the source.
“It’s okay.” The smallest of the knights broke the standoff, stepping alongside Brant, though Gryl noted he kept a respectful distance. Not even the knights were immune to Brant’s wrath, it seemed. “We’re all friends, right? Gryl here saved your boy and took out a Thrak for us, right? That’s good, yeah?” The smaller knight stared at Brant until he conceded.
“Yeah, Mihir, you’re right.” Brant eased his hand from his sword but the threat still glistened in his eyes.
The second knight joined in. “What are you doing out here?” He had none of Mihir’s nervousness.
“Foraging.”
“And your people?”
Gryl nearly smiled at having his question turned back on him. “Lived north with my tribe in the Ural Province until the Thrak came ashore. Most of my village—my family—fell the first night, before full dark even settled. Those who made it to dawn were scattered to the wind. I’ve been on my own since the last of my kin were swept away in the Avan retreat these moons back.” He’d sufficient practice spewing lies since he’d made the new empire his home. This one was no more difficult than any of the rest.
The knight stared without blinking. Unlike Brant, there was no hint of the man’s thoughts reflected in his features. Mihir, however, gave him no time to contemplate his options.
“He’s one of us, eh, Damien? Shytan by blood, even if he is a skeg.” His voice was smooth, its tone bathed in honey despite the prejudice t
hat came so easily to his tongue. “There’s no need for hostility.”
Gryl nodded agreement with the knight. He was more than willing to play the role of snow nomad—however disrespected—if it brought peace and allowed him to go on his way. The more they dismissed him, the better. The tremor had crept from his arm into his torso, the mad dash down the hill having sapped the last of his energy. He would fight if he had to, but he’d rather not.
“I’ve no quarrel with you knights.” He gestured to the berserker he’d killed. “I’ll take the scalp I earned, by your leave, and let you be about your mission.”
“Fair skies, skeg,” Brant answered with a twitch of a smile, the words spewed with the force of a crossbow bolt.
“Hold on, eh?” Mihir raised his hands and inched up alongside the sergeant. “Couldn’t we use another arm, what with Chase and Iggy eatin’ dirt? A man who knows how to take down a Thrak especially, yeah?”
Brant’s eyes snapped toward Mihir. There was no hiding the man’s anger. “We don’t need—”
“What about the mission?” Damien asked, the question drawing Brant up short.
“Please, there’s no need to argue,” Gryl said, jumping in, “I’m not looking for work.”
“No?” Damien’s eyes shifted to Gryl. “Then the gurgles in your belly must be from the last feast you gorged yourself on, eh? I can hear the thing from here.” He motioned to the smallest knight. “Mihir here makes the best rat-gut gruel to be found this side of the sword line.” A slight grinned twitched at his lips. “You might even make a coin or two.”
Gryl just stared, saying nothing. Damien had the right of it. It would be another day or more before Gryl could trade the scalp for a meager sack of rations.
“You’re serious?” Brant asked, splitting his gaze between Mihir and Damien. When they both nodded, he raised his hands. “Fine, but if this dhongy herder slits your throat in your sleep, don’t come crawling to me for sympathy. And before you go offering the empress’ tits, he’s only getting one share of the bounty, and only if he earns it, you hear?” He shook his head and spun about, shoving Kel ahead of him. “Come on, boy. Let’s fetch the gear.”
“You with us?” Damien asked as Brant and the boy trudged off.
Gryl swallowed a sigh. He knew nothing of the men’s mission or who they were hunting, but the promise of food called to him like a sweet dream. His stomach speaking for him, he nodded.
Damien returned his nod with one of his own before traipsing off after Brant. Mihir came over to stand beside Gryl.
“That one there is Damien Kartain. The call him “The Ghost” because of all the folks he’s killed so be wary lest you want to spend all eternity haunting him.” Mihir stood stoic for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. “Though really, he’s not too bad. Brant’s who you have to keep an eye out for.”
Gryl forced a thankful smile, though it barely scraped his lips. He hadn’t been looking for company, preferring his own.
As if Mihir understood, he changed the subject. “You’ll like tonight’s stew.” He glanced about conspiratorially before leaning in close. “Found a mongrel buried in the snow not two days back. Skin was black from frost, but the insides were pink and moist.” Mihir chuckled and waved Gryl on.
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Night fell just hours after the group gathered their supplies. They shambled on until the gloomy light just barely illuminated the horizon, and Brant called a halt. Gryl had been given the pack of one of the fallen knights, which was little more than a couple of ratty tarps and rolled sleeping gear. The men had scavenged the weapons and personal effects of the dead, but they’d left the bulky armor and the extra pack behind. Mihir shouldered the largest bundle of gear, the others carrying the same as Gryl, which told him the Shytan were little better off than he was. They were subsisting off the land just as he had been.
The group sheltered on the leeward side of a small hill nestled at the feet of the Jiorn Highlands, which rose up at a shallow clip for miles on end before dropping suddenly to the Boric Sea beyond. Gryl remembered the sheer wall of stone as the Avan ships brought him to Shytan, a shudder passing through him. At the base of the hills, the knights formed a loose circle of makeshift tents around a hissing circle of emberstones. Soft, gentle heat wafted from the piled, gray-black rocks, but the stones cast no light. Were it not for the frosted sheet of the earth reflecting the ambient shimmer of the skies, they would have been swallowed by the obsidian night. As it was, any further away than a few arm lengths and the men became deeper shadows amidst the black.
True to Mihir’s word, the gruel had been fantastic, though Gryl suspected the depths of his hunger held some sway. Regardless, he licked at the bowl, savoring every drop before reluctantly passing it back to Mihir.
The knight held a finger to his smiling lips and whispered, “Remember. It’s our little secret.”
Gryl nodded as Mihir went off to scrape the bowls clean with snow. He disappeared into the darkness, only his quiet humming and the crunch of his boots giving his location away.
Damien reclined on one of his tarps, the others set at his back to quell the slight breeze that snuck past the hills. He stared at the emberstones through the narrow slits of his eyes. His breathing, slow and steady, sent willowy tendrils of white drifting past his face. If he weren’t yet asleep, he would be soon.
Brant, however, remained wide awake. Kel hunched close to the stones while the sergeant sat with his feet extended, his legs stretched over Kel’s thighs, so his boots dangled off the other side. The boy had said nothing since Brant had ordered his silence, and Gryl never once caught him even looking his direction.
Brant had no such compunction. He stared with intense concentration, a look that would have warranted his death were the circumstances any different. Gryl’s gaze drifted over and over to the young boy as he fought the urge to challenge the sergeant for his boldness.
The vaguest of trembles shook through Kel as he huddled beside the emberstones. The twigs of his arms clutched to his chest, but there simply wasn’t enough meat on him to ward off the cold. His eyes were dots of white in the gloom. There was no mistaking the sorrow that cast a pall across his features. Whatever circumstance had brought him to the company of these men had done him no favors. Gryl sighed. Shytan was no less cruel to its children than Avantr.
“He’s a pretty one, ain’t he, skeg?”
Gryl glanced up at Brant, swallowing his animosity in order to remain silent but there was no hiding his confusion. It took a moment before Gryl managed to grasp the meaning behind the sergeant’s words.
“Kel here is like you—a skeg, but he’s from Andral, not that I suspect it makes much difference to you folks up north. Might be a few less dhongy where he comes from but they make up for it with goats. Ain’t that right, boy?”
Kel nodded, daring a fleeting look at Gryl before returning his eyes to the stones.
Brant lifted his feet and reached out, grabbing Kel by his collar. He tugged and the boy nearly toppled alongside him, the sergeant wrapping his meaty arm about Kel’s shoulder. “We saved him from a horde of berserkers not long back, so now he’s kinda like our little squire.” Brant chuckled as he squeezed the boy tighter into his side. “A knight in training, so to speak.”
Gryl met the boy’s eyes for just an instant before they fluttered away, a subtle hint of red coloring his cheeks.
“I see you watching him, skeg,” Brant continued, “but don’t be getting any ideas. Just because you both fell from frosty twats up north doesn’t give you any special privileges. This here’s my boy, nobody else’s.” The sergeant pulled Kel closer and stuck his tongue out, sliding it along the boy’s jawline. The slightest scrape of growing stubble whispered to Gryl’s ears just beneath the breathy whistle of Damien’s snores.
Right then he understood the knight’s hostility, and it sickened him. His stomach rumbled, not with hunger but with the sour churn of disgust.
Brant laughed and clambered to his feet, pullin
g Kel up with him. The boy’s chin hung at his chest, the knight’s arm still clasped about him.
“So you know, skeg, I’m a light sleeper. Anyone so much as rips a butt frog and I’ll hear it, so don’t you worry about nothing tonight.” His chuckles shook the boy as he led him toward his tent—Gryl only then realizing there hadn’t been one set up for Kel. “Hope you don’t mind a serenade.”
Gryl went to stand but a hand clasped at his arm. Fury warmed his cheeks, and he spun about to see Mihir standing behind him. The knight shook his head and mouthed a silent, “Don’t.”
Gryl reluctantly settled back, his fingers instinctively massaging the pommel of his sword as he heard Brant’s armor clunk to the ground. Mihir dropped down next to him. He said nothing, but there was no collusion in the man’s expression, which tempered Gryl’s fury, if only slightly.
A stranger to the ways of sex, his manhood cut away by the Avan Seer who’d inducted him into the role of Prodigy when he was just a boy, Gryl had no sense of the sergeant’s intent until he’d made it obvious. Brant had mistaken Gryl’s empathy for the boy as desire. The posturing had been his way of marking his territory.
A quiet gasp sounded in Brant’s tent and Mihir tightened its hold on his arm. Gryl hadn’t even realized he’d tensed, his hand sliding to the hilt of his blade. He drew a slow, deep breath and let it ooze from his lungs. Fingers twitching, he eased his hand from his sword as he got to his feet. He nodded to Mihir, unwilling to trust his voice to speak.
Gryl went to his tent and slipped between its fluttering walls, crawling beneath the threadbare blanket he’d been given. The steady slap of flesh on flesh floated on the night air, Kel’s muffled grunts almost a chant in stuttered rhythm. Gryl felt his scars worming across his skin, the sudden flush of his power begging to be set free. He clenched his teeth and covered his ears to silence the world. His hands still trembled, fury and weariness waging a war.
It would be many long hours before Gryl found sleep. His dreams were cruel.
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