The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  Because I want to piss off my brother by taking his favorite toys. “You heard. The duke intimated that there might be trouble. Border issues. Having an actual disciplus there will underscore the seriousness of our intentions.”

  Her level gaze was unsettling. “Because sending the duke’s younger brother isn’t gesture enough?”

  Hugh snorted. “My reputation isn’t what it once was. My arrival may generate little more than sniggers. Having you and Captain Morwyn by my side, however, will make my brother’s intentions clear.”

  “Very well. When do you mean to depart?”

  Hugh turned to gaze out the window. It was still early morning. Another wave of fatigue washed over him. For some reason he’d thought it was evening. “After lunch. That should give us enough time to reach the ducal hunting lodge. We can bed there before truly striking out into the wild.”

  Another wave of exhaustion washed over him. Had he finally reached his limit? Two serious fights, enough wine to down a bull, no sleep, the shock of the summons and his news, and worst of all, speaking twice with the Lost Reavers for the first time in years…?

  “Lord Hugh?” Anastasia’s voice was sharp. “You’re not well. Are you going to see to that wound?”

  “What wound?” He blinked at her. “Oh. I… sure.”

  “I learned field medicine at the academy,” said Anastasia briskly. “Let me see that cut. If we’re going to travel together I don’t want you fighting infection along the way.”

  “Morwyn keeps her blades clean,” said Hugh, but realized there was no give in Anastasia’s expression. He sighed and began unbuttoning the front of his jacket. It felt like he was wearing thick gloves; the buttons kept sliding out between his fingers.

  “You arrived this morning, did you not? Who drank all this wine?” Anastasia was frowning at the broken bottles strewn alongside the far wall, at the empty bottles lined up along the back of the desk.

  “I did,” said Hugh.

  “You did.” Not a question. A flat, cynical repetition of his own words.

  Hugh shrugged and focused on the button. The damn thing… wouldn’t…

  “Let me,” said Anastasia, voice all business, and stepped in to unbutton his jacket with brisk efficiency. Hugh grasped the edge of the table and leaned back, then helped her pull the jacket off. She tossed it on the bed. He reached down, grasped the hem of his tunic, and pulled it up over his head, the wound in his chest smoldering deeply, radiating pain as he did so.

  Hugh threw the tunic aside, and only then noticed that Anastasia was staring at him. Well, not at him. At his body.

  He looked down at himself. Blood had run down his right pectoral muscle, painting it bright crimson, but it wasn’t anything ghastly.

  Oh. Right. His physique. He’d always been in excellent condition, but since the Goat’s Wood, his body had… changed.

  “I mean… wow.” Anastasia shook her head, clearly struggling to retain her professional tone. “Your, ah…”

  “Yes?”

  She frowned, coughed into her fist, blinked. “It’s just that I’ve never, ah, seen a man with such developed… musculature. I’d heard you’d been spending your time at an inn. I expected such a lifestyle to have taken a toll.”

  “Hmm,” rumbled Hugh, amused now. It was true. Over the last three years his physique had developed to the point that he barely recognized himself. His torso was a compact mass of ridged abdominal muscles, his chest slab-like in its muscle, his shoulders such that he had difficulty finding tunics that didn’t split when he stretched, with thick veins running down from them along his bicep and along his corded forearms.

  “We could have used you for our anatomy lessons at the academy and not bothered with corpses,” said Anastasia, stepping forward. She reached out, fingertips cool and light as she traced the muscles along his sides. “Even your serratus anterior muscles are defined. Your abdominal obliques….” Her touch was feathery, and Hugh let out a sudden gasp as goosebumps ran up his sides, her fingers having strayed dangerous close to his belt. He smiled, amused at his body’s automatic reaction, but Anastasia stepped back, a flush coloring her high cheeks.

  “I’m sorry. That was rather forward of me. I just… never mind. Let me see your wound.”

  Hugh stared up at the ceiling as she examined the cut. A moment later and she stepped back. “It’s shallow. I don’t think you need stitches, but it should be washed and bound. I’ll fetch supplies from my room. One moment.”

  The click of her heels as she strode out of his room, and Hugh crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Sank into an uneasy reverie, in which he could feel the accusing stares of the Lost Reavers upon him.

  He scowled. What was he doing? What was he playing at? Why was he obeying his brother’s commands even as they rankled him so? Dragging his curse and cursed self to Erro, and causing so much turmoil in his wake?

  A memory came to him. His brother, riding up to the edge of the Goat’s Wood in full plate, the sunlight gleaming off his resplendent armor. Hugh had crawled forth into the sunlight, too weak and shattered to do much more, and when his brother had leaped down to race to his side, to kneel beside him and cradle him in his arms, shouting for assistance, he’d felt the first good emotion since the horrors that had taken place within the wood.

  Had felt… comfort. Relief. A bleak and savage gratitude, that in his moment of need his brother had been there, had done everything he’d could to get him to safety and take care of him.

  Hugh sighed. He’d never forget that moment of grace. Never be able to repay his brother for that moment of love. Even if Annaro had rankled and pissed him off ever since. Even now that he was sending him off to the world’s end on a fool’s errand.

  No. He owed his brother. When everyone else turned away, blamed him for the destruction of one of Mendev’s most revered regiments, only his brother had been there, bringing him back to their castle and seeing to it that Hugh was nurtured and taken care of till he could finally stand and leave of his own accord.

  If Annaro wanted him to go to fucking Erro, then to Erro he would go.

  “Here,” said Anastasia, striding into the room, a large satchel over one hip. “Let’s get this cleaned and taken care of.”

  “Thank you,” said Hugh.

  “I’m your family’s disciplus,” said Anastasia distractedly as she opened her satchel and set different objects on the desk. “Think nothing of it.”

  “Very well.”

  For the next five or so minutes she tended his wound, her touch firm, her movements without hesitation, washing out the cut with a liquid that burned like molten fire and then bandaged and wrapped gauze around his shoulder and chest. A few pins to hold the bandages in place, and she was done.

  “We should leave tomorrow,” she said, stepping back and examining her handiwork critically. “Or the day after. You need time to heal.”

  “This afternoon,” said Hugh, pushing off the desk. Anastasia took another step back. “I’ll be fine once I rest. Could I ask for one favor?”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “I’ll be hungry when I wake up. Please ask the servants to send several meals up a few hours from now.” Hugh hesitated. “This might sound strange, but I’ve a… serious appetite. I’ll need enough for four or five men.”

  “Four or five… very well.” She glanced at the empty bottles.

  “Yes?” prompted Hugh.

  “Is there something I should know? About your condition?”

  “No,” said Hugh. “There isn’t.”

  “Very well.” She concealed her skepticism admirably. “I’ll pass on the word. And more wine?”

  “More wine,” he agreed. “In fact, if you could see to it that a cart is prepared with enough provisions and wine to see a troop of ten men to Erro, I’d appreciate that, too.”

  “Ten men. But only you, myself, and Captain Morwyn are going.”

  “Correct.”

  Anastasia licked her lower lip as she nodded sl
owly, then visibly set her questions aside, expression clearing. “Very well. I will see you in the bailey after lunch, my lord.”

  “Thank you, disciplus.” Sleep was calling to him. He’d worked hard enough. He doubted he’d have dreams. A sweet reprieve from his torment. “I’ll… I’ll see you then.”

  He staggered over to his old bed and crashed down upon it. The last sound he heard was the disciplus quietly closing his door.

  Chapter Four

  The cart was serious business. Wheels as high as Hugh’s waist and laden with enough provender that the tarp barely covered the crates and sacks. A large plow horse called Bullnip stood placidly between the shafts, his face entirely obscured by his riotous mane in which nearly a dozen brass charms to Fortuna were braided. Morwyn was already there, arms crossed, leaning against the cart and staring moodily off into the middle distance, while Anastasia stood beside Bullnip, whispering to him as she fed him an apple.

  Hugh felt vastly better. He’d eaten enough pork loin, chicken soup, black bread, ale, and cheese to feed a squadron of younger men, and the itching across his chest signaled that he was healing well. His sleep had been profound, and though it lasted only three hours he felt as if he’d slept a dozen. Someone had the foresight to deliver a set of new traveling gear to his room, complete with a wolf-fringed black cloak and knee-high boots of supple leather, and so, smartly garbed and with his blade at his hip, he emerged into the bailey, pulling his hair into a ponytail as he stepped out into the afternoon sunshine.

  “The sleeping prince bestirs himself,” said Morwyn. “What foolishness is this, marching out at this hour? Why not wait till dawn tomorrow?”

  “He’s set on the hunting lodge,” said Anastasia. “As I already told you.”

  “Rather, I think he can’t wait to be quit of Stasiek.” Morwyn pushed off the cart with a shrug. “Scared his big brother will take his toys away.”

  “You’re his toy, not mine,” said Hugh, signaling to a stable boy to bring out Blue. “I’m just borrowing you for the nonce.”

  “That so?” A dangerous gleam entered Morwyn’s eye. “Then I can’t wait for you to try and play with me again.”

  “That sounded distinctly unprofessional,” said Anastasia, wiping her palms on her hips as she walked around Bullnip to join them. “That to be the tone of this expedition?”

  “Shove it up your ass, disciplus,” said Morwyn, not looking away from Hugh.

  “I guess so,” said Anastasia, unfazed.

  “We’re heading out because I say so,” said Hugh, a slight thrill of exhilaration passing through him. “The open road beckons. And yes, they’ll serve us a fine repast at the lodge if we reach it in time. Otherwise, we’d have to pass it by tomorrow and find some roadside inn. Hardly fitting for the captain of the duke’s personal guard.”

  The gleam in Morwyn’s eye didn’t fade. “We have to talk to you en route?”

  Hugh paused, about to inspect the cart. “No?”

  “Good.” Morwyn stepped by him, pulled herself up onto the cart, and deposited herself in a hollow between sacks, crossing her legs and interlacing her fingers behind her head. “Let’s get moving already.”

  Anastasia gave Hugh a level look. “You’re sure about having her along?”

  He restrained the urge to sigh. “I’m sure we’ll appreciate her company if the cart gets bogged down in mud or we find wood that needs chopping.”

  An apple came sailing out of nowhere and clonked Hugh on the side of the head, hard enough to split open and send him staggering, though more out of surprise than pain. “What the - ?”

  Morwyn was sitting up in the cart, a look of genuine surprise on her face. “I could have sworn you’d dodge it. You were fast enough this morning.”

  Sniggers and whispered comments from the castle folk pretending not to watch as they went about their business in the bailey. Hugh touched his head. Wet with splattered apple. Great. And how to explain - ? Best not to. “Strike your commanding officer once more with a piece of fruit and I’ll have you in the stockade.”

  Morwyn rolled her eyes and flopped back into her hollow. “Sure you will.”

  Anastasia gave him a significant look, as if repeating her question.

  “I’m sure it’ll all work out,” said Hugh. “That and there are several hundred bandits plaguing the northern roads. An extra blade will prove useful. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Blue had apparently been prepared beforehand, for the stable boy brought her out, already saddled and freshly curried.

  Without any fanfare Hugh mounted and rode out the bailey, through the castle gates, not waiting for his brother to make an appearance and bless their expedition, at once glad he had failed to show himself and yet strangely let down. Guards saluted, and for a moment Hugh thought they saluted him, only to realize it was their captain in the cart they were addressing.

  Out the large gates and onto the broad avenue which speared down the center of Stasiek to the great market that served as the main crossroads of the city, its broad width completely cluttered with stalls, herds of animals, crowds of pedestrians, and street vendors of all stripes.

  Hugh forced himself not to grow frustrated as their pace immediately slowed to a crawl. He glanced up at the angle of the sun. At this rate it would take them an hour to leave the city alone. Had he miscalculated?

  “Sir Hugh?” A familiar voice, a slender, hooded figure emerging from the crowd to keep pace with Blue. “I was worried I’d miss you.”

  Elena pulled back her hood and smiled up at him, for once not caring about the scars that wrought such havoc on each cheek, descending from nearly the outer corner of her eyes to the corner of her lips.

  “Elena.” Great. “I thought we settled matters at the Rusałka?”

  “Hardly. Here. You dropped this.” And she tossed up his belt pouch, which he caught more by reflex than purpose. “Before you ask, all the coin’s there. Not much, but enough that I thought it honorable to bring it to you.”

  “I wasn’t about to ask,” he began, then saw the impish smile on her face. Wait. Something was really different about her. Gone was the meek and retiring inn servant, and here instead was a confident, almost impudent young woman. “But fine. Thanks for returning my pouch. Though I didn’t drop it -”

  “Oh, you most definitely did. A horizontal trajectory, to be sure, that went from your hands to mine, but I know you didn’t intend me any insult. After all, one only pays women that kind of coin after very specific services are either rendered or agreed upon. Unless that was actually your intent…?”

  Hugh blinked. He suddenly felt out of his depth. The meaning of her words hit him, and he found himself flushing. “What? Hardly, Elena, that’s not at all -”

  “Then it was an accident, as I thought. And while I must admit myself mildly disappointed - only mildly, may I add - I’m relieved that you have a high opinion of me after all. Given that, I know you won’t mind my accompanying you north. To Erro, is it? That’s a good journey.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Come, my lord. Don’t be naive. Aren’t all servants famous for their gossip? Nothing’s secret within a castle, especially when it’s apparently shouted at some volume with the door left standing open. I imagine half of Stasiek already knows.”

  Hugh took a deep breath. There was no escaping her; the press of the crowd kept him firmly in place, moving at a slow walk down the avenue. Her smiling, upturned face betrayed her full amusement; she knew exactly what effect her words were having on him.

  “What’s gotten into you, Elena?”

  “Into me?” She pressed a hand to her chest as if surprised. “Why, I suppose I do feel quite different. Whatever could it be? Oh! I know. I’m not hauling a bucket filled with unpeeled turnips up from the river cellar. Or perhaps it’s the lack of rooms to mop? The ash to sweep out? Johan was a generous soul, but he was on the verge of having me muck out the stables -”

  “No, that’s not it.�
� Hugh studied her, aware of Anastasia’s curious eyes from the cart’s headboard behind them. “Something else has changed.”

  “Hmm.” Elena bit the tip of her forefinger, pretending thought. Her face suddenly lit up. “I know! It’s the prospect of journeying north with you and your companions. I see that you’re only accompanied by a disciplus and guard. Which of you will prepare the food? Who will fetch the river water? Keep the fire burning, take care of the horses, hang the bear bags, set up the tents, break down the tents, scour the pots - you did pack pots, did you not?”

  “That we did,” called Anastasia. “Given how much food we’re carrying, I thought a half dozen were in order!”

  Elena beamed. “A half dozen pots, my good lord! Would you really wrinkle your fingers as you rubbed the burned bits off the bottom for hours on end? Or Fortuna forbid, not clean them at all, and -”

  “Enough, Elena.” Her newfound wit was incredibly disorienting. A year he’d known her, or perhaps more accurately been aware of her around the Rusałka, and always she’d been the same: a waif who did her best to remain hidden in the background, who avoided all attention and groping hands, who worked without complaint and never spoke of herself or her past.

  For that matter, what did he really know about her?

  “Enough?” Her smile slipped. “Very well. I’ve convinced you?”

  “No. I told you already. I won’t take responsibility for your wellbeing. Anastasia and Morwyn are more than capable of taking care of themselves, but where we’re going -”

  “Erro.”

  “Yes, Erro, it’s far too dangerous. You can’t come. I’m sorry.”

  “As am I,” said Elena, eyes glittering. “But perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  “We’ll see,” said Elena, and ceased walking, so that the tide of traffic carried him on, leaving her behind. He turned in his saddle and watched the cart roll past her, and then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

  “Who was that?” called Anastasia.

  “A servant girl from the inn.” Hugh had no urge to explain further. He hefted his coin pouch, then tied it to his belt. Yet even as he rode down into the great, chaotic main square, navigating the market for the northern gate, he couldn’t be rid of his feeling of misgiving, and turned to glance behind them more than once.