“But are there others? More Umaeni?”
“You are the only human.”
“And how shall I protect the Green?”
Toomt’-La began to fade into the foliage of Aoife’s cocoon even as he spoke. “Go north!” he urged. “Go north.”
“But…”
He was gone.
North?
It was the second time in her life that Aoife had been heading to Lunessfor with a purpose, only to be turned aside by the spirits of Nar. Last time, she’d become their sister-mother and this time, their priestess? Without conscious effort, she parted the walls of her sanctuary and peered into the icy morning. She wondered if the countless leagues between herself and the thing that was once her brother would allow enough time to learn the powers of her new office.
~ FIVE ~
Long & Company, On the Road
Yendor awoke to the cock’s crow of panic. The lashes on his one eye had frozen together, and the old campaigner thrashed about in mounting hysteria, completely blind and afraid the condition was permanent. Whether it was the clouds of hot breath that escaped from the man or the warm tears that gushed from his eye, his lashes eventually parted, and his vision returned. Thankfully, it revealed nothing untoward, no audience of smirking companions, giggling at Yendor’s misfortune. He’d no doubt, however, that they lurked just outside the tent, waiting to ambush him as soon as he emerged. Ah well, better to be assaulted with the jibes of friends than the knives of enemies. Putting himself in order as best he could, Yendor stepped through the tent flap and into the frigid dawn.
Not ten paces away, the rest of the crew sat ‘round the fire, slurping something hot out of mugs.
Rem caught his eye and looked about to say something when Long silenced him with a subtle nod of the head. Very well, Rem’s expression seemed to say, I can get him later.
Not if Yendor could preempt him. “I froze my fuckin’ eyelids together. Got a glimpse o’ what real blindness is like.”
“You got a glimpse of blindness?” Rem repeated smugly, as Yendor stepped up to the fire. “This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof.”
Yendor stared at the actor a moment and changed the subject. “What’s in them mugs? I’m assumin’ it ain’t mulled wine, ‘cause old Grammy Long Pete, here, won’t let me near no spirits.”
“Not liquid ones, anyway,” Long chipped in.
“It’s just boiled oats ‘n a drop o’ honey,” said Spirk. “Ain’t that right, Ron?”
Ron, the least gregarious of the group, merely bobbed his head in agreement.
“Oats?”
“Just the leftover feed for Gorivar’s mounts. But we call it oats. Leastways, I think there’s some oats in there. And with that honey, it don’t taste half bad,” Long offered.
“Well,” said Yendor, “You all look to be in fine fiddle this mornin’, whatever you’re eatin’.”
“I think the captain’s just happy to get back on the trail,” Rem opined.
“Aye,” Long agreed. “That’s so. Searchin’ ain’t findin’ o’ course, but it’s a damned sight better’n sittin’ on yer ass in a snow drift.”
“We’ll find ‘er,” Yendor assured his friend for what seemed the thousandth time. “Whoever’s got her has to stop now and again for supplies, and your Esmine’s a rare one. Someone’s got to have seen ‘er!”
This was greeted with general agreement all around, and even Ron expressed his confidence in the truth of it.
“Say, Remuel,” said Yendor, “I wonder…could you pass me a mug or bowl o’ them oats?”
But as the actor filled a bowl and began to pass it along, he suddenly disappeared altogether, leaving only a faint crackling sound in the air where he’d been standing.
“Magic!” Spirk confirmed, a little too loudly.
“Damn,” said Long softly.
Yendor turned to his friend. “What‘s this about?”
The captain pulled his collar closed and huddled closer to the fire. “He warned me he might have to leave abruptly – for a time. I was just hopin’…”
“And you didn’t tell us earlier, because…?”
“Rem’s comin’ and goin’s beyond our control. So’s the weather, for that matter, and every other part o’ this blasted chase. Only thing we can control is our own determination.”
“And that’s all that matters,” Spirk concluded.
Long smiled at the young man, grateful for his unending support. “Bless you for sayin’ so, Spirk. Makes this wind a bit more tolerable, anyways.”
The little group finished the last of the oats in silence. As Spirk and Ron rose to begin breaking down their tent, Yendor leaned in to the captain. “I’m hearing you mighty well these days.”
“And?”
“I’m hearing you, Long. Your voice is all but mended.”
It had happened so slowly, so gradually, that no one but Yendor had noticed. “I don’t…know what to say,” Long replied.
“Point is, you can say. You can talk all you want, now. The End-of-All-Things musta lied to you, eh?”
It was a mystery, and Long had more important things on his mind. “Time to get going,” said he. “Onward.”
“Onward,” Yendor agreed.
*****
Nelby & Esmine, On the Road
There was no way to get the cage open that didn’t involve one of the girls’ captors, and all of the options that did seemed far too obvious to Nelby. She could attempt to seduce one of the guards, but that hadn’t gone well last the time she’d tried it. She could ask Esmine to feign some dire illness, and when the guards came to investigate…well, that’s where the plan fell apart. Nelby knew she could not overpower a single man, much less two or more. But if such an opportunity presented itself…what would she use for a weapon? She looked at her nails: gone, chewed to the quick. She didn’t feel any pain, though, which worried her. Perhaps her fingers were in the early stages of frostbite. Alheria knew she couldn’t feel her toes. She searched for a bit of bone from any of the scraps of meat they’d been tossed: nothing. The bucket they used for a latrine was made of wood that had started to rot. It wouldn’t survive a single blow. How in Alheria’s name were she and the child to escape? She’d convinced herself that the caravan’s destination was within a few days’ travel, and her desperation seemed to grow worse each time she thought on it.
Yet, she would not allow herself to give up. On some level, failing to escape seemed the same as doing nothing, making no attempt whatsoever. And Nelby knew Mardine would at least want her to try.
She rededicated herself to the problem. She still had her teeth. That, at least, was something. If nothing else, she could bite into a guard’s neck and refuse to let go until Esmine had run off into the woods. Even without nails, she could gouge a man’s eyes, or perhaps rip an ear off – anything to cause a momentary panic in which Esmine might run free.
Steeling her nerves, she crawled over to where the girl lay huddled under a pile of blankets and rags. Time to have that talk.
“Sweetie,” she said, reaching a hand under the pile to touch Esmine’s head. “Sweetie, I need to tell you something.”
Esmine moaned, rolled over and pulled the blankets tighter around herself. Anymore, she didn’t like to come out into the air. Too cold, perhaps.
“Sweetie, this is important, now. They’ve got bad things in store fer us, and we can’t let that happen.”
This got Esmine’s attention, and she poked her head out of her makeshift nest. She said nothing, but the expression on her face was clear enough: save me.
It had been some time since Nelby had really looked at Esmine, and she was shocked at what she saw: the girl’s cheeks were so hollow, the bones stuck out like armored plates. Her eyes appeared to have dwindled almost to nothing in their now-cavernous sockets. Her skin’s formerly pinkish hue had grown waxy and pale. And no wonder, Nelby thought. We’re starving, the two of us.
“Next time a guard comes by, I’m goin
’ to jump ‘im. While I’m at it, you have to bolt for freedom.”
Esmine looked unconvinced. Smart girl.
“I’m serious, now. I’ll catch whoever it is by surprise and be right behind you. They won’t chase us in the dark and the cold.”
“But…”
“And you gotta take all o’ our blankets and such. We hafta stay warm ‘til we find shelter, you know.”
Esmine remained unconvinced, forcing Nelby to play her last card. “Look, sweetie, it’s run or die. Maybe it’s run and die, but at least we’d be together. At least we’d know freedom for a time.” Nelby stared into the child’s now-watery brown eyes. “They’re never gonna take you away from me, nor me away from you. I won’t let that happen.”
The child turned away briefly and when she turned back, she was holding a large wooden splinter in her hand. “You want?” she asked.
It was about seven inches long, three at its widest point and maybe a half inch thick near its base. A splinter like that was better than nails on all ten fingers. “Thank you,” Nelby said softly, tucking the splinter under her shirt. “It’s the very thing we needed.”
Esmine’s face lit up at this news, and the appearance of hope in her features was almost more than Nelby could bear. “First guard comes our way after dark is the last guard we ever have to see,” she said, more to bolster her own nerves than to calm the child’s.
Esmine smiled weakly and crawled back under her mound of cloth.
“The last guard we’ll ever have to see,” Nelby repeated to herself.
It was dark and bitterly cold – corpse cold – when Nelby heard someone wrestling with the cage’s lock. Quickly, she pulled Esmine’s head closer and spoke into her ear.
“It’s now or never. I attack, you run past us and don’t look back. I’ll be right behind you.”
She heard Esmine whimper as she pulled away, but she forced herself to ignore the girl’s fear; she had enough and too much for both of them. The sound of the cage’s door creaking open was Nelby’s clarion call. She looked over and saw that one of the caravan’s women had come to deliver some hot slop. There was no advantage in the guard’s being female, though. Nelby knew these slaver bitches were every bit as fierce as their men, if not more so. Nelby just had to be worse.
“’Ere’s ya dinna,” the slaver wench drawled.
Nelby descended upon her like a winter storm, upending the hot slop onto the woman’s chest with her left hand, while her right hand brought the splinter crashing down towards her left eye. The woman might have blocked the blow, but her shock at the hot swill splashed upon her distracted her just long enough for Nelby to strike home. It was a mixed victory, however, as the splinter tore down the side of the woman’s face, pierced her cheek and staked her tongue to the bottom of her mouth. It did not, unfortunately, prevent her from screaming. When the first shriek rang out, Nelby kicked the woman in the throat as hard as she could, over and over, until the guard sank out of sight.
Angry that Esmine had not followed her directions, Nelby turned to look at the girl and discovered her weeping. “We’ve no time for this, girl. It’s run or die, now. And you know what death looks like.”
Esmine clutched her blankets and dashed from the cage, landing on the guardswoman’s body before she rolled onto the snowy ground. Nelby grabbed the last of the rags and bolted after her. The guard was still alive, struggling to breathe, but Nelby’s anger and courage had been spent. She slunk off after Esmine, wishing she’d been able to put the other woman out of her misery.
There were no trees nearby, but it was dark, and there were bushes, so Nelby and Esmine were able to dodge from clump to clump, but it would amount to nothing, they knew, if their footprints gave them away.
After a time, a faint yell sounded out of the darkness. The girls’ escape had been discovered, and now the chase would begin in earnest. Nelby would like to have carried Esmine to speed up their pace, but the child was much larger and sturdier than the typical human toddler. Nothing for it now but a headlong dash into the night.
And if they managed to escape their pursuit, they still had hunger and the cold to deal with.
*****
Vykers & Turley, Under the Castle
Turley was far too talkative, and there were countless occasions when Vykers nearly put his knife in the goblin’s throat just to shut him up. Still, the little monster knew these passageways much better than the Reaper did or ever would. Annoying as he was, Vykers needed him.
“And down this way,” Turley said, pointing to a side passage, “is Servant Speak, the best place to listen in on the castle’s help.”
“Why would I wanna do that?” Vykers demanded, disgusted.
This gave the little goblin pause. “Why? Well, er…”
“Forget it. How long ‘til we get where we’re going?”
“To the Warden’s chambers? As I said earlier, he lives a few floors up, on the other side of the castle and, unlike the humans who live here, we goblins can’t take the most direct…”
“How long?”
Turley flinched. “Add in the fact that I need to keep you hidden from the rest of my clan, I’d say ‘til the evening bell at the soonest.”
“You don’t have to keep me hidden,” Igraine snarled. “I’m not afraid o’ your kin.”
“No,” Turley grimaced, “I can see that.”
“Then let’s be on with it.”
The complexity of the goblin warrens was astonishing, considering that they existed only behind, between and sometimes beneath walls. Every so often, Vykers made out the voices of other goblins in the murky distance, but Turley was careful to ensure they never crossed his path. At regular intervals, the goblin risked Vykers’ wrath by stopping to rest his misshapen leg and foot. He did so in as unassuming a manner as possible, but Vykers could tell it was hurting him.
“What’s the story with that leg?”
“One of our tunnels collapsed on me when I was younger.” Turley replied with a shrug. “It happens.”
“I’ve heard o’ different tribes that set their weak or injured out to die in the wilderness.”
Turley shot back a look that suggested he feared Igraine’s words might come true. “It is not so different with my people. To be weak is to be a liability to the clan.”
“A what?”
“A burden, if you will.”
“But they don’t leave you alone in the forest.”
Turley sighed. “In some ways, that would be better. One of the things my people do is to make you feel so unwelcome that you eventually take your own life.”
Igraine must have been gawking in disbelief, for the goblin continued, “No, it’s true. I’ve known two others to go to it in my lifetime, and, of course, there are tales of many more.”
“So, your fellows have been torturing you in hopes you’d kill yourself.” Igraine shook her head in disbelief. “Seems to me it’s the arm wields the sword, not the leg.” Vykers wasn’t familiar with the landscape of goblin faces, but it appeared the little creature smiled at this. “It also seems to me you wouldn’t care if I killed one or two o’ the bastards.” Turley’s smile faded.
“That would be tantamount to declaring war on my kin.”
Vykers had no idea what ‘tantamount’ meant, but suddenly the goblin looked very sad.
“I’d never be able to come home again,” the creature sighed.
“Why in Mahnus’ name would you want to?”
“You don’t understand.”
“No shit,” Igraine sniped. “That leg recovered enough to get us goin’ again?”
Turley bobbed his head in response, straightened up, and proceeded down the corridor.
Now and again, the goblin pulled up and peered through a spy hole.
“How much further?” Igraine demanded.
“We are about halfway there.”
The Reaper was stunned. The place was fucking huge.
In time, they came upon a large room with stone benches
set into the walls. The light of hundreds of spy holes illuminated the chamber enough that Vykers got his first good look at his guide. Turley stood about three and a half to four feet tall – it was hard to be certain with his constant stoop – and wore a dull, knee-length tunic over his purplish-grey skin. His four-toed feet were unshod, making it all the easier to see the twisted malformation of his left foot, ankle and shin. A short cloak hung from Turley’s shoulders, meant, Vykers supposed, to provide a little extra warmth in the constant cool of the tunnels. And the goblin’s face? It was not a thing of beauty, but neither was it especially gruesome or frightening. Of course, nothing frightened the Reaper, but he very much doubted that even a child would scream at the first sight of Turley’s visage. In fact, the creature’s ridiculously long, pointy and erect ears gave him a doglike appearance that made him seem somehow more trustworthy than threatening.
The goblin noticed Igraine’s attention and asked “You’ve never seen any of my kind before?”
“I might have,” Igraine allowed. “I don’t remember.”
“And yet you seem surprised.”
“I was expectin’ you to be green.”
Turley chuckled. “Green? Why green?”
“Your kind is always green in the children’s stories.”
“You tell your children stories about us?” Turley was amazed.
“I ain’t got any children,” Igraine responded gruffly. “Let’s find this warden.” The Reaper wondered at the change in himself that would tolerate such banter. What was this little goblin to him? In days gone by, he’d have killed it on sight and enjoyed the doing of it. Was it the influence of his host body? Again, he wondered if Igraine somehow held sway over his actions and emotions.
And who had she been, really? Somebody’s slave or concubine, it seemed. But what else? Vykers felt a flash of anger. Such thoughts were an unwelcome distraction from his current purpose, to find the man with the keys as quickly as possible and get on with the next phase of his plan, for rather than fading with time, his hunger for vengeance against Arune seemed to grow with each sunrise, until he felt certain it would soon consume his sanity.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 15