by David Welch
They sat in the great room on the lower level of the inn. Men drank heavily around them, angry voices cursing the attacker in the local language. Gunnar sat staring at the food a serving girl had brought him: cabbage and potatoes with balls of ground beef fried in lard. Turee and Kamith ate, but he just stared, his mind elsewhere.
“You!” a voice shouted.
Gunnar turned, finding the speaker. A tall, fit man in his twenties paced over, a wooden mug of ale in his hand. His face was drawn tight with rage. He spoke something in his native tongue but got no response.
“You hurt him,” the man said, switching to Trade Tongue. “You drink free tonight!”
A roar of approval went up through the inn. Gunnar nodded his thanks.
“That rider, how long has he been stalking the land?” he asked.
“Too long!” the man bellowed, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Calm mellowed his anger a bit, and he pulled up a chair.
“I am Cohrentan,” he said. “That murderous rider has been stalking the southern shores of the Sandwater for two years now. Not always around Haervia.”
“This town is Haervia?” Turee asked.
“Yes,” Cohrentan said with a nod. “We’ve heard of him before, in lands south of here, in Aeras. They said a demon rode in blood-coated armor, in the shape of a man. They say evil winds sent him to strike terror into us.”
Gunnar nodded. Wind was both a common hero and villain in these parts.
“We did not believe it at first,” Cohrentan went on. “Not until he came here. He kills without warning, dashing out of woods or hiding places to kill the weakest amongst us.”
He spat his disgust on the floor.
“Women! Children! The aged!” Cohrentan raged. “And any who cross blades with him! The king has sent three knights to bring down the demon, all have died. Now, he sends nobody, and the Reaper curses us!”
“Reaper?” Kamith asked.
“A reaper,” said an old man at the next table. “Sent to drag us into the soil before our time.”
“He isn’t a demon, he’s a man,” Gunnar said.
Cohrentan laughed sardonically.
“We can only hope!” he declared.
“I’ve fought with him before,” Gunnar declared. “I gave him the scar.”
Silence spread from the table, awed eyes looking on.
“You’re either an idiot inviting his curse on you,” said Cohrentan, “or a warrior who speaks the truth. And you don’t strike me as an idiot.”
“I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s a man,” Gunnar said. “And he can be killed like any one of us.”
Cohrentan waved at the bartender, who brought over ale for the table. A man at the next table gave the bartender a silver coin to cover the drinks.
“Tell us,” Cohrentan pressed. “So few survive his blade.”
Gunnar sighed and took a long draw from his mug.
“I’m a wanderer,” he said in Trade, just loud enough to be heard by people at the immediate tables. “Originally, I came from near the Langal kingdoms, on the western side of the Great Grasslands, beneath the mountains that form the Spine of the World. About three and a half years ago, I left. At first, I went east, but then I turned south, to follow the great peaks and see if they truly did reach to the end of the world.
“I never found their end, but, far to the south, I found an arid land of red rocks, flat-topped peaks, and canyons so large you could fit entire nations inside them. I stopped there for a while, to rest. I was a bit worn out from travel, and I took up residence with the High Sun People.
“They have a strange custom where they require their young women to get pregnant before they can marry, to prove they can contribute new members to the tribe. And since I was a guest, it was only considered good hospitality to see to my ‘needs’. I was set up with a young girl named ‘Jalin’. Her company was pleasant, and we spent many nights together. I was almost considering settling there.
“Then, one day, I went with her and several of her cousins to harvest juice from a cactus,” Gunnar said, pausing when he saw confused looks. “That’s a tall, thorny plant that grows in the desert. They ferment the juice and make a very strong liquor. Anyway, while I was away from her, a man rides out from behind a boulder. The same man I saw today, the man you call ‘Reaper’. He stabbed Jalin and two of her cousins before I could reach them. I managed to knock him off his horse, and we fought. The tip of my sword caught his face, cutting deep. He ran off screaming. I tried to chase after him, but he was fast, damn fast, and I wanted to see if Jalin was alive, so he got away.”
Silence hung heavy for a long moment, then whispers ran through the crowd as the tale was told and retold to those farther away from the table.
“Gods Above,” Kamith said in Langal. “You never told me of this.”
“I wanted to forget,” Gunnar replied, then he switched back to Trade Tongue. “I swore that, if I ever ran into the man again, I would kill him. And I mean to.”
“If you live that long,” said the old man at the next table.
“Those who resist, the Reaper hunts down,” Cohrentan informed him.
Gunnar smiled viciously, the anger smoldering behind his dark eyes.
“Good,” he said coldly. “Saves me the trouble of hunting him.”
***
Morning came and they rode, leaving Haervia shortly after sunrise. In the cool of the early hours, they rode north to the Sandwater, then they continued following the road west along its southern shore. The hills and bluffs continued to rise on their right, possibly leaving them vulnerable to ambush. The woods had been cut back ten yards from the road, no doubt to allow large formations of troops to move through, and, across the narrow bottomlands of the Sandwater, they could make good time with little effort. If this ‘Reaper’ was shadowing them, he would have to ride up and down every ravine, valley, and gulley that diverged from the Sandwater’s river valley, and there were a lot of them. That meant the killer and his horse would be tired, exhausted from trying to keep up over far more difficult terrain.
Even so, they rode ready for war; he and Kamith did, at least. The odd one out was Turee. She had no weapons beyond a dagger he had given her. She wore chain-mail but slouched under the unfamiliar weight. He’d bought it for her last night, digging into his gold pouch. It wasn’t the best mail in the world; Haervia had only one blacksmith, who wasn’t a professional armorer, and he’d only had a men’s coat ready, so Turee wore a man’s armor and practically drowned in it. Both the early start and the burden of the armor had etched a petulant scowl onto her face.
Gunnar rode a few yards ahead, his eyes scanning the woods to his right. With the river to his left, it was the only place an ambush could come from.
“Gunnar,” Kamith said from behind him, in Langal.
He turned his head to let her know he was listening, but did not lift his attention from the woods.
“Gunnar, you don’t need to do this,” Kamith continued.
“What are you talking about?” Turee asked in Trade Tongue. She’d still only learned a few words in Langal and didn’t understand much.
“Yes, I do,” he replied.
“This woman meant that much to you?” Kamith asked.
The combination of hurt and anger in her voice caught his attention. He motioned for Thief to stop, letting the women catch up. When they were beside him, he matched their pace and continued forwards.
“Don’t be jealous,” he said. “She was nothing compared to you.”
“You never told me about her,” she said simply.
“Because it didn’t get the chance to go anywhere,” Gunnar replied. “I didn’t love Jalin. We’d only known each other for a few weeks.”
“You said you loved me after only a few weeks,” Kamith remarked coolly.
“Because I did. I loved you after only a few days. I never felt that with her,” Gunnar explained.
This seemed to calm Kamith, but her glare remained hard.<
br />
“Then why the vengeance? Why do you have to kill this man?” she demanded.
“Because Jalin, whether I loved her or not, was a good person, and she didn’t deserve to die. Neither did her little cousins. Gods Above know how many he’s killed since then.”
“And if you die?” Kamith asked. “What happens to Turee?”
She didn’t have to add ‘and me’? He heard the words in his head as she spoke.
“Take her some place far from here. Find good husbands,” he said.
“I have a good husband,” Kamith replied sternly. “And what people do you know who just open their arms to wandering women? Good men don’t just take in people off the streets. You know damn well the only kind of work we’d be able to find—”
“Don’t,” Gunnar said. “Don’t even think that.”
“I have to,” Kamith snapped. “When we go through all your money? What then? I can’t have children, so no man would marry me, and even with everything you taught me, nobody would hire me as a warrior. My body would be the only thing I have left to offer!”
“Uh, is something wrong?” a confused Turee asked in Trade Tongue.
“I can’t ignore this,” Gunnar insisted.
“Nobody said you had to right the wrongs of the world,” Kamith replied.
“You would be dead if I didn’t!” he replied fiercely.
He regretted the force of his words the minute he said them. Kamith stared icily at him.
“Look,” he began, softer. “I didn’t know you when I saved you from that twisted priest. For all I knew at the time, you could have been a criminal meeting justice. I acted because I felt it was wrong. I am glad I did. Every day, I thank the Gods Above for bringing me to you, but at the time, I didn’t love you; I didn’t even know you. I just knew that something evil was being done to you, so I acted.”
He shifted in the saddle, staring off into the distance.
“Maybe, when I was younger, I could have just ridden on, but not anymore. So much of the world doesn’t care about what’s right that, when I see something I can change for the better…”
“I don’t want to lose you,” Kamith said. “I love you. And I think Turee might, too.”
“Wait, I heard my name!” Turee chirped from her horse.
“I think that’s lust,” Gunnar grumbled.
Kamith hit his shoulder playfully, pressing the chain-mail into the leather tunic beneath.
“She’s young,” Kamith replied. “And she’s not as shallow as you think.”
“Stop talking about me in Langal!” Turee demanded.
“Fine!” Gunnar said, switching back to Trade Tongue. “We were just talking about how nice you look in your armor.”
“I don’t know how you wear this stuff!” the teenager moaned. “It weighs a ton, and it’s hot.”
“Being hot beats being hacked to death,” Gunnar replied.
“Not it you died of the heat-sleep,” Turee grumbled.
“We’ll stop in a bit,” Kamith said, seeing the sun climb higher in the clear blue sky. “The horses will need water.”
They pulled the horses aside next to a side channel of the river, where only a thin row of willow trees separated the worn track of the road from the water. The four horses, their three mounts and the packhorse, walked to the water and drank deeply.
Gunnar lifted his shield from its spot on the saddle, sliding his arm into the loops. He turned to the road, a worried look coming to his eyes. A short way ahead, a hillside bulged out, narrowing the river valley to a single track, exposed to the river on one side, crowded by trees on another. It was a natural choke point, the perfect place to launch an ambush.
A half-dozen loud whoops filled the air.
Of course, choke points don’t matter if they’re already charging at you with a sword!
He spun, facing the Reaper as he charged forth on his horse. Turee screamed behind him, and he heard a shuffle of hooves as the surprised horses stamped about.
The Reaper charged on, and Gunnar stood stock still, sword and shield ready, staring at the man as he approached. The Reaper thundered on, ready to hack down with his sword.
An arrow struck the Reaper square in the chest, and he lurched backwards. The point buried itself in his armor, but it didn’t penetrate to the flesh beneath. Gunnar rushed forwards as the Reaper struggled for balance, swinging for the horse’s legs. The agitated animal saw the blade and sprinted to the left, missing the sword by inches.
The Reaper rode away. Gunnar watched as he circled, steadying his sword in his grip, preparing to come again. Blood pounded in his ears, but Gunnar still noticed the man’s blood-stained armor was thick. He had two heavy coats of chain-mail covering his chest and arms. The gory surcoat covering most of the armor was also double-thick.
But Kamith didn’t let that stop her. Her bowstring twanged as she fired. In a handful of seconds, she sent two more arrows streaking forwards. The sharp heads struck hard against the Reaper’s mail but failed to break it. The Reaper lurched from the blows, fighting for balance. When he steadied himself, his eyes stared out from beneath his helmet, focusing intently on Kamith. With more piercing whoops, he charged her.
Gunnar ran for Thief, jumping up on his horse. Kamith whipped her sword out and blocked a heavy blow from the Reaper’s straight blade. The sound of hammering steel filled their ears as the Reaper struck, the blow so great it cut a notch deep into Kamith’s blade. Her arm nearly buckled from the force of the blow.
Now Gunnar charged, his shield still on his left arm as he gripped the reins. He darted in close to the Reaper and thrust out with the shield. The metal rim struck a heavy blow on the man’s side, nearly knocking him from his horse. As he reeled, Kamith’s blade struck hard against the leather surcoats covering his back, cutting down to the chain-mail but no further.
Frantic, the Reaper dashed forwards on his horse, circling around and heading for the woods. Gunnar grabbed for his bow, but before he could nock an arrow, the Reaper had vanished into the forest. Gunnar listened, tracking the crash of hooves through the undergrowth. He caught glimpses of the Reaper as he struggled through the woods on his mount.
“Take Turee to the next town!” he cried.
“We have a better chance fighting together!” Kamith replied.
“She won’t be able to keep up,” Gunnar asserted. “I can’t hunt him if I’m worrying about her!”
Turee stammered, “I can ride—”
“Get her someplace safe,” Gunnar asserted, still facing Kamith. “Please.”
Kamith looked like she would fight him, but she clamped her mouth shut, nodding angrily.
“Come on!” Kamith shouted, starting down the trail. Turee, still astride her horse, grabbed the long rein of the packhorse and followed, hurrying to keep up.
Gunnar turned his horse towards the woods where the Reaper had fled.
“Y’ah!” he cried, driving Thief forwards.
***
Gunnar’s horse galloped into the forest. Part of him wondered if a trap awaited, but he kept on, unwilling to lose the man’s trail. Thief struggled up the steep hillside, as the Reaper’s horse had, but made it to the top.
The summit of the hill was forested and stretched east to form a long ridge. He heard a crashing to his left, eastwards, and followed. Glimpses of the Reaper flitted in and out of his vision, the man pressing his horse as hard as he could to get away.
The ridge ended, and Gunnar descended into a valley. The forest stopped and he streaked across open farmland, seeing the Reaper disappear back into the forest a quarter mile away, on the valley’s far side. To his left sat a walled town, on the river itself. Field hands watched, slack-jawed, as he charged after the Reaper.
The eastern side of the valley was formed by a steep-sided hill, more of a bluff than a slope. His horse struggled with the pitch, so he began riding up in a zig-zag pattern. He worried the Reaper would build a lead, but figured his horse had to be in the same situation.
> The bluff rose three hundred feet above the valley, and stretched east along the Sandwater River like the last one, but the summit of this ridge had been burned clear. Sheep grazed in open pasture, milling about, oblivious to the chase.
Gunnar’s eyes scanned the open meadow, fixing on a distant figure several hundred yards away, vanishing into another forest: the Reaper.
Gunnar charged, tearing across the meadow, knowing he’d probably already lost the man. As he came up on the far side of the meadow, he spotted a blur of motion behind one of the trees.
He pulled up hard, reaching for his bow, but nothing came from the forest. The blur became the outline of a man in a dirty gray tunic but no pants, fleeing on foot into the forest, shouting something in a language Gunnar didn’t know. Gunnar had never seen the man before, and supposed he could have been a shepherd, but felt something was off about him. He fled in an irregular pattern, stopping every few yards to scream obscenities back at Gunnar. Or, at least, Gunnar figured they were whatever the locals considered obscenities, since he had no idea what they really meant. Fear seemed to overtake the fellow, and he continued his halting flight.
With the Reaper safe in the forest, Gunnar pressed on after the strange man. He had a hunch the two were connected. When the crazy fellow saw Gunnar coming at him, he broke into a frantic sprint, stumbling over downed logs and underbrush, crashing onwards.
Gunnar held back, letting the man run. He could end it with a short sprint, but he had a feeling the fool would lead him somewhere. The lunatic stumbled down the southern flank of the ridge, a mellower slope than the one Gunnar’s horse had just climbed. At a ravine near the base, he stumbled into a small camp, where another dirty-looking fellow awaited. The new fellow was a squat, hairy man who sat completely naked on a log, gratifying himself. Irritated by the distraction, he barked angrily at his companion, who babbled on frantically.
Gunnar approached the camp, noticing right away that it wasn’t some hunter’s spot in the wood. Bloody surcoats and a spare shirt of gore-encrusted chain-mail hung from branches on nearby hemlocks. Two decapitated human heads lay strewn about near a tent. Three small deerskin tents had been pitched, yet only two people were present.