The Ossard Series (Books 1-3): The Fall of Ossard, Ossard's Hope, and Ossard's Shadow.

by Colin Taber

  “Here,” Sef said, as he steered Anton and Matraia out of the gully and up a slight rise into the clearing. They eased Matraia down against one of the oaks. “Anton, do you know much in the way of healing?”

  “Not really... hurting was what we were taught at the Expeditia Puritanica. I can re-bind her wound and clean it, but not much else, I fear.”

  Sef gave a nod as he unslung his pack and started to dig through it. “All right. I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you start circling this spot, spiralling out and in wider sweeps. Look for signs of anyone around or of recent passage.”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  “Don’t be long, and don’t go too far without telling me.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Don’t forget to look up. This wood is great shelter for us, but also perhaps an obvious place for gargoyles to check out on their patrols if they’re hunting for trespassers.”

  Anton dropped his pack besides Sef’s and then drew his knife. “I won’t be long.”

  As Anton walked away, Sef called over his shoulder, “Start where I’ve got my back facing.”

  “I will.”

  Sef worked to do what he could for Matraia, while she occasionally shifted and stirred. She wasn’t quite awake, and that worried him. He didn’t want her to lose consciousness.

  Quickly, he took off the old binding and looked at the wound. The cut seemed clean, but it was reasonably deep, as well as longer than he remembered. The combination meant, despite his bindings, that herbal treatments and care were needed, that given any strenuous movements, Matraia would constantly be in danger of reopening it. Getting it to heal properly was going to be difficult, perhaps even impossible if she was forced to keep moving.

  Pursing his lips, he got to work.

  -

  Anton looked around as he walked to the edge of the clearing at Sef’s back. He surveyed the immediate surroundings and woods just beyond. Everything seemed quiet. He then peered up into the canopy where he saw nothing either, although the tangle of branches, leaves and shadows meant he couldn’t be certain. Coming to the first of the undergrowth, he stepped between shrubs and tufts of fern as he went forward, trying to move quietly and with care. He realised that some of the trunks of the most ancient oaks were thick enough for almost anything to hide behind. Indeed, some of them had enough width to conceal a whole gang of bandits, a pack of Kavists, or even a gargoyle with its wings spread.

  After adjusting to the open space of the wasted plains and foothills, the shadowed and constricted maze of trees filled him with concern. In fact, if it wasn’t for Matraia’s desperate need to rest, he would be turning around and urging Sef to grab their gear and get back out in the open.

  He was no woodsman, and considering where Sef had grown up, perhaps surveying this orphaned piece of forest was a task best suited to the big Flet. But Sef was busy caring for Matraia, leaving only Anton to check over the lonely wood.

  Moving through the undergrowth, he tried to stick to the gaps and avoid stepping on anything dry or that might rustle or snap. Right now, he reasoned, the best way for him to search the woods for any unwanted company was to do it quickly, quietly, and if he could, repetitively, to make up for him missing any signs of passage or occupation that he might not recognise. With that in mind, he made sure when he passed particularly large trees with thick trunks or that hosted hollows, he went close and also checked the soils for footprints. Other than that, after he made sure the area was safe at Sef’s back, he began circling around, following his friend’s suggestion to spiral out in a widening path.

  Anton continued his search, eventually losing sight of Sef to the trees as the light began to fade. He continued on, trying to be quiet, but eventually as dusk left him in gloom, he turned to short cut back to where Sef should be a few hundred paces away.

  Outside the wood the wind had picked up to bluster, not squalling wild, but striking in steady gusts. A wailing song sounded out from the branches above, almost predictable and easy to discern, as its call whistled out eerie and long. So, as Anton walked back, he knew something was wrong straight away when he heard a sharp crack from behind him.

  He froze, his first move being to tighten his grip on his knife as he spun around. But once he began his turn, the wail of the wind and rustle of leaves gave way to the thump of footfalls and crunch of dry leaf litter as someone rushed for him.

  Heart thumping in his chest, he could see a man a few paces away with a knife in one hand and his other on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  Anton cursed under his breath as he brought his own knife up. He put one foot behind to brace himself while he considered his options.

  In that moment, a heartbeat shrouded in gloom, the attacker came on in a storm of action and growing noise. The chorus of his charge came exacerbated by ill-fitting armour, the hardened leather sounding out as it slapped against his foe’s thighs and hampering his stride. That gave Anton hope; this was no veteran warrior, more likely a green bandit.

  In comparison, Anton felt reassuringly unencumbered, even if he was missing a few fingers and the daylight had mostly gone. He also noticed that the attacker seemed to favour his left side. Anton took advantage of that knowledge and lunged forward to meet him, then throwing himself to the man’s right and rolling through the undergrowth.

  His foe didn’t touch him, both surprised by Anton’s evasion, but also hindered by his armour while he drew his sword free.

  Anton rolled blindly, his body tumbling awkwardly over a fallen branch that cracked as he passed over it. When he stopped and steadied himself on all fours, just before rising, he swapped the knife into his maimed hand and used his other to grab the fallen length of wood.

  Rising, he stood there with a solid piece of oak in his good hand, the timber just over an arms-length long. Ahead of him, having turned after his charge, his adversary held his sword before him.

  The man said, “A strange place to find a lone traveller.”

  Anton frowned, but answered with a probing guess, “And a lone Kavist?”

  “I’m not alone.”

  With forced bravado, Anton said, “Thanks for telling me.”

  The Kavist cursed and began to step forward, encouraging Anton to pace around to the side so he could check that the way was clear to his back, from where the Kavist had originally come.

  The movement put some undergrowth between them, as well as revealing that the Kavist wasn’t just moving awkwardly because of his armour, but was limping.

  The Kavist followed him, slowly stepping forward as he held his sword out to his side. “Come on then, I’m going to cut you to pieces!”

  “You mean you and your friends?”

  “I don’t need them, I’ll do you all by myself.”

  “Friends? So, there are at least three of you.”

  The man cursed again.

  Anton could move more quickly and freely than his foe. The man seemed hampered in several ways with his movement, begging Anton to lead him back towards where Sef might be able to give Anton aid.

  The former inquisitor took at least a step and a half to the side for every step forward his adversary took. Before long, they had moved a few score paces, with Anton zigging and zagging through the undergrowth so he could see where he was heading and avoid tripping on fallen branches or roots.

  All the while the dying day fell deeper into dusk. Under the canopy it would soon be very dark indeed.

  The Kavist challenged, “Stop running away... come and fight!”

  Anton couldn’t be sure, certainly not in the gloom, but thought he had about another hundred paces to go before he was anywhere near Sef. Mindful of his foe’s comrades, he raised his voice a little, hoping Sef would hear, “We need somewhere clear of undergrowth to fight, somewhere we can stand strong and free.”

  “No we don’t, you just need to stop backing up.”

  “I want a fair fight, that’s all... Just you and me.”

  The Kavist cursed again
. He stepped forward, but this time dragged his other leg behind him instead of lifting it for a clear step, while he hissed, “Stop it, you shit... stand and fight!”

  He was getting tired.

  “Not until I find a clearing where we can fairly go one-on-one.”

  “Fairly? Who cares... I could take two of you on!”

  Sef’s voice sounded from behind him, coming from the darkness. “A boast that deserves testing.”

  Anton couldn’t clearly see the movement, but Sef was on the Kavist before the man had time to turn. The two of them went down, Sef having thrown himself bodily to bring his foe low and into the woodland humus.

  After a brief wrestle and a series of grunts, Sef sat up astride the man’s chest, using his knees to pin his foe’s arms. He took the knife from one hand and threw it at Anton’s feet, and then prised the sword out from the other, flinging that to the side.

  Anton dropped his branch and picked up the knife. He then stepped forward to kneel by Sef and their captive. “If he makes a sound, you’ll have to kill him; he’s here with others.”

  Sef glanced at Anton and gave a quick nod before staring down again at the Kavist. “You heard my friend; one sigh, moan or word, and I’ll slit your throat.”

  The man nodded.

  Anton said, “We need to gag him.”

  “Just tear some cloth off of his tunic.”

  Anton got up and went behind Sef to where the big Flet was astride the man’s belly. Behind him the bottom of the man’s tunic poked through.

  Anton whispered, “Don’t move for a moment.”

  The man squirmed, so Sef lifted a fist and punched him hard in the cheek. A stunned moan sounded, but Anton ignored it as he could see that with Sef’s bulk pinning the man, the chances of him getting free were slim.

  Using his knife, Anton made a cut and then tore off the bottom strip of tunic, before coming back around to the man’s head. Once there, he could see the man was dazed, so he knelt down and tied the gag on as tightly as he could.

  The Kavist didn’t resist.

  They checked him over, finding another knife, but little else. Sef also pulled off the man’s boots.

  They dragged him up to his feet, and then, with each pointing a sword, indicated he should head forward. Still limping, the man began to move.

  Sef said, “What did you find besides him?”

  “He’s here with others, at least two more. He’s got a limp as you can see. I tried to use that to my advantage by leading him on. I don’t know where the others are besides back behind us.”

  Soon, very soon in fact, they were back at the clearing where Matraia lay propped up against the ancient oak. She was awake and her wound rebound. Her eyes widened as she saw them come into the clearing, recognising Sef and Anton, but not the third.

  Despite the gloom, she realised he was a prisoner. “What’s happened?”

  Anton answered, as Sef went over to get some rope from their packs and gear, “I found him out there. I was returning when he tried to come at me from behind.”

  “He’s limping; did you fight?”

  “Sort of, but not really. He was already limping, so I was able to keep out of his sword’s reach.”

  “What are we going to do with him?” she asked.

  Anton glanced at Sef. “For now, bind him, though I think we’ll also find some time later to ask him some questions.”

  Sef came back with the rope in one hand and his sword in the other. He said to the prisoner, “Drop to your knees, then get onto your stomach.”

  Wide-eyed, the man stared at Matraia. He looked shocked.

  Sef swung out with his sword, slapping him on the upper arm with the flat of the blade as he hissed, “Quickly!”

  The man pulled his gaze from Matraia to meet Sef’s. In a moment, before any fresh encouragement was needed, he dropped heavily to his knees, letting out a low groan of pain as he fell on his bad leg.

  In another heartbeat, putting his hands out in front of him, he lay down on the ground, and then looked back up to Sef.

  “Cross your hands behind your back and keep your legs together.”

  The prisoner did what was ordered.

  “Anton, watch him.” Sef dropped his sword and got to work tying first his wrists together, then, using the same rope without cutting it, he worked at tying him around the legs, just above the ankles.

  Once Sef was finished, Anton asked, “Now what?”

  “What indeed?”

  Matraia spoke quietly from where she lay against the tree trunk, a grimace on her face. “We can’t take him with us. He’s one of them. Let’s ask him what we need about his comrades and the Pandike, and then, in the morning, leave him tied up at the edge of the forest. The gargoyles will find him tomorrow at nightfall and free him as one of their own. The only alternative is to kill him.”

  His eyes widened with her last words.

  Sef nodded and sat down near the man, putting his sword to his side but within easy reach. He didn’t sit unarmed though; instead he drew a knife as he looked to their prisoner.

  The man was large, but not as big as Sef. Blonde hair and blue eyes marked him as a Flet.

  “Kavist, do you want to live?”

  The man nodded and grunted that he did.

  “To survive this night you will need to do what we say, do you understand?”

  Again he nodded.

  “We are crossing these lands. You will tell us what we need to know, nothing less, and you will do it quietly by nodding yes or no, as I’m loathe to remove your gag. If you tell us what we need, by morning we will leave you alive and where your own kind can find you. Does that sound a fair deal to you?”

  The man nodded.

  “Let’s start with who you’re here with.”

  Sef asked questions while their prisoner answered what he could. The process was slow and punctuated by Sef calling Anton across and giving him some task or other, whether to maintain a watch beyond the clearing or get some food from their packs for the three of them. Nothing was offered to the prisoner.

  Anton paced the clearing as Matraia rested, while Sef continued to question the Kavist. The big Flet showed great patience with the task, something Anton was glad to leave to him, though he figured what they were doing was quite a role reversal: Surely Sef should have been standing with a sword on watch and Anton should have been putting his old interrogation skills to use?

  He shook his head at the notion.

  As he already knew, he didn’t really want to go back to that life or any part of it. Besides, while his questioning techniques had involved patience of a sort, they’d certainly not needed as much as was being shown by Sef. On top of that, the information gained by the Inquisition’s techniques had often proven to be of mixed value and was a lot noisier to retrieve.

  The thought made Anton anxious. They couldn’t just stay here, not when they knew they shared the orphaned woods with a band of Kavists.

  How long until the prisoner’s comrades come looking for him?

  Anton circled their camp, listening and searching the night. Not far from one edge of the clearing, a small gully ran down to the stream. Because of the variety of sounds coming from that area, as the water tumbled over rock and branch, he spent a fair amount of time watching.

  It was during such a moment, as he concentrated on that gully, that he thought he heard an out-of-place sound. He redoubled his efforts, noting a soft but deep rhythmic beat. He wondered if it was footsteps.

  He listened on.

  On one hand he was certain that he’d sensed something, but on the other, he didn’t think it had been footsteps after all. It had been more like listening to a heartbeat.

  Sef appeared beside him. “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought I’d heard something, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “From where?”

  “Down there.”

  Sef looked down the gentle slope towards where the stream lay, also searching for what they’d both no
w sensed. “There is something, subtle and light, but yes.”

  “What is it? It’s not footsteps, but as you say, something subtle and light...” Anton’s words trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not actually a sound. We’re picking up something else, a noise from the celestial.”

  Beside him, focussed on the dark woods around them, Sef began to nod. “You’re right. That’s something from the spirit world, an undercurrent of power, a celestial pulse.” He opened himself up to it. He sampled it for a moment, and then began to smile. “Can you feel it?”

  Anton nodded. “Yes, you’re right. It’s the grace of Juvela – or something very much like it. I think it’s coming to us from the waters of the stream.”

  They heard a sound behind them and turned. Matraia stood there, unsteady on her feet. “Sorry, I heard you talking. It could be the overflow of Dorloth’s power spilling out of Kalraith.”

  Sef’s eyebrows arched. “That makes more sense than us being able to feel Juvela.”

  She gave a weak nod, but seemed to grow in strength as she stood before them. “She is very powerful. Perhaps the waters come from up in the mountains, from a source that is influenced by her. Perhaps it’s from a pass up on high or even a mountainside that faces into the basins of Kalraith. Somehow it picks up and gathers the radiance of her power, then washes it down as a trace mixed in the stream’s water.”

  Just standing there, watching her, Anton and Sef both could feel a longing in Matraia to go to the water, to go and bathe in the stream.

  Sef looked back to their prisoner, the man still lying on his belly on the humus, with his hands tied behind his back and his legs bound. “Anton, help me get Matraia down to the water.”

  Without a word, they led her down the slope, following the gully to leave their campsite behind. Before long they got her to the edge of the shallow flow.