Karlo had his torso jutting through the opening. “What is it?” he asked, the desperation in Yohan’s demeanor immediately visible.
“Go back,” Yohan growled. “We’re under attack.”
Halfway down the curving stone steps, Yohan slowed his pace and cautioned Karlo to do the same. Noises could be heard below. Yohan leaned close to his companion’s ear. “Your crossbow.”
Karlo pulled the weapon from its resting place on his back. He cranked the mechanism and added a bolt from his hip quiver. Then he nodded his readiness.
“On my charge,” Yohan whispered, then resumed the descent while unslinging shield and unsheathing sword. Upon reaching the second floor, he wondered how many there were. He hated going into a fight blind, but did not want to risk being seen peeking down. He could not hear them at all now, and pondered whether they could possibly have left. That was doubtful—more likely they were waiting in ambush. Yohan only hoped they were paying more attention to the outside than the above.
He knew from experience that it was better to let instinct take over than it was to overthink, so began to run down the final flight of stairs. He immediately saw two figures positioned near the open doorway, staring out. Both turned as he vaulted down the last six steps at once, aiming his momentum toward the nearer. The man’s eyes grew wider as he tried to raise his unwieldy two-handed axe up to deflect the attack. It was a clumsy weapon, ill-suited for defense, and Yohan’s blade stabbed straight past it through the brute’s neck and out the other side. A split-second later, Yohan’s shield collided with the large body, and he used its inertia to shove the dead man back, smoothly withdrawing the sword. Just in time to face the second man, who was already lifting his own axe to attack. Then a crossbow bolt sprouted from the fur-clad chest. There was a look of surprise, and the man fell backward, lifeless.
Yohan had already lifted his shield, which made it easier to turn and block the incoming attack of a third opponent. The blow landed solidly on the reinforced metal center, and Yohan felt the cruel, concussive impact in his arm much harder than expected. A quick glance at the man behind the blow told him why. This was a giant, even bigger than Huk. And already he was lifting that axe for a second swing.
Yohan clenched his teeth and pushed his shield forward, his stunned arm clumsy and complaining. But it simultaneously took much of the force out of the axe’s next strike and closed the distance where the enemy’s longer reach worked against him. The brute took one step back, attempting to reestablish that distance—and Yohan drove his sword right into the breast. It was not the cleanest of thrusts, and he felt the blade redirected off bone, but he continued pushing with the confidence that it was good enough. A moment later, the spark of life disappeared from the giant’s eyes, and he crumpled to the floor with a deafening crash.
Karlo was beside Yohan now, staring down at the lifeless figure. “Good thing they aren’t wearing mail, eh?”
Yohan nodded. It was true enough.
“They aren’t Gothenbergers. Goths would have better gear. Who are they?”
“Tribesmen.”
Karlo looked at him. “Those savages don’t attack a whole company of imperial troops.”
“These do.” Yohan did not have time for a long conversation with his companion. They needed to get outside to where they could help the others. “Reload and get ready to—”
Karlo was already at the entrance, staring out. “Devil’s breath, Yohan, there are a lot of them. We can’t go out there.”
“Well, we can’t stay here.”
“There’s a storeroom below. We could hide until they move on.”
“They aren’t moving on.”
“How do you know? It’s probably a raiding party—”
Yohan grabbed Karlo by the shoulders and slammed him against the hard stone wall. The eyes widened, their attention suddenly focused where Yohan wanted it—on him. “I know, all right? Now listen to me—we have one way out of this and that’s by working together. We need to get as far from this place as quickly as possible. And we’re going to help anyone else we can on the way.” He paused for a second, trying to organize his own racing thoughts into some kind of coherent plan. “At least one of us needs to make it back to Northgate and report what happened here.”
“Okay, Brother. Back off.”
Yohan let go of Karlo and looked down at the men they had just killed. He went to a knee and began to unfasten the fur cloak on the nearest. He was relieved when Karlo began doing the same to one of the others.
“How far do you think we get in these?”
“Just don’t talk and we’ll be fine.” Like asking a nightingale not to sing.
They wrapped themselves in the furs. Karlo’s new cloak had the advantage of a hood, which covered most of his steel helmet. Yohan was disappointed to discover that his did not. With some regret, he removed his helmet and dropped it beside the body of the giant. He felt less sentimental about the shield, which had served its purpose nobly. He would have liked to destroy both—the thought of equipping his enemies was particularly distasteful—but there was no time.
“Ready?” he asked aloud.
“Not really.” Me, neither. Best not to think about it.
Yohan stepped out of the tower and immediately felt vulnerable. The snowfall had lightened, and he could see dark figures milling about in small groups. He heard sounds of fighting in the distance, and he set off in that direction. He wondered why everyone was not moving the same way, but then he passed the first corpses. Hairy, filthy men like the ones in the tower were rummaging through the bodies—Vilnian or savage, it did not seem to matter—helping themselves to anything they found. Few of them so much as glanced up at the two men who walked past.
Twenty yards from the tower, Yohan saw Sisko’s bloody form robbed of its fine silver mirror and shaving knife—the first an incongruous possession, proudly won from a duel with Martin, much admired by others but seldom used on its owner’s homely, pockmarked face. If you had ever learned to trade with us, you could have had that without all this blood, Yohan thought bitterly. Ten yards further he saw Skov and Shanks, the second having his mail shirt ineffectively pulled up by two quarreling tribesmen.
He heard Karlo mutter “damn the bastards,” and looked over to admonish his companion. Then he saw the bodies of Kenzo and Jilda, the former lying in a patch of bloody snow and the latter’s clothes ripped to shreds. Their deaths had come at a price—four tribesmen corpses accompanied the pair—but that did not make the scene any less upsetting. Both the swordmaiden and the Yoshi had been well-liked. Yohan clenched his teeth and tugged Karlo toward the growing sounds of commotion. The fighting seemed to have stopped, but a different sort of disturbance was taking its place.
A large crowd was forming in one spot, and Yohan heard the sound of cheering. He decided to avoid this group as much as possible, and thanked the gods the trail did not begin to narrow for another quarter-mile. He steered Karlo along, hoping to use the commotion as a convenient distraction.
There was a loud neighing from within the throng, and he suddenly saw the captain’s warhorse rear up on two legs. Its forelegs kicked the air in front, forcing one of a group of tribesmen to hurriedly step back while the others laughed. They had the animal surrounded. No doubt it was terrified—but it was also trained for battle, and subduing the horse would be no easy task. Yohan forced down the impulse to help, instead silently thanking the poor creature for drawing attention away.
They were nearly past that scene when they came across the captain. He lay on his belly, a deadly bolt jutting from the center of his back. Yohan reflexively stopped, wishing to pay his respects. Marek had been less distrustful of an Oster serving in the Vilnian army than had other officers. He had also been a capable leader, deserving of a better fate. Yohan felt the air being sapped from his lungs, and shook his head to clear the unwanted emotions from his thoughts.
Karlo was already stepping toward the sad figure. He bent down, reaching out, and was s
avagely kicked in the side by one of four tribesmen who suddenly approached. Karlo fell onto his side and looked up, wearing an expression of panic. The man who had kicked was yelling at him, harsh words in a harsh tongue. One of the other men bent down and grabbed the captain’s arms. He began dragging the corpse, then paused to yell at his companion.
Yohan was already moving. He grabbed Karlo roughly with both hands—firmly clamping one hand over his mouth in the process—and dragged him backward before pulling him up to his feet. The angry tribesman leveled one last curse in their direction, then turned to help his companion lift the captain’s body and carry it away.
The remaining two tribesmen had moved toward yet another body. Yohan used the opportunity to flash a look of warning toward Karlo. He nearly whispered a reproach as well, then saw tears in the man’s red eyes. Yohan put a hand on his comrade’s shoulder, silently giving comfort, and felt the body shaking. He wished he could say something reassuring, but even were it possible to speak he would not have known the words. He seldom did.
They heard more commotion coming from the two nearby tribesmen, who suddenly dropped the body they were picking up, both stepping back in surprise. One of the body’s arms moved, the gauntleted fingers clawing at the snowy earth. One tribesman stepped forward and kicked the figure hard in the head, and the fingers stopped. The head rolled to the side, and a few strands of long blonde bloodied hair became visible.
Yohan quickly glanced around. The two men carrying Marek were already fading into the snowy background. Those tormenting the horse were close, but had their backs turned. As long as he was quiet about it…
There was no time to explain himself to Karlo. Yohan started walking toward the men and slipped his knife from the sheath on his belt. Only once he was within a few paces did one of the savages turn to look at him. The face did not even have time to register surprise as Yohan brought the knife across the neck, severing the artery in a splash of warm blood. The mouth began to gurgle, but Yohan’s other hand clamped over it as he hastily forced the heavy body to the ground.
He stole a look at his next opponent, hoping the man had been too surprised to react yet. A yell would be all it took to kill any hope of escape.
To his surprise, a sword was sticking through the tribesman’s throat, the point right in front of Yohan’s eyes. A look of satisfaction on his rough face, Karlo pulled the weapon back and let the tribesman fall over—almost comically, like a poor actor in one of the minstrel shows so popular with children.
Yohan examined the princess. She was unconscious, but still breathing. The wound in her side would have to be dealt with, but there was no time for that now. It was imperative that they flee as quickly as possible. He and Karlo might have been able to casually wander off in their disguises, but carrying a female body would be an immediate giveaway. They needed distance and speed.
He scooped her up and started off, directly away from the sounds of the nearby group. Karlo fell in beside him, sword in hand. “You can’t carry her back to Northgate, Brother.”
“I know.” Yohan already felt himself tiring, and they had not even made it fifty yards. “We need that warhorse.”
“Nay, we don’t.”
Yohan raised an eyebrow. He was increasingly conscious of how very tired he was getting. Not only was the physical exertion taking its toll on him, the mental stress had peaked as soon as he had climbed out on the top of the watchtower and had not appreciably diminished in all the time since.
“I saw her stallion. It had only a few men guarding it.”
“Where?”
“Back there.”
Yohan sighed, then stopped. He looked for a place to lay her down, where she might be hidden from view while they went back into the enemy camp. Back into the center of danger.
Karlo stopped him. “Keep going. I’ll get it and catch up.”
Yohan looked into his companion’s face, saw the burning desire for revenge. This was a risky choice—but everything about this day was turning out risky. That they had made it this far was a small miracle. The odds of getting much farther were not good, even if he abandoned his burden. To make it out of the mountains, all the way back to Halfsummit—impossible.
“All right,” he said. “I’m going to try to get her to this morn’s camp, if I can.”
Karlo grinned. “I’ll catch up before you’re halfway there.”
Yohan wished he could smile back, but it was not in his nature. “Good luck, Brother.”
“And you.” Karlo started back up the trail, a recognizable vigor in his step. Yohan longed to borrow a piece of it. His own legs already felt dead, and he would not be able to rest them for quite some time.
Yohan restarted the fire in the abandoned camp. He knew the risks, but the need for warmth superseded all other concerns. The sun set early behind the tall peaks that surrounded him, and despite the welcome cessation of snowfall, the wind continued its frigid malignance. As long as he had used his muscles carrying her body, wearily putting one foot in front of the other, Yohan had managed to stay warm. In the hour since the halt, however, he felt himself steadily freezing. His body craved the warmth as much as it needed food. He had none of the latter to give it; the least he could do was provide the former.
Karlo had not returned with the destrier. Naturally. Yohan had never really expected that he would. It would have been far too much to hope for. So much so that he could not even bring himself to feel disappointment. The much greater regret was his failure to secure any source of nourishment. Assuming the girl lived, it would require four or five days for him to get her as far as the last fort. How he would sustain the two of them for that long, he had no idea.
Not that he expected her to live. Twice in the last hour she had mumbled something incomprehensible, but neither time had she actually been conscious. The wound looked severe, and the crossbow bolt was still embedded in her flesh. He decided that if she survived the night—if they survived the night—he would remove it on the morrow, when he had sufficient light to clean and inspect the wound. He doubted it would come to that, though. Judging the situation rationally, he had no idea how she had made it this long.
He had probably killed Karlo with the decision to try to save her. Yohan supposed he should have felt worse, but was not one given to sentimentality. They were all soldiers, and he had long since discovered it was best not to form any attachments. Besides, he had likely killed himself with the same decision.
And so he built the fire as large as he could with the limited amounts of icy scrub he found nearby. He held his hands out to the flame, appreciative of the momentary comfort, if nothing else in this harsh existence.
Perhaps the light would draw the tribesmen down upon him. If so, Yohan would not regret the event. A quick death with the chance to take out a few more of them was far preferable to the slower death that the mountains promised.
He was certain the growing hoofbeats were in his imagination until they became so close that he was forced to accept their reality. Yohan lifted himself to his feet, the faintest of smiles unconsciously spreading across his face. He tried to think of a suitable way to greet his comrade, but words never came the way he wanted them to. So he had gotten in the habit of using them sparingly. Somehow, people always figured out what he meant.
The stallion cantered into the ring of illumination, then slowed to a trot. It circled the campfire once, then slowed to a walk, moved closer and sniffed at its master as she lay unmoving beneath the fur cloak Yohan had used as a blanket.
The horse was riderless. There appeared to be a streak of blood along its gray neck, but the limited light made it difficult to be sure. Yohan was in no hurry to verify that, in any case. He was back to staring into the fire. He supposed he should secure the animal so that it would still be there come morn, although the likelihood of its wandering off now that it had found them seemed remote.
He closed his eyes. The exhaustion—and not the physical kind—was bearing him down. He wondered wheth
er he would wake up. He wondered if he cared.
Chapter Three
Everdawn
JAK HAD looked up to Kevik, son of village clerk Rodrik and his wife Sofi, for as long as he could remember. Less so Kleo, Kevik’s sister, whose petty tyrannies had occupied so much of Jak’s sixteen years. The two affluent scions had learned at an early age that Jak was obligated to carry out their wishes, yet their reactions to the authority could not have been more different. Kevik’s was the friendly consideration of an older brother, Kleo’s the abusive cruelty of a martinet. Whereas Kevik had often helped with Jak’s chores so that the two of them had more time to play or explore together, she made up work to keep him confined inside the manor’s walls. Their unassertive parents had not felt the need to intervene, giving a tacit approval to her behavior.
Jak had hoped that coming of age would bring maturity to temper her unkindness. Instead, her blossoming to womanhood had brought an arrogance that merely exacerbated it.
Because he was a housethrall, sworn to a lifetime of servitude to their family, he could not voice his displeasure openly. But Jak had always been a naturally optimistic child, and remained a hopeful adolescent. Not without a measure of empathy for her situation as the younger, neglected sibling of a prodigy who could do no wrong, he did his best to treat her with respect in hopes it would one day be reciprocated. Thus far, his efforts had not made much difference.
Things had not gotten any easier with Kevik’s departure just over a year ago. Having grown into a powerful young man and the best swordsman in the region, he had been selected to attend the prestigious martial academy in Varborg, Falkenreach’s capital city and the reputed birthplace of Eberhart himself. Because admittance to the academy was ordinarily restricted to the noble houses of the empire, Kevik’s acceptance was an honor unprecedented for a village the size of Everdawn. On the day he found out, Jak had been as happy as the hero himself—perhaps more so, for Jak’s childhood companion was not without the natural anxiety that came with such an opportunity. Whereas Jak had been focused on the privilege, Kevik had dwelled on doubts and expectations in the private talks they shared when no other ears listened.
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