by Adam Carter
“If you’ve done all you can, then you’re not at fault.”
“No, you are. If you don’t want girls to suffer horrific, life-changing burns, Captain, I would suggest you not set them on fire.”
He walked off to give an ointment to one of the villagers, along with instructions as to its application. Wren stared at the sleeping girl, trying to justify what she had done. There was no justification. Captain Wren had never seen herself as a decent human being, but nor had she ever believed she was a monster. Now she had no idea what she was.
Turning her back on the girl, Wren headed after her soldiers. As they marched from the village in continued pursuit of their quarry, Wren did not doubt this was far from the final atrocity she was going to commit in the doing of her duty.
CHAPTER TWO
“That was a mess, Captain.”
Wren knew she had done wrong by everyone. Her conscience had taken a battering, Lorraine had suffered, Valok had lost respect for her and Canlin was still not happy. The regiment had marched for several hours and presently had stopped beside a stream to water their horses. During the march Canlin had not said a word, but now they had stopped he approached her.
“There was nothing to be gained from killing her,” Wren said.
“Consistency. A captain needs to be strong, ma’am. Ruthless.”
“And I’m too soft, is that it?”
“It might be why we’ve been running around for ten years.”
“We’re soldiers, Canlin. Our job is to protect people, and we can’t do that if we start murdering children.”
“Our job is to protect the interests of the baroness.”
It was an old argument between them and Wren did not intend to continue it there and then. Her body ached from when she had thrown herself through the flames, but she made no mention of it. She was certain Valok knew she was hurting, but he had been good enough not to even make anyone aware.
“I just think we need new tactics,” Canlin said. “I’m not trying to undermine you, ma’am, you know I’d never do that. But the truth is we’re no closer to finding these three than we were ten years ago.”
“I know, Arno, I know. But if we sacrifice our morality, how are we any better than heroes?”
“There’s irony in there somewhere.”
Wren did not hate Canlin. It would have been so easy to do so, but she did not even dislike him. The strange thing was the two soldiers respected one another more than either realised. They were so different, their individual approaches to a situation were almost always distasteful to the other, but they complimented one another so well. Together they should have been able to solve any problem, yet after a decade they had nothing to show for their efforts. Crenshaw, Moya and Asperathes were still on the run, always one step ahead of them, forever laughing. It was infuriating, but it was infuriating to them both.
“We’ll get them in the end,” she promised.
“Then I promise I won’t let you burn alive any more children.”
He had spoken it jovially, but Wren could not see anything funny about it. If word got back to the baroness, she would not care, would probably demand a reason for Wren not having razed the entire village, but Wren was not the baroness. There were people who called their mistress cruel, and no doubt she was; but she remained in power and she did not accomplish that by being nice to everyone.
Wren knew she would have been a far better woman had she been able to follow her mistress’s example a little more closely.
A soldier approached them then and saluted. Her name was Mannin. She was young, without rank, and always looked far too happy to be a part of the regiment. She had only joined with them a year earlier and did not seem to understand Wren’s regiment was not something to brag about. As soon as the heroes were caught, things would change, but until then it was an embarrassment to admit to being on the team.
“What?” Wren asked tiredly.
“Ma’am, there’s something strange in the stream. We thought we should let you know.”
“What is it? Please tell me there’s not a corpse upriver.” That had happened to her one time: half her regiment had come down with terrible stomach pains but thankfully no one had died.
“No, ma’am. It looks like a … well, it looks like a plug.”
“A what?”
“A plug.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“But you asked me …”
Canlin coughed loudly. Mannin shut up very quickly.
“We probably should check this,” Canlin said. “I’m actually quite curious.”
Wren was not sure whether she cared that much, but supposed Mannin meant the stream was blocked somewhere. Maybe a beaver had built a dam, or if the beavers had somehow acquired magic maybe they were indeed building plugs. It would be a distraction at any rate. Catching the three rogues was not the regiment’s only responsibility, but it certainly did take up a lot of their time, especially in recent months. It would be good for the soldiers to have something to take their minds off their continual failure.
She walked with Mannin back along the stream and could see a gathering of soldiers chattering away. Whatever was in the stream, it was clearly something of interest, then.
“Now that is strange,” Canlin said.
Wren could see it now. The stream was perhaps ten strides wide and fairly shallow. In the centre was a tall black edifice formed, seemingly, of wood. It was as though some leafless black tree had grown from the centre of the river. It was shaped as a triangle, with the widest part at the top, and rounded. Wren understood the analogy at once, for it certainly did very much resemble a plug.
What it actually was, she had no idea, but had to admit her own interest was now piqued.
“We should probably ignore it,” Canlin said, “but I have a feeling we’re not going to.”
“Like we’d ever be able to sleep at night if we did.” Wren felt instantly guilty for having said that, for there was far more that day she had done to prevent her sleeping soundly than examining a strange black tree in a stream.
“Send in the mage,” Canlin said. “If there’s anything iffy about this, Valok would be delighted to fall foul of it.”
“Valok would not,” Valok said, surprising them both by standing directly beside them. Wren knew there was nothing magical about such an appearance, for the sorcerer had long ago mastered the art of making people believe his every action was the work of magic.
“Cover me,” Wren said as she stepped into the stream.
“You’re going yourself?” Canlin asked, and even sounded concerned.
“Looks like,” she called back.
The water was indeed shallow, and by the time she was halfway to the plug it had barely risen to her knees. She was well aware her soldiers were arrayed at the side, awaiting results with eager anticipation. She knew she had lost faith with some for her weakness back at the village and hoped this action would reinstate some of their belief in her. At the very least she could refill her water flask in a most spectacular manner.
She reached the plug with the water barely chest-high. The current of the stream was calm, but as she stopped before the plug she felt the water suddenly push at her in one almighty effort. She held her ground and the wave passed, but could not help take it as an omen; the elements themselves did not wish her to proceed in this.
Wren took her time to examine the plug. Now she was close to it, she could see it was indeed formed of wood, and it was wood so smooth that she could imagine the waves – famous for making stones so smooth – would have been insanely jealous of what mortal hands had wrought here. She ran her fingers along its side, marvelling at the fine workmanship. Then she knocked upon the wood and found it solid. Whatever the plug was, it was no illusion.
“Captain?” Canlin shouted. “What is it?”
“A wooden plug, by all accounts. I’m tempted to yank it free just to see what happens.”
“Who would put a plug in the river?”<
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“Maybe it was the wizard Moya,” Wren suggested. “In that case, maybe it doesn’t do anything but is just designed to slow us down.”
“Or maybe,” Valok said, “it’s designed to draw you in.”
Wren could tell by the rising of his voice that something was wrong. She could feel the shift to the current and looked around frantically. A wake had formed on the stream, a pinprick having split the surface, a dark cloud streaking towards her beneath. She had foolishly believed the stream too shallow for any truly dangerous creature to cause her any problem, but had never stopped to properly consider the entire thing may well have been a trap.
It was too late to run, for the water would slow her movements; nor could she properly wield a sword under such conditions. Wren decided the latter option offered her the greatest chance of survival, so drew her blade and stood her ground. Let the enemy come and she would show her entire regiment why it was never a good idea to lose faith in Captain Serita Wren.
“Fire!” Canlin shouted and a score of arrows sliced through the water not five paces ahead of Wren. The water churned with thrashing violence, drenching Wren and souring the stream with blood. The thing which rose before her was angry and all at once she knew what it was and her blood ran cold. Getting into the water had been the worst mistake she had ever made in her life.
The creature stood crouched, but even so it was still almost three metres tall. Its skin was dull grey, leathery and thick, like that of a rhinoceros, and it stood upon two short but incredibly powerful legs. Its arms were thick but as short as the legs, for the creature needed to be as streamlined as possible beneath the surface. Its head appeared almost to protrude from the thing’s chest, and in its maw Wren had never before seen such a horrific collection of lethal knives, rows upon rows of the things all waiting for those at the front to snap off during combat. The beast’s snout was short, stumpy even, behind which it stared out with tiny, black eyes.
Wren had heard about these creatures before, but had never had the misfortune to meet one. They had no language of their own that other races could understand, so were collectively termed makomen, even though the one presently before her was not a mako shark. The creatures were effectively bipedal sharks, whose short legs and relatively feeble arms made them vulnerable on land, so they seldom ventured from the water. As with the apepkith, the makomen had developed along several evolutionary lines, but almost all of them were deadly to swimmers.
If not for her regiment, Wren knew she would already be dead. Even with their help, she doubted that conclusion would change.
“Captain!” Canlin shouted and, what with the noise caused by the arrows, the water and the shark man itself, Wren had the impression it was not the first time he had called out to her. “Get out of the water!”
Wren would have loved nothing more than to get out of the water, but she would never make it to shore in time. Instead she swung her sword, slicing it across the monster’s thick leathery hide. Her blow had not been strong enough to wound the creature, but certainly it gave the beast pause. Before it could recover, Wren pressed her advantage by lunging for the beast, but her experience in fighting in water was severely limited and she misjudged the resistance the stream would offer. As such she found herself tumbling into the creature, knocking it off-balance and plunging them both underwater.
Wren broke the surface in a panic, scrabbling to get back to her feet. In open water she would already have been dead, but the stream was shallow enough for her to hold her own against the makoman. Still, if she did not gain an advantage momentarily she knew she would without doubt be killed.
The makoman threw itself upon her, its short arms grasping. Wren threw herself backwards, twisting away from the arms and barely managing to stay away from the teeth which tried to rip her to shreds. Wren backed away, holding her sword warily before her as the makoman circled. The stream was not quite deep enough for it to build up the necessary speed for a proper charge but she knew even a glancing blow would prove enough to kill her.
A shout from the shore sent another volley of arrows at her foe, but Canlin was too wary of striking his captain, for the arrows fell short and seemed mainly to distract the creature instead. Wren decided in that moment there was nothing which could distract a makoman when it was closing in for a kill.
Knowing she would have to kill it before it killed her, Wren awaited its charge and then slashed with her blade as it came for her, spinning in an attempt to cut into its side as it passed. Instead her sword deflected off its tough hide and a sharp pain shuddered through her ribs. As the shark man passed her, she clutched her side and found a chunk torn from her armour, the powerful teeth having shorn through the metal, ripping out a chunk of her flesh in the process.
Wren’s mind panicked and she fought it down, for giving in to such would doom her for certain. Instead she fought frantically for some means of saving herself. Even in such shallow water she was no match for the makoman and if she continued to fight she would be dead within minutes. Already the water about her was clouding with blood – already she could feel her body pumping out vital fluids with every breath she took. The pain was unimportant: Wren had felt such fire tear through her body on so many occasions and had never been one to surrender to it. What the pain promised was another matter entirely.
The makoman rose some metres ahead of her, grinning as her diluted blood dripped from its razor fangs. Within its beady eyes she could see it knew she was already dead, and there was nothing she could do to change that.
Wren took a single step backwards and found her retreat blocked by the massive wooden plug.
Then she had an idea.
Turning, Wren shoved her blade through the water, slamming it into the streambed where it connected to the plug. She could hear the makoman already beginning its final charge but refused to turn to face it. She pushed harder, her muscles straining more fiercely due to her injury, and she could feel the sword slip deeper through. From the shore she could hear Canlin shouting at her: the man actually seemed concerned for once. Behind, she could feel the water slap into her as the makoman rose, could feel the creature’s hot breath upon her back, could see its short arms reaching for her out the corner of her eyes.
Pulling back on her sword, Wren’s blade forced the wooden plug upwards with such force that it popped clear of the hole it covered.
Immediately the stream became a nightmare.
Wren was already running, shoving past the shocked makoman as water shot past her in a whirlpool, building so quickly to a maelstrom. Wren knew she had seconds in which to gain some distance from the plug, perhaps not even that, and she was already several steps past the shocked makoman before it even realised what was happening.
The water gripped her, trying to draw her backwards, and Wren fought it admirably but with ultimate futility. She struggled on, but as a wave slapped her in the chest she fell, her arms flailing. Her grasping hand caught something and her fall was arrested. Coughing water, gasping for air, she realised she had caught hold of something long and strong. Gazing ahead she could see Canlin giving commands for the soldiers to pull, that they had thrown some form of rope at her. She glanced behind her to see the stream a churning, sucking monstrosity, the makoman screaming as it twisted round and round in the circling death.
With fearful eyes, Wren thrust one hand over the other, climbing along the rope even as she was pulled from the eye of the storm.
It took an eternity, but finally hands grabbed her and hauled her to the shore. She fell to her hands and knees, hacking violently before collapsing onto her back. The stream was at last returning to normal, as though whatever underground cavern the hole revealed had at last filled. How so much water could have been thrown around when the stream had been so shallow she could not say. Magic was the obvious answer, and Wren hated it.
“An ingenious trap,” Valok was saying, rubbing his chin. “They placed the plug there to get you curious, but also as a means of saving your life. Moya�
��s test, I should imagine.”
“Test?” Wren asked, her breathing slowly returning to normal.
“I think they’ve begun to play with us.”
“I hope you’re wrong in that.” The very idea did not bear thinking about.
Canlin was laughing. Wren wished he didn’t find things to laugh at quite so often. “Good show, Captain,” he said. “Staying to fight that makoman was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Wren could not believe what she was hearing and opened her mouth to tell him running would have killed her so staying to fight was her only option. Then she saw the faces of her regiment. They were exhausted, terrified, but filled with pride at how she had handled the situation. In truth Wren had been scared herself and had only acted as she had because it had given her the best chance at survival. That was the truth, but it was not what her soldiers needed to hear. After losing their respect at the village pyres, it was good to have regained some of it.
“Crenshaw and his band haven’t beaten us yet,” she said loudly. “Sergeant, resume the march. We head north, and this time we’re going to find our prey.”
A cheer resounded through the regiment and Canlin happily set the soldiers moving. Wren caught his eye and knew he had reasoned her logic; but he was far too good a sergeant not to have turned it to her advantage. He may have been a butcher and a pig, but he was also a good friend.
The heroes had set the trap to test her and Wren had twisted it to her own use. They had meant for it to slow her down, but it seemed all it had done was give her soldiers hope. It was not the first mistake these so-called heroes had made over the years, but it was certainly one of their greatest.
From her own heart, this was the first time in far too many years that Captain Wren allowed herself to believe she might soon succeed. A few more days and she could have all three as her prisoners.
A few more days and her nightmare could be over.