Was that a shout of alarm on the wind? It was difficult to focus on anything beyond Lastrahn’s gaze.
“Now let me tell you what he’s planning to do.”
Fear surged through Ryle’s veins at the deadly serious look in the champion’s eyes. He caught a whiff of something harsh and bitter on the air. Smoke?
“There’s a young woman in Gearspire. A hostage Vastroth keeps under lock and key.”
He didn’t say it, but Ryle knew he meant hostage. It was a bastard move, but he’d admit, an effective one. How many times had he escaped for that very reason? How many extra coins had he collected? He stopped counting before the nausea overtook him.
“Who is she?” Ryle asked.
He didn’t think it possible but Lastrahn’s eyes hardened a bit more. “The eldest daughter of the woman who leads the most powerful Lagaan tribe. Vastroth took her at Helador, before he proved that he’s in control, that no one can oppose him.” His voice dropped to a growl and horror filled Ryle as the champion continued. “When the veil parts on the night of the Harvest Moon, Vastroth will return from the Blasts. But he won’t be alone. He’ll lead a Lagaan army, and with them, he’ll fulfill his plan. He’ll conquer the West.”
Ryle forgot the bandits, his fatigue, and for once, even his father. The hostage’s fate wrenched at him, but the thought of Vastroth wielding a Praeter army shook his bones.
Those dark eyes from that night came back. The fear that cut through him like a gale. Only now it wasn’t two Praeters, but an entire blasted army. Ryle’s mouth went dry, his hands numb.
Vastroth had been an undecipherable force for years. A man of no allegiances. He’d shown time and again he held no love for the Directorate, not after they’d cast him out. Some thought him a defender of the frontier. Until Helador. There he proved that he stood not only alone, but above every other force aligned against him. Laying waste to easterners, westerners and Praeters alike with equal disdain.
Dwellers along the frontier had been bracing for a seemingly inevitable war ever since. Theories and rumors swirled around who’d been involved, who’d really plotted the disaster. The Houses snapped at each other, and everyone else waited with trepidation for the Praeters to return and take their vengeance.
Being caught up in the Houses’ assault against Gearspire was nightmare enough, but if Vastroth and the Praeters joined forces . . . Cold filled Ryle’s veins. For this the Directorate would send the House of Reckoning into Gearspire. It was their last ditch effort to stave off the end.
“A muck sucking Praeter army. It’ll be the end, of everything,” Ryle muttered.
Lastrahn nodded back over the wall. “So, you tell me. Decide if you will risk all of the realm for a few poor farmers.”
With a sickening feeling, Ryle knew he’d already chosen. He thought he heard a piercing cry on the wind. Real or imagined, it hurt just the same when he answered his new master. “No, Sir.” Ryle dropped his head. His hands were clenched into white knuckled fists. He forced them open. Angry red lines stood out where his nails had bitten into his palms.
Lastrahn stood and brushed the dust from his coat.
“Then saddle up. Daylight’s wasting and we have no time to spare, for you or anyone else.”
Somehow Ryle got to his feet and moved to Grey. Somehow he got her saddle on and swung up onto her back. He didn’t remember much of it. Despite the sun, everything was too dark and cloudy in his skull. All he could see were a Praeter’s dark eyes and his father’s mad smile. Two bastards, and he and Lastrahn had to find one to stop the other.
CHAPTER 15
“The town’s called Taggerloft,” Lastrahn said. A breeze fluttered his hood around his face as they surveyed the land ahead.
The afternoon sun hung low behind them, searing the back of Ryle’s sweating neck with its baleful glare. His chest still felt hollow, but he tried to focus past it to the town ahead.
Three large knolls, lined up east to west, rose a few hundred paces above the plain. Beside them, a packed dirt road ran between sunrise and sunset. Horses, wagons, and tents clustered around the banner-draped open gates of the eastern hill.
A variety of wooden buildings, linked by narrow streets, covered each mound, and atop the center hillock, a small tower for surveying the surrounding lands. It was all common enough except for the bridges that connected the middle hill to the other two. Ryle frowned at the sight.
“Never had rivers in these parts, so no idea why the bridges exist, but they’ve served the town well,” Lastrahn said. “Whenever fighting breaks out they declare themselves neutral. If anyone tries to push the point, they close their gates and that’s that.”
The place looked difficult to assault. Even a small team would have trouble sneaking in. A thick stone wall surrounded each hill, and three hundred paces of open ground stretched around them in every direction. With food and water they could hold off anything short of a full army for weeks, maybe months.
“The bastards had a good enough idea, but as they sit in the always volatile space between Murden and Xaviel, they took it a step further. To promote trade they designated the eastern and western hills for each House respectively. Both sides bought the idea and set up outposts that remain to this day.”
Smart, Ryle admitted as he surveyed the surrounding land.
The old, well maintained buildings had never seen a torch. The surrounding land looked likewise unharmed. Scrubby yellow grass dotted with trees spread to the edge of the sky. A rarity, many other valleys were now burned out husks thanks to skirmishes between Xaviel and Murden.
“We’re looking for supplies and a new mount?” Ryle asked.
“That’s it. Then we bust our asses riding hard for the Del.”
Lastrahn didn’t mention beds for the night, but Ryle hoped they were in their cards. He was sagging, his neck and back ached, and his head wobbled with every turn. Another night in the saddle sounded unbearable.
“Before we head down there that order to keep your name to yourself stands. Tell no one your real name. You save that for lovers and your mother and I recommend lying to both when you can,” Lastrahn said.
Ryle didn’t understand, and would’ve hidden it, but his tired face betrayed him.
“Just the sword Mero,” Lastrahn muttered to himself, then slicked his hair back with one hand. “There’s more than blades, beasts, and bandits out here. You’ve seen that yourself. The first rule when dealing with the unknown is no names. Keep that buried somewhere and forget about it.” After their encounter with Judith, Ryle wasn’t about to argue, but it made him wonder if Lastrahn was his real name. Ryle had never heard of another one. “Your name’s a key to doors you don’t want bastards unlocking.”
Ryle knew all about locked up secrets. And false names for that matter, though for a much different reason. Of all the muck raking things his father had done, at least he’d kept Ryle’s real name concealed. He had to admit, that Kilgren calling him Kilson was almost certainly in service to his ego, more than his safety, but at least Ryle didn’t have to give up the name his mother had given him.
If he had to carry a false name for a little while longer to find his father, he’d gladly grit his teeth and accept it. “Aiden it is, Sir.”
The champion nodded and started for the town, and Ryle guided Grey after him.
Out here a town like Taggerloft would draw folks from leagues in all directions for the festivities. It felt like a week since the festival had begun in Shelling, but this was the third day of Advent. The Day of Equations when people were supposed to settle old debts, and evaluate the upcoming harvest. It was a meant to serve as a reminder of the careful planning that pulled their ancestors through the fire, but usually just involved a lot of trips to banks and loan sharks.
Ryle’s mother had loved this day. Even in a town this small he could only guess how many coins poured into the vault that served as Taggerloft’s repository. By tonight it would be packed full. Ready to be plucked. He smiled sadly and sho
ok his head. That wasn’t his problem any longer. The heavy drinking that usually followed might be more of a concern.
A thick crowd milled about outside the nearest gate. Some looked like travelers from surrounding farms. Others, the poorest ones, looked like more of the ragged settlers he’d seen in Shelling.
A few though were hard-faced. In those eyes Ryle recognized the look of predators seeking prey. He rested his hand on his still empty hip. Blast he needed a sword.
Three stubble cheeked guards, carrying short spears and wearing Murden’s colors of yellow and green manned the eastern gates. Well, they lounged near the gate anyway. One of them glanced up as Ryle and Lastrahn approached.
A pair like them? The guards should’ve asked questions, maybe even searched them. No doubt about it. They stunk of trouble. Hex, Exequor was still strapped across Lastrahn’s back.
The guards waved them through with wide eyes, but no comments.
Ryle shook his head. It didn’t bode well for the state of the town.
Any hope they’d quickly find what they needed dried up as the first stock pens came into view. Skinny goats and a lazy looking cow wouldn’t do them a lot of good.
Ryle said as much, but Lastrahn remained unconcerned. They kept looking, weaving their way upward through the pens along the base of the eastern hillock.
A thick mixture of townsfolk and visitors filled the narrow streets. It was no wonder so many people were kept outside, the town was already packed. Most of the people looked like farmers or laborers, but Ryle also saw a couple shopkeepers and a few housewives out running errands before the big festivities kicked off at sundown. For this being a holiday, very few wore smiles. He wasn’t really surprised. Successful or not, the place sat on a border, a war was brewing, and strangers were wandering in for the holiday. Especially strangers who came armed and with nothing to trade.
Ryle tried to remain stoic as their search of the eastern hillock came up empty and they crossed the bridge to the central hill. Here they found more guards. Their bland Taggerloft uniforms a bit cleaner, if more ill-sized than those worn by the Murden guards. Once again these men eyed them, and once again waved them on.
They’d barely passed through the gate when he spotted a pen of honest horses, or the most handsome donkeys he’d ever seen in disguise, and at that point he might’ve settled for them. He was turning in their direction when a woman screamed across the street. Goose pimples broke out along his skin. He whipped his head about, searching for the source.
Three men in rough clothing clustered around the mouth of an alley between a wheelwright and canvas maker’s shop. Under the grime, Ryle made out Xaviel’s orange sigil of a gauntlet clutching a flame stitched across their backs. His stomach tightened.
Soldiers? Former soldiers? Deserters?
Another cry, and he briefly saw a young woman’s face, framed by a brown hood, before she disappeared between the men.
Ryle spun Grey in the street, but doubt seized his tingling hands. Would Lastrahn want them getting involved? Could the mission afford it? Then again, could he afford not to help her?
The young woman screamed again, and one of the men laughed. Ryle’s skin flushed, he cursed, and heeled Grey forward. Whatever the champion thought, she needed help.
Lastrahn appeared ahead of him, slipping between groups of people, accelerating as he closed on the men, his long legs eating up the short distance. “Gentlemen!” he exclaimed.
The nearest man looked up. Ryle glimpsed stubbled cheeks and dark, lank hair before Lastrahn hit him square in the face without slowing down. The man flew back so hard he bounced off the corner of the wheelwright’s store, and spun away out of sight into the alley.
The second thug was still focused on their victim. Lastrahn kicked his leg out from under him. Ryle gauged that his rotund torso hit horizontal at a pace and a half off the ground before he landed with a dull smack on the back of his neck. He didn’t get up
The third man whipped out a dagger and back peddled as Lastrahn reached him. It didn’t matter. Lastrahn ignored the sliver of a blade, snapped a gloved hand around the man’s throat and drove him into the wall. The knife clattered to the street.
Ryle’s breath caught halfway down his throat. Lastrahn moved in a blur. He’d barely been able to follow his movements. By the time the crowd started to edge away, it was over.
At least they’d done something, or Lastrahn had anyway. Ryle wasn’t sure what had changed the champion’s mind, but he clung to the warm feeling of the intervention amidst the larger emptiness within his chest. Small or not, it made him feel a bit better.
The man pinned to the wall blubbered something. Lastrahn shoved his throat into his spine until he stopped, then let him breathe again.
“Aiden, check her,” Lastrahn growled. His hood had fallen away, and his eyes were on the man in his grip. No wonder the man blubbered. Ryle wouldn’t want to receive that stare either.
Ryle swept the crowd for accomplices, or other sources of trouble. The townsfolk gave them a wide berth and did their best not to notice the scuffle. A passing farmer eyed them, then led his goats away. A woman in a white cap and long coat, probably a merchant, sidestepped the entire affair and disappeared into the crowd. Only a thin teenager dressed in plain spun shirt and pants really watched openly from the doorway of the wheelwright. His brown eyes, shrouded by loose locks of auburn hair, tracked their motions but his hands were empty and he showed no sign of coming closer.
Ryle swung down, and went to the young woman’s side. She was young, maybe only months past coming of age. Blonde hair spilled from her hood, and hung about her face in a tangled mess. Once Ryle brushed it out of the way he found her crying, dirty, and quite pretty. She smelled faintly of lavender. Large blue eyes watched him fearfully through the tears.
Casyne? She looked so much like her that his heart clenched, and he had to look again to reassure himself she was someone different. Several years clearly separated them, and her eyes were the wrong shade, but they could’ve been sisters.
At that moment Ryle badly wanted one of the men to wake up so he could unload the weight on his chest into a skull, via his fists. Alas, Lastrahn had done his job too well, and the man the in the street didn’t stir. He found some satisfaction as a passing mongrel pissed on the man’s pudgy, slack jawed face.
Aside from the shakes, a bleeding lip, and a torn paisley dress, she appeared unharmed. Ryle couldn’t determine much more as she shrank back every time he tried to touch her. When he considered his own appearance, he didn’t blame her.
Ryle showed Lastrahn her bloodied lip, and heard a growl followed by the dull thunk of a skull bouncing off a solid object. His sentiments exactly.
He couldn’t hear what Lastrahn said to the man after that, as he leaned in close and spoke in low tones, but the spreading stain on the man’s trousers said more than words ever could. When Lastrahn let the man go he bolted down the street clutching his crotch and neck. He didn’t stop to help his buddy in the road.
Lastrahn loomed over Ryle and the young woman, a frightening expression on his face. Ryle was about to say that wasn’t what she needed, but she shoved him aside and flung her arms around Lastrahn.
The champion’s expression didn’t change, but he slowly wrapped his arms around her. His hands softly rubbed her back, and he held her until she stopped crying. The gentle motions were so contrary to the look on his face that it was hard for Ryle to reconcile the two.
CHAPTER 16
The locals didn’t care about the young woman’s plight until she pushed her hood back. The crowd gasped as they recognized her. She wasn’t just any young woman, but Ambry, the mayor’s daughter. Their previous disregard dragged hot anger up from Ryle’s guts.
Word of the event swept through the town like a flash flood and the town guardsmen rushed in to snatch up the unconscious brutes, but before they could be hauled off, Ryle’s suspicions were confirmed. They weren’t simple brutes at all, and even more concerning, th
ey weren’t deserters either
A slab faced man with short hair and a stained Xaviel uniform arrived with a handful of other men, all dressed the same and armed with short swords. Their eyes blazed as they took in the ongoing arrest of their comrades in arms.
Ryle turned away, trying to keep the shock from his face. He didn’t have to hear the town guards call him Sergeant Kot to know the man’s name. Only the title was new to him. His face and name were much too familiar.
In five years he’d grown fatter, uglier, and no less unpleasant. Ryle’s last memory of him was as revolting as he was. A husband pushing Kot away from his wife. Kot cutting his throat, and dragging the woman into a dark doorway as Kilgren laughed.
He wanted to grab a sword and shove it through Kot’s fat face. His hand itched for it. He gritted his teeth and kept his head down. Kot was a mid-level thug, a nobody. Ryle had a lead on his father. To say nothing of Lastrahn’s mission. He couldn’t risk everything to dish out a bit of stale payback. Too much hung in the balance.
Ryle felt like he was drowning in anger and had to let it happen.
After a few glares amongst the guards, a terse exchange occurred between the men from the House of Xaviel, and the lead town guard, Fino. Ryle sensed larger tensions there, but after a minute, Fino shoved the men away with more than a bit of disgust. Kot collected his fallen soldiers with a sneer and disappeared back into the crowd. It took all Ryle’s self-control to remain by Lastrahn’s side.
When they were gone, others, including the young man from the wheelwright, approached offering assistance. Ambry declined their offers, and shoved the young man away, opting to stay by Lastrahn’s side. The young man slunk back to the shop, and didn’t emerge again.
Lastrahn didn’t look pleased with the crowd’s attention, but once the dozenth person thanked him, he gave up and forced a smile. Ryle didn’t think it ever reached his eyes, but the townspeople didn’t seem to notice.
Gearspire: Advent Page 13