by J. Thorn
“Good,” said Gerth. “Now get the hell out.”
Chapter 65
The pain in his side was becoming dull. From the cover of the bushes along the side of the road, The Leader That Was watched the arguing Walking Ones as they gathered around their burning fire. That none had detected him for the entire day he had stayed there, hidden and watching them, was a surprise to him, but they seemed to be much too busy with their pack war to be looking for him.
They hadn’t noticed him at all, but it had been close earlier, hadn’t it? When those Walking One strangers came to watch. If that foolish one hadn’t hurt himself on the trap laid for enemies, he may have been spotted. They were so close, just a leap away.
His blood had tasted good. Shame that all of it that he could have was on that trap or trickled in the dirt. Maybe he should hunt them first? If they couldn’t spot a simple trap such as that, they would be easy prey.
He shook his shoulders, brushing off the dew from the morning, and edged back into the bushes.
Enough distraction. The problem was not those watching fools, but the large clan in the clearing near the fire.
Don’t be over-confident now, or they will find you, and kill you, and eat you like they did your sons.
The Leader That Was paused to think of that for a moment as he lay there. Was that his fault? He had led the charge against the Walking Ones at the fire, and they had followed him, all of them, into the attack. They should have come away with enough food for the pack, but instead they had lost their three leaders in one go. Two dead to the Flying Claws of the Walking One Bitch, and then him also, wounded by a claw but not yet dead.
Not yet. He wasn’t dead, but he may as well have been.
And so he sat there, in the shadows, just yards from the edge of the camp. And he watched for any sign of the Walking One Bitch. She was his prey now. Food was irrelevant, as was water. He’d taken little of either since his wound, and even then only enough to keep him going. He had no intentions of living much longer, only long enough to take revenge.
You will not lose track of her. You will follow until you can strike, and when you do, all the Flying Claws in the entire forest won’t stop you.
While he watched the camp, he licked at his wound. The Flying Claw was gone, pulled from him by his new and unexpected ever-present companion, but the wound was deep and it still hurt. After a few days he had hoped it would begin to lessen but it was a persistent one, that Flying Claw. It had gone deep and his companion had pulled hard to remove it.
She was a curious one, NoTail. He remembered just a few moons ago how the females of his pack had cast her out and thought at the time that it was unnecessary. Whether she had a tail or not was of no matter. She had been born fine, and was growing well, enough so that he had considered that he may take her as his own mate if she was strong when she came of age.
And she had followed the pack instead of leaving.
There was a risk there. She knew that. Following the pack would eventually lead to being spotted, and it was inevitable what would follow—confrontation, a chase, and then undoubtedly her death at the claws of jealous and protective she-wolves. She was far more beautiful than the others, if you ignored the missing tail.
But they didn’t notice her when you did.
He’d seen her at a great distance and smelled her scent a few times, wondering why others had not.
Maybe they had but showed no sign. Or hadn’t cared.
NoTail had found him in the forest a few dark nights after his wounding and outcasting, and he had little strength to fight her off, thinking that maybe it would be better if she just killed him. At least one of them wouldn’t go hungry.
But she didn’t kill you, did she? She pulled out the Flying Claw with her teeth and licked your wound, while you lay there, helpless and weak, shamed. She brought you a rabbit, freshly caught. Not much, but she was only young, and even a rabbit was a good catch when you were starving. The pack were surviving on less now.
And she had done it again and again, bringing more kills until he started to feel strong again.
He watched the Walking One Bitch in the great crowd of Walking Ones and narrowed his eyes.
It was time to leave. The Walking Ones would spot him eventually, and he needed to sleep. The scent of his prey would not go away; he could track her for miles and miles.
But now off to the forest to find NoTail.
And sleep.
Maybe NoTail had another rabbit?
The old wolf, once leader of the great pack but now The Leader That Was, hauled himself up slowly and quietly and slunk away. He took a moment to glance back, one last time, eyeing the shorter figure of the Walking One female who carried the Flying Claws.
You will pay.
Chapter 66
“His group is small, but quite a few of the younger warriors have sided with him. They’re heading south.” Shykar crouched over the fire, a few feet away, picking at the remains of an overcooked pigeon.
“South?” Gerth asked. “There is nothing south.”
“White Citadel,” Shykar said. “They talk of this place. A refuge, they claim. I didn’t hear much, but that name was repeated a lot.”
Gerth leaned back on the chair, rubbing a hand down his calf and over the stitched wound. “Bring yourself and two others to my tent at the moon peak. I want to see this splintered clan for myself.”
“The moon is almost there, my lord.”
Gerth looked over his shoulder to where two slave girls lay amongst the furs of his bedroll. Their hair wrapped around them, not entirely covering their naked flesh.
“Seems I’ve been a bit occupied this evening,” said Gerth. “Get the men now and let’s go.” Then he turned to the slaves. “Tell everyone to pack down. We move on, soon.”
Shykar left the tent, and Gerth followed him out. The lieutenant disappeared into the camp and returned several minutes later with two men.
The days of earning the mask are coming to an end, thought Gerth. There are fewer clans to plunder and even fewer clansmen to initiate. This world is dying.
“Are we going to spy? Plan an ambush?”
Gerth shook his head while checking the scrap metal plates hanging over the chests of his warriors. He inspected their helmets and grabbed each axe as part of the silent inspection.
“Not any more, lieutenant. Plans have changed.”
Shykar grumbled and stepped closer to Gerth. “But the young boy. You promised…” Shykar said in a trailing, frigid whisper.
“I’ve heard of White Citadel. Some of the northmen have claimed there is a book that reveals its location. They say it could be the last habitable place, east of the great sea. But no one knows where it is.”
Shykar shook his head and put his back to the two warriors awaiting Gerth’s command. “But you promised.”
“You’re pushing me. And you will be sorry if I push back. You will get what you want, but you will have to wait.”
Gerth stepped around Shykar and addressed the other two warriors. He spoke to them with transparency, the mode of leadership taught to him by his father. Tell the warrior his task and the man will remain true.
“As the lieutenant told you, we will be doing recon on a group splintered from another clan in Wytheville. I want your ears up, and I want you listening for ‘White Citadel.’”
“What is it?” one of the warriors asked.
“A fabled refuge. Some from the north speak of it as if it is the last safe haven. I must find out if that is true and if this group have some clue as to its whereabouts.”
“But we’ve survived by plundering the road for generations,” Shykar said. “We’ll do what we do.”
“And that is why I wear the mask and you do not,” said Gerth. He took a chance, speaking to his lieutenant that way in front of the other warriors, but it didn’t matter. Gerth knew Shykar would never see White Citadel or the winter. He would kill the man before the leaves fell from the trees. “The clans no longer
flow east in the numbers they used to. There will be nothing left for us. We must find another way.”
“Settlement?” Shykar asked. “Our forefathers warned against it.”
“This is no longer their world,” said Gerth. “I wear the mask, and I will decide the clan’s future. Unless you want to challenge, of course.”
Shykar dropped his head in the clan’s customary salute of obedience.
“Follow me,” said Gerth.
They moved through the dark forest, this time Shykar dragging his chain across the leaves. Gerth knew there could be more bear traps, and the last thing he wanted was to be at his lieutenant’s mercy yet again. The two warriors flanked Gerth, each man holding their axe and ready to defend themselves and their leader.
Campfires flickered through the trees and light conversation floated by on the wind. The pungent, burning pine made Gerth’s eyes water. He paused and held up both hands, halting the small recon group. Flatulence broke on the night wind, followed by a giggle. Gerth heard low conversation but he could not decipher words. He moved closer but motioned for Shykar and the two warriors to remain where they stood.
“…is what they say. The soil can be tended all year long.”
“Nonsense,” said another voice. “It goes fallow under the first frost.”
“There is no frost at White Citadel. You will see.”
Could it be true? Could the old stories from the north really be true?
Gerth crouched low and circled around an old oak to get closer to the conversation. But by then the people had left the fire and were now gathering around a tent fifty yards past the fire pit. He wanted to get closer, to hear more of the fabled land, but his instinct told him that would be a bad idea. If this split clan was indeed heading to White Citadel, Gerth wanted to be able to follow them without being noticed. He took three steps backward and returned to where Shykar stood with the two warriors.
“Well?” Shykar asked. “Did they speak of it?”
“Aye,” said Gerth. “We will follow them a few miles west on the road, and then we will ambush. And you will get your loot, lieutenant. The one you want is among them.”
Shykar’s eyes flickered. He slapped Gerth on the shoulder with a strong hand. “That is the way of the clan, my lord. That is what I like to hear.”
Gerth smiled and let Shykar lead the two warriors back to their camp.
Transparency is best for the true warriors, Gerth thought. But not for the men who cannot be trusted.
Chapter 67
The evening light faded over the valley as the young buck edged out onto the road to eat the grass that grew there. Its instincts were always on edge when it approached the black, cracked surface. It had rarely seen men, keeping itself hidden away, living deep in the wilds near towns long abandoned, but there was still an instinct born of generations that suggested the black surface meant bad stuff.
But the grass that grew there was tastier, and it had eaten it often. And that was where it meant to go tonight, to feed. The tastiest green grass that grew tall and green by the side of the ancient road.
But tonight it only managed a single chew when a shiver ran down its spine and signaled a weakening in its stomach. Something was bad, and it was coming, was the signal.
It left the grass and scampered back into the forest minutes before the distant sound of rhythmic thudding could be heard on the black surface. The sound was quiet, but only to men. The animals of the forest and the birds fell silent as shadows flickered over the grass at the edge of the old road. Longer shadows swept across the tree line, the setting sun stretching them.
A rabbit standing just a few feet from the blacktop crouched and froze, as still as it could manage, and sat there, transfixed with fear as the first of the figures swept by.
The group ran as a pack, slowly trudging along the road, heading south from north. Their pace was a steady jog, quick enough to cover fifty miles, maybe sixty, in a single day, but not so fast as to tire them needlessly. They were used to long distance travel, having spent most of their lives navigating the shores of the northern lakes, nomadic in nature, never stopping in one place for long.
Heavy boots carved from animal hides thudded against the blacktop, but there was little other sound. They wore no metals, being mostly dressed in dark furs and leather, some of it cut from their kills and the rest scavenged from ancient clothing.
As the rabbit watched the thirty dark shapes pass quickly by. The low whoosh of an arrow broke the tension in the tree-line. Animals that had been hidden there darted away, a mass of them rushing, panicked, into the forest, all except the vole that lay pierced by the deadly arrow.
A single figure broke away from the running pack, moved to the side of the road, grabbed up the arrow and the vole, and then hurried back to their place in the group once more.
And they continued their trek southward.
After a short while, the deer ventured back toward the road, thinking that the danger had passed, but as it was about to step out again, and head for the grass patch it liked the best, it sensed something else approaching and darted back into the woods.
Above, high in the great oak that cast its shadow over the scurrying buck and most of the road, an owl watched the scene below, not comprehending it entirely but knowing that it should stay right where it was, lest it be attacked by one of the great birds that sat upon the shoulders of some of the individuals in the groups traveling along the road.
And there were many. Not just the first pack, which had already passed by, but another behind that, and another and another. Below, as far as the owl could see, a great migration was taking place, but not the one usually witnessed.
This one was a migration of the two legged ones. Of men. The two legged ones of the north were heading south. And they numbered in the hundreds.
Chapter 68
Sunlight glittered on the morning frost. Smoke from the night’s fires curled upward into thin, white lines. Even though they had traveled miles south, Gaston felt the bitter bite of winter on the air. The sun remained below the horizon a bit longer each morning and dropped behind it earlier each evening. Jonah’s people, and the other clans at Wytheville, remained in their tents, but Gaston knew they were awake. People would be peeking out from beneath the folds, catching a last glimpse of friends and loved ones. He had been ready for this moment, knowing the emotional toll it would take on the Elk. That didn’t make it any easier. Gaston spotted Seren and Roke standing at the side of the road, facing west, their bodies silhouetted by the rising sun.
He’d heard the arguments, fights and scuffles taking place during the night. The division would not be easy, and Gaston knew that. He had talked to almost every member of the Elk clan, and many members of the Clan of the Valley and The Harpeth as well. It came down to the books. Some would choose to remain with Jonah, and the only book they had ever known, while others were willing to take a chance on him and the hope his book promised.
Faith could be manipulated. Gaston realized that without it, humans perished, and with it they could hold on to a sliver of hope. It was what he had done as well. He had put his faith in the book sacred to the Cygoa before he found the one carried by the old man. The difference was that his book offered a change, a promise of something better. Some of the Elk were willing to take a chance, while others were not. It was not a surprise to Gaston that it was the younger members who were more willing to take a chance and rebel against what their elders taught.
He walked toward Seren and Roke. They spun to face him as if sensing his presence.
“It’s time for us to go.”
“We’ve been ready since dawn,” said Seren.
“I will need you both out front.”
Roke straightened and grasped his axe.
“How far?” Seren asked.
“A hundred yards, stay within eyesight.”
“That’s not what I meant. How far to White Citadel?”
Gaston sighed and looked up into the crystal blue
morning. “Days. But I really don’t know. And I don’t care. I am making this pilgrimage once and once only. We will get there when we get there.”
“That won’t calm the fears of the Elk following you,” said Seren. “They are risking everything and they need to feel safe, whether you can promise safety or not. Reassure them. Tell them you will get them to White Citadel.”
Gaston smiled. “Your sister is wise beyond her years,” he said to Roke.
The boy slapped Seren on the arm and she gave him a grin.
“I know it’s there,” Gaston said. “We’ll never have to walk half way across the known lands again. We’ll be able to settle down, farm the land, and live knowing we won’t starve to death every winter.”
“Let’s move out, then,” said Roke.
Seren walked south toward the outer edges of Wytheville, where the old carts sat stacked and rusted on the edge of the road. She took the bow off her shoulder and held an arrow in her hand.
“I will gather them all,” Gaston said.
He turned around to see thirty or more members that had once been of the Elk emerging from camp. A few hundred yards away, down the street, Jonah’s people and the other clans remained hidden in their tents, but Gaston knew they were watching. He could feel their stares and their broken hearts. Many of the Elk’s young warriors were joining him, feeling no compulsion to be conservative and protect a family. They were children, really; teenagers who would openly embrace a challenge to authority, and so they chose to follow Gaston. He walked amongst the people, smiling and nodding to acknowledge their choice but trying to remain respectful to those they were leaving behind. Gaston admired Jonah, and he had hoped he could convince the man to lead the Elk to White Citadel but that would not be the case. Gaston would have to follow his faith no matter how much he liked the clan’s chief.
Seren and Roke led the caravan out of Wytheville, southbound on the road toward where Gaston believed White Citadel sat amongst the ancient hills. Gaston waited for several clumps of people to walk past before he folded into the middle of the group. They walked in silence except for the occasional clang of pots. Many looked back only to see what appeared to be an empty camp, the Elk remaining hidden while Gaston led the rest into the wild.