by Lee Ramsay
“What are you so worried about?” Rashek asked as she turned away.
“These are Sheranti lands. You are right, though; we haven’t been caught, but that’s because we have kept to the woods, avoided settlements, and haven’t been stupid enough to light a fire. Why waste time and effort sending soldiers into the woods when you can send them to every homestead, hamlet, village, and town?” She gestured at the burning lights down below. “You want to die, fine, but spare the rest of us your idiocy.”
Rashek bristled and looked at Tristan, who stared back with a bland expression. The young man swung his axe up to his shoulder. “I’m not going down there. Groush, Rathus, and I blend in with you Anahari like a kitten in a flock of geese. If she says it’s too dangerous, I’m inclined to believe her.”
Unswayed by the argument, Deshan fixed his eyes on Brenna. “How do you know where we are?”
“I was born in the Sheranath Marches, that’s how.” She thrust a finger at the town before sweeping her hand to the west. “That town is called Trier, and it stands on the border between County Sheranti and Barony Sherantar. Monschan is three leagues to the west. If you go to Trier and are caught, be sure to address the countess as ‘Lady Galiana’ or ‘Her Ladyship’ before she has you dragged back to Feinthresh in chains.”
“You’re from a Sheranath holding?” Nisha asked.
“I lived in the mountains,” Brenna said, sullen as she shoved her hands in her coat pockets. “I know where the towns and villages are, and I’m trying to keep you alive by staying away from them.”
“No villages. Too dangerous, and we can’t linger here. Too much chance of getting caught,” Groush said with a shake of his head. He laid his hand on Rashek’s arm. “Come, let us—"
“Take your hands off me, you filthy animal,” Rashek snapped, jerking his sleeve from Groush’s grip. His eyes widened as he realized what he said, but he was too slow to back away. The Hillffolk’s broad, blunt fingers wrapped the young man’s throat and lifted him from his feet. Breath rushing from his lungs with a startled grunt, he found himself dangling more than a foot from the ground against a tree.
The Hillffolk’s bared canines gleamed as he leaned close and growled. “Maybe I should kill you now. You listen and do what you’re told, or you’ll get everyone killed.”
Catching Deshan’s shoulder as the youth moved to intervene, Rathus shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”
Though aware of Nisha’s and Esra’s eyes on him, Tristan made no move to intervene as Rashek tried – and failed – to pry the Hillffolk’s fingers loose. Dry amusement tickled him, and he wondered if Gwistain felt something similar when the bull took a dislike to him. “Groush, let him down.”
A deep, rumbling growl vibrated through the gloom as the Hillffolk did as asked and shoved the youth away.
Tristan leaned his shoulder against a tree and divided a look between Rashek and Deshan. “We are as cold, tired, and hungry as you are. If we’re caught, we’re dead or back in the dungeons. I have no intention of going back. You, and whoever wants to accompany you, can leave when we’re closer to Reesenat’s border.”
“Who in all hells made you the one to make such a decision?” Deshan asked.
The young man’s eyes flicked between his companions. “Damned if I know, so let’s settle that now.”
“You’ve done alright by us so far,” Rathus said.
“Agreed,” Brenna added, though there was a grudging note to her tone. Esra glanced between Rashek and Tristan, then moved to stand with Brenna. Nisha followed a heartbeat later.
“Groush?”
“I’m with you.”
Tristan’s voice grew cold as he pushed away from the tree and stepped toward the pair. “That makes six of us and two of you. I saved your sorry asses from hanging like meat in a slaughter shed. Brenna fed you, and helped us escape Feinthresh when she didn’t have to. You may not have a home to go to anymore, but I do. If I have to kill you both and leave you to rot in the woods to get there, I will.”
The words sounded as though spoken by someone else. He caught Brenna’s wide-eyed shock from the corner of his eye, and even Groush gave him a stunned glance. A part of him shriveled at his callous tone, but a grimmer part cared little for what the others thought.
Deshan was the first to turn his eyes from Tristan’s unblinking stare, and Rashek followed suit a moment later. He let the moment linger before turning to Brenna. “Which way should we go from here?”
“We should turn north and a bit to the east. It means going away from where you want to go, but it’s safer to stay in the higher peaks; the southern mountains are more populous than the northern districts. It’s a moonless night, though, and I don’t think we should wander in the dark. We should find a place to camp.”
“Then let’s move,” Tristan said, turning his back on Rashek and Deshan without another look.
THEY WALKED FOR AN hour before it grew too dark to see and were spared from falling into a deep ravine by Groush’s sharp eyes. Stars shone overhead, sharp in the night sky’s velvet. They made cold beds in a copse of birch, wrapping themselves in the threadbare blankets and cloaks Masha and Ferhan provided and huddling together for warmth as a chill, damp wind blew from the north.
A dusting of snow fell before dawn’s first light, clinging to their blankets and fuzzing the trunks of the trees. Taller rocks glowed blue with the approaching dawn, while the dirt remained warm enough for the flakes to melt.
Six of them woke to see it. Deshan and Rashek had waited until Groush was deep enough asleep to slip away without waking him. The only sign of where they had gone was a set of boot prints the infuriated Groush found in a thin crust of snow, pointing toward the town Brenna called Trier.
Chapter 50
Thick soles thumping against the floor with a confident stride, the supple brown leather of his long coat whispering against the sheath of the heavy sword strapped to his hip, Urzgeth led the three members of his hunting pack through the halls of Monschan Manor. House Sheranti’s servants scrambled from the heavily armed quartet’s path and kept their eyes averted as they ducked into doorways or pressed themselves to the walls.
Urzgeth savored the scent of fear, so thick that it made his mouth water. Too long had it been since he last engaged on a proper hunt. Much as loathed the training hunts in Ankara’s labyrinthine dungeons, they were preferable to acting as Sathra’s enforcer. Now he was doing what he was bred and born to do. For the first time in many moons, he felt alive.
The aged huntsman knew how he and his pack appeared to the servants. He had shaved the sides of his heads, braided the long topknot, and threaded silver beads threaded through his shoulder-length iron hair. Matching silver rings pierced the lobes of his slightly pointed ears. He had shaved his cheeks as well, though a thick growth framed his mouth to accentuate the jut of his jaw. A web of brands spread across his forehead and temples from a central rune, the old scars freshened with a razor and darkened with soot. Of the four Dushken, his runes were the most elaborate. Well into his sixth decade, he had outlived fourteen hunting packs – making him one of the oldest alphas among his people.
Ryzam, his Second, and Shamar, his Third, were in their third decade. Aside from the central rune all huntsmen received when they were blooded and recognized as adults, they each bore the glyphs of the five packs they had survived. Rather than become alphas of their own bands, the brutal males had been folded into Urzgeth’s own. The pack’s Fourth, Drazzag, was the youngest and Urzgeth’s son – an adolescent who had earned the right to be bonded to a pack by demonstrating superior tracking skills. A boon requested of Ankara and received not long before the grand duchess had taken an axe to the chest, the complex rune was the same borne by every bonded Dushken and crowned with a glyph linked the youth with alpha’s pack.
Each pack member wore their hair and beard in the same style as Urzgeth, a customary affectation distinguishing them from other packs. Long leather coats brushed the heels of their knee-high boots, with bone and
beadwork patterns unique to the pack stitched across the shoulders. Each wore sleeveless brigandine armor, boiled leather plates riveted to a thick but supple leather backing.
The huntsman’s weapons reflected their natures. Urzgeth’s preferred weapon was the longsword at his hip, a thick blade with a leather-wrapped handle suited for two-handed combat, coupled with a recurved bow. Ryzam favored a spear with a serrated leaf-shaped head, the butt a barbed spike. Shamar bore a two-handed sword, the waved blade so long it could only be carried slung across his back; the alpha had seen his third swing the blade single-handed with the ease anyone else would use a rapier. His son bore a vicious bearded axe with a blackened bit and hickory haft, as well as a two-handed sword angled across his back.
The alpha bared his canines at a slow-moving servant; the man blanched and scuttling out of the way. A lone Dushken was an uncommon sight, while a pack on the hunt was a rarity. Other alphas might have slaughtered the man, but he was willing to show leniency; it was House Sheranti’s mistress Sathra wanted him to intimidate. Like all Anahari Great Houses, the House was aligned with its sister families while vying for advancement. Urzgeth’s pack was a message to Countess Galiana to remember her place in the family hierarchy.
As the huntsmen strode through the central court separating the manor’s private quarters from the public areas, a pair of guards in sky blue livery moved to block their way. The elder of the two men said, a gold sash twisted around his belt marking his rank as commander of the household guard, lifted a gloved hand. “State your business.”
Urzgeth slowed to a stop, his expression firm as his pack fanned out. Three deep, wolfish rumbles thrummed from the Dushkens’ broad chests as their lips curled back, exposing elongated canines and sharp incisors. The alpha remained calm and silent, a counterpoint to the contained savagery. “Must we play foolish games? You know who we serve and why we were summoned. ”
The commander licked lips gone dry and darted his eyes between the huntsmen. The alpha caught the stink of both soldiers’ fear. Decades of experience kept him from ripping the two men to pieces as the commander backed away, fumbling with a ring of keys to open the residence’s locked door.
His companions’ growls stopped as the four swept into the private atrium. The countess herself moved down a sweeping staircase leading to the second floor, the hem of her deep blue gown lifted to keep her from stumbling. Galiana crossed the courtyard’s floor and gave a respectful bow of the head. “Master Urzgeth.”
“Countess,” the alpha said, matching the bow. Despite her calm exterior, he caught her intimidated and spotted the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat. “Your servant nearly rode his horse to death trying to catch us. Have they spoken?”
“They are most defiant.”
“How can you be certain they are the escaped prisoners we seek?”
“They have a starved quality, and their clothes are too ill-sized to belong to them. My sheriff reports no escapees from the prison we maintain for debtors and other criminals.”
Urzgeth draped his wrist over the pommel of his sword. “And?”
“Unlike my cousins, I do not take pleasure in torture. Answers given when prisoners are put to the question are unreliable. A woman or man will say anything to make the pain stop.”
“Then you are not interrogating them correctly,” he said as he pulled off his gloves and pushed them through his belt. “We may as well see what you caught. We will also require provisions to replace those consumed since last we were here.”
“Certainly,” Galiana said, snapping the fingers of her left hand. A nearby servant hurried through a doorway to carry out the unspoken order. “Anything for a servant of the crown. Will you require quartering?”
The nervous funk rising from the woman’s underarms told the alpha she would rather he and his be gone sooner rather than later. It was a sentiment he shared, and it carried into the tone of his voice as he shrugged an evasion to her question. “Shall we see the prisoners now?”
URZGETH PINCHED THE young man’s face and leaned close to examine it. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the pungent reek coming off the prisoner’s body. A violent shove sent the youth sprawling with a clank of shackles and chains. “I don’t know you.”
Responding to a chuff from the back of the alpha’s throat, Shamar grabbed the boy by a handful of black hair. The young man gasped, clawing at the huntsman’s gloved hand as the alpha turned to the remaining two prisoners. Fear had a sourness when it came off the body; the more frightened the prey, the stronger the odor. The prisoner Shamar dragged off reeked so badly of it that it nearly drowned out the ammonia of his urine.
Neither of the remaining prisoners met his gaze. Though they hid their reaction to the alpha’s proximity well, he smelled their dread and a salty tang of defiance. Ever so faintly, he heard their hearts racing within their chests, but their stony expressions and the hard glint in their eyes told him all he needed to know.
“You know me, and I recognize your scents. What are your names?” Urzgeth’s leather coat creaked as he folded his hands behind his back. “Relax, boys; I am not after you. You escaped the dungeons, and that is no small feat. I would know the names of those who managed to do so.”
He waited with exaggerated patience, amused as their eyes flicked from him to the three members of his pack. “Would it help if I promised not to hurt you?”
Neither of the young men spoke for a long moment. The one on his left swallowed. “Rashek.”
“You?”
“Deshan.”
“Rashek. Deshan. Congratulations.” Steel hissed as the alpha drew a triangular bladed dagger from a sheath strapped to the small of his back. Deshan grunted as the blade plunged into his belly, blasting the youth’s breath from his lungs. Urzgeth jerked the edge downward, opening the youth’s gut to spill ropy entrails to the floor. The young man’s body fell to the straw-covered stone as he slid the dagger free.
Rashek fell back, the defiance in his scent fading as he lost control of his bladder. The House Sheranti soldier holding him sidestepped, his hands well away from his sword hilt as the alpha advanced. “You promised not to hurt us.”
“I asked if it would help. I did not lie, though; I did him the courtesy of killing him quickly.” Urzgeth ignored the gore wetting his dagger and tilted his head toward the other huntsmen. “They might not be so generous.”
“I will tell you what I can.”
The alpha stepped close and used the quivering boy’s shirtsleeve to wipe his blade clean of Deshan’s blood. “Names and descriptions. I would know for certain who I am pursuing. Fourteen escaped the dungeons. Five are dead – six, if you count your companion.”
“Sahra,” Rashek blurted. “She’s ab-about fifteen summers, a little shorter than I am. We left her with a wo-woodsman and his wife about seven or eight days ago, to the south of here.”
Urzgeth turned the knife and wiped the blade’s opposite side on the youth’s shirt. “She is of no interest to me. Who else?”
“Nisha and Esra. Nisha was from House Bierger, I think. She’s t-tall, with chin-length hair. Esra was a farmer’s daughter. Her hair hadn’t been cut yet when we escaped, and she’s the least hungry-looking.”
Bierger was a Lesser House, which had been declared defunct despite a surviving female capable of carrying on the family name. “The noblewoman will need to be dealt with; her word about the dungeons would be believed. What House are you from?”
“I’m just a farmer’s son.”
“Orphan?”
“N-no. I got a child on a neighbor’s daughter without permission. It was an accident – I meant no defiance.”
“I am not concerned with any whelp you sired or the slut who birthed it. Who else?”
“A bard. He said his name was Rathus.”
“I know of him,” Urzgeth interrupted before the boy could give a description. “A pity he chose to run rather than stay in his cell. Now he’ll have to die lest his tongue wag to any ear willing to
listen. Who else?”
“A Hillffolk named Groush, and a tall Ravvosi—”
“—with red hair, named Tristan. Those are the ones I seek. Which way did they travel?”
“They said they were heading north and east to avoid settlements, but west in the end. I think Nisha and Esra will try for Reesenat’s border.”
“How would they know to avoid settlements in the Sheranath Marches?” Urzgeth wondered aloud as he turned away. “I suppose the Hillffolk might know. There are some bands still living in the Laithach range.”
“Begging your pardon, but it wasn’t him. It was Brenna.”
The alpha spun around, his eyebrows rising in surprise as he met the young man’s startled gaze. “Brenna? Short girl, rather scrawny?”
“You know her?”
Urzgeth ignored the question and rumbled at his packmates as he strode for the door. Ryzam trailed the alpha a step behind and to the right; Shamar dropped his prisoner without another glance and matched the second’s position on the alpha’s left. Drazzag moved with eager energy that threatened to burst from his hulking frame as he fell in at the rear.
The quartet left the servants’ quarters and stepped into the foggy morning light. The alpha drew in a deep breath and frowned; the scent of too many cooking and hearth fires spoiled the clean air. His black eyes settled on the slender figure of Countess Galiana near the fountain in the public area of Monschan Manor. It was clear the woman waited for them; a light shawl of knitted gray wool wrapped around her shoulders as she sat on a simple wooden stool, a servant at her side scribbling notes into a journal. The countess stood when the huntsmen emerged and gestured for the servant to leave them.
Annoyed, he strode toward the noblewoman. Though he acted on Sathra’s authority, Galiana was still a countess and due her courtesies – she had, after all, captured the prisoners and sent a rider after his hunting pack, sparing him days of tracking. “I apologize for the mess. To obtain needed answers, a prisoner had to die.”