by Lee Ramsay
Their fingers touched briefly as summer warmth took the chill of an autumnal morning. Jayna’s hair darkened to mahogany. Confused brown eyes in a heart-shaped face became ice in sharp, angular features.
Pain blossomed through his left hand as he swung his fist, realizing too late that Brenna – not Sathra – leaned over him. It was a weak blow from a prone position, softened by a sleep-muddled lack of coordination, but it took them both by surprise as his gloved knuckles grazed her cheek.
“My fault,” she said with a rueful smile, rubbing the corner of her right eye with her fingertips as he helped her sit up. “I should have thought better of leaning over you. It could be worse – you could have been awake and trying to hit me.”
“I am so sorry.”
She waved his apology aside and climbed to her feet. “It’s the least painful punch I’ve ever taken, and there have been quite a few over the years. Groush wants to get moving, but we have time for you to eat what’s left of the dried elk. I also want to change the bloodmoss.”
Tristan scrubbed his hand across his face, and was surprised at his beard’s length. He had been aware of it growing, of course, but had not been paying attention. With the dream fresh in his mind, it felt strange to have wiry hair where moments before there had been bare skin. He examined his surroundings with a yawn.
The river rushed by no more than twenty yards from where he sat, which explained the wind in his dream. Pools swirled in hollows in the granite, and mist from the waterfall hung in the air. A thin crust of ice glittered where the spray collected on bare rock, and pine needles encased in icy sheathes shone with reflected sunlight. Anthoun’s voice rose from memory, confirming what he guessed during the night. They were in a U-shaped valley carved out long ago by a glacier, the center of which had been sculpted into a steeper-sided depression by water’s ceaseless flow wearing away stone.
Forgetting the threat of the Dushken, he pushed aside the memories of the past year and ignored his body’s aches. Mornings could be cold in Dorishad, but they lacked the bite of this mountain sunrise. For a moment, Tristan allowed himself the thrill of freedom.
He fumbled with the laces of his britches as he approached the cliff’s edge to relieve himself. Below him, the falls fell in five tiers, each a deep pool spilling over to the one below it. The river ran deep and fast; he caught no more than a few glimpses of it snaking through the valley. Its rush would be loud enough to cover their footsteps and any clatter of rocks knocked loose on their descent. He spied a path down from where the top of the falls – a steep, thin trail angling down through jutting rocks and pines clinging to the cliff’s side.
He struggled to lace his britches as he made his way back to where Brenna waited with a bemused look. She handed him a small, hard roll and dried elk jerky taken from Esra’s bag. “Why is it men always seem to want to piss off things? Groush did it, and Rathus, too.”
“I was looking to see if there was a way down.”
“That’s what they said.”
“Speaking of the others, where are they?”
She gestured toward the woods as she knelt to retie the bag’s straps. “Esra was up before you and went to relieve herself like a civilized person. Rathus found a few strawberries this morning and went to find more. He said he also found a raspberry bush.”
Tristan’s mouth watered at the thought of wild raspberries. They had found a few the day before, but the berries had mostly been gone. “Where is Groush?”
“He said he was going to try and catch a fish.” Brenna’s eyebrows knit as she glanced at the river. She stepped from beneath the trees and shaded her eyes as she searched the bend a quarter-mile upstream. “That’s strange. I don’t see him anywhere.”
Tristan stuffed the last bite of the elk meat into his mouth. He glanced up as a boot scuffed the dirt and saw Esra limping from the shadows of the trees. “We were wondering...”
Bloody, bubbling gasps passed the girl’s lips as she stumbled and collapsed against a tree. Her hand clasped the shaft of an arrow jutting from her breast.
Cursing, the young man snatched up his hatchet and squinted through the trees and brilliant sunlight for any sign of movement. Brenna scrambled to Esra’s side and hissed as she reached for the black, eagle feather fletched shaft. Her voice shook as she looked up at him, sounding small as she clenched her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”
Esra’s breath came in a rasping, wet burble which speckled her lips with blood. “It hurts.”
“I know, sweets.” Tears flowed down the young woman's cheeks as she pillowed the girl’s head in her lap. She brushed lank black hair from the young woman’s forehead and whispered soothing words. Already pale, Esra’s skin had a bloodless blue cast.
Bile soured Tristan’s tongue as Brenna cast him a lost look; he had not known Esra long but had grown to like her. He suspected the arrow had been shot to wound, the archer hoping she would lead him back to the others. Turning away to search for any sign of Groush or Rathus, the best he could offer as he stepped into the treeline was, “Keep her comfortable.”
Spine pressed against a tree as he peered into the forest, the young man was grateful the slain huntsman’s coat obscured his outline and covered his pale shirt. Somehow the huntsmen – at least one of them – had snuck up on them. With one of their number dead, he suspected the others might be more cautious in their approach.
Unless it was a weak and sickly youngster, he was too stiff and injured to survive alone against a Dushken. Tightening his grip on the axe handle, he wondered if the huntsman had already killed their companions. If so, we’re finished.
“Tristan!”
Pitched so slow, he nearly mistook Brenna’s call for wind in the pines. His eyes snapped toward where the women hid behind a fallen log. Brenna lay immobile, blue eyes wide and bloodied hands trembling as they pressed against her lips. Esra’s open eyes gazed at nothing; the breeze plucked at the coat draped over her to obscure the line of the wounded girl’s shoulder and gray shirt.
Wide-eyed as she pressed herself into the ground, Brenna pointed upstream.
A Dushken stood on the riverbank not a hundred yards away, a long spear with a gleaming, serrated point in hand. This one was smaller than the one he had faced the night before, but not by much. Animal bones and beads decorated the brown leather coat, and the hilt of a dagger tucked into a knee-high boot gleamed against leather britches.
Adrenaline coursed through Tristan’s veins as he pressed against the tree trunk. The pain in his hand dwindled, and he forgot the rest of his injuries as echoes of the rage he carried stirred within him. He kept his breathing slow and shallow as he eased his left foot across the right to conceal himself behind the tree.
The Dushken squinted into the tree line, then shifted his gaze upstream when he spied nothing in the woods. Broad nostrils flaring, the huntsman scented the breeze blowing off the river. Tristan had seen Groush do something similar, and his eyes widened in panic as he realized the warrior did not carry a bow; he, therefore, could not have shot Esra.
Two of the hunting pack – perhaps all three – must have caught up with them while they were sleeping.
Twisting his head to the side, he looked deeper into the woods – and met the black eyes of a second huntsman staring at him from twenty yards away. Stealth lost, the Dushken bellowed and charged, bearded axe raised high as he pounded through the trees.
Tristan flung himself sidelong as the warrior swung at his head. Wood chips flew as the bit sank into the tree, the metal squealing in the bark as the brute twisted the weapon free. The young man used the scarce moment afforded him to back away and lifted his hatchet, which was pathetic compared to the long, hickory-handled reach of an axe made for battle.
He had forgotten the first Dushken, though. No sooner had his boot struck the river’s rocky bank than the other huntsman turned toward him, the morning sun glinting off the vicious spearhead and spiked butt.
The closer of the two predators lifted his
axe to strike and took a long step toward him.
A roar from the treetops caused Tristan, Brenna, and the two Dushken to look up. Groush plummeted from a stout limb, his cloak snagging and snapping smaller branches. The Hillffolk crashed into the axeman, knocking them into a tumble that sent the hickory-hafted weapon flying.
Breaking from the initial impact, the two wild men surged to their feet. The Dushken leaned forward, his leather coat straining across his shoulders as he roared an ululating challenge. Groush responded in kind, a snarling cry rising from his barrel chest as he bared his long canines. Open-handed smacks and thrown elbows resounded across the riverbank as they collided. Snarls ripped the air as sharp teeth found unprotected flesh, the larger huntsman driving the Hillffolk backward into the river.
“Tristan!”
Brenna’s shriek jolted him to awareness. He parried the spearhead thrusting for his side, but the serrated blade slipped beneath his stolen coat as he twisted his shoulders and cut a bloody furrow across his chest.
The spearman whipped his left hand from the shaft and backhanded Tristan across the face. Blood flew as his nose crunched, and he swung the hatchet blindly as his eyes streamed. The flat clattered against the spear’s shaft and knocked aside a thrust. Through his blurred vision, he saw the Dushken pivot in a reverse spin, the spiked butt leveled at his belly.
The muscles in his injured shoulder tore as he deflected the spike with the hatchet’s heel and stumbled backward. Pain blazed in his mangled fingers as he fumbled for the dagger shoved into his belt. The glove’s half-empty finger bent awkwardly as he jerked the blade free.
The spearman backed off, circling Tristan with a graceful cross step. The spearhead hummed as the huntsman twirled the long weapon like a staff. Tristan ignored the continued splashes and cries from the river as he moved counter to the huntsman and recalled one of Dougan’s rare stories of the War of Tenegath.
“Spearmen are good for hunting large prey or for breaking the charge of cavalry or infantry,” the veteran had said. “They work best in groups, standing shoulder to shoulder. What makes them so damned annoying is their reach; you either have to get inside it, or lop the head off the spear before you go in. Good luck with the latter. If you’re particularly unlucky, you’ll go against someone who knows what they’re doing with the weapon – and if that happens, my boy, you’re right fucked.”
From the confident ease with which he spun the polearm and the grace of his footwork, this Dushken was well trained – and with five runes burned into his forehead, the young man knew the self-assuredness was unfeigned.
Tristan was not confident he could survive. He would have to be fast to avoid the spearhead and spike and quick to duck or jump over sweeps of the long shaft. To land a crippling blow with his hatchet or dagger, he needed to get in close and pierce the huntsman’s brigandine. Pained exhaustion robbed him of the anger which had carried him through the fight the night before. Blood from his broken nose gummed his throat and limited his ability to breathe.
The Dushken broke his circling and rushed him, the thick sole of his boot slapping against the riverbank’s uneven stones as the serrated spearhead thrust out. Tristan swung his hatchet in a parry and missed, not recognizing the lunge as a feint, and brought the dagger in his left hand across in a desperate attempt to catch the second thrust. He missed that, too, and realized the second thrust was a feint as well.
There was no third strike. A grin splitting the black beard framing his lips, the spearman issued a thrumming laugh.
The bastard’s toying with me.
Scuttling sideways, he made for the trees. Once among their close-packed trunks, he could limit the spear’s effectiveness and gain better footing. Too canny to allow that, the Dushken got himself between Tristan and the forest. The spearpoint thrust again, aiming for the young man’s left shoulder. The point glanced off the stolen coat’s thick leather as the young man twisted too slowly, thinking the attack to be another feint.
“That’s doesn’t belong to you, boy. It belonged to a friend of mine – a friend you and yours killed,” the spearman said in a throaty rasp. “I will make you pay for that, make you watch as we ravage the females and feed on the Hillffolk’s flesh. Then we will spit you alive and set you to turn over a fire.”
A rock bounced off the huntsman’s head, a glancing blow but enough to draw his attention to Brenna.
Seizing the distraction, Tristan swept his dagger against the spear shaft to keep it from swinging back at him while putting all his strength into a pump of the hatchet. Leather split as the bit sank into the coat and brigandine protecting the spearman’s shoulder. The armor absorbed enough of the impact to keep the axe from burying itself in the meaty arm, but blood flowed from the superficial wound.
Spittle flew from bared canines as the Dushken snarled and backhanded him again, but the blow lacked full strength due to angle and injury. It was enough to send the young man stumbling, and his foot slipped on water-smoothed stones. The hatchet bounced away as he fell, his hand spasming open as his elbow smacked a rock and went numb. Fresh agony blazed in his injured left hand as it, too, impacted the ground, and his grip on his dagger faltered.
Prone, he squinted against the morning sunlight backlighting the huntsman. The Dushken reversed his grip on the spear and lifted it high to drive the leaf-shaped blade through his chest.
Blood sprayed as steel licked out, spattering Tristan’s face. The Dushken roared, wrenching away from the sword that had slashed open his left forearm.
“Get up!” Rathus shouted, breathless as he hacked at the retreating huntsman. The spearman rounded his shoulders and turned his back on the bard, the blows slicing through the heavy coat to score the brigandine protecting his spine.
Ignoring his wounds as he scrambled to his feet, Tristan scooped up the hatchet. The small axe whipped a downward arc toward the hollow between the spearman’s neck and shoulder.
Steel blurred in the sunlight as the warrior spun his weapon to deflect the blow. Wood cracked against metal as the Dushken gripped the shaft with his injured hand and snapped it back the other way, parrying the sword thrusting for his side.
The bestial fighter spun on the ball of his foot, the spear’s butt spike nearly goring Tristan as he stepped backward. Rathus clashed his sword against the spearhead, knocking it skyward before slashing for the Dushken’s belly; he abandoned the attack as the spearman re-angled his weapon and thrust. The nobleman hopped out of the way with a finger’s width of grace, though wool split as the serrated blade tore the bard’s cloak.
Capitalizing on the distraction, Tristan sidestepped the butt spike and brought his axe down with both hands wrapped around the hatchet’s grip. Leather split with the impact. An involuntary grunt blasted from the huntsman’s lungs as the bit lodged in the brigandine protecting his shoulder.
The spearman backhanded the young man across the face again, this time with enough force to send him staggering into the river. The Dushken followed through with the turn and thrust with the polearm’s leaf-headed blade, but Rathus ruined the killing strike by plowing his shoulder into the huntsman’s back.
Dazed, Tristan reacted out of instinct and lashed at the warrior with an awkward backhand. His thoughts cleared too late to arrest or divert the blow. Blood sprayed the bit lodged in the Dushken’s exposed neck, severing the artery and embedding itself in the thick vertebra. The warrior’s spear fell from nerveless fingers as he toppled to his side, jerking the hatchet’s handle from the young man’s hand. Hellish flame erupted from his central rune and spread through the neighboring glyphs.
A triumphant ululation rose from the huntsman battling Groush as the runes seared into his forehead blazed in answer to his packmate’s death. The Hillffolk seized the distraction and landed a roundhouse punch, snapping his opponent’s head sideways. The huntsman’s cry choked off as he splashed face down in the water, and the bull rained devastating blows upon the youth’s exposed head to drive him to unconsciousness.
Unsteady, face bloodied and buzzing with numbness, Tristan turned toward Brenna with a wince. “Esra is—” Pain blossomed in his thigh, cutting off his words as his right leg gave beneath him. Blood welled from a deep gouge in the muscle as his knee struck the rocky bank.
“Archer!” Rathus cried as the arrow glanced from a rock and went over the cliff’s edge.
Gripping his torn thigh, the young man sought the bowman as Brenna hurried toward them. The fourth huntsman’s leathers blended with the shadows more than two hundred yards upstream, and he carried a bow nearly as tall as he was. Recognizing the graying hair and beard as much as the aged figure’s stance, his blood ran cold. “Urzgeth.”
Groush hooked his hand under Tristan’s arm and hauled the young man to his feet. “Run!”
“Where?” Rathus demanded.
Body thrumming with pain from every scrape, cut, and bruise, Tristan knew he could run no great distance. Agony burned through his injured hand, and the cut to his thigh would hobble him before too long. Teeth gritted, he ignored the pain ripping through his leg as he forced it to obey his demands. His gait was uneven as he charged Brenna, knocking the breath from her lungs as his shoulder smacked into her belly. Back muscles burning as he straightened beneath her weight, he slung her over his shoulder and lengthened his stride as best he could.
Water splashed as he sprinted down the riverbank. His thigh gave out after a score of long strides, but it had carried him far enough. His uninjured leg straightened, throwing him into the spray at the waterfall’s edge.
Chapter 56
Mist blinded him, chilling his skin as the wind plucked at his tattered coat. Tristan could not tell if the roar he heard was the air rushing past his ears, the cascade of the waterfall, or Brenna bellowing as space opened between them.