by Lee Ramsay
Dawn’s creeping approach revealed changes to Troppenheim’s countryside. The hedgerows enfolding them since departing Tyrol dwindled, exposing the road between flat fields with few trees. Steams and ponds ruffled beneath the wind’s touch, lapping against icy crusts along their banks. Snow replaced the freezing fog, wet flakes collecting against the western sides of the few trees they passed.
Tristan led the small band, the bearded axe taken from the crippled Dushken resting against his shoulder. Brenna had removed the bandages around his hand, leaving a thin wrap to keep the scab where his finger had been clean. He felt queer whenever he looked at the gap, so he avoided removing his glove. He could maintain the illusion of still having a finger if he left it on, as well as maintain a more secure grip on the axe.
Despite the brutal pace Groush set, he was not optimistic about the weapon going unused.
Where before they passed farms and the occasional traveler, here they found no one. The stink of fire came to them, faint on the wind. As they neared another of Troppenheim’s innumerable fields, they saw the cluster of buildings and trees of a village but no movement.
“Cross the fields. Angle south, but cross the field now,” the bull said from the rear of the group, his voice tight.
“We should stay on the road,” Rathus protested. “Maybe there are enough people there for us to rest in safety.”
“The huntsman would wait for us to leave,” Brenna said, drawing a wince from the bard.
Groush cuffed the nobleman’s head. “I said go.”
Rathus’s eyebrows knotted as he rubbed his skull. “What was that for?”
Tristan’s stomach soured, and he cut the bard off with a raised hand. Groush was gruff and bad-tempered but would not resort to violence without cause; seeing the way the Hillffolk’s nostrils flared against the wind, he understood what the big man smelled that they did not. “They’re dead. Everyone in the village. They’re all dead or fled.”
Groush seized Brenna and Rathus by the shoulder and marched them off the road. “Think about what Kavan said when we crossed the river. Western Troppenheim has seen more Meridan raiding parties than the east. Come; the crossing we want is perhaps a day away, two at most.”
“You think there might be a patrol in the village?” Rathus asked, jerking away from the bull’s grip.
“Why not?” Tristan said as he stepped into the knee-high stubble of cut grain. “A roof, a bed, and food. All they’d need to do is wait for someone to walk in.”
Chapter 69
“Wenggen,” Groush said as he lay beside Tristan, pointing toward the cluster of buildings on the River Ossifor’s northern bank. A long stone bridge extended to a small island in the middle of the slow-moving black water. A few more buildings could be seen hidden in the trees, and a second span crossed to the southern bank. “A third of the town is on this side, and another third on the Ravvos side. The rest is on the island.”
“I can barely see it. Wasn’t it built as part of the treaty ending the War of Tenegath?”
“How in all hells would I know?”
Tristan looked down from the top of the hill. The land grew rougher the closer they drew to the ocean, but was nowhere near as broken as the foothills and mountains far behind them. The ground swept down to the riverbank from where they lay, broken into walled fields. Orchards lined the road, creating windbreaks. He spied several ponds, their slate gray surfaces surrounded by stands of birch and aspen; a few maples loaned their crimson flames to the fading golds and oranges. “How far?”
“Three miles, maybe less. Once we cross the river, perhaps seven to Caer Ravvos.”
The young man rested his chin on the back of his gloved hand and closed his eyes. His body felt heavy and weak, as though infused with lead. The dull ache in his hand matched the throb in his other healing wounds – more of an annoyance than actual pain. His feet stung, both from fresh blisters and tired arches; keeping them warm and dry had been difficult, especially once they left the road.
Groush slapped his shoulder with the back of his hand. “Come. You can sleep when we reach Caer Ravvos.”
Tristan grabbed the Hillffolk’s forearm before the man could rise. “Do you see any movement between here and Wenggen?”
“I’d have said if I did. Why?”
His eyes turned toward the road which led toward Wenggen and found it empty. “There should be people working the fields, even this late in the season. I’d also think that there would be some movement near the town.”
Groush snorted and climbed to his feet. “My eyes are good, but not that good.”
THE COMPANIONS MOVED through the sparse woodland growing along the ridgeline, where the soil was too broken and weak for producing a decent crop. Wild apple trees and brandy pears grew amongst the oaks, as did peach and apricot. All were bare, their leaves stripped by the winds blowing in off the ocean.
Tristan was too tired to care that he could soon catch his first sight of the Rhistoric Ocean. Ironic, since I was so desperate to see it.
The others were as exhausted as he; their shoulders slumped, and their strides were limping as they made their way down the slope. The bard had grown quiet and no longer hummed to himself. Brenna occasionally stumbled, her boots scuffing the thin layer of snow collecting on the ground. They had slept perhaps four hours in the past three days, eating little while struggling to cover the miles separating them from safety.
Lack of rest and a diet of simple foods troubled Groush the least; he alone tolerated the harsh pace, though even he was beginning to look frayed. The bull still wore the brigandine armor taken from the Dushken Tristan had killed. With his hair unbound and the crippled huntsman’s leather coat, he looked more menacing than ever.
The young man envied the bull’s hardiness as he ducked a leafless branch. All he wanted was to eat something hot and filling, peel off his boots, and lay down in a bed to sleep for a week.
Beef stew with carrots and potatoes, steaming hot rolls with honeyed butter, washed down with a thick, warm ale. His belly gave a long, squealing groan at the thought, and he decided to gorge himself once they reached Wenggen before finding somewhere to sleep.
As they so often did of late, his thoughts turned to home. The thought of Karilen’s nutmeg-dusted custard, the pumpkin pie drizzled with molasses Jayna’s mother made, and the hot fermented apple cider sweetened with cinnamon sticks often drunk during the winter months made him groan. He could almost taste Dougan’s whisky, and wished he could sit with the veteran and drink himself unconscious. He decided he would do that once he returned home – after exacting a promise from Dougan and Anthoun not to feed him greasy bacon.
His heart tightened as Jayna came unbidden to his mind. Sathra’s face interposed itself less often, for which he was grateful, but he could only recall the young woman’s face in the vaguest sense. The closer he came to his destination, the clearer memories of the young woman became. Though ensuring the others reached safety had driven him over the past weeks, returning to her once more was his true motivation.
He wondered why he had ever wanted to leave Dorishad. The world beyond the hamlet’s walls was unpleasant, while home was stable, predictable, and comfortable. He recalled Dougan saying something similar, though he could not remember the man’s exact words.
Unless the winter proved mild, it would be spring before he could set off for home. With the flurries swirling through the trees around him and the cold sinking through his woolens, he doubted he would be so lucky. He shrugged that concern aside and resolved to take Jayna aside when he returned home in the spring and—
One less pair of trudging boots caught his attention, and his brow wrinkled when he realized Groush had stopped. The breeze stirred the loose, wavy strands of black hair framing the bull’s bearded face. “What is it?”
The Hillffolk lifted his hand and turned his face into the breeze. His nostrils twitched as he scented the air. He tore off his sword belt and thrust it into the young man’s left hand, and j
erked the Dushken axe from his grip. Thrusting his chin toward the river, he snapped, “Go!”
Rathus started, a crease forming between his brows. “What—"
Brenna paled. “Urzgeth. How far behind us?”
“Not far,” Groush said.
Tristan clenched his teeth. “You’ll die if you face him.”
The Hillffolk shrugged and turned away. “Then I die.”
The young woman’s voice shook as she said, “No. We are not losing anyone else. We can run, Groush. We can make it.”
A sad look crossed the bull’s face. “It is too late for that. You three are too weak to fight. I can hold him long enough for you to reach Wenggen.”
Tears welled in the Anahari’s eyes. “Groush—”
“Take her and run,” the Hillffolk said to Rathus, who looked as though he had been slapped. Nodding, the nobleman took Brenna’s arm and hurried her down the hill.
“Groush—”
“You’re not as big an idiot as I thought. Don’t make me die thinking I was wrong.” Groush clapped Tristan’s shoulder before starting toward the top of the ridge. “I can slow the Dushken. You see them safe.”
The sword’s scabbard creaked in the young man’s grip as the Hillffolk moved into the trees. He wrestled with the desire to chase after the bull and stand at his side. I can’t lose another one. Not this close to where we were going!
It was not his decision, though, and he had responsibilities. It had been his choice to make for Caer Ravvos, knowing the Dushken might catch them. He had a duty to inform whoever would listen that Gwistain was being held prisoner, Merid and Anahar had restored their alliance, and that Sathra sat the throne as Grand Duchess of Anahar now that Ankara was dead. Brenna had trusted him to help her escape Feinthresh Castle and, because he had asked her to find Gwistain, Rathus was free. He owed it to them to see them someplace safe.
He stared after Groush as he buckled the sword around his waist. Though he had not much liked the Hillffolk when they met, he had grown to respect the bull and think of him as a friend. Eyes burning with unshed tears, he swallowed the lump in his throat and hurried after the others.
Chapter 70
With no hand to harvest it, a barley crop rotted and waved in the wind blowing off the Rhistoric Ocean. Dry stalks rattled against Urzgeth’s coat as he loped across the field, sounding to his ears like a dying man’s breath.
Fitting, he thought as he followed his prey’s scent.
The spoor grew stronger with every passing hour. Under the salty brine swept in from the ocean, he caught the stink of their exhaustion and fear. Tristan’s scent was not as sour as it had been; the boy was recovering from whatever illness plagued him. The bard was sickening, though, but by the man’s odor, it had not yet begun to affect him.
After he took meat from his son’s corpse and allowed his body to adapt to the influx of vitality, the alpha feared he had erred in assessing his prey’s speed. He had not anticipated them finding the strength to push themselves harder and worried he might not catch them before they crossed into Ravvos.
Nevertheless, he persisted. There was a chance one would stumble or take injury. After five decades of hunting humans, he knew they were prone to sentimentality and bonded when pressed. Coupled with their intelligence, their need to connect with others made them dangerous – but it also made them weak.
The Dushken way was superior. Though his son’s death hurt, sentiment did not impede the alpha’s focus. Where most humans would vacillate between crippling fury and debilitating sorrow, Drazzag’s loss had sharpened his sense of purpose.
His arms and armor creaked with the pace of his run. The strength of his lifeless pack eased his aching muscles and joints and gave his lungs new capacity, allowing him to run far longer than he otherwise might. The strength would not last; it never did. Ankara had once explained that, despite her ability to recapture her youth, some things were beyond her magic. Urzgeth doubted the sorceress’s word, which gave him the courage to side with Sathra; the young woman promised to study the problem, provided he assist her schemes against her kinswoman.
The wind shifted, and the huntsman slowed his stride. Despite the Hillffolk’s weaker senses, he knew his distant cousin would catch his scent and warn his companions. Snowflakes swirled into his face as the wind shifted once more. Though fading, he scented fear’s acrid stench coming from the three humans; the Hillffolk must have alerted them to his presence. Unlike the others, the bull’s scent was growing stronger.
The change suited the graying huntsman; he wanted blood, Sathra’s command to return the prey to Anahar be damned. Eyes narrowed, the alpha swept the line of trees ahead.
Two oaks towered over the fruit trees, creating wooden pillars that framed the Hillffolk. The bull stood calm and easy, long black hair unbound and stirring against his beard. A familiar axe rested against the male’s shoulder, and Urzgeth caught his son’s scent coming from the long leather coat.
Urzgeth growled as he drew closer to the bull, his throat vibrating from the guttural language both Dushken and Hillffolk shared. There were differences between the tongues, but not enough to keep them from understanding each other. “You possess Dushken trappings, to which you have no right.”
The bull spat off to one side. “I claim the right of the kill.”
“You did not kill Drazzag. You wounded him like a coward.”
“He would have died in time.”
“Animal.”
The bearded axe’s haft whispered against the stolen coat’s shoulder. The bit’s edge angled at the ground as the Hillffolk pointed the weapon’s eye at the alpha. “He was a member of your hunting pack. You benefit from his death. Why do you care?”
Urzgeth stopped well beyond the axe’s range should the Hillffolk decide to throw it but close enough to speak without shouting. “He was my son.”
“Then you claim blood debt. Name yourself.”
“Urzgeth clan Gurush, father of Drazzag. I challenge you, with no weapons.” The Dushken alpha unslung his bow and cast it aside, then undid the buckle holding the quiver to his right hip. Wooden shafts clattered as the missiles struck the dirt. “Name yourself.”
“Groush clan Ukuru.”
The huntsman drew his son’s two-handed sword from the sheath slung across his back, drove the point into the ground, and dropped his sword belt beside it. Shrugging out of his coat, he watched as the Hillffolk divested himself of his jacket and axe. “I will tear you apart and rip your throat out with my teeth before I do the same to the other three.”
The bull locked his eyes on the runes branded into alpha’s forehead, temples, and cheeks. “You can try, old man.”
Urzgeth’s canines bared with a pantherish snarl. Groush responded with tightened fists, his long fangs and sharp incisors gleaming with saliva as he growled back. The earth shuddered as the males charged, battering each other with animal ferocity. Blood flew as teeth and nails scored flesh, and bones creaked as joints hyperextended. Muscles shuddered as fists and feet hammered away or were blocked.
Leathers torn and skin steaming, the combatants parted after the initial flurry of blows and began to circle each other warily. The Dushken prodded a sore spot in his mouth with his tongue and spat out a broken, bloodied molar. The Hillffolk brushed his fingers against a bloodied patch of raw skin where a hank of hair had ripped free, and ignored the cut running from the corner of his eye to the line of his jaw where the huntsman’s teeth had grazed him.
“You are weak, as are all Hillffolk. Bare your throat, and I will end this.”
“I’m not the one limping after the first pass.”
To any who might have seen the two, any vestige of civilization was superficial. The brutish males stalked each other, an apelike cant to their torsos as they postured and threatened in an instinctive ritual. Growls no human throat could make reverberated in deep chests. Their panting breaths interspersed with bearlike roars, wolfish growls, and pantherlike coughs.
The secon
d pass was more vicious than the first. Groush missed his swing, overstepping and slipping to the ground. Urzgeth’s balled fists fell in a brutal drumbeat, hammering the Hillffolk’s rounded shoulder and spine as the bull protected his head with his arms. Groush sank his teeth into the thick muscle above the huntsman’s knee when an opportunity came to strike. Flesh ripped as the bull’s powerful jaws clenched and his head shook.
Gore soaked through alpha’s leather britches as the Hillffolk jerked away, and Urzgeth roared in agonized rage as his leg gave beneath him. Severe as the wound was, it was not a crippling injury; fueled by rage, the Dushken threw himself in a sidelong roll to open space between him and his opponent. The alpha struggled to his feet with his hands held at the ready by replacing his uninjured leg for strength.
The bull spat his grisly mouthful aside and rose as well. Blood stained his teeth as he matched his opponent’s snarl and readied himself for another pass.
A shift in the wind carried a complex scent Urzgeth could not ignore: horse and leather, steel and bone, and something else besides – an alchemical stink, as well as old blood and rot. Groush caught the scent as well; his black eyes narrowed, and a deep rumble vibrated through his chest as he sidled sideways.
The huntsman backed away, head tucking into his shoulders in a sign of submission as he hobbled toward his abandoned gear. Scooping up his coat and sword belt in one hand and his son’s blade in the other, he turned his back on the Hillffolk and limped away as fast as his injured leg allowed.
Chapter 71
Tristan caught up with the others at the base of the hill. Lengthening his stride, he slipped his hand around Brenna’s left arm as the young woman stumbled. The tears in her eyes obscured the rutted road enough for her to misstep.
Slung between the two men, the Anahari woman found herself half carried and half marched down the road with her feet hardly touching the ground. Behind them rose inhuman sounds of roars and snarls from Dushken and Hillffolk throats. Tristan thought he heard teeth clacking together and thuds of impact.