by Shae Ford
Reginald blinked. “My Lord — if something troubles you, all of the High Seas are at your disposal. We move at your command.”
The others were quick to add their vigorous nods and pledges of allegiance. He let the Five murmur their promises for a moment before he raised his hand.
Silence.
“Now that I think about it, I am troubled by something. One thing. And what could that be?” He leaned back in his chair and tapped the side of his face in mock contemplation. It was a common enough gesture, but to the Five it meant something particular. None of them would look at where his finger tapped.
“We’ve all tried, Your Grace, and we’ve all been wounded,” D’Mere said. She kept her eyes wide and serious. The Countess knew better than to use her powers on the King.
“Yes but to be fair, Hubert’s squandered more opportunities than the rest of us combined,” Reginald said.
Hubert stopped slurping long enough to gasp. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t know what I mean, eh?” Reginald leaned forward and fixed his sharp eyes on Hubert’s. “Every time you take some half-hearted jab at her, she flies off and wreaks havoc on the rest of us. She’s sunk three of my vessels. Three! Do you have any idea how expensive it is to replace a ship?”
Hubert shrugged. “Well I don’t see how that’s my faul —”
“And the last time she was in Whitebone, she dropped a net full of trolls in the middle of my palace,” Sahar said, inspecting his rings. “The stupid, slobbering beasts ran wild in the halls for days before we managed to find them. And I’m still trying to air the stench from my silk cushions.”
Hubert snorted. “Trolls? Really, I find that hard to —”
“And why do your vineyards never scorch?” D’Mere interjected. “Why have my forests been burned when she hasn’t so much as bruised a single one of your grapes?”
Hubert didn’t seem to have an answer for that. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for air. Little indignant sounds escaped from between his lips while the others gutted him.
“An excellent point, Countess,” Reginald said. His eyes glinted as he moved in for the kill. “Yes, I do believe I’m beginning to see a pattern: every time Hubert fails, she comes blazing from the mountains, breathing fire down our necks —”
“And on our fields,” Gilderick added. He fixed his dark-pitted stare on Hubert, who looked quickly in the other direction.
“Precisely,” Reginald agreed. He jabbed a finger at Hubert. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you made a pact with the barbarian.”
“I’ve done no such thing!” he shrieked.
Reginald smirked through his goatee. “I’d like to see you prove it.”
Hubert licked his dry lips as his eyes shifted around the table. “She’s — she’s dead,” he said finally.
The other four sat a little straighter.
“You’ve killed her?” Sahar made no attempt to mask the skepticism in his voice.
“Yes. Well — good as. What I’ve started, the mountains will finish,” Hubert continued quickly before Reginald could cut in. “My scouts found her, wounded by a blow on the head that no human could have survived. I could’ve fit my fist in the hole it made. Anyways, she fled into the mountains. There’s nothing up there but rocks and trees. I wager the forest took her in a couple of hours.”
His news silenced the others. D’Mere pursed her full lips. Reginald tugged on his goatee. Sahar’s jeweled fingers tapped furiously on the table. Gilderick stared.
A moment passed and Hubert began to squirm. He turned to Crevan. “I hope, Your Majesty, that this news eases your worries.”
He slid his boots off the table and assumed a more Kingly pose. A carefully-practiced expression of concern masked his face. “My friends, it pains me to hear you fight each other. After all, did we not conquer the whisperers side by side?”
They nodded.
“Did we not share in the reward and together bring this Kingdom into glory?”
They nodded again, more cautiously.
“Then remember that our bickering only gives the enemy a foothold.” At his command the steward reentered the room, balancing a tray of six silver goblets on one palm. Crevan served the Five himself, pouring them all a generous amount of his finest wine. “Today, my friends, is a day for celebration. Earl Hubert has just informed me of the death of my most hated enemy.” He raised his glass. “And he shall be rewarded for it.”
Hubert shot a smug look at the other four.
“To the Earl of the Unforgivable Mountains!” Crevan declared. He brought his cup almost to his lips and paused, watching as Hubert slurped down his entire goblet.
The other four never moved. They knew better than to drink when the King didn’t.
Crevan watched as Hubert’s eyes bugged out and he began to claw at his throat. “Though I hate to admit it, your attack nearly did the trick. She would have died, all alone — only there’s more than just rocks and trees where she fled.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise of Hubert’s choking. “It turns out there’s a miserable, nothing of a village halfway up the mountains … and they found her.”
Foam gathered at the corner of Hubert’s lips, his watery eyes grew emptier by the second. At Crevan’s word, two guards entered the room to take his body away.
“One moment.” He stopped the guards and pulled a gold medallion off Hubert’s neck — a task made more difficult by his many wobbling chins. He held the medallion before Hubert’s fading eyes so that he could see the wolf’s head engraved on its surface for a final time. “I relieve you of your rule.”
Then the guards dragged his body from the room, squeezing his pudgy legs through the door and closing it shut behind them. The fear they left behind was so potent that Crevan thought he might have smelled it from the other side of the castle. He could hear the question that swarmed in the heads of the other four:
Had everyone’s drink been poisoned, or only Hubert’s?
Let them wonder. Let them steep in their expendability.
“Well, good riddance to the lazy cod,” Reginald finally said. He turned to Crevan. “What the Unforgivable Mountains need is a firm hand. If Your Majesty wishes, I’d be happy to take charge of the territory myself.”
His offer set off another squabble amongst the Five. Why should Reginald get more territory than anyone else? How did he expect to tame the mountains? Who got murdered and made him the best man for the job?
Their cawing and squawking drove Crevan to grind his teeth. He slammed his fist down, toppling his goblet onto the floor. It clattered loudly as the room went quiet.
“If I wanted another herd of fat, greedy-eyed merchants roaming my Kingdom, I would gladly put the region in your hands,” Crevan said to Reginald. “But I have a different vision for the mountains. A much more … aggressive, vision.”
Almost on cue, the door to the throne room swung open. A man clad in full armor marched up to Crevan. His coarse hair fell nearly to his shoulders and a wolfish grin peeked out through his tangled beard. He bowed before he sat in Hubert’s empty chair.
Crevan smiled at the stunned looks on the others’ faces. “You all remember Titus, my warlord.”
It wasn’t a question. Titus lounged in his chair, sizing the other four up with predator’s eyes, and they stiffened under his gaze.
“I agree with you on one point, Reginald. The Unforgivable Mountains do need a firm hand. And I believe Titus will give its citizens the discipline they lack,” Crevan said.
Titus took the gold medallion from him and slid it over his head. He grinned at the other four — and soaked up their scornful looks like sunshine.
Crevan stood and the Five scrambled to their feet. “I trust you will all work a little harder to capture the Dragongirl, now that you’ve seen the fate of failure.” He nodded to Titus. “You’ll find her in Tinnark. Go quickly — and remind those mountain rats of their King.”
Chapter 5
Bow-Breaker
Kael’s meeting with the elders didn’t go well.
He’d never been in the Hall when it wasn’t packed full of people. As he walked down the endless line of empty tables and chairs, he kept his eyes firmly on the crisscrossing pattern of scratches on the back of Roland’s jerkin. Though he knew the chairs were empty, he swore he could feel the weight of eyes upon him.
Perhaps his ancestors were there, shaking their ghostly heads as he shamed them.
When Roland stepped aside, he saw the elders fanned out around their table. They leaned forward, squinting hard with failing eyes and combing their hands pensively through their beards. Brock was even making the effort to stand, though he leaned heavily on the table for support.
Kael’s face burned hotter with every second they made him wait. He stared pointedly at the many paper-thin wrinkles between Brock’s eyes and tried not to betray his emotions.
“It has long been our belief that you were most doomed of us all. And now it seems we’ve been proven correct,” Brock said, though he didn’t seem particularly upset about it. In fact, he sounded rather smug.
“Tell the boy his fate,” Roland growled.
Brock actually smirked at him. “It is fortunate that you have so many protectors,” he said to Kael. “A man who runs away can hardly deserve them.”
“I didn’t run.” His fists shook as he thought about how badly he’d like to knock the sneer right off Brock’s face. “I won’t let you call me a coward —”
“Hush, boy. Be like the fox,” Roland muttered.
He spoke well out of the elders’ range and when Brock asked him to repeat it, he wouldn’t. Not that it would have mattered: few understood Roland’s words. But Kael had heard them long enough to understand that he was telling him to be cunning. He must know when to fight, and when to yield.
So as much as he didn’t want to, Kael apologized and clamped his mouth firmly shut.
Brock was far from appeased. He pursed his lips so tightly that they nearly disappeared in a crevice of wrinkles. “For the shameful act of breaking your bow, the elders ruled to banish you. But out of respect for your grandfather, we’ve agreed to lessen your sentence.” His fist came down with every term, sealing them in Tinnark’s law. “You will live out your days as a healer, bound to the hospital. You will not be allowed to venture into the village — and this includes the Hall. Your meals will be brought to you thrice daily. You are stripped of your privileges as a man of Tinnark, forbidden to walk where you aren’t wanted and forbidden to speak without permission. The elders have spoken.”
When his fist fell that last time and the hollow thud finished bouncing through the rafters, Kael’s first thought was that he’d have rather been banished.
“That isn’t what’s fair, that’s torture!” Roland bellowed, shaking his fists.
Brock’s arms trembled as he leaned to put his nose in Roland’s face. “The elders have spoken!” The others stood in a chorus of creaking joints and took up his chant. “The elders have spoken!”
“I’d like to see every one of you strung up by your beards!” Roland said through their cries. “A colony of miserable old bats, that’s what you are —”
Kael grabbed him by the arm. “Enough, it isn’t worth it.”
“You aren’t allowed to speak!” Brock shrilled.
“He has my permission!” Roland snapped back.
Kael squeezed his arm hard, fighting his own fury long enough to quell Roland’s. It would do them no good if the elders decided to punish them both. In the end, he seemed to realize this. Roland went silent — but did not relinquish his glare.
When the Hall was quiet, Kael nodded once. And then he left.
Roland went to follow, but the elders held him back. “We are troubled over the storehouses,” Brock said. “They aren’t anywhere near full enough to get us through the winter. And this morning your men brought in less than half the game of the morning before — hardly enough to fill the pots. Do you have an answer for this?”
“I’m no Seer, but perhaps it has something to do with the fact that the best trapper in Tinnark is no longer allowed out in the woods.”
The uncomfortable silence that followed made Kael’s chin lift a little as he headed for the door, but for the most part he felt like he’d been sentenced to death.
Everything was numb: from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He didn’t feel the air rush past him as he strode out of the Hall, he didn’t feel the rude wood of the heavy doors as he shoved them open. When he saw Marc standing bowlegged up the path, some object clutched in his meaty hand, he didn’t even break his pace.
“Get out of our village, Bow-Breaker!” he said as he threw.
The rainstorm from the night before left the ground sopping wet. Footprints in the dirt path filled with water, which turned to mud. And mud made for a handy weapon.
A fistful of wet earth struck him in the head, the slapping sound it made stung his ears. The tiny bits of rock stuck into it cut his face. Grit caked his tongue and he staggered backwards as he tried to spit it out. That’s when another clump struck his ear.
He heard Laemoth’s voice, muffled through the dirt: “Get out, Bow-Breaker!”
Soon mud was striking him on all sides. He could hear the angry cries of the villagers as they cursed him with every throw.
“Half-breed!”
“Bow-Breaker!”
“You’re a bad omen!”
“Get out!”
The mud hurt worse than their words and, even though he could feel blood welling in the scratches on his arms, he kept walking. He would keep his head down, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him run — even if it meant losing an ear or an eye.
He would never run again.
They stopped following him a few yards from the hospital. The noise of the mob drew Amos out the door and when they saw him, the villagers made a hasty retreat.
“Inbred swine,” he cursed after them. “I have half a mind to give every one of them something to think about — what are you doing? You’ll track mud all inside my hospital!”
“I just need a few things, and then I promise I’ll be out of your hair forever,” Kael said as he shoved past him. He grabbed an empty pack off the floor and began filling it with bandages and bottles of herbs. Several patients tilted their bloodied heads and a few more watched him curiously through swollen eyes, but he ignored them.
Amos followed at a hobble. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m leaving.”
Kael didn’t have to turn around to know that Amos’s mouth was hanging wide open. “But you can’t leave — I need you here. She needs you.”
He said that last bit quietly enough that the patients couldn’t overhear. Kael looked up from where he’d been stuffing his hunting knife away and found the closed door of Amos’s office.
They decided to keep the wounded girl back there for the time being. Her fever was gone, but she was still trapped in sleep. There was no telling how many Tinnarkians would crowd their way into the hospital, craning their necks for a better view, if she was out on display. They’d decided it was better to keep her under lock and key until she woke.
“What if I can’t save her?” Amos pressed. “What if you’re the only one who can get around the hex —?”
“Well that’s too bad, isn’t it? I’m not going to be a prisoner for the rest of my life. Not for anyone,” Kael said back, and he half-meant it.
But a tiny voice in the back of his head chose that moment to speak. If you leave, it said, she could die. You’re always talking about being brave, so why don’t you do the brave thing?
He didn’t see how such a small something had the power to hold back a flood of rage so hot that it practically baked the mud onto his skin. And yet with one utterance, the voice folded his anger on top of itself, wrapping it up again and again until he could’ve fit it in his pocket. He thought about all the
stories he read in the Atlas, all the knights and warriors who’d had to do something they never wanted: Sir Gorigan, Scarn, Setheran the Wright …
They’d all had to make sacrifices — most resulting in their deaths. If it had been Brock or Marc or Laemoth lying sick, he wouldn’t have thought twice about turning on his heel and putting Tinnark to his back forever. But it wasn’t. It was a traveling girl — a girl who very likely didn’t deserve to die.
“Help me bring her back,” Amos implored him, latching onto the struggle in his face. “Once she’s healed, you can leave. You don’t even have to wait for the snows to come.”
“Fine.” Kael tossed his half-filled pack onto a nearby table and went to go scrub the mud off his clothes. Even though it killed him to stay, he couldn’t sentence an innocent girl to her death.
But only until spring, he told himself. As soon as the snows came and cleared, he’d leave Tinnark for good.
*******
The next month was nothing short of torture. The elders decreed that Kael wasn't allowed in the Hall, which meant someone had to volunteer to bring him his meals everyday. When he opened the door that first morning, he was surprised to see a hunter carrying his breakfast.
The man tried rather lamely to mask his laughter with a fit of coughs, so when Kael dug his spoon in, he knew to look carefully. Alongside the raspberries and turtle meat was a number of floating black things. They were about the size of pebbles and when he used the edge of his spoon to break one open, his worst suspicions were confirmed: deer droppings.
He went without breakfast.
Marc brought his lunch, and there was almost more droppings than broth. "Eat up," he said, shoving it roughly into his chest.
Kael replied by emptying the bowl on Marc's boots.
"So, the Bow-Breaker is ungrateful,” Marc said, his voice splintered with rage. “Well, I'm sure the elders won't mind not feeding you." And his boots made a wet squishing noise as he stomped away.
Kael made no mention of it to Amos. He chewed on herbs as he worked to keep his stomach from growling too loudly, and tried to keep himself busy. Just when he’d resigned himself to a slow death of starvation, Roland showed up with dinner.