by Matt Heppe
“It wasn’t too late. I might have needed you.”
“I’m sorry, huntress.” He looked down, not meeting her gaze. “I won’t… I won’t let it happen again. I swear it.”
Hadde turned and watched the Kiremi, but they showed no sign they meant to attack. One rode off toward the riderless horse. “What do you want to be, Calen? A hunter, right?”
“More than anything.”
“You stalk game better than anyone in Long Meadow. And you certainly are a better tracker than I am. You are an excellent shot. But there is more to being a hunter. Hunters must defend the village.”
He paused a moment. “Aren’t you ever afraid, Hadde?”
“I am. Sometimes more than others. But I do what I have to.”
“I’ll never be as good a killer as you.” He looked away from her, out across the plains.
“Is that what I am? A good killer?” She tapped Quickstep’s flanks and rode into the forest. He died. The arrow flew true and he died.
The shade of the oaks fell over her. This was home. The Kiremi plains were a foreign place to her now. A place owned by enemies.
“What about the Kiremi?” Calen asked from behind her.
“They won’t follow. They fear the forest too much. We’ll stay alert.”
“We could go straight home.” Calen’s tone was hopeful. “We should warn them of the Kiremi.”
Hadde took a deep breath. She’d like nothing more. She hadn’t been away from little Enna for this long since her birth nine months ago.
Why did I rush back to being a huntress? I didn’t even nurse my Enna. She’ll think Maret her mother more than me.
“Yes,” she said. “We’ll head home.”
And then we’ll move to Belavil. Deep in the forest and far away from the Kiremi or anyone else who might threaten us.
Chapter Two
Bright summer sunlight streamed through the cottage window. The day was hot, as so many had been, but at least a breeze blew through the open windows, giving Maret some relief. It wouldn’t be long before the shade of Landomeri oaks fell over her cottage.
Maret took the sleeping Orlos from her breast and buttoned her dress. “My little prince,” she said. “My chubby little prince.” She couldn’t help smiling at him. He was a wonderful baby in every way.
Of course everyone said it was because he was a spiridus child—the spirit child of Orlos. The spirit’s return had brought life back to Landomere, they said. Maret wasn’t sure what to think. She knew for certain that Orlos had given his life saving her on her death bed. His voice had told her that her child was now his, and not that of her rapist.
She looked into Orlos’s sleeping face. He didn’t seem any different than any other baby. At least he didn’t seem like a magical spiridus baby. “Maybe life has come back to the forest because the Wasting is over, Bumplekin. Maybe that’s it.”
The door eased open and Grandma Enna, stepped through. She had her granddaughter on her hip. Little Enna pulled on her grandmother’s long, greying braid, but the older woman hardly paid her any attention.
“She’s hungry already?” Maret asked, letting just a hint of exasperation into her voice.
“She just had some porridge, if you can believe it. Our little wood spirit is being quite the good girl.” She smiled and gave little Enna’s nose a playful poke. “For a change, right dear?”
“This one will sleep for a while,” Maret said, looking down at Orlos.
“I came because we have visitors. Did you hear them arrive?”
Maret shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything. Visitors? But we sent out word—”
“No, not Landomeri. They are Saladorans. Here to see you, they said. The trader Johas brought them.”
“Saladorans? Here in Long Meadow?” Maret’s heart stuttered. “Who are they? Why have they come?”
“They wouldn’t say. But their leader said it was important he speak with you. His name is Grax. Sir Grax.”
Maret thought a moment. “Baron Grax?” Her heart sank as she said the words.
“He didn’t say. Is there a problem, Maret? You look ill.”
Maret glanced towards the door, suddenly fearing he might enter the cottage. “Baron Grax was Earl Waltas’s uncle.”
“Waltas?” Enna paused in thought. “Not the man who…”
Maret nodded, her free hand going to her scarred face. She pushed back against the memory of fear and pain. The memory of Waltas and his dagger.
Enna went to the door and peered out. “He’s speaking with Arno. There doesn’t seem to be anything amiss.” She turned back to Maret. “I’ll warn Arno. Should we send this Grax off?”
Maret stood, careful not to jostle the sleeping Orlos in her arms. She joined Enna, keeping well out of view. Arno showed no signs of concern as he talked to the Saladorans. A small group of Landomeri stood with Arno and the three Saladorans in the shade of a young oak that grew near the village square.
Maret saw Johas, the wiry trader she had met months ago, his face tanned by years out of doors. A man who had to be Grax stood near him. He wore fine blue linen trousers and a linen tunic in darker blue. His black felt hat was turned up on one side and sported a trio of white swan feathers. His face, shaded by the hat, was hard to make out. She thought she saw Waltas in it. An older Waltas, perhaps.
Grax wore a short sword in a silver inlaid scabbard, but was otherwise unarmed. He had the look of a soldier, and someone who was used to command.
The third man was taller and wore mail. He stood just behind Grax’s right shoulder and wore a broadsword at his belt. A crossbow hung from a strap over his shoulder. A man-at-arms. Grax’s bodyguard she supposed. He wore no tabard or badge, though, which was odd. If he was Grax’s man he should be wearing his arms.
“He didn’t say what he wanted?” Maret asked.
“Just to speak with you.”
“It makes no sense.” Maret had never imagined any Saladoran would make the journey to see her. She had no close family, except for a father who had become one of Akinos’s eternals. And she didn’t even know if he still lived.
“You don’t have to speak with him.”
Maret paused and thought a moment. “No. I want to know why he is here. And I don’t want him coming back again. I’ll speak with him.”
“Is it safe?” Enna asked, her brows furrowed as she met Maret’s gaze. “I don’t want you at risk.”
“It should be. But then I should have been safe from Waltas. Would you tell Arno that Baron Grax cannot have his man with him if I am to meet with him? And he must be unarmed and it must be in the open. With Arno near, if that is acceptable to him. And to you.”
“Of course it is. I’ll tell them. Will you take little Enna? She’s beginning to fuss. I’ll take her back when I come for you.” Enna winced as her granddaughter pulled at her ear.
Maret placed the sleeping Orlos in his rocking bed and took the squirming girl. Maret watched through the open door as Enna approached Grax. She took her husband aside for a moment and whispered to him before the two of them approached Grax.
They spoke for a moment and then Grax nodded and removed his sword belt. He glanced in Maret’s direction and she wondered if he could even see her in the dark doorway. Grax gave the weapon to his man-at-arms.
As Enna returned to the cottage Arno and Grax stood under the tree. The two other Saladorans and the remaining Landomeri retreated toward the village center.
“He agreed right away,” Enna said. She took little Enna from Maret’s arms. “Arno will be right there with you.”
“Thank you.” Maret gave Orlos a quick glance before walking out the door into the sunlight. She suddenly felt self-conscious. Her green linen dress, salvaged from one she had brought from Sal-Oras, rose all the way to the top of her calves, and had no sleeves at all. She hastily did up the last of the buttons; she hardly ever bothered as she so often had to undo them to feed the children. And I have no veil. She almost stopped.
I�
�ve become Landomeri. But I feel naked in front of this Saladoran. She suddenly longed for a real Saladoran dress, or one that would at least hide her lower neck and calves. It would be ridiculous in the summer heat, but it still seemed proper.
She couldn’t turn back now. She lengthened her stride. She would not cower in front of Waltas’s uncle.
Grax smiled as she approached. He removed his hat and bowed low to her. Arno stood a few strides away, his hands on his belt. A belt that held a long hunting knife.
Maret stopped four strides from Grax. She could see the family resemblance to Waltas now. The same hawk features. Grax was older, though. Middle aged, and when he removed his hat she saw the grey at his temples.
“Lady Maret,” Grax said, “it is my great honor to meet you.” He took a step forward, saying, “May I kiss your hand?”
Maret flinched and Arno took a big step forward, his hands leaving his belt and forming two large fists.
Grax stopped, holding his hands high. “I am truly sorry,” he said. Maret saw his gaze glance over her scarred face. “I know why you are afraid. I am ashamed of my nephew and sorry for what he did to you.”
Maret swallowed and nodded. “Why… why have you come here? Just to apologize?”
Grax glanced from Maret to Arno and back. “Yes. First and foremost, yes. My nephew was a powerful man. But… he was not right. I am most sorry to say that you were not the first woman he… hurt.”
“Then why wasn’t he stopped? Is there no honor in the South Teren?” Maret’s face flushed. “Do you not stand up for your women?”
“I tried. I swear I did.” He placed his hand on his heart. “I brought charges against him. But Waltas was second in line of succession to the Ducal Seat. He claimed I only worked against him to advance my own position.”
“You were third in line?”
“I was. In the end I was forced to leave for my western estates, north of Landomere.”
“And you are saying he mutilated other women? He… he forced himself upon other women and Duke Avran allowed him to go free?”
“They were not noble women, lady. He never attacked a noble woman before.”
“Before me.”
Grax nodded. “He was not stupid about his… behaviors. I never had all the evidence I needed against him.”
“You should have challenged him to a combat of arms.”
Grax bowed his head. “I am eternally ashamed I did not. It was an act of cowardice that I ran to my estates. And that is, in the main, why I am here.”
Maret attempted to hide her doubt and keep her expression blank. It was not a common sight to see a knight of Salador admitting to cowardice. His words were contrite, but she didn’t see it in his eyes. His eyes were hard.
“Perhaps through good deeds you will rise above this dishonor,” Maret said. It was as charitable as she could manage. She would never fully recover from what had happened to her.
Grax brightened. “Exactly. And that brings me to my second reason for being here.” He paused and glanced at Arno. “Could I, just for a moment, speak with the Lady Maret alone?”
Arno crossed his arms and frowned. He glanced at Maret. She swallowed her nervousness. Grax was unarmed, and seemed truly regretful. He was no Waltas, but he was still a man of Salador, and she had lost her faith in them.
“No, Baron Grax,” she said. “I want Arno with me.”
Grax stood taller. “Lady Maret, I am a man of honor—”
“You may leave,” Maret said. “Get on your horses and leave. I will never trust—”
“This is about your son.”
Maret’s eyes narrowed. “What about my son?”
“You, and your friend, Hadde, both had children at the same time.”
“Yes.”
“Johas said that when he was here he heard that Hadde’s daughter is Prince Morin’s child.”
Maret’s heart lurched in her chest. They never should have let that story get out of Long Meadow. “Hadde’s daughter is none of your business.”
Grax nodded. “I understand. A bastard birth is not a comfortable topic.” He paused. “I’m sorry, but I must ask you a question. And I only ask because it is of great importance. Your son, he is Earl Waltas’s child?”
Maret flushed and took a step back. Scowling at her own weakness, she stood taller. “He attacked me and put his seed in me. He also took his knife to me. I nearly died, but Orlos the Spiridus saved me. Orlos gave his life to save mine, and at the same moment he put his spirit into my child. My son is Orlos’s.”
“I have heard the story,” Grax said. He clasped his hands in front of him. “But your son was begat with Waltas’s seed.”
“I said so, didn’t I? Helna forgive me, but I am glad that he is dead. I am glad that Hadde killed him!”
Grax held up his hands to appease her. “I’m sorry, but I had to be certain. Others vouched for your story, but it was important that I hear it from you.”
“Others? Who? Who have you spoken to about me?”
“Three young ladies from the Maiden Hall of Sal-Oras. And the queen.”
“What? Why?”
“Earl Waltas’s father died years ago, leaving Earl Waltas second in line to the Ducal Seat. Duke Avran’s son died foolishly in a tournament a year ago. And the Duke himself… the duke has been in poor health for years now and is on his death bed.”
Grax took a deep breath. “My younger brother, a man of vicious temperament, has discovered a bastard child he claims is Waltas’s. My brother will raise this child to the Ducal Seat if he has his way. It is my brother’s attempt to seize power. But that child is not the true heir to the South Teren. Your son is.”
Maret shook her head. “Both children are bastards, and the one your brother discovered must be the elder. By Saladoran law, with no trueborn son or daughter, the eldest bastard will inherit.”
“Your son has the better claim, Lady Maret. The boy my brother discovered was the son of a scullery wench. And there is much doubt that Waltas is even the father. You, however are the daughter of an important earl, and there is no question as to who his father is.”
Grax paused. “I stand behind your son’s claim. The queen stands behind his claim. Your son will be the next Duke of the South Teren.”
Chapter Three
Nidon rested his back against the wooden guardrail on the command deck of the river galley. The day was hot, but a blue and white striped canopy protected the deck from the worst of the sun, and a strong breeze blew from aft. It reminded him of his youth, of days spent on his father’s galley patrolling the northern Treteren River. Or of the rare lazy days when he and his sister would sail the river on a little skiff. But then the Wasting had taken them. All of them.
The Wasting had started slowly, generations ago. It had started so slowly that no one had noticed it at first, thinking it only a few bad growing seasons. But seasons grew into decades. And then, twenty years ago the Wasting had struck with a vengeance. Crops failed, animals died, few children were born, and disease and starvation spread across the kingdom.
No one had known that it was the ancient Akinos causing it by his misuse of the Orb of Creation. And then Hadde had ended it all with a single arrow.
For a moment the battle flashed clear in Nidon’s mind. The whirling chaos of the melee around Akinos’s crippled war wagon, the massive capcaun and their giant maces crushing knights with single blows, the berserk varcolac throwing themselves madly into the fight.
Then King Boradin had fallen and Nidon had taken up the Godshield, Forsvar. Forsvar had filled him with strength and confidence, knowing that the Godshield was there to protect him. He had still felt the blows raining down upon him, but their impact was just a fraction of what it had been before.
The men around him had felt the aura as well. They fought like heroes. But then the varcolac had lifted Akinos to take him clear of Forsvar’s aura, where the power of the Orb of Creation would have healed him and brought the Eternal Knights back into the
battle.
Then Hadde’s arrow struck Akinos down. Nidon hadn’t known it at the time. Only when he climbed onto the armored wagon did he see the arrow in the ancient man, and across the field, standing alone, Hadde.
In the distance he had seen Prince Morin, pursuing the Orb.
From that moment everything had gone wrong. Hadde had left for Landomere, just when Nidon had begun to realize what she meant to him. And the queen had taken Forsvar from him, ordering him to pursue the Orb. A pursuit that turned into never-ending war.
Nidon glanced over his shoulder at the four ships following in line. Three hundred men and their horses all returned from war. He closed his eyes and settled against the rail. Water sloshed against the hull, and the large sail flapped in the unsteady breeze. There were murmured voices, but most, like him, rested quietly in the afternoon heat.
Nearby the steering oar creaked as the helmsman made a correction. He was the only other man on the command deck, but Nidon didn’t feel like talking. He adjusted his weight to ease the pain in his hip.
A year and a half of war. I have had enough. I am so tired. Gods, the Rigas Mountains are a Helna-forsaken land.
Images fluttered through his mind. A narrow pass choked by barriers – some natural, some hastily built. And behind them varcolac, giant urias, and Rigarians. From the unassailable heights Rigarians showered arrows upon the advancing army. Varcolac hurled stones that smashed helms and horses’ skulls with equal ease. Men and horses screamed.
When they reached the walls the urias with their giant clubs and armor plates crushed men with single blows. Every day. Every single day.
Until we built our wall. Until they came at us. Gods how they died on our wall. The pass choked with their corpses. The stink of death too much to bear.
Nidon shook his head, and closed his eyes tighter as if it would block his mind’s eye.
Enough! I am done.
And then he thought of her. He pushed his mind to another place. A deep forest glade beside a babbling brook.
She was there, lying on a blanket. She was so beautiful—so different and so beautiful. Her long, black hair was in the braid she always wore, but as he watched she smiled up at him and brushed her hair out until it shimmered like deep black water.