“Somewhere along the road to Ibitsal, I’ll have an ‘accident.’ Very tragic, I’m sure.”
“Seems inevitable, although I doubt you’ll make it to the exit of the pass. Easier to dispose of a body in here. Some of the men with loose lips and shit for brains are already wagering on who’ll get your command.”
Carannan allowed himself a grim smile. Given the opportunity, people would bet on anything. “Who’s the favorite? You?”
“It’s traditional for the undercommander to replace the overcommander when the time comes. Not sure I want the position, though. The target on my back is already big enough and it would feel too much like a betrayal. I’m sworn to Myselene’s service and, while some people don’t think my word is worth much, there are some oaths I don’t take lightly. I made one to Sorial after what happened in Ibitsal and I don’t intend to be forsworn.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Watch your back. I don’t know for sure.”
Rexall might not, but Carannan did. “It’s ten against one. Won’t matter if I watch my back or not. You’re talking to a dead man.”
* * *
Moving as quietly as a ghost, Rexall slipped off into the night, traveling slowly and with infinite caution. Thankfully, there was a nearly full moon tonight and the low-hanging clouds of the day had cleared, otherwise he feared he might blunder off the trail and kill himself in the dark. He wasn’t alone - a company of thirteen like-minded others were accompanying him. Their goal, which they had discussed only briefly in whispered, secretive conversations, was simple: catch up with the Ibitsal-bound group and rescue Overcommander Carannan. None of them had any illusions of what that would entail. The men accompanying Carannan were among the most fanatically loyal to Ferguson and the only way to prevent them from carrying out their duty might be to kill them. So be it. Plotting the death of a senior officer was a hanging offense anyway.
The soldiers accompanying Rexall into exile were a combination of former members of Duke Carannan’s personal militia, including the redoubtable Rotgut, and the remnants of Myselene’s personal retinue. None were conflicted about where their loyalty lay: first to the queen, second to the overcommander, and perhaps not at all to Ferguson if he was in the process of committing treason. The prelate would view this as perfidy, of course, which is why they had to depart in silence and secrecy. If caught, he had no doubt they would face summary execution for desertion. That was the way of the world, where winners of battles and those with larger armies made the rules and wrote history. He wondered how long into the next day it would take for Ferguson to recognize their absence. As acting overcommander, he would be the most noticeable missing person but the prelate relied so heavily on his priests that it was conceivable they could get an aggressive head start.
They planned to travel the rest of the night and all day on the morrow. This close to the camp, they couldn’t risk torches or lanterns but that would change after a mile or so. Still, they had to be careful to limit their illumination - Rexall well remembered how easy it was to spot distant light sources at night in this pass, especially around the two bridges. They were approaching the second one; he couldn’t remember the exact distance between the long, narrow, snake-like strips of road, but the main group was at least halfway. The bridges were too dangerous to cross in anything but full daylight. Rexall wasn’t likely to forget how harrowing the passage across the second one had been during his previous northward passage. That journey still haunted his nightmares and he often marveled that they had survived it with only one fatality.
Thirteen men followed Rexall as he inched his way away from the camp, leaving behind its limited warmth and illumination. He was their leader not only by virtue of his rank but because he was the only one of their number who had been here before. Not that he truly knew the way, but he had a general sense of what lay before them. Foremost in his mind was the recognition that even a slight misstep could represent a thousand foot plunge into an unmarked, rocky grave. He had liked Vagrum but had no desire to accompany him to that final resting place. One often made sacrifices for traveling compatriots but that, from Rexall’s perspective, was going a little too far.
Although the group’s short term goal was straightforward - rescue Carannan and release the potential wizards from Ferguson’s grasp - their long term objective was less clear. Where to go after that? If they reached the overcommander before he was killed, Rexall would gladly transfer the responsibility for making that decision. If not, however, the choice of destination would fall to him. Sussaman was a possibility. He had fond memories of his time there and was acquainted with some of the residents, but that was Ferguson’s stronghold and nowhere on the continent was loyalty to him stronger. They could proceed to Obis but the situation there was uncertain. If Myselene’s bid for the throne failed or was delayed, their reception could be… unpleasant. Syre was out of the question, since it would likely soon be in Justin’s hands, although Rexall wouldn’t have minded sampling the wares of some of its most famous citizens. Ibitsal was another possibility. They could proceed there and wait, although Rexall wasn’t sure how that would solve anything beyond answering the question of which members of the party could hear the portal’s call.
By the time dawn arrived, Rexall felt as exhausted as if he had been running all night and, despite the chill temperatures, he was drenched in sweat. Traveling with slow, measured, controlled steps and keeping constantly alert was more physically and mentally draining than moving fast. He estimated they had traversed no more than eight miles in an equal number of hours - not a good rate, although enough to hopefully place them beyond Ferguson’s reach. If they were going to catch up to Carannan, however, they were going to have to march double-time while there was light and hope the wizard candidates were slowing down the progress of the overcommander’s group.
“Any idea how far we is from that second bridge you mentioned?” asked Rotgut, who showed no signs of weariness after the night’s endeavors. He, like most veteran members of the army, was used to more grueling journeys.
Rexall looked around him, but the sameness of the terrain defeated his ability to establish their exact location. The left side of the trail ended in a sheer rock face that rose up a dizzying thousand feet. To the right was another stone wall but there was a gap of ten feet between the edge of the pathway and the cliffside. Rexall had no idea how far one could fall down that fissure and he wasn’t interested in learning the answer. Although he had used Widow’s Pass twice - once going north and once returning south - the only milestones he knew were the bridges. Other than that, one spot was like the next: foreboding, dangerous, and utterly inhospitable. At least it wasn’t Winter.
“We can’t be too far away,” he said, although his voice betrayed his uncertainty. “Whatever happens, we don’t want to catch up to them on the bridge.” This was a point he had emphasized before they left. “If we haven’t reached them before, we’ll have to hold up. Ain’t possible to fight with so little room for error.” The exception was the three men who had bows, although Rexall didn’t want to risk hitting the non-soldiers. Plus, there was the consideration that all ten of the men with Carannan were thus armed and there was no cover on the bridge. In a hand-to-hand struggle, he had the advantage of numbers; not so in a long-distance fight, when it would come down to how fast his archers could reload and how accurate their aim was compared to that of the bowmen on the other side.
As the day dragged on, clouds moved in from the northwest and a persistent drizzle began to fall, reducing visibility to less than a half mile on those rare occasions when the trail straightened enough to see that far. The gap between the right side of the path and the wall had narrowed to about four feet - almost close enough to touch, not that Rexall was stupid enough to try. He ventured close to the edge and peered down but, after the first few feet, he couldn’t see anything but blackness. The thought occurred to him that it was a good place to toss a body. He knew he wasn’t the first person to have tha
t idea and wondered if the gap had already been used in that manner for Carannan.
With the gloomy mockery of daylight surrounding them, the men moved quickly and, by the time they rested for a brief mid-day meal, Rexall’s calves were burning. Although he had been in military life for a half-year, he wasn’t in shape for this kind of excursion. With the exception of one other man, a lanky farmer who had joined “to fight them invaders,” everyone else treated the journey as if it was routine. Rexall mused that the problem with career soldiers was that they either didn’t feel physical discomfort or, if they did, they were so used to it that they didn’t notice.
Later that day, dusk approached without any clear indication that they were nearing the bridge but Rexall believed them to be close. Then again, he had thought that for most of the day. Since he didn’t want them blundering onto it and possibly losing one or more men as a consequence, he decided they would stop as soon as there was too little light for them to proceed safely. He was unconcerned about them being caught from behind, although he recognized that every passing hour made it less likely they would catch up to their quarry while the overcommander was still in charge. For all he knew, Carannan was already dead.
They were minutes away from halting for the day when they saw something in the road ahead. Rexall mentioned for them to slow and, as they crept closer, the object was revealed to be a body - the body of a man wearing a guard’s uniform. Rexall’s instinct was to dash forward but he held back, fearing a trap. It seemed unlikely that the soldiers commissioned with killing Carannan would simply leave him in the middle of the path with such a nice, convenient crevasse only a few feet away. But there was nowhere for archers waiting in ambush to hide and the light was too dim for a clear shot from more than perhaps a hundred feet away. Besides, why would the soldiers ahead suspect pursuit? Rexall was certain his men had been careful enough to remain undetected even if someone ahead was paranoid enough to investigate.
Rexall reached the body without suddenly sprouting arrows in his chest - a possibility he had half expected. Before dropping to his haunches, he recognized the overcommander, unmoving and lying on his stomach. Turning Carannan over, Rexall saw no evidence of any critical wounds, although his hands were heavily scraped with some of the cuts almost to the bone. The most surprising thing, however, was that Carannan’s chest rose and fell. He let out a groan when Rexall rolled him onto his back.
As Rotgut tended to his former liege, Rexall posted lookouts. After taking several swigs of water from a proffered skin, Carannan struggled to a sitting position, wincing and grimacing. Rotgut pronounced that his left arm was broken and he had fractured several ribs - painful, certainly, but not life-threatening. A salve and bandages were applied to the deep abrasions on both hands.
Once he had recovered sufficiently to talk, Carannan related his tale. “Despite what His Eminence claims, it’s hard to believe there aren’t gods… because I can’t think of any other means by which I could’ve survived. I guess you’d call it luck or fate but now I’ve got this to add to living through Vantok’s inferno to the times I’ve cheated death. At any rate, I’m glad to see you men. Don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”
“Why did they leave you in the middle of the road?” asked Rexall.
“They didn’t,” said Carannan. “When no one tried to get rid of me last night, I thought maybe I’d misjudged the situation. Perhaps Ferguson didn’t want me out of the way permanently, only temporarily. I took my watch then lay awake waiting for someone to slide a knife into my belly, but no one tried anything. I may have dozed off but when morning came, I was unmolested. Got all the usual morning greetings from the men - no one seemed the least bit nervous or uncomfortable. So, even though I was tired, I felt better about things. Less tightly wound. I guess I let my guard down too much because I didn’t see it coming.
“The attack was subtle and well-planned. No one drew swords. No one fired arrows. One of the bigger men - Ramrod, I think - came alongside me and pretended to trip. When I reached out to offer him a hand, he returned the favor by giving me a shove. I lost my balance and fell off the trail. Down there.” He gestured to the four-foot wide opening between the edge of the road and the rock wall beyond. “And that was it. Except it wasn’t. About fifteen feet down, the gap narrows and, instead of falling hundreds of feet, I got wedged in between. Smacking into that crevice really, really hurt and I think the impact knocked me out. Things were muddled for a while. I remember hearing a lot of yelling and shouting but by the time I came to my senses, it was quiet. Then I climbed back up to the trail. That wasn’t easy, I can tell you. I’m no expert climber and there aren’t many hand-holds. I fell twice, breaking my arm the second time, and I thought for sure I’d die down there. But it’s amazing what a person can do when staring death in the face.”
Although not doubting the veracity of Carannan’s account, Rexall nevertheless decided to confirm it. He took a lighted torch, walked to the edge, and tossed it over. As it fell, he could tell by the light reflected off the rock that the gap did indeed narrow - enough to still let the torch continue to fall but not enough to pass through a man.
“You’re lucky they didn’t stab you first. Bleeding like that, you’d never have made it back up.”
“I guess they wanted to make it seem like an accident. I was bringing up the rear so none of the wizard candidates would have seen what really happened. I guess the last thing Ferguson wanted is for them to witness a pitched battle between the overcommander and his soldiers. Not a good way to ensure morale. And no one suspected a fall was survivable. I certainly didn’t. I remember in the long moment when I was going over the edge thinking that this was how it was going to end. It didn’t seem real. I suppose the certain knowledge of one’s own death never does.”
They passed the night where they were, allowing Carannan to sleep and regain some of his stamina. Technically, the next move was the overcommander’s decision but Rexall didn’t think it was in doubt. Since they couldn’t go back, they had to go forward. But should they overtake the others or hang back? And if they caught up to them, then what?
It was an especially miserable night with the misty drizzle freezing on contact with the rocks and making everything slippery. Fortunately, with the approach of morning, the temperatures inched upward and everything melted, all of which did little to improve Rexall’s sour disposition. He hated being cold. He hated being wet. He hated being hungry. And now he was all three. There was a reason he had worked in a stable as a boy rather than joining the militia. This was it.
Carannan included all the men in his overview of what was next. “It’s obvious by now, if it wasn’t already, that those of us who remain loyal to Her Majesty are outcasts. Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t go back. Ferguson would have us arrested and probably executed for desertion, dereliction of duty, or some other trumped-up charge. The men ahead of us are the real traitors. Not only are they loyal to a man committing treason but they tried to kill me. I don’t propose to offer them mercy or quarter. We’ll catch up to them and take out the soldiers then offer the rest the option of joining us willingly or accompanying us as prisoners. That will be a blow to Ferguson since these are the men and women he’s hoping to use as the cornerstones for his new order.”
No one argued. As reluctant as the men were to attack fellows they had fought alongside at the Battle of Vantok, they understood the necessity. They had made their decision when they slipped out of the refugee camp. The die was cast and there was no turning back. They followed Carannan, their lawfully appointed overcommander.
They arrived at the second bridge late in the afternoon and Carannan opted to begin the crossing even though it would necessitate camping in a precarious perch exposed to the elements - something Rexall urged against in the strongest possible language. In the end, he had no choice but to accept the orders of a superior. He understood the overcommander’s urgency - shortly after the bridge’s terminus, the trail widened, became ge
ntler, and eventually split into branches. It was to their advantage to overtake the others before the terrain became too friendly.
They identified their quarry after dark. The Ibitsal-bound group was ahead of them on the bridge, perhaps only a mile distant. Unconcerned about the potential of pursuit, they had lighted fires. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Rexall - the last time he had traveled north in Widow’s Pass, he had been the hunted. This time, he was the hunter. That knowledge didn’t cheer him or warm him against the chill night wind that whistled through the canyons between the Broken Crags.
Carannan approached Rexall about the possibility of a middle-of-the-night sneak attack. He vetoed the idea. The trail was so narrow and the footing so uncertain that a significant loss of life was possible on both sides, including among the wizard candidates. Their best move, in his opinion, was to wait until morning then move forward slowly and surreptitiously, maintaining their distance and hopefully their surprise advantage. Then, once clear of the bridge, they could increase their speed, close the gap, and do what had to be done before the other group was clear of the pass. Acknowledging the soundness of the strategy, Carannan agreed then informed everyone of his decision. When the time came for the actual attack, he tabbed Rotgut to lead it. Since his injuries would prevent him from participating, he would have no choice but to hang back. Rexall would stay with him to protect him in the event that someone targeted Carannan. It was a tactful way of acknowledging Rexall’s limited skill with weapons. He was an adequate archer but not especially adept with any kind of blade. For his part, he was content to let more experienced soldiers man the front lines. Death might find him but he wasn’t going to seek it out. Those embarking on such a quest usually succeeded.
Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) Page 28