The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Stream up ahead," Blays murmured, and Dante jumped.

  "Okay."

  "It should turn into the river."

  "That's what streams do, become rivers," Dante said, tucking his chin against his chest and peering into the crossed boughs of the trees to the east, as if looking hard enough would summon up the gray waters of the Chanset.

  "We could follow it, I mean," he said, shrugging off Dante's tone.

  "That's an idea. Can't follow our tracks if there aren't any."

  "Let's cross it, head upstream a bit, and double back."

  A couple hundred yards on the other side they turned around, retracing their path as closely as they could. The stream was shallow, fast, and strong, widening abruptly from ten feet across to twenty or thirty of ankle-deep flow, then constricting again, just as quickly, at the next elbow in its path. Its banks were dug deep—if they ducked they couldn't be seen unless someone were watching right from the lip—and its bed was a carpet of rocks, as smooth as if they'd been sanded, some as small as robins' eggs, others sturdy and immobile as the heads of bulls. Big floods in the spring carved it deep, no doubt. They walked on dry rocks at its edge for a while, throwing out their arms for balance, stones thocking together under their weight. The rush of water washed away the sounds of the woods and they spoke, when at all, in raised tones that would have carried like seeds on a breeze if they'd been above the banks. At the bends in its path the banks narrowed on them until the stony beds were buried in cold water that yanked at their ankles with the strength of a man. They slowed at these times, keeping a hand on the wall of dirt to their right or the shoulder of whoever was leading the way.

  "This is not a civilized way to live," Blays said after the third or fourth such passage, raising one soggy boot while he balanced himself against the slope of the bank. The waters were getting deeper, reaching their knees when they took a wrong step.

  "Want some food?" Dante said. His feet had begun to ache again. He wiggled his toes, fighting back the numbness. The water felt like it came from close snows.

  "I want a fire." Blays stomped his feet, squirting water over the pale gray rocks, darkening them with dampness.

  "And I want a pony. That breathes fire. And craps strawberries."

  "You'd probably eat them," Blays said. He sat down and let out a long breath.

  "You wouldn't?"

  "Out of a pony's ass?" Blays hawked and spat into the swirling current. "I don't even want to know where you think the cream would come from."

  Dante shrugged. "More for me, then."

  He found a few mushrooms wrapped up in his pack, squashed by the books as they'd shifted on the walk, moist and drooping in their own fluids. He handed Blays the bigger share and the boy set them on his lap and stared at them a moment.

  "This is what I mean." Blays popped one in his mouth, chewed, paused, then swallowed. He dipped a hand in the water and drank. "This is how animals live."

  "It's just for a few days, you baby."

  "You're the baby."

  "Why am I the baby?"

  "Because you're always scared like one. No one's going to save us. We've got to deal with this ourselves." Blays ate slowly, chewing each off-white cap for a long time. Dante had to still his arm to keep from punching him. He blinked, looked away. This whining.

  "I'm starting to learn," he said when he could trust his voice.

  "Good. I'm tired of running this show by myself."

  "Not that." Dante pulled his lips from his teeth and put his hand on Blays' wrist. The boy met his eyes, then looked down, saw the gray trailing from Dante's fingers like wisps of smoke.

  "What are you doing?"

  He called to it, brought the dark places under the rocks like he'd brought the black images of the leaves that morning. He felt a click in his chest, like something there had turned on its side, but he kept the summons, his mind an empty tunnel.

  "Stop it!"

  "Shut up." The words didn't break his command. Then it was done and he sucked air and freed his hand, shaking it. The tips of his fingers felt as cold as his waterlogged feet.

  "What did you do?" Blays said, sharp as his weapon.

  "Stand up. Walk around."

  "Go to hell," he said, then got to his feet and bounced in place. He walked a circle around Dante and Dante saw the knots fade from his face.

  "I'm not tired."

  "Neither am I," Dante said, sticking out his jaw. He let the silence linger, let Blays think his thoughts.

  "Can you do anything else?" Blays said, gazing into the woods.

  "Not really. Not yet."

  Blays folded his arms. "No. It's not right."

  "Why? Because you can't hold it in your hand?" Dante picked up a rock and chucked it into the stream. Its splash was too soft to hear over the ceaseless whorl of water. "It's like you just woke up, isn't it? Like you haven't been walking at all."

  Blays rubbed the faint blond hair on his upper lip. "My dad used to say if you build your life around nothing more than swinging a sword, you'll start to think all things come down to who can swing it better."

  And he's dead, Dante thought. "You're a swordsman!" he said instead.

  "That's not the point."

  "I'm being careful," he said. "I'm not about to mess with things I don't understand."

  "It's not enough to save us," Blays said, dropping his eyes.

  "It's just a start." He tightened the drawstring on his bag, jerking the knots so they wouldn't slip. He got his feet under him and walked on down the stream bed. Blays kicked pebbles behind him. The only trees that could cling to the steep sides of the banks were small things, deep-rooted gnarls with close-clustered branches, and they walked in the full light of day. They hadn't seen sign of their pursuers since they'd heard their talk the day before. For all they knew the three riders had headed west, lost their trail, and been turning in circles ever since. They were being chased by shadows. With a week to himself, with a month of study, Dante knew he could learn things to put a stop to all this. His eyes stung. Why didn't they just leave him alone? If the book was so special, why had they left it abandoned in a ruined temple? He slipped on a moss-coated stone and Blays grabbed his arm.

  "Thanks," he said, brushing his sleeve where Blays had touched it. The stream turned again and the walls grew tight. Overhead, trees leaned over them, casting them into shadow. A gap no wider than an armspan separated the leaves on one side from those on the other, a blue and ragged line of sky so small he thought it could close completely if they faltered. He planted his feet in the water, each step deliberate as a chess move, thwarting the pull of the current. His legs were soaked past the knees. He walked on, eyes split between the treacherous stones under his feet and that thin blue band up above, one step, then another, cold but not tired, alone but leading his friend.

  * * *

  It was hours before the banks leveled out and the trees pressed them to the water's edge. Dante'd cleansed himself of his weariness again but hadn't touched Blays since. If he wanted to ache and struggle to lift his feet that was his business. The stream doubled in width and when he looked to its middle Dante could no longer see the bottom. The voice of the waters moved from the thin nattering of gossips to a deeper, thoughtful hum. Sometimes he wondered where the speed of the stream had gone, then he'd catch sight of a leafy branch on its surface, hurtling past them at twice their swiftest walk, and he'd remember clear waters didn't mean still waters.

  He didn't speak up, but it wasn't long before he thought he could smell it, that faint tang of fresh water. Not so stagnant as the pond, less of the earthy musk of dead, wet plants and more that of a moving body, the crisper scent of pebbles being ground into mud and dry dirt taking on water. A final elbow and the forest disappeared in front of them, giving way to the flat gray depths of the Chanset River, half a mile wide if a foot, the same river Bressel straddled eighty or a hundred miles downstream.

  There they rested long enough to catch their breath and wring out their
stockings, which steamed on the broad rocks where the stream funneled into the river. They crunched down on the last of their carrots, tossing the limp green tails into the water. They felt the sun on their faces.

  "Which way?" Blays said, jabbing between his teeth with a stiff sprig of grass.

  "North? Put more distance between us and Bressel?"

  "Makes sense. Five more minutes, say."

  Dante nodded. He cupped his hands to the stream, made sure his water skin was full. He wriggled the feeling back into his wrinkled toes, drying them for the first time since they'd been following the waterway. It might be days before his boots dried.

  "What's funny?" Blays asked.

  "I don't know why I bother," he said, nodding to the damp on the rocks where his feet had dripped.

  "So moss doesn't grow between your toes," Blays said with an air of authority.

  "You can't grow moss on your feet," Dante said. A small string of carrot dislodged from his teeth and he spat it out.

  "I suppose you've soldiered in the fields where such things are common."

  "You have?"

  "No," Blays said, scratching his nose, "but my dad told me. Moss on your feet like the hair on the knuckles of grown men's toes."

  "Moss only grows on things that don't move," Dante said, but he no longer knew if that were true. He'd passed plenty of days with wet feet, but couldn't remember any that hadn't ended around a fire.

  "Be quiet."

  "Like trees and—"

  "Be quiet," Blays commanded. Dante glared at him and saw he was peering down the riverbank. It was a moment before the horseman moved into view a couple hundred yards distant. Dante pressed himself against the rocks next to Blays.

  "Do you think he heard us?"

  "No," Blays murmured, then wiped his eyes. "Too much other noise. Do you see any others?"

  "No. Could be in the woods."

  "What's he doing?"

  "Looking for sign," Dante said. "See how he zigzags? How slow it is?"

  "No wonder they haven't caught us," Blays said, and then his smile went away. "Yet."

  A minute went by, another. The man kept to his search, looking up every twenty or thirty seconds to scan the area. The first time he did so Dante pulled his head down so fast he barked his chin on the rock and almost cried out.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think," Dante breathed, "he's alone."

  Blays nodded. "There's two of us."

  "Think so?"

  "Better now than when the odds are back in their favor."

  "I don't know."

  Blays touched the hilt of his sword. "We can get him if we sneak up on him."

  "He's on horseback," Dante said, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. "He'll ride away. Or ride out of range, then turn around and trample us."

  "What if we went down a little closer, then ran out on the banks screaming and running away?"

  "Like scared little kids?" Dante said, giving him a look.

  "Exactly like that," Blays grinned.

  "But we're not little kids."

  "What do you bet he thinks we are? If you're strong, you're supposed to fake being weak. It's like the first rule of the field."

  "Um," Dante said, wrapping his head around that. "He's still on horseback. He'll murder us."

  "That's where you come in." Blays lifted himself a couple inches and started backing on elbows and hips into the protection of the trees. Dante did the same. When they could no longer see the rider and the river showed in faint flashes behind the wall of reddening leaves, they got up and drew closer, placing their feet in the forest carpet like the first steps onto the uncertain ice of a pond. After what felt longer than an hour's march, Blays put a hand on Dante's shoulder and snuck forward to where the trees thinned, peeking around a bole.

  "Still there," he breathed when he got back. "Grab a couple rocks."

  "Rocks aren't going to make any difference."

  "Every little advantage," Blays said, then bit down hard to stop a laugh when he saw the look on Dante's face. "You never know. Might get lucky."

  "I bet." Dante rolled his eyes and scooped up two smooth stones, heavy for how well they fit his palm. He followed Blays toward the river. Insane, he thought. All this chasing had driven them insane. Knowing this was the smart play did nothing to slow his charging heart, to dry the dampness under his arms.

  "Ready?"

  "I guess."

  "Go," Blays whispered, then ran out on the bank and began shrieking for his mother. Dante followed him, body tight with panic when he saw the rider not a hundred feet downstream. He heard him actually laugh, then ran harder at the thunder of hooves in the grass. Within moments the rider had halved the distance between them. He whipped his sword from his back and crouched in the saddle, lining the two boys in his sights. Dante tripped, flailing his arms for balance, and his screams were real.

  "Now!" Blays yelled, but the stumble had stolen Dante's focus on the nether. He reached out again, the edges of his mind roaring like the wind. "Now, you son of a bitch!"

  The rider raised his sword. Light flashed over Dante's eyes. He could see the sod leaping from the horse's strides. He stopped and turned, laughing in horror, and when he imagined he could feel the horse's hot breath he flung out his hand and the beast's head disappeared in a ball of blackness. A stone hurled past his shoulder and the rider swiped at it as his mount locked its legs and skidded on the damp grass. One of its front legs buckled and then it was down, sliding and rolling in the grass, the snap of its bones and the suddenly scared curses of its rider as he leapt free and collapsed to the ground. The boys charged then: Dante threw both rocks with all his strength, missing the first and clipping the man's shoulder with the second; Blays' blade bobbed beside him and Dante tore loose his own and they were on the downed man before he'd found his feet.

  "You tricky shits!" he screamed. He struck from his knees, a fierce blow Dante blocked but which sent him staggering. The man's eyes were bright with some feral emotion when Blays' counter cut off his left hand. He swung wildly, forcing the boy to fall back, then reeled to his feet. Dante stepped forward and swung his weapon with both hands. The man deflected it, but his motion threw off an already poor balance and Blays' stroke broke his ribs like the staves of a barrel. He fell to his knees, propping himself up with his bleeding stump. He opened his mouth and spit hung in strands. His elbow quivered as he raised the point of his blade at the two boys. Dante's backhand strike knocked it from his hand. Blays aimed a final blow at the soft stretch of his neck. It didn't fall cleanly, but when he pulled back his sword the body dropped and didn't move.

  Blays laughed, a hollow thing. Dante didn't join him.

  "The others can't be far," Blays said.

  "We can hide his body." Dante slid his sword into its sheath. The man's wide wounds steamed in the chill air.

  "Not the horse."

  "Then we'll run," Dante said. He found a small coinpurse and added it to his pocket. The horse was thrashing on the earth, legs shaking each time it tried to rise and the bones wouldn't hold. Its great glassy eyes rolled in its skull. Dante looked to Blays.

  "I can't," Blays stated.

  "There's a bow," Dante said, pointing. "Take it."

  "What if it kicks me?"

  "It couldn't kick through a broken board," he said, and when he went for more words he found half-digested carrots instead. He leaned over and spat them into the grass.

  "He was looking for us to have gone south," Blays said, turning away from Dante's gurgles. He shouldered the bow and a half-full quiver. "There must be a town that way."

  "Whetton," Dante said, the sour taste of his stomach on his tongue. He spat again. "We can go faster on the bank."

  "Can't risk it." Blays headed back up the bank. "Let's stick to the forest's edge."

  Dante disagreed but found himself light on the guts to speak up. They broke back into the trill of birdsong and the rattle of wind-shaken leaves and made a brisk trot south.
Within seconds Dante was shivering without stop.

  "That wasn't how I'd imagined it would be," he said once his blood had calmed.

  "You think about killing people a lot?" Blays said, smiling faintly.

  "Sometimes," he smiled back. It didn't last. "On his knees like that."

  "Don't feel sorry for him. He was all set to trample us into the grass."

  "But it was so...savage," Dante said, and Blays shrugged. It was worse than the other times. It felt like a regression, like an act of a man he didn't know. He had no illusions fights were supposed to be fair. If the one with the tracker had been even, he without his horse and them without surprise, he expected it would have ended with a few pounds of steel through his heart. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling what they'd done had been unnatural, that somewhere the gods were watching them and their judgment would be harsh.

  "We'd be dead except that spell," Blays said softly a moment later.

  "Yeah."

  "Were you scared?"

  "No," he said, running faster. "A little. When I tripped."

  "I just about dropped a pile in my breeches," Blays said, chortling so hard he had to sputter out the words. "Then the look on his face when you blinded his horse! Gods!"

  Dante chuckled weakly. It had looked otherworldly, the black ball where there should have been a head, the rider throwing his hands over his head like a man falling through the false floor of a wildcat trap.

  "You have a strange sense of humor."

  "He'd have laughed too if he could see it." Blays giggled. Dante joined him, feeling outside himself. Their nervous energy gave out after a mile or so and they slowed to a stroll to catch their breath. Dante clasped his hands behind his head to ward off the stitch in his side.