“That’s not bacon.”
“I’m sure it is.” Biroc wrinkled his nose. “I know what I smell. What are we going to do with the woman and her child?”
“Nothing to do with them. They’re on their own.”
“You just burned their house. What’d you leave them?”
“You really think they could have lived here after all that happened?”
“Last time we left folks on their own didn’t turn out too well for them.”
Flames sheeted up the walls of the house, the structure wavering behind the heat. “Nothing’s going to turn out well for a while. If they stay here on their own, how long before more bandits find them? Or wolves. It’s a hard fucking world, Biroc. You know that as well as I do. They never should have come here. What life were they thinking they were going to secure? Death was coming for them soon enough. As bad as all this is, they can leave now. Find some kind of life. As long as you’re not dead, you can always start again.”
“I just feel like we should do something more,” said Biroc.
“We could give them your horse.”
Biroc bobbled his head. “I’ll go help with the horses.”
Spear stared at the burning farmhouse, hypnotized by the dance of the flames, before he realized Night stood next to him.
“This your thing now?” said Night. “With the fire?” Despite the sun cutting through the clouds, the shadows of his cloak consumed his face. Spear could swear that his face disintegrated and then regrouped before his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“You burn the blood and the bodies as if somehow the horror will ride the smoke away.”
“Just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“You know it makes no difference.”
“What? Better to leave them to crows and worms? Better to let someone else happen on the bloodbath?”
“But you don’t do it for them, do you?”
“It just seemed right to clean it up,” said Spear.
“I’ve seen the fire through the forests, the racing of flames across the fall grasses. Out of the charred remains, spring flowers and green shoots. Great nature. It rises from defeat. But what you have to offer is nothing. This house, the pilgrim’s cart, Cullantown. They all burned at your hand but for what? What has changed, Spear? What difference has it made? Are you cleansed? Have you walked through the flames to become reborn? You could burn the world and still nothing would change. It’s not the world that needs to burn.”
“You make no sense, Night. I burn these bodies so that carrion eaters won’t descend on them.”
“You can’t hide from the crows and the worms.”
“Says the man who hides in a cloak,” said Spear.
“I have not hid from the world, my friend. But I have seen what must happen. I have made my mistakes and now see the path forward.”
“I know. The North. You and me gotta return to the North, find Shield and the Hounds and somehow everything will be right again.”
Night’s face fell into deeper shadow. “I never said everything would be right again. I said we needed to return to the North, Hounds again.”
“What the hell happened to you in the Hopht?”
“Wasn’t just Hopht. The campaign in Sasarra. The lonely return to Vas Dhurma. I walked away from the Hounds. They were consumed by the hunger that fed Shield. Witches and warlocks. But in Sasarra I became something else. No longer standing shoulder to shoulder with my brothers. I walked with the shadows and the mists. No longer of this world. My blades drank the blood of so many, slipping into the corners of their rooms, pressing against the walls of narrow alleys, rising out of the gloom.
“He speaks to me. I killed him but he speaks to me and through me. He guides my hand. He drives me into the darkest dens. And we have walked away unblooded, untouchable, but he consumes me. Is there even a me?
“His song nearly swallowed me in Sasarra. A cloak without a man. The cloak becoming the man. I don’t know which. But Cook, that stupid fat fool, saved me. Without him, I would never have been able to see what I had become. Now I can. A thin line I walk. But I can differentiate between myself and the cloak. I am no longer consumed but I am also not sure if I am still whole.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Spear.
“The magic of the warlock’s cloak almost ate my soul. I don’t know how else to put it. I was becoming the cloak, the will of the dead warlock, though I have no idea how a dead warlock can have a will.”
“Why don’t you just cast it off?”
Night laughed, but it was a laughter in a voice deep and aged, not from the man that stood before Spear. “We are one. I cannot remove the cloak. Not without dying I think. I don’t know. It’s like a weed digging its roots into my skin, down to my bones, my soul if I have one. I will die in this cloak.”
“Is there no way to be rid of it?”
“You hunger for something and it consumes you. It becomes you. You let it do that and then you no longer have a choice to become something else.”
“Maybe I can just burn it off,” said Spear. “I’m pretty good at the burning part. Might even be able to drag you out in time.”
“The North,” said Night. “The further I travel the less its hold on me. Shield will know what to do. He was always the one that could destroy magic. He’ll know what to do. He’ll get me out of this cloak, break its hold on me, allow me to live again. I have no choice but to go to the North.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CRUHUND WATCHED BLACK smoke twist into the blue sky.
He stood on the balcony of his chamber in the keep, wrapped in a woolen blanket to fend off the cold morning air. The keep felt colder than the mist-shrouded forest below, even when the keep was bathed in sunlight and the trees shrouded in mists. A fire roared in the hearth and he needed to sit close to the fire to just capture a measure of its warmth. Despite a strong fire, heavy blankets on the bed, and Yriel’s warmth next to his, he could never sleep in that keep without waking several times in the middle of the night – shivering, drafts of cold air darting beneath the furs and wools. Every morning his fingers ached with cold.
This morning, Cruhund stood in a rare shaft of unfiltered sunlight, a small respite from a spring that never seemed to really emerge from winter, and stared at the smoke in the distance. Even with the warmth of the sun on his face and the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the cold came at him from the stones beneath his feet and the building behind.
The crows loitered on the roof of the gate tower. They fought, screaming, over something pink and glistening. He wished he could shoot a hundred arrows at them at once, and pin them dead to the ground. As if they could hear his thoughts, they turned as one to him, silent for a moment, and then rose in a growing cacophony, the pink thing writhing in one of their mouths before being dropped to the scree slope below. Then the birds folded away from the keep, their caws loud like laughter.
The smoke rose from a distance he guessed to be half a day away, unfurling from the forested area between his keep and Grymr’s Hold. He wondered if Molgi or Red Tail had something to do with it. He imagined it could not have been anything but them. A trail of blood and bones always in their wake. But he welcomed it. They were true to him so he let them do what they wanted.
They would not betray him. Not like Big Haran had.
But if that smoke was their doing, then they would not be at the keep until near evening. That bothered Cruhund. He needed the men he trusted back most at the keep. His four closest men, his four unquestioning killers. He needed them to watch over what was his while he was gone.
But first, he needed to convince Yriel to leave.
She still lay beneath the blankets. The bed was sour with her stench. He could smell it all the way from the balcony, even the swirling wind not sweeping it away. She had been in the bed too long, unmoving, sweating and rotting away at the inside. Him with his teeth and her with the disease that ate at her from inside. A fine mess
they were.
Knuckles rapped on the door. A sudden panic swept over Cruhund as the door swung open. He was naked beneath the blanket, his armor and sword at the foot of the bed, far out of reach. Had they come for him? To take what was his?
But it was only Griope, by himself. A large bowl of steaming gruel tucked in his good arm, a small sack hanging from his crippled one. “Oat porridge,” the old man said as he set the bowl down on the wooden table. “Twice softened and not too hot. And fresh dried peaches.” He snickered.
The old man was nearly out the door when Cruhund called to him. “Ready my horse. I leave on the hour. Two bedrolls and provisions for two for a week.”
When Griope left, Cruhund sat at the table, scooping out a portion of the gruel into a smaller bowl. He lifted a spoonful and touched it against his lips. Too hot. It would burn his gums. He sighed. Sometimes he wished he could just knock all his teeth out and be done with it. But he wondered if that would even remove the rot or only make things worse. He blew on the spoonful until a bit of dizziness overcame him.
“Leaving again so soon. Almost think you had no interest in holding the keep.” Yriel spoke from beneath the sheets, a low shape, without lifting her head. Physically, she was nearly insignificant.
“It’s not just me who is leaving.”
Her voice cracked with dry laughter. “Old Griope finally set loose into the world again.”
“I spent some time at the tables at Grymr’s Hold.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t just the tables where you spent your time. Not our coin.” The sheets pulled back and her head slid up her pillow. Her hair was slick and matted, greasy with sweat. Her face looked like a skull in the morning light, her eyes impossibly sunk back into her head. “Plenty of time for that soon enough.”
“Pilgrims returned from seeing She Who Has Risen. They spoke of her great power. Not just what they heard story of what but what they saw with their own eyes. A girl who could walk again. A blind man whose sight was restored. The blood vanquished from a young mother’s lungs. She is more than just a simple healer. So much more.”
“The clans need something to hold onto,” said Yriel. “They are dying so they create an icon among them. She is their hope. But she is nothing more than story.”
“They say she came back from death. She can work miracles. That is why she has risen.”
“No one comes back from death, Cruhund. Not a soul. Or not in any way that is living again. You remember Birgid and Fennewyn. They brought back the dead but created monsters. And the monsters returned to death as soon as the song ended. She is a lie, and you would do best not to believe it.”
“But she can heal.”
“Stories.”
“I believe those stories.”
Yriel pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Death comes for us all, my love. Sudden as a sword or slow and consuming. There is no avoiding it.”
“I don’t want to avoid it. But I want you to have another chance. This sickness that consumes you…she can rid you of it.”
“You know this?” she asked.
“I am willing to find out. Two weeks travel, and a bag of coins. Is it not worth it?”
Yriel lay back against propped pillows and pulled the blanket back up to her neck. “Always sweating but I tremble with the cold.”
“We have to get you to her. A chance to live again.”
“We’d be gone for a month, if not more. What do you think we would return to?”
“Molgi, Red Tail and a few others would stand for me.”
“Just like you stood for Spyrchylde when he left Cullan in your hands? Do you really think these men are loyal to you?” she asked.
“They fear me.”
“Not when you are gone. Do you think Big Haran was the only one wondering what it would be like to be lord of this keep? Your sword can’t hack through these walls. Their laughter would fill the valley. They’d spit on us.”
“I don’t think so, and I am willing to risk it for you,” he said.
“All these years, the hardships, the blood, and to lose it all on a lie.”
“Do you think this won’t be your last summer?” he asked. He sat on the bed next to her. Her hand was cold and clammy, so small in his own, bones as thin as a bird’s. Had they always been so fragile? Had he never noticed? Or was she withering even more quickly than he could imagine?
“They will take everything we have.”
“I have nothing without you.” He lifted her hand to her lips. “I want more than one summer.”
“You’d really risk losing it all?”
“If I lose you, I lose it all. Everything else I can win back if they steal it from me. And I know my wolves will be loyal to me. Those four to the end of their days. We have everything to lose if we do not go.”
“I want to think on it.”
“No,” Cruhund said. “There is nothing to think about. We go now, today. The horse will be ready in an hour. Every moment we waste eats away at you. We must go now. See She Who Has Risen. She can heal you. She can bring you back to me.”
“One condition.”
“Anything, Yriel. Whatever your heart desires.”
“Your teeth,” she said. “If she can heal the rot in me, then she can heal your teeth.”
He laughed. “I’ll give in to that. Was about to knock them all out anyway. Bring you back healthy and let me eat something more than Griope’s twice-cooked gruel. How can we not pursue that? And don’t worry, when we get back, the keep will be ours. The world will be ours.”
“I’ll need to get ready.”
“We’ll leave in an hour. When we get to the bridge, I’ll tell Molgi and Red Tail the plan. Let them know that I need them as I never have before. They will do us right. Then we’ll go. Walk the path of the pilgrims. Win back the life that was meant for us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE SUN BROKE through the trees. Dappled light shimmered on the forest floor. Spear and the others followed a narrow trail among the trees. Half of the bandits rode horses, as they had four now, and the others walked beside them, faces lifted to the warmth of the unfiltered sun. How long had it been since they had a day without the smear of clouds in the sky? The earth did not smell of rot for a change. Instead, Spear caught the scent of honey from a hive lost among the branches. Forest flowers bobbed iridescent blue and yellow in the shade beneath the pines. The ground beneath his feet no longer sucked at his boots but it felt as if it were loaded with springs and propelled him with each step.
The trail was a thin footpath winding towards the north. The grasses and brush on either side of the trail had been trampled with the weight of feet and hooves. A sizable group of men had traveled this path in the past day. Through gaps in the trees, sheer gray cliffs rose. The trail would eventually lead to the keep.
But the bandits were not there yet and the sun shone on them.
They had left the Dhurman woman and the child at the farm. Kiara had made some noise about bringing them back to Grymr’s Hold; she had argued it was cruel to leave them on their own, but Spear ended that discussion quickly. They had already lost too much time, and if the men they pursued reached the keep then he and his bandits would be forced to hide out in the forest for days, and maybe even weeks, until the opportunity to get those three remaining heads presented itself.
The sun through the trees was a rare thing and the mood surged in his companions. Bones was whistling a ditty from the South, a song, if Spear remembered correctly, about a cooking boy in a temple of virgins. Bones trailed behind the horse on which Val slumped. In sleep her face was peaceful, as if all the horror of the past few days had been erased. Her lips curled up as if smiling in her dreams. Little Boy and Biroc were talking about roasted chicken, Hophtian spiced rice, and loaves of Dhurman bread that broke apart steaming in their hands. Biroc was going on about a feast held in Vas Dhurma on the eve of their march into Sassara. Even Longbeard was laughing at something that Kiara had said. Her cheeks were ruddy a
nd full of life.
Spear walked alongside Seana who rode the horse he had taken from Red Tail. He allowed his head to tilt towards her and he inhaled deeply. She smelled like apples.
“We should stop here,” he said.
“I thought you were worried about getting the mercenaries before they got to the keep.”
“I’m sure they’re already there. They’ve been ahead of us by more than a day. We’re chasing after nothing. Why rush to find this out?”
He led the crew of bandits off the trail and towards the south. It was only midmorning and he thought the others would complain but they seemed infected by the sunshine and followed him and Seana as he eventually brought them to a small grassy meadow that fronted a wide sparkling stream.
After a while, he left the others sprawled in the bright green grasses and flowers and followed the creek to the east. If he kept walking, he would eventually leave the borderlands and return to the North. What would it be like to return? What waited for him there? With the bright sun on his back, he felt that there was a chance the world could have changed.
After a bit, he found a sandy bank, clear of bushes, that slid into the stream. Beneath the surface, silver fish blurred from his encroaching shadow. A frog paused its croaking and then started again. The water was cold but refreshing to his fingertips.
He tossed his cloak in the grasses. He fumbled at the straps of his armor and he piled it next to the cloak. Then his sword belt, boots and trousers. The sun felt good on his bare skin. He could feel the rush of blood.
His first few steps into the stream swirled up clouds of sand. Spear ducked into the water up to his shoulders. He dove beneath. He rubbed sand over his arms and legs wiping away built-up grime and dirt from the fighting and the days on the trail. His skin emerged pink and lined with scars. Too many scars to even remember when he might have earned them. Once, when he was still a youth, he dreamed of his body covered in scars, marks of his courage, reminders of his status in his clan. Now though these scars told only the long story of a violent man who no longer belonged to the clans.
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