by Daniel Casey
“I’ll ask again,” Sinclar’s voice was clear and calm. It was the voice familiar to everyone from his sermons, “Where has Kira been?”
“She was not killed on the road or at the incident in Bandra.” Ebon said.
“The alm was taken to the Rikonenese.” Vander added.
“So, they have her?” Sinclar didn’t seem surprised but curious.
“Our last bit of information from The Blockade; from the corsair we tasked to terminate her, was that he had delivered her to the remaining Rikonenese Alders.”
Sinclar looked at Ebon, “I was under the impression that this mercenary’s task was to end Kira on the highroad.”
Cowed, Ebon couldn’t look Sinclar in the face, “As far as we knew, ours was his only contract.”
Sinclar stepped back into the solar and knelt in the center of it. Light filled the room as Vander and Ebon stood at the doorway as two black smears. Sinclar closed his eyes, “Seems as though this isn’t your typical mercenary. A bit of a haranguer, certainly.”
Vander took a cautious step into the solar, “It appears as though he was hedging his bets, so to speak. But it also looks like he wants to continue to serve our cause.”
“What was he paid?”
“Five hundred aurei,” Ebon responded, “And he was given…”
“A marq.” Sinclar said bluntly.
“Yes.” Ebon stuttered.
“That was a poor decision on Stilbon’s part.” Sinclar nodded his head slightly his eyes still closed. “Leave.”
Ebon and Vander looked at each other and hesitated, “What should we…”
“I will finish my prayers, Father Vander.” An edge returned to Sinclar’s voice. Ebon quickly pulled Vander away and closed the door.
Sinclar could feel the sun’s heat on his skin and his own searing blood, which pulsed hard in his head. He began again mouthing the beginning of the First Prayer, his lips moved in silence. Then he came to where he had been interrupted, he opened his eyes and took in the whole of the sun.
Ando ced, cede mithi
Venci, fait, herc, et vitam
Et vitam glas
Pausing, he began the prayer again and then again and then again. Each time in the same even tone, his eyes open and unblinking. His mouth said the words, and his mind brooded over them. The light before his eyes blurred and turned into a smear of colors. Finally, he had to close his eyes but he still saw the tempest of reds, greens, and yellows behind his eyelids. The colors churned as Sinclar saw his design take shape.
Avostos Sea, Southern Coast, 23rd of Mabon
Cochrane watched his hand drift just beneath the water’s skin. He gazed into the deep, long wound that tore across his palm. Around his hand, a subtle pink cloud would settle then disappear as the Avostos’ waves rippled into the cove. Along the shoreline, Cochrane was perched squat and lost in thought. He gazed at his injured hand, turned it over slowly in the cool water to look at his fingertips which were grotesquely frayed, missing their nails and raw.
He slowly wrapped his hand with a treated bandage and gently slid his glove back on, feeling the throb of the wound. Cochrane fell back to sit squarely on his ass, suddenly looking entirely crestfallen. He allowed his head to droop and dangle just above his chest. When he raised his head again, eyes closed, he turned to his left and opened his eyes to look at a body wrapped tightly in linen like a grotesque cocoon.
As Cochrane stood, large tears in his gambeson were apparent, wet stains of odd fluid mixed with what appeared to be blood, and as he moved toward the body he limped, his left leg almost seemed to drag. Once he came to stand beside the body, Cochrane slowly reached down in obvious pain and with grave patience dug his arms beneath the body through the beach sand so that he could lift it with more ease. When he was satisfied with his grip, Cochrane took a deep breath and heaved the body up turning it so that it would fall over his shoulder. He let himself be acquainted with the new weight, staggered a bit but righted himself. Moving agonizingly slow, he shuffled over to the rocks where he had set a staff. With his free hand, he gripped it and using it as a crutch, let the weight of his own body and the corpse’s to be buttressed by the rod’s unbending steadiness.
He began to walk north along the coast, maybe two days at this pace he guessed. Two days to make it to Wick, where he would bury Towsend and pray the Kopis was waiting for him.
The Stony Shore, 25th of Mabon
Reg would say this; the Silvincians knew how to make roads. Coming down out of the Siracenes his old mares had endured nothing but rutted and uneven roads, just paths really. Now though he was in Arderra’s realm of influence and the Seven Spires made sure their roads were pristine. The constant crunch and shuffle of horse hooves against the pale gravel was soothing, almost as satisfying as the constant rush of the sea. Reg thought of his little cottage, a lifetime of tinkering, trading, conniving, saving, and lobbying to get that parcel of land. He had erected a shitty little sod shanty when he first arrived. In fact, his first real structure was that damn fence.
We was looking forward to seeing his son again, get Colm away from Moria and that husband of hers, Tanner. His face soured thinking of it. His sister-in-law and her husband were ardent citizens, painfully provincial they were desperate to curry favor. The sooner he got Colm back to their home working on that fence the better. As he came around the bend, he saw his land, a wide green swathe hedged by apple trees. He saw his black faced sheep salt the meadow. Looking further on as he moved closer to his chair, his stove, and his own bed he saw his cottage and smiled.
Almost immediately, his grin turned quizzical as he saw a line of smoke coming from his chimney. Colm shouldn’t be home. Moria hated his house; she wouldn’t have stayed there. He grimaced, if Tanner had been staying here as some kind of bachelor retreat then Reg was going to be furious. That man needed a beating, and Reg was itching to give it to him.
He dismounted once he got onto his property proper and walked the horses into the barn, a rickety grey wood structure that shared more with the dead villages than with a proper barn or stable. He tied the horses and made for the cottage, he needed to take care of this right away. Striding to the cottage, the front door opened and Colm emerged.
“Light be damned, son, what are you doing here? Are you alone? Is your aunt in there?” Reg barked but the boy just stared blankly at him.
“Speak up, boy.” Colm was shy, too shy for a boy of nearly ten years but this was odd.
“He doesn’t need to.” A man stepped up behind Colm putting his hands on his shoulders. Reg froze, suddenly there were two other men from behind the cottage and two more behind him who must have been around the barn. He cursed himself; how did he not see these men?
“Colm, tell your father what he needs to do.”
The boy blushed and Reg could see tears in eyes, “You need to dig a hole.”
“What’s all this? Who are you?” Reg snarled. He softened his tone but kept a hard faced looking into Colm’s eyes, “No worries, son, you’ll be just fine in a moment.”
“He’s just fine now,” the man pushed the boy back into the cottage, and Reg took two quick steps towards him; swords were drawn and Reg froze again.
The strangers walked casually towards him, hopped down from the short porch, and then sat on the edge of it looking at Reg with his head cocked to one-side, “You need to listen.”
“I’ll not dig my own grave, brigand.” Reg muttered.
“No,” the man nodded, “no, you won’t be digging your own. You’ll be digging your son’s.”
“Harm him and…”
The man waved him off, “Yes, yes. Nothing you can say is new. The boy is in that cottage with a blade dangling above his head. You fail to obey me and my men end his young life.”
“And then what? What do you have to use against me, then?” Reg was brusque and it did seem to surprise the man.
“So you’d let your boy be killed just so that I won’t have any leverage over you?” he gave a cru
el smile, “I hadn’t expected that gambit,” he wagged a finger at Reg, “That’s going to make me reconsider your quality a bit.”
“You think I wouldn’t pay you back? Ask the boy, how I discipline.”
“He doesn’t talk much, kind of just watches. It’s unnerving really; you’re raising a queer child.” The man stood and slapped his thighs with the gloves he held in one hand, “To the point…”
“Leave. You’re not welcome here.” Reg broke in.
Ignoring him, the man continued, “I know you took a man up into the highlands. I need you to tell me where.”
“I was in Rautia selling my wool.”
“Yeah, that’s an obvious lie,” He pointed, “Those sheep haven’t been sheared in ages.”
“I got rabbits in pens,” Reg nodded toward the barn, “Damn Rautians only want angora.”
The bandit shrugged, “Sure, why not. Then, you’ll tell me where you took the man and you’ll give me all your aurei that you haggled out of those damn Rautians.”
“You don’t get my coin. You don’t get what’s mine. You get to leave.”
The men behind Reg moved in closer and the two who’d come around the cottage now stood behind the leader and had Reg circled.
“Where did you take him?” The leader asked again, this time more forceful, as he drew a dagger.
“You think I’m gonna fold just because you pull a pesh?” Reg mocked, he realized that he’d have to move fast. He no idea how many were in the cottage but he was betting on them coming out once the melee began.
“You’re an odd one, stubborn.” The leader said, “You need to be broken.” His eyes signaled the men behind Reg who came up fast behind him.
But not fast enough, Reg dropped low and tumbled back splitting the pair. Reg didn’t have a blade but he did have a hoe scattered with some other tools by the barn. When he came to his feet, the two were staring at a man holding a hoe in a bizarrely menacing manner.
“He’s a shepherd. Kill him.” The leader said to his men with a sick disdain.
Reg stepped forward as the two men lunged at him. He brought the hoe down horizontally over the men’s blades and leapt straight up avoiding the sword tips. Coming down he twisted his body and sent his right shoulder hard into the one on that side. He fell into his fellow bandit and as Reg let his momentum take him, he swung the hoe around in his left hand and cracked the man in the skull as he hit the ground. The two bandits behind the leader came at him now, and with powerful but sloppy slices, they tried to split Reg in two. He was able to dodge the strikes and land two strong blows to the chest of one of the men who fell back with the wind knocked out of him. Reg grab the blade from his hands in time to parry another strike on his knees, but not well enough. The attacker was stronger than he was; the strike sent him sprawling backward. The bandit swung around to hack at him again, Reg scrambled to his feet and deflected the blow but it caught his thigh cutting him deep.
“Fuck this playing around,” he heard the leader right behind him and he felt a hot sting in his back, his heart seemed to burn. Reg tasted blood; the leader spun him around like a doll and pointed to the porch. Colm stood in the grip of another bandit, a pesh pushing into his throat.
“Tell me where before you die and I won’t open up your son in front of you,” the leader hissed, “Don’t let this be the last thing you see before you die.”
Reg coughed, realized he was on his knees. The leader continued, “Tell me where you took him.”
Reg never took his eyes off Colm, his son was weeping and had a silent terrified scream seemingly fixed on his face, “Don’t…”
“I won’t,” the leader’s hot breath was in his ear, “I won’t kill the boy, if you tell me.”
“Cruor.”
The leader’s face tightened, “What? What is that?”
Reg looked at the man’s face, he grabbed him by the throat but he didn’t have the strength anymore and the leader tossed him onto his back.
“Where is he?”
Reg looked at Colm, pointed, “Cruor.”
The leader looked at Reg and then at the boy, his eyes darted between the two several times. Reg felt the burning change, the pain was different; he was a trembling now. He nodded one last time, Colm staring into his eyes, “The Cruor.”
The bandit holding him pressed the blade to Colm’s flesh and a thin ribbon began to appear when the leader screamed, “No, wait. Wait.”
The leader came up to Colm slapping away his man’s blade, he grabbed the boy’s throat, “You know that word.”
Colm was now devoid of color, wide-eye and wet faced, when he managed to cough out a sound that resembled assent.
“It’s a place.”
Colm nodded.
“You know how to get there.”
Colm didn’t look at the leader, didn’t say anything, but nodded again. The leader stood and spoke to the man who had almost killed the boy, “Ah, you see. Now we have a guide.” He turned back to Reg whose eyes were now slits and all but gone from the world, “You’re a clever one. I’ll keep your boy alive.”
He squatted next to Reg, leaning in close to his face, and whispered, “So, I guess you win.”
Eastern Novostos Sea
His arms burned but he dared not stop paddling. Declan was curled up under a piece of canvas in front of him long asleep, Goshen had let him rest through his shift. Above the moons were in full complement—one full and one new—hanging large in the starry sky at opposite ends. The world was bathed in a bizarre silvery and shadowed light.
On land, Goshen was always intrigued by moonlight but out here on the great Novostos, it seemed to be brighter, more ordinary yet more fantastic. He had let his mind wander during the trip; the repetition of rowing had quickly given him a sure routine to lose himself in. The water felt hard to Goshen always resistant even though the sea was calm and had been so for their entire sojourn.
If he was honest with himself, the paddling was welcome. He was starting to feel his strength returning, it felt like it had been ages since he had trained. Goshen didn’t even want to imagine how sloppy of a fighter he’d be right now. Hopefully, when they came ashore, he’d be able to get a blade; even a rod would work, and start drilling again. He still wasn’t sure if Jena would allow that though, she seemed quite reluctant to put any weapon in Goshen’s hands.
She sat at the stern, her eyes as black as the sea around her. Just as calm as well, but you got the sense that at any moment she could uncoil to unleash an astonishing fury. She held the sail lines constantly shifting them from side to side to catch the wind but also to keep her on the invisible path she seemed to keep in her mind. Goshen hadn’t really spoken to her since she had disciplined him on the beach, more because it was clear she had no time for him than because his pride was wounded. Although, he certainly felt the continued sting of having been so easily manhandled by her.
“How much farther do you suspect?” he asked, the sound of his voice seeming strange as it broke the quiet. It didn’t startle Jena but her body tighten and it seemed like she just remembered that he was there.
“You two are doing well and we’ve had a good wind.” Jena said.
“Not much of answer, that.” Goshen tried to sound good-natured.
“Don’t ask if you can’t accept the answer.” She turned back to staring out into the dark water.
“That implies I already know the answer,” Goshen persisted, “And I make it a point of only asking questions about things I don’t know.”
“You ask a lot of questions.” Jena said deadpan.
Goshen laughed, “True, true. You rangers have to know a little bit about everything to survive. I’m just a soldier; others do the thinking for me.”
“Probably the truest thing I’ve yet heard from you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You really haven’t said much that matters.”
Goshen shrugged, “I have been nearly dead for most of our time together.”
J
ena snorted, “Fair enough.”
They let the quiet fall between them again. The water, the puff of the sail, and the ache of the boat’s wood were the only sounds. Finally, Jena tied her lines to either side of her, stretched, and leaned back in the boat as much as she could.
“I hate boats.” She said.
“Boats or sea travel.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t say I’m having a good experience with them myself.”
“She might be dead when we get there you know.”
Goshen nodded, “She may be, may be long dead. It’s been a horrid few weeks. And it seems like everything that can go wrong has gone wrong.”
“I wouldn’t say that but yeah, this has been one giant axe-wound of a campaign. I’m going beat Roth senseless when I see him.”
“You think he’s still alive?”
Jena nodded and said without hesitation, “If I’m alive, he’s alive.”
“And this place in the Siracenes, he’s just waiting for us there?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Why would he be?”
“You can’t answer a question with a question.” Jena scoffed.
Again, Goshen smiled and laughed a little, “You know the man well. I should like to know more.”
“Because he saved your lives.”
“Well, yes and no. He saved my life but fairly soon after that it was endangered again.”
“That’s more on you being someone some folks want dead.” Jena pulled a small satchel up from under her seat plank, a drawstring bag she pulled it loose and went digging inside it.