Journey of the Wanderer

by Shawna Thomas

  Harsh laughter turned his attention back to the door. Two men swaggered in, swords hanging from their sides. They scanned the room then chose a table. The hum of conversation faltered then resumed its low drone. Molly rushed over with cups of fresh ale; the foam trailed over the side, darkening the hardpacked earth floor.

  One of them reached over and pinched her as she scurried away. Mikal kept his features without expression. He wanted to punch the man, not just for pinching Molly—she was used to worse—but also because he didn’t belong here. Instead, he leaned back against the chair, his gaze on his ale.

  “It’s not luck, I tell you. They’s magic.” The taller of the two men struck his hand against the table. Dark blond hair spilled around his shoulders, mixing with the fur-covered shirt he wore.

  “Magic or no, makes no difference to me. They bleed,” his companion spoke, smaller but broader than the first man. Everything about him spoke of strength.

  “You weren’t there. You didn’t see. The ground opened up and gulped them.” The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It had teeth!”

  “You’re speakin’ nonsense now.” The smaller man wiped foam from his moustache, shoulder muscles bulging under his tunic.

  Mikal glanced to his partner, who yawned and drank another sip of ale.

  “Did you hear about the spirits the Siobani summoned against men who tried to cross the dark forest? You know, that land was once Siobani sacred ground. Dead Siobani rose up to—”

  “No! I don’t know about spirits or sacred ground. Ground is ground, to be won or lost.” The man’s words were firm, but Mikal saw a gleam of fear in his eye. His hand shook slightly as he lifted his mug to drink. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the smaller man set his empty mug on the table, “I do know one thing. It’s talk like that has the warriors running. I’ve had to round up twenty men in fewer days and bring them back to the commander because they were scared and decided to run home with tails between their legs where their manhood should be.”

  “W-what happened to them?” his companion asked.

  The broad man smiled. “There are twenty fewer men in the army and a whole lot of reason for you to stop talking nonsense.”

  “I tell you what. Not talking about it won’t stop it happening, but I get your warning. I’ll be glad to leave these northern lands. It should already be warm south of Gan Enaid.” He looked around. “Beside, this place gives me the creeps. In a couple of weeks, I’ll take you to a tavern on the lake. The women there...well, you’re likely never to forget the women there.”

  Mikal looked to his friend, who placed two bright coins on the table. He drained the tepid ale, following his companion out into the afternoon light. All evidence of fatigue fell away from Ely’s face. “You heard?”

  “Yes, everything.”

  “Ryliann will need to know. You know what to do?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  * * *

  Ryliann considered the piece of paper. Reading it once more, he turned it over, reached for the quill and penned a few words. So far, his men were going unnoticed. The enemy was on the alert for the Dawn Children. He wondered if the tactic was doing permanent damage to an already negative impression humans had for the Elderborn.

  He took a deep breath and blew on the paper. He decided to take Arien’s advice. One battle at a time. Satisfied the ink was dry, he rolled it up and placed it back in its container.

  A smile spread across his face. Perhaps, just perhaps. Light infused the material of the small tent, illuminating the map on the table before him. He traced an invisible path from his current location to Gan Enaid. He passed by two blue markers. The smile grew wider. Arien would want to know about this.

  A gentle cooing caught his attention. Ryliann made his way to the cage of sleeping birds. They were remarkable creatures, intelligent and beautiful. They’d had messenger birds in Edriel, but not like these. Ryliann paused to stroke the soft down on one of the bird’s backs. “Not you. You’ve already done your duty.” He reached deeper into the cage. “Come here, my pretty. I hate to wake you, but your services are needed.” He attached the slender wooden stick to the creature’s leg, then took it to the tent’s entrance, releasing it into the air. It flew upward then disappeared like a puff of smoke.

  * * *

  Bredych ran his hand over his chin, irritation rising with each passing moment. He turned to the man who stood silent before him. “Is there more?”

  “Yes, milord.” The man swallowed.

  With effort, he kept his voice calm. “Then continue.”

  “We’ve been waiting for two hundred men from the Har Neider. They’ve not arrived, but yesterday, one man did.”

  “One from a company of two hundred?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And where’s this man now?”

  “He’s in the infirmary, sir.”

  “Go on.” Bredych was beginning to think of ways to speed this messenger’s tongue. Fire? Perhaps a hot iron?

  “He told us they were challenged by about forty Siobani. When his commander gave the order to attack, they did. The Siobani fought for a bit, then turned and ran.”

  Bredych narrowed his eyes. That did not sound like the Siobani, but then, none of his recent reports had. “And?”

  “The men gave chase and followed them into the forest. The Siobani disappeared. It was quiet and the men, finding no one to fight, turned to leave. Arrows flew from everywhere. He says they were ghosts, sir. The arrows came from nowhere.”

  “They’d only taken to the trees.”

  “With all due respect, sir, he says the trees were empty.”

  Bredych rubbed his temples to ease their throb. He’d heard tales all afternoon. The reports were all the same. They spoke of the earth obeying the enemy’s command, swallowing groups of men whole, rocks coming loose of their foundations, crushing armies in the mountains. His men were becoming afraid of their own shadows.

  Bredych paced the small tent. This wasn’t like the Siobani and not what he expected. Ilythra? Was this the work of Waymaker? His pace quickened. A seed of doubt blossomed in his breast.

  He glanced up. The man was still standing near the entrance to his tent. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I...I don’t know, sir.”

  “Leave me!”

  “Yes, sir.” The man bowed and exited through the narrow flap.

  Bredych continued his pacing. Yesterday, he’d heard an entire herd of their best horses had died, as well as many deer, raccoon and other wildlife. He didn’t give a damn about the animals; the south was full of horses. But now the men were afraid to drink the water, especially if it came from the north. Idiots! Most plains water came from the Dark Forest in the north.

  Men were falling down sick in droves. In Gwailth, across the plains to the east, a full battalion had gone crazy after drinking from a brook, tearing their clothes off and attacking one another with anything they could find. Food supply columns disappeared without a trace, captains and commanders slain with minuscule darts fired from the darkness. To the southwest, between Halfas and Filherd, several camps had burned to the ground while the men slept. The death toll had been appalling.

  The Siobani seemed to be everywhere. Bredych rubbed his beard. Still, they couldn’t hide for long, not with an entire army on their heels. And really, what were a few nibbles at the edges when he had legions of men under his command?

  He took a deep breath. He needed to draw them out where his superior numbers could overwhelm the puny resistance. Bredych poured a glass of wine and drained it. And where was Ryliann in all this? He’d heard that a healer had been sent to the refugee camp, but the prince hadn’t returned. A healer. How generous of Ewen.

  He slammed the glass down on a small table, shattering it into thousands of glitteri
ng pieces. A smile tugged at his mouth. Ultimately, he had warriors to spare. They did not. He would make sure his army was more afraid of him than any ghost the Siobani could generate. It was time he had a chat with his generals.

  * * *

  Arien lay on his stomach. The rich smell of decomposing vegetation rose from the still-damp ground. With little trouble, he picked out the humans on the other side of the trail. They lay close to the ground, their eyes showing white against mud-streaked faces.

  The ground vibrated beneath him. Arien placed his ear to cool earth. Any moment they would appear. He stared across the path. He sensed rather than saw the humans become more alert. He smiled in approval. They had been well trained. Every muscle tense, Arien waited. In a moment, the human enemy would cross the path, breaking the hidden strings and triggering the logs bristling with arrow tips. Arien shuddered, his mind leaping ahead to the sight of dead and dying men impaled on the tree trunks. In the confusion that followed, he’d lead these men to attack the enemy’s remains.

  Doubts assailed him. Enemy or not, he didn’t offer these men an honorable death, a chance to defend themselves. They were under orders, some of them faced with the choice to fight or die. Bredych. Arien ground his teeth together. He had no choice. Better a few die now than Arien leave them in a world ruled by a madman.

  Silence reigned in the forest as the first men came into view.

  Chapter Twenty

  At least they had enough ashes. Ilythra glanced from the blazing fires to the contraption before her. The refugees had looked on with doubt as she’d explained what she wanted them to make, but they’d complied.

  “The pot is ready to be emptied,” she informed a passing boy, who obeyed at once.

  The boy lifted the long hollowed stick filled with wet ash off its perch, lowering it carefully to the ground. Two earthenware jars stood at one end, one inside the other. Gingerly, the boy raised the first out, careful to keep away from the water still dripping between the dried grasses and out holes drilled in the bottom. The larger pot was half-full of murky water.

  Ilythra poured the liquid into a waiting jar then lowered the inner pot back into place. She had to search carefully for two pots the right size and was fearful to damage them. They were all she was going to get. The boy cleaned moist ash from the sluiceway. Moving quickly, he poured fresh ash in its place. A smoky cloud temporarily blocked him from view.

  With measured movements, Ilythra took the water jug and poured a generous amount into the canal, watching as the gray ash darkened to black. Before long, water dripped into the inner jar, leaving the dried grasses mottled and stained. Ilythra glanced at the boy as she heard the sound of the pot filling. His solemn eyes questioned.

  “To the big tent,” she replied with a smile.

  The boy picked up the jar full of the cleaning solution and carted it toward the healing tent. Ilythra watched as he walked angled to one side to avoid any splashes from the caustic lye. No one here knew his name. The boy hadn’t spoken since a man had found him half-dead on the side of the road. Although Ilythra had examined him, she could find no physical injury. She wished, not for the first time, that she was a real healer.

  Her gaze skipped past the boy to the largest of the tents beyond. They’d had no new reports of sickness for many days, but she still hadn’t won the confidence of the refugees. If she didn’t have Cappi’s approval, she didn’t think they’d listen to her at all. And today she planned to start training some of the women in war craft.

  Ilythra walked in the opposite direction, across the compound to Cappi’s wooden dwelling. She wanted to find Miri, Cappi’s daughter, to learn if she’d had any success. The girl had taken several women into the prairie to look for a particular flower. Ilythra smiled. Most of the women had balked at picking flowers when there was so much else to do, but Miri was as persuasive as her father. Ilythra lifted the blankets at the entrance, but only darkness greeted her.

  Laughter carried across the prairie on the warm spring air. Women in badly tattered silken dresses, the long lace underclothes ragged and torn, sat next to those clothed in rough hand-spun smocks the colors of the earth. Tragedy had a way of erasing class lines.

  Silence fell as she approached.

  “Ilythra.” Miri jumped to her feet, a garland of blossoms fluttering from her lap to the ground. “Is it time to learn how to use a sword?”

  “Almost.” Ilythra eyed the golden flowers. “You found quite a few. Good.” Her smile included all the women. “Now I need you to wash them, then cut the heads off the stems and place them in a jar. When you’re done, I’ll tell you what we must do next.”

  A woman cleared her throat. “This is herb craft, right? Isn’t that forbidden? Some kind of spell of the Siobani?”

  Turning to the dark-haired woman, Ilythra tried to recall her name. She was obviously nobly born and her clothes were in better repair than most. Her dark hair was carefully brushed and held from her face with golden combs. “Forbidden by whom? Cappi?” She sighed. “The Dawn Children are gifted healers. I wish I was too, but I’m only skilled with herbs. This will create a tincture that will cleanse wounds so they don’t get infected.”

  “That’s how Papa lost his leg,” Miri said.

  “Yes. There is no spell involved. You eat plants, and they make you healthy. Some plants make you healthy in other ways. That’s all. There is a war going on. It hasn’t reached us yet, but it will. The more of you who know how to treat the injured, the better chances we have of surviving.”

  The women nodded, some with more enthusiasm than others. Ilythra marched to a tent outside the general circle of habitations. She’d found a still several days prior. It hadn’t been difficult—she’d followed the trail of drunken men. While the owner had fumbled over excuses, Ilythra had examined the machine; it appeared to be perfect. She’d asked him to produce as much alcohol as he could in the next few days.

  Pausing outside the tent, Ilythra’s nose wrinkled at the smell. “Beredei?” she called at the entrance.

  A man garbed in a gray uniform stumbled out. “Yes, ma’am,” he slurred.

  She wrinkled her nose. “You’re drunk.”

  “Had to test it to make sure it was worthy, didn’t I?” He swayed slightly.

  Ilythra studied his face. He must have tried it a few times. “Thank you, but it wasn’t necessary. I’m not going to drink it.” She moved toward several jars lined against the wall.

  “Not drink it?” The man looked as if she had insulted his child. “What the hell you gonna do with it?”

  Ilythra picked up a jar and sniffed, smiling. “I’m going to steep flowers in it.”

  “Flowers! Should a known. Blasted female,” he muttered then belched. “Waste o’ good grog, that’s what that is.”

  Ilythra hefted a jar. “I’ll be back for the others,” she said as she walked back toward the women cutting blossoms from their stems.

  * * *

  “Damn them all to hell.” Bredych straightened his tunic as he paced the tent. He’d left Edriel to meet with one of his generals, Dima, but had found the man missing. He didn’t have long. Jaryn was dying, and Bredych needed to be there to make sure he was crowned lord protector of the realm in these trying times. Light snuck through the brown canvas walls, turning them pale yellow and dressing the dirt floor in patterns of shadow. “Tell me again what you saw. Slowly.”

  Emlyn, Dima’s second, opened his mouth and then shut it.

  Bredych stared at him. He was from one of the villages to the east, if Bredych had to guess. Maybe a minor lord.

  The man swallowed but straightened. “We sent the scouts as you instructed, sir. The trail was easy to follow. It led north into the Dark Forest. We followed it to an open field.”

  “And?” Bredych’s voice rumbled like thunder.

  If he tried, Emlyn fai
led to suppress the shudder. “There was no trace of the company we sent out, but there was evidence of a battle.”

  Bredych sighed. “But no bodies?”

  Emlyn shook himself and shuddered. “No, my lord. Not one body remained.”

  “Damn them all to hell,” Bredych repeated. “What do you think happened to them?”

  Emlyn tensed. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what happened to the bodies, but it’s clear to me the men are dead.”

  “It’s clear to you, is it?” Bredych muttered. This was becoming too much.

  Emlyn glanced at the door, then back to his commander. Bredych continued his rapid pacing. He needed to think, to determine how best to counter this unexpected move. This was not how the Siobani fought. It was almost cowardly. He paused at his desk and examined a parchment, the lone article on the wooden surface, and then looked back up, remembering Emlyn was waiting. “That’s all,” Bredych muttered, waving his hand.

  Emlyn bowed and ducked out of the tent.

  Bredych tapped his fingers on the scarred brown wood. What next? Two thousand men had disappeared? Impossible, yet the impossible appeared to be happening. The Siobani were culling away his men like rot on wood, and he was powerless to stop it. Food lines were so decimated he’d heard of a group of men stationed in the desert who’d resorted to cannibalism. Those damned Siobani seem to know where I’m going before I do! How are they getting messages?

  Damn it! He had planned too long, sacrificed too much to let it unravel now. Bredych studied the map colored with chips of stone. Slowly he reached for two small blue pebbles and tossed them to the ground with a snort of derision. Where were Ryliann and his men? Had they turned coward? He’d had no word at all of the human prince. He scanned the diminishing markers on his map. If things continued like this, he’d run out of men before he fought a single battle. Bredych ran a hand across his brow, studying the placements of the Siobani attacks. His eye trailed north of the Dark Forest. They would stay close to the chasm.