by Welcome Cole
After a bit, Vicker said, “It seems we may be at an impasse.”
“Words true as death.”
“Woe to us, then,” Graen said, “Scant profit found whittling evening away amidst company of mistrust. Well then… under cloud of such woeful circumstance, we reckon it prudent to bid ye goodn—”
“Wait!” Vicker glanced back at the table.
Tortock was bantering with the drunken Forelord, while a second soldier feebly attempted to mediate. The other guards talked among themselves or slept. Two of the Baeldons smoked their pipes. All the Baeldonian soldiers’ eyes remained focused on them.
“Speak ye mind before darkness of night washes pale, Ghanter Soolen Vicker,” Friss said to him, “Else dawn rise short of shared bloody truth.”
When Vicker turned back to her, the anger seemed to have melted from his face. “You’re right. I need what you know about the Vaemyn, and I’ll answer your questions to get it. But this isn’t the place to talk.”
“It’d shame me to think King Lardio and his merry band of morons be any threat,” Friss said cautiously, “Still, I’d concede grain of truth ripening upon bloody stalk of observation. Our Whisper camps one mile north, down main road from compound proper. Meet us there directly, if it pleases.”
∞
Friss watched Graen squatting before the meager campfire, poking at the coals like he begrudged them. The midnight sky was in full glory under Calina’s celestial fire, a true gift from the Halls of Pentyrfal. A quick and feisty wind teased the smoke around the fire, changing directions in the blink of an eye, so that she was forced to constantly shift position to avoid a cough.
Vicker hunkered down on the opposite side of the flames, kneeling in the grass like a resting mountain. Friss maintained a respectable distance from him, lest the compulsion to push her fingers through that blazing hair grew stronger than her will to resist.
A small smear of lights on yon distant knoll was the only evidence of Graewind Castle. The surrounding hillsides twinkled with campfires tended by the roosting Baeldonian cavalry. The acrid scent of horses pulsed in and out of camp on the urges of the fickle wind. Just beyond the telltale light of their campfire prowled a dozen shadows, members of her own dear Whisper standing guard in uneasy alliance with Baeldonian soldiers doing the same.
The news relayed by the Baeldon was precisely as dour as she’d expected, dour enough she couldn’t seem to swallow it whole, but had to chew it into smaller pieces lest her throat become corked with grief.
“I refuse to believe such bullshit,” she whispered, “Betrays our love for Chance, conceding him dead short of proof. Proof greater than good Ghanter’s word, I mean. Meaning no offense, me dear sire.”
Graen jabbed his probing stick harder into the embers, scaring away a plume of sparks. “The mountain presents no conclusion declaring dear Chance dead, Friss. Must ye always steer straightaway into the hard course, for love’s sake? Pray show some faith. The night’s plenty dark, short of ye doomish prognostications and affection for gloom.”
“He’s right,” Vicker said, “I’ve no reason to presume him dead, only in danger. Gran’ghant’r Bender sent runners out in search of them. If he’s alive, our man Jhom will find him.”
“Jhom?” It was the first word of encouragement she’d heard that night. “Ye mean to say Jhom Fenta?”
“You know him?”
“Know him?” She laughed for the first time since the Baeldon shared the sorry tale of the sentry landing in Barcuun. “That unruly old Baeldon’s spilt more wine in this company than ye’ve drunk in full life.” She swiped her eyes with a damp sleeve. “Know him like our own hearts, don’t we?”
“Back to said sentry,” Graen said, “Pray tell what grim news spilt from stone tongue?”
“I can’t say. We left Barcuun in a rush. I haven’t received a report yet. My infantry should be arriving tomorrow midday. I’m hopeful they’ll bring better news.”
As they watched the fire writhe back to life under Graen’s brutal persuasion, Vicker glanced at Friss. “And now I believe you owe me a tale, ma’am. And I hope it proves mine to be no more than foolishness.”
“I fear Calina won’t bless a hope so dark, dear sir.”
“What does that mean?”
Friss focused on the flames and willfully steeled herself. It would not due to show weakness before this glorious mountain. She needed strength now more than melancholy.
“We’ve followed the sun’s trail these dark months past. Moving east to west, trailing scent of gold to bloody reward, our time split most amidst triad points of Notown, Mendophia, and Fark’s Freehold. Trespassed reasonable distances between said parts, we have, trailing secret paths in pursuit of privacy as booty and profit guided us.”
Graen passed her an angry glare. “Now why in hellfire would ye tell him that? Would be none of his damned business, would it?” He glanced over at Vicker. “Meaning no offense, me dear Ghant’r.”
“None taken. I don’t care about your business, smuggling or otherwise. I only care about the Vaemyn.”
“Bloody Vaemyn,” Friss said, scowling, “Recent business, fairly concluded and with due gains realized, drove us eastward again. All the way east to Graewind Castle with intent to deliver bounty of delicacies so favored by King Lardio. And when good goddess Calina sees fit to bless us with such route, we incline toward visiting dear Chance, being as we pass within spit’s flight of his good home, ye know.”
“You’re friends?” Vicker asked.
“Friends?” she said with a laugh, “Nay, far bigger than friends. Time seals the devotion shared between and amongst us. Our families forged they allegiance centuries ago, ye understand? To this day, we honor said blood like the gods’ own love.”
Graen sentenced his stirring stick to the flames and stood up, brushing his hands off on his leather britches. “Me dear sister speaks Calina’s own truth. When travel commands us east toward said parts, we make it a point to inspect dear Chance’s sentries. We ain’t no help to him with caeyl energy, ye know, but we’d be able enough to keep brush and debris cleared about them. A blessed long walk for him, it is, and...”
He stopped. He looked over at Friss, then shook his head and pushed his eyes off into the shadows.
Friss shared the god-awful pain she knew he bore. Her throat felt full of burrs. The news of Chance’s circumstance seemed so terribly unreal. She parked hand upon mouth and struggled back the rising pain.
“Are you all right?” Vicker asked.
“Nay, sire, I am not,” she said through her fingers, “I’d be one long night’s ride from all right.”
“Found the first sentry destroyed, didn’t we?” Graen said too softly, “Little more than chaos of rubble, it was. Chance be maintaining them sentries nigh on two centuries now. Bode poorly, finding them in such sorry state. Sent hearts to alarm, didn’t it?”
Vicker nodded. “I understand. You worried for his safety.”
“Worried?” Friss said, “Nay, we undertook a sentiment woefully grimmer, Lord Baeldon. Chance be a Water Caeyl Mage, yeah? Takes more than wandering pack of mischievous Vaemyn to sorry his sentries. Sentry duly witnessed in sorry state, and hearts locked in throat, we made way for his home just as straight away as feet would bloody bear.”
She stopped, again wrestling back the traitorous heat swelling into her eyes.
“What is it?” the Baeldon pressed.
“Chance’s grand old cabin,” Graen whispered, “Burned black as death. Not a whispered hope better than cold, charred timbers.”
“Burned?” Vicker said carefully, “Intentionally?”
“Keep ye horse under rein, Ghant’r,” Graen said, “There be plenty more. Squatting there just as smug as ye please before said burned out cabin was a wee encampment. And just who might ye suppose we found making themselves so comfortable in Chance’s yard? Go ahead, sire. Take yeself a seer’s guess!”
Vicker passed a gaze from him back to Friss. “I’d guess Vaemysh
warriors, if pressed.”
“Six of the savage bloody bastards!” Friss said. The words arrived louder than she’d intended, and she cursed herself for the failing.
“Six Vaemyn,” Vicker repeated.
“Aye, bloody Vaemysh warriors. Six, counted precise as fingers on hand, and I convey they representative horns in me saddlebags as proof. Now mind ye, we ain’t never harbored grievance against bloody Vaemysh before this day. Gods know they’d be chewing bad end of the cane in years past. But when they act so vile as to grieve our kith and kin, laying waste to home and shelter, well… by Calina’s love, I’m sorely disinclined to tolerate such rude behavior!”
“Had our way with them bastards for a day or better, I reckon,” Graen picked up, “Yet even for such effort as tender persuasion may impart, nary a word could we draw from them.”
“Torture,” Vicker whispered. He didn’t look impressed.
“Ye’d do well to keep such judgment secure in ye head, good Ghant’r,” Friss snapped, “We counted coup with them, as right and honor demands. We followed the dictates of duty to the letter, no more and no less. Said warriors were touched, if ye take me meaning. Fogged as if skulls be compromised by horse kick. Couldn’t draw so much as names from them sorry wretches. Near cooked they heads to mush for effort of our mindblades, but found precious little satisfaction for bloody attempt, did we?”
“And trust this, dear Ghant’r,” Graen said from across the fire, “Friss can be dependably persuasive when need be pressed to task. Mindblades sharper than them of good Sister-Mother Herradious Faerstaat Herself.”
“So your mind tricks didn’t work,” Vicker said to Friss directly, “What did you do once they were dead?”
“Found ourselves a fugitive’s trail, didn’t we? Tracked dear Chance due north from there, him and another yet unnamed.”
“Another?” the mountain said.
“Fellow smuggler, we think, if prints told true. Fled together as if in company, they did. Followed trail north to distant plains beyond Na te’Yed. Led us to Sanctuary. They made safely inside, that much be evident, but only just, if scene yielded bloody truth to signs. Seemed them bastard savages took horns to trail in pursuit before us. Seems they made sincere and serious attempt to break into Sanctuary.”
“You keep mentioning sanctuary,” Vicker asked, “I don’t understand. What is sanctuary?”
“A cave, of sorts, ain’t it? Cut out of the rock of Sleeping Bear Butte itself. Done it himself with blessing of his Water Caeyl. Said butte lies adjacent to ye people’s old war tunnels, so we figured Chance to make flight there. After that, we made effort to trail those disagreeable bloody hatches north by bloody east. Figured him to make for Graewind Castle in dearth of more convenient haven, didn’t we? But Calina found no will to smile upon such noble effort. Found nary a trace of proof he’d surfaced, only further evidence he’d be pressured by Vaemysh pursuit.”
“Well, I believe I can flesh your story out a bit,” Vicker said.
“Flesh it out for worry or hope?”
“Hope, I think. The mage was alive as of just over a fortnight ago. As I said, his sentry landed before the war ministry in Barcuun. The sentry indicated he was under siege in the tunnels beneath Sken te’fau, which abides your surmise closely. Though we suspect he was making for Boardtown, not Graewind.”
“The swamp?” Friss glanced at Graen. “I wouldn’t dare to believe he’d risk that dreadful place!”
“I’ve no knowledge of hatches in swamp,” Graen said, “Only of them in yon plains, so our natural inclination would be to stalk them eastward. Never occurred to track north. That swamp’d be a sorry place of trespass for folks of our mindful talents, if ye take me meaning. Excessive with death and darkness, ain’t it? Grief and woe fill said land like piss to morning pot.”
“Ye people appear convinced something foul lay afoot, yea?” Friss asked the Baeldon, “Convinced enough to send royal army south for closer peek? If Vaemysh bastards truly chased Chance into said war tunnels, a sorry tale awaits us all for it. Sorry as plague! Means the bloody Vaemyn mobilize toward war, don’t it?”
Vicker stared into the fire. He didn’t respond.
“Word is war between ye people and Parhron be an imminent game, if one not already dealt,” Graen said, “Word has it stealthing Baeldons murdered Parhronii ambassadors in they own backyard.”
The Baeldon’s dark eyes rolled over to Graen. “Word is wrong.”
Graen threw his hands up. “Easy, Ghant’r. Only repeating what I heard. Ain’t no pronouncement of what I believe.”
“Assassination isn’t the Baeldonian way!”
“Maybe it ain’t and maybe it is. And yet, word persists like fly to shit that Parhronii caught said assassins in bloody act.”
“I told you once, word is wrong. I won’t be inclined to tell you again.”
Friss threw Graen a mental slap. Graen winced at the psychic pulse and sent her back a glare.
Friss looked over at the Ghanter. “Inclined to believe you, ain’t I? Honorable people, the Baeldons, with little soil on hands by history’s tell. I ain’t no experience lending me to believe they’d resort to tactics so foul as assassination, neither perfidy nor artfulness being commonly ascribed as Baeldonian flaws.”
“I thought we may be chasing shadows down here,” Vicker said, “But now I know that my scouts aren’t just late in reporting. I fear they’ve been intercepted. I fear we’ve been made fools and worse.”
Friss stepped closer and put a hand on his grand shoulder. “My dear Ghant’r, there be more peril dealt here than simple insult to pride. If spoken events prove truth? Why, I’d never be confused for bloody astronomer, but I’d joyfully wage ye good self a mug of ale and a roll in me bedding that said war between ye kin and Parhron pales to wee more than screaming neighbors by comparison.”
“Come morning, I’ll send more scouts south into the pass and hills beyond,” Vicker said, “This time they’ll be ready for any surprises. If half of this is true, I’d have to agree with you. It’ll make the war with Parhron even more suspect.”
“We’d be most pleased to lend ye a few Watchers for company on said journey south,” Graen said, “No better trackers or scouts known in region. Cloak themselves dark as shadows by power of sheer will alone, can’t they? Why even as ye breathe, Baeldonian guards loitering outside yon firelight share intimate company with ours, some with Watchers loitering close enough to tickle they grand balls. Our scouts will feel vile thoughts of any bloody Vaemyn within cattle field’s shout before ye or yours ever hope to see them, trust me true on that.”
The Baeldon rose to his feet. His red beard shimmered like coals high above the fire. “We’ll be moving out late tomorrow. You’re right about my need for good scouts. I appreciate your offer and accept it gratefully. I suspect you’ll be heading out in search of the mage?”
“Take that for bloody truth,” Graen said, “He stands our first, nay, our only concern. For now, leastwise.”
“I’ll have a letter of passage written up for you. It’ll allow you to move past any Baeldonian scouts unmolested.”
“Most appreciated, dear sire,” Graen said with a light bow.
“Still, these are tense times. Letter or no, I’d advise you to avoid any Baeldons you see, if possible.”
“Sire, ye might well beg a cave shimlin to stay underground lest sunlight offend his eyes. Our nature is to do just so, ain’t it?”
Vicker raised a hand in salute. “Very well. With that, I bid you thanks, good night, and safe travels.”
They watched in silence as the big man walked off into the darkness. Several Baeldonian soldiers emerged from the night and swept into his wake. In the same motion, six Watchers materialized around their fire.
A tall, svelte member of the party with dark brown hair woven back tightly across her skull stopped before Friss. She was dressed as they all were, in hard green buckskins with water fringe dripping from the arms and seams, black beadwork dancin
g in ancient runes across her back and chest, and knives cloaked in a dozen unseen pockets. Her eyes were nearly black, and they were hard as steel.
“I’ve no taste for dividing Whisper to parts unknown, separated by time and sentiment,” she said, looking from Graen to Friss, “But ye thoughts warn me back from quarrel, so I conform behavior to match ye wills, with mouth barricaded short of bloody argument. Only promise me ye’ll meet back here five days hence, loves. If ye can’t find Chance by then, likely he can’t be found.”
“Pool’s right,” Graen said, “We allow five days to separate us, nary a heartbeat more. If venture proves folly, we rendezvous back here in sorry camp.”
“Perchance we be confused,” Pool said, “Possible there ain’t nothing more than a few wild renegades run amuck.”
Graen laughed. “Aye, and mayhaps I’m gruesome rich and handsome a devil as Lucifeus Fark himself.”
Pool punched him in the arm. “Then I reckon us no better than doomed at bloody outset,” she said, grinning.
Graen feigned offense and then punched her back.
“Round up rest of fair clan,” Friss said, “We’ve plans to set out at sun’s wake. Sleep’ll nary grace us tonight. Graen and I outrun the day.”
XIV
THE EYES OF THE FAITHFUL REDUX
KAELIF SOARED THROUGH THE WIND LIKE A WINGLESS BIRD.
Two riders raced along a beaten path a mile below him, pushed on by angry plumes of road dust. The riders were determined and unwavering, desperate in their flight. They galloped across the plains as if Calina herself whipped them forward.
He willed himself toward them, turning his trajectory earthward to dive breathlessly down into the rolling plains. He had nearly caught up to them when the world abruptly shifted. His stomach lurched exactly as if the floor had dropped out beneath him and he felt a sickening pang of disorientation.
A timeless instant later, he found himself riding the lead horse of the team he’d just observed from above, driving it forward without mercy or compassion. A sprawling Vaemysh encampment flew past along both sides of the road, a blur of tents and campfires as he thundered up the hill toward the towering keep. Startled warriors danced out of his way, the details of their curses lost beneath the drumbeat of hooves.