by Welcome Cole
He’d spent more than his share of time in battle over the course of his lifetime, and was no stranger to death and mutilation because of it. But he’d always been able to walk away from those memories before, had always been able to stow those unsettling images far back in the safer recesses of his mind. He’d always been able to forget about them, or at least ignore them.
But the horrors he’d endured these past weeks were different; they were bleaker and more personal, and they never eased up, never gave him quarter. They played over and over in his mind, one after the other, again and again and again.
Pa’ana falling to his death.
The wyrlaerd murdering Fen’lar.
Koonta’s face as she was dragged into the tunnel.
Goudt floating in that stagnant swale.
The caeyl mashed into Maeryc’s burned out eye socket.
Koonta’ar dying by inches in the tunnel.
Prodes ripping at Maeryc’s face.
The wyrlaerds.
The Parhronii.
Pa’ana falling.
The prodes.
The vision.
Koonta.
The Blood Caeyl!
He crumpled into Farnot’s chest, grabbing a fistful of the animal’s mane to keep from dropping to the rotting floor. The world whirled sickeningly around him. The memories were too obscene, too overpowering, too damned many. They permitted him no peace.
He rolled his face against the horse’s hot flesh and struggled for air. When had it all gone so afoul? When had hope abandoned them? The fallout of his life consumed him so that he wondered if he’d ever be free again. Maybe his sword would be his only salvation in the end. Maybe he’d eventually have to wander off into those sorry woods alone, and in his solitude do the dark deed to find freedom.
Yet, even as that black thought flamed through his mind, he knew it was impossible. Not tonight, not even tomorrow. He had one last task waiting for him, one last mission. The unholy gift delivered by the Drayma still waited for him. His destiny was to kill the ugly Baeldon to protect the half-breed. If the vision weren’t so dark, he’d think it hilarious.
“You need to let it go, Mawby.”
Mawby stiffened at the sound of the voice.
He pushed himself away from the horse as casually as he could manage and resumed brushing it. As he worked, he composed himself, and he asked, “What’s that?”
He felt immediately stupid for the bluntness of the recovery.
“Don’t let your memories kill you,” Wenzil pressed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that right?”
Mawby stopped brushing and turned back toward the voice. Wenzil sat in the old straw behind him next to their camp beds. He had one of their Baeldonian torches spiked in the dirt. He had his thigh raised to the greenish light and carefully wrapped a fresh dressing around his wound. Mawby couldn’t fathom how this mountain had managed to come in and sit down without making the least vibration.
“I’m fine,” he said to Wenzil.
“You’re a bad liar.”
Mawby looked down at his brush. He realized that somewhere in the past minutes he’d dropped the other one. Odd, he had no memory of it. He ran his palm across the worn bristles.
“You have to let it go,” Wenzil said again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Again with the shitty lying.”
“Go to hell.”
“None of it’s your fault. Not your brother, not the hack, and most of all not her.”
Mawby felt a surge of irritation. “Don’t be using your goddamned sight on me, Wenzil.”
“I sure as hell wish it worked that way. It’s not something I have much control over.”
“Bullshit.”
“If you close your eyes, can you tell I’m still here?”
“What?”
“You heard me plain enough.”
“You mean the taer-cael?”
“Yea. Can you will your horns into silence?”
Mawby turned back to the horse. “You know I can’t,” he said as he resumed his brushing. Not willingly anyway, he thought.
“My sight’s the same. I get a sense of things. I don’t ask for it, and I sure as the Nine can’t block it. No more than you and your horns.”
Mawby said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Besides,” Wenzil said with a laugh, “Who needs the sight? You wear your woes like a badge.”
“Go to hell.”
“None of it’s your fault, Maw. Not one bit of it, and you damned well know it.”
“Wenzil, please. I’m not in the mood.”
“Fine. Keep beating yourself to death about it.”
Mawby fingered the dirty brush as he thought about the mountain’s words. Then he quickly returned to the horse, not because the animal needed any more brushing, but because there wasn’t anything else in this wreckage of a barn to turn his attention to.
“It’s been an honor riding with you, Mawby. You’re a hell of a good man. You’ve got a heart as big as the Nolands. It’s important to me that you know what I think.”
“You say it like it’s the end of the trail,” Mawby said as he worked Farnot’s coat.
“Isn’t it?”
Mawby looked back over his shoulder at him. “What are you going on about now?”
Wenzil tied off the dressing. Then he sat back with his great arms resting on greater knees. “We’ve never shared any lies between us, you and me. Not since that first day, I reckon.”
“I’ll ask it again, just what in the Nine are you getting at?”
Wenzil picked at the dirt under his thumbnail.
“What is it, Wenzil?”
“I’m leaving in the morning.”
Mawby turned to face him full on. “Leaving? Where to?”
“Back to Barcuun, I reckon.”
“Barcuun?”
“Yea. Leaving at first light.”
“You’re leaving in the morning?” Mawby repeated, “You can’t just up and—”
“Now just you stop right there,” Wenzil said firmly, “My leaving ain’t gonna impact your life in the wee, so there ain’t no reason you ought to go on about worrying it.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I worry it?”
“Because you’re leaving tonight.”
Mawby’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“You heard me right. You’re leaving tonight. And before you ask, yea, it’s the sight. And no, I still can’t turn it off.” He laughed at that.
Mawby thought through a hundred arguments and twice as many lies, but in the end, he didn’t have the strength to waste either of their time with such foolishness. Instead, he simply said, “You know, then.”
“I do.”
“Are you going to try to stop me?”
“Hell no! Why would I do that?”
Mawby studied him for a chink in the truth, but he knew it was a waste of effort to even consider such a notion. The man wasn’t prone to lying. And much as he wanted to deny it, somewhere across the past miserable days, they’d become friends. He tossed the second brush to the dirt. “I’m going to have to take a horse,” he said, testing the water.
“I know.”
“I have to go after her.”
“Yea, you do.”
“That man,” Mawby said, looking off toward the house, “The Watcher. I’m sorry for him, but it’ll be a miracle if he sees morning.”
“Yea, no arguing that. And even if he doesn’t die tonight—”
“I’ve seen men linger days with the same injuries. I know you have, too. If he doesn’t die tonight, well… I just can’t afford to wait around for him to get on with it.”
“No, you can’t,” Wenzil said. Then he twisted around and lifted a pack from behind a broken plank in the wreckage of the opposing stall. He tossed it into the straw-littered dirt before Mawby. It was little more than a section of a ripped up blanket tied into a bund
le.
“What’s that?” Mawby asked.
“A parting gift.
Mawby looked at him.
“Don’t be going all sweet on me, now. It ain’t much. Some food, some spices, a flask of water, a flint. Just enough to keep you moving for a few days. Maybe a week, if you’re stingy with it.”
“Why would you do this?”
“Calina’s tits, Mawby. You really need ask me that? You’re my friend now. Mayhaps my closest.”
Mawby studied the bag resting between them in the dirty straw. It was the most generous and selfless thing Mawby ever remember anyone ever doing for him. He looked at Wenzil. “I don’t… I mean, there’s nothing I can say, nothing to honor this.”
“Bullshit. You can say goodbye.”
Mawby chewed his lip as he looked at the runner squatting there in the dirt of this falling down barn in the midst of this falling down world. The man had just lost his partner and love of his life to the prodes. His scalp was fuzzy with dark stubble where his grief-shaved hair was growing back. His black leathers were dirty and worn, his right leg bare below the groin where they’d cut away his britches to dress the arrow wound. Even his newly applied dressing had shadows where fresh blood was seeping through it already.
Yet, in spite of his grief, in spite of his deep fatigue and that serious wound, the man was still grinning, still finding the light in every murky corner. And in that moment, Mawby realized that saying goodbye to Wenzil was the most difficult part of leaving this company. In the span of less than a week, this man had become his brother.
After a few beats, Mawby dragged a dirty sleeve over his eyes, and said, “Fine, then. Goodbye. But just so we’re square, I’m still stealing a horse.”
Wenzil laughed at that. “I’ll knock you senseless if you don’t.”
Mawby nodded. Then he said, “If Jhom finds out—”
“You let me worry about Jhom. I can kick his girlish ass in my sleep.”
This time Mawby laughed. “Now who’s a bad liar?”
Wenzil climbed to his feet, groping his way up a dirty, dry-rotted post that didn’t look anywhere near up to the task of bearing the mountain’s weight.
“Even if you do slap Jhom down,” Mawby said, “What if he turns on you? What if he informs the Baeldonian—”
“You think I give a tinker’s damn what my superiors think, Maw? Gods above, just look around us. Look at the state of the world. I don’t give a swimming shit what happens to me. I only care what happens to my people, to all our people. And I sure as the hells care what happens to the Father.”
“You mean the Parhronii?”
“Yea, the Parhronii. And before you start going sour on him, remember that he came back for your friend.”
“Koo.”
“She’s important to him somehow. It means something. I don’t know what, but I’m sure it means something significant. Got me a queer sense about it. If you weren’t planning on going after her, I would’ve insisted on it. That or I would’ve gone myself.”
“You’re a good man, Wenzil,” Mawby said, extending a hand, “You’ll always have a friend in me.”
Wenzil studied at the proffered handshake for a beat. Then he pulled Mawby into a hug that nearly cracked a rib.
“Don’t reckon we’ll cross paths again, my brother,” Wenzil said as he smothered Mawby, “Got a sense neither of us’ll be walking out of this mess. But it’s been an honor serving with you none the less.” Then he abruptly pushed Mawby out to arms’ length. He was still grinning.
Mawby suddenly understood. “You’ve had your vision,” he whispered, “Haven’t you? That’s why you’re leaving.”
Wenzil just stared back at him. Then he barely nodded.
“Are you going to tell Chance? Tell him about the Drayma, I mean? He knows of them. He already asked me about mine.”
“Yea, reckon I am. I’ve known him a long time. And I trust him. He’ll bless the decision, I’m sure of it. I have my Order to answer to. More importantly, I have my heritage to answer to.”
“I understand,” Mawby said plainly. What else could he say? Did he ever.
The mountain took a couple stiff, awkward steps away from Mawby as he adjusted to walking on his wounded leg again. By the time he reached the opposite end of the stalls, he was walking without a perceptible limp. He stopped before the darkness defining the failing barn door, which stood nearly two foot shorter than him.
After a moment, he looked back at Mawby. “Think I’ll patrol the grounds. Run a ways north, mayhaps work my way out into the plains for a bit. Expect I’ll be gone a couple hours. You keep an eye on the south side, eh? And watch those horses.”
Mawby wrestled back the pressure in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to tell this man. Instead, he settled for the memories of their time together, the first positive memories he’d found in months.
“Watch your trail, Wen,” he said at last, “Keep your horns to the ground.”
Outlined by the blackness of the sagging door, Wenzil only smiled and nodded. After a beat, he ducked out and disappeared into the night.
Mawby watched the darkness for a bit, waiting. He was sure his friend would come back, that they’d share another laugh and say a proper goodbye. But he already heard the runner’s taer-cael. Wenzil was moving quickly through the grass, his gait betraying practically no hint of a wound as nasty as the one the arrow had left in his thigh.
He dropped to the straw and sat back against the same post Wenzil had just been propped against. He sat there beside that dying torch spiked so casually into the dirt, listening to the desperate singing of the crickets. Farnot snorted softly. A breeze stirred through the dead oak just outside, carrying the sickly sweet scent of mildew and old grass through the barn.
As he waited, Mawby realized there were still some good things living in the wake of this disaster. No matter how bleak it grew, there would still be friendships and alliances, maybe even a collective hope. They weren’t lost yet, not completely, not while there were a few decent people left who still had the stones to stand up to the nightmare. Maybe in the end things would even be better. Maybe in the end the heroes who pulled them through this misery would unite all the races. Maybe the world would be a better place after this, a safer place.
He carefully removed Wenzil’s canteen from where it hanged on a stall post above him. He uncorked it and doused the flames of the torch with the water. As the peculiar green flame cackled and sparked through its death throes, he knelt low and closed his eyes and he listened for Wenzil. But the ground served him up no evidence of his friend. The Baeldon was out of range now.
He climbed to his feet and hung the canteen back on the rusting nail where he’d found it. Then he removed his sword and scabbard from an equally rusty nail beside it.
As he strapped the belt around his waist, he looked at the Watcher’s saddles lying in the dirt next to the torch. They were so thin a slice of leather, he didn’t see where they’d even serve a purpose. He looked over at the ugly Baeldon’s massive saddle mounted over the half-wall of a stall that was too full of the roof to be of any use for the horses. After a moment’s consideration, he abandoned the notion of taking it as well. It would be too big for one of the Watcher’s horses anyway. He’d just have to settle for bareback. Instead, he grabbed one of the Watchers’ bridles, picked up the pack Wenzil had prepared for him, and slipped out through the sagging barn door into the night.
The air outside the musty barn felt cool and revitalizing. The sky above him was on fire with the thousands of stars of Mengrae’s Blade. A waning moon squatted lazily above the silhouette of the eastern mountains. The earth beneath him was blessedly calm and free from threatening taer-cael.
Moving carefully through the mortal remains of the failed farm, he picked his way around to the other horses. They were out behind the barn in a makeshift corral beneath the crown of the only tree still graced by leaf on this mummified homestead. He slipped the bridle o
ver the Watcher’s red and white quilted quarter horse and quickly secured it. Then he hoisted the pack and tied it against the horse’s neck with the animal’s own hair.
“Nice night for a ride.”
Mawby flinched. The horse did likewise.
As he struggled to rein in the frightened animal, he looked back over his shoulder for the source. Then he saw the silhouette of a giant towering in the pale light of the moon. Though he couldn’t make out a face, the shoulders were broad enough they could only belong to Jhom.
“I didn’t hear you coming,” he said for lack of something smarter.
“Yea,” Jhom said back, “Reckon I can flit like a butterfly when the will seizes me,” Despite the words, there was no humor in his tone.
“I was just checking on the horses,” Mawby said quickly.
“Wenzil’s right. You are a bad liar.”
Mawby pulled the horse in closer and stroked its neck to calm it. For just a beat, he thought this might be the moment of his vision, but immediately knew it wasn’t so. They weren’t in a cave, there was no glass chair, and the rogue wasn’t here. Not that it was a particularly reassuring thought. The mountain could serve him up a respectable beating and still leave him alive enough for their predestined round in the cave.
“Well?” Jhom said, “What’s your plan, then?”
As Mawby looked back at the Baeldon, he realized he’d never really trusted this one. Since that first day in the tunnel when the mountain had nearly snapped his neck, there’d been no comfort in his presence. The man was impossible to read, and he doted on that mage like a wet nurse.
As he considered the man, he came to understand that there’d be no point in lying to him. The mountain wouldn’t believe anything he said, true, false, or otherwise.
“I’m going after her,” he said as he carefully stroked the horse, “You shouldn’t try to stop me. It’ll just go badly.”
Jhom uncrossed his arms and dug his thumbs into his wide belt, and he laughed.
The highhanded attitude pressed Mawby’s mood deeper into the night. “You think I’m joking?” he said, keeping eyes with the man.
“Yea, I’d say that’s pretty funny,” Jhom said. He was still grinning. “Not that I don’t think you’d put up a good fight, at least until the moment where I broke your back.”