Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  After that confrontation, the taunting of the captives continued in a different form. Most of the attention shifted toward the other woman. The harpa. The slender black-haired beauty. No swordmaiden, she became a more convenient target.

  Now, as eve turned to night, Twoscar observed the two women from a respectable distance. They sat together, unspeaking, each chewing the meager scraps of food that served as their only meal of the day. Living on an island of solitude in a sea of turmoil, lost in their personal thoughts, undisturbed by the large groups of tribesmen moving all around them. For all intents and purposes, no one spoke to either of them any longer.

  Twoscar focused on the harpa, watching her swallow the last morsel without relish. If the blonde’s animosity for her captors was obvious, these dark eyes were unreadable. Not the physical presence of her companion, but every bit as unbowed. That much was apparent from the carriage of her shoulders and the manner in which those eyes absorbed the world around—whether following the graceful flight of a hawk or admiring the sun rising over the imposing peaks in the distance. Even as a prisoner, mistreated and helpless, knowing her demise was imminent, she looked content.

  They were all far more terrified of her than the other.

  A few eves after the taunting shifted, wistful desires and talk of home made the men particularly anxious. They had drunk more of the plundered spirits than usual that night, and Loko had grown bolder in his lewd approach to this defenseless captive. In his intoxication, he had even grabbed her hair, tugging painfully downward, and planted a forceful kiss on her mouth. Then he recoiled in pain, wiped the blood from his lips, and stopped her laughter with a backhand across her jaw.

  The harpa went to her knees, but her intense expression did not falter. “You will die before the snows melt,” she declared with such unmistakable earnestness that some of the men pantomimed wards of protection. Loko struck her again before his brothers dragged him away.

  Twoscar asked him about it in the morning. The man had been too drunk to remember the exchange. But others did, and the memory of it bothered them. For Twoscar, it was less about the words than the certainty with which she spoke them. Though no one else had admitted to anything beyond amusement, he could not so easily brush away the worry.

  Two days later, Loko was dead, and the rest of them were as frightened of her as Twoscar. In the tendays since, the antagonizing of the two women had all but ceased entirely.

  Whatever remorse the men had felt at the death of Loko had long been replaced by a sense of blame, for it was surely his fault they were being hunted now. The night of his death, when he and Rakspar disappeared on patrol, was the first they became aware that a predator was near. Redjack talked the Archon into taking the time to look for the missing pair. One day wasted, one day longer from home. And then that night, another patrol never came back. The next morn, neither did two of the men sent out to look for them.

  No more patrols were sent after that. The group resumed movement toward whatever rendezvous awaited them, all of them careful to stay close to the main body. Talk of home no longer dominated the conversation. Now they speculated on what manner of beast chased them. One of the men swore that he saw a giant black bear in the distance, while others believed it was a pack of wolves drawn by the war and the prospect of easy scavenging. Twoscar doubted that wolves could be so quiet in their hunting, however. He had his own ideas about the terror inflicted upon them. He believed it was a tiger.

  Twoscar recalled his first encounter with one of the great killer cats of the mountains, many years before. The vicious beast had already slain one of the tribe, and the elders were determined to retaliate in kind. He and three companions tracked it to a small cave in the eastern Stormeres, not far from Sea’s Pass. There, they had made it pay, jabbing with their spears long after it was helpless, hoping to see the wretched animal writhe in pain. The tiger had done no such thing, however. It had merely glared at them with cold intensity, pale eyes streaked with red to match the blood on its white coat. There had not been hatred in that glare, nor fear, nor pain. All Twoscar could see was vengeance. He had not been scared at the time, though he was relieved nonetheless when the animal breathed its last.

  But he was scared now, for now that vengeance was upon him. The beast had picked up their scent, and was not letting go. This feeling was strange, for everyone in the raiding party. So long the hunters, now they were the prey.

  As the dark of night settled in, Twoscar glanced up at the sky, seeking comfort from the stars. Yet even these eternal companions provided none, for his perceptions were jarred as if the whole world had turned on its side. It took him a moment to understand why. All the familiar friends were there—Aramus, the Slinger’s Stone; Sheela, the Flower of Night; the Goat’s Eye, Yarung—but so was another. The tiniest pinprick of light, unfamiliar and suspicious. Not welcome at all. Something to distrust.

  “You see the new star, aye?” a voice said. A female voice. The witch, smiling at him without humor. “It means your doom.”

  Twoscar hurried away from her. The thin pale line on his cheek was beginning to itch. The remnant of his first fight long ago, the flesh had since healed but the irritation lingered. The annoying sensation periodically magnified during moments of great stress, and sometimes as a preternatural warning of danger. Twoscar did not understand how his disfigurement worked, but he had come to rely upon its uncanny prescience.

  Only the one mark behaved in this way. His other scars—forearm, leg, abdomen—were simply ugly. Most had been received well after his name decided. No one else was bothered by the contradiction, so neither was he.

  Shivering despite the spring thaw, Twoscar sought reassurance in the form of conversation. Graygab sat nearby, sharpening his axe for the third time that day. His was not a cheerful personality, and now less so than normal, but any port would do in a storm. He looked as his clanbrother approached.

  “Twoscar, come.”

  Unexpectedly, Redjack motioned for him. Twoscar nodded and willingly joined his esteemed companion in a pacing of the camp. A few of the ginger-bearded man’s jokes were just the thing to take Twoscar’s mind off his worries.

  Sadly, he noticed that the other man was in a less jovial mood than usual. A moment later, the reason became apparent, for they were headed toward the Archon’s tent. Twoscar shivered again, even more forcefully.

  He lifted the flap for Redjack, then followed inside. A strange tingling sensation immediately assaulted his body, permeating the skin and discomfiting the mind. He could never get used to these unnatural aftereffects of sorcery—one of many reasons the tribesmen shied away from their magick-wielding overlords.

  The pale, unblinking face of the Archon turned to the arrivals. He did not speak, but nodded to Redjack, who took a dark green earthen jug from where it hung and carried it to the small portable basin in the center of the room. As the clear water poured out, the tingling on Twoscar’s skin intensified perceptibly. He repressed a third shiver, for he did not wish to call attention to himself, preferring to be as invisible as possible to the Chekik warlock. He did not care to wind up like Lowsticks—left as shit for the buzzing flies.

  The unnatural rippling in the air above the basin caused Twoscar to look away, scanning the rest of the tent. Then wishing he had not.

  There, in the darkest corner, was the thing. Tall and mottled, part hide, part scales, but mostly teeth and claws, and always shrouded in unnatural shadow. Twoscar tried never to look at the thing too closely, and felt revulsion at its very presence. He and his clanbrothers could not pronounce the name by which the Chekik ordered it on its murderous duty, but their tribal legends spoke of a creature called the Black Reaver that haunted the nightmares of girl and boy alike. If ever such a beast walked the land amongst them, this was it.

  How much Twoscar hoped the Archon left them soon, and took this demon familiar with him.

  Even before the water stopped sloshing, its surface transformed. An all-consuming blackness threatened to
spread across the whole tent, causing Twoscar a moment of panic. His cheek itched terribly, but he dared not scratch. He wanted to close his eyes, but feared the expanding void would consume him if he let it get near.

  Now he understood why he had been called inside with Redjack. Such sorcery surely required a sacrifice. The leader of the tribesmen was too valuable to expend, but a simple foolish footsoldier…

  The tingling subsided as the rippling water rose out of the basin, suspended in midair, forming an irregular ball. The ball morphed into an egg, and the egg into a head. No longer black, but also no color Twoscar had seen before. Then the surface coalesced into an image, and he felt the rising tension in his shoulders begin to ease.

  Another Chekik stared back at them. As had been explained before—though never fully believed until now—this was how remote groups communicated over distance, and how Redjack had remained in contact with the Archon during his time in the Vilnian army. The clanbrother was clearly more used to these vile magicks, for he now showed not the slightest surprise or irritation.

  The two Chekiks began conversing in their foreign tongue. Even the voice of the Archon was vaguely reptilian—croaking, low and quiet, frighteningly calm for something that carried so much malignity. Yet the voice of the water-apparition was far, far worse. It spoke with a wet, papery sound, a mix of sinister and serene, like a runnel of blood pouring into a slow backwoods stream.

  Twoscar looked away, preferring to focus on anything but the unnatural debate happening before him. He noticed that Redjack watched intently, however, and wondered whether his brother could actually understand what was said. And, if so, how.

  That question was answered only moments later, when the Archon turned from the dissolving apparition and spoke directly to the bearded tribesman, issuing orders in the same tongue, suddenly comprehensible. Orders that caused Redjack to nod, and Twoscar to shiver once more.

  The following morn, he and four others watched the main body depart. Twoscar had command of the five who remained, which was an honor he would have preferred not to receive. Indeed, he wished the honor had been given to Brackswig instead, who sulked about all day as the group followed through on their instructions, constructing rudimentary defenses for an attack that felt ludicrously unlikely.

  Redjack said their stalker was no beast, after all, but a man.

  Twoscar remained skeptical. The lingering memory of the dying tiger still prevailed in his mind’s eye. Besides, why Redjack believed one man would attack five prepared defenders was beyond apprehension. Yet their duty was to lure in their enemy—be it animal or man—capture or kill it, then catch up to the others. The specifics were up to Twoscar, as leader.

  The day passed without incident, and without any sign of their pursuer. As eve passed into night and the stars reappeared, Twoscar thought once more of the unwanted stranger above. He had never known a new star to emerge before, but was sure it portended trouble.

  Dejected, Twoscar sought out Brackswig on the perimeter of the barricade. He intended to ask for advice—less for its practical value than to give his annoyed brother a sense of cooperation. One look at that angry face suggested this was a fool’s errand, however, even before Brackswig spat on the ground between them.

  Turning away, Twoscar caught sight of Graygab. The dour man had watched the brief exchange, and now beckoned the young commander over. “You cannot ignore this,” he advised. “Allowing him to disobey. You’ll lose the others.”

  Graygab was right, of course. Twoscar nodded, miserably, not looking forward to the confrontation that he knew must come. Brackswig was the best fighter amongst them, and probably wanted Twoscar to instigate a fight. What easier way to settle the point of leadership than by killing the rival?

  The scar on his cheek itched more than ever. It practically burned with the heat of a flame. Even as he left Graygab and the two others by the campfire, Twoscar wondered whether he was foolishly inviting his own doom. This was Redjack’s fault, of course. He should have put Brackswig in charge, or taken him along with the main group.

  Unless he was looking to get rid of Brackswig. Maybe he expects me to kill him, fairly or unfairly. Probably the latter.

  Twoscar smiled as he saw Brackswig’s silhouette just ahead. Still on the perimeter, leaning over the low barricade, inspecting something on the ground on the far side.

  Curious what it could be—a tiger print, perhaps?—Twoscar moved closer, staring at the same patch of ground, soon seeing what so fascinated the other man. A small pool of water.

  Something was dripping into it, Twoscar noticed. Then froze in place. The liquid was not water at all.

  He grabbed Brackswig’s shoulder, spun the man around, and saw the slash across the throat that he knew would be there.

  Twoscar stepped back, letting the body tumble from the wooden support to the grass.

  He glanced back toward the center of the camp, where the other three clanbrothers sat. They should all have been more alert. The fire had been a mistake, for it had dulled their night vision.

  Unslinging his axe, he looked up to a sudden, unexpected sight—the dark profile of a man. A large man, but no giant. And certainly no tiger. How then had he moved so quietly?

  Twoscar opened his mouth to yell a warning, but the figure moved impossibly fast. The flat of a sword blade crashed into the side of the tribesman’s head. Even in the shadowy fringe between fire and darkness, he could see the grass rising up to meet him. It was not nearly so comfortable as it looked, however, and did nothing to stop the world from spinning so wildly. Making matters worse, the scar on his cheek burned more painfully than he had ever known. He heard shouts, receding into the distance…or were they getting closer?

  The disorientation did not last more than a few moments, yet by the time he managed to retake a knee, Twoscar counted all four bodies of his brothers lying nearby. One had an arrow in his thigh. Another through his arm.

  All five of us…just like that. We don’t deserve to live.

  He located his axe and reached an unsteady hand toward it. The motion was stopped at the touch of a blade upon his neck. It pressed close enough to feel, but not enough to cut. Yet.

  “Stand.”

  Twoscar obeyed, gingerly, noticing how the edge moved with him. A sword was a lighter weapon than an axe, no doubt, but still the wielder’s control was amazing. Twoscar stared at the man, noticing dirty, unkempt blond hair and torn clothing. Save for the Vilnian markings on his overcoat, he did not appear all that much different from a tribesman. Perhaps he could be reasoned with.

  One look at those eyes, however, and Twoscar lost all hope. Even in the limited firelight, he recognized the same pale intensity, the same burning vengeance as from years before. He had been right about the nature of what chased them, if not its form.

  Another man joined the first, but said nothing. His existence was irrelevant, as was the bow looped over his back. The one speaking, and holding the sword, meant everything.

  “You know where the others went?”

  Twoscar nodded gently, careful not to cut his own throat on the bloody blade.

  “The prisoners are with them?”

  Another faint nod.

  “The prisoners…are well?”

  He nodded again, wishing he could do so more emphatically.

  “You will tell me all you know?”

  Twoscar closed his eyes briefly, then nodded again.

  The blade withdrew. “Speak.”

  Twoscar spoke.

  1

  Gothenberg

  The pursuit continued unabated. Unending. Single-minded at times, mindless at others.

  Not until Patrik collided with his companion did he realize he had been asleep on his feet. Shaking himself awake, the harpa broke the long silence. “Why are we stopping?”

  Sometimes he wondered which was the greater—the number of days that he and Yohan had spent together chasing the barbarian raiders, or the number of words the Oster had spoken to him in all that
time. That the quiet soldier saw the caravaneer as little more than a tagalong was apparent enough, but Patrik was determined to not become a hindrance, as well.

  He therefore kept his questions to a minimum and his thoughts to himself. Easy enough to do, since he spent all day keeping his tired legs moving and all night too exhausted for words.

  By way of reply, the other man pointed to the ground ahead. The intermittent patches of snow on the grassy earth revealed footprints in two directions. The heaviest trampling continued southward, but a smaller grouping turned west.

  “The trail divides,” Patrik said.

  Yohan nodded.

  “You ponder which to follow?”

  Yohan did not respond. Instead, he stared in the direction of the mountains to the east, though neither set of tracks led that way.

  Patrik considered what they had been told the night before. “That Twoscar told us they would turn west.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then we follow this one.” Though his companion continued looking the opposite way, Patrik studied the western horizon. There was little to be seen except endless white over green.

  Already resigning his weary body and mind to more walking, Patrik took the first few steps in the new direction. He placed his own boots on the prints left by those ahead, partly to spare his soaked leather from the additional moisture of the deeper snow, but mostly to keep from wandering off-course in his numbed exhaustion.

  Taking one glance back, he saw that the soldier still hesitated.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Yohan shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “You think he was lying?”

  “Nay.”

  “Come on, then. Let us not delay further.” Though his legs might welcome a respite, Patrik’s heart did not. Summer was somewhere ahead, and his own discomfort meant nothing compared to hers.

  For days after the tragedy at the caravan, he had been able to think of nothing but her peril. Even now, more than two tendays later, she remained the dominant focus of his every thought. But at least the all-encompassing sadness had receded, allowing some small room for fond remembrance.