Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  The wound must be painful indeed, for the magistrate complained of it every day. Yet it was not nearly as debilitating as Summersong’s knee, and Jena wished the annoying man would cease this endless compulsion to tell them how much it hurt.

  At least he had been doing his part to help the harpa walk, for Jena’s own wrists continued to be bound. Each time she saw Summersong grimace, Jena reminded him to be more careful with the pace he set and the patient in his charge. Yet they were all obliged to keep up with their captors, and the aid they could provide to the injured woman was severely restricted.

  The situation was intolerable, though they continued to tolerate it. That was possible, in large part, due to the knowledge that Yohan was back on their trail. The tribesmen were once again cautious about their movements, but Jena held firm to the belief that they would make a mistake sooner or later, and a rescue would come.

  Provided she did not free them all first, she reminded herself.

  She knew it would not be easy, of course. There were complicating factors, as always. At the moment, one stood out above all, even as the slackening watch on the three prisoners allowed the briefest glimmer of hope. Though less alert, there were more tribesmen about than ever. The disloyal town seemed to be serving as a sort of hub for raiders in the region, and she worried that all the activity would make tracking more difficult for the pursuers.

  Civilization—what should have been a salvation—was now working against her. The belief that some random citizen or patrol would spot the barbarians and bring summary destruction upon them now faded entirely. The people of Gothenberg, it seemed, were as traitorous and self-interested as the Vilnians had always accused them of being.

  Perhaps not all of them, for in time two additional prisoners were added to the growing collection. Two young women in common white dresses, slender and dark-haired, were unceremoniously tossed to the ground by a trio of unfriendly brutes. The girls were likely sisters, similar in appearance and expression. Wide-eyed, they stared about them, but spoke little—even after Jena and Summersong attempted to be reassuring. Soon after, normalcy was restored, an unhappy silence descending over them all as each contemplated their bitter fate.

  The five captives never entered the town proper, though they stayed day after day within sight of its buildings. To Jena, this was a much welcome respite from the endless, demanding march that had become the defining nature of her life. She suspected it would resume again at some point, but at least her muscles were gaining an opportunity to recover. To say nothing of her companion’s wounded knee.

  She noticed Redjack make several trips in and out of the bustling community, however, often disappearing inside its perimeter for hours at a time. Once he began staying nights in Threefork, too, she slowly accepted the possibility that he might be leaving them for good. And that vengeance would be denied her.

  Sure enough, he was not a part of the reduced party that set out toward the mountains in the west a few days later. Instead, the Chekik personally commanded the score of tribesmen that remained, a mix of old faces she had come to know and ones that were new. She hated them all equally, though none so much as the inhuman monster on horseback who set a pace that even the healthy men had trouble maintaining. For Summersong, each day became more of a trial of misery than ever.

  Starting on the second day, when Jena assumed the group would receive no more additions or subtractions, she began to study the individual tribesmen in their group. Though she no longer commanded troops, the habit of learning all she could about the enemy died hard.

  Summersong must have noticed her counting. “How many?” she asked.

  “Twenty-five. Two look almost the same, and I nearly miscounted. Now I’m sure. There are twenty-five savages to kill.”

  “You mean twenty-seven,” Summersong said.

  Jena was about to protest, then realized what the woman meant. She had left out the Archon himself, and that vile familiar of his.

  Though the reaver often wandered far from the group, she always knew when it was near, for the day was always darker in its presence. Wherever the demon went, unnatural clouds followed. And though the summer heat was becoming more and more unbearable, the simple proximity of the living nightmare was prone to induce involuntary shivers.

  That such a thing existed at all was disconcerting. That it was able to walk with impunity inside the empire, infuriating. As much as she hated the traitor Redjack, and the Chekiks who were pulling the strings behind the atrocities that had ruined her life, Jena saved the worst of her enmity for the devils and demons and all creatures of evil that plagued her homeland.

  She longed to take her sword to the demon, to kill it as an example to others. She would slay the Archon, for good measure. And these primitive tribesmen, to take revenge for all of her kinsfolk they had murdered.

  For that matter, she longed simply to hold her sword at all. To feel the comfort of its grip, to swing it through the foul air in long, precise arcs. To once more not feel so helpless.

  By the third day, she knew for sure where the group was headed. Just ahead, the flat land gave way to rolling hills. Beyond them, mountains. Just as her first real test in life happened in the Stormeres, so too would her next.

  There was one benefit to the destination, for the road was crude, neglected, and littered with debris. Perhaps for that reason, perhaps another, the Archon elected to send his mount away with one of the tribesmen.

  After that, the leader of the group called breaks early and often during the afternoon. Each time he did so, the reaver disappeared from sight for long periods, and each time the sun and heat intensified during its absence.

  “What’s it about?” Summersong asked.

  “Hunting. How’s the knee?”

  “Not so bad today. Hunting what? I see no game worth the effort.”

  Jena shook her head. “I don’t think it’s looking for food.” Then she remembered the fate of Snarl. “Well, not that type of food.”

  Summersong fell quiet with worry for her betrothed.

  But the modest pace made life a little easier for the prisoners, in a physical sense only. The sisters whispered words of encouragement to one another, and the magistrate mumbled unintelligibly to himself. All three appeared near tears, just as they always did. Jena watched them for a minute, sorry for their suffering, and thankful that she had managed to retain a hold on her own sanity. Perhaps there was something to the harpa rite of attesting, after all.

  Constrained though her relations with Summersong were, at least Jena had someone to talk to, to sympathize with. Someone to worry about beyond herself. Her own pain was diminished by the other’s.

  The group’s progress was slowed by the frequent stops, delaying whatever inevitable fate lay in store for them, and for that Jena supposed she should also be thankful. But now each time the reaver set off on its hunt, she worried more for the two men behind. One of these days, it would find them.

  A new ritual began to play out in her mind. Each time the demon disappeared, she hoped to never see it again. Each time it returned, she counted the minutes until it was gone again, for she knew what it meant when a killer stopped hunting.

  And each night, despite her own admonitions, she fell asleep clutching the figurine.

  Yohan awoke, as always, clutching the sapphire Summer had given to him. And, as always, the scant hours of rest had brought no comfort to body or mind.

  He kept his eyes shut, desperate for a few more minutes of oblivion. Or perhaps he was just not prepared to face another day.

  The exhaustion was killing him, as surely as a grievous wound. He had pushed himself through long marches before. Always he had made it through the grueling days by looking forward to the deep, restorative sleep that came naturally to the weary.

  This march, however, was different. Sleep came haltingly at best, and when it did it brought only nightmares and unwanted memories.

  There was a chill in the predawn air of the Gothenberg backland. That, at le
ast, was new. A change to the dreary routine that the chase had become, for the weather had seemed determined to pass without pause straight through spring to the dreaded heat of summer.

  Perhaps this day would bring some relief, then. Or not, he decided at once, realizing that the chill was nothing more than a tepid breeze brushing over the sweat that dampened his filthy skin. He and his companion had last passed bathable water back at the river, well over a tenday ago, and their bodies stank like corpses.

  Was the sweat from the premature heat, or another nightmare? Most likely, a mixture of both.

  As his fingers slipped out of the pocket that housed the stone, he felt a momentary panic that he had soiled it with blood, for he could not remember taking the time to clean his hands after last night’s killings.

  He had left the bodies face-down in the barren openness of this unpeopled grassland. But yes, he now recalled wiping the blood on the short stalks of brittle, half-brown vegetation.

  Yohan opened his eyes to examine his fingers, and in so doing noticed something else. There was a change in the weather, after all. A thin fog hung low over the hard ground, a murky white just visible in the diminishing darkness.

  How appropriate, he thought. A fog in the air to match that in his mind.

  The chase had always been exhausting, but even more so since Twoscar’s unknowing deception. Yohan had pushed hard to make up the lost days and miles, in the process cutting their rest each night from four hours to three.

  How the caravaneer had managed to keep up, Yohan did not know. Vengeance was a powerful emotion, he supposed, allowing the two of them to push on beyond normal limits of endurance. But there would be a price, in the long run. There always was.

  Yohan believed he was already paying, for each coming day was a fresh misery in more ways than one. The weakness and pain of his muscles were a minor annoyance—something he knew how to live with. But there were other, greater, concerns.

  The most immediate was the toll taken by the lack of rest. His senses had lost their sharpness, and his wits were no better. They were as dull and useless as an ornamental sword.

  He could blame the fatigue for allowing Redjack’s latest ruse to be so successful. But deep inside, Yohan knew there was more to this persistent mental fog he battled endlessly, like an elusive combatant that taunted and slashed but stayed out of reach. The closest experience he could compare it to was the bout of hunger and starvation he and Jena faced in the Stormeres, but even that had been a foe they knew how to beat. This was worse, for there was no weapon to fight against nightmares.

  Sleep had betrayed him as surely as Redjack, for his dreams were haunted by the faces of the lost. His brothers and sisters in the army—disagreeable Bostik, freckled Krisa, dimwitted Ledo. That they had chosen to fight for a living did not make their deaths any less regrettable.

  The fun-loving harpa, friendly to a fault. Able to glean every scrap of enjoyment from the trivialities of everyday routine, to minimize the hardships of endless travel and fill the spaces between with song. Silvo, with his ugly visage and beautiful soul, whose dying body had crushed the fragile lute he loved more than anything. Flirtatious Meadow, who had been sweet on Yohan despite—or perhaps because of—his inattention.

  Brody had fallen in love with her, and had defended her with his final act. Had he known his bravery and sacrifice would not save her? Almost certainly, for though he acted one in many ways, the soldier was no fool.

  That left Jena and Summer, the only two who remained. And, for most of the tendays since the massacre, the strongest source of his agitated thoughts—for he could not make sense of their hearts, nor his own.

  But in recent nights, those faces appeared with less frequency than one, unexpected, other. Twoscar’s pathetic expression, full of ignorance, had become an infected wound of the mind.

  Not all people deserved to live. Yohan had accepted that long ago. Some men ranked below the lowest of the animals, and deserved no remorse in the killing. The world was better off without them.

  Never before had Yohan thought he was one of these.

  It did not matter that the tribesmen were murderous cowards. It did not matter that they had slaughtered his friends. It did not matter that nearly all of them died fighting.

  Only this one bothered him. Twoscar had not died in combat, and though Yohan had known the difference at the time, he had not appreciated its impact until later. The death had been necessary, for the tribesman had to pay for his hideous crimes—nor could an enemy be allowed to roam Imperial lands to wreak more unspeakable havoc.

  But he had been helpless, which made Yohan little more than a murderer himself. Was he really any better than the barbarians? It was a question with no welcome answers, yet the more Yohan tried to ignore it and focus on the numerous other problems confounding the pursuit, the more this face taunted his dreams.

  Yohan was sick of the killing, but he could not avoid it. He was forced instead to embrace it. Though it damaged his soul, the persistent anger was the only fuel that kept him moving, on and on, through an interminable quest with an impossible goal.

  He had not chosen this task, it had been chosen for him. By taking away all he held dear, the barbarians had made Yohan the hunter. At least this was a role of which he was capable.

  Ever since the encounter with the mountain tiger, Yohan had felt that the animal was a part of him, spirit within spirit, a blessing he did not understand but always welcomed. Until now.

  Now he felt more tiger than man. Hunting and killing had become his only purpose in life, a never-ending cycle. Hunt, kill, hunt, kill.

  There was purpose, but no pleasure in this existence. This, too, he was sick of.

  Which brought him back to the sapphire, and to Summer. The days with her had been the happiest of his life. The music, the dancing, and the camaraderie. The laughing, the talking—all the simple joys of everyday routines that the harpa taught him to appreciate, and Summer more than any.

  Keeping the sapphire was a mistake, of course. He should have left it behind as soon as he learned its significance—to her, and to Patrik. Simply being in possession of the uncut gemstone caused no small amount of guilt, for Yohan had unwittingly complicated one precious heart. And if his companion should ever become aware of that possession, it would ruin another.

  Yet he had never been able to bring himself to get rid of it. She had chosen to give it to him, after all. Who was he to decide her decision was wrong? And why would he want to? That she had selected him for this gift, even over her betrothed, was a warm sense of pride to a man who desperately needed something to feel good about.

  Nay, it had come to mean too much to discard now. The gem was a tangible link to a woman who had changed his life in many ways, all of them for the better. And it was a daily reminder of the quest he was on, of the difficult job that needed doing.

  Yohan could not make enough sense of his feelings to know whether he loved her more than Jena, but he knew he needed her more right now. She had to remain in his life, or that life would not be worth keeping.

  How had he not seen any of this at the time? All those tendays together, and he had completely failed to recognize what was right before him. Both her feelings, and his own.

  It was this blindness that bothered him the most. The utter stupidity of it all, and himself at the center.

  But was that not the nature of man, to never understand, never appreciate, until too late? At least now, after losing everything else, Yohan understood that he needed her to heal the damage he was doing to himself.

  The earliest sliver of sunlight pierced through the foggy dampness, and Yohan watched his companion set about starting a small fire, then step away to relieve himself. Upon returning, the harpa quietly poured out and heated a small tin-full of water, then added two handfuls of oats from the diminishing supply.

  Yohan sat up and watched the sun rise, hearing little but the occasional sounds of stirring and a rising chorus of insects.

  The
caravaneer was another problem. A minor one, to be sure, compared to all the others that Yohan had to contend with. But a problem nonetheless.

  This journey—this life—was no place for the man. It was a brutal existence, even for a soldier, and the harpa was far from that. And yet here he was, pushing himself on day after day, blithely unaware that the woman he sought to save had already rejected him.

  Perhaps Yohan should pull the sapphire from his pocket and explain what Summer had done. Surely then the other man would leave this hopeless quest behind. If so, he might even survive long enough to return to his own people, where he belonged. That was a far better chance of leading a decent life than where current circumstances led.

  Without a word exchanged, a cupful of thick oatmeal was placed on the ground beside Yohan. He turned his head, watched the rising steam blend with the dissipating mist, then picked up the cup and began to eat. The oats were thick and flavored with a touch of honey. A change from the jerky—able to be eaten while walking, its only redeeming quality—that served as their staple fare, yet utterly tasteless to Yohan. He ate without appetite, casting one more glance at his silent companion, who consumed his own portion with equal solemnity.

  The harpa would never go, of course. Yohan did not know the man well, but he understood this much. Discovering that his love had given Yohan the stone would inflict nothing but pain. The caravaneer was every bit as resolute as the soldier.

  Besides, there was always the possibility that Yohan misunderstood Summer’s intentions. Perhaps she had made a mistake, one that she had since come to recognize. Perhaps if the improbable rescue actually happened, she would choose the man she had spent years with over the one she barely knew. In fact, that seemed so likely that Yohan felt a stab of premature jealousy.

  Yet he could not bring himself to see his companion as a rival. Instead, Yohan simply felt sorry for him. The other man was trying his best to get through a terrible ordeal, and it was all going to be for naught. The least Yohan could do was say a kind word, to acknowledge his efforts, to thank him for the breakfast.