It was the wrong thing to say; he realized that at once. The guard did not smile, as he’d meant him to. Instead, his eyes narrowed further still, so much that it was a wonder the bastard could make anything out at all. “A bribe, is it?” he said.
“Of course not,” Rion began, “I wouldn’t think to—”
“Let me tell you somethin’, stranger. We might be simple folk around here, but we ain’t stupid. A man is hidin’ out in the back of a wagon, tryin’ to give me coin to keep me quiet. Well. It don’t take a genius to figure out something’s wrong, does it?”
“Obviously not,” Rion said, the words escaping him before he could think better of them.
“Come on,” the guard said, striking the inside of the wagon with the length of wood, “I’m takin’ you lot to the captain. She’ll decide what’s to be done with you, and you can bet that if you’re hidin’ anythin’, we’ll figure it out right quick. The captain’s a clever one, and they ain’t no foolin’ her.”
“Can’t be too clever,” Rion spat. “She hired you, after all.”
The guard’s face twisted angrily, and he was opening his mouth when Katherine spoke in a hurried voice. “It is my harp, sir. Really.” Everyone turned to look at her, and she looked at the guard uncertainly. “Would…I can play it for you, if you like.”
“Yeah?” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Yeah, why don’t you just? This ought to be good.”
Rion stared at Katherine who finally met his eyes. What are you doing? he mouthed, but she looked away, pulling her harp case from the box and removing the instrument gently, as if it were some fine masterpiece instead of what appeared to be a second-hand harp, the likes of which could be found in any instrument shop in Valeria.
She sat the harp in her lap, and one of her hands came to her neck, as if reaching for a necklace or pendant that wasn’t there. She hesitated, looking at the guard.
“Changed your mind, lass?” he asked. “There ain’t no reason to make a fool of yourself—your husband there does enough for the both of you. Why not just leave off and come on?”
She pulled her hand away from her neck, forcing a smile. “I was only going to ask if there’s something specific you would like to hear.”
The guard grunted, smiling as if he were in on some joke. “Alright, I’ll play along.” His chubby face twisted in thought then, after a moment, he barked a laugh. “Sure, I’ve got one. A local tune of the town, but since you’re such a well-traveled musician, so famous and all, well, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s called the Mummer’s Fart, it is.”
Rion gritted his teeth. The man was obviously trying to make it impossible for her to succeed here, and it was likelier than not that he’d made the song up on the spot. He turned to Katherine who was frowning. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know that one.”
“Well, there it is then,” the guard said, as if he’d expected as much all along—which of course he did, the bastard—Rion thought, and the guardsman began to reach into the wagon to pull them out. He froze when the harp’s first note struck the air.
Strong and clear, and Rion himself was surprised by the quality of it, coming as it did from such a plain instrument, nothing like the ones used by the musicians who played at the balls the noblemen and women of Valeria seemed to have every week. Then that note was followed by another, and another, and suddenly Katherine was playing a lively tune, the kind that musicians saved until everyone in the tavern was well and truly drunk and any hesitation or inhibitions they might have had at singing along had long since been drowned by ale.
Then she began to sing. Her voice was clear, sweet, yet as strong as the music accompanying it, and Rion found himself so entranced that she had been playing for nearly a minute before he realized that, judging by the chorus that told of the “mummer’s fart” she was playing the exact song the guard had asked for. With effort, he pulled his eyes away from her fingers dancing lightly on the harp strings to glance at the fat guardsman and saw a look of stunned surprise on the man’s face.
Turning back to Katherine, he saw the same surprised expression on her face, as if she had no idea where the tune came from, as if someone else was controlling her hands. But for all that, she played on, sang on, and her voice and the harp made of that bawdy, crude song something good, something fine. The guard began to clap along, a wide, almost child-like smile on his face, and Rion marveled at that before he realized that he, too, was clapping, his foot stamping along with the beat of its own accord. Even the normally dour-faced merchant who had driven them this far was smiling pleasantly, as if the world was just exactly how he’d want it, and he wouldn’t change a thing, even if he could.
Rion knew it was stupid, foolish, for them to be so affected by a song—for he, himself, to be so affected—but knowing it changed nothing, and when the final note of the harp drifted away in the air, he felt an unexplainable joy mixed with disappointment that it was over. He looked up to the guard when the man cleared his throat and realized to his shock that the fat man’s eyes were full of unshed tears.
“By the gods,” the guard said, his voice a reverent whisper of the kind usually reserved for a priest’s sermon. “By the gods. Miss, that…that was…” He trailed off, shaking his head, as if the words would not come.
“I believe that’s how it goes,” Katherine said in a voice that was almost shy. “I’m sorry if I got bits of it wrong, but—”
“It was perfect,” the man said. He laughed disbelievingly. “Gods, but I’ve never heard a voice so fine. Miss, I’ve always liked that song, heard it first when I was but a child. Loved it then and still do, but I know it ain’t exactly the sort of thing fancy bards play in castle halls. It’s shit, truth to tell, but it’s of a kind I’ve always enjoyed. But you…you made it into somethin’ else. Somethin’ fine. I ain’t a clever man, miss. Anybody knows me’d tell you so, and I ain’t got the words for what that was. But if it weren’t exactly like all the other versions I’ve heard, that just means they’re the ones wrong, not you.”
“I…thank you,” Katherine said, a noticeable flush to her cheeks.
“No, don’t thank me,” the guard said. “I’m just the lucky lout got to hear it, and I don’t reckon I deserve to hear somethin’ like that, not on my finest day.” He paused, wiping at his eyes with one sleeve of the stained tunic he wore under his jerkin. “Just the same, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for playin’ it for me.”
“It was my pleasure,” Katherine said, and Rion could tell by her own smile, by the triumphant dance of her eyes, that she spoke nothing but the truth.
Several seconds of silence passed then as the guard just nodded slowly, his eyes distant, remembering, perhaps, the sound of those notes in the air, clear and strong, sweet and true. Then he started, as if waking up from some trance. He glanced up at the sky where the sun had nearly vanished beneath the horizon, and slapped himself in the forehead. “Gods, but I’m a fool. Here I am, just a noddin’ and grinnin’ like I got nothin’ to be about and you fine folks are needin’ somewhere to stay. Why don’t you all follow me in that wagon of yours? We ain’t got but the one inn in town, and Shek, the owner, can be a greedy bastard when he’s of a mind. I’ll make sure he treats you fair.”
With that, he started toward the front of the wagon, and the three of them only stared after him. Finally, the merchant cleared his throat. “That was fair playin’, lady,” he said, doing his best to make the statement casual, but Rion didn’t miss the way he hastily rubbed a hand at his own eyes before starting after the guard.
Once they were moving again, Rion looked back at Katherine. “What in the name of the gods was that?”
She grinned. “Music. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said. “I could have sworn, by the way you were acting, that you didn’t know that song he talked about. And the way you made it sound…” He shook his head slowly, unable to find the words to convey th
e feeling the song had left him with.
“I don’t know the song,” she said then frowned. “Or, at least, I didn’t.” She shook her head. “I can’t explain it, Rion. I’ve never heard of that song before in my life, not until the guard mentioned it. But it was as if my fingers knew it, even if my mind didn’t.”
Rion studied her. It seemed that being a Chosen of the gods wasn’t just about having the entire world trying to kill you, after all. Normally, he wouldn’t have said that being able to play a song you’ve no memory of was a fair trade for having men hunting you with the express intention of separating your head from your shoulders. But then, he had heard the song, hadn’t he?
“Well,” he said finally, “then I guess we’ve got your fingers to thank for saving us. That bastard was all but ready to throw us in the dungeons until you played. Now, unless I am much worse at reading people than I’ve always thought, I’d wager he’d lick your boots clean if you asked it of him and be thankful for the chance.”
She blushed again. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her voice soft and low, little more than a whisper, but he could hear the pleasure in it.
Rion grinned and settled back in the wagon. A guardsman on their side, and a night’s sleep in a comfortable bed instead of on the hard ground. Things were finally beginning to look up.
Chapter Nineteen
They were coming for him again. Somewhere out in the darkness, their blades lusting for his blood. They hid in the shadows, as their kind always did, but such concealment would serve them no better than it had those who had come before. They would come—with their blades, and their need, and he would cut them down. For what the Redeemers did not yet seem to understand was that the shadows were no longer their allies. Or, at least, not just theirs.
Alesh was connected to the darkness of the sparse woods around him—growing sparser with each step he took toward the southern deserts—in a way he did not quite understand. It was something to do with the scar in his shoulder, with the black lines radiating from it, the ones he could feel pulsing and growing, creeping over him the way mold might slowly, inevitably, cover rock and stone in the dark, untraveled places of the world. It was all about the scar, somehow. It did not burn anymore, not as it had. Instead, he burned, burned with a rage and fury that refused to be quenched even by the blood of his enemies, that only seemed to grow brighter, burn stronger, with each life his sword took, with each step he made in pursuit of his quarry.
His world had shifted so that there was nothing except the rage, nothing save the putting of one foot in front of the other, continuing the hunt. His left arm—from which the arrow still protruded—throbbed dully, and he glanced at it as he ran. Coated in blood, the skin around the arrow angry and puckered, putting off its own fire, yet its heat nowhere near enough to match that of his fury. He had lost use of the arm hours ago, but that was no matter. He needed only his sword arm to do what he must, and should he lose use of that as well, still he would not stop, would rend the objects of his ire with his teeth, if he must. That was what the one he chased did not understand, what the ones who came at him did not seem to grasp. He would not stop. He would never stop. Not until he had his vengeance.
There was a shout from off to his left as one of the red-cloaked men charged onto the path, his cry announcing his arrival. He need not have bothered. The creeping darkness lurking at the base of the tree trunks had told of him, the flittering shadows of leaves rustling in the wind had whispered of his approach. And so, when he came, Alesh greeted him.
A spin, his sword leading, the parry powered by an unnatural strength, and the Redeemer gave another shout, this one of surprise, as his blade was knocked free of his hands. Before he could react or dodge out of the way, Alesh gave a shout of his own and brought his sword back around in a blow that cleanly separated the man’s head from his shoulders. The body collapsed, and Alesh hesitated, not wanting to stop there, wanting to carve the price of this man’s transgression from his flesh, to write with his blood a crimson testament to the Redeemer’s foolishness for standing against him.
Yet, he did not. The shadow was somewhere up ahead with Sonya, and should Alesh give in to his hunger, his lust for blood, then he would only delay his catching of the one who had dared take her, would only prolong the time before he could punish the man for his daring. Besides, he told himself as he ran on, a grim smile of anticipation on his face, more would come, soon enough, others whose blood he might spill, whose agony in which he might bathe. They would come, and they would die. As they always did.
Chapter Twenty
Despite the guardsman’s obvious love for his hometown, Rion thought it a sad, mostly pathetic sort of place that was also—in some indefinable way—menacing. The main thoroughfare—it couldn’t exactly be called a street, not something so pitiful—was nothing but a dusty track worn down by the passage of feet and wagons. The men and women that walked by, eyeing the cart and its driver suspiciously, looked tired, weary, and without humor. Even the children which followed along at their parents’ heels seemed somber, plodding along and engaging in none of the games of chase or tag that most children did.
It felt as if the very air Rion breathed reeked of bitterness and desperation. The homes and few shops they passed were slipshod affairs. No merchants or shopkeepers stood on the street hawking their wares, choosing instead to stay inside, lurking behind their counters, as if even the idea of profit wasn’t enough to arouse in them the necessary energy to step outside. Not that Rion could blame them. If they stayed huddled in their houses and shops, he supposed that they wouldn’t be forced to confront themselves with the fact that they lived in a shit hole.
Another thing that struck him oddly—and terrifyingly, truth be told—was the sparseness of light. Oh, there were a few torches burning, hung from the sides of buildings or planted on either side of the path, but Rion was from Valeria, one of the largest cities of Entarna, and even the poor district had better lighting than this town. “Gods,” he said, “how do they survive the night?”
“I don’t know, but don’t speak so loudly,” Katherine answered back in a whisper.
Rion frowned, wondering at what she meant. But then he heard it. Or, he supposed, it was more accurate to say that he didn’t hear it. An eerie silence lay over the town. The children did not laugh or shout, the men and women they passed said nothing, even to each other. The only sound was the low drone of the wind, and the whistling of the guardsman escorting them as he tried to repeat the tune Katherine had played.
Rion decided then that he did not like Strellia, not at all, and he would be more than happy to get out of the town as soon as possible and knock the dust of it from his boots. He hadn’t been to many small towns, but he felt that there should be…well, more. More people, more laughing and singing, more everything. It was as if they rode through a town of the lonely dead who had said all that they would already, and now preferred to keep themselves to themselves, each existing in a world of his own, a world of despair without hope or joy. Or escape. He wasn’t sure where that last thought came from, rising unbidden into his mind, but he did not like it. Not at all.
“We should leave,” he said. “Something’s not right here.”
“And go where?” Katherine asked, but there was none of the usual lack of patience she showed him in her voice, only a worried tone that made it clear she shared his misgivings. “We don’t know where Alesh went and even if we did, Darl is out there, somewhere, looking for tracks. We told him to meet us. If we leave, who knows how long it would take him to find us…if he’d be able to find us at all.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t either. But it’s not exactly like we’re spoiled for choice.”
Rion grunted at that, wanting to argue but unable to. “Well. At least he’s happy enough,” he said, nodding his head in the guardsman’s direction. Despite the man’s bulk, he practically seemed to be skipping as he walked bes
ide the wagon. Katherine was opening her mouth to respond when the guardsman waved for the driver to stop, and seconds later he’d pulled the wagon to the side of the street.
The guard walked up and poked his head inside the compartment. “Alright then, miss. Sir. We’re here.”
Rion and Katherine peered out of the compartment at the dust-covered, dilapidated building the man had indicated, and he must have seen some of their dubious thoughts in their expressions, because he grinned, giving them a wink. “Aye, it don’t look like much, I know. But the beds are clean enough, and for all her husband’s money-grubbin’ ways, Lynn—that’s Shek’s wife—can cook finer’n anybody you’re likely to meet.”
That said, the guardsman continued to grin in at them, the expression seemingly frozen on his face, and Katherine and Rion shared a troubled, doubtful look. “Well?” the guard said finally, still grinning. “You all comin’ or you gonna sit there ‘til you grow roots?” He bellowed a loud guffaw at that, as if he’d just told the world’s funniest joke, and Katherine gave Rion a look before climbing out of the wagon.
Rion reluctantly followed, and as soon as his feet touched the ground of the town, he imagined that some of the life had been sapped out of him, as if the packed dust drained the blood of those who dared walk on it, perhaps in an attempt to bring its ruined soil back to life. Rion frowned at the latched door of the inn, and at the dirt gathered on the small porch in front of it, no footprints or markings to indicate that anyone had visited the inn for a very long time.
The guard followed Rion’s eyes. “Ah, I see. Strellia’s a fine town, mister, but it’s a mite dusty, too, they ain’t no denyin’ that. As for the lock, Shek is a money-hungry bastard—believe I told you as much—and I reckon he’s just about terrified someone’s goin’ to steal all his stuff.” He leaned in toward the two of them, whispering conspiratorially, “Not that the old man’s got anythin’ worth stealin’, but if you tell ‘em I told you so, I’ll deny it ‘til I’m blue in the face.” He gave another bellowing laugh, clapping a hand on his ample stomach. “Anyhow, he’s a nice enough fellow, the missus too, just so long as you don’t get on his bad side—man can be meaner’n a hornet, if you do that. Otherwise, he’s just as sweet as plums.”
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