by Sean Hinn
He threw his pack over his shoulder and drew his dagger. He stood outside the tent, his heart pounding, struggling to think. His grey eyes darted left and right… between the light of the fire and that from the Twins, he could see the valley around him clearly. He thought briefly to look for a place to hide but dismissed the idea quickly; anywhere he could go, Mama could find him. Half his mind sought answers as the other half shuddered in terror, peering through the sparse trees, looking for any sign of the beast’s approach. He thought he saw something, a flash, a reflection, perhaps a hundred paces to the south, but it disappeared behind a tree.
The trees. Oort looked up, examining the tree beneath which he camped. He recognized it as a type of pine tree.
“Look, Papa! I made yeh an oak leaf!”
Shyla handed her father an oddly shaped piece of cloth, dyed green.
“How do yeh know it’s an oak leaf, Nugget?”
“’Cause I read about it! See, look. Says here next to the picture… that there’s an oak leaf. And that there’s a pine tree. Pines got needles, Papa…”
The branches jutting from the tree were numerous and closely spaced; Oort knew he could climb it if he could reach the first branch. He sheathed his dagger and jumped, just missing, his fingers brushing the bottom of the branch. He crouched low and jumped again; still, he could not grasp it. He did not want to remove his pack… it would do him no good to climb the tree and survive the night, only to starve. A third time he jumped and missed; as he landed, a low snarl from behind indicated that Mama was closing in. He could not tell how far she was and would not take the time to turn and look. He would have one more jump, he guessed, no more. He moved to shrug off his pack and jumped again for the branch, only just managing a tenuous grip with one hand; he slipped and fell to his knees. There would be no time to jump again, he knew. He could almost feel Mama’s hot, foul breath on his neck. Yet again he tried, one last time, images of his wife and daughter flashing like sparkflies in his consciousness. The expected assault of gnashing jaws and ripping claws did not come. He jumped with every drop of energy he could muster and reached the branch with both hands. His grip held as his feet kicked and scrambled for purchase against the trunk. An involuntary cry of relief escaped his lips as he made it to the first branch and grasped firmly on to the next.
Finally, he turned in the direction from which he thought Mama had come. He looked down, expecting to see two angry, glowing eyes looking back at him. He saw them as expected, but not by looking down: they were roughly level with his own eyes, and not an arm’s length away. Mama had approached silently and braced herself against the trunk of the tree. So large was the dire wolf that her extended body was as long as Oort’s branch was high, and then some. Oort imagined that he must have screamed when the malicious beast swiped a paw at him the first time, raking the air between them as Oort barely managed to dodge the murderous strike. He must have, because his lungs were empty of air when he tried to scream as Mama attacked a second time, an instant later, vaulting and biting at Oort’s lower half. The gnome pulled himself upwards, snatching his legs up and away from enormous jaws that snapped at his feet. The vicious chomp missed his foot by mere fingers, and Oort wasted no time scrambling up the pine as Mama crouched for another leaping attempt.
He gained the second branch, but Oort knew he was not yet high enough to evade her third attack. Oort braced himself. Again, she leapt, this time rewarded with a well-timed heel to the nose. Mama fell to the ground. Oort climbed higher still, finally, barely out of reach of the wolf’s fourth and final jump. He did not dare rest. On he climbed, higher and higher until he was certain the wolf would need wings to reach him. The bitter cries of frustration Mama produced were like nothing Oort might have ever imagined. What he heard could only be fury; a seething, unquenched loathing, augmented by woe, magnified by a vengeance delayed. Mama paced circles around the tree, tearing at its bark, snapping at the air. She eventually turned her attention to Oort’s belongings. She tore them to tatters, beginning with the tent. She moved on to the pack, shredding it to pieces. Oort watched in dread as he imagined his body being the subject of her systematic destruction. She did not stop to eat the meat Jade had given him for the journey; if Oort had carried any doubts before then, they were dispelled as he witnessed the maddened behavior: her actions were driven not by hunger, but by rage.
Oort understood. The dire wolf had lost her mate. She was injured, forced to flee her home. She was alone, fighting to survive when not long ago she had likely known only peace. If anyone in Tahr understood her outrage, it was Oort – but the gnome did not spare the wolf a moment of pity as he pondered how he might kill her.
He did not bother to wish that she might bore of waiting for him to descend the tree. When her ruin of his belongings was complete, she began to pace. When she did not pace, she snarled and scratched at the tree. When she tired of scratching, she growled and gnawed at it. The trunk of the tree was wider than a half-dozen gnomes at its widest point, but Oort felt sure Mama would fell the tree with her own teeth and claws before she abandoned it.
Oort knew he would not last that long. The rush of his escape had worn off quickly, and when it did, the cold began to set in. He was mostly dry, at least, and had been wearing his cloak when he ascended the tree, but he had no scarf, no gloves, no food, and no water. Unless the dawn brought with it a dramatic change in temperature, Oort felt sure he would freeze before sundown the next day, if not sooner. Even if he did not, he would almost certainly fall asleep at some point. When he did, he would fall to his death. And if, by some chance, he managed to avoid that fate by discovering a way to tie himself in and sleep safely, he could not last long without water.
Mama stopped her pacing for a moment and sat on her haunches. Again, she emitted that terrible howl. Oort suppressed a shudder, deciding that the time for fear had passed.
“Howl all yeh like! I’m gonna kill yeh, Mama!” Oort called to the wolf. “I ain’t pleased about it, but yeh stand between me and my Thinny!”
Mama turned at the sound of Oort’s voice, looking up, meeting his gaze. Yellow eyes burned with malevolence in the light of the Twins.
“Yup, that’s right! I said I’m gonna kill yeh!” The gnome’s voice took on a maniacal edge. “Ain’t fer sure how I’m gonna do it, not just yet, but Oort Greykin’s gonna put an end to yeh!”
XVI: SOUTH MOR
The willowy brunette twins Maris and Kalindra stood shoulder to shoulder in the foyer at Concorde, arms folded, blocking the door. Their house Incantor Chaneela stood off to the side, glaring angrily at her feet, avoiding eye contact with Gerald.
“This is foolish,” Maris declared. “You should wait until nightfall, at least.”
“At least,” Kalindra agreed. “You would do better to rest for another day.”
“No time,” Vincent replied, pulling on his boots. “You said it yourself. That beast is out there. The army is in disarray. If someone doesn’t organize an assault against it, and soon, then what?”
“The army cannot assault this thing! Why do you think half of them left?”
“Then we’ll arrange a defense,” said Gerald.
Chaneela replied without lifting her gaze. “It’s anarchy in the streets,” she said. “If Sartean doesn’t kill you, or the beast doesn’t kill you, the people of Mor very well might.”
Vincent stood, his boots laced. Gerald helped him with his cloak; Vincent did the same for his friend.
“Turns out I’m hard to kill,” Vincent said. He walked up to Maris, took her hands in his own and met her gaze.
“I would ask something of you, Maris.”
Maris’ brown eyes widened, the fierce and lethal mistress made timid by Vincent’s unexpected proximity.
“Stay here,” he pleaded. “At Concorde, just for now. Sartean has no reason to come here; he thinks I am dead. I would not see you harmed.”
Gerald looked on in awe, stunned to see Vincent express his affection to a woman. The wizard t
urned to Kalindra for explanation, who merely smiled.
Maris nodded. “I will do as you ask. If you promise to return.”
Vincent hesitated for a moment, seemingly unsure what to do next. After a breath he nodded and pulled away, his voice again rich with bravado. “It is a bargain, then. Shall we, Gerald?”
Gerald smoothed Chaneela’s silver hair and patted her on the cheek. She did not pull away. He turned to Kalindra. “Keep an eye on these two, Kal.”
“I can do that. Be safe. Be well.”
Vincent and Gerald decided against making for the barracks of Mor on horseback; if Chaneela’s comment about anarchy in the streets was accurate, Vincent reasoned, a horse could make one a target. The pair made their way south along Southern Road, darting cautiously between manors, avoiding being seen from the streets as best they could. If someone had chosen to track them, they could have done so easily; the layer of snow and ash that blanketed Mor made undetected travel impossible. Flitting between buildings unnoticed, however, did not prove difficult. A haze of acrid smoke drifted through the streets of Mor and obscured their passage. Vincent knew: somewhere in Mor, buildings burned. There was blessed little foot traffic on the ashen road, however, and only an occasional rider. If chaos gripped the city of Mor, it did so in the more populated areas nearer the palace. The pair had made it well south of Concorde and turned west on Honor Way before Gerald dared to ask the question.
“So. Maris?”
Vincent held up a hand to quiet his friend as a rider passed. He replied to the question with one of his own.
“So. Chaneela?”
Gerald scoffed. “Hardly news, unless you’re blind.”
The minor rebuke did not pass beneath Vincent’s notice.
“It may be that I have been just that, Gerald. You’re right, I should have reasoned it out, now that you mention it. But why not just tell me?”
“Vincent, you’ve been my friend a long time. I have no doubt you’d lay down your life for me. But let’s be honest with one another – you’ve never been one to pay much attention to what’s going on with those around you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d give a damn.”
Vincent did not bother voicing offense; the criticism was fair. He moved to reply when Gerald pulled him into an alley. Another rider.
“Incantor,” Gerald declared. “Third one I’ve seen.”
“I thought you magic types didn’t care for horses.”
“Not so much that we dislike them,” Gerald corrected. “Just very little time for a wizard to master riding. Besides, all you horse-and-sword types didn’t exactly welcome we ‘magic types’ on the hunts growing up.”
Vincent shrugged. “Good point. Odd, though, in any case.”
“Very,” Gerald agreed. “If I were to guess, they’ve been ordered to look for someone. Or something.”
Vincent hurried across a narrow road and hid behind a broken wagon. Gerald followed.
“The beast, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
The two crossed the street, cutting down a rarely used alley behind a series of boarded up tanners and weaveries that would take them most of the remaining way to the barracks. They slowed their pace.
“I would have,” Vincent said after several turns of silence.
“Eh?”
“Given a damn. Had you told me about Chaneela, I mean. I am happy for you.”
Gerald shook his head. “I know. I’m sorry. That was harsh of me to say.”
“But fair. I know who I am, Gerald. Or, who I was.”
“Who you were?”
“Something’s different.”
A heavy silence floated between the friends for a turn.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Gerald pressed eventually.
“Did you ask a question?”
“About Maris.”
“I do not recall a question. In fact, I specifically recall that you did not ask a question, but rather merely said her name.”
Gerald smiled. “All right, jackass, then I’ll ask. What in Fury was that between you and Maris back there?”
Vincent returned the grin. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean.”
Gerald shot Vincent a threatening glance. “You do realize I’m a wizard, yes? I can make you answer. I can make it painful.”
Vincent wore an expression of mock horror. “So you’d raise me from the dead, just to torture me? You are a sick bastard.”
“Dammit, Vincent!”
Vincent laughed. “Fine, I’ll tell you, since you clearly won’t leave it be. She said she loved me.”
Gerald’s jaw dropped. “She did not.”
Vincent nodded. “She did. When you were asleep.”
“Fury! What did you say?”
“Nothing. She said she’d slap me if I replied.”
Gerald frowned, puzzling it out. After a few moments, he understood.
“You might have surprised her.”
“Sorry?”
“Had you replied,” Gerald continued. “You might have surprised her.”
Vincent shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I saw how you looked at her when we left. Haven’t seen that look on you since… well, since–”
“Since Anie. You can say it.” Vincent turned to meet Gerald’s eyes, his expression grave. “But you’re wrong. Wasn’t the same.”
Gerald sighed. “No, I suppose not. But it was something.”
The two walked the ashen alley for a turn in silence as a light snow began to fall.
“Something,” Vincent agreed.
Gerald stopped walking suddenly. Vincent turned to face him.
“What is it?”
“We’re going to have to talk about it.”
Vincent swallowed.
“What I did… Chaneela was right. And she was wrong.”
Vincent shook his head, avoiding Gerald’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
“It matters if you despise me for it.”
“Gerald, I don’t want to discuss–”
“I know. But we’ll need to. At some point.”
Vincent nodded. “At some point.”
Vincent had avoided considering the subject in depth, but could help it no longer as the two continued their walk to the barracks. He was not pleased with Gerald. He supposed he was glad to be alive, but he could not be sure even of that much. He had asked himself the question a thousand times over the years: might death be better? Now, he was terrified of a slightly different question, one no other man could ask: was death better?
He could not recall what it had been like to be dead, but only because he chose not to. A layer of denial, ever so thin, fragile as a spider’s web, was all that separated him from the answer. The memory existed. It swam just beneath the surface of his awareness, needing only to be accepted to be retrieved, but Vincent steadfastly refused to acknowledge its presence. A part of him hoped he would be able to maintain that refusal forever, but the greater part ceded the reality: such a truth could not be long ignored. The time would come when he would allow the recollection to surface, and when he did, he would know the answer, once and for all, to the ultimate question that lived in his heart: would Anie be there to greet him when he traversed the Veil?
No one should possess such knowledge, he decreed silently. It is an unnatural thing, to die and return. And at the cost of others…
Vincent knew little enough about magic, but what he did know was sufficient to understand what Chaneela had meant when she said his new life was stolen, bit by bit, from somewhere. No, Vincent corrected himself. From someone. He knew of Gerald’s proclivity towards forbidden magics. Over the years, he had not quite sanctioned his friend’s dalliances into the darker incantations, but neither had he acted to prevent them. Vincent allowed that, perhaps, his tacit approval was inferred by Gerald, making Vincent complicit, but he had always imagined that the outright practice of necromancy was somehow different from the passive, inter
mittent collection of stray energies Gerald admitted to.
He now knew better. He lived because Gerald had pinched traces of life from others over time, and it did not matter the size of those fragments, nor the frequency at which they were stolen: Vincent Thomison’s new life was a thing embezzled.
A tug at his sleeve brought the merchant out of his reverie. Gerald had said something.
“What was that?”
“I said, might we want to have a plan before you go traipsing in there?” The two had arrived at the end of the alley; the main office of the barracks lay just across Halsen Road.
“Sorry. My mind was elsewhere. And I already have a plan. I’m going to hire the army.”
“And you don’t think the fact that you were exposed as a murderer and a fraud in Halsen’s court will give anyone pause? Or how about the fact that you were seen to be slain by what, hundreds of people?”
Vincent turned to regard Gerald.
“Yet here I am.”
“Maybe I should go in first.”
“No. This is a simple thing. Follow me.”
Vincent strode across the road as if he had not a care in the world, directly towards a duo of armored pikemen who stood guarding a footpath entrance to the army compound. Gerald followed, wary.
The smaller of the two soldiers spoke first.
“Move along. You have no business here.”
“I do,” Vincent replied. “I am the Merchant, and I will speak with whomever is in charge of you lot.”
Only a slight pause separated Vincent’s declaration and the raucous laughter that followed.
“That’s a good one!” the taller one said. “The Merchant, you say? You? Please. And who is this with you, Father Winter?” Then men continued to laugh. Vincent smiled amiably.
“He is surely old enough to be,” Vincent quipped. “But no. He is Gerald Longstock, my house wizard. I am Master Vincent Thomison, and I am the Merchant, and you will take me to your superior.”