by Liam Reese
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded at last. She did not correct his use of her name.
“Good,” she said. “See that you remember it.”
The rest of the group were catching up now, and she wheeled her horse away from Thorn and turned to face them.
“We will go to Rindor,” she said, “and retrieve the Anvil of the Soul. For the greater cause, the one we all carry in our hearts and of which we need not speak. Nothing can stop us, not enemies, not dangers, not death itself.” She glanced swiftly at Thorn, then turned her eyes back over her shoulder to the mountains. “They are not far off now. We’ll rest tonight, as we must all be tired, and can reach them tomorrow. Once we are in the mountains, I will have a plan.”
“A good one, I hope,” said Lisca.
“As good as can be.” She was clearly putting in an effort, and Thorn wanted absurdly to take her hand in his. Instead, he clenched his fists and looked to the horizon.
The mountains waited.
“Out of my way!”
The unfortunate stable boy was not quite quick enough on his feet. Serhiy bowled him over and sent him sprawling into the grass. He didn’t alter his stride. A good obstacle or two on his morning run helped keep in shape for real life. After all, you never knew when you were going to need to run through enemy hordes —
“Serhiy!”
His voice being called in a commanding manner wasn’t a common occurrence. The sheer novelty of it caught him off guard and he sliced away to the right, toward the sound of the voice, simply to catch a glimpse of who would dare call him in such a way. Of course it was the king, for who else would call him like that, what did he expect, his mother? So he couldn’t bring himself to muster up much anger. He raced past the gravel pathway that led back up toward his quarters and skidded to a stop in front of His Majesty, the December King. He swept the king an elegant bow.
“At your service, sir!”
“Serhiy, why did you knock poor Petir over? What did the boy ever do to you?”
“Put my horse away wet?” hazarded Serhiy. He’d heard that stable boys were prone to slacking.
“I doubt it was Petir. He goes about his business very thoroughly.”
“He may have been involved in a meeting of subversive types, Your Majesty. I thought it was best to give him a warning he won’t forget.”
“The boy is scarcely eight years old.”
“Never too late to start, sir.”
The king sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It vaguely became clear to Serhiy that his High and Mighty Majesty was not as pleased as normal to see him. In fact, the expression on his face might almost have been called pained, or worried.
“Serhiy, in regarding the matter of the little problem I sent you to deal with yesterday.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“Now, I did not know Geston well, but —”
“Who, sir?” Serhiy said alertly.
The king frowned at him.
“Geston. The man was named Geston Brennick.”
“Ah. I never remember a name, sir.”
“Geston Brennick,” the king went on, regardless, “was the friend of a friend. And the friend that linked us both, Aford Merundi, came to me this morning, very upset. Geston was found late last night, in the library of his home, with his guts strewn around him.”
“Oh dear, sir.” Serhiy’s brow furrowed. “Was he alright?”
“Utterly dead,” said the king, blinking rapidly as he was sometimes wont to do when he didn’t seem to know how quite to respond to his executioner. “Totally dead. Absolutely dead.”
“How awful for him!”
“The house had been ransacked, the servants missing, and all of his valuables were stolen.”
“Could it have been rats, sir?” suggested Serhiy. The king frowned at him, which he did not like at all.
“Don’t be ludicrous, Serhiy. A man is dead. We have a mystery on our hands.”
“Not such a mystery, if he’s dead,” pointed out Serhiy. “It isn’t as though he’s missing. That would be a real mystery. The missing servants, now —”
“Serhiy.” The king stopped him from speaking with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I need you to tell me what happened. I asked you to see Geston, to arrange some business matters on my behalf. You told me that you had gone, but you did not at all tell me that this had occurred.”
“I did indeed go to speak with him, sir, as you asked me to do.”
“Speak with him?”
“And I did indeed attempt to, how shall we put it, put the fear of God and the Lord into him. The Lord in this case being your sovereign self, sir.”
“Fear of God?” The king’s dark face whitened considerably. “I wanted repayment of his debt. The last thing I was expecting was for things to get so messy.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sir, but you were nonspecific about the details.”
“Let’s not get upset,” the king said, pacing wildly back and forth. He was not even pacing the same amount of paces each way, Serhiy noted, and he was wringing his hands. “Let us not get upset. Let us avoid getting upset at all costs, Serhiy.”
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”
At the sound of his smooth voice, the king stood suddenly still, and bent a very direct look on him.
“Tell me, Serhiy. What did you do, after you spoke with Geston?”
Serhiy gave an elegant shrug of his slim shoulders. “I left,” he said. “I could sense that I was unwelcome.”
“Good. That’s good to know. And what do you suppose happened to the poor man?”
Serhiy lifted his hands. “Found murdered,” he said, counting them off on his fingers, “disemboweled, inside his home, valuables stolen.” He shook his hands and blew on them, as though the action had caused pain. “It sounds like highwaymen to me, Your Majesty.”
The king heaved another sigh, and first shook his head, then nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Highwaymen, bandits and rogues, infiltrating the homes of our highest and most noble, our brightest and best. We must wipe them out, Serhiy — we must take decisive action. What is this world coming to, after all, if a king cannot protect his people?”
“What indeed, sir?” said Serhiy politely. He watched as the king went on his way, his shoulders still bowed, his head still down.
He stopped, some ways away, and spoke without turning his head. “Serhiy.”
“Your Majesty?”
“What of the money that you deposited in my coffers? Where did it come from?”
“It was a gift,” said Serhiy. The king nodded once, slowly, and went on his way. Serhiy watched him out of sight, then set to walking back the way he had come.
It wasn’t lying, not really. He had left, and he had been able to tell that his presence was not wanted. Serhiy was not proficient at being able to tell many social cues, but he was reasonably certain that once blood had been spilled, he would no longer be welcome in the corpse’s former home. Anyway, any lie was due to obedience. The king had wanted to avoid being upset; he had wanted to avoid it at all costs. If he couldn’t take a little lying, then he needed to toughen up.
Anyway, it could have been highwaymen.
There was just no way for anyone to know, for certain.
The little band of weary travelers did not make it much further that evening. Having at last settled down, they took it in turns of two to keep watch, but when Thorn’s turn came, he found that he was quite strangely alert. Ruben had been assigned with him, but the legendarian looked utterly exhausted. Even his eternal smile drooped.
Thorn waved a hand at him. “Get some sleep. If I grow drowsy, I will call you to come slap me repeatedly until I wake up.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly let you—”
“Please,” said Thorn, gently. “I insist.”
The legendarian did not take much more convincing. Thorn caught eyes with Irae, who nodded at him. She, too, looked at the end of her rope. Lully was asleep as soon as Thorn l
ifted her off the horse, pain notwithstanding, and Karyl, who had been given a root to chew by Graic that seemed, against all odds, to be helping, following her swiftly. Lisca curled up near to Thorn. Graic spread herself across all the bags, and so the whole little camp put themselves to sleep.
Thorn sat with his knees doubled up, head up, eyes open, watching the stars come out. All was quiet for a long time, and he basked in the silence. It was the quietest he had known since he had left his home in the woods. How strange, he thought, to miss what he had once seen as a punishment. But he couldn’t regret leaving, all the same.
The moon was well up when he heard Irae whimper.
He was on his feet and approaching her before he quite knew what was happening. She hadn’t been hurt, as far as he knew, but as he knelt beside her, he saw that her face was drawn into an expression of pain. She was pale, too, and sweat stood out on her brow even in the coolness of the night.
She whimpered again, a low, quiet cry.
Thorn reached toward her, tentatively. He thought to put a hand on her forehead, but it seemed too much. So he reached for her hand, instead, after a moment of thought, and wrapped his own hand around it, carefully.
She took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly, and then she was awake, staring at him in the moonlight.
“Is it my turn to watch?” she said.
“No,” said Thorn, “I only — I just —” He looked down at their joined hands and felt extremely foolish. “I think you were having a dream,” he said. “A bad one.”
Irae squeezed his hand. “No. I don’t have dreams.” She sat up to squint at the sky, and he let her go quickly. “A bit early for my shift, but I’m awake. You should get some rest, Thorn. I’ll wake Lisca in a little while.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “I could sit with you.”
“No. Please.” She put a hand on his shoulder, very briefly, then removed it as though something had bitten her. “Please sleep.”
And, because she had said please, he did.
The night sank over them velvet-black, the stars wheeled above, time passed, and morning came. A bright, fresh morning, as if to make up for how they were all feeling and looking. The dawn of a new day.
The foothills were long behind, and they were well into the mountains now. Ahead of them was a final peak, the sort of mountain that led to men being drawn to them by sheer awe to become hermits and gurus. On the sloping shoulders of the peak sat the monastery, a building of tawny yellow galestone. In the brilliant sun, in the clear mountain air, the monastery looked like something out of a fairy tale.
Irae stood watching it with her arms folded. Thorn joined her, touching her shoulder briefly. This newfound ability to choose to touch, without then wanting to untouch very quickly, was almost exhilarating.
“Inspiration struck you in the night, I suppose,” he asked her quietly.
“The only inspiration that happened during the night was slow and steady breathing,” she retorted. “What inspiration do I need?”
“I thought you were going to come up with a plan?”
“I have a plan.” She pointed a finger in the direction of the monastery. “Attack them and get the Anvil.”
“That is —” He struggled for words that were more or less polite. “Incredibly short-sighted.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“May I remind you that giant monks are what are in store? The legendarian says they’re particularly dangerous.”
“Because his books say so. His books also say that the Forged are cursed. Legendarians don’t know everything.”
Thorn tugged at the ends of his hair. “Then why did you hire one to begin with?”
“To get a direction in which to go.”
“I don’t think we should expect to go in there with only brute force between us and certain death.”
“Thorn.” She turned to face him, eyes narrowed and keen. “Are you the sort of person to walk away from a fight?”
“Certainly not. Not when running is so much faster.”
“When did this streak of cowardice appear?”
“About two minutes after I was born. Now listen, I’m not saying it’s impossible. I’m just saying that it’s very, very improbable.”
“I’ve been trained to fight. My father saw to that. It’s what I know,” she said quietly.
“And change is what I know,” he reminded her. “So let me change your mind. Please? Will you just listen?”
“I suppose I can give you that,” she said.
But from the set of her jaw he could tell she was grumpy about it.
Quickly, not expecting her to give him much time, he explained the basic details of the plan he had thought of during the night. He didn’t come close to thinking that it would succeed. But if done right, it should at least not involve their immediate demise. He was willing to accept that as a win, since there seemed no chance at all that he could dissuade her from this mad venture at this point. She listened with bad grace, arms folded and head down, a slight scowl her resting expression. When he finished at last, having taken more time than he would otherwise have dared, she lifted her head and gave a firm nod.
“All right,” she said. “If you think that is the only it can work.”
“If I was a genius,” said Thorn, “with tactical experience in getting into places rather than getting out of them, and if I had days or even weeks to think about the problem, I might very well come up with something better. As it is, I am none of these things, and have none of these things. So this is the best that I have to offer. Take it or leave it.”
To his surprise, she smiled. It was as brief as an errant sea breeze, but as bright as the sunshine, and he felt inexplicably cheered. Perhaps because it was the first time in far too long that she had not actively been angry with him, or yelling. Her face was really quite pleasant when she decided to do nice things with it.
She clapped him on the shoulder. “Very well,” she said, “let’s try it. What is the worst that could happen, after all?”
“The chances are slimmer, but we could still die,” he offered.
“Ah, Thorn. Yes, thank you. That was a rhetorical question.” She moved back toward the group and clapped her hands for their attention. “It’s a new day, and Thorn here has come up with a new plan. If you are anything like him, you will be pleased to note that it does not involve simply running into the monastery and attacking until we have what we want.”
The group did, in fact, look a little cheered by this.
“And if it goes wrong, you know who to blame!” She tossed one more glance over her shoulder at the monastery in the distance, then moved towards her horse, briskly. “Come along. I want to get this over with as soon as possible. I have more important things to do with my life than to indulge some monks in their ceremonies.”
“I’ll explain on the way,” Thorn told the rest of them, following her.
And explain he did. There were a few protests, which he had expected, but for the most part no one seemed all that perturbed about the general plan. It was, indeed, something that did not involve heading immediately into a fight, and he had a feeling that the group in general felt much like he did after the last one. Especially the parts of the group that involved Karyl, whose wound was beginning to fester, and Lully, who had to be lifted onto her horse because she could not manage by herself without the use of both arms.
Only Ruben seemed to be truly concerned.
“You know, we’ve spoken before about how religious orders tend to be,” he said nervously, following Thorn as he readied his horse. “If you think that you are going to throw yourself on their mercy, you might need to think again.”
“I’m not worried about it.” This was not the slightest bit true. “Besides,” he went on, “you said yourself that the Anvil is kept as a holy relic. If they have such reverence for the Anvil, would they not have reverence for the Forged who would use it?”
“You undoubtedly have many unusual and
amazing abilities,” said the legendarian, “but Thorny, you are not immune to the cruelty of men.”
Thorn swung up into his saddle and looked back down at him. Ruben was sincere, he knew; but Thorn didn’t think that he had any real idea of what he was talking about, or even of who he was really talking to. So he only said, gently, “I know,” and let it go at that.
The ride to the monastery was silent apart from the pounding of the horses’ hooves and the rushing of the wind. The air had turned almost wintry up here, and even the sun had teeth. Thorn let his terror drift silently off into the brisk air, and concentrated instead on the thrill of the ride, and of the companions at his side and surrounding him.
Even if he spent the rest of his life alone again, at least he would have the memory of once being part of something.
They left Graic and Lully near to the entrance to the monastery gates, along with Lisca, over her strenuous objections. The only way in which Thorn could get her to stay was to ask her to protect the other two and be ready to ride.
She looked up at him from the ground. “I know you’ve only said that to make me feel more inclined to stay,” she said.
“Would I do that to you?” Thorn wanted to smile, but he managed to fend it off, more or less.
“Yes,” said Lisca. “In a heartbeat.”
“That’s how quickly we will be back,” he promised. “A heartbeat. Maybe two.” He put a hand on her head, marveling at the warmth of tender feeling he felt just seeing her trusting eyes, her determined chin. It was like being a child again and finding someone who cared about him for the first time. He had not felt such a surge of protective instinct in many years.
“If you do not come back,” said Lisca, “I will hunt you down.”
“I’ll expect it.”
He touched a hand to his forehead in salute and wheeled his horse away from her. It was only when he and the other three were headed back towards the monastery that he allowed himself to smile.
“What is it?” said Irae.
“It is nothing.”
“She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”
“No, nothing. She reminds me of a person who meant something to me, once, long ago. Put your mind at rest and concentrate.”