Meanwhile his companions feel neglected by him. Kluber confronts Jak and forces him to see how Kleo’s condition has worsened, the scales having spread all the way to her face. Hobbes informs them that the time has come to sacrifice her so that the corruption in others might be slowed. Distraught, Jak confronts Hobbes, who explains the missing piece in the former thrall’s understanding, that the beings worshipped as gods in the Empire are actually devils, and that the only way to elicit their aid is through flesh and blood sacrifice.
Rejecting the temple, the friends rescue Kleo and flee. Jak accidentally kills Hobbes in the process, and is overwhelmed by his mounting burdens until Calla openly comforts him. Seeing Jak’s choice, Kleo accepts her fate by helping the others escape and returning to the temple for her sacrifice. During their flight, Jak uses the knowledge and power he gained from his studies to move the earth itself, spilling his own blood as an offering to the devils even as he declares a personal war on them, promising to put an end to the oppressive domination they have over all he holds dear.
Yohan and the Invasion
A Vilnian squad including Privates Yohan and Brody depart Halfsummit as escort to a caravan of four harpa, a minority culture considered untrustworthy by the Empire. The soldiers are quickly drawn into the harpa way of life, especially their love of music and dancing. Brody becomes enthralled with Meadow, though she clearly favors his quiet friend. The fun-filled atmosphere helps Yohan move on from Jena, though he stops short of accepting a relationship with Meadow. Instead, he gets caught up in a more complicated friendship with Summer, the young leader of the caravan and the betrothed of Patrik, one of the wagon drivers.
The caravan is threatened as soon as it passes into Gothenberg. First, the soldiers investigate the scene of an ambush where a similar caravan was destroyed. Then they encounter the perpetrators of the ambush, a band of barbarians led by one of the mysterious Chekiks. The tribesmen attack Yohan’s group, and are driven away with losses on both sides. During the fight, the soldiers discover that the harpa have violated an Imperial prohibition by using hunting bows as weapons. Silvo, one of the drivers and musicians, saves Yohan’s life with a well-timed arrow. That eve, Yohan dances with Summer and promises not to give away their secret.
Despite her betrothal, Summer finds herself drawn to Yohan. Then the caravan encounters Redjack, a former comrade who escaped an attack and found his way to them through an intense blizzard. He tells them the story of how Princess Jena led a squad in pursuit of Yohan, only to be ambushed in the mountains nearby. Seeing the effect of the news on Yohan, Summer turns around the whole caravan to attempt a rescue of the captured princess. She also gives him an uncut sapphire, calling it a good luck charm.
As the caravan camps in the midst of another snow storm, Yohan and Patrik set out toward the old fort Redjack believes holds Jena and her captors. Once there, however, they find it abandoned. Hurrying back to the camp, the two men discover only a scene of wreckage and death. Betrayed by Redjack, the caravan is destroyed, the soldiers and harpa killed—all except Summer, who was taken prisoner. Patrik searches for but cannot find the sapphire, then informs Yohan that it actually represents Summer’s heart.
The two of them swear revenge on Redjack and the tribesmen and set out in pursuit.
“The shield is a token of both friendship and loyalty; for are those not one and the same? Not nearly so capricious as love, nor ephemeral as honor, it is to the wise a currency more valued than silver and gold.”
Imperial Deck Standard Rules
Prologue
The Tiger
They could not see the thing that stalked them, nor hear it, nor smell it. But they knew it was out there. Though Twoscar would never admit this to anyone, he was afraid.
The raiding party no longer felt like the adventure it had in the early days, when all had been fighting and killing and plunder. Now, many tendays since departing his homeland—Sulja, that lovely mountain region he had so utterly failed to appreciate while there—the thirty-six men left of the original sixty were tired, homesick, and burdened by the accumulation of spoils. Once, when he and his clanbrothers were motivated to strike out at the hated Imperials, the grassy meadows of this exotic land stretched out like a limitless field of opportunity. Now they all simply wished to get back home, these same meadows alien and inhospitable.
Of the twenty-four warriors they had lost, eighteen were killed in the countless raids conducted against unsuspecting caravans and patrols. Regrettable losses, but expected. The enemy had always suffered far more, the trade-off always in the tribesmen’s favor. Violent death was a not uncommon occurrence in their way of life—full as it was with trials, rivalries, infighting, and border conflicts—so they had all learned to accept the event with relative detachment. Perhaps even a little selfish excitement, for each man who fell meant more booty for those who survived.
The last six were a different story, however.
The final raid they had conducted—an attack on a harpa caravan, well-defended but unprepared thanks to Redjack’s ruses—resulted in their greatest rewards yet. Losing four of their own was a difficult price to accept, but the delight at the sight of so many precious goods—tin for the crafters back home, cloth and furs to replace their own torn and rank rags—was exceeded only by the revelation of yet another sacred captive. This last was the most welcome boon of all, for it led to their leader calling a successful end to this raid. They could all go home at last.
The tribesmen were in this for riches, but their overlords for captives. And not just anyone would do. Twoscar had lost count of the number of ransomable prisoners he had seen eaten by the Archon and those few of the Suljik brothers who sought to curry favor. Twoscar himself had never participated in the repugnant deed, and most of the others felt the same revulsion. Even Redjack himself, otherwise favored by the Chekiks, had declined to join in the ceremonial meals, and declared the practice anathema to the ancestors.
But not all were dissuaded by such rules, or at least placed less importance on them than pleasing their new masters. Brackswig, in particular, was determined to emulate the Archon in as many ways as possible, shaving off black beard and top-hair in a farcical impersonation of Chekik baldness. He was the first of the tribe to taste Imperial flesh. Now he claimed to prefer the flavor to all others, an assertion with which he felt compelled to taunt the two remaining living captives.
Brackswig was one of the few who still talked to the prisoners. Most had stopped after what happened to Loko.
The journey back to Sulja was not as direct as Twoscar would have liked. A zigzag route east and south, east and south, each turn toward the Stormeres getting his hopes up, each turn away dashing them anew. The Archon would not deign to tell the tribesmen his intentions, of course, but Redjack was privy to some of the Chekik strategies and speculated openly that all the raiding parties were meeting up in Threefork to complete some unknown and unfinished business.
The group of forty that left the ruined caravan had done so in high spirits, buoyed by the aftereffects of battlelust, the thrill of victory, and welcome thoughts of home. Laughter was common, and jokes abundant. At least initially, most of the humor was made at the captives’ expense.
Redjack—passing down orders from the Archon—would not allow the men to do what they wished. The temptation was interminable, alas, for the prohibition only served to amplify the raw appeal of the women, and too long had it been since Twoscar and the others lay with the wives and lovers of Sulja. For days, the vexing desire led to frequent outbursts toward the prisoners. The tribesmen’s knowledge of the Imperial language was limited, but they knew enough to use some colorful words.
The tough blonde received most of the taunts with quiet contempt. The anger she possessed was so palpable that Twoscar felt a warrior’s empathy with her. She was a swordmaiden, he knew. And a capable one, for he had personally seen her strike down more than one of his brothers before they overwhelmed her with numbers. Initially, her hate was direct
ed only at Redjack—the rest of them were almost invisible to her, unworthy of her attention—but then Brackswig started receiving a portion of his own when he dared to hit her.
Until that time, she had been so impervious to their words that they made a game of seeing who could be the first to get a rise out of her. They took turns, one at a time, each leveling insults or issuing threats, only to be met by stony silence. Each had given up with a laugh, but Brackswig was in it to win. In this, as in all things.
He had been talking directly to her—standing just in front of where she stood, both hands bound—describing the acts he would perform on her as soon as the Archon left their group for the next. At first, Brackswig’s particularly unpleasant pronouncement appeared to affect her, revealed by a flicker in her eyes and a clenching of the jaw. For just a moment, she might have been scared. Then Redjack chose that moment to wander near, and her eyes instantly abandoned the man before her in favor of the one she blamed for the destruction of her squad.
Brackswig began yelling, but the opportunity was lost. So he punched her in the belly so hard she collapsed to the dirt. Her face twisted as she struggled to breathe, and he looked down on her in rage. His foot swung back, ready to kick, before Redjack placed a hand on the angry man’s shoulder. Brackswig gritted his teeth, torn between act and restraint, then settled for spitting on the woman and walking away.
Redjack bent down to help her up. She tried to resist his aid, but the bindings limited her movements. He held her by the arms until the wobbling steadied, then smiled to her. “We can’t have you spoiled. Not before what the Chekiks have in mind for you.”
She spat into his face, then collapsed again from a second punch to the gut. This time, Redjack did not stoop to help her up. He simply stared, the smile broadening as he enjoyed his position of dominance. “For too long have I listened to you and your kinsmen. Obeyed your witless officers. Watched you arrogant Imperial pricks insult my people, so sure of your false superiority. Soon enough, the empire will learn its real place in this world. You’re just slaves who escaped for a time. I hope you enjoyed your brief freedom, for it’s coming to an end. You think you’re better than us. Well, we’re going to watch you suffer.”
Twoscar and his brothers watched the exchange in fascination. It was more than a little gratifying to see an Imperial receive a heavy dose of humility. This was why they all loved Redjack. He had never been afraid of the toughest assignments, had never shied from confrontation, had never bought into the tribesmen’s natural inferiority to others.
And he had been the natural choice when the Chekiks first arrived in Sulja, years earlier, demanding volunteers to infiltrate the Imperial armies. Where others were cowed by the newcomers, too apprehensive to get close to the oddly powerful halfmen, Redjack had taken that burden upon himself. He had spent the subsequent years away from home, surrounded by enemies, always one slip away from discovery and death. Whenever Twoscar felt homesick, he reminded himself how much worse it must be for this clanbrother.
For the moment, the captive was incapable of getting up on her own. But she was able to speak, one of the few times she chose to. “Prove it.” Her voice was not much above a croak, but they all heard.
“What’s that, you say?” Redjack laughed.
“Prove you’re better than an Imperial. Untie me and fight this weak, starving woman. Show us you’re a man.”
The others laughed as they yelled encouragement, but Twoscar did not. He watched Redjack’s face, saw the momentary flicker of fear. That split-second spoke volumes. Then their clanbrother composed himself, laughed again, and spoke over his shoulder as he walked away. “If only I could…but I wouldn’t want them to do to me what they will to you.”
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 p
icked 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.
Shield and Crown Page 2