“Twoscar, come.”
Unexpectedly, Redjack motioned for him. Twoscar nodded and willingly joined his esteemed companion in a pacing of the camp. A few of the ginger-bearded man’s jokes were just the thing to take Twoscar’s mind off his worries.
Sadly, he noticed that the other man was in a less jovial mood than usual. A moment later, the reason became apparent, for they were headed toward the Archon’s tent. Twoscar shivered again, even more forcefully.
He lifted the flap for Redjack, then followed inside. A strange tingling sensation immediately assaulted his body, permeating the skin and discomfiting the mind. He could never get used to these unnatural aftereffects of sorcery—one of many reasons the tribesmen shied away from their magick-wielding overlords.
The pale, unblinking face of the Archon turned to the arrivals. He did not speak, but nodded to Redjack, who took a dark green earthen jug from where it hung and carried it to the small portable basin in the center of the room. As the clear water poured out, the tingling on Twoscar’s skin intensified perceptibly. He repressed a third shiver, for he did not wish to call attention to himself, preferring to be as invisible as possible to the Chekik warlock. He did not care to wind up like Lowsticks—left as shit for the buzzing flies.
The unnatural rippling in the air above the basin caused Twoscar to look away, scanning the rest of the tent. Then wishing he had not.
There, in the darkest corner, was the thing. Tall and mottled, part hide, part scales, but mostly teeth and claws, and always shrouded in unnatural shadow. Twoscar tried never to look at the thing too closely, and felt revulsion at its very presence. He and his clanbrothers could not pronounce the name by which the Chekik ordered it on its murderous duty, but their tribal legends spoke of a creature called the Black Reaver that haunted the nightmares of girl and boy alike. If ever such a beast walked the land amongst them, this was it.
How much Twoscar hoped the Archon left them soon, and took this demon familiar with him.
Even before the water stopped sloshing, its surface transformed. An all-consuming blackness threatened to spread across the whole tent, causing Twoscar a moment of panic. His cheek itched terribly, but he dared not scratch. He wanted to close his eyes, but feared the expanding void would consume him if he let it get near.
Now he understood why he had been called inside with Redjack. Such sorcery surely required a sacrifice. The leader of the tribesmen was too valuable to expend, but a simple foolish footsoldier…
The tingling subsided as the rippling water rose out of the basin, suspended in midair, forming an irregular ball. The ball morphed into an egg, and the egg into a head. No longer black, but also no color Twoscar had seen before. Then the surface coalesced into an image, and he felt the rising tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
Another Chekik stared back at them. As had been explained before—though never fully believed until now—this was how remote groups communicated over distance, and how Redjack had remained in contact with the Archon during his time in the Vilnian army. The clanbrother was clearly more used to these vile magicks, for he now showed not the slightest surprise or irritation.
The two Chekiks began conversing in their foreign tongue. Even the voice of the Archon was vaguely reptilian—croaking, low and quiet, frighteningly calm for something that carried so much malignity. Yet the voice of the water-apparition was far, far worse. It spoke with a wet, papery sound, a mix of sinister and serene, like a runnel of blood pouring into a slow backwoods stream.
Twoscar looked away, preferring to focus on anything but the unnatural debate happening before him. He noticed that Redjack watched intently, however, and wondered whether his brother could actually understand what was said. And, if so, how.
That question was answered only moments later, when the Archon turned from the dissolving apparition and spoke directly to the bearded tribesman, issuing orders in the same tongue, suddenly comprehensible. Orders that caused Redjack to nod, and Twoscar to shiver once more.
The following morn, he and four others watched the main body depart. Twoscar had command of the five who remained, which was an honor he would have preferred not to receive. Indeed, he wished the honor had been given to Brackswig instead, who sulked about all day as the group followed through on their instructions, constructing rudimentary defenses for an attack that felt ludicrously unlikely.
Redjack said their stalker was no beast, after all, but a man.
Twoscar remained skeptical. The lingering memory of the dying tiger still prevailed in his mind’s eye. Besides, why Redjack believed one man would attack five prepared defenders was beyond apprehension. Yet their duty was to lure in their enemy—be it animal or man—capture or kill it, then catch up to the others. The specifics were up to Twoscar, as leader.
The day passed without incident, and without any sign of their pursuer. As eve passed into night and the stars reappeared, Twoscar thought once more of the unwanted stranger above. He had never known a new star to emerge before, but was sure it portended trouble.
Dejected, Twoscar sought out Brackswig on the perimeter of the barricade. He intended to ask for advice—less for its practical value than to give his annoyed brother a sense of cooperation. One look at that angry face suggested this was a fool’s errand, however, even before Brackswig spat on the ground between them.
Turning away, Twoscar caught sight of Graygab. The dour man had watched the brief exchange, and now beckoned the young commander over. “You cannot ignore this,” he advised. “Allowing him to disobey. You’ll lose the others.”
Graygab was right, of course. Twoscar nodded, miserably, not looking forward to the confrontation that he knew must come. Brackswig was the best fighter amongst them, and probably wanted Twoscar to instigate a fight. What easier way to settle the point of leadership than by killing the rival?
The scar on his cheek itched more than ever. It practically burned with the heat of a flame. Even as he left Graygab and the two others by the campfire, Twoscar wondered whether he was foolishly inviting his own doom. This was Redjack’s fault, of course. He should have put Brackswig in charge, or taken him along with the main group.
Unless he was looking to get rid of Brackswig. Maybe he expects me to kill him, fairly or unfairly. Probably the latter.
Twoscar smiled as he saw Brackswig’s silhouette just ahead. Still on the perimeter, leaning over the low barricade, inspecting something on the ground on the far side.
Curious what it could be—a tiger print, perhaps?—Twoscar moved closer, staring at the same patch of ground, soon seeing what so fascinated the other man. A small pool of water.
Something was dripping into it, Twoscar noticed. Then froze in place. The liquid was not water at all.
He grabbed Brackswig’s shoulder, spun the man around, and saw the slash across the throat that he knew would be there.
Twoscar stepped back, letting the body tumble from the wooden support to the grass.
He glanced back toward the center of the camp, where the other three clanbrothers sat. They should all have been more alert. The fire had been a mistake, for it had dulled their night vision.
Unslinging his axe, he looked up to a sudden, unexpected sight—the dark profile of a man. A large man, but no giant. And certainly no tiger. How then had he moved so quietly?
Twoscar opened his mouth to yell a warning, but the figure moved impossibly fast. The flat of a sword blade crashed into the side of the tribesman’s head. Even in the shadowy fringe between fire and darkness, he could see the grass rising up to meet him. It was not nearly so comfortable as it looked, however, and did nothing to stop the world from spinning so wildly. Making matters worse, the scar on his cheek burned more painfully than he had ever known. He heard shouts, receding into the distance…or were they getting closer?
The disorientation did not last more than a few moments, yet by the time he managed to retake a knee, Twoscar counted all four bodies of his brothers lying nearby. One had an arrow in his thigh.
Another through his arm.
All five of us…just like that. We don’t deserve to live.
He located his axe and reached an unsteady hand toward it. The motion was stopped at the touch of a blade upon his neck. It pressed close enough to feel, but not enough to cut. Yet.
“Stand.”
Twoscar obeyed, gingerly, noticing how the edge moved with him. A sword was a lighter weapon than an axe, no doubt, but still the wielder’s control was amazing. Twoscar stared at the man, noticing dirty, unkempt blond hair and torn clothing. Save for the Vilnian markings on his overcoat, he did not appear all that much different from a tribesman. Perhaps he could be reasoned with.
One look at those eyes, however, and Twoscar lost all hope. Even in the limited firelight, he recognized the same pale intensity, the same burning vengeance as from years before. He had been right about the nature of what chased them, if not its form.
Another man joined the first, but said nothing. His existence was irrelevant, as was the bow looped over his back. The one speaking, and holding the sword, meant everything.
“You know where the others went?”
Twoscar nodded gently, careful not to cut his own throat on the bloody blade.
“The prisoners are with them?”
Another faint nod.
“The prisoners…are well?”
He nodded again, wishing he could do so more emphatically.
“You will tell me all you know?”
Twoscar closed his eyes briefly, then nodded again.
The blade withdrew. “Speak.”
Twoscar spoke.
1
Gothenberg
The pursuit continued unabated. Unending. Single-minded at times, mindless at others.
Not until Patrik collided with his companion did he realize he had been asleep on his feet. Shaking himself awake, the harpa broke the long silence. “Why are we stopping?”
Sometimes he wondered which was the greater—the number of days that he and Yohan had spent together chasing the barbarian raiders, or the number of words the Oster had spoken to him in all that time. That the quiet soldier saw the caravaneer as little more than a tagalong was apparent enough, but Patrik was determined to not become a hindrance, as well.
He therefore kept his questions to a minimum and his thoughts to himself. Easy enough to do, since he spent all day keeping his tired legs moving and all night too exhausted for words.
By way of reply, the other man pointed to the ground ahead. The intermittent patches of snow on the grassy earth revealed footprints in two directions. The heaviest trampling continued southward, but a smaller grouping turned west.
“The trail divides,” Patrik said.
Yohan nodded.
“You ponder which to follow?”
Yohan did not respond. Instead, he stared in the direction of the mountains to the east, though neither set of tracks led that way.
Patrik considered what they had been told the night before. “That Twoscar told us they would turn west.”
“Aye.”
“Then we follow this one.” Though his companion continued looking the opposite way, Patrik studied the western horizon. There was little to be seen except endless white over green.
Already resigning his weary body and mind to more walking, Patrik took the first few steps in the new direction. He placed his own boots on the prints left by those ahead, partly to spare his soaked leather from the additional moisture of the deeper snow, but mostly to keep from wandering off-course in his numbed exhaustion.
Taking one glance back, he saw that the soldier still hesitated.
“What’s the problem?”
Yohan shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“You think he was lying?”
“Nay.”
“Come on, then. Let us not delay further.” Though his legs might welcome a respite, Patrik’s heart did not. Summer was somewhere ahead, and his own discomfort meant nothing compared to hers.
For days after the tragedy at the caravan, he had been able to think of nothing but her peril. Even now, more than two tendays later, she remained the dominant focus of his every thought. But at least the all-encompassing sadness had receded, allowing some small room for fond remembrance.
As a younger man, he had always been quick to tears. His entire childhood had felt like one long sadness, a burden that he had not known existed until it was lifted. He owed Summer for that, and it was one of many reasons he loved her more than life itself. She meant everything to him, and he found it remarkably easy to push himself on, day after day, devoting his whole existence to the task of rescuing her.
To Patrik’s relief, Yohan finally fell in beside him, though neither spoke. They were companions in cause, but not in spirit. In truth, Patrik believed the soldier resented his presence. Indeed, he suspected he would feel the same, were their roles reversed. Having become accustomed to driving a wagon, the harpa was not made for this eternal marching.
Though he tried to prove otherwise—having forced himself to continue walking through broken blisters and recurring cramps—there was little doubt that he slowed the two of them down. Yet he had no choice in the matter, and could at least show that he was every bit as driven to save his beloved as the other man was his. Patrik would much rather die than lose Summer, just as he knew Yohan felt about the princess. In that, at least, the two men shared an unspoken bond.
The next day, the tracks led them off the road, such as it was. Clearly, this suited the soldier even less than had the westward bend. His face twisted into haggard, contemplative expression. But he said nothing, and they continued to follow the trail without delay.
The morn after that brought a hint of wetness to the air, a sign of the inevitable spring rains. And a few hours later, at last, came a sign of civilization. Of humanity.
“A farmhouse,” Patrik said, stopping as he stared into the distance.
“Aye.” Yohan stopped beside him. “You have good eyes.”
This was the nearest thing to a compliment Patrik had ever received from the dour man, and the harpa was not entirely pleased about the amount of pride it made him feel. He had spent long days convincing himself that the soldier’s opinion meant nothing, yet here was substantive proof of the lie. Nevertheless, he had no desire to pursue the matter further. Friendship between two such totally different people was as improbable as their mission, and clearly not desired by either.
They spoke little on the approach to the farmhouse, and less on arrival. The two squat buildings—a shoddy house and barn—were deserted, and the interiors of both thoroughly ransacked. A quick search revealed nothing of value except a lonely pig hanging in a rudimentary stone smokehouse.
Patrik stood beside Yohan, gazing out over the fallowed wheat field. He waited for his companion to speak first, but the man’s thoughts remained unshared.
“No sign of violence,” Patrik volunteered.
Yohan shook his head. “Nay. They must have fled in a hurry, though, to leave a month’s meat behind.”
Patrik doubted a single small pig could amount to half so much, and wondered what deprivations the other man had suffered to see it as such. Perhaps the army taught their own to protract scant resources. If so, that was quite the opposite of harpa life.
Yohan looked up at the darkening sky. “The weather’s turning. Warm and wet. Too early in the season for it.”
The soldier was right. His mind occupied with exhaustion and obsession, Patrik had not given much thought to the weather until now. Counting back the days, however, he realized that spring should have been several tendays off. But there was no denying the change in temperature and sky.
“All bad signs,” Yohan went on. “The melting snow will make tracking more difficult.” His gaze returned wistfully to the smokehouse. “At least we’ll have some fresh meat to eat for a while.”
“Nay.”
The sudden stare was uncomfortable. The dynamic between the men had long since been established
—Yohan made decisions, and Patrik followed. “Your pardon?”
“Think about it. We know the raiders came this way. They took everything else. Why wouldn’t they have helped themselves to the pig, as well?”
“You think they poisoned it?”
“It’s too likely to ignore.”
Yohan nodded. “You’re right.” He looked at the tiny structure again, this time with regret. “Come on. Let’s bury it, so no one else makes the mistake I was about to.”
As they finished the task of packing half-thawed earth over the carcass, Patrik had an idea. The loss of fresh meat was a disappointment, but perhaps there was a passable substitute. Noting that the soldier was lost in another of his solitary reveries, the harpa used the opportunity to examine a line of trees not far from the wheat field. Finding what he had hoped, he spent several minutes on his knees, collecting.
Yohan was already beginning the eve’s fire when Patrik returned. A soft misting rain moistened the wood and their clothes. The relative shelter of the farmstead was close at hand, yet Yohan did not so much as look at it. Instead, he stared at the distant mountains in the east, though their journey led them away.
“We could go inside,” Patrik suggested.
“I prefer being out.”
“You don’t mind the rain?”
The Oster shrugged. “A soldier is comfortable being uncomfortable.”
The cooking pot was half-filled with a mix of melting snow, dried vegetables, and bites of torn jerky. The caravaneer added a handful of gathered mushrooms to the mix.
“You’re sure of those?” Yohan asked, emotionless as always. “It would be a shame to replace one poison with another.”
“Aye. We call them frostcaps, because they grow before the ground is fully thawed. They’re safe enough, so long as we cook them. And they’re delicious.”
The soldier nodded once, quickly losing interest. Yet he gave the harpa a second, more poignant nod after the first bite. As with the earlier compliment, Patrik’s blush of pride was disagreeably pleasant.
Shield and Crown Page 3