Shield and Crown

by Michael Jason Brandt

  He distracted himself with thoughts of the old life, of wagons and friends and lovers, of singing and dancing. His soul ached for music, but he suppressed the urge to unpack the fiddle and pluck a few notes. Patrik had noted Yohan’s look of disapproval when the instrument was included in the gear they retrieved from the caravan. An outsider could never understand the importance of these things to the harpa.

  Besides, the rain might damage the precious object, perhaps the last remaining link to a happier time.

  “What’s the problem?” Patrik asked. Yohan had stopped to stare at the late morn sun, barely visible through dark cloud and heavy rain.

  “We’re moving north now.”

  North? The soldier was right, but the change made little sense. “What are these raiders about?”

  Yohan only shook his head. “The snows are all but melted, the trail nearly gone. Come, let’s move faster.”

  It seemed to Patrik that they were already moving recklessly fast, but he matched his companion’s pace without complaint. The fear of stumbling into an ambush was still not as serious as the worry of losing the trail, along with all hope of rescuing the prisoners.

  Nevertheless, they instinctively slowed upon sight of another building ahead in the distance, a lonely dark blur against a gray backdrop. What passed for daylight amid the rainstorm was quickly diminishing, and the possibility of enemy presence in the structure was too great to be dismissed.

  Together they moved low and silently. With no small reluctance, Patrik withdrew his bow from the protective cloak he used to shield it from the downpour. The rain would affect the bowstring as well as make aiming problematic, but a hampered bow was better than no weapon at all. Not for the first time, he envied the simple steel of Yohan’s sword—weatherproof and deadly, yet sadly proscribed to Patrik’s people by Imperial law. So was the longbow, for that matter, if not for the convenient excuse of hunting.

  Because of the poor conditions, they could not make out the river until they were almost upon it. Long before then, they knew it was there, for the building was a large stone watermill—a place for nearby farmers to mill their grain, with an adjoining domicile for the permanent inhabitants. Of these last, however, there was no sign.

  Pushed by a current engorged by precipitation and melting snows, the great wooden water wheel turned on its own. The press of water and the accompanying noise from inside the mill gave an illusion of activity in stark contrast to the lack of any other movement. Even before Yohan moved toward the front door of the house, Patrik tucked his bow back beneath its protective wool.

  The ground floor of the dwelling showed the same signs of disturbance as the farmhouse. Stomach growling, Patrik lingered in the empty pantry while his companion went upstairs. Sadly, not so much as a loaf of bread remained. Considering the pig of the day before, perhaps that was for the best. Now that the mushrooms had stimulated his appetite, Patrik did not know if he could resist another temptation to vary their bland diet.

  He moved upstairs, pacing down a short corridor toward the sole open door. Yohan quietly emerged from the room beyond, and it took a moment for his grim, pale expression to sink in. Patrik had seen that look once before, when the two of them found all their friends and comrades brutally slaughtered by raiders.

  Summer. He had lost everything else; he could not lose her, too. The worry that never stopped haunting the back of his mind quickly returned to the fore.

  Heart pounding, Patrik took two quick steps toward the room. Yohan stopped him with a hand. Their eyes locked, and the soldier shook his head.

  Not Summer, then.

  “Dead?” Patrik asked, and his companion nodded. “How many?”

  “Five… A family.”

  Needing to see for himself, the caravaneer pushed past and moved to the open doorway, then forced himself to stare at the scene.

  He hoped they had died quickly yet feared they had not. The best that could be said was that none of them had been eaten, or their skin flayed off like those unfortunate souls in the abandoned fort. His mind turned—as it often did—to the tattered rags in the watchtower, and his body instinctively shivered.

  Nay, they had not been eaten, but this was bad enough to remind the two men of the terror of war, and the last vestiges of mercy and compassion leaked from Patrik’s soul. His thoughts returned to the slaying of Twoscar, tinged with a pang of regret that the man had not suffered more.

  The interrogation had not taken long, for the tribesman made no attempt to resist, and as their few questions neared a conclusion, the unspoken inevitability began to hang heavily.

  They could not take the man with them, nor could they set him free. Not after the ravages he and his kin had inflicted on the empire, on Gothenberg, on the harpa. Raiding. Pillaging. Murder.

  “I want to kill him,” Patrik had informed Yohan. No doubt the soldier felt the same burning rage, but he simply nodded and stepped aside.

  By law, the harpa lived their lives without basic weaponry. Patrik carried a small knife capable of little more than simple tasks. He had the longbow strapped to his back, of course, but it was unstrung and unsuitable to the task at hand.

  Twoscar’s axe lay nearby, however, and Patrik thought it an appropriate instrument. How many times had it killed already? How many innocent lives was it responsible for? Perhaps the blood of its owner would serve as a proper consecration.

  Aware of two pairs of eyes on him, tracking his every movement, Patrik lifted the weapon from the wet grass. It was heavier than he had expected, and his hands shook with nervous energy. He did not know whether he was more excited to strike back at his hated foe, or terrified at the idea of killing a helpless man.

  He held the axe out, catching reflected firelight on the blade. He had hoped to see marks, dried blood, or anything to remind him of the evil inside this man. But it was disappointingly clean.

  Best not draw this out any longer, he realized. There was no need to torture the man, to sink to the level of these barbarians.

  Patrik approached the kneeling form and raised the axe high.

  Twoscar looked at the weapon in Patrik’s hand, then at his angry face. There was a measure of sadness in those eyes. But there was no crying, and no pleading. In hindsight, perhaps that would have made it easier. “Let my body face the sky,” were his final words.

  Patrik had not replied. Had only stared, trying to make himself hate the man as much as he should. Forcing his mind to summon the images of Meadow and Silvo, Krisa and Brody.

  Instead of greater hate, he felt the agony of the discovery all over again. And so the tears came anew.

  In his only real battle Patrik had fired into the enemy, piercing their flesh without the slightest hesitation. If any of those targets had died from his arrows, he would not give that a second thought. But this was different, somehow. A helpless man was not the same as an active combatant, even if they were both the same savage.

  Feeling a wild desperation, Patrik looked to his companion, knowing the scorn that the soldier would rightly feel. To his surprise, he saw understanding.

  Yohan’s blade was already in his hand, as if he had known all along. As Twoscar and Patrik had faced one another, neither had noticed the third man’s movement.

  Now he struck quickly, through the prisoner’s heart, and Patrik felt unwanted gratitude that the man did not suffer, though it was a mercy not shown to the brute’s own victims.

  And it was the mercy that here and now—in the presence of this murdered family, this inhuman carnage—Patrik wished he and Yohan had never provided.

  Without discussion, they decided not to remain at the mill. Yet the grisly scene lingered in Patrik’s thoughts long after losing sight of the building. He forced himself to think of other things, such as how long it would take to catch up with the larger party. That led him to ponder this unexpected change in direction. Why were the raiders moving north again?

  This route they follow seems aimless. Circling, wasting time…

&nbs
p; His feet stopped moving of their own accord, and he watched his companion continue ahead through the foggy eve. Tall and resolute through mist and misfortune. No doubt the man would keep going on his own. “Yohan, stop.” Sure enough, the head never looked back. “I think they tricked us.”

  Now the figure stopped abruptly. He did not face the harpa, but the sudden tension in those broad shoulders showed that Patrik had his attention.

  “I think they split up, only to lead us away from the prisoners.”

  “You think Twoscar was lying?”

  “Nay. I think they lied to him, knowing we would get to him. He was misled so to mislead us. They’re only savages, but I think they’re more cunning than we gave them credit for. Your Redjack tricked us once before, remember.”

  “Twice.”

  “Your pardon?”

  Yohan faced him now. He approached at a swift pace, and Patrik instinctively took a step back.

  “By the gods, you’re right. I’m a fool.” He moved right past the harpa, back in the direction they had come. “And you should have spoken sooner, caravaneer.”

  The momentary flush of satisfaction was squelched by that accusation. No thanks offered, or expected. Such was not Yohan’s way in the best of times, and the realization that they may have missed any chance to rescue their loved ones was hardly that.

  Still, would it hurt the man to use my name?

  Countless times Patrik wanted to ask whether they had lost all hope of catching up to the other group. He knew their odds were minuscule, but longed to hear they were at least not zero. Yet he dared not voice the question for fear of the answer. One look at his companion told him more than he needed to know.

  “We’ll camp here. Three hours sleep, then we set out again.”

  Three was even less than the four that was their norm, but Patrik did not complain.

  Indeed, he complained about nothing, for it would do no good. Words meant very little. His feet, legs, and back were unused to the strain, and all ached with never-ending anguish. But that, too, meant little. Besides, he was already noticing a slight lessening of the pain, a loosening of the muscles, a growing tolerance of the flesh. When this was over, he would be a changed man in body, just as he already was in spirit.

  A break in the rain as they set up camp was not enough to improve the sullen mood. That Yohan blamed himself for being led astray was clear enough from the way his brief responses were more snappish than usual.

  The man is an island, and no one is welcome there. Fine, then.

  But the years with Summer had had an effect on Patrik. She lived to make others feel better, and he liked to think that some of her good nature had rubbed off on him.

  Music and dancing were the keys to opening hearts and softening temperaments, but neither was appropriate now. All he had to use were those useless words.

  “We were both fooled, Soldier Yohan.”

  But the man only shook his head. “It isn’t that. I was thinking about that family. Those three daughters.” He shook his head again. “Twice I’ve been to war. Skirmishes, really, between Vilnia and her neighbors. Land disputes. Soldiers killing soldiers until some lord decides he’s had enough. The poor people caught in the middle often get robbed, or raped. But not this.

  “This is not war. This is more like extermination. These tribesmen, these Chekiks…they’re not here to win. They’re here to slaughter. We are to them as that pig to the farmers.”

  “Shall I tell you a story, Soldier Yohan?”

  “Please.”

  The reply was as surprising as Patrik’s own suggestion. He did not know why he was moving down this path, only that he could not stop once started.

  “You know of the Widowwind?”

  “Nay.”

  “It is what my people call the winter storms in the northern regions, for the cold carries off more than its fair share. Even the young and healthy, and those who deserve to live.”

  The fog hung thick over the ground, enveloping the two of them in damp obscurity. His companion, sitting not more than five paces away, was all but invisible. Not that it mattered whether his face could be seen or not, for that expressionless facade seldom changed. Likewise, whether the man listened or continued in his own morose thoughts mattered just as little, for Patrik needed to give voice to this story for his own sake as much as anything. What had started as a morality lesson for the Oster—surely misguided in conception—had become an outspoken catharsis for the harpa.

  “You’ve noted our proclivity for distinctive names, no doubt. Perhaps you’ve even ridiculed them. Ofttimes, they deserve ridicule. Yet a great deal of thought goes into the choosing.

  “Generally, our children don’t receive their name until they’re old enough to manifest some unique quality. A trait that defines them, whether the color of their hair or the spirit of their disposition. Or even the way they make one feel.

  “You also know that girls are favored above boys, aye? The harpa have learned that women make better leaders. Nay—better people. Men are not unimportant, once they’ve accomplished something with their lives. Yet baby girls are celebrated, and boys are a disappointment.

  “There is another reason we wait to name them. My people are merry, but practical—the scorn of the empire has made us so. Many children are born on the road, where conditions are less than optimal. No small number die as infants, and we find the grieving less severe when they are nameless. In the grander outlook, the loss of a baby boy is perhaps less significant than the loss of an ox.

  “But a beautiful scion of a prosperous family? As valued as the stars. And as coveted. Few besides the wealthy men of the cities dare to pursue such women. For a mere caravaneer—pure folly.

  “You think I speak of my own pursuit of Summer, aye? Nay, I do not. Instead I speak of an heiress named Heavenlark Purejoy, whose moods were as mercurial as her wit piercing. Many of the harpa’s wealthiest and bravest courted her attentions, and the list of wounded egos was long, indeed. Yet one man, an awkward but happy driver named Rory Lowspark, was finally able to win her heart for his own. In the end, his love was the greater for its humble beginnings.

  “Her family was of Chissenhall, and rose to prominence by way of trade with Falkenreach and Nurosterlend. Your land, that last. You might be pleased to hear that she adored it.

  “Her family naturally expected her to remain in the city, but she chose the way of the caravans for her new life with her new husband. The hard work was liberating and intoxicating. She continued the life even after becoming pregnant with their first child. It was born on the way to Varborg, in the midst of a brutal blizzard. She nursed it through a particularly nasty illness brought on by the cold, an illness which affected the poor child’s constitution for years to come.

  “Heaven was thrilled that the babe survived the ordeal. Rory was less sanguine. He took one look at the sickly boy and castigated her for risking herself unnecessarily, and for becoming too attached to what would only be the first of many fine children. Her mood turned sharply again, for she was never one to give up anything easily. That conviction was part of what had drawn him to her to begin with, of course. And in the end his love for her was such that he only grew to respect her all the more.

  “The baby only made it through the first year due to her constant attentions, and the bond between mother and child grew stronger. She hoped it would gain strength from her ministrations and love, yet to its father it seemed only to grow more fragile with each passing month. His heart accepted its inevitable death even as hers did not.

  “She took it along on every excursion, through spring, summer, and autumn. And so she was on a wagon to Kleinricht when the first storms of winter came prematurely.

  “One wagon lost its wheel on the poor forest road and became stuck in a ditch. As the leader of the caravan, against the protests for the greater good, Heaven elected to risk all to save the wagon rather than leave it behind. As I said, she never gave up anything easily.

  “During
the delay, the snows came down even harder, and soon the whole caravan became stuck in the mounting drifts. Food and blankets were scarce as it was, and she was again urged to act for the greater good. And again she refused. When a rescue party arrived, they found that she had given her own food and blankets to the babe. Evidently, the milk of her breasts had stopped even before she froze to death.

  “The child—the boy—somehow survived not only this second ordeal, but eventually grew out of his weakness. When, grudgingly, the father accepted that the boy would live and needed a name, his decision betrayed the resentment buried within. He named his son Bitterjoy Widowwind, perhaps not knowing how the name would serve as a constant reminder to the boy that he caused his mother’s death. Or perhaps knowing and not caring.”

  Patrik took a long breath, for the story had lasted quite some time. And an unwanted quivering had slipped into his voice.

  Why he had spoken this tale aloud, Patrik did not know. And why to this man, who is as indifferent as the mountains? Far better for everyone that I keep my own emotions in check—

  “The child is blameless,” Yohan said.

  “Aye? Summer said so, as well.”

  Although the night was dark and heavy with mist, Patrik looked down lest the disobedient tear be visible to the soldier. Thus he was caught by surprise when Yohan’s firm hand squeezed his shoulder.

  “The child is blameless. It’s clear to all but one.”

  Sympathy was not at all what Patrik expected when he began. Yet unexpected was not the same as unwanted. It may not be as good as having the soldier’s respect—but it was far, far better than nothing.

  Too many days had passed for Jena to hold out much hope that their pursuers were still behind. Yet she refused to believe Yohan could be fooled by such a simple ruse.

  For the first few days of captivity—when thoughts of escape and vengeance consumed her soul—Jena had listened closely to the talk of the savages. Hoping to learn enough of their language to glean useful information, and give those desires substance. But the dialect was primitive and harsh on the ears, and she quickly changed course. Ever since, she had taken to glaring at them, pretending to understand every word and letting them see her hate.