By contrast, the other prisoner—a harpa named Summersong, as the traitorous Redjack called her—seemed to pay the barbarians no mind at all. Imperturbable despite the bonds, the young trader might have been passing through a field of spring flowers rather than shuffling toward an imminent demise.
For most of their confinement together, their relations had been as frosty as the ground. Jena did not trust this harpa woman, and suspected the other felt the same toward her. The complacence was certainly a mask. If nothing else, the calm exterior must surely bely a tormented soul—for torment was their daily existence.
The only thing that made this existence tolerable was the confusion and angst of the tribesmen at the loss of their scouts. The first few words spoken between Jena and her companion had been affirmation of hope, for the harpa confirmed what before had seemed only wishful thinking. Yohan was alive, and in pursuit.
For a while that had been enough to keep her going. The tumult and anger all around was like a salve to bleeding wounds. She reveled in the chaos, counting the missing and dead like a merchant counted coins.
Then, when she watched a small contingent of raiders break off from the main group, she saw readily enough what card they had up their sleeve. She also assumed that Yohan would see it, too. That assumption had led to these past long days of disappointing peace.
The pace slowed as anxiety amongst the tribesmen diminished. For the prisoners, hope ebbed away, and resentment set in.
Resentment that the bastards were going to get away. Not fear for her own fate. A princess and commander had no room for such pettiness. But every one of these barbarians—and the evil devil-worshiping Chekik who led them—deserved to pay for what they had done to the soldiers of Jena’s squad. It would be worth dying herself to see them meet their end.
Several of them glared at her now. The change in their attitude was palpable. Each passing day without a sign of pursuit restored more of their cruel confidence. Emboldened, it was only a matter of time until the taunts and persecutions began anew, despite Redjack’s tepid warnings. Ostensibly, Jena was protected property, though she knew not to what end. In reality, she doubted much would curb the tribesmen’s violent appetites forever.
The observers looked back and forth between the two prisoners. Then one mumbled something incoherent, spat in the direction of the harpa, and walked away.
Seeing him so unhappy cheered Jena for a moment.
Her own hatred stood in sharp contrast to Summersong’s indifference. Such apathy in the face of atrocity served only to exacerbate Jena’s anger. And so she preferred to keep a cool distance when it came to the fellow prisoner. Just like I did toward the Oster, until it was too late.
That was completely different. A different time, a different person. I didn’t understand him at first.
The reassurances were not convincing. Disappointed in herself, and knowing not why, Jena brought herself to address the harpa directly.
“He means you ill,” she warned.
If Summersong was surprised at the sudden broaching of conversation, she made no sign of it. Glancing once at their captors, she dismissed them with a shrug. “Many of them do.”
“That one in particular.” Jena nodded toward the spitter, who ducked inside one of the dark tents pitched on the grassy plain. Made of animal skins and lacking the finishing treatment of Imperial tents, she imagined how bad it must smell inside.
“Which?”
“The one with the crooked mouth. I call him Snarl.”
“Yes, I know the one.”
Jena found the calmness of their exchange after days of silence more than a little surprising, as if the harpa had been patiently waiting all this time for the other to make herself available.
Even more surprising was the use of High Imperial, the words and manner of royalty and courtiers. Not to be expected from a lowly trader.
“He was close with the first one who died, the one you cursed. They were friends.”
“Lovers,” Summersong said. “You could see it in their faces.”
“If you say so. Lovers, then. He blames you, naturally.”
“I cursed no one. I haven’t such power.” The harpa laughed. “I simply meant to scare him away for a time. The rest is coincidence.”
“Well, they all believe you can. Curse them, that is.”
“They did once. I suspect that belief is wearing thin. See how boldly they stare now, when once they viewed us only from the corners of their eyes.”
Jena nodded agreement. As bad as things already were, she sensed that they would only get worse.
The displeasing feeling continued all eve and on through the next day’s march. The pace of the band was noticeably slowing, which only provided more evidence that pursuit was a thing of the past.
To reassure her anxious mind, Jena began reaching into the slender pocket of her tunic with increasing frequency. Yohan may no longer be following in person, but he was always with her in substance. Her most valued possession, an inexpertly carved horse figurine given to her after the ordeal in Soul’s Pass, meant more now than ever. Losing her squad and her sword was all she could bear. Now this small piece of wood was all she had left.
“I’d be careful not to do that so often,” Summersong said.
Jena glared at the other woman. The familiar silence had settled back over them after their brief conversation the previous eve. Just now, the commander was not sure she welcomed the return of banter. She preferred her own thoughts and her own counsel to that of others. “Your pardons?”
“The pocket.” Summersong continued to stare ahead while she spoke. Their legs were tired, their gait uncomfortably shortened by the loose bonds tied to the ankles. Jena was a soldier, long used to marching, and even her muscles were tight and uncomfortable. She wondered how bad it must be for the trader, whose life was spent driving a wagon. “Whatever you carry in your pocket, I’d be careful not to call attention to it.”
When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.
A quick glance at the raiders all around revealed nothing to worry about. They paid the prisoners little mind during the days, occupied as they all were with their own weary legs. Only the Chekik himself rode on horseback, leaving the others to walk. Or, in the case of that vile beast that marched with the group, lope on all fours.
So far as she could tell, no one was watching her. Yet Jena withdrew her hand casually.
As usual, scraps from the eve meal were tossed to the two women. Like their feet, their hands were loosely bound just enough to make every act uncomfortable. Jena ate her own pitiful portion quickly, without satisfaction. Her companion ate far more slowly, then finished with a look to the sky and a few inaudible words.
“I thought your people didn’t believe in the gods.”
Summersong smiled, although not toward Jena. “That’s not exactly accurate…but close to the truth, I suppose.”
“You looked to be praying.”
Now the harpa did look back, and shook her head. “No, I was attesting.”
Jena’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Attesting?”
“It’s a ritual. Not completely unlike your prayers. Symbolic to some, meaningful to others. A daily acknowledgment of what we are appreciative.”
Jena could not suppress a scoff. What do you have to appreciate, harpa?
The other woman smiled patiently. “You need not speak your question aloud, My Princess.” She glanced at the sky. “This warming of the weather, for instance. Though it gives me cause for concern, my body is glad to be free of the cold.”
Jena had not given the weather much thought. An early spring made little difference in the grander outlook. “Prayers of thanks, really? At a time like now?”
“A time like now is when we need attesting the most.”
Perhaps you have a point there, woman.
“For the song in my head,” the trader continued, “and the other in my heart. Music is a part of the harpa soul, and no imprisonment can deprive me of
that.
“But more than anything, for memories. Of those I have known, those who brought joy. There are faces I see in my mind’s eye that cannot but fill me with happiness. Were life to end this day, I’ve known more blessings than most.
“Which is fortunate, because I fear we have few days remaining.”
Both women turned their heads at a visitor’s approach. Jena scowled, even more than usual.
“I thought to inquire how you are doing, Commander,” Redjack announced. His typical good humor contained an extra note of jocularity.
“Give me my sword then ask me again.”
“Aye? Would you cut down twenty strong warriors and make your escape, then?” He laughed. “I don’t doubt you would try.”
“They don’t look strong to me. Nor do you, Private. But I challenge you to prove otherwise. I will gladly fight any one of you. You can even leave my hands bound. Just give me my sword, coward.” She stared into his black eyes, hoping to see her insult sting.
Instead, his face registered naught but enjoyment. “You are prettier than ever when angered, Commander. How I wish…” He looked wistfully at the Chekik’s tent, far larger than any of the others.
“You remind me of Pleasance,” Summersong interjected, her tone no less jovial than his. “He could be friendly, too, when he wanted. But it was wise not to trust him, for his moods were quite…volatile.” She paused. “On second thought, he was much smarter than you.”
Redjack crouched, grinning toward her. “Who was Pleasance? Was he the fat one with the lute?”
She shook her head. “One of our dogs.”
The man stood back up. “Sweet harpa, I like you more and more. I can save you, you know. I only need a reason to. Perhaps you will come around to me, in time.”
In this unpopulated stretch of the empire, one could go days without seeing another living soul. The prospect of war and the terror of raiding certainly added to this isolation by driving most folks away and keeping others sheltered indoors. Nevertheless, as growing signs of civilization reminded Jena that they were nearing Threefork, she grew ever more concerned about the impunity of her captors.
“Something is wrong,” she said.
“Just the one?” Summersong replied.
The more they spoke together, the less impressed Jena was with the other woman’s etiquette. She might know how to speak like royalty, but without the polish. The formality was there, but not the deference.
Ignoring the sarcasm, Jena continued to voice her thoughts aloud. “We’re nearing the towns of the east. There should be people about. Where are the farmers, the other traders? If not them, where are the patrols? Gothenberg had no small army of its own. They should have found these raiders by now, and slaughtered them.”
“I see the truth in your words, My Princess. But there are many things wrong, of which that is but one. And not the one which concerns me most.”
“What else?”
“As I have said before, the weather. The rising temperatures, this early thaw. We are much too early for spring, yet summer’s heat will be here in a tenday or less.”
Jena nodded. Just in the last two days, the change was even more profound. Yet she sensed more was troubling the harpa.
“What else?”
“There is a new star.”
“A star? We march toward our doom, and this is what worries you?”
“Aye,” Summersong replied, slipping back into her natural informality. “It first appeared many days ago, a solitary point of light where none existed before. This may not sound worrisome to you, but given the events happening in the empire… I trust it’s a sign of great import—for good or ill, I know not. But much greater than the suffering of two women.”
Jena did not like being belittled. You mean a woman and a princess, harpa. The loss of a princess is no small thing. “Unless it helps us escape, a star is of no value to me. The Chekiks are invading my homeland, in case you haven’t noticed. Dealing with these savages…” She looked around. “…and the others that follow is the only thing that matters just now. If the Goths—or anyone else—aren’t going to free us, then we must free ourselves.”
“You do not think Soldier Yohan and Brother Patrik still pursue?”
Jena winced. “No. It’s been too long.” Far, far too long. “He’s not coming. We’re on our own.”
The other woman smiled. “You speak as though there were only one in pursuit. There are two, My Princess.”
“Your pardons, but there is only one that matters. If your trader companion is truly with him, he is as like a hindrance as a boon. Perhaps he is the reason why they fell behind.”
“Do not discount the harpa so, My Princess. Patrik is more resourceful than you know.”
The exchange was increasingly fraying to Jena’s tattered nerves. Yet some hope was better than none, and she clung to the idea that her companion spoke truly. To reassure her mind, and to remind her heart of his presence, Jena instinctively stroked the figurine with tender fingers.
Both women looked up at the approach of footsteps. One of the tribesmen carried a man, clearly unconscious, slung over one shoulder. Without a word, the man was dropped to the ground near the two prisoners. As the raider walked away, Redjack and Snarl took his place.
“We stop here for the eve,” the red-bearded traitor announced. “When this oaf awakens, you will make sure he keeps up with the march.”
Summersong knelt beside the prostrate man, rolled him onto his back, and began to look for visible injuries. The man’s shirt was strikingly lavish and immaculate, adorned with the seal of Gothenberg—a silver tankard on a background of black—and unmarked by any sign of violence. The only wound Jena could see was a spot of blood caked around one temple.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“He was the magistrate of Threefork.” Redjack laughed. “Now he’s devil food.”
Jena shivered. Long had she worried this was their fate, but the confirmation was chilling. “That thing means to eat us? Even you cannot be at ease with that, Private.”
He shrugged. “Not my place to decide, Commander. I do not question the Archon, lest my people suffer a similar fate as yours.” He hesitated, and his face settled into something resembling sympathy. “Besides, he doesn’t mean to eat you, Princess. You’re meant to be fuel for their magicks.”
Jena did not know what that meant, exactly, but the idea sent another shiver coursing through her body. She stared at Redjack, watching the compassion melt away as quickly as it appeared.
She had seen his eyes wander downward, at first believing he was inspecting her female curves as all men were want to do. Then she realized where her fingers were, what they were rubbing, and she pulled her hand out of the pocket.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching toward it. “You have something here?”
She attempted to kick him away, but the sudden snap of rope caused her to lose balance. She caught herself on her knees, just in time to watch him pull the figurine from the compartment.
Jena closed her eyes, not even listening to his final taunts. There was nothing she could say, she knew, so she made no attempt. Instead, she focused on fighting back the tears that began streaming down her cheeks. Weakness was the one thing she hated most, yet its display was nothing to the sudden loss of hope.
“You’re all doomed,” Summersong said calmly. “I see it in your futures. The not-distant future.”
Jena shook away the wetness that blurred her vision. Redjack had withdrawn, but Snarl was still there. The harpa was not short, but he towered over her, looking down with malicious intent. He held his heavy axe in one hand, and the tautness of his muscles revealed a powerful desire to use it.
What are you doing, woman? Please stop this foolishness now.
“You’re next,” Summersong told him. “I see your death as clearly as I saw your lover’s.”
Jena watched the axe lift up and come down, so fast it became a blur. At the last instant, he twisted the shaft,
turning the blade, striking the trader’s knee with the flat. She screamed and collapsed beside the still-unconscious man, who lay as unseeing witness.
“Your power is gone, bitch.” Snarl sneered down at his victim, enjoying her pain. She clutched her leg with both hands, unsuccessfully trying to force it back into a normal shape. One look at the knee told Jena the joint was all but destroyed.
The savage raised his axe again, contemplating another strike. Jena interposed herself between the man and his target, pushing him back with her bound hands, then wishing she had grabbed at his axe instead. If he gives me another opportunity, I will—
“Cease.” The order was quiet and emotionless, but the voice came from one who was instantly obeyed. Jena backed away, leaving Snarl alone to face the tall, pale form of their leader.
The Chekik carried his ornate wooden staff. Whether weapon or decoration, Jena knew not, but the shimmering air around it suggested a creation of preternatural origin.
Yet the strange being made no show of using it as he looked with unblinking eyes down on the hulking barbarian. She gave Snarl credit for not backing away, fearsome though this halfman was. Instead he stood silently, awaiting judgment.
Redjack had called this thing the Archon. It spoke again, the croaking voice barely above a whisper, though all heard. “The prisoners are not yours with which to play your childish games. They are mine. Was this not clear?”
Though it used a foreign tongue, she understood every word—a clear indication of sorcery at work. A prickling sensation ran over her body, a deep-rooted worry, for she knew not how her homeland could resist power such as this.
Nor this. The Chekik’s ever-present companion, this ungodly beast of scale and sinew, teeth and claws. A head-and-a-half higher than the tallest of the tribesmen when it stood on two legs. It did so now, taking its time, the long sharp edges of its forearms displayed like sword blades. That wide, menacing mouth seemed to be smiling.
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