“There . . . there could be streams in the forest. Maybe they didn’t need the river. But these plains are more open, right? Nowhere for water to go but into the ground, so they’ll make their way to the river then. Not to mention it’ll be harder for them to hide. And . . . and . . .”
“Stop.” Garden holstered his gun. He took a step closer to Jerad, then leaned down until their faces were almost even. “Here’s what I think, Feddel. I think you’re done. I think you tried to pull a thing out of thin air, and you failed, and now you’re sweating under the weight of that.” He smeared a finger across Jerad’s wet brow.
“But see here, boyo,” Garden continued. “I ain’t mad at you. You did your damnedest. You gave it your best. We all fail, from time to time, ain’t that right, savoes?”
The men laughed and nodded, though Jerad felt their mocking edge.
He swallowed. Something bad was coming. He could feel it.
“One more day!” he blurted out. “I can do it.”
Garden looked at him. Garden picked something out of his teeth. He thought about it.
Finally, he straightened. “You get one more day. Only ‘cause we’re heading that way anyhow. But by tonight, if you don’t have something solid, Feddel, then we’re paddling double-time to the next town, I sell off these whores, and we start over again, seyah? New town. New lead. And I’m afraid I won’t be needing you anymore, now will I?”
“I can do it,” Jerad repeated, only because he didn’t know what else to say.
Garden just nodded, then leaned close enough to whisper. “I know you can, Feddel. Why do you think I shot little Letti—instead of you? Hmm? Now show me.”
Jerad had been telling the truth. He was weak. He was hungry. He hurt when he walked and when he crouched and when he stood still. He knew he wasn’t going as fast as he had a few days ago, but no matter how much he needed this, he just . . . couldn’t.
He stumbled many times. Garden no longer bothered kicking him. The man seemed almost despondent. Like he didn’t care anymore. Like he’d given up on Jerad and was just waiting for the day to end so he could put a bullet in him.
Or would he just sell him?
Jerad thought about it for the first time. What would it be like to see his worth counted out in bits of metal? This much—that’s all he’s good for. They’d lead him away, like a dumb beast. They’d tie him up. They’d send him on a ship maybe, one of those big Northmen boats. And his life would cease to be his own.
“Feddel!”
Jerad had stopped moving. He shook himself, snapping back towards consciousness. He wanted to sink to the ground and weep. He couldn’t escape, or Garden would kill someone else. But why all this struggle? For what? I give up. I can’t do it. I can’t.
But Anna . . .
He took a shuddering breath. And then another. He had to keep going. He had to do this—for her. He had to . . .
He blinked and looked again. There was something in the ground at his feet. Not a human print, but no animal he had seen before either. The track was wide and round, much bigger than a deer’s hoof, but not the right shape to be an elk’s. And there were no claw marks.
He let out his breath. “Horse.”
“What?” Garden hollered.
“Horse tracks!” Jerad cried “Here!” He stepped back, scanning the ground. The mud had been soft right there, and if he’d taken another step, he’d have messed it up. But now that he was looking more closely, he saw impressions turning, heading away from the river bank. They disappeared onto firmer ground, but now Jerad had the trail. He went carefully, scanning the ground on either side, going at a crouch. Rin, the other Northman slaver, followed uncertainly, as if not sure whether Jerad was planning to escape.
Jerad crested the bank just as Garden cut him off from above. His revolver was out, but he made no threats. He didn’t need to. He just watched Jerad with those steel eyes.
“You found something, Feddel?”
“Yes, and you’re standing on it.”
Garden scowled, but took a step back.
“No, no, no—don’t move. Just . . .”
“I thought we had a talk just this morning. Thought we came to an understanding.”
“Sorry,” Jerad winced. “Sorry, sir. Just . . . it would be to our mutual benefit if we all go carefully, so as not to . . . disturb the tracks. Seyah?”
Garden growled something to Rin. “Then go carefully, boyo. And fast.”
Jerad nodded. He climbed the bank, crouching low to the ground. The grass was stiff here, cracked in some places. If he moved it carefully, he saw some faint prints below. More horse hoofs. And—yes. A boot.
It could be Garden’s. The man might already have compromised the trail.
But no, it was pointing away from them, going back towards a dense copse of trees. Jerad followed. Garden and Rin kept pace with him, though Garden was starting to look ahead, eyes scanning the horizon like a predator with a scent.
They said nothing. This was business again. The tracks faded, but Jerad knew where they were heading. He went faster. The Northmen flanked him. In moments, the trees closed around them again and Jerad had to slow. But this was dense ground now, and hard not to leave a trail. A strand of grey animal hair caught in a bush. Some bent branches. A crushed weed. The trader wasn’t doing a great job covering his tracks, but the animal he was with was huge, by the looks of it.
Jerad bent to examine some of the trampled foliage. It felt fresh, its crushed edges not yet dry.
“We’re close,” he whispered to Garden.
Garden grunted, revolver levelled carefully in front of him. He nodded for Jerad to lead on.
Jerad went at a crouch. He realized now he could very well get caught in a gunfight. He winced, but he had no choice.
Then he stopped. He thought he heard—
“Get down!” he snapped to Garden, an instant before a gun went off.
It ripped the bark a handspan from Jerad’s head, even as he dropped, ears ringing.
Garden did not drop. He sprang in the direction of the shot like a wildcat, gun belching.
There was an animal scream. A moment later, a huge grey creature burst from the trees, scattering dirt and leaf. Shouts followed. Rin had Jerad by the back of the shirt, just in case he thought of escape, but he was dragging him up, in the direction of the gunshots.
Maker save him!
The horse was riderless as it bolted past.
Jerad spared a pitying glance in its direction, hoping it hadn’t been shot, then found himself propelled forward through the trees.
They almost bowled Garden over. The man was crouched, sniffing the air like a wolf.
“Eet attan!” he snapped.
Rin shoved Jerad to the ground, kneeing him in the back, revolver up. “Bit sey of?”
Garden snarled something in Manturian. Gone, Jerad thought he’d said.
“I can track him from here,” Jerad said.
“You’d better hope you can.”
“It’d be helpful if I could—”
“Nanif!” Garden shook his head. “No!” Then he lowered his voice. “We’ll have the little bastard soon. He thinks he can escape into the forest? He can’t, you’ll make sure of it, Feddel. No. We need more guns. We go back, get the others, make a proper foray of it. Then we’ll have him for sure!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Alutan Na-es
Alutan stooped at the dead girl’s side. Her skin was mottled and sagging—what was left of it. Wild things had already been here, wolves and carrion birds. But the bullet wound to her head remained visible, an untouched denunciation of their evil.
“Great Tree,” he whispered, having no other prayer in him, no other words. But he could feel himself waking, and it was painful. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to feel. Hadn’t he done enough?
Never.
He swallowed back his tears. This could have been his son, taken and shot like a wild dog. This could have been Hyranna—a
nd might yet be. Alutan knew cruelty. He knew what men were capable of. It did nothing to stop the pain, the stirring inside of something he wished he could let sleep forever.
I am Alutan.
And that was cruellest of all. What could a healer do now? All his power, all that was given to him, now mockery against rotting flesh. Always, he came too late. Too late for this child of Tellern. Too late to protect Balduin. Too late for all the vast and numberless lives he might have saved.
He groaned and covered the child’s face with a hand. What could he do? Great Tree, what could he do? He had no time to bury her, or light a pyre as the Imo’ani did.
But the men of Tellern would follow, once their courage was restored. They would find her. And the least he could do was make the finding less horrible, to restore some shred of dignity. Trembling, Alutan drew off his cloak and shrouded her small body, wrapping and tucking in her torn limbs. No words emerged from beneath the heavy weight of his heart. Still, he bowed across her in a moment of silence. Then he covered her face with the hood and rose.
A trail led south from the trampled shore, three sets of footprints, and one smaller than the others. Two men and a girl.
A part of Alutan recoiled. What would he find on that trail? What fresh horror? The slavers had continued down the river, but this path could mean something. It could have been Hyranna, led off into the trees.
He followed trodden grass, broken stems, and heavy boot-prints all the way to the east-west road. He turned right. He ran, skimming the roadside as he went, eyes hungry for a sign. When he came to a south-running path, he stopped and listened for signs of life. There were voices, drifting off in the distance—a village? But other signs led back into the bush.
That way.
He hurried to investigate—and that’s when he smelled it. More decay.
His heart tightened. Something else was here, a sense of wrongness, like a whiff of rot or sulphur.
Alutan moved carefully along the trail. It was not straight, but lingered in one direction before turning off and hurrying in another. He didn’t have to go far. His body felt cold and distant as he approached. His stomach churned. No. Great Tree, let it not be so. Let it not—
The Northman’s body was crushed beyond the work of hands. The air still throbbed with it, an old power, a hideous thing, the sum of all his grief, his endless torment. Alutan stood shuddering, eyes shut, willing it not to be so. Maybe a falling tree had done it, or a cruel hammer, or . . .
He took a long deep breath. No. Hadn’t he known already, in his heart? For this reason he’d turned away in denial. For this, he’d tossed two thoughtless coins at Hyranna and her friend, a pitiful attempt to assuage his conscience before hurrying south as fast as he could. But he had known—the moment he’d set eyes on her, he had felt its churning malice in the Unseen, changed and yet unchanged. Except his tortured mind had not allowed himself to remember, to even consider it. He couldn’t. He couldn’t accept it. And even now . . .
No, no. Haven’t I done enough? Haven’t I tried, and tried, and failed enough?
Then abruptly, he stood. A threat. A murmur in the forest. His eyes snapped open, body tall, sensing something beyond. He clutched his chest. “No!” he cried.
He took a few stumbling strides. The throbbing in his chest grew, pressing against his ribs like a third lung. He gasped, breathing with conscious, painful effort. He staggered against a tree.
Run! He had to stop this. He had to . . .
The Realms cracked. He felt it slice through the Unseen first, then shudder underfoot in the Seen, lashing through him like a burning whip as it rushed in every direction.
The force of it rocked Alutan to his knees. Darkness closed around him, thick and terrible in its endless silence. Fear choked him. How long had he waited in the dark, imprisoned beyond hope? Waiting for freedom, then light—then only death. A tomb. A living darkness without end.
Past horrors flashed through him: screams that tore at him, death he had beheld, loss and grief and shame—the evil he’d born up under for more years than he could count. And for what? Why? Why follow what he could not stop? He was powerless and trapped, bound and forgotten.
He was free.
He seized at the thought, a single spark of truth. “Free,” he whispered against the hideous emptiness. “I am free.”
Then why do you cower?
“I am afraid.” His voice choked.
The dark made no reply, but Alutan knew the answer. He’d always known. He rose trembling. The forest returned, jarringly bright. And wrong. He could sense it like a throbbing and livid wound, a blow to the already weakened laws. And it would fester, and spread, and hasten the Breaking, and he alone could stop it.
“I will not act in fear,” he spoke aloud. “I . . . I will heal what the Aktyr breaks.”
And with a steadying breath, he began to run.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hyranna Elduna
Hyranna fell. The darkness of the Unseen closed around her, thick and suffocating, pulsing with her own pain.
She was not alone.
“You should’ve known it would end like this,” the Aktyr laughed. “Right, Anna-chi?”
Hyranna fled into the dark places behind thought and pain. Yet the further she ran, the more real the nightmare became. The Aktyr’s voice took on sound and pitch—a boy’s voice, calling her name. Scornful and cruel.
“Anna-chi! Anna-chi! Why do you run from me? Where are you going?”
She could feel her own thoughts and memories, pressing around her in the Unseen. She could almost see them . . . almost . . .
There: hunting in Elamori. A sling in her hands. The heft of a stone.
And there: the smell of fresh sunlight dripping from pine and moss.
She had to find somewhere safe. To her left, Balduin appeared, with that far-off sadness in his eyes. And to the right, she saw Jerad hauling the fishing net. His strong arms bulged against the current. And beside him was her father.
Her father.
The image flickered and disappeared as she ran.
She tried to imagine her father again, the man who had always protected her. She thought of his twinkling eyes and clever hands. She thought of the dancing fox, the little carved statue he’d made for her. The one she’d lost in Tellern.
“Lost in Tellern!” the creature echoed. “Along with your dignity. I could have helped you, you know. I could have killed those silly Northmen—ripped open their throats and forced them to choke on their own blood. Heh. If only you’d let me.”
No. She couldn’t have done that without killing the Imo’ani. Without killing Jerad.
She stopped, breathing hard, bent double. Wishing . . . wishing . . .
“What’s wrong, Anna-chi?” said a voice: deeper, richer, and kind.
She turned. Her father appeared. Kenan Elduna wasn’t tall or imposing. But strength flowed from him, touching everything around him. They were standing in the cave in Elamori, and there was a fire on the stone hearth. Frost crusted the ends of his long, dark hair and snow caked his boots. One eye twinkled at her.
“Matti won’t let me go hunting!” she exclaimed. Her mother was behind her, hands busy with thread, needle, and fur. “She wants me to learn the stories.”
Kenan Elduna chuckled and stomped his feet to warm up. “You’re more than an age to.”
“But that’s for old people like Auntie. I don’t want to tell stories, Papi. I want to live them.”
“Do you? Every story? Even the scary ones, with the monsters?”
“Especially the scary one!” she returned.
Marisela snorted. “Scarier than your washing, which you love to thrash around at?”
“The combs hurt.” Little Hyranna folded her arms, pouting.
“Because you get your hair stuck full of twigs and mosses, and Maker knows what else.”
Hyranna thought about this, and determined she wouldn’t yell anymore when Marisela combed and braided her hair. No
matter how much it hurt. She couldn’t give her mother any excuse not to let her hunt with the boys.
“Well,” her father said slowly. “There’s only so many stories we get to live.”
“How many?’
He met her eye. “One.”
“One?” she looked at him aghast.
“Just one. And sometimes, it takes years and years before the hard part begins.”
“Years and years?” Hyranna groaned.
Kenan smiled. “If you’re lucky. You see, we all have our story to live, Anna-chi, but we only get one shot.”
“But what if we don’t like our story, and we want a different one?”
Kenan peeled off his large fur coat and shook out the snow by the fire.
“There are things we can do to change the story,” he said. “We can choose to do what’s right—instead of what’s fun.” He gave her a meaningful look. “And we can choose loyalty to one another, instead of selfishness to ourselves. That’s not a very nice story to live, Anna-chi, when you only care about yourself.”
Hunting wasn’t selfish, Hyranna wanted to protest, but something in her father’s eye quieted her.
“But some things in our story,” he continued, “we cannot change. Things given to us, our tasks and responsibilities: things no one else can do as you can. And in our story, those things are the most important.”
Hyranna frowned. “How will we know them?”
“Well,” her father squatted beside her, looking very serious. “To start with, we can learn other stories.”
Hyranna rolled her eyes. Cornered again! She caught her mother smiling.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth.” Her father shrugged and his eye twinkled. “Learning the stories of others helps us recognize the important moments in our own.”
Hyranna wasn’t sure what she thought of that. What happened when your life wasn’t like the stories? When all the choices were wrong?
But then, she hadn’t ever really learned the stories, not that year, and not the next, despite some half-hearted attempts.
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