Kehl smiled. The Slayer worked quickly. He had already blessed him with a new lieutenant.
He would shed more blood and burn more entrails and rape more women in the name of the Slayer than he had ever before, and Ner’Galgal would continue to shower him with blessings.
“Where to, Im’Ka’Da?” A’Uthma asked.
The last person to call Kehl master in their own tongue was his brother, Kelben. The thought of both his dead brothers finally brought a tear to his eye. Who could have done this to his camp, his men, his brother? He looked about the camp. He saw a body he didn’t recognize, one that had been buried but then dug up by wolves and foxes. The dead man had the look of a westerner, one of those transient sons of whores from Waterton. With that, just one thought came to mind.
“Del Alzon,” Kehl said quietly.
“Im’Ka’Da’?” A’Uthma asked.
“The men of Waterton are treacherous,” Kehl said. “They have betrayed us, sold us slaves, and then stabbed our backs. I want to see that town burn.”
Chapter 9
THE CLOUDS ROLLED OFF THE Southern Mountains as if eager to maximize their effect, but the rain came on more slowly for a while, nothing more than misty wisps of water floating through the air. The noonday breeze blowing through the precipitation brought on a much-appreciated coolness at first, but as was so common with monsoons, the rains quickly built to a near deluge, and any praise for the cool rain dissipated as quickly as clothes were soaked.
Erik pondered on the early arrival of the showers this year as he looked back over his shoulder. He didn’t really know what he was hoping to see. Stone’s Throw, maybe, and a warm straw bed, albeit itchy, a small roasted chicken and a cup of honey-sweetened goat’s milk. Mari, her naked body. Her kiss, as cold and numb as it was. The touch of another person—a woman. Perhaps he was looking towards home, thinking he might see his father and mother and two little sisters, hoping his dreams were mere terrible fantasies. Simone and her warm body, the sweet smell of roses that always trailed after her, her soft kisses. He knew he wouldn’t see comfort like that for a long while. He looked to the ground.
“There’s another pile of horse apple,” Erik said.
“Is it fresh?” Drake asked.
Erik squinted. That might be hard to tell in the rain. The other droppings he had seen were at least a few days old. A disheartening thought, especially if these travelers were mercenaries from The Lady’s Inn.
“I don’t know,” Erik replied.
“Get off your bloody horse and check,” Switch commanded.
Erik looked over to see the mercenary riding next to him, glaring angrily.
“I said . . .”
“I heard you,” Erik retorted, cutting off Switch. Erik knew the thief would kill them if he could. In Switch’s eyes, they were proving more trouble than they were worth as porters.
They had found the remnants of a camp just the day before, and now the rain picked up as Erik inspected the droppings with a stick. He shivered when a cold wind rolled off the Southern Mountains and he heard Befel groan. The change in weather wreaked havoc on his brother’s shoulder.
“What is he doing?” Turk asked.
“Checking to see if the horseshit is fresh,” Switch replied. “Come on, boy. Use your hands.”
Erik stood. He suddenly felt ridiculous.
“Get back on your horse, Erik,” Turk commanded. Erik could tell the dwarf was irritated. “This is a waste of time.”
“Who are you to say what is and isn’t a waste of time?” Switch asked.
He squinted hard at Erik.
“Is it fresh?” Switch asked.
“Don’t know,” Erik said with a shrug. “Go check yourself.”
Erik had half expected a slew of curses, but, instead, Switch just smiled and started laughing. Sometimes he was as unpredictable as he was predictable.
They rode on for a while and then something else caught Erik’s eye.
“More horseshit?” Bryon asked when he saw Erik slow his horse. “You have such an eye for dung.”
“Something shiny, glimmering on the ground,” Erik replied.
“It’s nothing,” Befel said. “Just moisture in the air and the heat playing with your eyes.”
“No, it’s not nothing,” Erik said as he looked for this mysterious shimmering object.
“Oi! There it is,” Switch exclaimed as he jumped from his horse.
The thief stooped low to the ground and unsheathed one of his knives. He dug it into the ground and flipped something up, catching it and closing his fingers around the thing. When he opened his hand, he revealed a piece of metal, polished and glimmering and as long as the width of his hand, broken at one end and tapered to a point at the other.
“What is it?” Drake asked.
“Iron.” Vander Bim’s response was almost a question as much as it was an answer.
“Looks too shiny to be iron,” Erik said. “Silver?”
Switch turned his head and looked at Erik. Erik expected a glaring look, a condescending look, but the thief shook his head with a small smile and a quick wink.
“No,” Switch said. “Not bloody iron, and not bloody silver. It’s steel—good steel.”
“A sword?” Erik questioned as he stepped down from his horse.
“Aye,” the thief replied, “at least, the tip of one.”
The thief threw Erik the piece of sword. He caught it, scratching the index and middle fingers of his left hand as he did. It was sharp. Erik sucked the little bit of blood on his two fingers and watched the thief intently. Switch had uncovered several other shards of sword, small enough for dirt to hide.
“A fight,” the thief muttered softly. “Recently too.”
A bundle of bushes with tiny purple flowers and white leaves grew close to the area where Switch found the shards, and the thief walked to them; in a matter of seconds, he found a small leather pouch stuck in the branches of one of the bushes. He tossed it to Erik. Empty. The thief knelt and gave a snicker. Standing, he showed Erik his palm. Three Finnish nickels and a gold, Hámonian pound. He quickly closed his hand and stuffed the coins into a pouch on his belt.
“Finders keepers,” he said with a laugh.
Turk and Demik dismounted, as well as Vander Bim.
“Look here,” Switch said, pointing to the bush.
“Blood,” Erik said as he leaned in to look. “Dried blood.”
“Aye,” Switch agreed.
“What are those?” Erik said, pointing to what looked like bent pieces of iron.
“Links.” Switch picked a few up and held them in his hand, inspecting, before dropping them back to the ground. “Links from a mail shirt. Good iron. Hard to break.”
“And yet, broken,” Turk added.
Erik didn’t like the sound of that. Turk’s voice sounded somber, dulled, scared almost.
“What could break a mail shirt?” Erik asked.
“A sturdy axe. A mace.” Switch seemed to shrug as he spoke.
“Men from The Lady’s Inn?” Erik intoned.
“Probably,” Switch replied. “You saw the normal people that live around here. They don’t carry swords or wear mail armor.”
“So, you think they got into a fight with other men from The Lady’s Inn?” Erik asked.
“If I could bloody see into the past, I would tell you,” Switch replied and was then more tolerant. “But I don’t know. It is possible, however.”
“Dwarves maybe?” Vander Bim’s question earned him a disapproving grunt from Demik.
Switch laughed. He so loved chiding the dwarves.
“Also a possibility,” Switch replied.
“Probably not,” Turk said, looking about for a moment—the blood, the iron links, the shards of sword. “Where are the bodies?”
“Buried,” Bryon said.
“Why would one group of mercenaries worry about burying another group of mercenaries?” Turk asked. “Why would wayward villagers care? Why would dwarves care f
or that matter?” Then, his voice turned to a growl.
“A cougar then,” Erik said.
Turk shrugged.
“I would hope a cougar. By the Creator, I would hope for a herd of cougars over what I am thinking,” the dwarf said.
“And what is that?” Switch asked.
“Mountain trolls,” Turk replied with a growl.
“Blood and guts!” Switch exclaimed standing and putting his fists on his hips.
“We need to keep our eyes on the mountains, keep our eyes keen, and our ears open,” Turk said. “If this is the work of mountain trolls, An help us.”
No one ate that night, and certainly, no one drank. They just all watched the mountains. Despite the buzzing of insects brought on by the rains, or the cries of the plain’s dogs, or the crackling of a blazing campfire, all seemed so still and quiet in the tension of the night and the knowledge that a mysterious and violent death might be waiting and lurking in the shadows of the Southern Mountains.
Erik leaned back against his saddle, trying to block out the silence. How silly that sounded. He slid his hand into his saddlebag, felt the smooth woodworking, and laid it in his lap. Marcus’ flute lay there, waiting and wanting, untouched for weeks now. Erik smiled, imagined something that might scare away the looming thought of death, and smiled. He put the flute to his lips.
“What are you . . .” Switch began to say, but Turk put up a hand and stopped the thief, only slightly shaking his head. Then he looked to Erik.
“Play, Erik.”
Erik stood on a battlefield, soldiers all around him, wearing a multitude of colorful tabards and surcoats, the coats of arms of a thousand families, ten thousand households, stitched and etched and emblazoned and enameled over dazzling, brilliant suits of gleaming, iron mail and steel plate, polished to a brilliant reflection. Spears and axes, war hammers, swords and halberds all lifted in the air with a mighty cheer as the sound of a hundred thousand booted feet started to march. The war horns blew, and the war drums pounded. The ground shook. He saw dwarves and men, flags and standards flying high in the air, flapping ardently in the wind, snapping to attention with every gust, the banners of their houses and castles and countries showing clearly. The march halted, and shields went up as their enemy approached. An army of mountain trolls stood across the field. Erik didn’t know what they looked like. He had only seen their shadows. So, his ethereal trolls stood there, hunched, shadowy figures with piercing yellow eyes. They had no true form, and as they marched, their skin moved about like wisps of smoke.
The men and dwarves charged. They crashed into the trolls with the deafening sound of a hammer hitting an anvil. Soon, men and dwarves began slaying trolls, every single one of them. All the while, the horns blew and the drums beat, and Erik played a tune on his flute that made the men dance as they fought—a warrior’s dance, moving to and fro to dodge swiping hands, lunging here and there to strike a death blow. A step to the right to block a shadowy fist, a twist to flank the enemy, a blow to bring a sword across the enemy’s back.
Erik played, and the shadows stayed away . . . at least for a night.
Chapter 10
IN MARDIRRU’S GYPSY CARAVAN, BO sat on an overturned barrel, opting for a stiff back and uncomfortable seat over the soggy wet ground. He took a deep breath. The air seemed tight, heavy, burdensome. A constricting warmth hung just above the ground, a snake slithering about. With it, however, came the sweet musty smell that rain so often brought in the western regions of Háthgolthane.
The gypsy watched the glow of the city, dull and yellow, and yet too bright in the middle of a moonless night. What hour was it? Men in the east divided their days by numbers. Men past the Giant’s Vein simply divided their day by what meal they might be eating at that time. Gypsies told time by what animal would be active, out and hunting. The hour of the bat at dusk, the hour of the morning dove at first light, the hour of the owl at first moon break, and the hour of the eagle when the sun sat at its peak. This was the hour of the wolf, the dead of night when the prowling thief and his companions found leisure to hunt whatever they might find resting unawares or going about under the supposed cover of darkness.
The radiance from Bull’s Run was only a dim glimmer, perhaps several taverns and two brothels to serve the few weary travelers passing through, or one of the many stockyard workers who needed such distractions to forget their otherwise hard and dismal lives. Many things might drive a man to Bull’s Run, but riches and ease of life were not two of them. Underneath the shadow that hung on this night, however, those lanterns and candles coming from humble inns and the whorehouses glared like beacons.
“Have you been?” Bo asked.
Mardirru turned to Bo, his father’s falchion on his lap and a hollowed gourd of sweet water in his hand. The curved eyebrows were all the answer Bo needed.
“Of course not. You’re too young,” Bo said. “I will say this—it’s an interesting city. Big enough for a man to get lost in a crowd but not big enough for a gypsy to get lost in a crowd, if you know what I mean.”
Mardirru nodded his head. Big cities didn’t necessarily welcome gypsies, but their sheer size meant they cared little for who entered their streets. Small villages and towns were not as complacent. Superstitions, gossip, and rumor hung heavy in a small village or town and, typically, they were no place for Bo and Mardirru’s kind.
“This type of night makes me feel uneasy,” Bo said.
“How?” Mardirru asked.
“I don’t know,” Bo replied. “The air is thick. It is as if a shadow, an extra blanket of darkness, has been laid over the night sky. No moon, no stars. I don’t like it.”
“It’s just the clouds,” Mardirru said.
“Is it? You cannot say you don’t feel it,” Bo said. “A movement in the air. A foul stink despite the rain.”
Mardirru looked to the sky, then to the faint glow of Bull’s Run, then to the ground. He took a sip of his sweet water and then leaned over and picked a blade of grass, crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, and then smelled it. Bo smiled. He was so much like his father—a thinker, a contemplator.
“I feel it,” Mardirru finally replied. “But what do we have to worry about? We have our family. We have the Creator watching us.”
“It is not us I am worried about.”
Bo looked to the sky again as if he would see anything other than the blackness that had been there all night. He scratched his chin underneath the thick, dark bramble of his beard, and then wiped a bit of sleep from his eye. Was that a tear?
“You think they are all right?” Bo asked, breaking several long moments of silence.
Mardirru took twice as long to answer. “No. They are in grave danger. Their wills, strength, and faith are being tested. But they are alive, and I have a feeling—perhaps a hope—that they will survive their ordeal.”
Bo wished he could be so confident. He wished he could have the same faith Mardirru had.
“Are you sure?” Bo asked.
“My friend,” Mardirru said, “that might be the only thing I am sure about at this moment.”
Bo smiled. “So now may not be a good time to ask you where we are going?”
Mardirru gave a short laugh and shook his head with a wide smile.
“I think we will go north and then east. I hear there are villages north and east of here that are not so fearful of gypsies. And, of course, in the north we will be able to trade with both the dwarves of the Gray Mountains and the ogres.”
North and east, Bo thought with a smile. It had been a while since he had been north. It would be a good change. Anywhere would be a good change as long as this shadow stopped following them.
Chapter 11
BEFEL WENT TO WIPE AWAY the sweat forming on his brow in the hot, humid, pre-noon day, but stopped, remembering it would only serve to spread it over his face and into his eyes, which already stung. He felt something soft hit his shoulder and drop into his lap. He looked down to see a dry rag sittin
g there, bouncing atop the horn of his saddle. He picked it up and looked to his left. Vander Bim rode next to him, smiling.
“That should serve,” he said, “at least for the next few moments.”
Befel laughed. Next few moments indeed. That’s all it would take for this dry piece of cloth to become drenched and as useless as the back of his forearm.
“Thanks,” Befel replied, holding the rag up and then wiping his face.
“Don’t worry, lad.” Vander Bim looked to the sky. “The clouds will roll back, and the rains will come, and they will wash away the heat; at least for the afternoon.”
“Until tomorrow,” Befel replied.
The smile on Vander Bim’s face disappeared a little. “Aye, until tomorrow, but that is the way of things. Ebb and flow, come and go. You must take the good with the bad, the joyful things with the sorrowful things. It all balances out in the end.”
“Hog piss,” Switch said. “We all wind up dead. We all wind up worm shit.”
“Maybe my body,” Turk said, “but my spirit will live on, forever in . . .”
“Oh, here we go again,” Switch said, rolling his eyes, “with the Creator and heaven.”
“You would do well to listen,” Turk said, “or both your body and your spirit will wind up worm shit.”
“Oh ho.” Switch laughed, “The upright dwarf curses.”
“It seems you men have been a bad influence on me,” Turk grumbled.
Befel laughed at the banter, but as he stared forward, he saw shadows in the distance, wavering wisps of heat rising from the ground. But they began to take on shape, like far away ghosts. And as he leaned forward in his saddle, he squinted and saw them—the silhouettes of men.
“Men,” Befel muttered.
“Yes,” Turk said. “You men . . .”
“Men!” Befel yelled.
“That is what I said . . .”
“No, you fools!” Befel yelled. “Men, on the horizon!”
“Oh, blood and guts and fool’s ghosts, it’s just the bloody heat and moisture in the air.” Switch spat on the ground and glared at the farmer. “Can we get on now, or are we going to stop and chase phantoms? Let me know because I have to piss.”
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