The Silver Claw
Page 8
“I haven’t,” Ben replied, smiling at nothing in particular. “Not on the fishing loop. Dreg says the Longar River has its spots, though. All I know is mostly hearsay or scuttlebutt in the market.”
Emmie wrinkled her noise. She was not a fan of market scuttlebutt. Too much gossip. Too often about the wheat-haired foreign girl. That one from the lawless Khuul. In the market at Bermark, she’d learned to stick to her booth. “So long as it isn’t Bermark.”
“Emmie, I’m sorry. You know I’ve always regretted this move.”
She’d heard this apology too many times. She wished he wouldn’t do it. Whenever she got homesick (which was often) she only had to remind herself: better in Bermark with her dad then in the Khuul and him gone. She knew.
“I didn’t complain when we moved. I’m not complaining now.” Emmie paused and smiled, reconsidering. “Okay, didn’t complain much. Well, didn’t complain much for long. How’s that?”
“You didn’t, and you wouldn’t. I’m proud of you for that, honey.”
“Bermark hasn’t been all bad. Makes me appreciate what I took for granted in Khuul Duvar. Makes me excited to move on.” Emmie hesitated, not wanting to continue. But she knew he should hear it. “Happy to have these almost three years with you, Da, just us. Toughing it out together, yah?”
She flashed a big smile, eyes tinged with sadness. Ben understood the comment for what it was. She knew much more than he’d expected.
“I love you, Em.” He wrapped her in a hug. He let her hold tight long as she wanted. As she let go, he found his breathing labored. A long hug from a small girl shouldn’t make my heart work this hard. . . He took a deep breath. “What do you think of this move, Em? I know you won’t complain but I want to know.”
“I’m excited. Really, I am.” She hoped she didn’t sound too much like she was attempting to convince them both. “So long as there’s more like Dreggar there. Beautiful country, a running river—a real river this time.” She paused. “I’d be lying, though, to say I’m not a little afraid of. . . you know. Longars don’t love my kind much more than Dungars.”
There was more, Ben could tell. He waited. Much longer than he’d anticipated.
“Dad, I can’t help but feel that maybe you’re going there to die.” Emmie blinked back tears. There, she’d said it. It felt so much more horrific spoken than it did in her head, and she hated to have to say it to him.
Ben had anticipated as much, just not that she’d intuit so soon. He didn’t give her enough credit. She wasn’t a child anymore. He had, however, spent a long time crafting his answer so he’d be ready when the time came.
“Oh, Goldie, I’m not going there to die. We’re going there to live. Drennich could be home. I want that, and to know you’ve got a fair shot at a home for years. That’s not dying, Goldie, that’s living.”
Emmie closed her eyes, shutting out the ugly world of Bermark. As always, it seemed, Dad had just the right words, said in just the right way, at just the right time. Where would she be when he was. . . she shook the thought off.
“Emmidawn, I should tell you the whole story about that night I found you.”
“No!” Emmie’s eyes popped open wide and her lower lip stuck out. “Da, no.”
So like how she sounded back when he found her. He could see that grubby, forsaken girl even now. Unable to make sense of her world. Unable to find words for what had been done to her. He still loved it, every time she called him ‘Da.’ She said it less and less as she got older of course, but when she did, he always knew just how excited or afraid she was.
“I didn’t tell you for years, waiting for you to be ready. You need to know. When I’m gone, there’ll be no one left who knows what happened.”
“That’s why,” Emmie whispered. “When you tell me, I know it means it’s time for...”
Emmie laid her head down on Ben’s shoulder.
“Okay, Goldie. Not today. We have time. . . plenty of time.”
He wrapped his arm around her—her body feeling so much smaller and fragile than he’d grown accustomed to. Father and daughter sat together on the old porch and watched the sun creep down towards the horizon. . . their last night in Bermark.
Ben and Emmie’s first day in Drennich exceeded all expectations. Dreggar had secured them a small but homey cabin on the outskirts of town, right up by the river, then departed for what would be an unusually long trip of trying to recoup goodwill.
Jes ambushed a stiff, wide-eyed Emmie by enveloping her in a hug and gushing about her beautiful hair; an unheard-of compliment for the northern girl. Urwen immediately began detailing tasks for Ben, for which he received a punch from his wife.
“What, you think I should go on and on about how much I like his stubble?” Urwen rubbed his shoulder, seemingly surprised that Jes possessed that much power. “You say hello your girl-way, let us do it like men.”
Emmie smiled at their good-natured bickering. And the task minded Urwen put Ben, who felt uncomfortably like a beggar, at ease. There indeed were several ‘Dreggars’ in town, the tongue-in-cheek label Ben and his daughter used for those who went out of their way to welcome them. Ben found a fit with Urwen’s team of field hands. Jes and Brie formed the small hub of friendly women eager to help an older man and motherless girl with visits, quilts, and meals.
Brie, however, was frustrated by the cool welcome Emmie received from her peers. A few made half-hearted efforts with the new girl. Those who did were from the outskirts of the social world, and Brie knew it was only done to please her. After a few weeks, Brie rarely saw Emmie in anyone’s company. She didn’t much care, Emmie would shrug; she’d rather be with her dad anyway. Brie believed that to a degree, but it couldn’t hide a deeper disappointment.
Of particular discouragement for Brie was that she counseled these kids, leading them in the courting and betrothal process, and they— the leaders especially—did not share what Brie viewed as a chief virtue.
Renn, too, had surprised her with his reticence. He was polite and inoffensive around Emmie, but she had come to expect so much more of Renn. Brie knew he was struggling with himself, and trying to figure out who Rennwinn was, was proving no easy task for him. However, having believed great things for him since birth, she opted to give him room to find the Renn she was confident he would discover.
Renn, for his part, mostly sat alone in the goat fields, resting his head on his goatherder’s crook. Alone with the goats, he tried repeatedly to reinvent himself. A strong persona felt wrong. He felt ridiculous trying to act outgoing and gregarious. He’d hoped he could pull off witty and sarcastic, but even the goats weren’t impressed with that. And his attempts to mimic the attitudes of many of the town kids was a total failure. Renn couldn’t say anything remotely mean to even the surliest of goats without feeling like he needed to apologize.
Renn smacked himself in the head with his crook and concluded he simply needed to try harder. Somehow, he needed to be somebody different. Anybody but the oddball he was. And there was one person he could insult without a second thought, and never feel like he owed an apology. “You’re pathetic, Rennwinn. No wonder nobody likes you.”
XIV – The Northwestern Basins
“Which of you’s the bloke shelling out coin for hartstag?”
The cocky voice shattered the bored tranquility of the shabby chic dais. Five men jumped to attention from along the faded tapestries draped along the piping on the sides of the cracking platform. They scuttled into position, forming a defensive arc around the center. One man, lounging in a cushioned chair like a cow in the sun, didn’t budge. The unannounced arrival strode purposefully towards that one. Because, the others? Sloppy. Dim-witted. And inconsequential.
Behind the arc of bargain-rate mercenaries, the last man slowly rose from his shaded canopy. He studied the swaggering newcomer: face obscured under a loose hood, sleek angular body evident beneath a flowing cloak, dazzling green boots, and armed to the teeth. The man’s lips twisted with smugness, a chortle escaping
his throat.
Alixa sighed to herself, weary of a greeting she received all too often. Then she threw her head back with bravado, letting her hood slide down to reveal her brilliant white-blonde hair. Before a word had been spoken, she’d already gauged all she needed to know about this man and his arrangements.
“Yes, I’m a woman,” Alixa said dryly. “Yes, I’m Bandu. And, no, you’ll not find another hunter in all the basins who can bag hartstag as efficiently, incurring no damage to hide nor antlers.”
“That so?” The amused look on his face galled Alixa. He lazily pointed a finger at her. “You. . . hartstags?”
“Yeah, me. . . hartstags.” Alixa’s posture remained ramrod straight. “You. . . capable of complete sentences?”
“You know who you’s talking to, Stone-eyes?” one mercenary asked. “’Sides, hartstags? Them’s the scarcest catch in the northern wilds.”
“I ought to know.” Alixa bristled at the insult yet tried to keep her cool, though that was usually a losing battle. One of the few battles, however, she did lose. “I have bagged near thirty of them in my time.”
“Right...” The leader slowly ambled forward. “How old are you anyway?”
“That’s relevant, how?”
“Idle curiosity.” He sniffed. “You’re attractive enough, for a wheat-head. Surely you can turn better coin with your looks and youth than by playing at bounties and hunting.”
“If you want stag, make me an offer. If you’re after something else, I’m gone.”
“Maybe I want both. Though from you, dearie?” He eyed her up and down. “I wager you’re only good for the latter.”
Alixa shot them a sour look and feigned a mock curtsey. Walk away. He’s not worth it. Win that battle with your temper for once. But Alixa caught his amateur-obvious hand signals. Watched his thugs grip their weapons, a couple grasp loops of lassos. They wanted to play with her, did they?
Fine, she’d play.
Alixa shrugged, three-inch daggers sliding out of her sleeves. With a flick of her wrists, each needle-nosed knifette embedded itself in a man. She pivoted, pushed off on her bow, and spun in the air. One steel-toed green boot caught the man closest to her at the base of his jaw. He dropped with a crackling snap. Twirling her longbow, she landed and swung it around, burying its knife-like point in the next closest man’s chest.
Four men lay on the ground. The fifth stood dumbstruck, hand still on sword hilt. Their master no longer looked amused. Alixa turned towards the two men, her shoulders squared, knees bent, her whole being coiled for more.
“Where were we?” she addressed them with a pretty smile and a tea party-pleasant tone. “Oh, yes. You, sir, were thinking, ‘this silly piece of northern trash, this little girl, all mouth and good for only one thing. Yours for the taking.” She lazily inspected her fingernails. “Shall we pick up where we left off? Hmm?”
Her eyes, with a flashing silver, shot a warning to the last remaining mercenary.
“What, you want some more?” Alixa affectionately patted the sheath at her belt. “A shame to scrap with six men and not even draw my sword, I suppose.”
He clasped his hands in front of him, backing away from the man he no longer intended to take orders or payment from.
“Vendant, yeah? That your name?” She sauntered towards the lead man. He licked his lips anxiously but held his ground. Good for you, Alixa thought, so you’re not a complete coward. “Run afoul of the Lobridium constabulary, have we? Got a little bounty on our head? Seems they’d rather shake some coin some hunter’s way—oh, say, perhaps my way?—then waste their own guardsmen scouring the basins for you.”
“Simple misunderstanding,” Vendant replied with a wave of his hand. “The sheriff there, he thinks—”
“I don’t much care.” Alixa snorted derisively. Nor did she believe him. The man’s rap sheet sickened her. “Your bounty’s pathetic. Hardly worth the time of a silly little gal like me.” Alixa pitched a girly giggle. They flinched at the incongruent sound. She quickly returned to her much more natural surliness. “So, when I caught wind you were willing to pay out for hartstag, I figure, well, that’s a wash, yeah? Going rate for three hartstag—your sorry head’s priced the same. Bag you your hartstags and I needn’t bother bloodying my hands with you.”
“We can work this out, missy. I. . . I’ve intel. An exchange?”
“You wave your hand for your men to tie me down, have some fun. Now you want to barter?” Alixa sneered. “I lay down for nobody and I don’t cut deals with men who suggest that’s what I’m made for. I’ll collect my bounty and be on my way.”
“I’m serious, Bandu. You’ll want to hear.”
“Pay me your own bounty and I’ll forget I found you.” Alixa sighed and fingered her bow as he took measured steps towards the back of the dais, apparently believing she wouldn’t notice. “And trust me, forgetting your sorry face would be marvelous.”
Vendant shot a look at the other man. “Gorrum, now!”
Alixa’s bow was off her back, instantaneously nocked and aimed.
“No sir.” Gorrum stood stock-still. “I’m off the job.”
“Wise man. . . Gorrum.” Alixa grinned.” And Vendant? Price’s on your head, see? So it’s only your head the constabulary requires.”
“It’s your head you should be worried about, filth.”
“You know what he’s prattling about, Gorrum?” Arrow trained on Vendant, she shifted her eyes towards Gorrum.
“Yes, Ma’am. I do.”
Alixa, her eyes still locked with Gorrum’s, buried an arrow in the bountied man just as he pulled his sword.
“Tell me.” Alixa flipped her bow onto her back and turned toward the hired man. “And maybe I let you walk.”
“Word, uh, making the round in the north bush is that she’s back.”
“What?” Alixa hissed, her posture loosening. “She-she?”
“The witch, yeah. Haddurah.”
“Impossible!” Alixa clasped her sword hilt.
“Lady, I’m only doing like you asked: telling you what I heard.” Gorrum put his hands in the air. “Couple months back, some ranger comes down into the basin, says he got tangled up with Aegorite riders. Said they let him go, and—”
“Not bloody likely, given what I hear about what few Aegorites remain.”
“Yeah, that’s just it, ain’t it?” Gorrum shifted uneasily. “Man says they let him go to spread the word: she’s back and paying good coin for any Bandu found roving the Basins, Lobridium, wherever. Dead or alive. Alive, preferably, but. . .”
Alixa’s stomach lurched. She was going to heave, but she refused to let this man see. . . wait, this man. He knew she was Bandu—not that looking at her, it was any big mystery. She drew her sword.
“You said you’d spare me!” Gorrum cried.
“Come off it. I said maybe.” Alixa spread her arms, her brilliant sword glinting in the sun. “How many people actually believe this ridiculous story?”
“Few, far as I know.” Gorrum swallowed nervously. “First word, couple months back, yeah? From a man, like you said, Aegorites simply let walk free? It’s a ghost, a rumor. Who’d take a pack of hogtied wheat-heads—” He cringed as Alixa brandished her sword. “No offense, no offense! Take ‘em up to the Mountain anyhow? Who’d reckon they’d live to tell the tale?”
“What’d your master make of this? Or anyone else who’s got sense?”
“Vendant’s a blowhard. Don’t confuse his wealth and bearing with sense.” The mercenary gave Alixa a look that made her reconsider her assessment of him as dim-witted. “Downlow is the Lobrid spy network deems this legit. They ain’t spreading that around, though. Not that they care a whit about your people, just don’t want the old fear festering. Maybe they’ve their own plans of dealing with this, maybe they’re simply hoping it flames out.”
Alixa surveyed the mess of bodies she was leaving in her wake. She rubbed her face with her free hand, trying to absorb what she’d heard.
“That why you’ve gone mercenary?”
“Got nothing left. I was a farmer, lady, before they burned my land. You take what you can get.”
“Fair enough. He’s yours.” Alixa gestured to Vendant’s body, unsure if she was feeling magnanimous or simply wanted to disappear right now. “You don’t breathe a word of this—of me—to another living soul. Buy yourself some land. Go back to farming. Forget you saw me.”
“No worries.” His body visibly relaxed, and he doffed his cap. “Bounty hunter in your face’s more deadly than a witch in the bush.”
Alixa snorted a laugh—she should remember that one—and left without another word. She wouldn’t show her face in this basin, or any far north or west settlement, ever again. And she had no desire to drag Vendant’s head to the Lobridium anyhow. She’d done time in the constabulary brickhouse herself.
She’d retreat to her de facto home, where she always ended up. Lay low. Pick up what work she could there.
Home. . .
That hurtful word exacerbated the liquidy gurgle in her stomach. Alixa’s shoulders shuddered as she wretched into the shrubs.
A couple more heaves and she wiped her mouth, glad to have it out. Alixa seized her flask, took two sharp swallows, and let the alcohol’s burn settle into her now-empty gut. She quickened her pace along the obscure deer trail she’d chosen to traverse. Alixa smirked. A little puke, a little bourbon. . . she felt herself again.
So she’d offed the buyer for the hartstag pelts—she’d hunt them anyway. She knew how to read their marks, stalk her prey, bag them without a noise. Another buyer would present themselves. Opportunities always presented themselves to someone desperate to survive.
Survive. Among Alixa’s myriad of talents, that seemed to be what she did best.
XV - Drennich