The Silver Claw

by Erik Williamson

  “He’ll heal more quickly if he stays still. The longer he stays unconscious, the better.”

  “Oh. Well. When do you think he’ll be himself again?”

  “My turn now.” Corbiern took hold of Renn’s largest pack. “We’ll converse better if you can breathe.”

  Emmie glared and pushed her sweaty hair off her forehead.

  “Ah, those grey storm cloud eyes.” Corbiern chuckled. “You’re a tough little nut, but c’mon. Give me the pack so we can talk.”

  “He’s going to be ok, yah?” Emmie asked as they set off again, speech coming much easier.

  “Yes, though he’ll have permanent scars. That left arm won’t ever be the same.” He glanced at Emmie, whose eyes were burning at him. Obviously not assuaged. “No lying to you, I see. I won’t really know much until he comes to.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Emmidawn?” Corbiern paused. “What’re you doing out here?”

  Emmie high-stepped over a log, then batted aside a brambly bush. Alixa wouldn’t approve of revealing anything, she guessed. However, Renn’s life was still in Corbiern’s hands. Emmie opted to give him the sanitized version of her story that Dad had told her for years: he found her in these woods and adopted her. No sacrificial rituals or vengeful Aegorites, no talismans or mysterious lake. Certainly no Princess Emmie or Queen Alixa. When she finished, Emmie could tell he was aware she’d omitted massive amounts of detail.

  “Where exactly did your father find you?”

  “She slowing you down, Corbiern?” Alixa sauntered breezily towards them, but with a quick knowing glance to Emmie that her arrival and intent were anything but casual. “Figured as much.”

  “Me slowing her more than anything.” Corbiern’s light tone matched Alixa’s. “Got her talking. . .”

  “No tough task, that. The trick’s getting her to stop. Which we are. Stopping. For the night.” Alixa glanced at the sky. The sun was edging just past mid-afternoon. “I know it’s early, but we’ve gone far enough today. I want everyone to get extra rest.”

  The decree indicated quite clearly who was taking charge.

  Sitting in a loose semi-circle around a crackling fire, surrounded by a wall of fir trees, and with the aroma of roasting venison filling their noses (for once it wasn’t Alixa having to kill dinner; thank you, Polidan), one of Alixa’s first orders of business was getting a read on their new companions. Before she would let Emmie off her leash to further share any of their story, Alixa needed to know who these people were. Which was fine by Emmie. She was content to simply watch Renn breathe, and make herself useful whenever given the opportunity.

  Corbiern and Omlos had migrated from a southern city-state—which, Alixa nodded, explained their darker skin and hair—disillusioned by the cutthroat passions of that region. Polidan called the north-central basins home, although not a town Alixa was familiar with.

  “We’re initiates studying under a Paccan Holy Man,” Corbiern said.

  “Initiate’s too weak a word for you,” Polidan said. Before Corbiern could object, Polidan turned to Alixa. “Corbiern could command his own disciples.”

  “I still have much to learn.”

  “Aye, but you’ve also much to offer,” Polidan retorted. “You could make a fortune with your skill and insight.”

  Corbiern, looking a bit heated, began, “I’ve no desire to—”

  “You’re monks, then?” What Alixa had no desire to do was hear their tired squabbling.

  “Students, if you please, of a Paccan mystic,” Polidan said. “We’ve taken no vows, made no commitments, incurred no debts.”

  “I’d pegged you for Old Order Monks, not Paccan mystics.”

  “I’ll have you know Paccans, at least the Bago peoples, are quite orthodox in their beliefs,” Corbiern replied bitterly. “Far more than the monks I’ve known.”

  Omlos poked the fire and coughed. Corbiern threw a stick and turned away.

  “I intended no offense,” Alixa said, glancing toward a wide-eyed Emmie. “The Bago are good people—never had any quarrel with them whatsoever.”

  “Thank you, Alixa,” Omlos replied when Corbiern remained sullen. The big man gave her a cheery smile. “You’re good people, too, I say.”

  “We should discuss payment,” Polidan said, changing the subject.

  “Right.” Alixa had been avoiding that. However, making arrangements would relieve her of being in the distasteful position of owing these men anything. Financial debt, anyway. How do you repay somebody for saving your friend’s life? Uncomfortably unknown ground for Alixa.

  “Your sword’s fine compensation, and you mentioned a necklace. Though I must say that bracelet you’re wearing looks exquisite as well.” Polidan gestured to Alixa’s exposed left wrist, which she quickly covered. Alixa’s heart broke—the only truly meaningful things she owned.

  “Wait! You mean my necklace?” Emmie turned, mouth open, to Alixa, who wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Alixa!”

  “Perhaps we should see that first, and decide from there,” Polidan said.

  Corbiern nodded, staring at their fire.

  “But, Lixa, that’s. . . that’s important to me.”

  “My sword’s not important to me?” Alixa snapped. “You prefer I’d let Renn die, Sheep?”

  Emmie flinched like Alixa had slapped her, then woodenly went for her pack.

  “Corby?” Omlos asked their silent leader.

  “Will we be even then?” Alixa asked, voice husky. “Necklace or sword?”

  “Along with the bracelet, yes.” Polidan stuck his hand out. “Let me see that thing?”

  “Oh.” Alixa looked away, holding her wrist and hiding from Emmie’s disbelieving eyes. “Then, debt paid? Even if Renn requires more care?”

  “We’ll certainly continue to care for him,” Polidan said. “To do otherwise is unconscionable.”

  “Hello, Corby?” Omlos asked.

  Alixa refused to relinquish her bracelet but pulled her sword, possibly her best friend in the world. She glanced over to see a despondent Emmie fishing through her bag. Alixa’s heart twinged. “Emmie, hold up, I’ve—”

  “No compensation necessary,” Corbiern whispered.

  They all looked at the healer, hunched by the fire.

  “But we agreed,” Polidan said. “She agreed.”

  “I won’t put a price on a life.”

  “But all this could pay for?” Polidan spread his arms wide, then stopped abruptly as Corbiern stood up menacingly. “Alright, alright. . .”

  “Really?” Emmie asked. “I mean, thank you, but we do owe you. I mean. . .”

  “Debt settled.” Corbiern stalked away, head down.

  “That’s my friend,” Omlos said. With a cheerful grin, he offered Alixa some venison.

  Alixa nodded her thanks, face blank. She didn’t want Corbiern prying into their business, so she should respect his space. Watching him slough off through the trees, though, Alixa found herself wanting to pry.

  Renn finally began to stir two days later.

  “Emmie!” Alixa called as they stopped. “Somebody’s waking. Figure he’ll be asking for somebody else soon, eh?”

  “Yah. He was asking where you were that whole night, over and over,” Emmie joked, trying to hide how fluttery she felt. “Lixy. . .”

  “You, little girl, are insufferable,” Alixa retorted, which drew a weak smile from Emmie.

  “We’ll know quickly if the treatment worked. Good medicine but. . .” Corbiern’s face betrayed a doubt that left Alixa and Emmie uneasy. “Doesn’t work the same for everyone. If he can get his bearings, that’s a good sign. If not. . .”

  “If not, what?” Emmie asked, her voice suddenly high. “What then?”

  “Then?” Corbiern weighed his answer. “We’ll deal with ‘then’ if ‘then’ happens.”

  Emmie bit her lip. She caught Polidan’s eye, who returned an unreadable expression. Omlos shook his head slowly and patted her on the shoulder.

  “L
ixa?” Renn suddenly lurched forward, his right hand grasping Alixa. “That you?”

  “Uh, yeah?” She looked pleadingly to Corbiern.

  “I can’t see.” Renn’s grip on her arm tightened more than she thought him capable. “Lixa, you’re blurry.”

  Corbiern motioned her to keep talking.

  “Well, tell me what you can see.” Alixa swallowed. “And Renn, ease up on my arm.”

  “Not in the tree anymore, are we? Not even close.” Renn’s one exposed eye blinked rapidly. “These trees smell. . . not Du-Banyon. Must be midday. No, oh no, where’s Emmie?”

  “Good!” Corbiern’s relief revealed how much doubt he’d hidden. “This is good.”

  “Lixa, who. . .?” Renn’s hand clamped over Alixa’s wrist, eliciting a short gasp.

  “Found some people to help us,” she replied through gritted teeth.

  “But Emmie? She didn’t. . .”

  “Here.” Emmie cleared her throat. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Yours too.” Renn’s tension loosed. “I want to get up.”

  All eyes turned to Corbiern.

  “Help him up, Omlos. But no fast movements. And Rennwinn, keep your torso as immobile as possible. Your legs will tell you what they can do. Don’t push it.”

  “I’ll help you get started.” Emmie slid her arm around Renn’s hip, draping his right arm over her shoulder. They took each other in, then shuffled through the underbrush, looking as though they were embracing in a very long hug.

  “How hard-headed is he?” Corbiern asked as the two moved further away. “Can you convince him to lie back on the stretcher?”

  “You kidding? If he gets to touch her, he’ll walk till he drops.”

  “So, slow going.” Corbiern watched them limp away. “Well, let’s make camp, hit it in the morning. By mid-afternoon tomorrow we ought to hit the old Paccan trail we came in on.”

  LI - The Northern Wastes

  The Wolf turned over the great bird’s body with his toe. Dead for days, obviously, with maggots already taking up residence. Well, he’d never cared for these monstrosities anyway. But one of the witch’s pet falcranes, three holes in its breast, two clearly from point-blank range, and then beheaded? Enraged wouldn’t begin to describe her reaction.

  “Sir, full report.” His glassy-eyed lieutenant cleared his throat from behind him. The Wolf turned, a faint smirk still touching his face. “Best I can surmise, this patrol had prisoners. We’ve found all eight men, dead. Most executed, seemingly unawares, at close range.” His eyes widened, staring at the remains at the Wolf’s feet. “Was that one of the queen’s falcranes?”

  “Aye. Butchered like chicken dinner. Thought these fowls were as unkillable as their momma. Seems we’ve an assassin on our hands.” He held up two strands of blonde hair, which he tucked into his belt. “Bandu.”

  “She ain’t gonna like this.”

  “You think?” The Wolf shot his lieutenant a feral grin. “Go brief your queen, Polhorek.”

  Polhorek did a double take. But his captain wasn’t joking. He’d worked under the Wolf for ten years. The man never joked, unless he was about to take your life.

  Haddurah sat alone in her command tent, staring into the unseeing eyes of her prize bird, not caring that its blood was dripping on the rug, or that she was alone. No one was allowed in her mobile palace, which suited her fine. After over 300 years, people—with their meager lifespans and pathetic shortsightedness—bored her. But her falcranes, she understood them, and they understood her back. They, like her, were not bound to natural law. She’d bred them, fed them on sorcery, and created herself worthwhile companions. Her beloveds.

  Haddurah turned the head in her hands, considering the report. Eight soldiers dead—sure, that was a loss. Her troops only numbered in the hundreds, not like the glory years of tens of thousands. So regrettably, a figure as trifling as eight had to be a concern. But not like this. Haddurah placed the bird’s head in a gilded box and closed the lid.

  The creation of the seven falcranes had granted her, her greatest joy in over a century. All had lived 30 years before the first died. Disease complications, her avian chief said. Couldn’t be helped. Haddurah shrugged, began pacing the rug. The second was killed in a misunderstanding with her troops. Haddurah batted at a tent flap. It was the fool men who’d spooked her beloved bird; they’d no right to kill it. She’d sentenced the entire flank on duty to death. No trial needed.

  Then there was the one that simply vanished a few months back. She’d sensed its cry from somewhere out in the bush, vaguely calling to her from afar, as she’d trained them. Then it was gone. She sent patrols, other falcs, searched telepathically herself. No trace of it was ever found. She mourned his loss like she hadn’t in. . . well, probably ever.

  But this? A savage execution. A beheading, even. The ancient rites dictated that a beheading was forever final. No matter what gifts and powers were employed. It was the ultimate ignominy. And someone did it to my bird. Some Bandu trash, no less.

  Haddurah had little doubt the blonde hair belonged to the Bandu girls they were tracking. Was somehow connected to Chastien’s final heir. That the trail headed straight to the Pass was unfortunate—she wouldn’t set foot in the Pass. The one time she had, it was as though the ghost of Chastien was haunting her. Her side erupted in pain. It was so unbearable it forced her to retreat. That these girls had chosen the Pass was no surprise. And was inconsequential, really. She knew where the little Bandu were headed, and unlike them she didn’t need some map to locate and trap them in the Tablelands.

  “Wolf!” Haddurah shouted as she emerged from her tent. Soldiers, previously lolling at ease at their campfire, all snapped to attention. She turned to Polhorek, who froze in a stiff salute. “Where is that monster?”

  “Patrol, m’lady.”

  “Fine. I don’t care to speak to the man anyway.” She strode to within inches of Polhorek. “He show even the slightest twinge of regret, of grief, at the death of my bird?”

  “I wasn’t present when he discovered it, m’lady. I am not aware.”

  She glared at the man. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. She smiled, satisfied, and began to stalk away.

  “Ready the troops yourself. I won’t wait on that self-important man. Double-time march to the Tablelands. No straggling.” Haddurah burned that somebody dared murder one of her prized pets. She stopped, eyed Polhorek over her shoulder. “I’ve called for two falcranes. The third remains at home. I shan’t employ all three at once.” She gauged Polhorek’s reaction. She knew most of her people feared and despised her beloveds. As they no doubt did her as well. Polhorek merely nodded. Good. “Scour the bush for the Wolf. I want the name and record of his best eastern operative. When the first falc arrives, he’d better have a man to direct her to or it’ll be his head in a gilded box.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “Keep an eye, then.”

  Haddurah had much more to say, but just then her gut felt as though it had been ripped, the old cougar’s claw raking her insides. Chastien taunting her from the grave, for the sheer sport of it. Its ferocity was enough to make her collapse, but she wouldn’t allow Polhorek to witness even a wince of discomfort. Haddurah stood taller, though her insides felt as though they were being shredded.

  “When the second falc arrives, send word to the Tableland outpost to expect company,” she said through clenched teeth. “Instruct them to prepare the trap I’ve arranged for our little Bandu. And remind them they are about to be graced by their queen.”

  LII - The Western Winnepaccan Woods

  The day after they finally reached the old Paccan trail, Corbiern deemed Renn’s face ready for the world. Peeling the bandaging off Renn’s head proved an interminably long process and gave Renn plenty of time to wonder if perhaps it would be better to keep his face wrapped. He’d always considered himself plain and unremarkable. Permanently maimed was hardly the distinctiveness he’d hoped for.

 
; Exposed to air for the first time in days, his skin felt raw and chilled. Renn turned, reluctantly, towards Alixa and Emmie. His right eye was barely visible, surrounded by discolored, swollen bruises. Three precise gashes cut down his right cheek, from a clean slash that narrowly missed his eye. The scar tissue that would last his lifetime was already beginning to form.

  “How bad?” Renn asked.

  “It’s just good to see your face again.” Emmie smiled.

  “Yeah,” was Alixa’s succinct contribution.

  After a pause, Corbiern added, “Healing takes time.”

  Through his blurred vision, he guessed that despite their efforts at positivity, he must look horribly ugly. He quickly put a hand over his face and turned away.

  “You look great. I’m serious.” Emmie shot the others a ferociously dirty look. “Walk with me, Renn. We’ll get your legs moving. You’ll be good as new in no time.”

  The walk, though good for his spirit, proved too taxing for his body. The next day, Renn was again relegated to the stretcher. He tried to be grateful—he was alive after all, in good care, and with friends—but that was a losing battle. It’s also possible that being carried through the woods and hearing Emmie’s periodic pronouncement of ‘Make way for the king!’ followed by her silly giggling, was less than helpful. It amused the others. Renn not so much. Emmie was bringing up the rear of the party when after one such call, no laughter followed. Alixa turned around to see an ashen-faced Emmie plopped on the ground, digging frantically through her pack.

  “Keep going, Corbiern. I’ll see what’s up.”

  “Alixa!” Renn couldn’t see much but knew his two friends were dropping behind. He propped himself up, throwing his legs over the side of the stretcher, tired of being left out. “I’m coming.”

  “I’ll only be a minute.” Alixa eased him back down. She leaned in, so close she could smell the fester of his wounds, and whispered. “Whatever this is, I’d rather keep it to us, you know?”

  Renn hesitated, then glumly obeyed; appreciative at least of what us meant.