He just stared back at him. No begging. No pleading. It made Garret like him even more, but it didn’t change the fact that Jolan needed to die.
The thundering of boots on loose wooden steps interrupted the moment. Three wardens wearing black chain mail burst into the room. They had bear masks on their hips. One was a sergeant, the other was extremely fat for a soldier, and the third was lean and careful, sticking to the far end of the room. All of them had hands on the grips of their sheathed swords. That was a mistake—it was a small room, and drawing long steel would be difficult. Should have done it before coming in.
The sergeant had thick jowls and droopy eyes. He stepped forward, looking at the boy. “Are you Jolan of Otter Rock?” he asked.
“I … no,” Jolan said.
The sergeant looked around the room a moment, scanning the alchemy equipment and the backpack full of ingredients. He sniffed, then spat on the floor near Jolan’s foot.
“That is interesting news,” he said. “Because you match his description, and I don’t know too many boys who tote all that alchemist shit around for fun. ’Cept apprentices. Ex-apprentices in your case.”
“What’s this about, Sergeant?” Garret asked. He didn’t want to cause a scene. Scenes created attention. And attention would put him even further behind schedule than he already was.
“That kid burned down an apothecary that belonged to Lord Nimbu up north, then took off. Apparently Nimbu holds a grudge for that kind of behavior. He’s had sentinels posting ransoms all over Almira for the past month—puttin’ ’em around inns and the like. Took a while, but word got down here in the south. Thought you could hide in Deepdale, eh, boy?”
“My name isn’t Jolan,” Jolan insisted. “I’m from a town called Briarwood in—”
“Save it.” The sergeant stopped him with a mailed hand. “Elden Grealor is hanging from a manor and leaking piss into the street; I’ve got no time for lying children. Some lord will decide your fate.” The man’s droopy eyes slid over to Garret. “You were traveling with him?”
“You could say that,” Garret admitted. There was no point trying to hide it—the innkeeper was probably the one who’d reported the boy. The sergeant seemed to think everything over. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth while he stared at Garret.
“You best come with us, too, then, until we get this cleared…”
Garret rushed forward and jammed his hunting knife into the sergeant’s right ear—the silver tip poked out of his left temple, a worm-sized piece of brain seeping from the wound. The sergeant’s droopy eyes came to life briefly, then lolled back in his head. His knees went slack. Garret yanked his knife free from the man’s skull and heaved his corpse into the fat warden, who tried to dodge his dead sergeant but failed. He lost his balance and fell down against the far wall.
Garret darted left—moving to slit the third soldier’s throat—but somehow the quick bastard had gotten his weapon drawn and managed to parry the attack. A ripple of pain shot up Garret’s arm as his knife clanged off the steel. On instinct, he chopped at the man’s throat with his left hand, but with the dragon rot he couldn’t tighten his fingers enough to make it a killing stroke.
The soldier gagged, but raised his sword for a counterriposte at the same time. It was bad luck to have been arrested by a capable warden—the steel hanging in most of those idiots’ scabbards was just for show. Garret skipped backward, avoiding a strike that would have cut him from collarbone to lung. He flipped his knife into a reverse grip and prepared for the next attack, but he never had the chance. The fat warden crashed into him with a desperate tackle, knocking the air out of Garret’s lungs and sending him to the ground with a thump, then landing on top of him.
Call it a killer’s instinct or call it luck, but Garret’s knife ended up in the fat man’s eye when they fell. Blood spurted onto Garret’s face. The warden’s jaws clamped together so hard that three of his teeth cracked before he died.
The third warden walked toward him, rubbing his throat.
“Fucking asshole,” he muttered, raising his blade.
Garret had always assumed he would meet a violent end, but lying on the floor of an inn, covered in blood and weighted down by a fat corpse wasn’t quite the death he’d pictured.
Then a flying stone pestle crashed into the warden’s temple. The man dropped to the ground like a piece of timber, either dead or unconscious. Garret yanked the hunting knife out of the fat man’s eye, stood up, crossed the room, and slashed his throat.
Jolan was quivering in the corner. Staring at the carnage and taking fast, shallow breaths.
“You were about to kill me,” Jolan said, not looking away from the bodies.
“Yes.”
Jolan took a few more breaths, then looked at Garret.
“Go ahead, then.”
17
BERSHAD
Skojit Territory, Razorback Mountains
With Yonmar dead, they moved much faster.
Felgor seemed to wake up stronger each morning, despite the long leagues of walking and meager rations. Rowan had used more of Felgor’s stolen salt to turn a few rabbit chunks into jerky so they’d have something to eat throughout the day.
“It’s the sunlight,” he said when Vera questioned his sprightly step. “Balarians are like sunflowers—all we need is some golden rays and a bit of water.”
“Guess you won’t be needing any more rabbit then, eh?” Rowan had said.
“Like sunflowers, I said. It’s a metaphor. That’s when you talk about one thing, but really it’s a symbol for—”
“I know what a metaphor is,” Rowan said.
“Course you do, my dear Rowan,” Felgor said. “Course you do.”
Rowan mumbled something to himself about sunflowers and stew and idiot Balarians, but Bershad could tell the thief was growing on his forsaken shield. Rowan always had a soft spot for the outcasts and malcontents of the world.
They spent many days moving along a series of game trails, avoiding the larger paths that could be used by Skojit. The ground was full of sharp stones, prickly grass, and patches of snow in the shadows that hadn’t yet been warmed enough to melt. The first time he’d come through the pass, the Balarians took him around a lake near the summit of the mountain. Bershad kept his eyes out for the two ridges that would lead back there, but everything looked different coming from this side. He hadn’t bothered to check his back trail when he was being marched out of the country the first time.
At one point, Felgor huffed his way up next to Bershad while he was taking some water.
“I have to thank you,” Felgor said.
“That right?” Bershad grunted, wiping some sweat from the edge of his beard.
“My head would be splinters if it wasn’t for you.” Felgor squinted off into the distance. “So yeah, I do.”
Bershad lowered the water skin. Studied Felgor, but didn’t say anything.
“You know, you’re an awfully sullen person for a man who fills his day with so many good deeds,” Felgor continued. “Saving that town. Saving me. Only one of us you didn’t save was Yonmar, and being honest, that asshole bothered me. Won’t miss his highborn ass none.”
Bershad still didn’t say anything. Felgor moved to leave.
“Time comes,” Bershad said, stopping him. “Might be the situation is reversed. And I’m the one with a blade coming down toward my neck.” He offered Felgor the water. “You want to thank me, return the fucking favor, yeah?”
* * *
After the Skojit ambush, they all agreed it was better to camp without a fire. Instead, Bershad, Rowan, and Felgor wrapped themselves in their cloaks and gnawed on salted rabbit meat. Vera was the only one who seemed untroubled by the cold. At night, she wrapped their extra cloak around Alfonso instead of using it for herself.
“Pretty sure you’re the first woman I’ve known who can stand a chill better than a man,” Rowan said. “My wife was always complaining about drafts.”
�
��You had a wife?” Felgor asked.
“Why’s that so hard to believe?”
Felgor didn’t answer. Just wrapped himself tighter in his cloak.
“Cold is relative,” Vera said. “I’ve had far worse.”
“Gods, where?” Rowan asked.
“The islands of Papyria hook north. Very far north.”
“You’re from all the way up there?” Felgor asked.
“Nobody is from there anymore. But for hundreds of years that’s where widows have been sent to train. One of the most distant islands on the Papyrian archipelago is called Roriku. There is a mountain there that is crusted with ice even in the height of summer. I spent eighteen years there.”
“What was it like?” Rowan asked. “The training, I mean.”
“It was cold, Rowan. Much colder than this. Many of my fellow widows did not survive.”
“Why do it then?” Bershad asked.
“Every widow who completes the training earns her sharkskin armor. We spend a lifetime protecting Papyrian royalty. The empress herself is guarded by one hundred and eight of my sisters at all times.” Vera shrugged. “I wanted to be one of them.”
“If you signed up to protect the empress of Papyria, it must burn your piss to be up here on this mountain with a bunch of outlander men, chasing after an Almiran princess,” Felgor said.
“That is one way to put it.” She moved a stray hair behind her ear. “But at least I’m not cold.”
Everyone laughed at that. Bershad kept looking at Vera, though. Saw a look he didn’t recognize on her face. Sadness.
Rowan saw it, too.
“I just realized you were Kira’s widow,” he said. “You must have been.”
Vera gave a slow nod. “That’s right. I’ve been by her side for al most her entire life.” Vera trailed off. Looked down at her fists. “And I will never forgive myself for allowing her to be taken.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Rowan said. “You couldn’t watch her every second of the day. Nobody could have.”
“That doesn’t matter. Protecting her was my sworn duty, and I failed. There is no excuse.”
Nobody said anything for a few moments. Bershad could imagine the sort of guilt and pain Vera was holding. He carried something similar.
“Kira is still alive,” Bershad said eventually. “And so are you. Shame won’t help you get her back. You’ve got to stay focused on the job ahead.”
Vera didn’t say anything, but her face started to look a little less grim.
“Kira was just a child when I got my bars,” Bershad said, thinking it’d be good to lighten the mood a little. “What kind of person did she grow up to be?”
Vera considered that. “She’s beautiful. Funny. Always able to make people laugh with an effortless kind of grace. Kira was the center of attention at every feast and festival. People fall in love with her within moments of meeting her.”
“Sounds like my kind of princess,” Felgor muttered.
Vera chewed her lip for a moment.
“But she’s also reckless,” she continued. “Slower to forgive than her father and more devious than her sister. Full of wild passion.”
“Now I like her even more,” Felgor said, closing his eyes.
“Careful, Balarian. I once broke every bone in a small lord’s hand for a comment like that.”
Felgor put his palms up in mock surrender, but didn’t open his eyes. “No offense meant, little spider.”
* * *
Days later, their path was interrupted by a river. It rushed from the mountains in a blue torrent—crashing across rocks and steep drops.
“We need to cross this,” Bershad said, raising his voice to be heard over the river’s roar.
“You’re sure?” Vera asked. The current was moving with such ferocity that fording the river looked impossible no matter where they tried it.
Bershad nodded, looking up the river. “A good trail continues on the far side, but if we stay on this bank it’s a wild mess. I definitely crossed somewhere around here with the Balarians.”
“How?” Felgor asked, eyeing the water.
Bershad shrugged. “It was easy in autumn, the river was barely running. But with the spring snowmelt…”
“A different river,” Rowan said. “So how are we getting across this thing today?”
Bershad looked at everyone’s curious faces, and then pointed about a hundred yards up the river. There was a fallen tree stretching across the water.
“That wood’s rotten,” Rowan said when they got up to the trunk. “And the donkey is going to trip and die if we try to lead him across.”
“It’s just damp. We’ve taken Alfonso across worse than this.”
“Ten years ago, maybe.”
Bershad looked at the log. It probably was starting to rot, but the log was three feet wide at its thinnest spot near the other bank, and he didn’t think they’d find a better crossing. The land on their side of the river was covered with thick forest and jagged slices of rock. If they had to stray too far from the river Bershad was afraid they’d get lost.
“The thief first. Then the donkey.”
To Bershad’s surprise, Felgor perked up at that.
“Time for a little hop?” he asked cheerfully.
“That’s right,” Bershad said.
“Not a problem.”
Felgor heaved his small backpack across the river, and then tiptoed across the trunk—arms outstretched and feet close together. He leapt off onto the far side of the river and performed several quick bows. Then his eyes darted around, scanning the considerable gap he’d managed to put between himself and his captors. He had a look on his face like he’d been told a secret he didn’t quite believe. Bershad moved to cross the trunk, but Vera was ahead of him.
She took two steps forward and unwound one of the slings from her thigh. Loaded it with a lead shot from the pouch on her hip.
“I see your head filling up with ideas, Felgor,” Vera said. “Better you keep your skull empty. Show me your back, and I’ll show you a shot through the knee. The donkey can take a cripple up the mountain just as easily.”
Felgor pressed his lips into a thin line. “One of these days, little spider, you’re going to start trusting me.”
“But not today.”
Bershad nodded at Vera. “Now Alfonso.”
Rowan sighed and picked up the donkey’s reins. He stepped onto the wooden trunk and began to lead him across. Alfonso sniffed when he reached the makeshift bridge, tested the trunk with one hoof, snorted, and then followed.
When they were halfway across, the wood started to sag.
“Best hurry, Rowan.”
Rowan grunted and kept going, placing his feet carefully as he neared the far bank. He was two or three steps from the far bank when the trunk splintered.
Alfonso let out a panicked whinny, and then scrambled forward, hooves clopping at the rotten trunk and sending pieces of wood into the churning water below. His muzzle rammed into Rowan, who fell forward and managed to grasp a rocky ledge before Alfonso used the middle of his back as a bridge onto solid ground. A heartbeat later, the trunk snapped and went careening into the river.
“Just damp, you bastard?” Rowan yelled, getting up and rubbing his back. Alfonso was already cropping at the tall grass on that side of the river, the near-death experience forgotten. Bershad looked over at Vera.
“Guess we’re stuck with each other,” he said.
Vera removed the shot from her sling in a smooth, practiced motion and put it back in the satchel she kept on her hip. “The Balarian is responsible for getting me into the Imperial Palace. I do not want to be separated from him for long. Is there another crossing higher up?”
“No idea.” Bershad scanned the thick forest ahead. It would be difficult to stay close to the river—the bank turned into a high shelf of rock on their side, and the twisted trees grew too close together to walk through.
“What’s the plan now?” Felgor called from t
he other side.
“The trail’s just up there on your side,” Bershad called over the rush of water, pointing. “It follows the river until it reaches a dragon warren. We’ll meet you there.”
“How far?” Rowan called back.
“A day for you. Maybe a little less. But this side is for shit so we’ll be behind you.”
“Armor?” Rowan asked.
“Just the mask.” If they were climbing up this side of the river, the rest was too heavy. “One of the spears, too.”
Rowan nodded and moved over to Alfonso’s pack. He unstrapped the jaguar helm from the saddle horn and grabbed one of the empty water skins, then wrapped them both up together and tossed them across the water. Bershad caught it, slung the skin over one shoulder, and fixed the mask onto a belt hook. The spear came next—Rowan tossed it a few feet to Bershad’s right so that he could snatch it from the air.
“Stay with the river, you can’t get lost,” Bershad said, then turned back to Vera. “You ready?”
She nodded and motioned for Bershad to lead the way. On the other side, Rowan and Felgor disappeared, following the easy trail that wrapped its way up the mountain in lazy switchbacks.
Within a hundred yards, Bershad and Vera descended into a gloomy devastation of trees and boulders. They tried to pick their way through it at first, sticking close to the river and hoping for another crossing, but after three hours they were both sweaty and covered with scratches from the tree twigs and sharp rocks they had to clamber over on all fours.
Bershad stopped and leaned over the bank just enough to fill the water skin. He had to hold it with both hands to keep it from being torn free and lost.
“We can’t keep going along the river,” he said after taking a few gulps of water and passing it to Vera.
Vera nodded. “Agreed.”
Bershad found a narrow ridge of rock that they could follow, but it was moving them in the wrong direction. They would lose a lot of time if they didn’t find a drainage path or ravine they could use to climb higher, but there wasn’t another option that he could see.
They followed the ridge for most of the morning. Around noon, Vera stopped. “You’re not limping anymore.”
Blood of an Exile Page 22
