by Dale Lucas
They were underway as the first rays of the rising sun cut down through the treetops, made solid by the lingering mists. Deep in the recesses of the wood, thrushes and warblers made merry, and the sound of the tumbling Kaarten echoed through the empty cathedral of the pillared sylvan landscape like the murmuring of slowly waking gods in chambers beneath the earth. The air was alternately warm and cold, welcoming and biting, as strange breezes whipped among the redwoods, set the willows murmuring, and slithered through copses of fern and sorrel. Rem and Torval tried to occupy themselves with occasional idle conversations about home and the humdrum—funny anecdotes about their coworkers, tales of family life, remembrances of some of their favorite collars in their shared year together. But try as they might to keep things casual and freewheeling, Rem could still sense that there was a pall over everything. Up ahead of them, the Red Raven sat placidly in his cage, for once not engaging them in conversation. He amused himself with grabbing close-passing boughs, then slowly, methodically pulling leaves from them, as though counting inwardly or taking some silent inventory.
Rem studied the man, finally eager to see if he could manage a true, unbiased appraisal of him. He was a little older than Rem—probably thirty, maybe even thirty-five—but though hard living had lined his face, he still had a young man’s vigor and spirit. His ability to chat up a stranger, to laugh, to seem thoroughly earnest and open when, in fact, he was probably just sounding for a weakness to be exploited, all suggested that he hadn’t lost any of the diplomatic or political acumen that he’d gained during his years in the Eraldic court. He might look like an itinerant lute player, but he was still a political creature.
But what had happened to him? That was what occupied the greater measure of Rem’s curiosity. If it was true that his brother had sought to murder him and seize the duchy for himself, how, then, had Korin Lyr escaped the assassin’s blade and managed to become an already-famous woodland outlaw? Rem supposed there could be any number of explanations. He could have ingratiated himself with the real Red Raven and then been deemed a worthy successor when the man died or retired. He could just as easily have challenged or murdered the previous Red Raven and claimed his mantle. If the Devils of the Weald were outlaws, they would respond to a show of force and superior prowess, wouldn’t they? Or perhaps they were the ones who’d legitimized him? Perhaps he’d joined their company after a period of captivity as a rank-and-file robber, only to prove his worth and eventual superiority to their previous leader? If the robbers backed a new leader, there was little their old one could do about it.
Look at yourself, Rem thought. You left home without a destination, without a plan. You ended up in Yenara. You were arrested after a drunken brawl, saved the watchward prefect from a would-be murderer, and then talked your way into a job. Must it have been so different for this man? Hells, couldn’t you have been him? What if you’d decided to go to Kaarth instead of Yenara? You could’ve been passing through these very woods as a traveler, been taken captive by the Devils, then managed to talk your way into their ranks just as you did into the wardwatch.
Is it so hard to imagine? So impossible to consider?
No. No, the strange part, after the most surprising and adventurous year of his life, was that absolutely nothing sounded too strange for Rem to believe anymore.
But what did it matter how Korin Lyr had become the Raven, or why? The real question was what happened now. If his gang attacked their caravan today, or tomorrow, or the next day or the next, would Rem and Torval make it out of the encounter alive? Or would they end up dead by the road, like the lord marshal and his men?
That was the worst part of their predicament, Rem realized: there was no one to trust. The Raven was an outlaw, suspicious from the start. The lord marshal was a foreign military man and clearly had an unspoken agenda; hopeless. And the Lady Tzimena? She struck Rem as a good woman, trapped between opposing forces in an untenable situation. She might be sympathetic, but she probably had as little control over this situation as Rem and Torval did.
They had no one to trust, no one to rely on. It was Rem and Torval, alone, in a world of murderous thieves and political machinations that was very far above their humble pay grade.
Late in the morning, at about the time when they might have stopped for rest and a midday repast, they came to the place where the road led on a gentle incline down the riverbank, right into the swift waters of the Kaarten, before emerging again on the far side. There was neither bridge nor ferry crossing.
“A ford?” Torval asked, staring at the Kaarten with dread.
“No bridge that I can see,” Rem said. “What’s the matter, old stump? This isn’t the first stream we’ve forded on this journey.”
“But it’s the widest,” Torval said, trepidation turning his face to pale stone. “And the deepest. And, by the look, the swiftest.”
Rem didn’t like the look of fear on his partner’s face. “It’s perfectly safe,” he said.
“Safe for all you tall folk,” Torval said with a huff. “May I remind you that I’m half your size and I can’t swim?”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” the Raven said from his cage, now sitting idle about ten feet in front of them. “You’re three-quarters his size, not half.”
“Did I ask you?” Torval snapped. He was clearly nervous. Rem supposed that if he himself were unusually short, thick with muscle, and unable to swim, it’d probably scare him, as well.
“It’ll be all right,” Rem said. “That pony’s probably a fine swimmer. Just stay in the saddle and—”
“What do I do if I fall?” Torval asked. He was staring at Rem now. “If this beast lurches and I lose my purchase . . . If the waters take me . . .”
Rem had never seen anything like the look that he now saw in the dwarf’s eyes. The old stump was honestly frightened. He might even be on the verge of panic. He reached out and laid a hand on his friend’s muscular forearm.
“Torval,” Rem said, “you’ll be fine.”
“Could I ride with you?” Torval asked, his look that of a beseeching child eager to sleep with his parents after a nightmare.
“With me?” Rem asked.
“You heard me,” Torval said. “There’s room for me, isn’t there?”
“Torval, stop it,” Rem said, leaning close. Up ahead, the lord marshal had sent Croften into the churning Kaarten. A line of hemp rope trailed behind the big scout and his mount, held on the bank by Wallenbrand and young Brekkon. Rem suggested the sight to Torval. “See there? Croften’s fording ahead, and leading a line across. We’ll be able to hold on to that when we cross.”
“A line,” Torval said, rising in his saddle and struggling to get a better look at what was unfolding. When the high walls of the oxcart made a clear view impossible, the dwarf gave his pony a little kick in the ribs, and the animal shuffled forward toward the end of the road.
“It’ll be fine,” Rem said. “Just stay in the saddle, keep your feet couched tight in those stirrups, and you’ll reach the far side safe and sound. Wet, but safe. They’ll be rolling the wagon and the cage across, after all. If they can make it, certainly you can—”
“Small chance of a supply wagon or a crow’s cage being washed downriver,” the Raven said. “But a single dwarf on a pony—”
“Shut your mouth,” Rem snapped. “This isn’t the time.”
The Raven grinned from his cage. “Just teasing the old stump. No harm meant.”
Torval’s head swiveled slowly toward the Raven, eyes narrowing. “What did you call me?”
“ ‘Old stump,’ ” the Raven said. “Isn’t that what your friend just called you?”
Torval pointed at Rem, but kept glaring at the Raven. “He calls me ‘old stump.’ My mates and my prefect on the ward call me ‘old stump.’ You, you sneaky twat, don’t get to call me ‘old stump.’ ”
The Raven raised his hands in surrender. “Apologies, master dwarf. Just trying to put you at ease.”
“When I need
my ease from the likes of you,” Torval said, turning back toward the unfolding fording of the river, “I’ll work it out with my maul and my fists.”
Rem shot the Raven a silent warning: He means it. Keep your mouth shut.
The Raven, to Rem’s great surprise, looked honestly hurt and embarrassed. He nodded the slightest bit, then settled down in his cage again, silent and patient.
Across the river, Croften was just emerging. Rem hadn’t been watching during the crossing—the exchange between Torval and the Red Raven had drawn his attention—but clearly the big guardsman had never gotten more than hip deep in the river, his horse’s withers and head always above the flow. That was good. Torval’s pony might be hard-pressed to cross without some paddling, but that meant the water was still shallow enough to not be so treacherous as Torval imagined. There was, of course, the current to worry about: swift, but not violent or turbulent. But certainly Torval could keep his mount upright and keep himself in the saddle for such a brief crossing? His panic was entirely misplaced. How much force was required to knock one dwarf off a small mount and wash him away?
On the far bank, Croften swung out of his saddle and started tying the other end of the lifeline he’d carried to an alder just a stone’s throw from the river’s edge. On the near bank, Wallenbrand and Brekkon found a pine and tied their own end of the line. Just like that, the way was clear: they now had a wet, sagging lifeline leading from one side to the other. If they each crossed upriver of it, then, in case of disaster, they could snag the line as the current swept them along.
At least Rem hoped that was how it would work.
The lord marshal turned his horse. “Bring up the wagon and the cage first!”
Brekkon was tapped for wagon duty, to lead the way across the ford and make sure the cart followed the shallowest and least treacherous path. The young man hurried from the riverbank, swung into his saddle, and took up a position on the edge of the forest road. The other riders at the head of the column—the lord marshal, Wallenbrand, Tuvera, Redriga, Kolia, and the Lady Tzimena—all moved their mounts off the road so that Wirren could bring the big oxcart forward to the river’s edge.
Rem could not see Wirren, perched on the driver’s bench of the cart and hidden by its high sides, but he heard the snap of the reins. The whole assembly creaked and jostled forward toward the ford, the ox trudging lazily along, pulling the cart behind as though it were a child’s toy.
The Red Raven knew what he was about to be subjected to and prepared, stripping his coat and the main ox pelt he’d been using as a blanket inside the cage and squeezing them both through the bars of the cage roof. He laced them through well enough to keep a grip on them, then stood as upright as he could manage in the cramped little cage.
The wagon slowed as it began the downward slope into the ford. On the far side of the river, Croften stood sentinel at the water’s edge, ready to dive in if need be to aid his comrades. Rem wondered if, perhaps, more hands should have been engaged to get the wagon and the cage across, but almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, he realized why they hadn’t been.
This was the most dangerous part of their fording of the river. Though each was heavy, the wagon and the cage also represented major obstacles for the rushing waters. An ill-timed surge in the current or a poorly placed depression in the riverbed itself could throw the cart and the cage sideward and spill them into the river.
If the cage toppled, the Red Raven was likely to drown in it before any number of them could right it again.
Rem guessed this was part of the lord marshal’s plan: Keep everyone safe on the banks. Hazard his least important soldier and his prisoner, with only his boy—mounted, and thus safer—to try to keep everything from being lost. Better to risk their supplies and their prisoner than anyone else in the company.
And wasn’t that convenient? If the Raven drowned here because of a freak mishap, that would make the rest of their journey far simpler, wouldn’t it?
They were halfway across now, the wagon rocking against the pressure of the current, the waters tumbling unimpeded through the half-submerged cage. The Raven looked miserable, the waters rising and churning around him. Since they’d first arrested the man, Rem had never seen him once look nervous or out of his depth. Now, though, even at the widening distance between them, he could see it clearly. He could read it in the movements of his body and the wideness of his eyes. Caught in that cage, the cold waters of the Kaarten battering and foaming about him, the Red Raven was, for the first time, frightened.
The whole forest seemed to hold its breath as the wain and the cage wobbled across the rocky ford, battered by the foaming current. Finally, after a veritable eternity, they reached the far side and began to climb the bank. Croften scurried down into the water to meet them, to snag the ox’s bridle and urge it forward as Wirren shouted and whipped it from behind. Brekkon pushed his mount onward, pounding up the bank to the road on the far side, then dismounted and hurried back to aid in physically urging the big ox as it trudged up the bank. After a few minutes, both the cart and the cage were out of the river. Rem could see, even here, that the Raven was shivering and miserable in his rolling cell. As the cart mounted the flat land beyond the bank, the Raven settled back down into the bed of his cage, slipped into his still-dry coat, and wrapped himself in the still-dry ox hide blanket.
The lord marshal looked to Tuvera. “After you, Captain.”
Tuvera gave her orders, and they were carried out. Single-file, the lady of Toriel and her servants crossed the river. Rem was quite impressed with the Lady Tzimena’s confidence atop her mount. She drove the animal right into the water and across in one long, smooth, unbroken action, never once hesitating or allowing the animal to balk. She even managed to slip past the two guards ahead of her and make the far bank before any of her soldiers had. At last there she was, sitting her horse, clothing soaked and clinging, waiting on the summit of the bank as the rest of her retinue scurried up after her.
The lord marshal rode nearer to Rem and Torval. “On, good watchwardens. We’ll bring up the rear.”
Rem looked to Torval. “We’re ready,” he said with finality.
Torval nodded. His eyes were still wide, anxious, the same color as the cold blue waters that were about to batter the two of them. He made no attempts to beg off or delay, however. No, to Rem’s great astonishment, the frightened dwarf just drew in a deep breath, nodded, and spurred his mount.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered under his breath.
Rem nodded and followed. He let Torval move ahead of him, reasoning that if anything went wrong, it would be easier to help from behind. Torval’s pony was entirely unmoved by the spectacle of the flowing Kaarten, and only shied the slightest bit when its hooves first splashed into the cold, roiling waters. Torval started to curse, but Rem rode up behind them and smacked the shaggy pony lightly on its rump. The animal shook its head, whickered, and plunged into the water with a great splash. Torval launched an onslaught of curses and invective so loud that they echoed into the forest like the crack of lightning-struck trees. The soldiers on the far bank, hearing his curses, laughed loudly in answer.
“It’s gods-damned cold!” Torval shouted. His mount was moving into the deeper water now, struggling to swim and keep its head above water as the current pressed against it. Rem imagined the animal doing a series of leaps and landings beneath the river waves, its hooves hitting the rocky bottom of the riverbed, its head momentarily below the water’s surface, then springing up again and swimming forward for a few feet before sinking again. Each time his head was dunked and surfaced again, Torval came up sputtering.
“Hold on!” Rem shouted by way of encouragement. “You’re doing fine, old stump! We’re almost across!”
Rem’s own mount showed no distress at all, moving smoothly along without so much as a stumble in its gait. Torval was right, the pressing waters were cold—horribly so—but the going was steady, if a little slow. In no time they�
��d be on that far bank . . .
Once more, Torval’s pony plunged under, taking him with it, then leapt up and swam forward again. Amid the splashing and noise, Rem heard Torval shouting.
“On, you blasted pack beast!” he roared. “Move those short, stumpy legs of yours! Hyah!”
Rem smiled in spite of himself. He really hated to laugh at the dwarf’s discomfort, but there was something mildly endearing about the normally unflappable Torval being well and thoroughly flapped by anything—even if it was the prospect of being swept away in a river current and drowning.
Rem turned in the saddle. He wanted to see what was happening behind him. The lord marshal and Wallenbrand had driven their own mounts into the water. In no time they’d be across, as well, and this whole nasty episode would be behind the lot of them. Rem sincerely hoped they would stop for a time to build fires and dry out. While the day itself was warm and pleasant enough, the water was bone-numbing, and riding onward in soaking-wet raiment would do no one any good.
He was thinking about how good a fire would feel, how nice it might be to sit before it—even in the middle of the day—when his horse suddenly lost his footing. Rem wasn’t sure what had happened—whether the gelding had stepped on a loose stone that shifted out from under him or suddenly stumbled into a depression. In either case, the animal tumbled side-ward, thrashing as he went. Rem got one look at Torval, atop his splashing pony, just mounting from the river onto the bank, turned to his right and saw the foaming, swirling waters rising to meet him, then hit the water with terrific force and was dragged under.
His horse was struggling to get upright again. In his flailing about, he had yanked Rem under the water. Try as he might, he could not free his right foot from its stirrup.
Rem yanked and jerked, his horse’s struggles trapping him beneath the waves, the roaring, freezing, churning waters of the Kaarten closing over his head like a mountain avalanche.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rem knew how to swim. Water, even swift water with a deadly current, didn’t frighten him in and of itself. What frightened him now—panicked him, really—was his inability to loose himself from his stirrup or from the protests of his fallen horse. He clawed at the water, tried to climb out of it in fact, but only managed to break the surface once or twice, each time desperately yanking in a lungful of breath and foam before being dragged down into the roaring depths again. During one of his short breachings, he heard shouts from the shore, splashing, as someone waded in after him. Vaguely he recalled the line that Croften had strung across the waterway and let his hands strike in every direction in search of it. If he could find that line and gain some stability, some leverage, he might be able to finally free his foot.
