by Dale Lucas
Korin? Did that mean . . . ?
Tzimena screamed, pure fury, desperation, need. She tore into the earth so hard her nails tore and her fingers began to bleed. As she yanked, again and again, the stone started to move.
“Gah! Gah! Gah!” someone shouted, each bark punctuated by the ring of blade on blade—a bevy of strikes, seeking to end the match with overwhelming force.
The stone tore loose. Tzimena had it in hand. She yanked it up—it was far heavier than she’d imagined—took to her feet, and dashed across the path toward the two combatants.
The duke was driving Rem back toward the fallen ash, blow after blow in merciless succession, Rem helpless to do much more than hold his sword high and horizontal in the hope of parrying the onslaught.
Tzimena nearly rammed right into the duke, but managed to skid to a halt just short of him. Careful to avoid his blade as he brought it back for each overhand strike, she raised the big, heavy stone in her hand and brought it crashing down on Verin Lyr’s unprotected skull.
The stone was unwieldy. It hit hard before glancing off. The duke’s attack on Rem paused, sword in midstrike, and the duke spun on her, shocked and amazed. For an instant Tzimena thought she might have missed, or failed to hit him hard enough. Then she saw that his openmouthed face was suddenly stained by a sheet of blood from his rent scalp. As the blood poured down from his head, Rem struck from behind. His sword point burst out of the duke’s gut, just below his rib cage. The bleeding duke lowered his eyes to see what had suddenly bitten through him.
Tzimena brought the stone down again on his lowered head. She took him high, on the back of the skull, and Verin Lyr hit the forest floor limply, like an overstuffed sack of turnips. She took a step back, horrified at what she’d done, at all the blood welling up from his cracked skull, at the finality and the ugliness of it.
Then she saw his right hand twitch.
Tzimena brought the stone down one more time. She felt his skull split this time, the hard shell and the soft, gray innards all yielding to the elemental weight of the stone she held. Something warm and wet hit her face.
To her own astonishment, she didn’t stop. She hated him. Cursed him. Hoped to hurt him—to torture him—to unman him.
She lost track of how many times she brought that stone down, but it was Rem who finally put his arms around her and drew her off. He whispered to her, his voice soft and easy and understanding.
“He’s gone,” he said. “Drop it, Tzimena. It’s over. It’s all over.”
She was crying, her vision blurred by tears and blood, the taste of copper and bile in her mouth, a terrible, empty hole in the center of her. She did as Rem bade and dropped the stone. For an instant, just an instant, she studied her grim work: the shattered skull, the mottled bits of flesh and hair, the brains and blood, dashed out upon the ground and slopped about like the produce of a slaughter yard.
And then she realized she never, ever wanted to see such a thing again, let alone be responsible for it.
Tzimena threw herself into Rem’s arms, sobbing. He held her, his embrace strong, speaking quietly to soothe and comfort her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Six weeks following the bloody battle in the forest—six weeks to the day—Rem and Torval were back in Yenara, enjoying an evening like any other in the King’s Ass. Indilen was at Rem’s side, the smell of her and the warmth of her a welcome balm after what felt like years on the road. Torval’s family was present, as well, along with Aarna. Though technically on duty, the taverner still spent a great deal of time at their corner table, assuring herself that her two most annoying patrons were well cared for. Questions were fired like arrows from Galen’s bow, and anecdotes of their journey reeled off with such frequency, and such a complete disinterest in order and chronology, that Rem lost track of almost every episode they tried to narrate. It was a fine summer night, all the windows and doors thrown open to let in the cool bay breezes that cut razor sharp through the otherwise balmy air. Though the taproom rumbled with laughter and conversations, it was not so crowded as to make their welcome-home feast unpleasant, nor so raucous as to seem an ill-chosen venue for a family supper. Flush with their promised reward, Torval and Rem each bought rounds for the place and filled a minstrel’s cup with coin, to keep him and his lovely singing partner performing all through the night.
It was perfect, the exact sort of homecoming Rem had dreamed of for all their time away . . . and yet something still ate at him. It was an itch at the back of his brain, an insistent, dirgelike chord of sullen doom sung by an unseen chorus of alien voices within him. For the first part of the night, he’d done his best to wrestle it down, deep into the shadowy corners of his psyche, far away from his joy at having returned to his love and his adopted city safe and sound after such a perilous journey.
But the shadow would not be banished. It lurked at the periphery of his awareness, squatted in the low, dark corners at the edge of his conscious thoughts, brooded, silent and sullen, even as Torval regaled his children with a much embellished—and much sanitized—version of their harrowing adventures through the Ethkeraldi.
“There I was,” the dwarf deadpanned, face grim, voice a hoarse whisper, “surrounded by three armed killers in ducal livery and another pair of those outlaws called the Devils of the Weald. They had me—dead to rights!—though I was armed and willing to drag each and every one of the bastards down to the Eternal Forge with me if they dared charge—”
“And where was Uncle Rem?” Lokki asked.
“Uncle Rem had a mission of his own,” Torval said, “saving that poor pursued maiden of Estavar from her horrid suitor!”
Indilen, head on Rem’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around Rem’s own, gave him a teasing squeeze and glanced up at him. “Always running after damsels in distress,” she said with a smirk.
“Old habits die hard,” he said, forcing a smile and kissing her softly. Then, he leaned nearer. “Besides, at the end of the day, she saved my skin—not the other way around.”
Her eyes narrowed. The smirk became a sly smile. “I’m sure you were oh so grateful.”
Rem didn’t answer, but offered a smirk of his own. He turned back to Torval, who suddenly leapt up from his chair and beamed the empty pewter mug in his hands at the trio of wooden cups arrayed on the table before him. As the mug slammed hard into the cups and scattered them with a rattling crash, Torval shouted—
“Crash! There they went! All my enemies bowled aside at a single blow by an unlucky horse pitched straight as a skipping stone! And who do you think saved me in my hour of need? What avenging angel swooped down from the high heavens at that very moment—when I was cornered and ready to die in a storm of blood and dashed bone under all those enemy blades?”
The children all stared, wide-eyed, waiting for the answer. Ammi threw a worried look at her aunt Osma. Osma rolled her eyes, knowing all too well what a tale spinner her brother could be.
“Standing across the clearing,” Torval continued, staring into the middle distance as though he could conjure up the image before him, “head and shoulders above everyone else in the melee, stood a bloody, knotty-skinned mountain troll—twelve feet high if he was an inch! I know not why it took pity on me in that moment, but it was that very beast that pitched the horse and saved the day for me. I raised my maul in salute, to pay homage to the big brute. It raised a single fist in answer.”
Rem leaned toward Indilen. “That’s not precisely how I remember it,” he whispered.
He did not hear her reply, though. The moment he spoke, his mind yanked him back, unbidden, to the moment that he and Tzimena returned to the clearing and took in the aftermath of the battle just finishing there.
Rem remembered thinking, No. This isn’t right. It can’t be. This is the aftermath of a war. We were just passing through the woods, delivering a prisoner . . .
* * *
When Rem and Tzimena returned to the clearing—trailing the two extra horses, one of which carried t
he duke’s dead body draped over it, his cloak and hood concealing his ruined head—the fighting had wound down. Prisoners were gathered in the middle of the clearing—two Devils of the Weald, a young soldier from Duke Verin’s private guard, and the lord marshal himself—while the dead had been separated and laid out on their backs, to better identify them. Croften and Tuvera were among those slain. They lay alongside the Red Raven, two unknown Devils of the Weald, and almost a full dozen of the duke’s private guard.
Torval, Wallenbrand, Galen, and Elvaris had taken command of the situation. Gnusha and his mercenaries stood aside, seemingly aware that their presence, though tolerated, was hardly welcome. Rem had to admit, he was relieved to see Torval and the orcs moving about the same space, attending to their separate business without even a fell glance or show of weapons. Elvaris sat on a fallen beech, fresh bandages soaking up seeping blood on her thigh, while Galen stitched up a small slash wound on her forehead.
When Wallenbrand saw Rem and Tzimena return, he strode across the clearing to meet them. Tzimena, who’d been riding behind Rem, arms around his waist, face buried in his shoulder, dismounted first and moved to meet the salty old sellsword before Rem could even climb out of the saddle.
“He gave chase,” she said flatly, suggesting the dead duke. “He threatened to kill me. Rem fought with him, but in the end I killed him.”
Wallenbrand stared. “You, milady?”
“Me,” she said. “Rem fought to defend me, but the killing blows were mine. If there are charges to be brought, punishments to bear, I shall bear them.”
Wallenbrand shook his head. “Milady, I’m just a simple soldier—a hired one at that—but if I have any say, there shall be none. Come away, now, you’re bleeding.”
“It’s not my blood,” she said, still sounding like someone half-gassed on witchweed. “It’s his.” Her half-hearted nod suggested the dead duke.
Rem made sure the horses were hobbled, then approached Tzimena. The old soldier smiled a little and nodded.
“Good to see you safe, lad. I know Elvaris and Galen will be grateful for your defense of the lady.”
“The lord marshal?” Rem asked, seeing the proud commander sitting awkwardly with the other prisoners.
Wallenbrand nodded. “Turned on us. Stood with the duke’s bodyguards and tried to slay Croften and me, along with the Lady Tzimena’s soldiers. Left wrist and right ankle are shattered—courtesy of your dwarven partner—but he’ll live.”
Rem shook his head. “He’s your commander, Wallenbrand. How—”
“Commander,” Wallenbrand scoffed. “He hired me—hired all of us—to help hunt down and kill a single man. He spent the lives of his own men—men who obeyed him and trusted him—to see a single man punished. My word may not count for much, but I’ll tell anyone who asks just what I think he deserves.”
Rem nodded, understanding completely. He admired the old man. If they were back in Yenara, he’d make a fine prefect of the watch. Without a word, Rem left Tzimena and Wallenbrand where they stood and trudged on. He wanted to make sure there could be peace between Gnusha’s Blades and his combative partner.
“Did you meet them?” Rem asked as he approached Torval. “My saviors?”
Torval threw a dark glance at the milling orcs and snorted. “Saviors,” he muttered. “Captors, more like.”
Rem stepped closer and spoke quietly. “When they found me,” Rem said, “I was hanging upside down, a yet-to-be-slaughtered supper for the Bloody Boskers. But they cut me down and took me among them—even fed me. I wouldn’t be here right now if they’d been as wicked as you’d like to think them.”
Torval lowered his eyes and shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.
“Come meet them,” Rem said. “Say thank you.”
Torval raised his eyes again, clearly not fond of that idea.
“Then come with me,” Rem offered. “Let me say thank you. You can just stand there and see what orcish honor looks like.”
Without waiting for his partner to agree, Rem strode past Torval and approached Gnusha. The orcs all looked dirty, dusty, and bloodied, but little worse for wear. Hrozhna, the troll, sat on the ground, staring at some freshly picked wildflowers in wonder, as though he’d never seen such beautiful things before. Half a dozen arrows were buried in his thick gray hide, but they did not seem to trouble him. Wudji the goblin had one arm in a bloodied sling and sat staring forlornly at his bow, the string now cut or broken. Tludjaba, the female, was having a bloody gash on her arm stitched by Thuwat, the young champion.
Gnusha stood tall as Rem approached. His mighty, forward-swept saber was sheathed at his side, his large hands empty.
“Did you wet your blade, Gnusha?” Rem asked.
Gnusha nodded. “Paid to kill bandits, we. Kill them, we. Earn purse, we did.”
Rem glanced sideward and saw Torval lingering at his elbow, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, clearly not wanting to engage with the orcs directly or even look at them. Rem decided his presence was enough and resisted the urge to try to make him say anything.
“I have bad news, Gnusha,” Rem said, and indicated the corpse flung over the horse he’d led back to the clearing, far across the field. “The duke is dead. I caught him trying to murder that girl. He had to be put down.”
Gnusha stared at the body across the clearing, then looked to Rem again, then back to the body. Finally he shrugged. “Paid in advance, did he. Lose nothing do Gnusha and his Blades.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Rem had said, smiling and honestly meaning it. “What happens now?”
Gnusha studied the killing ground: the dead, the prisoners, his comrades. He weighed Rem’s question heavily.
“Killed bandits. End to oath maker, end to oath. Go, we.”
“Go where?” Rem asked.
Gnusha shrugged again. “Go, we, where there is good money for good fight. Have good fight, we.”
“Have good fight, you do,” Rem said. “I must thank you, Gnusha. My woman, back home, she thanks you, too. You saved my life, and you treated me with honor. If there is ever a favor I can do you, a favor it’s in my power to do, I swear, it shall be done.”
He offered his hand. A furtive glance sideward told him that Torval’s eyes were as wide and white as two of his pickled eggs. No doubt he wanted to reach out and slap Rem’s hand away.
Make a pact with an orc? he might shout. Be in the debt of an orc? Are you out of your mind, boy?
Rem wondered. He might be. But fair was fair. When someone did you a good turn, you repaid it.
Gnusha, to Rem’s great surprise, reached out and took his hand—or, more accurately, his wrist. The orc’s big hand wrapped around Rem’s wrist and Rem did his best to grasp Gnusha’s own—though it was far too thick for his fingers to stretch very far. They locked gazes for a moment, eye to eye.
“Are brave, you, Hramba,” Gnusha said, trying his best to render Rem’s name in his own tongue. “Meet again, we, be it as hruga.”
Hruga: friends.
“Ba,” Rem said, using one of the very few orcish words he knew. “Djac-ba.”
Yes. Great yes.
Hopefully, Gnusha would forgive his scant grasp of the orcish tongue.
Gnusha smiled then. With his fangs and tusks, it was a most fearsome expression . . . and yet it made Rem feel good. Their handshake broke and Rem stepped away.
That’s when Torval spoke.
“Hraba du, dja,” the dwarf said. Rem knew those words, as well, though he’d heard them seldom enough in Yenara, from orcs or from his own partner’s lips.
I thank you, Torval had said.
Gnusha nodded in acknowledgement. “Is good friend, he,” the orc answered. “Keep safe, you.”
And with that Gnusha turned and moved to join his band. Rem urged Torval to withdraw, and they turned and headed back across the clearing.
“That was big of you,” Rem said quietly.
“I suppose,” Torval said, “your soft, courtly manners are
rubbing off on me.”
“Careful now,” Rem said with a smile, “you might start reciting poetry next.”
“Where are you?” Indilen asked.
Rem blinked. Torval had disappeared, though his children and Osma were still at the table, munching nut biscuits and quaffing summer cider. Rem looked to Indilen as if for some explanation. Clearly she saw the shock and confusion on his face, because she only shook her head and touched his hand where it lay in his lap.
“He stepped away,” she said quietly. “Probably for a piss in the jakes. But where were you off to? I saw the way your eyes glazed over.”
Rem tried to smile, but he was certain he failed. “Just taken back, that’s all. To the woods.”
Indilen studied him. Sometimes, when certain people studied him so closely—eyes boring into him, weighing the unseen, incorporeal parts of him that were most personal and private—he felt insulted, violated, even ashamed. But there was something warming in Indilen’s appraisals, something that told him he was not being judged but examined, as a mother looked over a child after a hard fall, in search of injuries in need of attention.
“Do you want to tell me?” she asked. She did not elaborate—but then again, she didn’t have to. Rem knew exactly what she meant. They hadn’t talked much about it since his return, his close calls and trials on the road largely unelaborated upon.
Torval was away. The children and Osma chattered to themselves. Even Aarna was nowhere to be seen, probably back in the kitchens, seeing to the firepits or waiting for a fresh gooseberry pie from the hearth. This might be a good moment, Rem thought, for him and Indilen to talk more directly—good enough to start the tale, anyway, even if he could not finish it.
“It just weighs on me,” he said, lowering his eyes. “The meanness. The waste. Just like Geezer and Rikka . . . but bigger. Uglier.”
Indilen placed a single warm hand on his cheek and drew Rem into her arms. He held her tight. Words fell out of him in a hoarse, rapid-fire whisper, right into her ear.
