Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2)

by Michael Wolff

  IV

  On the ice of the Iroverin Road five horses trod, dark shapes glinting against the snow banks lining the roughshod path. Stromgald led them, his mount ghosting across the ice. The rest followed in line, each one as fluid at evading the ice as the one before. Raptor constantly wrapped the scarf he had over his chin, grumbling when it slipped. Sylver did not show anything, even when a particularly strong blast of winter wind sent icy knives brushing flesh, nothing but a thin line set in her mouth.

  Orson, of course, was irritated to the point of taking matters into his own hands. Mykel did not like the way he kept fingering his weapons, the way his dark eyes kept resting upon him thoughtfully. Maybe he was weighing the danger of a deathblow alerting every dark thing onto them. Maybe.

  Mykel was dragging behind. The ice knew the heavier clop of the unskilled rider, and chased after it like starving wolves. The horse tensed and slipped every few minutes, melting the insides of Mykel’s thighs to spiced cheese.

  Better cheese than being alone. If the Versi suddenly appeared, he did not want to be the one to sound the alarm. He glanced back to the pale shadows of snow and shuddered. Cold, frigid shadows stretched and darted as if hiding something. Mykel forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out. We’re going to Wyndei. We’re going to be safe. Aren’t we?

  Coicro. The hobo’s words finally triggered the revelation. Coicro. Originally called the Silver Hands, a branch of the Solvicar, also called the Sun Children. In 1982, the Jinroh dynasty was ousted from the Castle. With them went the royal clerks and bankers. The coup left the kingdom with records that nobody could make sense of. In 1983, the Church supplied the need for tax-collectors by reviving the Coicro under the rule of Alfred Pennington. They became the Church’s taxmen and eventually missionaries. Their symbol was a scale, with coins on one scale and a sword on the other. The Silver Hands were known for its knout more than its fist. From thereon in their history of war was too staggering to recollect.

  Desperately the librarian hoped they would not cross paths, and somewhat knew it to be a futile wish. Luck was not on his side, and wouldn’t be for a great while yet. Mykel wouldn’t be surprised if the he and the rangers rode straight into a legion of the silver-cloaked bastards.

  Ice cracked under hoof like a thunderbolt, and Mykel winced. The rangers were not jesting when they spoke of the dangers of night travel. One shoddy step and the horse would end with a lame leg. The animal did not seem to care; snorting and straining against the pussy-footing pace. Mykel clung to the reins with white knuckles. Fervently he hoped the beast didn’t fathom the unease sweating from him, lest there would be no rebellion to deal with. The wall of eyes, prodding and hidden both, would disappear in his wake.

  No. Trust Stromgald. Mykel kept his eyes locked on the ranger’s bobbing form, all but drowned in the curtain of white save for the hilt sticking from his shoulder. Trust the man who lay dead at his feet not a day past. It was almost to laugh. Time travel is impossible. So were Versi and Coicro a day before. Winter was impossible a day before. Lazarus will know what to do. He always knows what to do. If he lived. If this was in fact the past. Anything was possible. Mykel held onto that thought, a glowing lifeline in the curtain of pale white shadows. It was the only thing he had.

  Time spooled to jelly, and pale mist wreathed the curtains of snow. In some places, the mist was the thick clotted lumps of a man’s brain, bulbous with the ravaging of disease. From these clumps, the mist dangled in limp fingers, their chill the only real semblance of life in the plain. Just barely real. Above it all a sliver of the moon hung dejected, too pale to be healthy.

  After an hour Stromgald veered away towards a curling path amidst lumpy hills. Down here the Azure River splintered into a web of blue veins, flashing like glass in the waning daylight. Winter did not have the vice-like hold it possessed back on the road; instead the ice clung to the road in curling claws, snapping only to catch unwary prey. Mykel was glad of that; there was enough to worry without it. Crows squawked and were gone before eyes could be raised. Skeletal trees, lay broken in the road, loomed suddenly amidst the curtains of snow donning them, threatening with cragged fingers. It was only because the beasts’ lethargy that they did not break bone.

  A sudden lurch of the saddle reminded Mykel why he hated horses in the first place. Well, not hate, personally, just hate when he had one under his legs. Mykel grunted as he realized a double meaning to his thought, one that would have Kurtis bawling beer from his nostrils. Kurtis. He would be but a child at this point of time. If this was indeed the past. The horse bucked as if mocking him, and he near fell off the damn saddle. “Damn horse,” he grumbled quietly as he hoisted back into the saddle.

  Twilight led them along the Azure River, the splintering spider-threads of blue guiding them across the rolling hills of the countryside. It was a little strange to see snow in abundance, pristine and clear. Yesterday it was fall. Today he was running away from a demon. No one would believe him if he told, even those that knew he was not a drinker. It could be worse, he told himself, over and over, drumming it into his head as they followed thread after thread of sparkling blue; more than enough for Mykel to see his reflection in the water.

  I can’t believe I’m riding a horse. Not well, but that was something most stable-hands at Wyndei Darteria would have lost money on. Imagining the looks on their faces when he rode in gave him warmth. They won’t recognize me. I’m not there yet. Years of silent jeering had made him wish he had never come to Wyndei. Ironic, since it was his idea to go in the first place. Too late had he realized he had simply moved to a second Fenrir manor; only the bullies were dressed more elegantly.

  Amidst all these thoughts Mykel was watching the road for any ice that might slip past him, so he did not register the slight thump for what it was until Orson muttered curses. They had stopped. Stromgald’s blade lay still against his shoulder. Ahead of them a thin collection of streams gurgled, somehow immune to the weather, widening and thinning as they came and parted. Not even the thinnest one was enough for the horses to cross.

  Mykel gasped as knowledge hammered down on him. The River Cerulean. Few knew why people to the south called it Cerulean instead of Azure. Then again, few people knew of the long-forgotten royal cousin who attempted usurpation by signing away territory to the dreaded Visifren. Right here on this very spot, six hundred years ago. Five hundred and ninety, Mykel reminded himself. Have to be accurate. The river had been called after his tourney name, the Cerulean Knight.

  It was hard to believe they had reached this far. The slowest journey to be made to the river, to be sure. But they were here the entire damn same. “We’ve made it,” he said breathlessly.

  The others twisted in their saddles and peered at him as if he were the village idiot.

  “Made it?” Sylver echoed dryly. “We haven’t even made it halfway.”

  “It’ll take another hour to the bridge,” Raptor grumbled. Hands caught halfway his cloak and the reins, his fingers could not help drumming the hilts of his daggers. “At least two, if the road is as bad as before.”

  They all peered at him as if he should know this. It made his replies all the lamer. “We always used the kingsroad.” Sounding like a pup noble comparing the day’s catches with a hunting dog. He was glad for the shadows; a red face was the last thing he wanted.

  He was doubly puzzled at the rangers scrambling about like ants caught aflame. “What are you doing? I thought it was another hour to the bridge.”

  “I know what we said,” said Orson, ever ready with a disdainful snort. “If you haven’t noticed, it’s the dead of winter. We’re cold, we’re hungry, and we’re in the middle of nowhere.” There was no doubt who the ranger blamed for the situation. “Unless you would rather go out alone and risk breaking your neck on ice, go right ahead.”
r />   The rangers led Mykel alongside a thin creek that branched off from the Cerulean into hill country, where the giant mounds of snow stood guard for a purpose all but forgotten to history. Tucked within the shadow of said mounds was a cavern; smaller than its cousins but wide enough and more for the horses to stretch to full length. Shelves were stocked, the stables home-made, and there was even a stone pit for a fire. Mykel grinned. Just like in the stories. The winter chill reminded him otherwise. Still, comforts were comforts no matter how small.

  “I call top bunk!” Raptor scrambled up the ladder quick as a monkey. “Hey Sylver, there seems to be an empty space up here. Mighty warm. How about you and me—” He yelped as the dagger flew true, pinning the knifeman’s sleeve to the wood pillar with a dull thunk. “Very funny.” Raptor casually tossed the blade back. “Someday you’ll overlook your aim, and then you’ll miss my gracious face.”

  “A day I look forward to.” Sylver grumbled, catching the blade even though she cradled bundled blankets.

  “Ack! What do you know! Orson, you’ll miss me, right?”

  “Like a log stuck in my ass,” the swordsman replied, but the knife-man still laughed.

  Mykel chuckled weakly. Humor withered with the glare of the fire still humming on their flesh, but the four kept it well. Almost like a family, he supposed. “Uh...where am I sleeping?”

  “Not with me, that’s for sure.” Orson grumbled.

  “Hey LeKym!” called Raptor. “Come up here. The view’s nice.”

  He sighed. Sylver stopped him with a glare before slipping to the stable Stromgald retreated to. With two blankets rolled up in her hand, he noted. With a grunt, he hauled up the ladder.

  “Hey, buddy. Thought you’d never get here. Set up a place for you over there.” He cast a thumb to the corner of the loft where all the bales were stacked. “Get some sleep. We’ll be getting up early tomorrow.” Suddenly his stomach rumbled. “Damn. Don’t see why we can’t get any dinner,” he grumbled. “It’s not as if we can’t afford it.”

  “Hey, Raptor.” Through the cracks in the wood he saw vague shapes shifting. “Them. Stromgald and Sylver. Are they...uh...”

  “Yep.” Without even glancing around. “Been that way for a while now. They’d rather tear off their hands than to be apart.”

  “And you...I mean...”

  “I still keep going after her? Come on, man. You know the game. When a lady pushes you away its’ an invitation. They like being chased.”

  “I see.” He didn’t actually know any game than courtship, and he decided matters were tense enough without the truth. “Sylver doesn’t seem the kind to like being chased.”

  “Aw, she knows I don’t mean nothing. She likes me. Really.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Hey man. You’d know if you piss her off. Believe me.”

  The whine of rusty hinges echoed within the chamber. Stromgald left the hayloft tucked into a heavy-furred cloak to combat the cold. There was a second roll of fabric on the other arm; the sight of it loosed drawn-out groans from the other rangers.

  “Stop your whining. You know the rules.”

  “It’s colder than a witch’s tits,” replied Raptor. “Besides, I had my turn a week ago.”

  “You got drunk and vomited on my boots.” Stromgald matched gazes with Orson’s. “What’s your excuse?”

  “My excuse is that I’ve been on second shift for the whole damn week. Get Sylver to do it.”

  Mykel watched the spectacle from the safety of the dark. Again he saw a family, one forged from blood and steel. Then what am I— “Hey!” It was loud enough to rattle the night-birds from their roost upon the ceiling. Raptor’s poking was insisted on his ribs. “Hey, what are you—” A furry length of wool slapped the librarian square in the face.

  “Ah, Mykel.” The librarian couldn’t tell from the twilight, though he was willing to wager the ranger captain was smiling. “How good of you to volunteer. Put that on and follow me.” The librarian shrugged the cloak on, flung himself off the hayloft to give Raptor and Orson one more rattle from sleep, then hurried outside.

  The cold seeped into him immediately. He fought back his teeth’s need to chatter. His boots crisped and cracked in the winter snow, his footsteps suddenly louder than an earthquake, stirring the dead from slumber. Stripped of any illusion of warmth, he rounded the haven twice over. “John? John?”

  “Quiet.”

  The voice came from the roof. “For the love of fuck,” he muttered. The librarian used the anger to ascend the sanctuary before he realized exactly what he was doing. Once atop the roof he risked a glance below, and the world wobbled. Mykel knew it to be only four feet down, but at the moment it might as well been four thousand. “Climbing ice is a regular part of your duties?”

  Silence. Mykel sighed in frustration. He didn’t care if his tone woke them all up. He was tired of being the butt of every jest. He turned and stopped suddenly. Stromgald was not on the roof. It had been his voice, his words, his frayed patience, but no ranger. Pawn in a game. At least I’m on familiar ground. The jest was supposed to bury the anger of being played the fool. It didn’t work.

  A sudden gale came from nowhere, ripping the cloak to a bloody banner. Mykel’s arms tightened against the cold when a sliver of yellow parchment flapped past his vision. No. With agility he knew not to have, the librarian scurried along the ice, racing against the wind for every airborne scroll. Good. Got them all. Except there was one page missing. Mykel looked up to see the wind tease the last page from the roof. There was no chance the librarian could cross the roof to get it, it was going to fly away...

  Something shot from the shadows at the last moment and plucked the parchment as keenly as an apple from the branch. “John?”

  “Here.” Mykel near jumped out of his skin. Just like that Stromgald squatted next to him. The man was a ghost. “What is it that you write there?”

  “It’s my story. I’ve been writing it for most of my life.”

  “Ah. What is it about?”

  “The usual. Hero rises from common grounds to fight the evil tyranny ruling his beloved homeland. Sex, war, battle, swordplay – all the elements of a good story.” With the physical description stirred a daydream of heroic endeavors that hooked him like a caught fish and enveloped him in the rich fantasy.

  “Do you not agree?”

  Mykel blinked at Stromgald’s lean face. It was obvious he was expecting an answer of some sort. “I’m sorry. What was your question?”

  “Do as I do.” Stromgald gestured at his knees. Squatting, the librarian realized. That’s how he evaded the winter chill. “Well?”

  Mykel reddened. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  Several seconds of embarrassment passed. “My legs...I can’t feel my legs.”

  A soft chuckle rolled from the ranger captain. “Here.” Two strikes with the slim sheath of two fingers, and warmth flooded through the veins.

  “Thank you.” Inevitably Mykel’s eyes slid to a green ring upon Stromgald’s left hand. “What does that shiisaa do?”

  “Shiisaa? Why do you speak of shiisaa?”

  John Jekai. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. “You’d be surprised what scrolls tell these days.”

  “Very astute. Watch.” Stromgald put the ring to the winter ice. One tap, two, three and suddenly the ice gave way to threads of grass and flowers and moss. A welter of colors came alive in the glaring white snow.

  “That’s incredible,” Mykel said, meaning the shiisaa. “Did you create that yourself?”

  “No. It was given to me by my master Kiriko.”

 
“Ah. Kiriko. I assume that since that is a Geo shiisaa he lived in the Triple-Peaks, otherwise known as the Giant’s Fortress.”

  Stromgald looked upon him with utter awe. “You discerned all of that from a glance at my ring?”

  “I read a lot. Sometimes I read too much.” Clumsily Mykel tried squatting, but his legs gave out under the pressure.

  “You put too much weight on your right leg,” Stromgald chided. “Here. Watch what I do. You must arrange your weight. No, not like that. Keep the balls of your feet up. Yes, like that.” Moments later, Mykel was still wary of a breeze knocking him over, but he could hold his weight now.

  “There is one thing I do not understand.”

  “Only one?”

  Mykel laughed softly. “Well, one thing at the moment. The Eastlands have an unflinching tradition against training races not their own. Why did they choose to teach you?”

  The silence was deafening. Stupid idiot. Of course it would bring back bad memories. The Eastlands valued their isolation from the rest of the world. They would even kill to safeguard that isolation.

  “I was only a child when my father accepted a pilgrimage to Yoragen.”

  “The opium capital of Otoyk.” Mykel interjected. He returned to sullen silence at Stromgald’s glare.

  “My father was a preacher. He was very good. His associates all agreed he was brilliant. Priests from the world over praised his glory.” A smile found its way on Stromgald’s lips. “He was the hardest-working man I knew. Perhaps he was too good.” For a moment Stromgald faced the horizon, but it was not the horizon he was looking at. “He managed to get wayward children into his church. Before my father their lives were spent as messengers, carriers, thugs and thieves. They had different masters but they all led to the same group in the end.”

  “The opium traders.”

  “Yes.” Stromgald’s lip quivered, and a tear began its slow descent upon his cheek. “They would have killed me too. They almost succeeded. If it wasn’t for Kiriko, I don’t know what would have happened to me. He taught me everything I know. I owe my life to him.”