Lisan gripped her hand, her eyes intense. “Take what you need from me. No more, no less.”
Merigold was paralyzed at the thought. She had no control; she would draw too much maenen and hurt Lisan. Maybe even kill her, or turn her into a shell like she had Remy. And, if she did draw, could she even shape the power correctly? But she quested anyway, and could sense Lisan’s nerring pulsing with healthy maenen. Her head throbbed, as it always did now when she quested.
Ill’Nath roared as the Menogan left a glistening wound in his thigh. He lost his balance and stumbled backwards, with the Menogan launching himself forward for a killing strike.
“Do it!”
Meri drew, tapping into Lisan’s maenen like a mosquito sucking blood. Like a leech. She felt the maenen flow into her nerring, distinct from her own power, oil on water. As always, it offered a sensation that was a combination of exhilarating and nausea-inducing, her skull throbbing like a heartbeat. For a moment, Merigold was overwhelmed by the feeling, Lisan’s power flowing into her unabated.
Meri was tied in the hull of a boat, terrified and unable to move.
She was bound and collared, forced, with a half a dozen others, to haul a great crate off of a boat.
Time slowed to a crawl. Lisan was on her knees, her face slack, eyes empty. A tear drifted down her cheek at the speed that a mountain might crumple. The Menogan had his cutlass raised above him in a two-handed grip, Ill’Nath below him, heaving his club in an attempt to protect his body in a fashion that would clearly be insufficient.
Meri recalled the Battle of Florens, Ferl’s metsikas flinging power in a dozen different ways. Spikes, beams, spinning scythes—effective methods for killing en masse. She couldn’t risk missing, though, or this Menogan’s sword would bite into Ill’nath’s neck. She wouldn’t allow another of her protectors to be hurt, not with Lisan making this sacrifice.
When Meri had been a bit younger, Ragen had asked her to dispose of a number of cracked ceramic dishes, to bury them out behind the inn. Merigold, in a particularly nasty mood that day because of an argument with Sandra about spending the night with a strange old Jecustan noble, had decided to cart them off into the woods and shatter them. She had chucked the first one out about twenty yards, shattering the plate against a tree with a satisfying crack. The second throw had accomplished the same. After ten in a row, Merigold’s mood had been much lighter, and she’d realized that she had a natural skill in tossing plates. Heaving them about all day had given her an excellent feel for their heft and nature, it seemed.
Not even realizing what she did, Meri shaped Lisan’s maenen into a disc that was a perfect replica of a plate from the Duckling, down to a small crack running throughout. The thing formed and hovered above her hand, glowing red and angry. She’d gleaned from Cryden that she must propel the object with her mind, so presumably size and shape should not matter. However it was projected with the mind, though, it could still be impacted by the elements.
Merigold cut off her draw from Lisan and time snapped back into focus. She launched the glowing disk forward with an intense thought and started forming a second one immediately. The first hissed toward the Menogan and his raised cutlass. Somehow, the pale warrior saw the maenen projectile hurtling toward him and twisted backwards, mid-thrust. Rather than striking Ill’nath, he lashed out at Meri’s plate while leaping backwards.
His cutlass connected solidly with the plate. And, just like those she’d used to toss in the woods, it shattered.
Pieces hissed in all directions, burning into the deck and fallen bodies. But, most of the shrapnel shot right into the body of the Menogan. He dropped his cutlass and howled like a madman for the space of a long breath. He did not fall, but hugged his arms around his torso. Meri could see oozing burns all over his body and could smell the still-cooking flesh. The scream paused for the space that it would take a man to fill his lungs, and then it started again.
He suddenly stood up straight and tore at his face. A piece of her plate must have been slowly burrowing into his skull. The light of the deck lanterns shone straight through a gaping, oozing hole in his midsection. Merigold fell to her knees, heaving without anything left in her stomach to pass. The garbled scream from the Menogan was cut off abruptly, and she heard his body slump to the deck, his pain mercifully ended.
“Merigold. He would have killed all of us; you did the right thing,” whispered Lisan, her voice hoarse and weak, her head hanging.
But the right thing looked an awful lot like torture. A minute ago, the man had been the picture of life, of vitality. He’d been leaping, slicing, talking…
“Maneer,” said Merigold, her mind snapping to the look the Menogan had given her earlier. Raised eyebrows, mouth slightly agape. He’d recognized her, or at least thought he did. And he’d been surprised.
“What?” Lisan coughed, her face sickly.
“You said you know of these people—do you know their language? He called me ‘Maneer’. What did that mean?”
Lisan, face painted with a sick exhaustion, shook her head with uncertainty. “I’m not fluent by any means, and I can’t be sure what you heard.”
“Tell me.”
“It means… It means ‘sister’.”
Chapter 13
The Rostanians lived their lives in the shadow of the Tulanques, thinking about the mountains only to curse them for shorting the days by blocking the setting sun. At best, some might stop occasionally and appreciate the view of those great knives tearing through the sky and seemingly cutting the very clouds. Few ventured into the mountains, though, aside from the miners and scant remaining goatherders who still carved a living from the inhospitable granite.
They did not generally appreciate the vast beauty and terror that were the mountains, particularly as winter firmly grasped Saiwen. The Rostanians might instead complain of the mild snow that occasionally covered their streets and roofs, the ice that might cause an old woman to slip or a cart to become mired. Amidst the high paths of the mountains, though, a sudden blizzard could hit without warning, wind tearing through clothes and flesh, threatening to grab a human body and toss it to the rocks below like a sadistic child discarding an insect.
Hafgan noticed none of this, though, his body was so accustomed to the cold. He had some small worries that he’d grown soft living among the humans. That he’d gotten slow and weak. Certainly, he had developed a taste for the rich food of Rostane. The seasoned, roasted chicken; the cheese-covered potatoes. The sausage gravy that they put on everything. But, his body remained true, strong and resistant to the harsh climate.
“This fucking snow,” mumbled Enric. The hairless Wasmer was less adaptive than Hafgan.
“If you’d be putting on a hat, maybe it’d bother you less,” Paston mumbled, in a bad humor himself.
“If you both grew as much hair on your balls as your faces, you’d be fine,” Alwyn commented. One of the new additions to his budredda, the young Wasmer had been born in Rostane, though to a traditionalist family. He spoke impeccable Ardian, even if it did sound stilted on his tongue. He was one of those who’d decided to desert instead of following Siarl in his mutiny against Hafgan.
Hafgan remembered finding the tired Alwyn wandering the woods—the man practically shaking with exhaustion, but threatening the budredda with his uncertain spear anyway. Alwyn had fully expected to be slaughtered for desertion, or for not telling Hafgan of Siarl’s plan, but had not planned to die without testing his mettle. Hafgan had approached the man, waving his omnipresent budredda away and tossing his own spear aside. He’d walked forward until the point of Alwyn’s spear had rested on his chest with just enough pressure to scrape his skin. He’d then looked into Alwyn’s eyes and taken his measure. Another man, scared and alone, having no place in the world.
“Come,” Hafgan had said, simply. And Alwyn had.
“How much further to Hackeneth, anyhow?” asked Alwyn, his deep brown eyes seeming nearly black against the snowy backdrop. He wore his hair b
raided in the manner of the traditionalists, but was rapidly adopting the practices of other budredda, including filing down his second set of dogteeth.
“Not much,” mumbled Hafgan. “Just be ready.” His return to the Carreg Da was not going to be a joyous event, neither for his men nor himself. No one rejoices when the bastard son returns bearing outlandish warnings and accusations. Particularly when that son had very publicly vowed never to return. That vow was only emphasized by its covering of Wasmer blood.
“That be a fallacy. You cannot be always ready, Lieutenant,” Enric said, scratching at his chest. The wound inflicted by Yanso had been deep and required a couple dozen stitches, and it certainly still ached. Thankfully, the cold of the mountains helped forestall any infections.
“Perhaps not, but you should at least be ready when two men fight with cold steel, a mere feet from where you lounge on your spear,” Hafgan pointed out, leveling his best commanding glare. The hairless Wasmer blanched, glancing away hurriedly. Enric’s tendency to complain seemed to have returned with the bad weather and his injury. Hafgan needed to get him back under control before the negativity spread among an already dissatisfied group of Wasmer.
His original budredda, aside from Enric, were loyal as ever. Even more dedicated to him, even, as they had passed the trial of blood together, repelling Siarl’s attack and surviving the gwagen. Some new recruits, like Alwyn, had found a comfortable place among the budredda. The majority of his three dozen soldiers, though, were simply Wasmer who weren’t sure what to do, but saw a strong leader in Hafgan. His people ever bowed to strength, even those who moved and lived among humans. The Wasmer caste system was ingrained into them; warriors followed the strongest among them. Not the most intelligent or the most cunning, but the best fighter. And, in Hafgan’s estimation, he had no worries in that regard.
But, leading by martial prowess was much like commanding a vicious dog. They may listen and obey commands, but if they sensed a weakness, your jugular was going to end up torn out.
Hafgan always took the role of vanguard in their march through the Tulanques. As part of his training, he had spent three months alone in the mountainous terrain, being hunted by his leaders. He had become intimately knowledgeable about the paths, hideaways, and caves, as well as locations of rival clans. Using this hard-gotten knowledge, he now steered his budredda unerringly toward the Carreg Da, toward Hackeneth, without encountering any major settlements. He knew they were watched; they had crossed through Flam Madfall territory for much of their march. But, this clan had been largely decimated in wars with the Carreg Da, and both Rostane and Florens, as well as from constant raids on their western borders by the Yearer Inos. They were not likely to mount an attack unless clearly threatened.
A week ago, they had passed into Carreg Da territory, and still they were watched. The worst part was that, now, Hafgan knew the watcher.
This day, they had journeyed down into a valley, staying to the low ground where they were somewhat sheltered by the wind. They no longer lit fires at night; the effort needed to keep a fire burning in the snow was better spent creating makeshift shelters or burrowing into the snow and huddling together for heat. They were moving into a more populous area now, held by the many goatherding and farming villages that scraped a mean living from the odd fertile patches throughout the valley. One of the larger surface towns—Reneth—was on their path. Hafgan expected to be stopped there, by representatives from the Dyn Doethas sent ahead to escort him into the heart of Hackeneth with as little fuss and fanfare as possible.
Therefore, he was surprised when his watcher confronted him two days out from Reneth.
Listening to Enric, Paston, and Alwyn bicker, and occasionally chiming in himself, Hafgan almost missed the watcher until they were nearly upon him.
“Hafgan Iwan, as I live, breathe, and shit,” called the man, swaggering out into the middle of their path from where he’d leaned against a tree. The Wasmer tongue was typically a lilting, musical sound to Hafgan’s ear when compared to Ardian, but this man’s voice was hoarse, cracking as he spoke. It was as if he had inhaled smoke for too long, and could only just force air past his ravaged windpipe.
“Do I know you?” Hafgan asked, sticking to Ardian. He waved back his little entourage of budredda to a safe distance, all of them responding without question—although Paston seemed the most reluctant. Hafgan had no idea how this might go, but his men being nearby would just complicate things.
“Always a funny man. A funny, stupid, funny man.” The Wasmer barked a discordant laugh. His grimy brown hair, cut shorter than typical Wasmer style, stood out in all directions. His white war robes—if that’s what they’d once been—were so filthy that Hafgan had originally thought they were black. But the bastard sword strapped sheathless across his back was well-cared for, and it gleamed in the light of the pale sun.
“What are you doing here?” Hafgan asked, eyes on the hilt of that sword, noting the hourglass glyph etched into the pommel. Not a typical Wasmer weapon; his people preferred to battle with the spear. But, Hafgan was familiar with this particular weapon. He’d once wielded it.
“Me? Me? This is all my land.” He spread his hands grandiosely, taking in the trees, the valley, the great peaks that rose above them. “You, though… you are the trespasser. You are the encroacher. You are the invader.”
That was true. Hafgan no longer belonged here in these mountains. With these people. He’d willingly—purposefully—left the Carreg Da nearly five years before, leaving no path for a friendly return. Or, truthfully, a return of any sort. There was no welcome waiting for him here. No open arms.
But Hafgan still said nothing, waiting for the watcher to continue his speech.
“So, tell me. Why do you return, a host of budredda at your heels?”
“You tell me, Yurin. Why do you continue to serve the Dyn Doethas like a stinking wet dog?” Hafgan growled through his shaved teeth. Yurin, always a couple of inches taller, looked slightly down at him, completely still. And then he broke into another wheezing laugh, leaning backwards and howling his glee into the sky. The echo was unnerving, but Hafgan did not reach for his hedwicchen.
“You, Hafgan. You, you, you.” Yurin started circling Hafgan. Not as if he were preparing to battle, but just sort of undulating around him, almost as if he were a drunkard staggering about without a care in the world. He almost appeared to stagger, but Hafgan knew better. This man was canny, and his style unpredictable. No warleader taught their men to fight like Yurin could fight.
“Me, me, me,” said Hafgan, staring straight ahead even as Yurin moved out of his vision. It was a risk, showing such disdain for this dangerous man.
“It amazes me that you have so little to say, and that you cling to that broken language from below. You sound like a fool, and that will gain you no friends among the Carreg Da.”
“I do not seek friends.”
“The heart of the matter, then. What is it that you seek?” The crunching of the snow was directly behind Hafgan. And yet, Hafgan continued to stare straight ahead.
“I cannot share that with a goat-fucking dog. I need to speak with Taern, if he still manipulates from the shadows. If not, I’ll settle for whomever wields the Dyn Doethas.” For a long moment, there was only silence. Hafgan braced himself, worried that he had gone too far with his insults.
Something impacted his head, a glancing blow, and Hafgan flung himself forward. He twisted in midair, grabbing at his belt knife and holding it in front of himself protectively as he landed on his back.
There was no follow-up attack. Yurin stood ten yards away, grinning the grin of a madman, his dual fangs glistening and opalescent. In his hand, he held a second handful of snow, packed into a tight ball. Hafgan pulled himself to his feet, brushing the remnants of the snow from his hair.
“A snowball, Yurin? Are you a child as well as a servile dog?”
The madman’s grin did not dim. “You can call me dog, if you desire. If that makes you feel s
uperior. Hafgan, some of us were meant to serve rather than lead. If that is how I keep my place among my people, then so be it.”
“It is not that you serve. It is who you serve. Spineless manipulators and murderers who seek to control their people through lies and fear.” Hafgan could not keep the rancor from his voice.
“Murderers you seek to meet with.” Yurin’s smile finally broke. He crushed the snowball in his hand.
“That is because I still serve, despite everything. That is because I still strive to help our people, just as I did years ago. I will not see them undermined or destroyed from within. And, from what I have seen, that is exactly what is happening.”
Was that why he was here on this errand? Did he still care so much about his people that he was willing to risk his life in giving this warning about the gwagen? Or was it something else? Hafgan could feel the anger bubbling up at his core like puss escaping from a festering wound. He still did not seek his hedwicchen. He needed to know what he felt, what was truly guiding his actions here.
“So, Hafgan.” Yurin strode up to Hafgan, this time with no wavering. He paused an arm’s length away, his eyes somewhat unfocused. “You want to help us, then. You want to… I don’t know… bestow upon us the gift of knowledge? Take control of us yourself? Lead us to a gentler life?”
Last time he’d tried to share knowledge with the Carreg Da, it had not gone so well.
“No, Yurin, I am done with that. I simply seek to give a message, something that goes beyond the petty manipulations of the Dyn Doethas. Something that threatens the lives of the clans in the mountains as well as the lives of those below. I come with a warning.”
Yurin’s shifting gaze was suddenly stoic and hard, flashing both with anger and sadness. The filthy Wasmer closed his eyes tightly for a long moment then, as if in deep concentration. When he opened them, the madman’s smile returned.
“Well, good luck with that then,” Yurin said in halting Ardian. He started down the valley in the same direction as Hafgan’s final destination, again adopting the gait of an uneven drunk. Before disappearing from sight, he called over his shoulder. “I will see you in Hackeneth in a few days. No one will stop you.”
Wisdom Lost Page 15
