Song (The Manhunters Book 1)

by Jesse Teller

  The caravan had been circled in the middle of the village’s main square, a wide expanse of dirt and dust that had at one time held a breathtaking fountain, a beautiful statue and a small garden. Hard times had fallen on the tiny village last time Konnon had come through here, and the village had been buzzing with talk of selling it all. Now Konnon stood in the remains of Karctet’s pride, and a deep sadness overwhelmed him.

  “Konnon, you old war dog, what have you brought us?” he heard from behind. Konnon spun and held out his arms as he walked to one of his oldest friends in the nation.

  Loeve stood only four-foot-six, but he was thick as an ox and mighty beyond most Konnon had met. His life of backbreaking work had made a mule out of him, and Konnon knew a hug from this man could break his back. He hugged him anyway.

  “You remember Glyss,” Konnon said with a wave of his hand.

  “I do,” Loeve said. “Well met.”

  “We have brought a caravan through your village,” Glyss said.

  “Alright, how can we help out?”

  The merchant stepped forward and looked down at Loeve with derision. “I will need a suitable house to rest in tonight.”

  “You have a tent we can set up in the square here,” Konnon said.

  “I could sleep in a tent, or I could have a house and whoever loans it to me will make enough money to feed this little patch of dirt for a year.”

  Loeve looked at Konnon with a sad glance and nodded at the merchant. “We have a place you might be comfortable in.”

  “I want a whore, too,” he said.

  “You want a what?” Loeve snapped.

  “Well, this place must have a widow, or an orphan of age, who wouldn’t mind me parting her fur for a bit of gold. Farmers are a practical lot, I have heard. A few hard thrusts and a willing whore could be comfortable for a long time in a place like this.”

  Konnon placed a hand on the merchant’s shoulder, but Loeve only nodded. His head dropped and his shoulders drooped and Konnon thought he would be sick.

  “Will you be staying with us, too, Konnon?” Loeve asked.

  “He needs to stay with the cargo. A blade such as his cannot be spared for even a moment,” the merchant said.

  Konnon grabbed the man and spun him around.

  “Harm one hair on that girl’s head and I will break every bone in your body,” Konnon said.

  “And I will set them all wrong,” Glyss said. “We will make a freak of you, do you understand? You are a gentleman tonight, are we clear?”

  “Yes, yes. I will not hurt the girl, just savor her body,” the merchant said. He waddled away and Konnon looked at Glyss.

  He brought up the image of his daughter in a wheelbarrow, and he reminded himself he was not a monster. He was just known as one.

  The Warrior of Windlyre

  Rayph and Smear landed just inside the wooden walls of Windlyre, careful to make no noise and to prevent themselves from being seen.

  “This a good idea, sneaking up on him like this?” Smear asked.

  “Nope. It’s a horrible idea, one of the worst I have had in years.”

  “Comforting.”

  They made their way around sheds and outbuildings, skirting apathetic houses that stared at them with empty windows, and past the openings of the mines the people of the city worked. They stopped outside of the Stalwart, and Rayph looked the place over. It had been twenty years since he had been to this pub, triage, and town hall, twenty years since they told him never to come back. Rayph looked at Smear, who laughed.

  “They love me here,” Rayph said.

  “I bet.”

  Two guards nodded, sleeping over their spears. Garrison would be furious if he saw that. Rayph stepped quietly past them and opened the wide door to the Stalwart.

  The scent of heavily spiced food struck Rayph in the face, along with cheers and drinking songs. The gloom of the Stalwart hid them. When Smear closed the door, Rayph decided this was indeed a bad idea. Pickaxes flew toward targets on the wall. Drinking competitions raged in every corner. Children ran wild like packs of hunting dogs on the scent of some quarry. Over it all rang a cacophony of songs in a cloud of deep and high voices, fast and slow rhythms, cheerful to desolate dirges.

  Smear shoved Rayph and a pick stuck in the door where his head had been. Smear grabbed the pick and, with effort, jerked it free. The thing looked ludicrous in his hands, reducing him to the size of a child. The cheers near the boxing ring slowly died. The heavy thunks of the picks on targets ceased and, one by one, the songs wound down as all eyes slowly swept from their revelry to the two standing at the door.

  At the back of the hall sat a semicircle of seven thrones, many empty. The elders of the hall stood as grumbles of discontent rolled like approaching thunder. Rayph threw back his hood and let his face show. He swept his hair from his eyes and smiled sheepishly at the largest of the elders.

  The man turned to the high elder, who nodded. The big man turned back to Rayph with blood on his mind. “You come here? You dare to walk into this Stalwart after what you did?” He stepped from the podium and stormed forward. “You have no illusions of getting out of here alive, do you? You are not that arrogant, are you, Rayph Ivoryfist?”

  “Dreark, how long has it been?” Smear said. Dreark did not turn his gaze from Rayph.

  “It has been too long, old friend. Help yourself to the hospitality of the Stalwart while I break this man apart.”

  “Thanks,” Smear said. He patted Rayph on the back as he walked away. “Good luck,” Smear said. He found a chair near the boxing ring and was handed a mug. He looked past the lip of his cup with a grin on his face and blew into the steaming hot ale.

  Dreark flexed his hands and Rayph held his palms out. “I did not come here to fight.” Dreark grabbed Rayph’s collar and punched him in the gut. The air rushed from his body in a great whoosh, and Rayph doubled over in pain. Dreark gripped him by the collar and the belt, and tossed him across the room, upsetting tables and throwing food and ale in a storm. Rayph crashed to the ground and rolled over.

  He kicked his legs over his head and rolled to his feet as Dreark’s next onslaught arrived. Rayph backed away from the fist, but missed his spin away from the kick that dropped him to the ground. Rayph struggled to his feet as Dreark grabbed his hair. A knee to the face broke Rayph’s nose and set his eyes to tearing. Dreark grabbed and hefted him in the air. The world rolled and Rayph’s back came down hard on a table. The table shattered under his weight, and the air was knocked from him again.

  A ring of faces stared down at him, including Smear, who shook his head. “Gotta move faster. Can’t let him get a hold on you—” Smear stepped aside as the crowd parted for Dreark, who scooped Rayph up from his back.

  Rayph connected a punch to Dreark’s face, not knowing which had been hurt the most, the fist or the face. The latter seemed unaffected by the blow.

  Dreark grabbed Rayph and hoisted him atop his shoulder. He marched a few steps before tossing Rayph like a sack into a heap in the center of the boxing ring. The crowd grunted and cried in delight and Rayph rose shakily to his feet and stared at Dreark. The man unwound his tiger skin toga, dropping the massive stuffed head of the beast to the ground where scantily clad women fought over it.

  The rippling physique of Dreark made Rayph’s head hurt, and he sighed as he took his robe off and tossed it to the floor outside the ring, where men trod it underfoot with grimy boots. Dreark stomped to the ring’s ropes and ducked under. He cracked his enormous knuckles and grinned down at Rayph.

  “So this is how we will settle this thing between us, as brutes, not men?” Rayph said.

  “I know nothing of settling debts with you, Ivoryfist. All I know is I long to break that ugly face of yours before I toss you out of this Stalwart.” Rayph backed up to the ring’s ropes and looked for Smear, who held up a cube of cheese in salute. Rayph pulled a sarcastic smile across his face and peeled off his shirt. He looked down at his thin, lightly muscled chest
and shook his head.

  Rayph dodged and sidestepped the first of the punches. He dropped what he felt was a hefty blow on Dreark’s kidney as he slipped behind him. Dreark threw his arms back, catching Rayph with an elbow to the side of the face. Rayph stumbled back, caught by the ropes.

  “My daughter would be ashamed to hit like that, Ivoryfist.”

  The crowd laughed, and Rayph cursed.

  “Is she more reasonable? Send her out here to talk sense while her idiot father blusters and swaggers,” Rayph said. A knot of fear tied around him, and he groaned as Dreark stomped closer.

  Rayph ducked and spun away, retreating to the far side of the ring and shaking his head. He looked down at Smear, who tossed another cube of cheese in his mouth. He attempted to speak around the bite but Rayph could not hear over the crowd.

  “What?” he asked.

  Smear washed the cube down with the steaming ale. “Hit more. Talk less,” Smear said with a wink.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said, turning to Dreark. With a blur, a blow detonated across Rayph’s face that seemed to come from a giant comprised of stone. He stumbled back to bounce off the ropes. No mortal can hit that hard. The second blow connected with his jaw and lifted him from the ground. He flipped from the ring to land on the floor at Smear’s feet.

  “Get hit less.”

  “Pick him up. Throw him back in here,” Dreark said to the crowd. They grabbed Rayph with hard pinching hands and tossed him back into the ring. He struggled to his feet and squared his shoulders.

  He had been in more pain, but he couldn’t remember when. He stared through swollen eyes at the serving girl who winked at him. She held a great mug of steaming ale above the table before turning it over, pouring its contents on the tabletop. The edge of the granite tabletop had been carved with a lip and the ale pooled, bringing the whole table to steaming. A plate of smoking meat and piping hot vegetables was set down before him, and he looked at it as if he would be sick.

  Smear grabbed his meat and dipped it in the ale. He ate it, dripping ale and sauce down his chin, and he smiled. “Garrison, this is amazing. What is it?” The high elder looked from Rayph, where he had locked his iron gaze, to Smear.

  “Mycenae’s recipe. He made it every time we went hunting.” There was real pain in the man’s expression, and Smear nodded with a solemn look.

  “May that hunt resume soon,” Smear said.

  Dreark spoke around the raw meat held to his eye. “Why are you here, Ivoryfist?” His question held none of the anger he had shown earlier, and Rayph looked the man in the eyes and smiled.

  “Mending Keep has fallen, its inmates freed. They are going to kill my king unless I can stop it. I figured you might want in.”

  “Why would you figure something like that?” Dreark asked.

  “Because Julius Kriss will wield the blade.”

  The crowd gathered around the table whispered a name. “Reghar,” they said quietly.

  Dreark looked to Garrison, who nodded and walked away.

  “I’m with you. What do you need?” Dreark said.

  “How many men do you command?” Rayph asked.

  “I can summon fifty Ganamaians, angry and chomping.”

  “Good. We will likely need them all.”

  Brothers of Blood

  He didn’t like the washed out bridge. The water was high, but not quite high enough to do the damage here. Konnon glanced at Glyss with worry and knew he could sense it, too. They were not alone.

  The whole of their caravan seemed comprised of green warriors. Even Ella had the feel of a woman who used her devastating looks to win most of her battles. What would become of her if this went the way it appeared to be headed?

  “Can we ford it?” Konnon asked.

  “Risky, we can maybe make it with the silks, but that damn coin wagon will sink like a stone,” Glyss said.

  “Might get him to part with it. Move the riches to the carriage and move on without it,” Chat said. He was beginning to catch on to the subtleties of leading. The man spent most of his time silently learning and listening. Konnon liked that.

  “We can ask. I can even ask hard, but a man like him will never give up the prestige of entering Song with a wagon like that. To ask him will only draw his ire and make me have to lean into him. I was hoping I would only have to do that one or two more times.”

  “So we backtrack,” Glyss said. “Lose the rest of the day turning the wagons around, and then add four more days to our travel time trekking back to the last turn. It will take us south for half a day before swinging northwest. It is a bad plan, but all we have.”

  “I fear we won’t make it to the turning by the end of the day,” Konnon said.

  “I’ll go look,” Glyss said. “See what we are up against.”

  “What do you mean?” Chat asked as Glyss walked away. “What does he mean?” he said turning to Konnon.

  “We are going to get hit tonight. There are bandits watching us right now. They will often times leave a sign of their territory to scare off competition.” Konnon looked at Glyss disappearing into the woods, and he grimaced. “He is going to look for a tag, a sign of who we are facing. Pray for good news.”

  Konnon pulled the goose claw out of his shirt and kissed its dry, flaking knuckle. Chat looked at him as if he had lost his mind but Chat didn’t know. The life of a warrior was dictated by inches. The swing of a sword might scrape or kill based on an inch. The thrust of a spear hit a heart just as often as it hit a shoulder. Inches. An arrow found its home, or strayed from it, based on the slight puff of wind that moved it by inches. The life of a warrior was luck and chance. Konnon would keep his swords in his hands, and his goose knuckle under his shirt.

  The merchant hollered for almost an hour about having to turn and go back. He made demands and cursed Konnon’s name until Konnon grabbed him by the collar and jerked him away. The man slipped and fought to keep his feet under him as Konnon shoved him along, until they reached the riverbank and Konnon pushed him to its brink. Glyss moved up behind Konnon, blocking the view from the wondering eye, and Konnon held the blustering man over the edge of the drop.

  “Shut your mouth or I will bind that damn wagon to your back and make you swim for it,” Konnon said. The man’s sweat came off pungent with rotting flowers. The powders the man had covered himself in were ridiculous and noxious. “We turn around because we have no other choice. We turn or we leave here now. Decide, then get the hell out of my way. My patience is thin and my wrath hot. You don’t want to break one or be seared by the other.”

  Konnon rounded the man to the road and kicked him in the ass. He dropped to his hands and knees, and Konnon prayed the bandits had seen it all. They would see Konnon as the main objective now. He would be their first kill if they could accomplish it. The target had been taken off the merchant. Now it sat right where Konnon wanted it.

  Glyss shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest when Konnon joined him again. They stood looking at the cluster of mess as the teamsters unbound the horses and the soldiers grabbed the tongue of the carts to turn them around. The path here was tight and the going would be slow.

  “What does it look like?” Konnon asked.

  “Brothers of Blood,” Glyss said.

  Konnon winced. He had hoped for better news. This was not going to be easy. The Brothers of Blood were known for their cruelty. They were led by a sadist with a penchant for flaying flesh from bones. The lairs of the Brothers were often filled with the screams of their victims. Konnon had met with them briefly during his term as a bandit of the Mottled Vipers. They had met back then for talks on territory and it had not gone well.

  “All we can do is wait for the spring,” Glyss said. “Try to keep the merchant in his carriage and prepare the rest of them for a fight.”

  Konnon knew he was right. But he didn’t have to like it.

  That night, Konnon felt the first arrow in the air before it hummed past his head. He dropped and rolled toward t
he fire and cried out in rage. The entire camp broke out into bedlam as teamsters dropped and rolled under carts, and warriors and soldiers ripped free their weapons. Glyss disappeared into the woods and Konnon grinned.

  He could do nothing but keep his head down, so he dropped between a barrel of beans and a cart and waited for the arrow fire to slow. He kept his eyes roving. The Harp brothers charged into the woods. Ella dropped to the ground on all fours and hissed. She scuttled across the ground like a beetle, dodging arrow fire as she neared the edge of the forest.

  He had warned against running into the woods, had talked of traps the bandits would have set up on the sides of the road. But pride got in the way of the less capable. They saw Glyss run into the dark trees and they decided they were just as dangerous, knew just as well, and had just as little to fear. They were on their way to prove they were just as deadly as Glyss, and every one of them was going to die.

  Konnon heard the cry of the charge, a yip both born of a woman’s scream and a hyena’s laugh. It lifted into the air and Konnon came up from his hiding space. He made his way to the door of the carriage as a spattering of arrows hit the world around him. He thought of his goose knuckle and let himself forget about the things he could not control.

  He reached the door as six men rushed out of the woods to claim it. The horses had not been tied on. The possibility of jumping into the seat and riding off with the merchant was void, but they could snatch him, and they were moving to do just that.

  Konnon spun slow and lowered his swords to his sides. He summoned up the image of Glyss standing behind him and grinned.

  Blades. Grunts. Speed and laughing. Konnon knew battle well. Six allies fighting one man was almost unfair. They most times got in each other’s way. Konnon danced to the right and left and, with subtle footwork, put them in each other’s way. One, then the next, fell as arrows struck others down, and more than a few chopped into their brothers. When the last two stood before Konnon, they cursed and ran. Konnon dropped the sword in his right hand and his left. He pulled a dagger with his left, and his whip with his right.