Still, he had not been careful enough. At the gates, Mariel had awaited his return. It was not finery that gave Jaritz’s Master of Words away. It was the hollow pits of his eyes. Dark rings. The mole on his cheek. Dressed in simple wool and cloth, head covered by cap, neither clothes nor motions gave away anything. He moved with the crowd, never against, as he had once taught an all too eager youth. When he came he simply seemed to slide from the crowd, and Isaak was caught before he ever knew he was stalked.
What followed was confirmation: Witold had headed north, but the final, confusing word was that his armies held at the border. As if pressing beyond that invisible line would commit them to a place from which their flesh might never find home again. The Bastard’s army, or the Holy Army, as the whispers of peasant Farrens had begun to call it, marched roughshod through the northlands.
He had felt a stirring at the name, though his heart was as blank to it as a heart could be. Closer, was all he recognized. If one was closer, than so was the other.
From Gölingen, he had headed north. Frost lingered on the trees, left them moist and chill even this far into spring. Beech and pine, weeping ash. There were memories here. Too many. He locked them away for another time. As all things. He peered through the drooping boughs of their present, to the house where the hearthfire burned low indeed.
Though he circled the town, its silent streets as ample ward as any wall, he would not go within. These people were known to him. Their successes. Their struggles. But human was human, and though hospitality would be forthcoming, the tongues would wag. It was the nature of people to gossip of things more interesting than routine. He would not linger. There was but one thing he needed.
In Gölingen, that had not included his wife. Longing had compelled him forward, but he knew it would only distract. Lead astray. That, and every time he thought of her, it issued forth such an ache in his heart to think that neither she nor her father had fought for that little girl—compartmentalized. Lost. He had shared his words with Mariel, and then he had gone. Mariel had asked after the hunter’s daughter, and he had told him. Isaak did not ask about Nesse.
The army was what mattered. Where was it headed? Even Mariel had not known that. There was talk of a battle to the north, of discontent to the west—“Be careful,” the old spy had said, clutching his arm like a wayward youth. “Remember to whom your loyalties lie.” They had parted on that note, and only farmers and caravans had painted him clearer imagery.
The Hammer of Idasia had broken. The Bastard still walked. And brothers and bastard alike turned south. More the traitors, for it. For what man would lead such madness home? Yet when he closed his eyes, he nearly choked on his laugh. It was all Rurik had ever done.
The garrison at Verdan was depleted. Whether it was for lack of a lord, or supplication to a token show of Witold’s own, the manse beside the river was all but empty. Ghosts on ghosts. A handful of men walked the walls. He scaled them and came inside unnoticed. A few torches burned, but the darkness seemed to suit the place now. He took one from its holds and steadied himself for what needed to be done.
One could never forget, but one couldn’t let past guide future. This was a necessary evil.
A dozen heads lifted to meet him as he stepped inside, but not one bayed in fear or alarm.
By midday, the servants stared at the remnants of stables and pen alike. It must have seemed Mordazz Himself had swept the gates by night and stolen forth the animals. If the Brickheart still reigned there, he would have had every man on duty flogged. But he was gone. They all were. The hunter ran his hands through a wolfhound’s fur, and turned back into the trees, heading north.
* *
Voren sat at the edge of darkness, the tanned skin of his arms illuminated in the flickers of the dead. It made him shudder in waking. There was no chance for sleep. When the dreams came—and they always came—dead men reached for him, weeping even as they pulled the flesh in strips from his bones. He shared their tears, but it seemed they were deaf to any but their own pain. It was like they horded it, shoring it up for the final feast.
When he came back into himself, he found the stub of his pinky throbbed. Ghost pains. His father, too, had known them, before disease had carried him away for good. But he had never known such horror as this.
Men and women burned on the pyres. Another lay at town’s edge, having crawled from the field, picking and shoving his own guts back toward the wound from which they had spilled, as though the end were a cleanly thing. He would die cursing. They all did.
“What you looking at, baker boy?” a drunken soldier roared from the nearest pyre. “Get to it, then. Dead don’t strip ‘emselves. And they sure don’t wobble ‘em ownselves to that afterburn.”
Robbery of the dead. Among the most heinous of sins. Yet he bent himself to the task and dragged another corpse to the fire. Any that had not fought were put to the task before they could eat and drink. They would labor all night, if need be, while the killers grew fat on their spoils. He was thankful for gloves, as he was thankful for the distraction. Though the stench made him ill, and the touch, the sight—nauseated as he was, he never could have kept food down. No matter how hungry.
Perhaps most disturbing was that time seemed to render even this evil null. Hours to the repetition, and he felt almost nothing. Mayhap you already walk the fields of Hell. The thought struck him more than once. Then the dead finger throbbed anew and he knew it could not be so.
Did war break men? Or did it merely shed those outer layers—knead the thing into its purest, darkest form? Voren didn’t know anymore. They were all dying bit by bit, food and drink aside, and he thought that by simply not fighting he could spare himself, but his soul was shedding with them, moment by moment. Sometimes it was a struggle just to breathe. Few were the things that kept the breaths flowing. But they were there.
All of these people—they deserve to die.
When he had shoveled the last of the pile into the flames, he passed the soldiers without comment. Blissfully, they let him go. Some sot had found seven casks of untapped beer in the basement of a local tavern. They did not care to argue any longer. That they had killed the tavernkeep and driven off his help—no matter. Knives made short work of the barrels.
He walked along through this desert of forsaken souls, trying not to choke on the stench of human waste. A necessary evil. This was what he told himself when it all became too much. A child, dirt-caked, stood at the edge of his vision. Dark-haired, brown-eyed, Idasian to her core. He stood a moment, watching her in the hazy remnants of a town, and he wondered: what have we done to ourselves? Necessary. He repeated the word like a mantra, but he could not believe in it. It lacked conviction.
Then again, what convictions could a starving man truly muster?
He wandered like this, ethereal, apart from the goings on yet compelled to them, until the shadows grew long on the earth. At some point, he stripped his gloves off and bent to the rocks, scourging his hands against them until the skin reddened and tore. When he looked up again, he found dirt packed into the scars of those hands. A tent stood before him. Rowan crouched low before it, watching him, and Voren sat, blinking the red-haired fool into existence.
There was no mirth, even in this creature, any longer. He had been in the worst of it. The screams. Voren closed his eyes, breathed. “Are you alright, lad?” Voren shook his head. Everything below the neck worked fine, certainly. How might a man ever remove this stench from his nose?
The Zuti came along a short while after, placing a hand on his frail shoulder as he settled onto a stump beside him. The fencer scowled at the Zuti, but Chigenda seemed to choose not to notice. Voren, for his part, could not will himself to shake off the gesture. Now, more than ever, they were all killers. What did one more touch matter?
“Careful with the lad,” Rowan said.
Chigenda snorted. He patted Voren on the shoulder once and ran a hand over his own bald head. Sweat slicked off it like drops from a leaf. Or tear
s of a child. “He work. I see. Is…” He seemed to struggle to find the word, then stared off toward the buildings. The tents, seemingly in an effort to remove man from carnage, had pitched well beyond the boundaries of the ash and blood. “…Bad.” The Zuti frowned, and his eyes slipped down into the mud his spear prodded. “Dey did no let me handle bodies.”
When Voren looked up, he saw Rowan’s brows scrunched. Wonder. The same thought: had the Zuti honest feeling?
The pole of the spear ticked off three more strikes into the dirt. “Imp-your, say dey.” Dark eyes twisted back on them, hardening.
Solemn, Voren drew up to meet that look. “Do not worry at the words of hypocrites. There is nothing pure here. Anything, or anyone.”
They both seemed to quiet at that. Just men, he reminded himself, looking between the two. Skin was everything, in the mind of so many. He winced. In his own mind. Yet humanity reigned between both. Even killers could flinch. They had. There were no jokes here, and no one seemed to know what to do with the aftermath.
He looked away, to another tent and to the great ogre looming within. Even removed from sight, the Kuree’s presence was felt. Guardian. Protector. For all his efforts otherwise, he had gained nothing but respect for the barbarian in his days at their camp. No matter how the bearded fool distrusted him. For more than anything, he could see, the man cared not for himself. Not for health or gold or any of the like. He cared only for these killers. These killers and that one, rare flower, its roots withering under the weight of blood it drank.
Voren could not help but wince.
“Go her,” the Zuti mouthed after a long moment. Voren startled, turning at the sound. The Zuti’s eyes were on him, unwavering, with the same tone as one might carry to war. “Better dis.”
“To her. He meant to her,” Rowan clarified. “But I don’t think…” Rowan stammered, only to let the words fall. He did not know. None of them did.
Voren looked between the pair. “Are you sure?”
It was a question that needed no answer. And neither could say. After a long moment, and a sigh, he stood up and started in. The canvas fell away, and the eyes were already there to greet him. The green of trees. The blue of oceans. One could travel far on such lines. Farther than this moment—yet he could never leave.
Alviss rose without a word. The bearded hulk nodded to him on his way out of the tent, pausing only to squeeze the prone girl’s hand. Voren watched him go, then redirected himself to Essa. She did not look well, but then, from all he had heard, he should not have expected more. Heart hammered in his weary chest. She blinked up at him once, twice, and shifted onto her elbows. Between wan, rough skin and sunken eyes, she had all the look of one that had broached death’s own bony touch. Even the wildness had faded from her. Not to docility just…
Numbness. He knew it well. Dreaded it.
He crouched beside her. Took her hand as the barbarian had. She blinked again and made the slightest of smiles. He patted the skin, but said nothing. Words could have accomplished little. At her side, though, the hours grew long, the minutes swift—warmth still trickled in the flesh. It only needed to be coaxed.
Eventually, he fell asleep there. The world grew heavy and the skin grew warm and the tent, well, the air—it grew all too oppressive. Body slumped, mind departed. He was carried away, to another field, another place. A boy watched him. Nothing more than a child. He scowled, even as he held out his hand. A river rose high against his neck, and higher, higher—it threatened to drown, threatened to steal them all away. Lips moved, but he could not hear the sound. Just the mismatched portions, the disarray. Brown and blue, they cried, and he knew fear, even in the depths of darkness.
Some threats never went away.
When he stirred, he lay against her. Something rustled outside. He was groggy, his head spun, and his stomach growled with the hunger he had deprived it of relieving. Their hands were still clenched tight—tighter than stone, he mused—but the dirt had given way to cloth, and Essa had curled herself into the warmth of him. He blinked. Another dream? Some men had dreams within dreams. They spoke of them with almost prophetic horror.
But the finger still ached. He sighed. All the better for it.
She seemed to sense his waking. Whether she was already awake or stirred to his own motions, the green eyes levied on him anew. Something shined in them. New. Bright. He squinted, smiled. Something old, perhaps. A figure of a girl, before the woman. Fingers clenched and the skin sang. He pressed his head against hers, savoring the warmth. So close…
“Thank you,” she said meekly.
“For?”
“Just this.” Full lips reached out and pecked his cheek. He nearly shuddered, but restrained himself instead. “You have put up with so much, Voren. Seen so much. And we…” Her face twisted, the blankness twining into sorrow.
“I know.”
“We cannot stay here. Not anymore. If ever this was something—well, it has long lost its way.”
And Rurik? the little voice whispered. He ignored it. Would not lend it sound. Gingerly, his other arm enwrapped his friend. He expected rebuke. Instead she nestled deeper into him.
“What remains when the silence breaks?”
No answer awaited her. Only bewilderment. He kissed her cheek and tightened his hold. He never wanted to let go.
Then the tent flap opened, and so was he forced. Men in armor strode through the glare of the daylight, hands on hilts. He flinched, where he thought a man should have risen. Essa snapped out of his grip, practically snarling. Crouched, slanted, fingers arched—she looked every bit the predator, ready for a brawl. Against that wall, there could only have been death, though. Only one could squeeze inside, but Voren could make out three men in all, all armed and iron-armored, grinning like coyotes. They seemed to ignore the howls of Rowan behind them.
They fell on her before she could truly come into herself, struggled through her thrashing hands and bore her back down beside him. He shouted, and she crowed, but they were not cowed, were not even put off. He shoved at one, kicked at him, but the man back-handed him, and he cowered into himself, holding his swelling lip.
“Voren!”
Love went skyward, kicking and screaming. He recognized the face. A sharp, short beard. Limping gait. Gorjes, no doubt. They wore not the colors, but sellswords rarely kept to organization anyways. Gold teeth were enough to make the man, though. So too the vacant stare as he slung Essa over his burly shoulder.
One of the other men loomed over Voren, holding his hand back as if to strike another blow. “If you even think…”
But what was there to think? He only saw Essa, borne away as if by an avenging wind. He longed to ride it, to force it out, but it would not even let him stir.
“What,” he croaked, reaching a hand for the girl that the Gorjes slapped away. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry bint, eh?” the man said as he pressed a finger into Voren’s chest. The baker sank back, growing still as a dormouse. “Fine piece to go to waste, I know, but she done a no-no. And even you’s got to respect that.”
“A what?”
“No-no. A wrong. A bad. Stepped across her own men. Beat ‘em in the street. Not good for morale.” The man straightened, removing his finger. He sighed as he stepped back. “No good for anyone, really. And we was closest.”
The fear tightened in his chest. It became harder to breathe as he heard her scream. Heard Rowan chasing after. Where is the Kuree? Will he allow this?
“Look, baker, I wouldn’t get involved. Bastard says she gets the lash. Not the only one.”
“The…” His mind reeled. “The lash?”
The Gorjes’ eyes dropped. Even he looked pale. “Look. I’ll not say she’s wrong, but—there’s war and there’s morals. Neither lasts long in the other’s corner.”
When daylight spilled inside the tent again, it was the Gorjes’ turn to look surprised. Rowan panted, and though pale-faced he was, veins stood out prominently against his neck and
knuckles. The sellswords exchanged concerned looks, and steadily, the pair of them and the fencer circled one another, eyes dark and blank as a slate, until the two of them had gone from there, and Voren lay alone, so alone, wrapped in the sheets that only moments before had covered his friend. His lady love.
And there was Rowan, staring down at him. He couldn’t move. The lash?
“What…” The mind—it faltered in such moments. Shock.
“She stopped them,” Rowan whispered, staring out the flap of the tent. Staring after his cousin. His sister, beyond race and blood. “Took a knife to them. Saved a woman’s life. But in war…”
Rowan twisted on him sharply, as soon as they had gone. “Run,” he ordered, and the shrill grate to his tone left no edge on which to argue. “I will follow them. To delay and debate. But you—get Rurik. He is the only one of us that can stop this.”
A heart in turmoil drew suddenly still. He might have choked on those words. As it was, “Rurik,” was all he managed to squeak.
“Now!” Rowan snapped, his balance lost. Slithering back on a hard breath, the man looked around, as if to hit something, then he swept back and away before Voren could think of any reply.
And then it built. Reality: they meant to kill her. On orders, no less.
If salvation began in death, then how could it possibly end?
He stared a moment longer. Unblinking, as if held in trance. Rurik. The one that…He had tried so hard to evade that creature since that night. To keep Essa from him. Steadying breath. His hand shook. Rapist. Murderer. Then: aren’t they all? Rowan was right. There were many men like him in such positions. The place of lesser men was to navigate them as such, with the care of a white water river. Rurik was the only one who could help.
And most importantly: he cared about that woman. Had nearly broken himself over her.
Rurik was the only one who could help. If it could save Essa, then Voren could even grovel. Pride is but a notion. It only slows one down.
Outside, he cast about for any sign of the fool Rurik had set about their camp in days past, but he was nowhere to be found. There was no time to hunt him down. Voren took off through the tent city as fast as his legs could bear. The others were gone, but he knew the way. By the time he had reached Rurik’s tent he could feel the burn in his limbs and the shortness of his own breaths. A pair of soldiers outside, deep in conversation, watched him with some confusion, but they made no move to bar his way. The tent flap drew open and he staggered inside, panting as the mismatched eyes took his measure.
At Faith's End Page 38
