Argus nodded. His teeth chattered, and kept chattering even after the sun rose and burned off some of the fog. It was a wet cold in this place—the kind that bit into one's bones.
Siggi awoke and relieved Nasira of her watch duties. Argus piloted the boat, keeping as close to the coastline as he dared while the Rivannan watched for unruly Nalavacians.
“Strange,” he said. “Brenn said it's usually a steady stream of raiders to Valcrest. Killing and plundering and enslaving the lucky ones.”
“Those are the unlucky ones,” Argus said. “The ones they take as slaves.”
“Aye. That's another way to look at it.”
Argus looked to the northwest. Somewhere beyond the horizon Valcrest waited, just a day or two away in favorable winds. Soon he would be the one invading it, cutting west, crossing the Riven Mountains…
And then what? Demand my nephew let Kyra go? What if he refuses?
He wrapped his blankets tightly, shivered, and then shucked them off. They'd managed to get damp from some of the waves crashing onto the boat. The rest of the day passed in agonizing shifts. Spats of sleep were interrupted and then it was time to watch again—to peer at that coastline until his eyes hurt from the sun's reflection on the snow.
The sun fell on their backs. They ate and kept sailing. Siggi said, “I can't see a damn thing with all that snow.”
Argus sighed. Looking at it was uncomfortable. But it didn't compare to walking through it. Something they'd soon experience. He watched a group of icepickers burst out of the water, jumping, flourishing their fins.
Bastards, he thought. They're teasing me.
To keep himself awake, he paced the deck. He stopped in the stern to watch the wake Nasira's boat made. When he raised his eyes the sun was right on them. He squinted, shielded his face, and watched the last rays bathe the water in gold.
“The light doesn't last nearly as long up here,” Nasira said.
Argus nodded at the mound of shivering blankets beside him. “Come on. Let's get that fire going.”
“Oh, yes.”
He led Nasira into the bow, where Siggi was already preparing the brazier. They didn't have much firewood, so they'd decided to save it for after nightfall. The Rivannan tried to spark it to life with his flint until Argus brushed him aside and said, “Let me.” He laid a hand on the logs and started to whisper.
Being so cold made it difficult to focus, but desperation helped. As he ran his fingers over the bark he felt inside, to the smooth center. Chanting a spell he'd learned from the Touch Branch, he started to rub. Inside the logs he magnified the rubbing five times, ten times, twenty until the friction sparked a flame.
He stepped back and smiled, watching the spark catch the kindling and spread to some of the smaller branches.
Siggi whooped. “That's it, my friend!”
They huddled around the fledgling fire, warming their hands. No one moved. They couldn't afford to expose the flames to the wind. Then Argus would have to start all over again—something he'd had to do three times last night.
The fire caught. Pain throbbed in Argus's fingers while they thawed. It was the good kind of pain. The kind that let you knew you were still alive, that you'd made it through another night.
“That's a pretty useful skill,” Nasira said. “Perhaps I'll learn it myself.”
“No.” Argus looked into the fire. “I know you, Nasira. Once you open up the Five Branches—”
“What? I'll turn out like you? A slave to those ancient texts? Remember, I spent years plotting to dethrone Shanaz. I can show incredible restraint with the right motivation.”
Argus glared at her. “Right. And how well did all that plotting work for you, Nasira?”
“What?”
Then it was her turn to glare. Their eyes battled until Siggi separated them. He told them they hadn't meant those things. Everyone was just tired and hungry and cold.
“You're right,” said Nasira. “I'm sorry, Argus.”
“I shouldn't have said that. I just don't want you to get hurt.”
Those amber eyes softened, and she reached out and took his hand. “I know. But I'm not a child. I need to make my own decisions.”
“Aye.”
They fell silent, huddling around the fire. Siggi warmed some wine and they drank it, though it did little to lift Argus's spirits.
Of course I can't protect her. I can't even protect Janna or Kyra or Harun or Willow or—stop it! He couldn't. Regrets trailed him, relentless as his own shadow. I can't even protect myself. He wished he had the Five Branches. Or that he'd learned that spell of Willow's—the one she'd used to warm someone with only her touch.
“Look,” said Siggi. “Up ahead!”
Nasira gasped.
Argus looked. The sky wasn't right. A swath of stars were missing. The constellations that remained grinned at them like a man who'd gotten a tooth knocked out during a brawl. That empty space was darker than the night surrounding it, but when he looked closely enough, he noticed it swaying in the breeze.
The Wanderwood ran all the way to the coastline, where it ended atop a cliff before a steep plunge into the waves. It crawled away from the water farther than Argus could see.
“Finally,” Siggi said. “I was starting to think we'd never make it.” He and Nasira scurried around the boat, gathering their things. Argus watched them without a word. They were too excited. So swept up in the majesty of the place that they'd seemingly forgotten the forest's inhabitants.
“We can hide the ship in that cove,” Nasira said. Siggi guided them into it, and they dropped anchor among the mossy rocks. Then it was just a knee-deep wade to shore.
Argus's legs were numb by the time they touched land. He carried the brazier with him. It was still burning; somehow he'd managed to keep it dry enough while he thrashed about in the water. The three of them gathered around it and warmed themselves before following the edge of the forest southeast.
Wide awake now, Argus kept looking over at it. He regretted it every time. Each glance made the Wanderwood appear closer. His throat tightened. His heart pumped faster. He couldn't prove it, but he knew those trees were pressing in on them.
Siggi led the way, with Argus in the rear and Nasira in the middle holding the brazier. Even though the light was obscenely bright on the snow, they kept it burning. A calculated risk. Meeting some unfriendly Nalavacians was likely. But freezing to death without a fire? That was a certainty.
Next time Argus looked back, the coastline resembled a bushy gray eyebrow. It shrank and shrank, and finally disappeared while the forest grew.
No one said a word. The only sounds were their soft footfalls shuffling through snow. A frigid wind blew in from the west, howling over the steppes before it was swallowed up in the forest limbs. It cut right across them, through them, making their coats and clothes useless.
On the wind's back came more snow. It fell softly at first, then harder, harder until they could barely see at all. Whenever Argus glanced back their footsteps had already disappeared. It started to pile. Snowdrifts climbed until they were halfway up his boots—and kept climbing.
“That's enough,” Siggi said. “I can hardly move.”
Through chattering teeth, Nasira said something about shelter. At first Argus protested. The only shelter in these parts was under the Wanderwood boughs. Wandering in there—in the dead of night, no less—was the only thought worse than marching through this snowstorm.
“That forest plays tricks on you,” he said. “Who's to say we wander in and never find our way out?”
Nasira shrugged. “Sounds like a myth. Something you'd hear in a children's tale.”
“One of those children's tales like the Cradle of Eld?”
“That's enough,” said Siggi, with a rare frown. “We'll keep to the edge. And always stay within sight of the steppes. Then, in the morning, hopefully we can pick up where we left off.”
Argus swore. He trudged ahead even after they walked into the Great Fore
st before finally doubling back. Giving up. The snowfall eased under those ancient branches, but his sense of dread grew. What if it kept snowing? They might get stuck in here. Only a matter of time before they'd get hungry, go looking for food…
He followed them in anyhow, tried to think about Janna. Siggi plopped down near an enormous spruce trunk that split and twisted half a dozen ways. A forest of its own. The trunk was gray and riddled with knots, and by the looks of it had endured fires and ax blows and lightning strikes.
“This one will do,” the Rivannan said.
Argus sat down against it and shoveled away the snow. They laid the brazier between them and reclined, looking up at those barren branches. They stretched above, crisscrossed like a spiderweb without beginning or end. So dark in here—even on the outskirts—that he couldn't tell if it was moonlight that lit the ground or just the burning brazier.
“Think we have enough wood to last the night?” said Nasira.
Argus glanced deeper into the trees. Darkness. And somewhere within them, a hooting owl. He'd known men who'd gone to “chop firewood” and ended up leaving their families and old lives behind. In this case, in the Wanderwood, he had no doubt it meant certain death. “Hope so. Because I'm sure as blazes not moving from this spot.”
Snow kept falling while the minutes crawled. Night dissolved into an endless series of battles. Keep enough logs on the brazier to avoid frostbite, but not too many so they'd last until morning. Huddle together for warmth. Steal a few winks of sleep whenever you could.
Argus had just woken from one of those rests—always shorter and lighter than he needed—when he heard rustling sounds.
He looked up. Siggi and Nasira slept on either side of him. Snowflakes maneuvered through the branches, dancing their way down to his cheeks. He brushed them off, sat up, and found himself surrounded by eyes.
No, he told himself. Just a dream.
A dream that was quickly turning into a nightmare.
Argus blinked but they were still there—and closer. Greens and blues and browns in every direction. Hard eyes. Eyes of predators.
He yelled.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nasira and Siggi stirred. Everyone scrambled for their weapons, but by the time Reaver flashed from her scabbard, they were already surrounded.
There were a dozen Nalavacians at least. All of them armed. A smattering of swords and axes and bows.
“Don't move,” one of the women said, and pointed an ax at them. She had a hook-shaped nose and small brown eyes. Aside from a few streaks of gray, her hair matched them. She shuffled closer, clad in bear fur, curious.
“Put down your weapons, outsiders,” said a man who must have been twenty years her junior. He had thin eyebrows and a patchy black beard. He had an old falchion, though, and carried the blade like a seasoned mercenary.
“Do it,” Argus said.
His friends had already raised their empty hands. The Nalavacians closed in, and their eyes became more oppressive than the Wanderwood itself. In all shapes and sizes and ages they came. A girl so young she was still toddling approached with a dagger in hand. Right next to a man who looked even more gnarled than his ancient club.
Argus remembered Brenn's words well. While other kingdoms dance and make music and build palaces, my people war. It's all we know. It's all we are.
The woman who'd spoken first motioned toward their weapons. A few children scurried forward to pick them up, pull them away from the captives. She smiled while she watched them work. The man with the sword smiled too, using his weapon to prod the brazier.
“Fools. You made too much light.”
“They were cold,” the woman said.
“They have the wrong clothes, Fiona. They aren't dressed for Nalavac.”
“We didn't mean to intrude,” Siggi said. “We're just looking for an old friend. A man called Brenn.”
A sharp look from the man silenced him. Of the two dozen, only he and middle-aged woman, Fiona, seemed to know the common tongue. That didn't help their captives when they switched to Nalavacian.
Argus listened to the conversation, catching only a word or two here and there, and prayed they'd make their deaths quick. Siggi didn't know Nalavacian. Their only hope was that Nasira had learned it during all that time in the library.
She looked at him and nodded. So he watched her face while the conversation grew more heated. Nasira paled until her skin turned a sickly gray. When the Nalavacians finished talking, the anger was gone and everyone was smiling again.
“You wish to see Brenndall?” the man said.
“Yes,” said Siggi. “Brenndall the Bold.”
Fiona snorted. “Brenndall the bad blood. Brenndall the cursed.”
“Can you tell us where he is? We mean you no harm.”
The man walked over to Siggi and extended his hand.
Don't do it. It's a trap.
All Argus could do was watch the Rivannan take the hand and let the man help him up. Next he went to help Nasira, who scrambled away as if his hand were a poisonous serpent. She scooted across the snow until her elbow bumped the brazier.
“Shit!”
She jerked her arm away and Fiona took it and pulled her to her feet. “Careful, outsider. Don't want to harm yourself before the fight.”
“No.” Nasira shook her head, trembling. She started to cry, and with those tears came laughter from the crowd. “Don't make me—no, I won't do it!”
The man smirked. “You speak Nalavacian.”
“She'll fight,” said Fiona. “Or she'll die. They all will.”
* * *
The Nalavacians led them deeper into the Wanderwood.
It surrounded them completely now. No coastline or snow-covered steppes to guide them out. Even if they did find a way to survive, they'd have to navigate the claustrophobic foliage on their own.
The Nalavacians scampered through the clearings and snowy paths. They followed a route invisible to the outsiders. How they moved was disturbing. They'd been stealthy before. Now they bounded into the darkness, smiling, cackling. They moved with levity. Just like the people in Azmar on the cusp of the Turning.
“What's going on?” Argus said.
Nasira just shook her head. Tears clung to her face like the icicles on the branches. He was about to ask her again when the hollering started.
Nalavacians looked skyward. They started to sing. Their voices grew so loud they shook the snow from loaded branches. The entire forest seemed to bend toward them, to hold its breath in anticipation of what they'd do next.
Argus shivered. He looked at those mantles of bearskin and wolfskin and felt a pang of jealousy. Reaver was gone, hidden among them. Their singing didn't sound much different than the war cry Brenn made whenever he charged into battle.
Maybe there's no difference, he thought.
Nasira cried out as she was swept into strangers' arms. Men and women—and even a few children with backs as broad as kite shields—took turns carrying her, tossing her into the air between them. The man with the patchy beard, who'd introduced himself as Cian, grabbed an ankle and held the Comet Tailer upside down. The more she yelled the harder he laughed.
Argus told himself the Nalavacians weren't cannibals. He'd heard rumors but couldn't allow himself to believe them. Branches snapped beside him in the undergrowth. Siggi fell, panting, and scrambled to his knees again before they knocked him over once more. Their pace was frantic now. Either that or the outsiders' weary limbs were catching up with them.
Chanting, singing they went. Whenever that didn't prod their captives well enough they used their feet and fists. Argus shucked them off, fighting off every urge to smash a few skulls against the trees. Right now it was a game to them. But if he did something like that, it'd turn deadly serious.
Where the blazes are we going?
The Nalavacians coaxed them deeper into the forest's maw. More eyes crawled out of shadows to join them. The chants grew louder as their numbers swelled. There must h
ave been forty or fifty now. Maybe more.
Soon, there were too many to count.
A few of the children scampered ahead of the pack. They hardly sank in the snow like they should have. Attached to their sealskin boots were what looked like wicker baskets that had been split open.
Fools. You made too much light.
Argus trudged on, swatting away the hands that pawed at him. He ran into a snowbank and fell, struggled, and pulled himself up. Powder overflowed from his boots. His feet were damp. Then numb. Brenn had warned him about the frostbite. How Nalavacians with their fingers or noses or toes chopped off were forced to keep them as reminders of the basic survival tenet in Nalavac.
The cold always wins.
Argus wondered how many mementos he would collect if this carried on much longer. Or if his toes were already black and dead.
Their captors made a sharp turn to the right. Whooping and raising their weapons, they entered a clearing to the sound of more cheers.
Light. A delicious blast of hot air followed it. Argus and Siggi sighed. Maybe Nasira had the same reaction, but all they could see were her slender legs kicking from her perch on top of a tribesman's shoulders.
Around those fires stood more Nalavacians. Entering that clearing doubled their number. There must have been a hundred of them now. A respectable size for a small mercenary company.
More than enough to kill us. That's for certain.
One fire burned higher than all the others. Logs the size of lesser trees leaned together, coughing up plumes of smoke. Its shape resembled the tents the Nalavacians used for shelter. A circular base tapering to a high ceiling. Something they could pack up and carry while they roamed.
In front of a cluster of tents, near that tallest fire, everyone stopped running. Emaciated servants, most with the delicate frames and petite statures characteristic of Valcrest, fed the smaller fires. When one flame died, a Nalavacian woman shoved the man responsible for tending it into one of the live ones.
She laughed while he shrieked and struggled to pull himself from the fire.
That shriek echoed, faded into something they hadn't heard in forever: silence.
Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two) Page 14
