The Living Sword 2: The Road Ahead

by Pemry Janes

  “Not the smartest bunch, then,” Misthell piped up.

  Silver Fang’s laugh was harsh and brief. “No, they were not. My ancestors waited and prepared. Not all women of Hawk agreed with how the men had all the power. And when we were ready, we struck. We took their lands, destroyed their nests. It was they who lost their connection to their spirit, and Snake found a new home.”

  “And Hawk’s conduct wasn’t wrong in the eyes of the other tribes?”

  “Failure leaves little trace. In the eyes of the other tribes, our hands were stained with blood while we protested that we were the victims. There was fear we would turn our eyes on their lands, and there still is.”

  “Even after three centuries?”

  There was no humor in the young woman’s smile. “We have a good memory.”

  Eurik was silent for a moment. “I remember you and Irelith coming to my aid in Linese.”

  “And I . . . I remember your foolhardy attempt at a rescue.”

  “I remember that inn you recommended. The soup was excellent.”

  Silver Fang chuckled. “Agreed. Now, I was trying to teach you Thelauk, so let us begin with something simple. How to properly greet a person, that is very important. There are several, and using the incorrect one can offer grave insult.”

  ***

  Slyvair stood behind him, his one arm folded behind his back. Perun was even closer. “Have he started yet?” the child asked in bad Linesan. Obviously, he wanted Eurik to understand him, but Eurik did his best to ignore both Perun and Slyvair and concentrate on his task.

  His toes buried into the soil and his mind reached for the chiri beneath them. The captain’s design was simple enough: a square with a single entrance formed by overlapping walls. It wouldn’t stop someone, but it would certainly delay.

  The problem Eurik faced was equally simple: find enough material to make the walls without collapsing the entire the camp into a giant sinkhole. He reached through dirt and clay, through the layers of sediment deposited by an ancient river, and found what he was looking for.

  The world above fell away as the structure assembled in his mind. It was slow going. The wall would only reach to his neck, but to encompass the entire campsite still took a lot of stone. And he was very aware of Slyvair standing there, looking at him.

  Eurik dug deeper, focusing on his work below ground. He didn’t know how much time it took; he only knew when he was ready. His bare feet sank deeper into the earth, and the muscles in his arms and back strained as he slowly lifted his hands up and felt the wall rise to the surface.

  The clay formed a problem; it resisted his will as he tried to move it out of the rising fortification’s way. His breathing sped up, and beads of sweat slid down his face and chest as Eurik dug deeper. It rose faster now, breaking through the surface with a rumble, a cloud of dust billowing into the camp.

  Eurik didn’t disconnect from the earth chiri. He didn’t dare to. Instead, he let his awareness float to the surface, slowly disentangling from its grasp. His eyes stung, but he could still make out the figure of Slyvair approaching the wall. He made to join the orc, but his knee buckled instead of bent. Eurik caught his fall and focused on his breathing, drawing little bits of chiri with each inhale to chase away the weakness. Would it ever vanish?

  Perun’s hand steadied him. “Good,” he said, his face scrunched up in thought. “Good . . . work. Bigger than . . . seen before.”

  “We’ll see,” the mercenary captain shouted back. He slid his hand over the wall. “Sandstone?”

  “Yes.” Eurik leaned a little on Perun as he made his way over to Slyvair. “It’s deep underground, but it’s a sturdy material and there’s enough that I don’t have to spend time assembling the wall. All I have to do is form it and then lift it up.”

  The orc huffed, then suddenly spun on his right leg and kicked the wall with his left. Dirt that had clung to the wall rained down on his foot, and he shook it before bringing it back down. He kicked it again. “It will do.” He looked Eurik over. “And you are certain you can do this every evening?”

  Eurik straightened out and stepped away from Perun. “Yes. It is good practice, in fact.”

  Slyvair grunted. “You are still expected to stand guard.”

  “Making the wall is an effort, but I recover quickly.” He ignored the lingering soreness in his limbs; that would pass soon enough.

  “Very well, then you can go dig the latrines next. Make sure to put them in the far corner of the camp.” He switched to Irelian and addressed Perun. Eurik couldn’t quite follow, something about . . . lessons?

  Perun was complaining by the sound of it, but a few gruff words from the orc cut him off. They left Eurik there, though Perun did wave before the pair disappeared behind a tent.

  “Is it me,” Misthell said from his back, “or does Slyvair not like you?”

  “I’m sure that’s not it.” Though Eurik wasn’t certain at all. Slyvair seemed to scrutinize him a lot, far more than he did Silver Fang. And he didn’t act this way around her, either. Only him.

  “You are the likable sort, but that’s my point. Slyvair doesn’t know you, so he might not know he’s not supposed to not like you.”

  “He’s not . . .” Eurik frowned, trying to follow that particular line of logic. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Exactly. Glad you understand.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “I’m going to make those latrines. Then I’m going find something to eat. I want to catch at least four hours of sleep before my turn to stand guard comes up.”

  ***

  It should have felt familiar, sitting there with his back against the wall and listening to the earth chiri for anybody approaching the camp. Eurik had performed a similar duty for years back on the island, but it was all too different.

  The earth felt different. There was no molten rock flowing close to the surface, no tremors rippling through the chiri. Its history, too, wasn’t the same. Once, a river had flowed through here and a long time before that, a sea had covered much of the valley.

  What he guarded was different, too. It wasn’t a silent library but a gathering of tents and wagons. He felt one giant goat paw at the ground. The smell was different, the sounds from the forest before him, the trees. Even he felt different.

  The island had been peaceful, steady despite the volatile energies churning beneath it. Life was predictable. Not so here. It changed all the time, ignoring his plans and demanding he react to it, feel something rather than simply be.

  Eurik took a deep breath and let more chiri flow through him. He was one with the world; one flowing into the other without issue. He was the steady mountain.

  He’d rarely needed the reminder before, another change. A small ripple drew him away from his ruminations. Someone was approaching. No sound, but the footfalls were strong, the stride long.

  “Good evening, Captain.”

  “So you’re not asleep,” Slyvair said.

  Eurik cracked one eye open and glanced at the orc. Most of him was in shadow, but the light spilling out over the wall illuminated the undamaged side of his face. “I sense more than I can see.”

  “And what do you sense?”

  “Your arrival.” Eurik had said that a little louder and the mercenary he stood guard with popped up from the other side of the wall. What he got from this conversation was a mystery to Eurik, as the man’s Linesan seemed non-existent.

  Eurik closed his eyes again and reached for the earth chiri. “Someone’s relieving himself in the camp, a dwarf. There’s some mice running through the field and something a little bigger is prowling along the tree line. There’s also a group walking around deep in the forest—they’re on two legs but very small.”

  Slyvair sniffed. “Goblins. Those won’t dare attack a group this big.” The orc remained silent for a while. Eurik could feel Slyvair’s eyes on him, then the orc turned to the other guard and exchanged a few words in Irelian with him.

  He turned back to Eurik
. “There should be no danger on this leg of the journey, but vigilance is a skill best kept well-honed. Many lives depend upon it, you’d best remember that.” Slyvair kept staring at Eurik for a moment longer, then he walked past him and into the dark. Through the earth, Eurik felt Slyvair rounding the corner of the wall and stopping at where the next guard was squatting.

  “I don’t think he’s warming up to you.” Misthell was propped up against the wall on Eurik’s right.

  “He seemed civil enough just now.”

  “Yeah, but he also stationed you outside the wall. If someone does manage to sneak up to you, it’ll be your death that warns the guy on the other side that there is an attack. A good plan, and makes it hard for anyone to pull off a sneak attack. Except for the part where you get your throat slit and I end up in the grubby paws of some bandit who’ll never clean me and use me to clean carcasses and scrape leather and whatever else bandits use sharp things for.” The sword rattled against the wall.

  Eurik closed his eyes again, a smile on his lips. “Then you best keep your eye open,” he said. But Misthell was right in one respect. He was the tripwire for any attacks aimed at this side of the camp. So did Slyvair put him in this position because he trusted Eurik’s abilities, or because he didn’t? He didn’t know, but he began to wish Silver Fang had gotten them hired by another caravan.

  Chapter 5

  Leaping Thunder

  The next few days saw little excitement as the caravan settled into its routine. They traveled down the paved road, bypassing the towns, pushing on until an hour or two before sunset, and only then would they set up camp.

  Every night Eurik created the wall and the latrines under Slyvair’s watchful eye, and took them down the next morning. There was little time to practice with the sword, but plenty of opportunity to learn Silver Fang’s language and deepen his understanding of Rise of the Mountain.

  They’d only been on the road for an hour or two that day when one of the mercenaries steered his horse toward them. He wore a mail shirt over a leather jerkin. The rest of his gear, like his helmet, kite-shaped shield, spear, sword, and a short bow with a quiver full of arrows, were all fastened to the saddle. Ceran was one of the older members of the Gored Axes, with several gaps in his grin and a face that wrinkled like a winter’s-end apple whenever he did that.

  “There it is,” the man said, his helmeted head nodding toward something in front of the caravan. “The Neisham Hills. From here on out, we really get to earn our keep.” Eurik and Silver Fang had to stand on the lip of the wagon to look over its cargo to see what he was talking about.

  The land didn’t look dangerous. Just a series of stony hills covered in green grass and thin trees. The road split in front of it, one branch heading north while the caravan followed the one going south.

  It occurred to Eurik that they hadn’t passed any lone farms for a while now. He didn’t see anyone traveling the northern road, either.

  “They might look pretty enough during the day, but it gets spooky at night,” Ceran said. “Camp guards sometimes just vanish. No sound, no body. Daph says its the ghosts of Leaping Thunder’s army looking to take revenge.” He eyed both Eurik and Silver Fang. “If it were, you two would be safe. But I wouldn’t get comfortable, ‘cause I think Daph’s full of it. It’s got to be goblins.” He nodded to himself. “They get real mean this far from civilization.”

  Silver Fang had one hand on the covered crates to keep herself steady. “Not elves?”

  Ceran shook his head. “No mistaking an elf raid for anything. Elves don’t just take one man. They’ll take as many as they can. And I heard it happens along the northern road, too. There hasn’t been an elf north of the Neisham Hills in living memory.”

  Eurik looked at the hills rising up one after the other, like the crumbling stairs made for a giant. The distant ones looked more like small mountains. “Are we going to change how the guards are set up around the camp, then?”

  “Nope. Don’t have enough bodies to do that without running everybody ragged. And tired guards are a danger night and day. So you just keep an eye open and pray to Phores he’ll see you through the night.”

  “How about the day, Ceran?” Slyvair said from the other side of the wagon. He appeared on his horse, turning to keep pace, and glared at the mercenary before doing the same with Eurik. “We are paid to guard this caravan day and night. I’ll not have you distract my men from that task.”

  “Right, Captain,” Ceran said, ticking his brow with his free hand and trotting away with his shoulders hunched up.

  Slyvair barely acknowledged the salute, still staring hard at Eurik, who could only shrug. “We were only talking.”

  The orc bared his teeth. “This isn’t some leisurely stroll through the streets of your home. Here, there is danger. It can pounce at any moment. My people are vigilant and I’ll not have you ruin it. You want to talk, talk to the drivers, talk to your friend, talk to your sword.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Slyvair spurred his horse and rode off toward the head of the caravan again.

  ***

  The first twinkling stars had appeared in the darkening sky, hoppers chirped at one another in the tall grass outside the camp, and the scent of Daph and Ceran’s cooking began to fill the air. It wasn’t ready yet; they rang a bell when it was, and weren’t above throwing that bell at someone’s head if anyone tried to sniff around any sooner.

  They were convinced everybody was after their recipes and guarded them with their lives. Honestly, their fare was good, but nothing spectacular. Now Irelith’s rabbit stew, that had been delicious. Another thing she hadn’t taught Leraine before she died.

  The sadness slid off her shoulders a little easier these days and she focused on the bone dice rattling in the stone cup Rock had made. Leraine threw them, the small cubes rolling across the ground between them. When they came to rest, two dots stared back at her. “Snake eyes.”

  “Snak yes?” Rock did his best, but her language had little in common with Irelian, let alone Linesan.

  “Snake eyes,” she articulated carefully, before switching to a language he was more versed in. “Snake’s eyes. There is no better throw in the game.”

  “You win again.” He groaned as he leaned forward to gather up cup and dice.

  Her own leg muscles complained as well; she wasn’t recovering from an illness, but she wasn’t used to traveling these distances on foot. That’s what horses were for. Horses were expensive, though, and the web of obligations between her and Rock was thick enough already.

  The dice rolled, she listened as Rock counted and added aloud in Thelauk. “Two, three . . . is fife.”

  “Yes,” Leraine said in the same language. “Five.”

  “Five,” he repeated, then handed over the cup. “Who is Leaper Thunder?”

  “Hmm?” Leraine blinked and looked up at him. It took her a moment to decipher what he was trying to say. “Leaping Thunder. The horse people recorded him as a king, but our people don’t have those. He was war leader, so chosen after he convinced several tribes to band together to resist the invader.”

  After that, they spent some time going over what she just said, as it contained several words Rock hadn’t come across so far.

  He frowned. “I’ve read several histories on the Nesan conquest, but I don’t recall that name.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. Her draen ticked against her neck; finally it was a suitable length again. “He fought against the horse people when they first came.” She threw the dice and waited for him to count.

  “Six and one is . . . sev, seven. I lose.” At her quick nod, he smiled and gathered up the dice. “Ah, I haven’t read much on that. It was . . . two . . . thousand?” Leraine nodded and Rock did the same. “Two thousand years ago. Not much writing survived . . . so long. Could you tell me more?”

  “Why ask her when you can ask me?” Misthell rested against the solid slab of the shelter. “Haven’t we established yet that I know every st
ory?”

  She and Rock looked at each other, and Leraine shrugged. “I only know he existed, his tribe lived in the Barren Hills, and he died defending that home.”

  “Don’t spoil the ending,” Misthell said.

  “Misthell, I think I . . . guess how it ended.” Rock looked into the dark for a moment. “No Mochedan has lived here in . . . two thousand years.”

  Leraine was about to correct him, but Misthell beat her to it. “On the contrary, he succeeded,” the sword said in Linese. “For two days and two nights the armies of Leaping Thunder and the first emperor, who was not emperor yet, clashed at the foot of these hills. And then, on the third day, these leaders met. The two armies forgot there was a battle as they watched these two exchange blows. Lightning flashed when their blows met. For eight hours they fought, neither willing to yield to the other, until at last, Evenar and Leaping Thunder both collapsed against the other. They lacked the strength to raise their arm again, and could only stand with the support of their mortal enemy. After that, the armies had had enough and retreated. Evenar never tried to conquer the Neisham Hills again, not even after Leaping Thunder had been assassinated.”

  “He died fighting a second invasion by Evenar’s son,” Leraine said in the same language. This was too complicated for Rock to follow in her own language. “Let’s not repeat the lies told by the horse people. But we don’t remember him to this day for that battle.” She turned to face Rock again and leaned forward a little. “This was long before the Great Truce, when People of one tribe would raid and kill those of another tribe over the smallest offense. Or even, because they coveted, wanted, what other People had.”

  Birds sang in the twilight. “Leaping Thunder brought tribes that had hated each other for generations together against a common threat. It didn’t last.” And her mother thought that the Irelian version of events was closer to the truth than the People’s. “But when the Great Truce was made, its makers could point to Leaping Thunder’s example. That is his true legacy.”