by S E Wendel
His feigned smile slipped when his eyes crossed the path of Ennis Courtnay’s gray gaze. The other three women had collapsed in a huddle from exhaustion, the youngest already asleep, but Ennis kept to her feet, eyes wary, brows arched in challenge. Peering at him through narrowed lashes, she stood on the outskirts of the blooming camp, threatening as any lioness.
He didn’t like this budding tendency of his to stop on her account. There were more pressing things to concern him; he needed to worry over their pace, supplies, beating the coming winter, not whether the women had enough blankets or needed liniment for their aches.
He freed himself of her hold, straying into his own tent. Taryn, a burly swordsmith who acted as his seneschal when needed, was busy laying carpets to ward off some of the frozen ground’s chill. Near the opening at the other side of the tent sat the cart bearing Manek’s personal belongings. Not needing to search long for what he was after, he extracted Ehman Courtnay’s breastplate, still splattered with grime.
“Where’re you headed with that?” Taryn asked as he passed through the tent again.
Manek only grinned.
Walking back to Ennis and the others, he slowed his pace at her wary look. She greeted his unwelcome company with pursed lips and a withering glare. But she kept her thoughts to herself when he showed her his peace offering.
“It needs to be cleaned,” he said, feeling sheepish.
Pointedly keeping herself between him and the other women, Ennis reached for the breastplate.
“Do you know how?”
“I’ll manage,” she replied crisply, taking it and the cloth he handed her next. The way she held it, touched the etchings along the neckline, was enough for Manek.
Before he could return to his tent, Ennis asked, “And the sword? Shall I clean that, too?”
Manek couldn’t help the crooked smile that spread across his face as he glanced down at the gold-hilted blade strapped to his side. “I feel, Lady Courtnay, my life would be in much less danger were I to keep the sword with me.”
She met his gaze and replied, “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Nodding at their understanding, Manek made sure the necessary blankets, a tent, and a carpet were sent to the women before entering his tent. Taryn had just finished placing a small table, girded by three chairs, on one side of the billowy room. He looked up and grinned at Manek.
“I’m not sure you’ll get that back,” he laughed.
“I’ve no use for it right now,” Manek replied with a smile, sitting down at the table.
“Need anything else from me?” The swordsmith slapped a beefy hand on Manek’s shoulder. “There’s a plot of grass singing my praises out there.”
“I’d be obliged if you’d pitch the women’s tent.”
“Of course. Though I think it’s high time they learn the trick of the trade.”
Manek let out a bark of laughter. “You’re more than welcome to tell them so. Let me know how that goes.”
Taryn grimaced in good humor. “I’d best get to it.”
As Taryn left Waurin entered. Manek could tell his thumping stride anywhere. Slumping into the opposite chair, Waurin rested his sword against the seat and flung his cloak back across his shoulders. He had a wooden cup balanced in his palm and looked damned tired, thick circles darkening his eyes, but he grinned contentedly when he took a gulp from the cup.
“How is it you always find the wine cart first?”
Waurin shrugged, nonplussed. “Never let it out of my sight.”
Grinning at that, Manek tipped his head over the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Had Waurin not spoken, he would’ve fallen asleep in mere moments.
“I’ve brought the map you wanted.”
Manek groaned. “Tell me again why I wanted to look at the expanse between us and home?”
Waurin said nothing but Manek knew from the crackling of leather he was shrugging. Peeling an eye open, he looked down at the newly spread map. He let his eyes wander over the great land of Mithria. So much of it yet unexplored, so much unknown. His thoughts soured to think of Larn wasting so much life and time conquering what was already there. The forests, the mountains, even the mysterious Southern Sands had much more to give than towns’ orphaned girls and chests of jewels.
Putting his finger on the mouth of the High Mountains, he traced a line downwards into the Barren Lands, to Solemn Lake. He grew even more tired thinking of the journey before them. It didn’t help considering that winter could overtake them before home was in sight.
“We’ll head south to Solemn Lake and take the same road along the western shore.”
“Wouldn’t it be faster for you to east?”
Manek’s eyes slid over to Waurin and he smiled. “So eager to be rid of me?”
Chuckling, he replied, “I’ve had enough of your ugly face for this season.”
“I’d feel better in numbers for now,” Manek said.
Waurin waved his hand dismissively. “Larn’s none of our concern anymore.”
“At least not until spring.”
“You certainly made him tired of the thought.” Laughing once more, he said, “I can’t believe you talked our way out of Highcrest. When he came to call us back, I was sure we’d be wintering in the Highlands.”
“I didn’t talk us out of anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“He knows he’s stretched too thin now. He’ll want more men next season.” He sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “I give my men a winter at home for the price of their sons come—”
Waurin kicked him in the shins. “Stop that. You do better than any of us could. Your father became warlord in fair contest, and you’ve taken his place honorably. We Lowland dogs will follow you wherever the wind takes you.”
This drew a small smile from Manek, but he was too tired to truly let Waurin’s words sink beneath the skin.
“We’re warmongers, Manek. This’s the life we lead.”
“Yes, but it’s not our war we fight.”
“That’s true for every soldier.”
Manek looked up from his weary stupor to consider this rare bout of wisdom from Waurin. Then a grin spread across his friend’s broad face and he took another swig from his deep wooden cup. Rolling his eyes, Manek dropped his head into his arms, folded on the table.
Several moments slipped by, and Manek sensed Waurin was trying to say something. He waited for a few more mouthfuls of wine to fill Waurin’s belly, then finally the comment came.
“These Courtnay girls...”
“What of them?” Manek asked from his warm, dark cavern.
“I’ve not seen women like them before.”
“Just because they have longer titles doesn’t make them any different from other women.”
He heard Waurin shift, knew he was shaking his head.
“You do seem rather sweet on the young one.”
Were someone to point out the blush overtaking Waurin’s face, he no doubt would’ve immediately blamed it on drink. “She’s a charming thing, that’s certain.”
Manek had been rather surprised to learn that Waurin didn’t know what to do with the beautiful young Courtnay girl. Usually in his element when wooing beautiful women, Manek couldn’t recall ever seeing Waurin lacking initiative, let alone bashful. He didn’t know what stopped him, whether it was the girl’s large blue eyes or perhaps a lingering sense of guilt, but something kept Waurin back.
“And what of you?”
“What of me?”
“You seem rather scared of—what’s she called?—Ennis.”
Manek lifted his head and chuckled. Though to Waurin it seemed a joke, Manek meant it in all sincerity when he said, “I think I should be.”
Seven
Themin decided to make man in his image, just as the gods and goddesses. But the gods did disagree, disliking having to share their almightiness, and the skies rumbled
. Ean the Deceiver then defied his father, and before man was fully formed, cursed them to temporal existence and replaced their golden immortality with black greed, fear, and malice. Before Themin had discovered the treachery, man was doomed to eternal duplicity and violence.
—Mithrian creation myth
The placid surface of the river belied its true nature; the Slender River, though indeed narrow, was deep with a wicked current tumbling below. They’d been following it for three days now, the constant thundering of rapids enough to drive Ennis mad. Already two scouts had been lost to the icy waters.
Finally, they came across the shallowest spot yet. Though it was wider here than it had been for leagues, Manek decided he’d rather cross than have to march all the way to the sea. Carts were unburdened and guiding ropes were pulled taut. Weapons and supplies hoisted above heads, men finally began to slosh into the quick-running water after the tedious work of getting horses and carts across.
When it was finally their turn, she heard a squeak behind her and looked over her shoulder to see Lora’s eyes wide with terror. Reaching out, she gave Lora’s hand a squeeze and said, “It can’t be colder than Highcrest’s harbor.”
“Cold isn’t what worries me.”
Ennis smiled with more confidence than she felt. “We have the De’lan. What’s this Lowland river to us?”
Lora licked her dry, cracked lips and finally gave Ennis a ghost of a smile.
Turning to the icy river, Ennis winced as she slid a leg in and hoped Lora didn’t see.
Nearby, Manek guided his horse in the rightmost position, with others carefully feeling their way on foot to his left. The water ran up to the horse’s massive chest, and Ennis sympathized with it as its white-rimmed eyes darted this way and that, mane twitching.
Barely keeping her own chest above the waterline, Ennis swallowed the panic rising in the back of her throat. With each precarious step, she slid her fingers further down the rope.
She knew what would happen the instant her foot touched the rock, slick with moss. Her breath caught—she slipped.
“Ennis!” Lora cried.
The icy water stung her face; shocked, she flailed an arm, broke the surface, was dragged under again as two fingers touched, reached, missed the rope.
She opened her mouth, desperate to take a breath, her teeth aching from the frigid water running down her throat. She kicked and shuddered when her left knee banged into a mossy rock, sharp pebbles raking across her skin.
A hand found hers. Daylight blinded her as her body convulsed in a shiver that ran from her head to her toes.
Sucking in air, she wrapped trembling arms around the warm body pulling her out. Water sloshed, running off her in rivulets, and she opened her eyes. She nearly recoiled, finding herself the closest she’d ever been to Manek. His face so near, his breath hot against her frozen cheek, she shrank away from him only to be brought closer as his arms encircled her, securing her in the saddle. The horse found purchase and leapt back onto more solid ground, hurrying to the safety of the bank.
Coughing out water, her face flushed, she muttered, “Thank you.”
Manek let out a relieved breath. “I’ve lost enough to Adain already.”
When they met the muddy bank, she slid down the side of the shivering beast. Manek swung a leg over and dismounted; she stiffened when he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed back her sopping hair.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His hand hovered over her head, as if he would run it over the rest of her face, checking for injury.
Ennis cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you.”
Realizing it wasn’t just the cold that made her so rigid, Manek kept in whatever else he’d planned to say, nodded, and retreated to his horse.
After pulling the soaked cloak from her shoulders, she felt airy enough to float away. Walking up to the drier grassy bank, she began wringing out her hair.
Gentle arms came around her from behind and another cloak was thrown over her shoulders. Though the bottom half of this one was soaked as well, the fur lining at the neck was not, and Ennis melted into the warmth. Turning, she dropped her head onto Lora’s shoulder.
“Adain seems to fancy you,” Lora teased, lifting Ennis’s head so that she could assess her.
“Well I’m not very fond of him,” Ennis said.
Lora hugged her tightly again. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
“I’m not going near a river again.”
Joining arms, they made their way up the bank with the men, forming what would become camp. Ennis looked at those who’d already crossed. Many were twisting and wringing their clothes, pushing back wet hair, holding waterlogged boots upside down.
Irina soon found them and the three women sat together, apart from the camp being erected. Even as it formed around them—canvas to block out the worst of the night’s chill, twine and rope pulled taut from one tent to the next with rows of soaked clothing—the camp didn’t seem to include them. Three women in an army of men, they instinctively drew closer together.
Unlike a fine Highland army, with its matching cuirasses and colorful banners, these Lowlanders were clad in mismatched armor, some pieces looking distinctly Highland-made. Their clothes were homespun and featured only muted, earthy colors. Their horses, even the ones drawing carts, were beastly, their flanks resembling boulders, most of them standing twenty hands high or more. She still couldn’t make sense of the men’s tattoos—they all had at least one circle on the right collarbone, some had a second circle on the left, and yet more had a third at the base of the throat, forming a triangle. Manek, she’d noticed, had only one.
“Do you think we’re close to the Lowlands yet?” asked Lora in a whisper.
Ennis couldn’t reply through her chattering teeth, but she hadn’t an answer anyway.
“Ennis!”
Having just crossed with Waurin, Essa hurried up the bank to them. Throwing her arms around her sister’s shoulders, Essa crushed Ennis to her.
“Are you all right? What were you thinking? You could’ve drowned! Oh, your hands are like ice!” A flurry of flaming gold hair, quick syllables, and prodding fingers, Essa touched her sister’s face, shoulders, hands, hair, looking for anything wrong.
“I’m f-fine,” Ennis said as her sister fussed.
Essa scowled. “You are not fine.”
With that she marched away. They lost her amongst the men moving about and the constant shifting of tents and clothes lines, but Ennis caught a glimpse of her speaking hurriedly with Waurin. She returned several moments later with two dry cloaks.
“This will do,” she said with a triumphant grin.
Lora and Essa held up the cloaks around Ennis as she shimmied out of her soaked clothes and into their last dry nightgown. She was too tired to care about the curious looks thrown her way. Her fingers struggled with the clothes and her teeth chattered, but finally she was semi-dry.
Together, the women hunkered down, waiting to be told what to do and where to go. Lora on her right and Essa on her left, Ennis slowly began to warm.
When his men were settled, Waurin came to their little patch of grass, several logs cradled in his arms. Ennis didn’t miss the glances he stole in Essa’s direction while making their fire. Essa noticed as well, but ever coy, she acted as if she didn’t. Interested in the game her sister played, Ennis regarded Waurin with curiosity as he breathed life into their newborn fire.
“That’ll do nicely,” he said with a grin.
Tall and powerfully built, Waurin looked the consummate warrior with his thick arms and neck, wide chest, slight scowl, and formerly broken nose. When the sun hit his hair just right, it flamed like molten gold; otherwise it sat windblown and a ruddy blond. The way his eyes slowly looked about his surroundings told Ennis of his confidence, revealed his easy nature, and hinted at his rather slow mind. But his smile was wide and when he looked upon Essa, it was warm.
Once he departed, Ennis fixed Essa with a questioning stare.
“He’s not so bad,” was all Essa said before stretching like a cat in a patch of sun.
Night befell the Lowland camp quickly. The stars shone brightly and clear in a cold, inky black sky. There was much less talk than previous nights, each and every man chilled down to his bones. Fires were necessary and nursed lovingly on such nights.
From the darkness into their firelight stepped Manek, every inch of him covered save his head. In his arms he carried a pile of clothing and one shining breastplate.
“I’m sorry these took so long to get to you,” he said, handing each woman another cloak, a thickly lined man’s tunic, blankets, and a pair of furred gloves. Ennis didn’t know if she’d experienced anything as divine as slipping her numb fingers into the gloves, fur caressing her icy skin.
When each had received her share of clothing, Manek extended the breastplate over the fire to Ennis. Each evening he would present it to her with a fresh cloth and fetch it again each morning, even if the breastplate was long since clean. He seemed to know that though she was tired, her mind was not yet too exhausted and needed something to do.
Finally able to be apart from Lora and Essa without risking frostbite, Ennis ran the cloth over the broad front chest plate. Soon, a gaggle of soldiers, in between fires and bottles, crossed into their circle of firelight.
Feeling bold with Manek now in his own tent, they stopped to tell her that, “A warprize shouldn’t be touching a thing so fine.”
Lora and Essa stiffened.
“It was my father’s,” Ennis said through gritted teeth.
“Your father’s not here,” one of them laughed, tottering on unstable legs.
“A warprize’s got no father.”
One staggered forward and grabbed the breastplate, admiring it in the glowing light. With the war clothes in drunken hand, he made to move away, but Ennis jumped to her feet and blocked his path.
