Had talk of the border reminded his master of something he’d spent years forgetting? What had he seen right before Nolo turned his back? Was it pain? Was it a desperate man who wanted someone to see his pain?
The truth ripped the gag held in place by secrecy and fear. The need for one person to know about the son he’d give his life to protect mastered Sarn. He opened his mouth, but Nolo turned and the moment died in silence.
The Black Ranger showed no sign of ever having known suffering. Sarn shut his mouth before the truth could escape. The Nolo who stood before him now would never understand.
“Another time perhaps. If you don’t want a whipping, then I need to speak to Jerlo. And you—you need to—” Nolo flailed around for a task.
But his master found nothing because the Rangers never let him do anything. Besides, he had a task, just not one they’d assigned him. Sarn felt the hollow stare of the ghost boy and a lingering unease. There was another group unaccounted for. Who had he left out? The question faded as Sarn caught the glare of a skunk too interested in the conversation.
“You need to go with Spar and Grellin,” Jerlo put in startling Nolo and the skunk. The creature retreated into the shadows but stayed within earshot.
Sarn dismissed it as another coincidence. Magic tended to make everyone, even the local fauna, edgy. Of course, it had come to check him out.
The commander jerked a thumb at the semi-retired Rangers lumbering up behind him. Given the hour, neither Grellin nor Spar would be working at their trade. What would the pair do with him? Sarn ground his teeth. There were questions in need of answers.
Grizzled and wiry, Spar, the fiftyish bowyer, armed the Rangers. Age bent his back, giving it the curve of his beloved longbow. He gave Grellin a look.
Grellin, the fletcher, held both his calloused palms up in surrender. He had a longbow man’s top-heavy physique and looked like he might tip over on his chicken legs.
Jerlo ignored their exchange. Those under him, retirees included, followed his orders no matter how strange they might be.
“Well, come on boy. We haven’t got all night.” Spar gestured toward Mount Eredren.
Neither of his minders spoke until they’d walked out of Jerlo’s ever-expanding earshot.
Grellin elbowed Sarn, catching him in the stomach since he towered over both artisans.
“What’d you do now?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Grellin and Spar shared a look of disbelief.
“You must've done something. Think hard boy.”
“I’m not a child,” Sarn muttered. No one believed it. Though at least the men bracketing him had three decades and change on him. Still, it was the principle of the thing.
“So you say.” Grellin spread his hands wide and shrugged.
Sarn folded his arms over his chest to hide his clenched fists. He wanted to pummel something. Anything would do.
They hit the trail leading up the mountain but followed one of its side branches. The trail rose as it curved around the mountain’s east face and bent toward its northern one. Another hundred-feet on, it straightened out as much as the topography allowed. The terrain turned rocky, and they peeled off along a dirt path which swung into a patch of spindly trees.
The pines gazed at their enchanted brethren from the mountainside, and their branches reached toward the light and life flowing through them. But they remained non-magical. No enchantments could cross the twin circles of menhirs glowering at the forest. Tonight, he’d had difficulty passing their cordon as well—might there be a connection?
Sarn probed the question as Spar called a halt. An outcropping of rock made a perfect vantage point, one Sarn commandeered so he could view the sites he’d visited earlier. Uncounted miles of enchanted forestry melted into the dark horizon. From this angle, it looked sinister. Even with his map superimposed over it, he could spot no sign of either murder site from this distance. Damn, there went that avenue of investigation.
Sarn followed the horizon noting the inky gloom settling over the forest. Above his perch, the sky was a star-less indigo. Where were the stars?
Further down the slope, sheep and other herd beasts grazed while shepherds kept watch. Dogs barked and circled a stray sheep. Sarn couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t over, not by a longshot, but he had no idea what it was or what might come of it.
“I heard some funny rumors.” The bowyer tossed something, and its point stuck fast in a pine tree.
“Good toss,” Grellin grunted. “Watch this.”
The fletcher produced a dirk, took aim and threw. His dagger knocked Spar’s out of the tree, and both fell into a bush.
Spar whistled at his luck and took a sip from his hip flask. “Up with your young bones, go fetch them, and maybe we’ll let you take a turn.”
Sarn just nodded. Errand boy was one of his many assignments. Both dirks had a gemstone set in their hilts—garnet for Grellin and quartz for Spar. The stupid things called to him, whispering their whereabouts. A shiver passed down his spine as he set his mind to ignore the stones’ voices. Now was not the time to let his wayward gift get out of control.
He bent to retrieve the blades, and as he straightened, he met the eyes of the ghost boy. Its translucent hand turned the knife and pricked his finger. Blood welled up flecked with shining green and dripped onto a small, limpid hand. The specter’s fingers closed around it, and his blood passed into the creature. But it had no visible effect.
"Will you hurry up and fetch those?"
Sarn blinked at the question and backed away. Reaching behind him, he handed the dirks back to their owners and returned to his rock. Clinging to its reassuring solidity, he stared at the apparition following him.
The air chilled and his eyes lost some of their luminescence as darkness bore down on him. Frantic gestures drew his attention back to the ghost, who waved at him to move. But there was no reason to, not one he could see or sense. Neither of his minders had tossed their knives again. They had fallen into a conversation about a friendly wager. No danger was forthcoming from those two.
Where was the trouble rattling the ghost? And what was this infernal cold? Had January dropped in for a visit eight months early? He touched the boulder and sent his magic out in concentric rings, finding nothing of note. More of the sky had turned to pitch, and the moon seemed to cower on the far side of Mount Eredren’s peak.
"What is it?" he asked the ghost in a whisper.
In answer, the ghost pointed from a patch of shadow to its eyes. But its message made no sense.
"Are you saying the shadows have eyes?" Sarn crossed to the bush and pushed its branches aside seeking whatever had upset the ghost. Nothing lurked in the shadows except an ant colony. Compound eyes watched Sarn from a nearby branch. On the ground, ants paced the roach’s shadow, and their paths bent to form a chain of interconnected circles.
“What is this?” Sarn pointed at the antics of the ants.
The ghost made no reply, but its eyes widened, and it dove, missing Sarn by a hair’s breadth. What was wrong with the ghost? Something bit Sarn’s hand, and he let go of the branch. One of them was tipped with his blood. Sarn backed away.
Foliage within the stone circles held no intelligence or enchantments. Neither did shadows have eyes. There was no evil overlord, no archmages either. No one was watching his comings and goings except his masters and the ghost child haunting him. This was yet another sign of his deteriorating sanity.
"Go away and leave me alone."
The ghost shook its head making its short illusory hair fly.
Sarn dropped his head into his hands. His babysitters had forgotten about him, but not the ghost. Its glassy green eyes threw accusations at him: why am I dead and you’re alive?
Sarn squeezed his eyes closed, but the dead child stared at him from inside his mind, and the thing had company. They were all orphans same as him—all dead before any of them had begun to live. The
ir vacant stares pierced him. Their white lips mouthed the one question which never had an answer: why you and not us?
“I don’t know. Leave me alone.”
“You don’t know what?” Gregori asked startling Sarn.
The dead didn’t flee back to their hole in his head. They lingered at the edge of his vision.
“Who were you talking to?” Gregori made a show of looking around.
Sarn realized his minders had stopped minding him. Shaking his head, he remained silent. Gregori already thought him retarded. The first gray light of the coming dawn brushed blue streaks into the sky to his left. Maybe daylight would banish the night’s weird happenings and restore all to order. Sarn rubbed his tired eyes.
“Get off your ass and follow me. I've got work for you to do before you go.”
“But—” Sarn pointed to the lightening east.
“But nothing, the sooner you move, the sooner you can go. Your brother can get along without you for one more hour. He’s not an invalid.”
True, Miren was able-bodied, but Ran was four, and his son would not understand if he was late. Besides, if he stayed any longer, he’d have trouble procuring food for his small family, and the two dozen orphans who depended on him. But Gregori knew nothing about any of them, so Sarn rose and followed Gregori.
“Where am I going?”
“Down to the river, there’s some sensitive cargo Jerlo needs unloaded ASAP.”
What goods were too important for the dockhands to manage?
Chapter 6
Will cut across the meadow searching for a lean figure in a dark cloak. As he rehearsed the speech he’d spent part of the night perfecting, tears pricked his eyes.
Beku, the mother of Sarn’s adorable little boy, had vanished nearly three months ago, prompting Sarn to take his son and brother and move out. At last, Will had found the right argument to bring Sarn back into the fold so everything could go back to normal.
Will scanned the meadow anxious to get this over with. Four mornings out of seven, he ran into Sarn. Had the Rangers let Sarn off early? Turning, Will gave the meadow one more glance. His gaze swept the long grasses from one side of the encircling menhirs to the other before he gave up and headed for the trim house serving as office and abode for the harbormaster. It was one of four freestanding structures on the meadow itself. At this early hour, two triremes and one square-rigged vessel lay at anchor, and the low-riding profile of the latter vessel indicated a full hold. He’d have his hands full today.
A flash of green caught Will’s eye. Sarn leaned against a wall looking tired and tense—not a good sign. Both those radiant eyes opened and regarded Will as he halted.
There was tall, and there was Sarn, who towered over everyone. He was big all over except in the girth department. Technically, he was also two years older than Will but didn’t look it.
Sarn nodded to Will, his gaze sharpening as he threw off the light doze he’d fallen into. “Morning Will, is something wrong?”
Will blinked a few times wondering why Sarn stood there. His lanky friend served the Rangers, and they had nothing to do with the docks or their doings.
“Is there?” Will asked.
Sarn was an introvert. Talking to him meant dealing with his silences and reading micro expressions.
“You don’t usually come down this way. Do you need something—a boat maybe? Miren wants to go fishing, right? I can arrange something for this afternoon.” Will hoped for a 'no.' Sarn needed a wash, sleep, and a generous breakfast.
Sarn shook his head.
Will nodded and waited for an explanation. Sarn tended to parcel out words as if he had a limited supply in constant danger of depletion.
“Ranger business?” Will suggested even though he doubted it. Jerlo concerned himself with all things sylvan leaving the nautical issues to the harbormaster.
Sarn nodded. His strange eyes cast out over the river, and their glow attracted Will. He tried to break off his stare, but that emerald light drew him.
Rays of sunlight angled toward Sarn, and their golden beams arrowed into those incredible eyes. There they gathered before fanning out toward twin wheels of spinning green flame making them burn brighter. Will fell into those eyes and tumbled through a ring of emerald fire. Down he spiraled into the dark center of a blaze stretching out to infinity and beyond.
Sarn stalked a few paces away breaking the partial gaze lock. “I guess. He told me to wait here.”
Will took a second to re-engage his mind and put the statement into its proper context. “Oh right, I guess it's important.” Will kicked a stone. It skipped over other stones on its way down the beach toward the river. He’d alienated his friend—great. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
But he had intended to do it. He had no idea how Miren could be around Sarn all the time, and not gaze into those incredible eyes. Maybe the one parent they had in common offered Miren some immunity.
Sarn ignored Will’s feeble attempt at an apology. His friend armored himself in a silence free of any cracks. Even if Will got his laconic friend talking, how could he steer the conversation in the right direction? He had no idea, so he abandoned the attempt. There was always tomorrow or the next day. It had been months since Sarn had moved out. What was another couple of days of fetching and carrying for everyone?
A door opened, and a Ranger whose muscles stretched the seams of his green uniform exited. Will backpedaled, alarmed by the huge man approaching them. Sarn straightened up, but he was a sapling next to the hulking Ranger.
“Sarn—ah there you are. Let’s go.”
His friend followed the Ranger down the beach without saying a word to Will. Had Sarn forgiven him?
Will watched his friend walk up the gangplank onto one of the triremes. Unable to admit defeat, he tried out different openers in his mind until the buzzing in his ears grew too loud to ignore. It sounded like a cross between a crowd whispering and a swarm of bees. The noise crescendoed as the muscular Ranger stabbed his best friend in the back.
Sarn collapsed into a pool of dark cloth. A moment later, the Ranger threw Sarn’s limp body over his shoulder and continued across the deck, and the buzzing died away. The gangplank withdrew, and the drumming began as the trireme pulled out into the current heading east toward Racine.
One thought beat in Will’s brain. He had to tell Miren what had just happened. But he remained motionless and staring instead of trekking up the mountain. His boss, the harbormaster, exited his office, and the sight of a man who'd been a surrogate father to him startled Will into speech.
“Did you see—?”
The harbormaster nodded. “I saw.”
“Oh God—is he—no Sarn can’t be dead. He can’t be.”
Will’s mind rejected the very idea. No, Sarn was too ornery to die.
“What did you say?” The harbormaster gripped Will’s upper arm and shook him.
“I said his name, Sarn.”
“The tall boy with the cloak—the one I’ve seen you talk to?”
Will nodded.
The harbormaster’s face drained of color. He shouted for runners and a pair of teenage brothers, who hung out around the dock, rushed over from a nearby wharf. “Paper—I need paper—”
Will strode to Paytor’s office but halted when something blew past him, numbing his arm. Spinning to face the river, he rubbed feeling back into his arm and nodded to a gray shape flying toward the eastbound trireme. “Something’s chasing the ship.”
“Where?” Paytor glanced in the direction Will had indicated and shook his head. “What am I supposed to look for? I see the damned boat and all the trouble it’s caused.”
“Something is chasing it.”
“It’s probably a bird.”
One of the boys returned, a teen with a thatch of unruly hair. The fresh-faced lad handed Paytor ink, quill, and paper. Then the teen turned so the harbormaster could use his back as a writing surface.
While Paytor’s quill scratched out a message, Will squinted at the flying shape. Drums throbbed as three tiers of rowers dug their oars into the river, propelling the craft. Shading his eyes, he recoiled when the trailing shape resolved into a child, lit by the rising dawn. Will tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. He turned his back on the river and the boat fast receding into a wash of gold. Will tried to wipe away the afterimage, but it remained. Did ghosts exist?
The ghost had reminded him of Ran. If Sarn failed to return, his son would be an orphan. God, how could he tell such an adorable child his father was gone?
The harbormaster finished scribbling his note and thrust it at the boys. “Quick as you can, get this message to Jerlo. Come right back when you have, and there’ll be a copper for every minute under an hour.”
The boys grinned and raced off toward the mountain confident in their success. After all, their aunt was the sole female Ranger on the roster at present. All they had to do was hand her the message. She’d know where to find her commander.
Will watched them go. He should follow them and break the news to Miren. But instead, he trudged into the office. Miren would be in class until late afternoon, so there was no need to hurry. His gaze strayed toward Mount Eredren’s bent cone. Beyond its shadow-laden shoulder, a beacon shined in the retreating night. His mouth fell open as he recognized her starry crown even at a distance—the Queen of All Trees. Numinous and shining, she stood on a distant peak and her sightless gaze fixed on the fading silhouette of a trireme. Her trunk vibrated, blurring her brilliant outline. As her anger rolled across the forest, her subjects quivered.
“Are you coming in or just letting the flies in?” Paytor called out, dragging Will back to mundane matters.
Will opened his mouth, but no words rose to his flapping tongue, so he shut his mouth. Will glanced once more at the dawn-gilded river replaying his best friend’s abduction. Had the Rangers kidnapped Sarn?
Nolo sank into a chair facing Jerlo’s desk grateful to end the night there. In less than an hour, he’d have jam on scones and maybe a steak. Yes, a steak, and something drowning in honey butter—his mouth watered. Thoughts of food distracted Nolo from the dragons staring him down from every available surface. The commander had a thing for dragons, but no one else shared his fascination.
Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 (Preview) Page 7
