The Northern Approach

by Jim Galford

  “How bad are things?” asked Raeln, wiping at his nose and averting his eyes, even as he spoke. “What forces do they have here?”

  Ira shrugged. “The entire military is dead and under their control…a result of the invasion. They swept through the oracles’ chambers and turned them as well before coming for wizards like Thomin. I would guess four thousand undead at a minimum, but that does not include commoners they have murdered when they assume that no one will miss them. There are two tattooed people among the enemy, though the woman is new to the city. The man controls all of Pholithia and claims to be our ‘lord emperor,’ despite Urishaan having no such nobility.”

  From his place by the bookshelf, On’esquin stiffened but said nothing, his eyes still on his book. Estin could easily see his eyes were no longer moving. He was listening, not reading. Mention of the Turessians seemed to be enough to worry even him.

  “Can we take two of the strong dead men?” Yoska asked the group, skeptically. He looked pointedly at Estin, as the only person he knew had fought the Turessians. “There were four in the camp—”

  “And we lost more than a hundred warriors,” Estin reminded him. “Twice that many elderly and children. That was with a dozen spellcasters and two people who were as strong as small armies. I don’t think any of the Turessians were actually dead when we left.”

  Ira’s stern demeanor softened at that, but she continued to watch Yoska expectantly.

  “We will do what we can that will not get us dead,” Yoska finally offered.

  Nodding, Ira bent over and eyed Yoska’s midsection. “You already tried to get yourself dead, no?” asked Ira, a faint accent coming forward briefly, as though it crept out the longer she talked with Yoska. “I did not expect to see dried blood that was your own. Did you deserve it?”

  Yoska grinned impishly, though he put a hand over his side wound as he replied. “What gypsy man ever deserves to be stabbed by a woman? Was misunderstanding, no? If gypsy woman wanted a gypsy man dead, would I be here or would I be with the ancestors?”

  “She was sloppy, whoever she was,” Ira noted. “Clean yourself up…all of you. I can’t hide you if you look like you murdered your way into the city. We’ll travel tomorrow morning through the closed districts. Until then, rest. If you need running water, we have a water room through the door over there. Do not mind Geraine. He will bring you what you need and not argue out of fear of this simple woman and my reluctance to pay rude servants.”

  The bodyguard, Geraine, appeared at the door to the next room. Despite his muscle, he somehow managed to look the part of a servant. He waited there patiently for any request.

  “No gypsy woman is simple,” Yoska insisted, grinning even more broadly.

  “And no gypsy man is as innocent as he claims,” the woman countered, looking over the disheveled men in her front room. “Clean them up and look respectable by the morning, or I will blame you and get my own revenge for whatever finds us, even if I die first.”

  “You say you left the family,” replied Yoska, leaning back. “Only a gypsy considers revenge a good reason not to stay dead, no?”

  Smiling devilishly, Ira excused herself, patted Thomin’s arm gently in the first indication she had any concern for the man whatsoever, and left. That was something Estin understood all too well. Feanne’s pack of wildlings had been largely predatory breeds—like Raeln—more than happy to tear Estin apart if Feanne showed any weakness. It took him a long time to win enough respect among them through his own strengths to allow either himself or Feanne to ever show affection around them, and he guessed Ira viewed her life the same way.

  Thomin sat down with Yoska to talk, their former animosity all but vanished. They were old friends who had fought over something stupid again. Estin envied the ease with which they forgot their anger.

  Picking at his fur, Estin found clumps of mud and pine sap that had somehow made its way through his clothing, making it nearly impossible to smooth his fur. He quickly gave up, knowing there was little he could do with his claws to clean himself. Instead, he turned to the many pouches he had collected back in Corraith, attached around his worn old belt. Those, he dumped out one at a time, trying to figure out what he still had and what had been lost. It was something he had not taken the time—or had the inclination—to do since arriving back in the mountains.

  The first few pouches were the ones where Estin kept most of his belongings. There were bits of dry wood, a set of flint and steel he had taken from Raeln, and the crumbs from old meals he had shoved into those bags in a hurry. The next pouch spilled out a pile of the tiny coins the people of Corraith used—a fortune there, but nearly worthless in these lands. Idly he wondered if Oria had enough coin left with her to take care of the kits, but he pushed that thought aside, as it would only leave him needlessly worrying.

  At the soft jingling of coins, Yoska and Thomin both looked up, their conversation cut short. Ira even poked her head into the room briefly, spotted the foreign coin, and went back to what she had been doing. The men took a little longer to return their attentions to their conversation.

  Estin slid the pile of worthless coins aside and moved to the next pouch. From that one he extracted the small worn book where he kept his notes about magic, helping him remember the complicated patterns and thoughts required to use the healing spells he had learned. The book was worthless to someone without the talent, but essential to one who was trained. Without it, Estin would have forgotten the more difficult spells in a day or two, though many of the simpler ones he could cast without checking the book very often anymore.

  Remembering, Estin pulled Thomin’s similar book from another pouch, where he had shoved it when they were in the alley. He would have to return it to the man, but he intended to check it for anything he had not learned. Unfortunately, as he paged through the dog-eared book, he found the notes were gibberish to him. Thomin used a different style of magic, likely similar to Estin’s son, Atall. The book and its contents were worthless to Estin.

  Memories of Atall’s brutal death flashed across Estin’s thoughts, and he clamped his eyes shut as he put the book aside, trying to stifle the image of his son’s ribs being ripped open with Estin and Feanne unable to save him. When he managed to get control over his thoughts again, Estin realized he was panting rapidly and both the fox and Raeln were watching him with concern.

  Estin had no intention of talking about what went through his mind with anyone—not even an animal—and so ignored the others as he turned his belt to get to his remaining pouches. These were badly worn, often from being knocked down onto them or disuse in general.

  Those last three pouches held nothing as Estin searched them, so he turned them upside-down, dumping out a large pile of pale brown sand onto the floor. He chuckled at the thought that he had brought some of Corraith’s desert halfway across Eldvar by accident, but then stopped and looked over at the bag that contained Feanne’s remains. The last place they had been alive together was Corraith, giving it some significance to him. Sighing, he dug a small bag out of one of the other pouches and filled it with a handful of sand before returning it to his belt pouch.

  Satisfied he had little that could be cast aside, Estin pushed his belt and the pouches attached to it out of his way and smoothed out the blankets the fox had left at his side. His fur still felt itchy with the dirt stuck in it, but he had lived with far worse. Cleanliness was a luxury he rarely had an opportunity to enjoy.

  Estin closed his eyes to rest, but a sensation that he was being watched made him too uncomfortable to sleep. Peeking, he saw the fox stood over him. When he opened his eyes, she sniffed and gave a particularly muddy portion of the fur on his shoulder a glare. Making a grumbling noise, the fox pawed at his arm.

  “You’re as bad as she was,” he told the animal, smiling at it. “If I had any doubts that she sent you, that does away with them. I don’t need a mother.”

  The fox continued to stare at him until he got up and headed toward the wait
ing servant. At Estin’s approach, Geraine stood more straight, looking to him for a request.

  “Would you have hit me in the head with that club, given the chance?” he asked the human, looking up at him. Estin had found years earlier that the taller races and breeds seemed to expect anything shorter than them to act shy. As such, he insisted on meeting their eyes as often as possible to put them off-balance.

  “Without hesitation,” replied Geraine. “Now, he says you are friends and allies, so that is exactly what you are. You’re family until further notice.”

  “They pay you well to be so loyal?”

  Geraine smirked before replying, “Well enough.”

  “Good enough for me,” Estin admitted, looking past the man to the hall beyond. There were side rooms, one of which was open—the water room, judging by the pipes he could see. He had not been in many cities with running water, making him curious whether Pholithia’s was any better than the other lands. “Towels? Also, how good are your drains? I shed.”

  The man gave Estin a sharp look of disgust but hid it very quickly. He might not like the idea of letting wildlings bathe in the home, but he clearly knew better than to argue. Laws were one thing; obeying his master was quite another.

  Without question, Geraine showed Estin to a linen cabinet, and before Estin had even chosen a towel from it, the man had fetched a heavy brush for him that likely would make it through his matted fur.

  Estin thanked him and went into the next room, where he could see thick iron pipes that ran from the floor up to the ceiling. Stepping in and closing the door behind him, he looked around for the usual spigot or other apparatus to make the water flow into a basin…though there was no basin, either. Either he had entered the wrong room, or at the least, the residents used a different place to relieve themselves. The only indication other than the pipes that the room was used for anything water-related was that the floor was a heavy-iron grating and Estin could hear water down below.

  “How do I make it work?” he called out through the door.

  Geraine said, “Chain in the corner.”

  Estin looked around in confusion and then finally spotted the chain. Taking hold of a ring on the end, he gave one last look around the room, trying to figure out where the water would come from, and then pulled.

  Chapter Seven

  “In Another Skin”

  I am losing the sight as my strength continues to wane, On’esquin. There is not much time left and I see less than I once did.

  I have always heard the elderly speak of their eyes dimming as they approach death’s door, but now I truly understand. This is somewhat figurative, though in my case, it is somewhat more literal. I see the visions only as a haze, growing more difficult to see clearly with each hour. Soon struggling to live will be meaningless, as I know that until my wife returns with the cure, death is inevitable, and with no visions to narrate, I have nothing left to offer my people.

  This last hour, all I have seen is a concept, rather than a sight.

  I have seen revelation. I believe the companions—assuming any still live by the point they have made their way toward our lands—will finally see the truth in one another. There will always be more to show, but some of the more important secrets will come to light. They will know each other for what they are, even if they do not understand.

  Understanding each other will only be the first step to understanding how they can help us all when they come to this barren, snowy wasteland.

  - Excerpt from the lost prophecies of Turess

  Raeln sat in the corner for a while, trying to calm himself. Each time thoughts of Greth hit him—or for that matter, any of the people he had lost in the last year, including his sister, mother, father, and friends—it became harder to think. He had not slept right in so very long and it was starting to make him addled. Knowing that did not make it any easier to fix, though. His head felt like it was swimming in emotions he had no desire to release.

  He looked around once he got his feelings under control again, realizing Estin had left the room at some point, leaving the fox behind to fuss with his blankets, claiming a corner for herself. Raeln wanted to ask Estin how he dealt with all the death he had seen. Though Estin had been far worse right after Feanne’s death than Raeln had after Greth’s, he had bounced back quickly. That was something Raeln desperately needed to learn from him.

  The woman, Ira, had also left while Raeln was lost to his thoughts, making him wonder how long he had struggled with himself. He normally was quite aware of the movement of others around him, and having two leave without him noticing was bothersome. The only ones left in the room were Yoska and Thomin, who were talking quietly to one side, and On’esquin, who was sitting on the floor near the fox, reading from a tattered little book. Of them, only the fox looked at him, her green eyes watching him accusingly.

  “Welcome back,” On’esquin said, turning to the next page and glancing up at Raeln briefly, the only indication of who he was speaking to.

  A nearby crash of water and choked yelp startled Raeln, but the abrupt laughter of Yoska and Thomin told him it was likely not serious. The two men strained to control their mirth long enough for Yoska to say to Raeln, “Is Estin we laugh at. First-time visitor to Urishaan water room always has big surprise. If you yell we laugh at you too. Is only warning we give, yes?”

  Raeln glanced toward the door to the other rooms of the home and saw Geraine standing in a hallway near a closed door with his jaw clenched to keep from laughing. Estin’s cries from the room beyond had died down to mere grumbling that carried through the door, along with splashing.

  Shaking his head, Raeln got up and rubbed his eyes, trying to stay awake. He went to Thomin, digging out the coins Estin had given him, and offered them back to Thomin. Lowering his head in visible apology, Raeln waited for the man to take the coins from him. Instead, Thomin gave him a questioning look and shrugged.

  “We took these,” Raeln confessed, not wanting to put any blame squarely on Estin, even if deserved. He would not throw Estin figuratively to the wolves, but he would address Estin directly about his concerns…maybe once he had gotten some sleep. “We didn’t know you were a friend. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Thomin did not reach for the coins, instead giving Yoska a confused stare. “Where did you find him? He’s adorable. We should have gotten one years ago to speak well of us to the law.”

  “You know me,” Yoska replied, grinning at Raeln. “Always finding strays.”

  “You…you aren’t angry?” asked Raeln, not understanding. He stared at the coins in his hand, trying to decide what he should do. He was tempted to set them in Thomin’s lap.

  “Why would I be mad?” Thomin asked in reply, shrugging. “I married a gypsy many years ago. I know the rules of the road. If I don’t—or can’t—protect something, I really can’t complain if someone else who needs it more takes it. Trust me, I intend to take those back in my own time, but I will not take them out of sympathy. If you seem to need it more, it wasn’t mine to keep in the first place.”

  “So…you want me to keep these?” Raeln was having no luck understanding this man. Yoska was difficult, but Thomin seemed impossible. “Theft is illegal here, correct?”

  “Yes and yes. Keep the coins and whatever else you took. Consider them my apology for trying to use magic on your group because of an old argument. My wife was kind enough to remind me that attacking her bandoleer is not the best way to live a long life, and the loss of a few coins is hardly a bad price to learn that. Besides, we’re at no lack for money after the disappearance of many of my wealthy friends. What we lack in this city are places to spend that money that doesn’t benefit the enemy or draw attention back to us.”

  Raeln finally closed his hand over the coins and pushed them back into his pouch. Kneeling beside the men, he asked, “How bad is it really? We saw the undead, but your walls are intact. There must be some resistance.”

  “The Turessians were allowe
d in as a bargain to save ourselves,” explained Thomin. “I was just telling Yoska that all of Urishaan is under their control now, though Pholithia is the only city that was not destroyed to my knowledge. We were the last to fall, so we were the quickest to offer our hospitality to the enemy when they showed up with an army that was larger than our population. The gates were opened…the executions began about an hour later.”

  “What did you give them to win that kind of trust?” Raeln asked, confused. “Lantonne was torn to the ground without any negotiation of any kind. I can’t imagine what would convince them to spare you.”

  “Not me…the city. I’m part of the price we paid, I’m afraid,” the man said, smiling wryly. “Everyone capable of prophecy or magic more complex than card tricks was to be turned over to the Turessians. There are a few of us left, but not many. I have a feeling that once they think they’ve found us all, the rest of the citizens will be killed off and turned into more soldiers. Other than that, there were a few things they demanded from the old museums, and I believe they took the researchers from there as well. Anything that dates back to the founding of the city left on a caravan months ago.”

  “What kind of things?” On’esquin demanded, though he kept reading from the book in his lap. “Specifics, please.”

  Thomin shook his head, as though he had been unable to make sense of what he was about to say and did not expect them to, either. “A tapestry and some old clothing, pottery bits, and jewelry that had never been identified.” He noticed Raeln’s curious look and added, “I used to work in the museum. It was a great place to steal jewelry for Ira or find things that people will buy for far more than it’s worth.”

  “Details are essential here. A symbol, a pattern, even a general style might mean everything or nothing,” warned On’esquin.

  Thomin stared right at On’esquin. “All of them had patterns like those on your face. An extinct tribe’s markings, they said, but unlike most of the others working there, I know Turessian when I see it. Spent most of my adult life trying to decipher some of their…your…old books. The jewelry was badly worn, so they gave us descriptions of the pieces they wanted. Your wildling is wearing one of the pieces I stole and sold to the dwarves before we were invaded.”