“Why do you keep calling me that?” Grendel asked.
“It’s what you are; what your father was.”
Grendel made to deny he was anything like his father, but Sachin stopped him with a raised hand. “Do not lie to yourself,” he said. “You are what your father was before they caged him like an animal. Before he became one of Ovius’ dogs.”
Grendel stared at the mask in his hand. Its empty eyeholes stared back at him as if alive, whispering to him. Was what Sachin said true? Was he hiding from himself? And if he did search for the answers, would he like what he found?
As if in a trance, Grendel walked to the campfire. Behind him, Sachin followed.
Viktor stood up when the two approached. “Can I get you some . . .” He started to say, but closed his mouth when he saw the look on Grendel’s face.
Grendel stopped at the fire, his mask still in his hand, and stared into the light for a while. At last, he dropped the mask into the flames and watched the crumpled leather as it curled, blackened, and eventually burned.
* * * * *
Defeating the Mountain (October 17)
While the others loaded the wagons, Dragahn kept an eye to the sky. He watched the low-riding bank of dark clouds as they skidded across the horizon and obscured the tops of the surrounding mountains.
After making sure everyone was busy, Dragahn found the bodyguard busily collecting their gear. “Grendel, anything I should know?” he asked, searching the half-orc’s mask-less face.
“No,” Grendel replied succinctly.
Dragahn opened his mouth, and then closed it. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry about Tsarevets. I want you to know I don’t give a crap you’re a half-orc. No one here does. But just remember not everyone feels the same way we do, mask or no. Focus on your job. Everything else will fall in place.”
Grendel nodded, his bestial face unreadable.
An hour or so later, the team rolled out. All the while, Dragahn kept an eye toward the sky, wearing a perpetual frown.
Fortunately, the road ahead was relatively smooth, and the horses made good time. The way dipped down into a mist-filled valley and then climbed higher—the sides of the road bound by jagged cliffs. Long furrows scarred their surface, marking where the Kral’s men had carved the pass out of the mountain.
Another dip and the road led into a short, damp tunnel, the arched entrance fashioned with moss-covered stone blocks. Beyond the exit, a wall of rain waited for them. The horses nickered and tugged against their restraints. Dragahn snapped the reins, urging them forward.
Fat drops pelted the horses, moved to the wooden seat and the riders, and then the canvas covered cargo behind them. The water hit the ground so hard it bounced. Noise from the rain assailed their ears but only partially masked Pyotr’s stream of curses.
The road quickly acquired the texture of an old washboard, and with every bump and jostle, Pyotr’s cursing increased. Jasper was amazed to find the Percherons seemed to have a natural ability to find the best footing, trotting through the mud and heavy rainfall with ease. They hardly ever slipped, and Dragahn was content to let them set their own pace.
Midday, the team pulled into a clearing surrounded by dark trees. Jasper checked with the teamsters, but no one seemed interested in a cold, wet meal. He handed out beef jerky anyway, along with other dry rations from the cache he had prepared earlier for just such a contingency.
“Take the shortcut,” Jasper overheard Sachin tell Dragahn.
“We’ll see when we get there. It may be impassable.”
“Fine. But if there is any chance—any chance at all—we need to take it.”
“I’m the one in charge here. I’ll make the call.”
Sachin didn’t respond, he just stared at the chief’s back as Dragahn returned to the chuck wagon.
When the horses were ready, Dragahn signaled for everyone to move out. Pulling their cloaks tight, the team hunkered down against the wind that blasted down the pass. Some gusts were so strong they caused the wagons to drift and threatened to unseat the riders. Along either side of the road, mountain trees shook as gust after gust struck them. Their road meandered up toward the mountaintop and disappeared into the clouds.
When they arrived at the fork in the road, Dragahn called for a halt. With a quick motion, he sent Viktor and his horsemen down the two roads. When they returned, he handed the reins to Jasper and jumped down. Sachin and Pyotr followed suit and quickly joined the chief as he received Viktor’s report about what lay ahead.
Jasper sat fidgeting with the reins. The fork to the left stayed relatively flat while the other seemed less traveled and rose steeply. With what seemed to be turning into more of an argument than a discussion, Dragahn pointed farther up the secondary road, and Jasper thought he heard the words “steep” and “switchback” and “too dangerous” repeated a few times. The trio argued for a while longer, and then Pyotr, who apparently was losing the argument, gesticulated wildly. Jasper could not hear them over the wind and rain, but Sachin suddenly pointed a finger at Pyotr and then pointed back to the wagons.
It was a seriously pissed off horse doctor who passed. Jasper listened to his muttering and learned a few new Trakyan phrases as Pyotr continued his tirade all the way back to his wagon.
When Dragahn resumed his seat, Jasper looked for some sign of what he was thinking, but the caravan chief wore his poker face and signaled for the team to follow the secondary road.
Immediately, the ground rose and Jasper saw for himself the beginning of the series of switchbacks that had been the genesis of the argument. Wind-driven rain and swirling mist obscured the majority of the road, but Jasper was not sure if this was a blessing or a curse.
The narrow road wound back and forth in tight, hairpin turns, each steeper than the previous. Naked to the elements, only the equally-spaced boulders placed along the side of the road offered any modicum of protection. The ride might have been fun on a sunny day, but in the rain, it was just plain stupid.
The Percherons found their footing easily on the slick road. Occasionally, one of the horses’ legs would sink to the fetlock when it stepped into a mud-filled hole, and each time, Dragahn held his breath.
The team made it through the first hairpin turn without mishap and climbed up the next leg. The mist cleared just enough for Jasper to peer up the slope and see how much higher the switchbacks went. A feeling of dread settled over him as he watched the brown rainwater cascade over the edge of the road.
The next rise was even steeper. Even though the horses found their footing, the wagons seemed to float whenever the metal-rimmed wheels lost traction. At the top of the second hairpin, the horses hesitated, and Dragahn flicked the reins, prompting them to keep moving. The rain slacked off, but water continued pouring down the side of the mountain.
As they reached the third and final switchback, the shoulder of the road above them gave way. Water and mud gushed out. It picked up speed as it flowed down the stretch of ground, collecting little rocks, earth, and other debris along the way.
Someone yelled out, and both Dragahn and Jasper looked behind them. Mud flowed around Sachin’s wagon, picked it up, and caused it to jackknife. The horses’ eyes rolled wildly as they felt a peculiar tugging around their legs. Already at an odd angle, the mud relentlessly swept the wagon toward the shoulder and the edge of the road.
The chief hauled back on the reins. He leapt down, ran to the lead Percheron of Sachin’s wagon, and pulled on the bridle, urging the horse to move forward. Dragahn felt the thick slurry move around him but ignored it as he continued pulling, trying to get the four horses to work together to save the wagon.
Sachin yelled at the horses and cracked his whip, but the horses only became more confused by the mixed signals.
“Stop!” Dragahn cried out. “You’re making it worse!”
A sharp crack resounded as the wheel of the wagon struck the large boulder that served as the makeshift guardrail. Spokes buckled and split, causing the ri
m to warp. With a shudder, the bed shifted and tilted alarmingly.
Grendel jumped down, ran through the mud, and caught the axle. Heaving, he leveled the cart and pushed against the mudflow, trying to realign the wagon. Veins bulged as he strained against the heavy current. With the sudden decrease in the dead weight of the wagon, the lead Percheron took a tentative step forward, followed by another. Dragahn continued pulling the halter, and together they forged their way through the mud onto firmer ground.
Grendel held up the wagon a little higher while Viktor grabbed a jack and placed it underneath the axle. He lowered it, slowly letting the weight shift from him to the saw tooth-shaped timber. The strain gone, Grendel arched his back, stretching the sore muscles.
Dragahn shouted and Teodor and Andrei went to work replacing the broken wheel. After they finished, he resumed his position on the chuck wagon and surveyed the damage in front of him. The upper leg of the hairpin had lost a sizable portion of the road. Fortunately, the boulders along the edge had simply sunk into the mud; otherwise, they would have rolled down the hill. Unfortunately, large crevasses had formed around the boulders where the water had eroded channels in the road.
Dragahn waited for the mudslide to let up. When it did, he signaled, and the three wagons hugged the mountain face. Everyone held their breath when their wheels bounced and jostled over the rough ridges and deep trenches. They worked their way past the washout and climbed farther up the mountain.
At the top, mists surrounded them as if they were on an island floating in the clouds. A line of mountain peaks stretched to the north and south, a chain of islands in an ethereal archipelago.
Dragahn raised his hand, signaling to stop.
“Good job, Grendel,” he said after everyone had dismounted.
“Yeah, you saved this one,” Viktor said, giving Grendel a congratulatory slap on the back.
Grendel didn’t have time to reply as everyone surrounded him, remarking on how strong he was or how lucky they were he was there. Even Pyotr, the smell of alcohol fresh on his breath, thanked him as he checked for injuries. Not finding any, the doctor left and moved on to check the men.
Uncomfortable with this newfound attention, Grendel stepped to the side and rested. He watched the teamsters, their relief apparent in every gesture, and for the first time in a while, the large man felt he was part of something.
* * *
Jasper stood in the center of camp, looking around at the small collection of one-man tents. Dragahn had finally assigned him a two-hour watch, and after making sure the fire had plenty of fuel, Jasper patrolled the camp.
Hidden in the shadows, Xandor leaned casually against one of the wagons, waiting on Jasper to walk past.
“Rough day?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Jasper replied, and he motioned toward Grendel. “Did you see what happened last night?”
Staring past Jasper toward Grendel, Xandor said, “Not really sure. I saw Sachin come out of his tent and talk with Grendel. I couldn’t get close enough to hear well, but I thought I heard something about his mother.”
Jasper looked back over his shoulder and said, “Let’s take a quick look at these crates before someone misses me.”
The two found a spot where one of the wagons rested partially outside the perimeter of the firelight. Touching Xandor on the arm, Jasper muttered a few words. Both the mage and ranger’s eyes began to shine dimly.
“Wow,” Xandor said quietly as he scanned the camp with his newly-developed night vision. Night had turned to day.
“Be careful. Don’t look directly at the fire,” Jasper warned a little slower than he should have.
Too late, Xandor jerked his head to the side as the sharp light stabbed his retinas. He stifled a groan and brought his hands up to shield his face. Once his eyes readjusted, he glanced at Jasper and noticed the mage had assumed a pose of pure innocence as he pulled back a corner of the canvas.
Xandor joined him a few moments later and studied the crates.
Similar to what they had found at the warehouse, the crates were nailed shut. But this time, the sigils were unblemished.
“These magic symbols represent water,” Jasper said quietly. “I think they’re meant to keep these crates dry. Look, see how the water has beaded up. Whatever has been done to these nails is so subtle, it doesn’t even radiate magic—at least, not arcane magic.”
“Are there other types of magic?” Xandor asked in a whisper, curious. Jasper made as if he was going to give a lecture on the topic, but Xandor raised his hands in surrender.
The mage briefly assumed a hurt look before continuing with his original thought. “I wouldn’t have noticed it if I weren’t looking for it. Probably why they haven’t raised any alarms.”
He stepped up to get a closer view as Xandor held the canvas. “I can’t tell if there’s anything else they do, but I’m certain, as long as these symbols are intact, and the nails in place, whatever is inside this box stays dry.”
“There are easier, and much cheaper, ways to waterproof a crate. Why go to all this trouble?” Xandor asked.
“Don’t know.”
Jasper edged around to look at the ends of the crates. A double-lined circlet entwined by a rose was branded into the ends, but up close, he noticed each symbol was slightly different. It may have made sense if these had been hand painted, but each of these crates had been marked with a customized brand.
Motioning with his hand, he waved Xandor over and pointed it out to him. The ranger pulled out his journal and sketched the different symbols.
After they finished their examination, the two reattached the canvas exactly as they had found it and headed a little ways into the woods.
“What’s the plan?” Jasper whispered.
Xandor studied the teamster camp, weighing his options. He could contact Marcus and stop the caravan or he could let things continue and see where it led. Deep down, he knew his answer.
“Jasper, we need more. Get closer to Dragahn; find out what he knows.”
* * * * *
Dobrovnitsa (October 18)
“Wake up, Cook!”
Jasper looked around blearily and noticed the light of dawn visible through the tent flap. Outside, he heard other voices and hurried to get breakfast ready.
“We should arrive in Dobrovnitsa this afternoon,” Dragahn announced while the crew prepared the wagons for the day’s travels. Everyone cheered and smiled. Even the horses seemed eager to get off the mountain as they stamped the ground and jostled in their rigging.
* * *
The chief pushed the Percherons to a fast-paced walk, and the wagons splashed through the mud, leaving behind deep ruts. Just after midday, the team climbed the last hill and was greeted by the sight of smoke rising from a scattering of chimneys. Cottages dotted the valley, each surrounded by low stone walls. The road led into the middle of town, where a local kruchma waited on one side of the road, a two-story inn on the other. Beyond, wood-framed buildings lined the road, including a blacksmith shop, a farrier, a general store, and a little further, a church with its tall steeple adorned by a wheel-cross.
As they drove down into the valley, the mud on the roads deepened, and the horses’ hooves made little sucking sounds. Jasper’s stomach lurched when he felt the wagon start to slide. He gripped his seat and said, “We’re going to crash!”
“Calm down. You’ll panic the horses,” Dragahn replied as he tugged the reins this way and that. The wagon righted itself, and Jasper heard him say, “Never let the horses know you’re scared.”
Embarrassed, Jasper turned away, looked out over the fields, and watched the townsfolk working the muddy fields.
* * *
The wagons and horses put away, Grendel and Sachin aimed for the warm glow of the inn across the street. Inside, the half-orc stopped at the door and let the warmth seep into his bones. Decorated with animal heads mounted on the wall and animal-skin blankets draped over the furniture, the lobby looked more like a huntin
g lodge than wayside hostel. A large brown bear, its teeth bared, loomed menacingly in the corner. Against the far wall, a soot-stained stone fireplace crackled with a gentle flame.
The lobby was empty except for two strangers talking with the innkeeper. The smaller of the two was in his early twenties and wore an ermine and gules tunic over a tailored suit of armor fashioned from large metal plates that protected his entire body. He had long, jet-black hair and held a steel helmet under one arm as he and the innkeeper discussed room and board for himself and his servant. Next to him, a large shield, wrapped in a plain leather cover, was propped against the wooden counter in front of him. An ornate hand-and-a-half sword hung at his waist.
Based on the quantity of pieces and the lavishness of the workmanship, Grendel surmised the armor was probably some type of parade armor rather than munition armor, but when the knight moved, he re-evaluated. It looked heavy, but the weight was evenly distributed. The plates fit together almost perfectly and did not restrict movement.
Taller than most men, Grendel stood seven-foot, two inches and weighed more than three hundred pounds. The knight’s servant was only a couple of inches shorter but looked like he outweighed Grendel by a hundred pounds—all of it muscle. But that wasn’t what really pulled the bodyguard’s attention away from the knight. The servant was an albino and, from what Grendel could see of his scarred skin, appeared to be completely hairless. He wore a pair of loose-fitting, gray breeches with a tunic, but no boots to hide his clawed feet. Grendel looked up and stared into a human-ish face. Two blood red, reptilian eyes stared back. Strapped on his back was the largest two-handed sword the half-orc had ever seen.
Sachin passed them without a second glance, causing Grendel to hurry to catch up.
* * *
Over at the kruchma, the teamsters sat together at a common table and ate their suppers, while Andrei went to the bar and ordered more drinks. Everyone was in high spirits, especially after the narrow escape of the day before.
Son of Cayn Page 9
