Sentinelspire

by Mark Sehestedt

  “Good. It’ll loosen as we’re on the move. Now, let’s get you into some dry clothes so you can warm up.”

  Lewan unhooked the clasp of his cloak and shrugged it off. “What do you mean, ‘the job did them?’ ”

  As Lewan got out of his wet clothes and put on dry ones, Berun told his tale. He spoke in a lifeless tone, without detail, of how the Masters of the Yuirwood had killed Kheil upon the Tree of Dhaerow, how Chereth had used Erael’len, calling upon the Oak Father, and raised Kheil to life. The old druid had named him Berun, which meant “hope” in the tongue of Aglarond.

  “Why …?” Lewan struggled to find the words. “Why have you never told me this before?”

  Berun looked down, and in the dim light cast by their starstones, his face was hidden in shadow. “I am Berun now. Kheil is dead. Best to let the dead rest. Kheil’s life is in the past.”

  Lewan watched as his master wrapped all of his wet clothes into a tight bundle, tying them with a cord from their supplies. The shirt was probably a loss, but they could use the scraps for other purposes.

  “Kheil’s past just came hunting us,” said Lewan. “Something tells me that half-orc won’t give up so easily. What do we do now?”

  Berun rubbed his fingers through his beard. “We go into the mountains. Deep into the Khopet-Dag. Sauk might follow us there, but his men won’t. Leading so many into the mountains would attract unwelcome attention. He knows that.”

  “And we won’t?” asked Lewan.

  “I’ll be careful,” said Berun. “We’re going to the yaqubi.”

  “The yaqubi? Why?”

  “Chereth and I lived with them for a couple of seasons.” The ghost of a smile flickered over Berun’s lips. “It’s where I found and bonded Perch. The yaqubi are good people. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Safe?” said Lewan. His heart skipped a beat and started hammering in his chest. “You mean … you’re leaving me?”

  “Lewan—”

  “You can’t! Please! I—”

  “Lewan!” Berun grabbed Lewan’s shoulders and shook him.

  Lewan closed his mouth with an audible snap. He blinked and stared at Berun, trying to find the words that would convince his master. Berun was the only father he had known since his own father … Lewan clenched his eyes shut and turned away. He could feel a sob building in the back of his throat. I will not cry, he told himself, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.

  “Listen to me, Lewan,” said Berun. “What Sauk told me … I don’t know if any of it is true or not. Chereth, the Old Man … any of it. But I have to know. I have to be sure. If there is even a chance that my master is alive …”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.”

  “I’m ready, master. I am! I can help. I—”

  “No, Lewan.” Berun did not shout. His voice was low, almost gruff, but there was no room for argument in it. “No. Not to Sentinelspire. You don’t know that place. It is …”

  “What?”

  “It’s … hard to see clearly there.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” Berun offered a smile, but it never touched his eyes, and in the gloom of the forest the expression seemed almost obscene. “You must understand, Lewan. Sentinelspire is a realm built on blood. Murder. Despite what the bards may tell you, murder doesn’t come easy. At least not to most people. Killing a man is a hard thing. Killing for no good reason save that you’re told to do so … that’s … damn. I don’t have the words. It’s not natural, is what it is. You have to convince a man not only that he can kill, but that he wants to. To do that …” Berun shook his head. “I don’t want you anywhere near that place.”

  “I’m strong, master,” said Lewan. “You’ve taught me well. I’m not afraid.”

  “That’s what worries me. That’s how the Old Man gets to you.”

  “But—”

  “No, Lewan.” Berun’s voice was hard. Cold. “My mind is set as stone. I’m going alone. When I’m done, I’ll come for you.”

  “And if you don’t come back?” Even Lewan could hear the petulance in his voice. Like a child. A scared little boy. But he didn’t care. “What then? What about me?”

  Berun held the silence a moment, looking him eye to eye, then said, “Get some rest. We move at first light.”

  Chapter Twelve

  16 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  The foothills of the Khopet-Dag

  Morning dawned no drier. Lewan woke to the sound of the rain roaring outside their shelter. Sitting across from him, his head resting against the remains of a long dead waxleaf shrub, Berun slept, his lips open slightly. Sometime during the night Berun had changed into dry clothes and braided his hair to keep it out of his face.

  Lewan sat up. His muscles were stiff, and though his injured arm still hurt, the pain was good. Pain was feeling; the numbness was gone. Lewan leaned over and shook Berun.

  “Master, wake up. It’s morning.”

  Berun’s eyes snapped open. He looked around and groaned. “I didn’t mean to sleep.”

  “You can’t exhaust yourself,” said Lewan. “Yesterday was hard.”

  “Today will be harder,” said Berun. “We must go far and fast. The rain will help to hide us. All but the biggest spiders will stay under cover. But it won’t make traveling pleasant.”

  Lewan looked outside. Above the trees, the rain still came down in sheets, and millions of tiny waterfalls fell from leaves and branches. Water had begun to seep into Lewan and Berun’s shelter, and a tiny river was running down the hill just beyond the pile of leaves near the entrance.

  “Should we not wait out the storm?” asked Lewan.

  “We dare not risk it. Sauk and his band are still too close for my liking.”

  “You said the venom would take a few days to work through their blood.”

  “I also said we shouldn’t underestimate Sauk. We need to have leagues behind us come nightfall.”

  They shared a light meal and washed it down with rainwater, then set about securing their packs and tightening their bootlaces. Berun hesitated at the entrance.

  “What’s wrong, master?”

  “Help me,” said Berun, and he began stringing his bow. It was no easy task in the cramped confines of their shelter. But wedging it between them, Lewan holding one end while Berun secured the string on the other, they managed.

  “The rain will ruin your string,” said Lewan.

  “I have a spare,” said Berun. “But until we’re deep in the mountains, I’ll feel better with it.” Berun looked out at the wet morning gloom. “I’d feel a great deal better if I knew where Perch and the tiger had gone.”

  “Still nothing from Perch?”

  Berun shook his head. Lewan could see the worry on his face.

  “In this weather,” said Lewan, “I’m sure he holed up somewhere.”

  “Under normal circumstances,” said Berun, “so would a tiger. But …”

  “These are hardly normal circumstances.” Lewan tried to force a smile.

  “And that’s hardly a normal tiger. So I’ll walk with the bow, rain be damned.”

  They left their shelter, huddled in their damp cloaks. Their breath steamed in the cool morning air.

  “Walking will warm us,” said Berun. “I’ll risk a fire tonight to dry our things.”

  Lewan looked around. It almost seemed as if the gods had lifted the ocean and decided to dump it onto the Shalhoond. This was an unusually fierce storm, even for the mountain lowlands in early spring.

  “You’re certain we must travel in this?” Lewan had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar of the rain.

  “We must,” said Berun. “At best, it will be a couple of days before Sauk’s men are eager to travel. But I warrant Sauk will not wait that long. He’ll be after us sooner than I’d like.”

  “Much sooner, I’d wager,” said a familiar voice, and Sauk rose from the nearby brush.

  Berun p
ushed Lewan behind him, threw back his cloak, dropped to a crouch, and reached for an arrow.

  “Easy!” said Sauk.

  The rest of Sauk’s men rose from their hiding places, and somewhere in the forest behind them the tiger roared.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t have the bow ready. That … complicates matters.” Sauk smiled and thrust out his chest, obviously reveling in Berun’s shock. “Oh-ho, I bet you have questions.”

  Berun’s fingers flexed over the bow. His other hand fingered the nock of an arrow in his quiver. “How …?”

  “You thought we’d venture into the Khopet-Dag without antidotes for spider venom?” Sauk laughed. “You have been gone a long time. The Old Man’s blades may not all be men of the wilderness, but we aren’t stupid. We came prepared.”

  Lewan looked around. Every one of Sauk’s men was here. None looked happy, and Lewan could see why. Every one of them bore welts on face and hands from spider bites, Val’s eyes were still red and puffy from the tep yen, and Kerlis’s skin was red and had the slick sheen of a recent healing. Every man looked ready to murder. Kerlis, in particular, was staring daggers at Berun.

  A show of force, then. Every man in Sauk’s band stood before them. That gave Lewan a small amount of hope. If the half-orc had meant to kill them, he would have kept some of his men in hiding and made this an ambush.

  The tiger roared again from somewhere behind them. The sound reverberated off the hillside, but Lewan could tell that she was not in the same place she’d been the last time she’d roared. She was on the move. Tigers were not like most other predators. Ambush hunters, they did not roar to frighten their prey. A tiger roared for one reason: to communicate. She was letting Sauk know that she had their prey covered. One way or another, Lewan and Berun were surrounded.

  Lewan looked to the half-orc. Sauk dropped his smile. His face hardened, and his eyes glinted cold. “Throw down your weapons,” he said. “Give me back that relic you took. After your stunt last night, you and the boy will walk with your arms bound today, but you’ll go alive. If you do as I say.”

  Lewan looked to his master. Berun had gone very still—everything except his eyes, which went from man to man, never resting upon one for long. This wasn’t lost on Sauk.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said the half-orc, and Lewan heard genuine concern in his voice. “Even if you get away, you’ll never get past Taaki. Even that bow of yours will only annoy her before she gets you.”

  Berun stood, looking at the assassins gathered round them. Lewan’s gaze flicked between his master and the assassins, waiting for a cue. All eyes were on Berun. His move.

  Berun’s shoulders slumped, he looked to the ground, and a great sigh went out of him. A look of utter relief washed over Sauk.

  “Master …?” said Lewan.

  Still keeping the width of his body between the band of assassins and his disciple, Berun turned and looked at Lewan. Nothing Lewan had seen in all their years together, not even the terrifying events of the past day, had ever frightened him like the look he saw on his master’s face. Lewan had known that Berun had been deeply afraid yesterday on the trail upon finding the name Kheil scratched into that print. His master had been worried after their capture, but even then, Lewan had seen the careful calculations, the scheming, going on behind his master’s eyes. But the look he saw just then was complete and utter despair. That look in Berun’s eyes drained Lewan of all strength. It was a feeling he had not felt since … since that day in his village when he’d heard the raiders, listened to the screams of the dying, smelled the smoke in the thatch of the house where he lived with his parents, found his mother …

  “Mas—?” Lewan began, his voice trembling.

  Something lit in his master’s eyes. A defiant fire. The corner of Berun’s mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile. Watch this, it said.

  Sauk must have sensed something too, for the look of relief froze on his face, the words he had been about to say caught in his throat, and surprise—and more than a little fear—lit his gaze.

  “Spears!” shouted Sauk, reaching for his sword.

  “Lewan, run!” Berun’s right hand rose, an arrow balanced between the fingers. He laid the shaft across the bow and shouted, “Down the hill! Run!”

  Shocked and confused, Lewan froze. Sauk’s men fanned out, each holding a spear in hand. They moved with practiced ease. Trained killers, every one.

  “Master, I—”

  “Lewan, run!” Berun cast a glance over his shoulder, then pulled the arrow to his cheek, bending the bow taut, and pointed the steel tip at Sauk. “The boy leaves. As soon as he’s safely away, I’ll come in peace.”

  Kerlis stepped forward. “There’s twelve of us. You can’t get us all before we get you.”

  Berun pivoted, his left arm with the bow coming round. He aimed for only an instant, and the fingers holding the string opened. The bow twanged, and the arrow took Kerlis in his left eye. By the time his body hit the ground, Berun already had another arrow across the bow and the shaft against his cheek.

  “Eleven now,” said Berun. “Next one who makes a move is the next one to die.”

  No one moved. The Vaasans were grinning and flexing their hands around their spears. Merzan’s face held no expression whatsoever, but his eyes were trained on Berun, and he stood ready. Valmir had one hand firmly around his spear, but the other was hovering near an open pouch at his belt. Ready to reach for spell components most likely. The other assassins all stood ready. Except for Sauk, all had spears, but like none Lewan had ever seen. The shafts were plain and unadorned, but rather than a head or barb, they ended in a sharp spike, no larger than a horseshoe nail. An oily paste coated each spike. Poison.

  Sauk shook his head, then smiled and swiped his blade in front of him, cutting the air with a harsh swish. “Spear ’em, boys!” he shouted, and leaped forward, low and ready.

  Berun pivoted again and loosed at the half-orc. Sauk swung his sword down in front of him, swiping the arrow aside in midair, snapping it in the middle. The fletched half slapped into his shoulder, but it didn’t even slow him. He came at Berun like a bull, his grin twisted into a snarl, muddy water spraying around each step.

  Lewan knew his master would never have time to nock another arrow. Berun knew it too. He stepped back and flung his bow at Sauk’s legs. The half-orc tried to leap aside, but he slipped on the slick ground and went down in a great splash of mud and water, giving Berun time to back away.

  Berun tore his cloak off, dropped it on the ground, and drew his knife. “Lewan, I said run!”

  Lewan drew his own knife. “I’m not leaving you, master.”

  Sauk rolled to his feet. Merzan and one of the Vaasans were closing on Berun with their spears raised.

  “I can handle them if you’ll—”

  The Vaasan threw. Berun twisted to the side and his left hand shot out to grab the spear as it passed where his chest had been only an instant before. He regained his posture and brought the spear around in guard position. The Vaasan drew his knife and backed away to make room for the other spearmen.

  Sauk swiped his hand across his face to clear away the mud. “Damn it, Kheil, stop this! I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “My name is Berun.” He feinted with the spear, causing Merzan to back up a step.

  The others were closing in. In moments, Berun and Lewan would be encircled. The other Vaasan, still holding a spear, was only a half-dozen paces from Lewan.

  “Val?” called Sauk, though he never took his eyes off Berun. “You got your spell ready?”

  Val reached into his pouch and grinned. “Ready and waiting, boss.”

  “Then do—”

  Berun stepped forward and thrust as if to throw at Valmir. It was a feint, but the assassin fell for it. He tried to sidestep but slipped in the mud and went down cursing. Berun followed through with the feint, and brought the spear round in a throw. This one he let fly. It took the second Vaasan just below the ribs. The man screamed and f
ell back, but he kept hold of his spear.

  The assassins charged, Sauk leading them, but Berun was already on the move, running for Lewan. He grabbed his disciple by the clasp of his cloak and pulled him along, running downhill and away from the assassins.

  Lewan felt a spear catch in his cloak, but in three strides it pulled loose. He and Berun didn’t slow. They ducked around the grove of aspens that formed their shelter. Lewan’s foot slipped in a pile of rain-slicked leaves and he started to go down, but Berun hauled him up and pushed Lewan onward with a whispered, “Go!” Berun hugged the edge of the aspens with his knife held low.

  Lewan stopped, holding his own knife ready. He saw a look of anger cross his master’s face at the disobedience, but there was no time to argue. Gerrell, the man whom Sauk had used to bait Berun into the ravine, came round the aspens. He had a spear in one hand and a knife in the other. He caught sight of Lewan, his eyes lit with success, then Berun brought his own knife up. The strength of the strike combined with Gerrell’s own momentum doomed him. Four inches or more of sharp steel passed through his throat. Blood sprayed across Berun and the white aspen bark, and a great fountain of it drenched Lewan as the man crashed to the ground. Gerrell punched and kicked, splashing mud and red-tinged water as his lungs filled with his own blood.

  Berun jumped over the man and grabbed the clasp of Lewan’s cloak. He ripped it off and turned to face Dren. Sauk and the others were right behind him. Berun held his knife in guard position and whipped the heavy wet cloak before him. It wouldn’t stop a spear, but it might tangle and deflect it.

  A shadow moving at the edge of his vision was the only warning Lewan had. He turned in time to see one of the assassins—he must have come round the other side of the aspens—a malicious grin on his face and the spear coming forward.

  Lewan tried to fall away, but it was too late. The poison-coated spike plunged into the muscle between his left shoulder and chest. Through skin and flesh, he felt it scrape along the bone then plunge deep. He screamed, more in shock than pain, for his left side around the wound went suddenly numb. Without thinking, his other hand with the knife lashed out. His blade opened a deep gash up the left side of his attacker’s face. The man shrieked and backed away, but the spear remained lodged in place.