by C. Greenwood
“Fist’s work, do you think?” he asked. “Looks like their favorite method of execution.”
I said, “Let’s not jump to conclusions yet. Could well be another explanation. Don’t forget the Fists have eased up on persecuting the woods folk lately. They’ve got enough else on their minds these days. And this man could have had a personal enemy who wanted to be rid of him. For that matter, it could have been a simple robbery that ended in murder. There are brigands roaming these woods, you know.”
Dradac grunted. I guessed neither of us was in a mood for quipping, not with the dead man’s eyes staring sightlessly up at us.
“Let’s go into the holding and have a look around,” I suggested.
“Rideon would want us to look to our own concerns and keep out of this.”
“Then it’s a good thing Rideon isn’t here. Anyway, rot him and the consequences; I need to know what’s happened here.”
“If you say so.”
Dradac trilled a bird call that brought in our companions, and when they were clustered around, I explained the change in plans.
Stealthily, we all crept in on the holding until the cabin and outbuildings came into view. I was jolted at first sight of the hold yard. Parts of the cabin had been pulled down, the eve posts torn away so a large portion of the roof had collapsed to sag inward. The animal pens and out-sheds were still standing, but the livestock were gone. Not so much as a hen feather remained.
I noted these details in a glance, but they didn’t hold my attention. Instead, my eyes were fastened on the bloody spectacle in the center of the hold yard. All thought of staying within the shadows of the trees fled my mind, and I felt myself drawn forward to approach the spot. I was vaguely aware of my companions following at a cautious distance.
The soil was stained red. A wide circle of dark blood spread outward from a large flat stone at the center of the yard. Down its sides ran a stream of crimson, and beneath a shifting mass of black flies, I saw what was only vaguely recognizable as the remains of more than one human. An arch constructed of slender sapling limbs stood over the alter-stone—I immediately thought of it as such—rising to about my height, its narrow limbs twisted and interwoven. Gruesome as the offerings beneath it were, the arch itself was a work of careful skill, a piece I might have admired but for the bloodied hair and feathers woven between its supple branches.
I was drawn out of my thoughts by the sounds of retching and realized a number of the outlaws who had followed me to view the gory sight were now doubled over, emptying their bellies onto their boots.
Mouth watering ominously, I felt close to joining them.
But instead I selected the two men who seemed least effected by the scene, Dradac and another, to accompany me around the yard. We first examined the hold house. The dwelling was a shambles, and our halfhearted search for survivors was impeded by fallen rafters and a caving roof. It was unsettling poking around in the ruins of the house, seeing the broken and overturned belongings of those unfortunate folk who had already died so violently. We didn’t find anything of interest buried within the rubble, and a quick search of the out-sheds revealed them deserted. Even the livestock had disappeared, possibly stolen away.
After we had given over our depressing search, I set the men who had recovered from their shock to work digging graves to bury the remains of the victims. I could see they thought it was strange we should take up the task, considering the dead were strangers to us. There was some arguing; a number of the men were eager to get away from the site as quickly as possible, and I solved the problem by sending the less eager participants back to Boulder’s Cradle, ostensibly to report the incident to Rideon. Those who remained, set to work with a will born of impatience to be done and away from the eerie place in a hurry.
I took an opportunity while we were out of earshot of the others to order Kipp to get word to his brother that we needed a message sent to Selbius.
“I think we all know to whom this day’s work belongs,” I told him. “The Praetor should know as soon as possible that the Skeltai have struck again.”
Kipp was moving before the words were all the way out of my mouth, and I had to grab his arm to hold him in place.
“Not now, you fool,” I said, flicking my gaze toward our companions. “Wait until we get back to camp where your absence won’t be noticed. Then slip away.”
Kipp licked his lips nervously and nodded. He was looking very pale, I noticed, and spots of drying vomit stained the front of his tunic. But for all that, he looked steadier than some of the older outlaws. I told myself I would remember his fortitude the next time I needed a circle member I could rely on.
For now I sent him to scout the perimeter of the holding for Skeltai tracks. I already knew there would be nothing to find, except possibly another of those mysterious magical circles, but I was mindful of the men with us and knew they would expect me to be as confused as the rest of them. I had to go through the usual motions if I didn’t want to raise their suspicion. This inner circle business was getting more complicated all the time.
“Are you certain this is Skeltai work?” Dradac asked quietly when Kipp had gone.
“I’m sure of it. This matches everything we know of them. Heathen rituals, blood sacrifices. Look at the construction of the alter, the dyed feathers everywhere. The braided design of the arch reminds me of the twisted scars on our old friend the Skeltai scout. Remember? I’d bet anything if we could see what’s left of the stolen woods villagers they carried off from Hammond’s Bend, we’d find them in much the same condition as the dead family here.”
“But this attack doesn’t match their pattern,” he pointed out. “They didn’t do this at Hammond’s Bend.”
“You forget at Hammonds Bend they met with resistance. Or maybe this sacrifice was meant as a warning. Letting us in the circle know they’re aware of what we’re doing, and they want us to back off.”
Dradac frowned. “Or…it could be neither of those things. It seems to me this Sagara Nouri ritual of theirs, and its surrounding blood rites, are coming up soon. Couldn’t it be they’re tired of sacrificing their own folk and have decided to harvest ours?”
“There may be something to that,” I admitted. “Either way, I think we could stand to know more about Sagara Nouri and the rites. Talk to Ada again, will you? I know it was a long time ago she attended the rituals, but a thing like that must make an impression on a child. Maybe she’ll remember something else.”
A chill wind kicked up, carrying across the yard the fresh scents of blood and death.
I said, “Let’s move out of here. I have a feeling Kipp has discovered another of those magical circles the raiders move through, or will discover one any minute, and I’d like to get a look at it.”
Chapter Ten
We found the magic circle. I examined it carefully, but it was as immoveable and mysterious as the one at Hammond’s Bend. Likewise, my later talk with Ada proved fruitless, turning up nothing we hadn’t already heard before. The intent behind the killings at the isolated woods holding remained a mystery.
Over the next six weeks, the Skeltai launched two more attacks on the humble folk of Dimmingwood. With our surreptitious help, each attack was thwarted by the Praetor’s Fists, who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. No villages or individual holdings were destroyed, and only a handful of woods folk lost their lives.
In return for our series of successes, the Praetor raised our reward. Whether he did this out of gratitude or simply to keep his informants was questionable, and despite having proven our value to him, we kept our anonymity, reluctant to risk our necks.
The weeks passed quietly for us in Dimmingwood, discounting the thwarted raids that most of the band learned about days after the action had actually occurred. Rideon’s band, including us of the inner circle, continued about our usual business.
* * *
I should have realized this peaceful period couldn’t last long.
It was late on an icy winter’s night when the war with the Skeltai hit home. I was sound asleep inside the cave at Boulder’s Cradle, buried deep beneath a thick padding of deerskins that didn’t quite succeed in holding out the cold. I was in a drowsy trance, and the beginning of the commotion didn’t immediately wake me. When it did, I groaned and buried myself deeper in the furs, thinking I was having a nightmare.
I was jolted into a more thorough state of awareness by a leather boot kicking me roughly in the face.
“Wake up,” Kinsley shouted down at me. “Get out of your blankets, all of you! We’re under attack!”
Fists, I thought immediately and scrambled clumsily to my feet. I reached out in the darkness, and my hand fell unerringly on the bow, which I never let far from my side anymore.
At Kinsley’s shouts, the interior of the cave exploded in a jumble of confused activity. The dark combined with our panic to disorient everyone, and we blundered around, knocking into one another and the walls in our haste to pour out the narrow mouth of the cave.
Our attackers, nearer than we realized, were shoving through the entrance, even as we struggled to push our way out, and we quickly found ourselves trapped with stone walls at our back and sides and armed enemies to our front. Packed tightly between the bodies of the others, I had no room to wield a weapon even if I could have accurately determined friend from foe in the confusion.
We might all have been summarily slaughtered there, like so many sheep caught in a herding pen, if not for the courage of our sentries at the camp’s edge. They had failed to issue advance warning of the attack, but they now swooped to our defense. Although outnumbered and separated from the rest of us, they attacked the enemy from behind until the rest of us were able to take advantage of the confusion and force our way free of the cave.
Beneath the moonlight it was now clear our attackers weren’t Fists but Skeltai warriors. That realization strengthened my determination to hold them back. I had seen firsthand the horrible fate of their victims and had no desire to join their ranks.
It was a fierce fight but the tide swiftly turned in our favor.
I found myself always outnumbered and in the thick of the fighting. I had no opportunity of using the bow in these close quarters without danger of felling our own men, so I fought with my knives, although they were a sorry defense against the spears and throwing axes of the Skeltai.
I became so absorbed in the business of staying alive it was some time before I realized the fighting was dying down and that more savages than outlaws lay bloodied on the ground. The sudden shrill sounding of a horn spit the night air, echoing over the din of battle, and at the signal, the Skeltai warriors abandoned the fight and drew back into the woods.
Dradac and Ada appeared at my elbow, and the three of us followed after the retreating enemy. I knew how they meant to depart, and I had no intention of missing this chance to see their magical portal in use. We followed the sounds of the enemy crashing through the underbrush until we came to a small clearing where patches of moonlight filtered down through the sparse treetops. Here we stopped dead. Ranks of Skeltai warriors were crowding into the clearing and appeared to be waiting for something, so we stayed out of sight.
Even before I saw it, I sensed the strong amount of magic being employed in this place. The portal stood before us, a circle of blue fire etched in the earth. One moment it was nothing more than a glowing ring, the next, it came to life. I felt something I had never experienced before, a rippling in the well of the world’s magic like a heavy stone being cast into a pool. I reeled with dizziness at the magical waves surging out from the portal.
I caught a brief glimpse of the forest floor on the other side of the portal and beyond this, a cadaverous old man with pale skin dressed in filthy rags and feathers, long wisps of thin yellow hair swirling around him in a wind, a wooden staff in his outstretched hand. Despite the opaqueness of his eyes, he seemed to be looking straight at me across the distance.
A shiver ran down my spine. Was I looking at a Skeltai shaman?
I had little time to wonder. The magic collapsed in on itself, and the image winked out, both the old man and the other forest disappearing to be replaced by a dark man-sized void through which swirled clouds of roiling fog were carried upon a soft breath of cold air. As the wind stirred my hair, chills danced over my skin, and not from the cold. I knew this was no ordinary winter breeze but a bitter gust straight from the Black Forest.
The Skeltai warriors wasted no time in stampeding through the portal, disappearing into the black void. Watching them, I thought for the first time I understood Hadrian’s feelings about the misuse of the Natural talent. Too much magic became a dangerous thing in the hands of the unscrupulous.
As the last warrior disappeared, I recovered my senses in time to dive forward. The portal was closing, the circle of darkness shrinking when I dropped to my knees and thrust my hand into the blackness. I felt nothing but cold air and emptiness. I would have thrown my whole body through next, but the magic activating the portal was already dying, and I didn’t know if I would make it through or wind up trapped in someplace that was neither here nor there.
As if sensing my thoughts, Dradac appeared beside me, and grabbing my shoulders, dragged me back from the hole. I shook loose of his group and pushed him away, but it was too late. The portal was gone, leaving in its place a simple ring, the blue glow already beginning to fade from its runes. Dozens of feet had churned the surrounding soil, their prints leading into that circle. No tracks led away.
Even as I stretched out with my talent, I felt the last of the magic dissipating around the circle, leaving me to clutch at insubstantial wisps already evaporating on the breeze.
I had seen it this time, had witnessed the workings of the enemy instead of coming in after it was all over. Yet still I understood nothing of how the magic was done. Frustrated but determined, I set my palm on the earth at the center of the now dead circle. Uncertain exactly what I had to do, I focused all my thoughts on the portal and the mental image of that other forest, the Skeltai warriors, and the old shaman. I willed with all my strength that the portal would open for me, concentrating on that desire until sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled into my eyes.
A brief image flashed through my head of the cadaverous old shaman watching me with his sightless eyes. A mocking chuckle interrupted the stillness of my mind, its intrusion awakening that other subtler presence clinging to the recesses of my thoughts. The bow didn’t like another entering its domain. Neither did I. I was reminded of how the Praetor had once invaded my mind, and the thought was enough to make me draw back and raise every mental barrier Hadrian had taught me. The bow stirred to the forefront of my consciousness to reinforce my walls and together we held them firm and waited.
Nothing happened. The enemy was gone.
Dradac cleared his throat. “Uh, Ilan, the portal in closed now. You can’t get through.”
I had all but forgotten he and Ada were present. Now I remembered suddenly that neither of my companions were aware of my magical abilities, and that to them, my actions must appear confusing.
“Yes, of course it’s closed,” I agreed, scrambling to my feet. “I just thought if I was quick enough—”
“Then you’d what?” Ada asked. “Crawl through after them and emerge who knows where, outnumbered among enemies?”
“You’re right. It was stupid,” I admitted.
We were all startled then by a rustling from the bushes nearby. We tensed, but it was only one of our own people pushing his way into the clearing.
“The Hand wants everybody back at camp, preparing in case of another attack,” he beckoned.
I thought a second attack unlikely, since the raiders had already had themselves transported away, but I didn’t argue. An order was an order.
I was unprepared for the chaos awaiting us back at camp. Although we had fought off the Skeltai, the raid had taken a heavy toll. The bodies of our outlaw brethren, together with
the corpses of our enemies, scattered the ground. Beneath the light from moon and stars, we worked to separate the living from the dead.
I spent the remainder of the night helping Javen care for the wounded, something I was becoming well practiced at of late. Even as I worked at sponging wounds and binding bloody limbs, I was dimly aware of the men outside clearing the ground of Skeltai corpses and digging trenches for the dead. I wished I could be out there with them, because I was eager to search through the dead and be sure none of my friends had perished in the attack. But I was needed inside, and it was impossible to get away.
Nib was among those carried to me for treatment. I winced when I pulled back the torn pieces of his tunic to examine the deep belly wound he’d taken and was just as glad he was unconscious. He never woke again, but slipped off into the deeper sleep of the dead sometime during the night. I mourned him although we’d never been exactly friends. I couldn’t help remembering how he had stuck by my side years ago when we’d worked together to save Terrac’s life. He’d also been among the first to join the inner circle.
But I didn’t have long to dwell on the loss. There were so many others who needed attention. Six outlaws would die of their injuries before the night was over and several others looked as if they might follow in the days to come.
Not until the sky was gray with the dawning of early morning did I get an opportunity to step outside and view the extent of our losses. There was a miserable bite to the air, so cold it burned the lungs to inhale. The frosted ground crunched beneath my boots as I walked through the camp and a stiff wind beat at my back. I didn’t mind the cold too greatly. The thought impressed itself forcefully on my mind that I must be grateful just to be alive on this of all mornings.
The churned, blood-soaked earth at my feet gave evidence of last night’s struggle, and I could see the drag marks where the corpses had been hauled away. The wind carried a thick haze of blackened smoke from the east, and whenever a strong gust blasted at me, I smelled the sickly stench of singed hair and burning flesh that signaled the disposal of Skeltai corpses. Such an end was no worse than they deserved.
