by Jon Sprunk
“I don't like these ones.” Kit straddled his horse's neck, which made the animal lift its head and snort. “They aren't like Egil. They're…different.”
“Like Soloroth's wildmen,” Caim whispered, so quiet he could hardly hear his own words. But Kit caught them.
“Exactly. So how are you planning to get out of this?”
He wished he knew.
Kit leaned in close. “You don't have a plan, do you? Caim, these men aren't fooling around. And their leader, that Wulfgrim, is deep-down ugly.”
He knew by her tone that Kit didn't mean physically repulsive. “I'm always careful.”
She shook her head. “Not careful enough by half. If you were, we'd be lying on a warm beach right now instead of trudging through this miserable ice-hell.”
He couldn't argue, but he knew in his gut that he'd still have come here, somehow. The pulling in his soul had begun so long ago, he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't felt it. Caim started to say something when the Northmen all whooped aloud, and the entire party advanced at a snow-churning canter. Small points of light appeared ahead, campfires shining between low, ice-covered tors. Tall men with spears waited for them. They shouted something, and Wulfgrim replied with a lusty yell. The riders cheered.
The camp consisted of thirty-some round tents of stitched hide scattered around half a dozen fire pits. A trampled area between two long hills served as the pasture. The Northmen hobbled their steeds to spikes and unloaded them, leaving the animals to stand in the cold. The supplies were opened, and their contents passed around. Kettles and pans appeared, and food was cooking in short order. As Caim dismounted, a young Northman with a scraggly yellow beard came to take their horses. Malig started to growl something until Dray slapped him on the shoulder.
“Southlanders!” Wulfgrim waved them over as he sat by a fire. “You are my guests!”
Caim looked to the others and nodded, and they made their way over to the leader. There was no place to sit except in the snow. Caim eased down onto his cloak. Wulfgrim took off his helm and laid it beside him. The lion head crowning the headpiece was gigantic; the beast must have been as big as a pony. The chieftain rummaged a tarnished silver cup out of a sack and poured into it some milky drink from a huge skin bladder. After a healthy dose, he passed it to Dray, who sniffed it and then took a swig.
“You.” Wulfgrim pointed at Caim. The long scar down his cheek glowed angry red in the firelight. More scars marked his powerful arms. “Why are you here? Southlanders do not come to the wastes. Maybe trade down by the mountains, but not so far north.”
Caim waited to take his turn with the drink before he spoke, and almost choked on the thick, clotted stuff that filled his mouth.
“Buffalo milk,” Wulfgrim said as Caim struggled to swallow it. “Mixed with mare's blood.”
Caim passed it on to Aemon. Despite its nasty taste, the liquor heated his insides and made his hands tingle. “We've sold our swords all across the Southlands, as you call them. We came north to find better sport.”
Wulfgrim refilled his cup. “More sport? Ulfric, come hear these southerners who speak of war as if it's a game.”
A big Northman glanced over from another fire, blood wetting his beard as he chewed on a half-cooked hunk of meat. “Tal hundr skyrf na vurd.”
Wulfgrim laughed. “He says you look like a pack of hairless dogs.”
“A dog, am I?” Malig asked, loud enough to be heard throughout the camp.
Malig started reaching for his axe, but Caim yanked his arm down and hissed, “Keep quiet. This isn't a country fair.”
The chieftain chuckled and took another deep gulp. “Do not mind Ulfric. He lost his heart to a Southland beauty some years ago and misses her still.”
A woman came over with spits of steaming meat for each of them. Kit sniffed it and shrugged, which Caim took to mean it wasn't poisoned or carrying some infection. He noted there weren't many females with the tribe, and even the young ones looked hard-used. He saw why when a Northman at another fire grabbed a woman passing by and threw her down on the cold ground. He climbed on top of her without preamble and began pumping away. None of the other Northmen paid much mind to their grunting, although Malig watched with a wide grin. “I could do with a piece of that.”
Dray flicked a piece of gristle into the fire. “Watch out, Mal. These she-lions are like to bite off your member and cook it in a stew.”
Caim glanced at their host, but Wulfgrim grinned, revealing horizontal furrows carved into the fronts of his teeth. The others set to their meals with gusto, but Caim took small bites of the tough meat. When the milk-skin came around again, he passed it without drinking. Aemon, too, was abstaining, and he didn't touch his food. At least someone is keeping his head on straight.
When he finished his meal, Caim wiped his greasy fingers on his pants. “Wulfgrim, why do you war on the Bear tribe?”
Wulfgrim spat a mouthful of liquor into the fire, making the flames sizzle. “The Night swallow their souls, every last one of them. We war, yes. We kill every one we find. Austrivegr bjern foera hel!”
Caim didn't understand the last part, but the other Northmen responded with laughter and catcalls.
“A blood feud,” Dray said with a belch as he lowered the bladder from his mouth.
“Aye.” Wulfgrim patted the axe by his side. “When my father was chieftain, our lands could not be crossed in a week's time on horseback. The other tribes feared to test our steel. Then came the Dark. The sky turned black, and the Fates fixed us with an evil weird. Now the Bear tribe rules over the wastes.” He tossed a hunk of gristle into the fire.
Caim considered the Northman over the flames. He wasn't as simple as Kit had made him out to be. Caim could understand Wulfgrim's fight to preserve the power and dignity of his people. “If we go north,” he said, “will we encounter more of these Bear tribesmen?”
Wulfgrim's eyes were slits through the smoke. His lips were thick and red amid the greasy curls of his beard. “Aye. They have grown strong under the Dark One's wing, but that will not protect them when we come.”
Caim frowned. Keegan's father, Hagan, had mentioned a dark lord of the north. And then there was the man he'd seen in Sybelle's vision. But before he could ask more, Wulfgrim stood up. He towered over them like a primeval giant. “Sleep. In the morning we will talk more.”
And then he walked away into the gloom.
Malig clucked his tongue. “He's a little off, eh?”
“You could say that,” Dray said as he accepted the bladder back. “But fuck, these Wastelanders make good firemead. You taste that little something in there? Maybe cloves. We should get their recipe.” He squirted another long gulp into his mouth.
Caim leaned forward. “Are you three clear-headed enough to think?”
Aemon looked up from the campfire. “I haven't touched a drop.”
“I know, but you've been in a fog since we left that last town. I need you here.” Caim's gaze wandered across the tents and other fires. “I don't know what they're planning to do with us, so keep your wits about you and your weapons at hand. We'll sleep in shifts. If anything happens, stay together and try to get to the horses. Aemon, you have first watch.”
Dray eyed the bladder. “Hey, what if they poisoned the milk?”
Caim pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and lay down in the snow. The homebrew had left a nasty aftertaste in his mouth. “Then die quietly so the rest of us can get some sleep.”
While the others settled down, tossing muffled insults back and forth, Aemon scuttled over to Caim. “What do you think happened to Egil?”
“I hope he was smart enough to get far away from here.”
Aemon glanced beyond the fire, out onto the frozen plains. “Yeah.”
Caim wanted to close his eyes, but a sense of unease had settled in his chest, and it refused to let him be. These Northmen looked like ordinary men, but something vicious lurked behind their eyes. Something inhuman.
Kit appeared on top of him. For a moment, Caim could have sworn he felt her weight pressing down on him in a surprising-and very enjoyable-way. But then the sensation was gone and she was floating over him, a small frown flattening her lips. “What are you going to do, Caim?”
Unsure what she meant, he didn't answer. Kit laid her head on his chest, sending electric tingles through his body. “Is it ever going to be just the two of us again?”
The urge to hold her close washed over Caim. His hands started to reach up, but then fell back by his sides. Through the ethereal halo of her hair he saw the stars twinkling. “I don't know,” he whispered into her hair.
He closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire. When he opened them again, she was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
Familiar scents greeted Balaam as he stepped from the portal-thistle and white oleander, lacquer and ebonwood, a faint remnant of her favorite incense. He was home.
He entered through the parlor where a fire crackled in the wide hearth. The warmth felt good after four days spent out in the wilds, sleeping under the open sky as he tracked his quarry. But there had been no sign of the scion since Liovard, and the failure ate at him.
Balaam stopped at his bedchamber, thinking to change into something clean, but the echo of dripping water drew him down the hallway. The bathing room was lit with candles, small and large, sitting on the shelves and the floor. Their wavering flames threw shadows across the amber tile. Sweet-smelling steam rose from the water, cut through by the acrid scent of burning lotus.
Dorcas sat in the bath. Her breasts, still firm and buoyant, pointed toward the ceiling as she reclined, eyes closed, in the arms of the servant girl who washed her with a bristled brush. Her face glowed like polished glass, framed in a tumble of silky black hair. Every time he saw her, it was like the first time again. Balaam watched from the doorway as his wife leaned over the burning brazier beside the tub and inhaled the fragrant smoke. Her eyes gleamed with a blue tinge as she looked up. “Balaam. How long have you been lurking there?”
The servant girl, Anora, looked over, but did not stop her ministrations. Balaam folded his arms and tried not to look at the narcotic gray haze spilling from the brazier. “I just arrived.”
Dorcas laughed. It was a smooth, throaty laugh. Once, it would have set his blood on fire. “Come join us. You look a fright.”
“I'm fine.”
“Anora, undress my husband.”
Small waves washed against the sides of the tub as the girl stood up. She was also nude, her pale skin glistening in the candlelight. Balaam held up a hand to halt her. His wife's eyes swam with amusement. He could feel her gaze following him as he walked back down the hallway.
Balaam was sitting in his favorite chair near the fire, holding a half-filled glass of Illmynish wine and enjoying the heat, when Dorcas entered. She had wrapped herself in an ivory silk robe. Her wet hair cascaded over her shoulders. She sat down on a low divan near his feet. “You look tired. When was the last time you fed?”
He waved the question away. He hadn't felt the urge to feed in more than a sennight. Not since leaving Liovard.
“Anora!” she called over her shoulder.
“Dorcas, that's not necessary.”
Her lips smiled, but it did not show in her unfocused eyes. “It's nothing. You must keep up your strength.”
The girl entered, now dressed in a simple white tunic, and came over to kneel beside them. Balaam looked away as Dorcas slit the girl's wrist with a fingernail.
She held the arm up to him. “Here.”
The blood ran down Anora's arm, more intoxicating than the finest wine, and all his fatigue and angst departed on a roiling red tide of euphoria. Instead of drinking directly from the vein, he leaned over and inhaled. Thin ribbons of energy rose from the blood, which turned black and formed a crust around the edges as the girl's essence flowed into him. They hadn't been forced to feed this way in the Shadowlands. There, surrounded by the Shadow's power, they had been constantly sustained. He'd hoped things would go back to the old ways when the Master scorched the sky, but that hope proved short-lived as the sun's wrath continued to plague them even in the gray gloom. And so they were forced to depend on livestock, human and animal, to exist.
Balaam sat back as feelings of satisfaction and shame dueled inside him. He remained in that state for a short eternity, riding the ecstasy of the blood. When he roused, the servant girl was leaning against his wife's shoulder. Dorcas watched them both with naked arousal, but she pushed the girl to her feet. “Well,” she said as the servant stumbled out of the room. “Did you find her?”
Balaam frowned, guarding his thoughts. “I found the place where she died. She had…” He cleared his throat. Why was this so difficult for him to talk about? “She had already crossed over.”
“How was the news received?”
Balaam tapped on the arm of the chair.
Dorcas inched forward, not quite touching his knee. “But the Master could not blame you for her fate. Balaam! You were nowhere near when it happened. The Master must know-”
“I do not need you to tell me what the Master must know.”
She moved back, just a handspan, but it was enough. “No. You never had a problem knowing his mind.”
Only yours. Right, my lovely?
“How long are you back for?” she asked.
“I must leave tonight. Soon. I just came to see you.”
“Here I am. The same as you left me.”
He winced inwardly, but kept his face still. “I have new orders.”
She called a shadow to her hand. “Another mission. Of course.”
“Dorcas, I…”
Perhaps she sensed it in his voice, because she looked at him. Really looked at him, her reddened eyes searching his face. He couldn't recall the last time she'd done that.
“What's wrong, Balaam? Did something happen?”
He looked to the flames in the fireplace. How to tell her about the antipathy he'd been suffering of late, the disloyal thoughts? They must be plain on his face. He turned, but she was gone.
He stood up. Part of him wanted to stay, but he could not. He might have failed as a husband, but he still had his duty.
He opened a portal and departed, jumping far to the south in search of a shadow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Josey rubbed her temples as the tirades flew back and forth across the long plank table.
“Absolutely not! I would rather die and have my ashes scattered over a charnel pit!”
“That can be arranged!”
“Cur! Progeny of mongrels! I would cut out-”
Count Sarrow and Lord Therbold had been saying much the same for the last three days, until Josey stopped trying to quell the argument and let it play out in the hopes the two men would exhaust themselves. That didn't seem likely any time soon. Still, the past couple days hadn't been a complete waste of her time. She had gotten some much needed rest-in a real bed! — and the food was better than what was served in camp. The decor was more rustic than she was used to, with lots of natural wood and cast-iron accents, but charming nonetheless. And she had learned that the troubles between Therbold and Sarrow were deep and far-reaching. In fact, their grandfathers had started the feud more than fifty years ago. She had also discovered why both were so intent on possessing Hafsax. Water rights. The little hamlet controlled access to the river, which fed the most arable portions of both their lands, as well as being a vital trade route for the province. Whoever possessed Hafsax held the other in his power.
A sudden pressure pushed against her, and Josey lowered a hand to the swollen bump under her bellybutton. Was that a kick? She looked down. Come on, little one. Do it again for Mommy.
She didn't realize the room had quieted until Hirsch cleared his throat. Sarrow and Therbold sat at opposite sides of the table, each surrounded by their advisors. She was situated at the center, with Hirsch at her left hand and Captain Drathan at her right. Brian sat besi
de his father, but hadn't said much so far. Everyone was watching her.
“Majesty,” Hirsch said. “Are you unwell?”
She shifted in the wooden chair, which had no cushion or padding. “Not at all. Forgive me, my lords. You were saying?”
“I was saying,” Count Sarrow said, looking down at his rival, “what a bloated, foul-tongued-”
Hirsch cut him off. “We were asking if you would like a recess from these proceedings, Majesty. For tempers to cool.”
“A good idea, Master Adept.” Josey stood up, and everyone at the table rose with her. “My lords. We shall reconvene after the noon meal.”
She took Hirsch's arm and allowed him to escort her away from the table. Both Sarrow and Therbold looked like they had more to say, but both were too disciplined to do it in front of her. Nonsense. It's my soldiers they fear. Not me.
Hirsch led her out of the hall into a side chamber where benches and chairs rested against the walls. Iron braziers filled with hot coals were positioned around the room, offering some relief from the castle's chill. Hirsch indicated a cushioned seat, but Josey declined. She was tired of sitting.
Captain Drathan entered after them. “Majesty, Lord General Argentus reports he has found a fording approximately twelve leagues east of the old bridge's position. He asks if he should begin the crossing.”
Josey's heart leapt at the news, but then she considered the situation here. She couldn't leave these nobles at each other's throats. How long would it take to bring them around to a peace pact? She sighed. The way things were going, it could be a long time. “Not yet, Captain. Tell Argentus to make the needed preparations, but not to move the army until I've finished here.”
Josey looked to the doorway as the captain left. Brian stood beyond the shoulders of her bodyguards as if waiting for her. He hadn't spoken much at the meetings these past couple days, nor at the feast his father held in her honor.
“Sir,” she said. “Was there something you wanted?”
Her guards moved aside, but Brian stopped at the threshold as if unwilling to disturb her privacy. “Highn-Um, Majesty. I just wanted to compliment you on your handling of the negotiations.”
