The Riven God
Page 12
“Your word isn’t worth a shit,” Wulfgar returned.
After a pause: “I swear on Ascarion. Your god.”
Silence filled the wood.
Wulfgar blurted a laugh. My what? Surely, the priest was baiting him with that. But his skepticism faded as he recalled Asa, staring into his eyes with love as she uttered the name. And when Wulfgar had done the same, it had saved his life and started a war.
“Ascarion will hold you to that,” he said boldly, not knowing. “Call off your archers and let my men pass.”
When no one moved, the priest spoke a word. The oborom lowered their bows and stepped back. “Try anything and you will all die,” the priest promised, raising a slender hand towards a widening gap in the darkness.
“Go!” Wulfgar ordered his men, who still hadn’t moved. To Gareth he said, “Get them to Lifngrove. Quietly. I’ll be all right.”
“We will come for you,” the commander assured him.
Wulfgar walked to the priest’s side, turned, and watched his men as they filed past and vanished into the woods. When they were well out of sight, he turned at last to his captors.
Something struck him in the head, rendering him unconscious.
A Bittersweet Reunion
Warm wind caressed the rushes and oats at the water’s edge. Seagulls clamored in the air and tiny crabs scuttled to and fro with the rhythm of the tide.
“Show me again, Asa,” the boy said excitedly, clapping his hands.
“Once more, my bright prince,” the wisewoman said, her cheeks shining in the sun. She leaned forward and touched her sandaled feet resting on the sand, then raised her arms to the sky and spoke a word that sounded like wind in the grass. “Now do you wait.”
Wulfgar sat on the rocks and scanned the skies. Suddenly, his heart leapt. “There he is! See there!”
“That be a she,” Asa said, smiling. A falcon wheeled over them, released a piercing cry and then soared down and alit onto a piece of driftwood sticking out from the rocks around them.
“What does he—she say?” Wulfgar whispered, awed. The elegant raptor perched there, her gray and white patterned feathers stirred by the breeze. The boy looked at Asa. Her eyes had glassed over, as they often did. After a moment, she placed her hand on his head. “She says your hair shines like the sun.”
Wulfgar grinned. “Why thank you!” A wave crashed on the rocks and splashed in his face as the falcon lifted up and flew towards the sea to the east...
Wulfgar regained consciousness as icy water splashed in his face. “Come ‘round now, Wulfie,” said a voice. Water ran nearby, beneath the sounds of footsteps, horses and voices. A fire crackled. He drew a sharp breath. Wulfie? Only two people in his life had ever called him that, and one of them was dead.
He opened his eyes. A face hung over him, weathered by wind, stippled with a rough beard, and surrounded by a tangled mess of dark hair that shone red in the firelight. “Bjorn!” Wulfgar gasped. The brothers embraced for some moments. “I didn’t believe the news.”
Bjorn drew him up to lean against a tree and then pressed a flask into his hand. “Drink.”
Wulfgar’s head pounded as if someone repeatedly struck it with a hammer. He took a long draught of whisky, catching his breath as he lowered it. Then he took in the sight of his brother sitting before him. He wore dark-toned woolens, a worn cloak of pine green and the leathers and steel of a seasoned warrior. The prince reached into a saddlebag and pulled forth a small loaf of black bread and something wrapped in linden leaves. The scent of fish touched the air. “Here. You’ll need your strength.”
Wulfgar nodded his thanks and shoved a dried herring into his mouth. A soft breeze blew, causing the dappled light of the setting sun to dance through the vaguely familiar surroundings. Below, a stream tumbled through a rocky ravine. “Where are we?” Wulfgar asked with his mouth full.
Bjorn moved his chin towards the water below. “Mile down the Borland from the Draumar fork.”
Two miles from Lifngrove. Wulfgar ate another fish. “How is it you are on this isle?”
Bjorn glanced behind him as someone raised his voice. Then he turned around with a worried air. “A snow goose, if you can believe. It carried a sealed message from Mother. War. Sorcery. Don’t ask me how the bird found me. My men were warding off the Otherworld for three days after.”
Asa. Wulfgar envisioned the Seer in his dream, a wisp of her gray hair floating on the wind. “Where were you?”
“Os. I heard there was coin to be made in the City Guard.” A wry smile. “Plenty of trouble to be found in that town, wizards notwithstanding. My crew agreed to serve there for two years. We’d been there six months when I got the message. Not all of my men hail from the Isles, so I gave them a choice. Some stayed behind.”
Wulfgar bit into his bread. In the woods beyond the banks of the stream, sailors and warriors, many of whom he recognized, moved around, wiping their blades, tending wounds and dragging bodies into graves. They moved with practiced efficiency, and spoke little.
“What happened here?” Wulfgar asked.
Bjorn rested his arms over his knees. “The company of oborom who took you knew your men would re-arm in Lifngrove and come after them,” he said quietly. “They moved quickly, fanned out to obscure their movements and focused on an attack from behind. But I had earlier learned where the priest was taking you; that’s why my men were not at hand when you were captured. We caught them before they brought you underground.”
“I never did believe we had found all those entrances,” Wulfgar said. “Where was it?”
“Beneath a tannery in the village of Raumarik.” He placed a piece of wood on the fire. “Such a small isle, and I’m stretched thin. I have men in Lifnmir and Forlsc, too.”
“The priests have taken control of the towns,” Wulfgar said. “They’re letting folk go about their business. Whatever their intentions, they’re not bent on killing everyone—just those who betray them or try to interfere.”
Bjorn leaned forward with a glittering blue stare. “What are their intentions, exactly?”
“Good question. What did Mother tell you?”
The prince tilted his head back to the sky. “She said there’s a bloody god hiding beneath Tromblast and our father and the oborom are serving him.”
“The Riven God.”
“That’s what she called him. It’s my understanding the gods don’t involve themselves in the affairs of mortals, save perhaps the Keepers of the Eye. I doubt this tale—and she’s basing her decisions on the very thing.”
“I have a spy named Aelfric who saw him.”
“So I’m told. Do you believe him?”
Wulfgar shrugged. “I trust Aelfric with my life. But I don’t know what he saw. He believes it well enough.”
“I should think if there were a god beneath Tromblast some other god would know about it. Ealiron, for starts.” A dry laugh fell from his lips.
“Well, the Keepers who lived here didn’t seem overly concerned. They left before he came. Perhaps they don’t know about it.”
Bjorn shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter. I’d wager they left to avoid getting involved. From what I’ve seen, things have to get right bad for them to interfere.”
Wulfgar envisioned Rhinne at the hands of an oborom assassin. “I should like to know what they consider ‘bad.’”
“Aye.” A dark glance. “I understand the oborom drown anyone who tries to leave the isle.”
“That’s the rumor. It’s hard to prove.” They sat in silence for some moments. “How did you find out where they were taking me?”
“Ah, that. Earlier today, I got a report that a small company of oborom was seen moving north of the Borland. I took men and rode up to apprehend them. They weren’t oborom.”
Wulfgar lifted his brow in hope. “Galbraeth?”
“The very same. They escaped the caves by trailing the company that came after you. By then, it was too late. Two of my scouts saw the oborom take you. One
of them came to me in the north and the other returned to Lifnmir before your men got there. They gathered up as many amulets as they could find and prepared horses. Your men left Lifngrove by another route and flanked the oborom from the east. I attacked them here to cut them off from the entrance.”
“And the priest?”
“We never saw him.” He moved his gaze over the forest. “He wasn’t the only one who escaped.” He lifted his chin and regarded Wulfgar with a warrior’s smile touching his lips. “I’m told the priests are near impossible to kill. But you got one, ay?”
Wulfgar took another draught of whisky. “So did Rhinne. That cost her more dearly, I’m afraid. I got lucky.”
Bjorn lowered his voice. “Mother believes she’s still alive, you know.”
Wulfgar hung his head. He could no longer deny his mother that, though all evidence refuted it.
They looked up as someone shouted: “Milord!” At the sound of hoofbeats, Bjorn rose to his feet and ran up the short bank into the woods. A woman reined in and dismounted before him, out of breath. Wulfgar recognized Brigid, one of his best scouts. Raised in Graylif, she knew the wood as well as a fox, day or night. She spoke to Bjorn in urgent tones, something about the Widow Tears, a cave, and the oborom. When she finished her report, Bjorn stepped back and whistled. After a moment, several men approached him.
Wulfgar leaned his head against the tree, oddly relieved to leave things to his brother. There would be time enough for collaboration later, when his head stopped hurting. He lifted the last of his bread to his mouth—and then paused as he spotted a flash of red moving between the trees. For a brief moment he imagined his little sister there.
Aelfric approached with a smile and knelt stiffly by his side. He held an armful of weapons. Fully armed himself, the warrior had a bloody scratch on his neck and a bruise on his cheekbone. “Good to see you, milord,” he said warmly, grasping Wulfgar by the shoulder. “We got back the horses and weapons.” He placed Wulfgar’s knife, bow and quiver near his feet, and then drew a strap over his head.
Wulfgar’s heart leapt in his chest as Aelfric handed him a leather sheath adorned in knotted serpents and beasts. He pulled the sword out, catching it in the light to admire the beautiful patterns inscribed on the shoulder and along the fuller. The South Born blade. Without thinking, he muttered a blessing to the Mistress of the Sea.
“Oi,” the spy said with a breath, “and this.” He placed a serpent amulet on the ground.
“Good work, Aelfric.” He looked up. “How is Harald?”
Aelfric’s bright mood fled like the sun passing behind an iron cloud. His blue eyes answered the question before he said, “We lost him.”
Wulfgar slid his blade back into its sheath and slipped the iron talisman over his head. Then he took the whisky flask and handed it to his friend in a gesture of comfort. Aelfric and Harald had been close enough to share a bed on occasion. Aelfric tilted the flask to his lips.
As Bjorn’s men moved away with his orders, he returned to the fire accompanied by Brigid and a tall man with curly black hair, a scar on his chin and a missing tooth.
“Time to move,” Bjorn said.
They scattered the fire and gathered up their things. Wulfgar let Aelfric pull him up. He swayed there for a moment, dizzy and weak on his feet. He slung his sword strap over his head and cinched it down. Then he took up the rest of his weapons, jostling them around under one arm.
Brigid approached him, her graying blond hair twining like ivy from beneath a leather cap with leaves stitched on it. “Milord!” she piped, her freckled skin creasing around her eyes as she smiled. “What happened to you?”
Wulfgar took her hand and squeezed it. “Long night.”
“It’s about to get longer,” Bjorn put in. He put his arm around his brother and guided him into the woods away from the water’s edge. Horses were tethered there. The others followed them.
Wulfgar glanced over his shoulder at the black-haired man. “Pike, is that you?”
The sailor grinned. “Aye, ’tis.”
“You still first mate? I figured someone would’ve kicked your smelly ass by now.”
Bjorn laughed.
The big sailor shoved a knuckle into the gap left by his missing tooth. “Someone tried.”
“Didn’t I warn you, Pike,” Bjorn said.
“No’ really.”
Bjorn moved among the horses and then drew around a powerful, dark gelding. “Here now.” He handed Wulfgar the reins.
“Dair,” Wulfgar said, stroking the beast’s withers. “Glad to see you.” He had recently heard that the oborom had been surviving off horseflesh. His men had closely guarded and then cleaned out the food stores in Tromblast, intending to flush the warlocks out. Though the priests now held control over the towns, the oborom had no other reason to steal horses aside from slaughtering them. They did not ride: the beasts shunned them.
He fastened his things to the saddle. Then he took a deep breath and mounted, gripping the pommel as another swoon choked his wits.
Bjorn mounted and swung his steed around, drawing close. “Are you well?”
“Well enough.”
They rode out, following the stream, with Brigid in the lead. Pike took the rear. Between the trees, Wulfgar noticed the wreckage of a bridge in the water. After a time, the scout headed up a hilly rise carpeted with tall pine trees.
“Where are we going?” Wulfgar asked.
Bjorn replied, “To the coast, near the Widow Tears. Mother’s down there in Lafnarin Cave with Gareth retrieving something the Riven God wants. She wants to take it off the isle.”
“What is it?”
The prince made a sound in his throat. “Damned if I know. But the oborom want it badly enough to’ve sent a priest to capture you. They were going to use your life to bargain for it.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Pike here got it out of a warlock.”
The sailor flashed a mean, gap-toothed grin. “No worse ’an gettin’ a hook ou’ of an eel.”
Wulfgar nodded grimly. Ransom. It explained why they hadn’t assassinated him for killing the priest by the smithy—but that would change, once they had nothing to lose. He wondered why his mother hadn’t told him of this before. No telling, with her. While powerful enough in the arts of magic to protect them, she also had a penchant for looking after them by keeping secrets, a maddening habit that caused him either to half-listen or over-listen to everything the woman said.
The companions rode for about an hour, saying little, staying alert. The rays of the setting sun touched the tops of the trees, leaving the rest of the forest in shadow. To avoid any stray oborom, Brigid guided them south through little known ways that passed through the domains of their watchers. On several occasions, she returned the hoot of an owl or the croak of a frog. Thus they made their way without trouble until they crossed the Gaut River.
The forest brightened, revealing a tract of land thinned by woodsmen. The horses navigated haltingly over stumps and hollows. Saplings, raspberry bushes, and hardy brush thick with spiky branches and swollen flower pods grew between the younger, stronger trees left standing. In the distance, the sea tossed and murmured against the jagged shore of the Widow Tears. Gray mist cloaked the horizon.
Bjorn called a halt as the company rode onto a wide granite outcropping. Their horse’s hooves clattered on the rock. Wulfgar dismounted and walked to the edge overlooking a sea of rhododendrons moving about in the steady breeze that swept through the glade. As he undid his breeches to relieve himself, Pike commented to no one in particular about the cold coming off the northern seas. Bjorn rustled something from a saddlebag and offered it to Brigid; she declined.
Above the far-off clamor of gulls, a lone gull cried strangely. Wulfgar looked over his shoulder as he finished his business. “Brigid, was that...”
Something moved in the corner of his eye, a darker shadow by a pale ash tree.
“Get down!” Brigid shouted.
“Och!” Pike grumbled. “Fucking seagull.”
“It was a warlock, you idgit,” Wulfgar growled from beneath his arm.
“Quiet!” Bjorn hissed. As he whispered something to Brigid, a weird sound vibrated around them. “Take cover!”
The company scrambled for the edge of the outcropping as a volley of arrows streaked the air. Wulfgar dove into the rhododendrons. Arrows skittered over the rocks and tore into the surrounding brush.
“Run!” Bjorn said. “Spread out.”
Everyone plunged into the brush in the general direction of the shore, keeping low to avoid being targeted by archers. One of the men cried out. It sounded like Aelfric, but Wulfgar couldn’t be sure. He stopped and got down beneath the level of the foliage. In the distance, someone else shouted. He drew his sword and crept in that direction.
An arrow whizzed over his shoulder, narrowly missing him as it struck a tree. He feigned a bark of pain, as if he had been hit. Then he waited. After some moments, his amulet grew cold. Two figures melted from the trees and moved in his direction. As they drew near, Wulfgar remained still, sword in hand beneath the ferns. One of the warlocks said, “It’s the South Born. Get his blade and a lock of his hair.”
“Wait,” said the other. “There’s an arrow—”
As the first one turned, Wulfgar rolled up into a lunge and drove his sword into the warlock’s chest. In the tree. As the man fell with a choke, Wulfgar straightened, swaying slightly then jumped back and blocked a slash from the second man’s sword. They circled, stepping in and out of each other’s guards. The warlock gripped a knife in his other hand. He feigned a thrust with his sword, and then whipped his knife around. As Wulfgar parried it, the warlock lashed out, narrowly missing his arm.
No time for this. He stepped forward with a ferocious slash that put his opponent off balance on the uneven ground. In that instant, Wulfgar knocked the knife from the warlock’s hand and thrust his sword into the gap, striking mail with enough force to penetrate but not disable. The warlock’s blade sang around. As Wulfgar parried it, the blades locked at the guards. He heaved the man back, sending him stumbling. Wulfgar ended it with a slash to the throat before he could recover.