Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  Orson paused. The footprints around the bodies were fresh; the snow just started to fill in the depressions. Instinct shot him to his legs but he was too late. The triplets had already edged too close to a corpse and cried out as pockets of dirt and grime exploded into men with rasping steel. Dammit. Suckered by common thugs. I’m getting old.

  “I told you it was worth hiding! I told you!”

  “Shut up.” A gauntleted fist split the skinny man’s cheek and sent him tumbling to the ground. Orson sized him up with flat eyes. The little metal that was not rust was of lower-grade iron, the kind found in a blacksmith’s shavings. Even the gauntlet was brittle and cracked. Poor as it was, no one else had it. They were the underlings; this one was the leader.

  The oddities piled even higher. They had none of the silence typical to bandits, none of the precision. Their eyes kept fluttering back and forth, daring each other to make the first strike. They barked words, too many words. Men thought words a kind of shield, but in the end the false bravado was clear for everyone to see. “Deserters.” Orson was too tired to make a play of anger.

  “They lied to us!” said a little blonde boy that had no right to hold a sword. Orson grunted. It didn’t matter if “they” were either Solvicar or Coicro. Fairytales of adventure gulled youths time and time again. Before the fools knew it, they had either killed a man or got themselves killed. The true ugliness of conscription.

  “Shut up,” said the man with the gauntlet. No, not a man. Just some upturned idiot with peach fuzz on his cheeks. He hated the peasant-born soldiers ordering him, and hated that the world had neglected to fulfill their idealistic promises. Just like me. Orson hadn’t been much younger than they were on his first melee. The fire in the leader’s eyes was a mirror to his own, smoldering and churning with bile.

  “We don’t have to do this. We just walk away, and everyone lives.”

  “Shut up.” The leader analyzed Orson with a sneer. “Dead men don’t need possessions. Bad for the soul. And what kind of men would we be if we didn’t unburden the doomed?”

  Orson laughed. Piety from the foolish? Their betrayal must have been hot, indeed. The ranger could almost see the sparks gather at the tinder of their beaten, desperate pride. They had the trappings of a defensive position, and they all held their weapons the right way, but their skill ended there. “Look you –”

  The triplets blurred past him, their bright eyes hungry and eager. Even as they leaped they softened, folded, bursting into manna that swirled about each other like black comets. A heartbeat later the black form grew legs and tail and body. Three massive dog’s heads exploded from the buzzing black. The deserters had no chance. Instinctively Orson threw up an arm to shield himself from the inevitable gobbets of flesh flying everywhere.

  Only there was no explosion. Instead there was the crackle of meat sizzling on a spit, followed by a puppy’s whimper and moans of exhaustion. Orson opened his eyes to find the triplets, back in human form, writhing and snapping at a spider-web fashioned from blue lightning. Orson watched the light go out from the deserters’ eyes, watched them tumble to the ground like string-cut puppets, revealing as they fell a monstrous creature with a smoking gun in his hand.

  “Hm. Didn’t think it would be this easy.”

  Orson instinctively tensed into a fighting stance. The moonlight dappled the stranger’s features in a faint white glow. His hair was black, with a thick flop hiding the small black marble that was his left eye. The rest of his face was square: square of nose and chin, even the cheeks were perfectly symmetrical. The only oddity about him was that he had no eyebrows. Well, that and the fact that he wore a fancy suit better suited for a ball that scourging the winter wastes.

  “Well, I saved your lives. I don’t know how things are run in your house, but the saved usually owe the savior a pint of ale.” Silence. “Hello? Anyone home?”

  Orson tensed even further. The best ploys always included a little bit of distraction. “We thank you for your aid, Sir –”

  “Obsidian. Garfield Obsidian. You can call me Obby. Everyone does. And if I might inquire your name, sir?”

  “Orson.” Something stiffened in him. “Orson Coldfront, son of Herat.”

  “What’s that?”

  Orson glanced down and mentally kicked himself in the ass. The lightning cage dissolved with the death of the wielders – if it had been them in the first place – and now Orange was dangerous close to “Obby,” his eyes full of rapture as his fingers feathered the flintlock in Obby’s hand. “Don’t touch it!” Orson snapped. “Those things are dangerous!”

  “Oh, come now, Orson. I mastered my father’s rifle when I was their age.” With a small smile Obby fell to one knee. “Come now. I won’t bite.” The triplets made their way to Obby’s side. A bit too quickly, Orson thought, but he let it slide. The odds were stacked against them; he had no doubt about that. But he’d be damned if he let paranoia win.

  A small thunder crack snapped Orson to the here and now. “This is called the hammer. You crank it back and it provides the force necessary to propel the bullet out of the nozzle.”

  “It doesn’t look like a hammer,” Banana murmured. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes sir. My daddy wouldn’t lie to me. Doesn’t your daddy tell you the truth?”

  “He’s not our father,” Apple replied. “He’s just...just a guardian.”

  “And an able guardian is he, to have you alive in such climate.”

  “Show us how it works,” Orange begged.

  “Yeah!”

  “I want to see!”

  “Oh, all right. You might want to step back a bit. It’s got a kick to it.” The question was plain on their faces, but Apple cut the curiosity short with a furrow of the brow. They ask me every asinine question in the book, yet they shut up for this fool. Orson told himself it was nothing, but he couldn’t help but feel the tendrils of jealousy tighten about his heart.

  Another thunder crack, louder this time. Orson looked up just in time to have the powder from the split tree branch spill right into his face. Rage darkened him to scarlet, those when he wiped the dust away it was a stony smile that greeted the three.

  Not that it really mattered. “Cool! Can I try? Oh, please let me try!”

  “Hey! I wanna try!”

  “Tough. I’m the leader, and I go first!”

  “Who appointed you the leader? I should go first!”

  “Boys, boys, please.” Obby’s smile blazed with snow-glare. “You’ll all get a turn. Now. You. What’s your name?”

  “Banana.”

  “Banana? Don’t look so sad, son. You have worthy nicknames.”

  “Nicknames?”

  “Of course. You have your pick. Ban, Ban the Man. I could go on. Me? I got the silly nicknames. Banana’s better than Ob-Goblin or Knobby Obby. Be grateful that you have such worthy names.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good man. Now, I want you to hold onto the gun with both hands. One hand wraps around the handle like this, and the other hand wraps around the first hand. See that little curved thing inside that ring there? Good. Hook your pinky finger into the ring and press and hold down the thin curve.” An explosion of sound and smoke. “That’s it, Ban. You did that perfectly.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You’re a natural.”

  Banana cocked the hammer back. “I wanna go again.”

  “It’s your brothers’ turn, Ban. That was the deal. You. What’s your name?”

  “Orange.”

  “Another worthy name. Here. Do exactly as your brother did.”

  The farce played out quite predictably from there. Empt
y compliments larded with praise, topped off with tales of adventures so high-strung Orson almost wished the librarian was here. Even he could produce a more comfortable racket. “Well, Obby, I appreciate all your help, but its dark out. We need to get moving early.”

  “Oh yes. Perhaps I could persuade you to join bunks? My shelter is not far off from here.”

  “Yeah!” Apple smiled. “Let’s go there!”

  “I wanna go there!” Orange.

  “Please!” Banana.

  “No.” Orson forced a smile. “We’re going northwest. Your shelter is in the wrong direction. These days you’ve got to save every inch. You know how it is.”

  “Alas, I do. Well, it was very nice to share the evening with you. If you’re ever in the Whitecrest again, seek me out.” Obby melted into the shadows and was gone.

  Orson relaxed, kicked at the ice and moved deeper along the valleys. If memory served there was a hideaway Stromgald prepared somewhere around here...something brushed the Northborn’s boot. A blue moon flower. Orson smiled as the memory sparked back to life. Stromgald played the gallant hero swearing the flower as a symbol of his love for Sylver. The smile turned into a grimace. Damned fool. Damned, damned fool.

  “Why didn’t we go to Obby’s place?” Orange asked.

  “You gone deaf, boy? It’s in the wrong direction.”

  “Then we should have invited him into here.” Apple persisted. “It’s cold outside.”

  “Yes. I know. I had forgotten that little white stuff was snow. Thank you ever so much.”

  Orson paused. How could he tell them of instinct? The “savior” had a stride too graceful for a normal man. Paranoia is a disease that will kill you if you give it an inch. Somebody told him that. Stromgald, maybe. It didn’t matter. “Look. He’s capable of surviving on his own. Now I’ll have no more talk about this. Grab some blankets and go to sleep.” The triplets shut up for once. Orson finally relaxed and let the mental burden melt from his mind. Who knows? The war could be done tomorrow, and there’d be no more of this sleeping in snow. Maybe the one-eyed fool will finally listen and we’ll go to the summerlands. Now that was a fine thought before sleep.

  When he woke up, things had gone more or less than he predicted. The triplets were gone. They had been gone for hours; the snow had already filled their footsteps. But it didn’t take a prophet to know what direction they took. Obby. The great and powerful Obby who showed them how to kill in new and exciting ways. Orson allowed himself to go cold. It was their decision to leave, and quite frankly the Northborn ranger was beginning to tire of their questions and confusion.

  Only...they were just children. Eagerness and spite were the poles of their universe. They couldn’t tell right from wrong, couldn’t see the overlapping gray between black and white. They were young and foolish and would get themselves killed, elemental or no. Gods be damned. I hate playing the hero.

  Winter was a bitch, as usual. Somehow, she came to believe that she was the whole of the world, and her word was actual law. Orson smiled. She didn’t understand just how insignificant she was. He would have to prove it to her. There wasn’t a beast a woman could produce that stood a chance against an adamant will. After a few hundred yards Orson’s smile broadened. The winter had relented as always, showing a glimpse of warmth between her insignificant bitching. The winter was just begging to be fucked, and Orson was more than happy to show her the proper welcome.

  Orson made his way to the half-hidden shelter cautiously. A few charred sticks were all that separated this snow-laden speck from the rest of the blizzard. A fire. Our friend Obby doesn’t like the cold. Orson sniffed the ash. Greasy. This bastard’s smart. Greasy ash did well in hiding the stench of smoke as well as an agent to control fire in hostile conditions. Orson had used better tactics on mountain voyages, but Obby was counting on the blizzard to disguise his tracks. Anyone else would have decided to turn back. Not a Northborn, though. Most definitely not Orson Coldfront, son of Herat.

  The trail ended at the mouth of a nameless plain, in the depths of which stood a black stick-figure. Orson didn’t need the lessening distance between them to know it was dear sweet Obby. Trap, his instincts warned. Of course it’s a trap. Why wouldn’t it be a trap? After a time, Orson distinguished the triplets from the rest of the raging snowfall. It helped that they were bound by something. Ropes, though at the moment, the snow made it difficult to see anything.

  “Orson Coldfront. I had hoped you were smart enough to cut your losses.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” The rope was hemp. Orson breathed a sigh. Normal, then. A normal kidnapper. He was half afraid – and only half! – he stood against a Weirwynd. That was an experience he definitely didn’t want to relive. Past Obby’s slender form, the triplets were terrified and confused – serves them right – but were otherwise unharmed. “I’d let them go, if I were you.”

  “I cannot begin to tell you how many times I’ve heard that. Though you should know they fought like hell. Not that it matters anymore.”

  Orson came to the realization that Obby could see through the triplets’ disguise. “You know what they are?”

  “Wasn’t part of the job, don’t really care.” Mercenary, thought the ranger. “The pertinent question is if you’re ready to die. We have you, a lobster with some pinchers, against me, an assassin. How much do you want to bet who is the winner?”

  “Do all cutthroats ramble on like idiots? Or it is just you?”

  “Bad decision.” From out of nowhere Obby produced his gun. Oh great.

  The man was skilled with his weapon, that was for sure. A blossom of smoke erupted from the gun, and suddenly Orson’s left sword was a jagged stump. Okay. One gun. One shot. An eternity to reload. The weakness of a gun. Orson ran.

  Only a second flintlock appeared from Obby’s dark coat. And then a third. Dammit.

  Orson dropped low and charged. Again and again blossoms of smoke erupted from the endless run of pistols; again and again he feathered left and right to evade it. Keep moving forward. Don’t stop. Move. Move. Move forward. Somewhere in time Orson heard a roar of anger and smiled. Obby never had an opponent that lasted past the first few seconds. That’s right. Get angry. The distance closed between them; the bullets were edging terribly close. Time for the show. Orson crossed the distance by sliding on his knees, his entire torso wrenched almost horizontal. He gripped both jagged stumps like daggers and stabbed at Obby’s hands.

  Obby’s surprise was delicious. His eyes bulged in disbelief at the destruction of his beloved weapons, and bulged further when Orson’s free hand came up gripping a shuriken. With almost a gesture Orson transferred the momentum threw his arm upward so that the shuriken ripped a ribbon of blood from stomach to neck. Obby looked at the innards spilling in a thick, gooey mess, looked at Orson and the impossibly of his defeat, then collapsed like a broken marionette.

  Orson issued a sigh that seemed to come from a hole in his chest, pumping out the vitality. It took everything he had, but somehow he got to his feet, shuffled his way to the triplets and tenderly cut the ropes binding them. Immediately he was floored when all three of them tackled him at the same instant.

  “We’re sorry.” said Apple.

  “Really sorry.” Orange added.

  “Really really sorry.” Banana finished.

  For a moment Orson just laid there, clutching the triplets as a drowning man might cling to a lifeline. He let the storm of their fear ebb until all the tears were spent and his cuirass was stained with snot. “Listen to me. Listen. This was my fault.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  “Obby played me too. He distracted me as well as you.”

  Wrong again, jackass. You knew his intent the first moment you saw him.

&
nbsp; “We all make mistakes. The only thing we can do is learn from them.”

  If you obeyed me then none of this would have happened.

  “Do you think you can do that for me?” They nodded. “Good. Now, I don’t know about you, but I really want to get out of here.”

  What are you doing, you idiot? Coddling them is not going to work. Maybe not. The shade of their misery was so foul that he just had to fix it. He watched them dance in overlapping circles and smiled. Coddling them wasn’t in their best interests. Let them have this moment. Let them be children again, if only for a little while. Smiling, Orson started joggling to catch up.

  LXIX

  The Eden’s Fruit was a culinary school notorious for teaching the penultimate of chefs. Barnaby Alix built the school with nothing but the clothes on his back, and now wars were waged for the chance to employ its graduates. Quite simply, it put towns like Craydon on the map.

  Stromgald snorted. Reads exactly like a fairy tale. Mykel would be appalled at the sloppy craftsmanship. It didn’t change the fact that Barnaby had been a serf upon the Jekai’s land, nor did it change the fact that Barnaby’s grandson James had tutored Ronald in the culinary arts. With the Alix family backing him, Ronald had an inexhaustible supply of foodstuffs. Now all I must do is destroy that partnership.

  “Excuse me, sir. Are you ready to order?”

  Stromgald smiled. “Yes. I’d like a leg of roast mutton, a bowl of spiced cheese, and a bottle of warm sake, if you have it.”

  “An excellent choice, sir. I’ll have the cook on it right away.” She gave him a smoky-eyed glance that would have killed her had Sylver been in the same room. Of course, being disguised did lend itself to the illusion. Two hundred pieces of silver for a black, three-piece suit. Twenty-five silvers for the perfume that even a nose-less man could smell from a league off. And fifteen pieces for the wooden eye. The merchant said the wooden eye would work just as well as the glass one. Only he forgot to mention how the damn thing itched. Constantly. Not to mention how it was always slipping out of place. If things weren’t so desperate...