The Banished of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  Maia shook her head. “They cannot. And Naess is the last place they would ever expect us to go.”

  He grabbed her arm, signaling the rest was over, and they continued to plunge through thick woods and dense scrub. Thirst was a continuous torment. Neither had dared to drink from the bracken ponds they encountered, knowing the water would be as poisoned as the land they traveled through, and Maia could not take the risk of seeking another waymarker. Not when Corriveaux could be lurking by one again, waiting for such an opportunity. No, they had to blind the Dochte Mandar to their presence and their path. Make them trudge in the dark and jab sticks into every bush.

  What they needed was their own hunter, someone who could disguise their trail. Someone who knew the land and its secret places. Someone who could be trusted. The greatness of their need pounded through Maia as they continued to forge their way. She fixed her heart on it, pushing the fierce, focused thought into the aether: I need a hunter. I need a guide.

  A gust of wind blew into her eyes, almost as if in response to her pleading thoughts. She did not know if it was the Medium.

  Before nightfall, she realized that it really was.

  When I was a wretched living in Muirwood Abbey, a strange fellow named Maderos told me a tale about the hill near the abbey, the one we called the Tor. A crew of warriors from the north came. Not men from the seven kingdoms, but from a land of dark pools and steep firths. These warriors came on painted boats to conquer our lands. They massacred a small village along a lake near the abbey and came marching to Muirwood itself. The Aldermaston raised his hands, and a hill from a surrounding area lifted from the ground, hovered over the enemies of the abbey, and then plummeted down, smashing them into oblivion. Some of the attackers survived, great-granddaughter. They fled back to their dark land and warned of the inhabitants of the seven kingdoms and the awful power of the Medium when provoked. What you need to understand is that these people, the Naestors, came and inhabited the lands that we forsook. They are a cunning, warlike people. When the mastons return again to the seven kingdoms of Comoros, Pry-Ree, Dahomey, Hautland, Mon, Avinion, and Paeiz, they will discover an eighth kingdom has claimed all that we abandoned. Though they will feign friendship, they will not trust you. They will fear you. They will bring back the Dochte Mandar. Be wary.

  —Lia Demont, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey

  CHAPTER THREE

  Argus

  They smelled the chimney smoke first, just the hint of it on the air. Before long, the plumes became visible and directed their course. With Maia’s tired legs aching from the rocky climb, they crested the snow-spattered ridgeline and gazed down at a village nestled along the shores of a small lake. The crags of the mountains were steep and full of cracked shale and broken stone, making the footing treacherous and difficult. The sky held wisps of fleecy cloud that passed over them, blocking the sun for moments as they gazed down at the tiny hamlet. Maia noticed that many of the pine trees along the crest and down the slope were dead, the bark turned to silver with little protruding stubs. She rubbed her hands on the smooth, graying bark and gazed down at the village. Her stomach growled enviously at the thought of the provisions they might find there.

  The kishion looked back the way they had come, watching for signs of pursuit, then returned his gaze down the slope to the hamlet.

  “No more than twenty stone hovels down there,” he said disdainfully. “Not much by way of help.”

  “Yes, but my legs are weary, and we need water and food,” Maia said. She winced, her knees aching from the arduous climb. “Even if we sleep in the brush, it is better to move forward. Maybe someone down there knows the land. They could help us find the way.”

  “Or give us trouble instead,” he said gruffly. “The village is too small for a garrison, so we need not fear meeting the king’s men. At the least there are fires to keep warm. The ground is treacherous, Lady Maia. Hold my hand as we descend.”

  She was grateful she did, for several times her boots slid on the crushed shale, causing rocks to patter down the winding trail or scatter off the edge of the cliffs. Her heart pounded with fear and exhaustion as they traversed the winding switchbacks into the valley.

  She admired the seclusion of the place, the rugged privacy that kept it away from the rest of the land. There were no obvious roads in or out, but as they walked down the ridge, they encountered a small footpath that had been trampled amidst the brush and debris—proof that the villagers below were used to climbing up to the peaks. The sun was beginning to set, and the gusts of wind were violent enough to chill them to the bone, causing Maia to grip the kishion’s hand more firmly as she maneuvered her way down.

  They had encountered a number of strange plants and wildlife along the trek into the mountains, but the feeling in the air had begun to change as they painstakingly made their way downward. Since landing off the storm-ridden coast of Merohwey, the land had felt cursed and inhospitable. But the feeling was beginning to dwindle now that they had crossed this cracked range of gray, shattered rock, and the normal signs of deer and fox began to present themselves. The music of birds chirping came as a welcome sound to her ears. There was a subdued feeling, a quiet hope in her heart. Even though the Dochte Mandar were chasing them, she did not feel quite so desperate.

  “We are in the midst of Dahomey,” the kishion said as they stopped to cup water from a small brook with their hands. It was their first water of the day, and both gulped it down eagerly before filling their waterskins. “I do not speak this tongue very well, so you must be the one to talk with the villagers. Say little. Men’s tongues wag when they see something strange, or a pretty face.” He wiped his mouth on his gloved hand. “Even our clothing marks us as foreigners. Try to barter for information. If they prove reluctant, I will make things simpler for us.”

  She stared into his eyes. “I do not want to be troublesome to these people. They are innocent.”

  “You said you would trust my judgment, my lady. Believe me, in towns like this, they will respond to fear more than they will coins. There is no one here who can face me, not even all of them together. I will not harm them if I do not have to, but we must be quick and to the point. We need the supplies to cross this land into either Paeiz or Mon. A guide if we can persuade him. Otherwise, he will guide us unwillingly.”

  “Very well. Let me do my best to convince him first.”

  The kishion stood and brushed twigs from his sleeve, gazing back up the trail, and then nodded. Maia knelt and sipped again from the water in her palm. It was cold, clean, and delicious. She sighed, her joints aching from the long journey. Her gown was stained and splitting at the seams, so she fastened her cloak more tightly around her throat and raised the cowl to conceal her face. Daylight dwindled quickly, and they hurried their pace to reach the town before darkness would force them to stumble blindly. Huge pine trees swayed in the stiff winds that whipped her cloak out behind her and threatened to tug loose her cowl.

  As they reached the shelter of the trees stationed along the lake, the winds struggled to pierce their clothes. Large boulders hunkered all around, some twice the height of a person. Other boulders rested in the shallows of the lake, and Maia realized that many had cracked off the edge of the mountain and tumbled down.

  There were ramshackle stone huts throughout the grove of trees, many of which had small chimneys radiating the smoke they had seen earlier. There were enough fallen trees around them to provide almost an unlimited supply of firewood. Her boots crunched in the gravel and needles as the two maneuvered through the small hamlet without encountering a soul. Voices could be heard emanating from one structure—an inn or tavern of some kind that seemed to be a gathering place for locals. The walls were made of sturdy stone slabs, each cut by nature and not by hand, fastened around the buttress of an enormous boulder as if it had been the ruins of a great castle. It had a timber roof that was in danger of sagging under the weight of dead pine
needles.

  The kishion nodded toward the structure, and they approached the only door. As the kishion pulled on the iron-ring handle, the door opened, sending out a blast of warm, fragrant air. Maia smiled in spite of herself, very willing to lie down on the dirt floor and sleep right there.

  The room was full of mostly men, though there was a handful of hardy-looking women who were lean and weather chafed. Three hearths circled the room, and a skewered stag was roasting on a spit in one of them, the smell of the sizzling meat making Maia’s mouth water.

  As they entered, a man approached who was balding and very tall, probably the tallest man she had ever seen. He waved them in and greeted them in a deep bass voice, speaking Dahomeyjan with a slight accent.

  “Hail, travelers!” he said with a warm smile. “Some bread and wine? Come and sit by the fire. Emilie!” he boomed. “Rest and I will fetch you some victuals. You look weary.”

  “Thank you,” Maia said, trying to match their accent. They seated themselves by the raging flames, and she felt the heat sink into her bones quickly, making her cheeks pink. The tall man was middle-aged and he had a long, lanky stride. A woman—his wife?—piled food on a tray, while the rest of the patrons gazed at them for a long moment before continuing their conversation.

  One man’s voice caught Maia’s attention amidst the din of the roaring flames and chuckling voices.

  “And what do you expect we found, by Cheshu, with the bear scat? A hand. Bitten off and chewed to bits. Naught but the bones were left. Wander these mountains before the snows, and you are asking to become a meal yourself!”

  Maia blinked with startled surprise and turned her gaze. The talker was a barrel-chested man, shorter than her, but wide enough to be two people. A thinning thatch of curly copper hair sat atop his balding head, and a bristly beard that was more brown than copper pointed from his chin like a cone. Beside the wide chair in which he slouched, an enormous pale boarhound rested on the floor, its head resting on its front legs as it stared at her with its big eyes.

  What had struck Maia so forcefully was the epithet the man had used along with his accent, which was unmistakably Pry-rian—not at all what she had expected to hear in the hinterlands of Dahomey.

  “No, no, no—you have to realize it. I have been walking these mountains for years, and you cannot believe how ignorant people are. Especially the wealthy. Does a blizzard care how much coin is in your purse? I once saw a man blasted by lightning as we walked the trails. He was no farther from me than that tun of wine, close enough to raise the hair on my arms. I jest not! By Cheshu, I had a struggle to keep Argus here from feasting on the corpse. I do not quibble if he has a taste for bear meat, but I would rather he not get a taste for one of us!” He patted the dog’s head and then held his own belly while he laughed, joined in chorus by the others gathered around him.

  Maia watched him closely, noting how he had become the center of attention in the room by the way he projected his voice. Copper-colored hair was also rare in Dahomey. There was no denying it, the man was Pry-rian. He looked to be a dozen or so years older than her, and the good-natured smile on his face told her he was comfortable in his position. She noticed in her observation that he had two throwing axes and a long knife in his belt and seemed to be quite unfamiliar with starvation.

  The tall man approached with a massive tray of bread, nuts, cheese, and some wild berries. “I will cut some meat when it is finished cooking,” the man said. “Are you warming up now, pretty lass?”

  Maia nodded and thanked him again. “How much can I pay for the meal?” she asked.

  The man waved her off and shook his head. “You are hungry and must eat. Why should coins exchange hands for that? We are simple people who live off the land. What we have, we share.”

  The notion startled her even more. Was it a maston village? “That is very kind. Thank you. Who is that man in the chair by the other fire?” she asked him.

  The tall man’s grin broadened. “The best tracker and hunter in Dahomey if you ask him. I thought you might be here to find him. He provided the stag roasting on the spit. His name is Jon Tayt. Are you seeking a hunter? Most who travel up to this village seek him.”

  “Can you introduce us then?” Maia asked, feeling a prickle of warmth that had little to do with the fire. She knew instinctively that her need had brought them to this quaint hamlet. It was the work of the Medium.

  The tall man nodded and approached the man, bending low to whisper in his ear. The hunter’s gaze did not shift or change. He simply nodded and made a motion to shoo the others away. Some cast furtive glances at her and the kishion, but they filed away without argument. Jon Tayt eased up off the chair and walked toward them, his heavy boots thudding on the dirt floor. The boarhound raised its head, its ears going on the alert, but it did not follow its master.

  Maia was secretly starving, but she refrained from enjoying the warm bread and nuts as she waited for the hunter to approach. His hazel eyes seemed to size her up, taking in the sight of her torn bodice, the rugged look of the kishion, the hunted expressions on their faces. He grabbed another chair and spun it around and sat in it, resting his meaty arms on the back of the chair.

  “Well, you came over the mountains,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Ach, you came from the other side. And you survived it. Incredible.” He gave a nod to the kishion. “Wolves? The scars on your hands . . . you ran afoul of a maddened pack. And the scabs on both of your skins. I know the insects that made those. Little buggers burrow into your skin. If you do not burn them out or cut them out, you go mad with disease.” He chuckled with some amusement and shook his head. “Obviously you did not come here wanting me to lead you inside that foul domain. So what brings you here tonight, I must wonder?”

  Maia felt a spasm of excitement inside, but she tried to calm it. This was exactly the sort of person they needed to guide them. Still, she would need to be very careful about what she revealed.

  She tried a subtle tactic. “I was not expecting to find one who speaks Pry-rian,” she said in that language. It rolled off her tongue, and she watched as his eyes widened with surprise. A twitch on his mouth started, and then he was grinning fully.

  “Nor was I, lass,” he replied in kind, bowing his head to her. He slammed his fist onto the table, jarring the tray and scattering some of its contents. “By Cheshu!” he roared, laughing so hard it shook the room. “When I awoke this morning, I was the only man within three hundred leagues who could speak my mother tongue. How I miss hearing it! Who are you, my lady?” He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes piercing hers. “You do not have the look of Pry-Ree, though you speak the tongue true as any lass born and bred there.”

  She stared into his eyes and took his measure. If she wanted to earn this man’s trust and respect, she decided, she needed him to understand the fullness of her plight. Threats would not work. While she had wanted to keep her identity a secret, she felt that trusting another foreigner, a man from Pry-Ree, might be possible, particularly since the Medium seemed to have brought them together.

  She decided to trust him.

  “I am Marciana Soliven,” she announced softly, causing the kishion to hiss in surprise and alarm. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her muscle.

  “Are you now?” Jon Tayt said, clearly astonished by her candor. He started to chuckle again, shaking his head in wonder. “Lady Maia of Comoros. The banished princess.” His words were spoken softly, with an echo of sympathy. He shook his head again, leaning back away from his chair, and folded his arms. “I barely recognized you, you look so terrible.”

  “Have we met?” Maia asked, her interest piqued.

  “You would not remember me, as you were just a little wisp of girl yourself at the time. Your father sent you to settle border disputes between Comoros and Pry-Ree when you were a wee child. Everyone knew of you by reputation, but I also saw you occasionally. At
the time, I was often surveying lands for those border disputes . . . or helping enforce them afterward, sometimes with an axe or an arrow.”

  “So you were a hunter for the King of Pry-Ree?”

  He snorted and waved his hand. “No, I work for hire. Usually for lesser nobles or people with means. I cannot guard my tongue. I say the truth regardless of who it hurts, so no king ever secures my services for long. Most noble folk are pure and utter fools, and I tend to despise them.”

  “I value loyalty and someone who speaks the truth.”

  “Yes, but even the best men grow weary of my stories,” he said with a smile free of self-consciousness. “As I recall, you settled those complaints fairly, if a bit ignorantly. At least you were equal in your treatment of Pry-rian claims and those of your own countrymen, who lied and tried to deceive you as much as we did. It was never clear which side you would favor, but you did gain a reputation for fairness, my lady.” His eyes narrowed. “When your father . . . when he did what he did, those border disputes became tangled again. I pitied you. I grew sick of the whole business and ventured away.”

  “This is quite far from Pry-Ree, Jon Tayt. Why did you come?”

  “I told you I am a blunt man. I wanted nothing to do with intrigues or broken oaths. I traveled about as far away as I could imagine going and ended up in the hinterlands of the civilized world. Welcome to Argus hamlet, Lady Maia! I named it after my hound over there. The lazy cur.”

  “After your hound?” Maia asked, a smile beginning to stir on her lips. He was a gruff and opinionated fellow, but already she liked him.

  “Seemed a suitable name at the time since we were the first ever to live here. I built this hovel and most of the others when others chose to join me.” He leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the table. “You realize that Dahomey is not a safe haven for one of your blood. Your kingdom is at war with every other nation that upholds the doctrines of the Dochte Mandar.”