Malrik nodded, pointed at the three of them. “I’ll be watching you from here on out. Don’t cross me again.”
He turned his horse and began shouting orders to the rest of his men.
“We march,” he yelled. “Keep forward, now. And all of you pick up the pace. If you want the warmth of fire and the peace of sleep tonight you had best get moving. We will not wait till morning for you to catch up.
“We have come far, brothers. Yet, we have further still to travel. We go home this way.”
“Through the Black Forest,” Malrik said. “We must travel through it if we want to make it back. Rid yourself of your fears and damn, fool superstitions.”
The men were silent as they listened, and angry. They still stood together where they had formed their lines of protest. Fear rippled through the group as they heard Malrik’s plan. The wind spoke, a cold south wind that rose up and sent a chill across the skin. The tree branches, glazed in ice, cracked as the wind swept through the forest.
Aziru kept his anger in check near the back of the group. The men shifted uncomfortably at the news and murmurs of disbelief passed between them. The fear of what Malrik planned was deep. Aziru could feel it and the tension the decision brought. The men looked from one to the other, their faces grim, their eyes filled with a new emptiness, and lack of hope, and anger.
The Black Forest was said to be haunted by sorcery and dark magic. They had skirted around the woods on their journey north. Perhaps that was their mistake.
If they had traveled through the woods then, they might have been able to wait for the enemy at the pass. As it was, they arrived late and were ambushed by a group of northmen that was a lot larger than the raiding party that had attacked Persai. Now, they had no choice, they would journey through the woods regardless of the risk.
Aziru looked upon the Black Forest. Barren, black trees rose into the darkening sky. He had seen what magic could do on several of his adventures. He had seen things from the dark that could not be explained. He wasn’t worried though, not like the men from Persai. It wasn’t false beliefs, and unresolved fears, and superstitions that had saved his life. Aziru knew that whatever existed on this plane of men, could be destroyed by men.
The Black Forest was strange. There was an aura about it. The feel of the air made him uncomfortable. The forest smelled of evil. A scent that lingered in the air like an open grave.
Echrod wiped the blood from his nose and gazed at the back of his hand. The blood was thick and red. “We’re dead,” he said, for the hundredth time that day. “I will die in these damn hills. Damn, Malrik, for leading us into that massacre. Damn me for taking on such a foolish crusade.”
“We will not die,” Aziru promised. “Not here. Not in these woods. Isn’t that right, northman?”
Aziru turned to Wyborn. The northman stood there, unmoving, almost frozen to the spot. The wind rolled through the gorge behind them, rustling Wyborn’s hair. “The northmen do not go into that forest,” he said. “None who’ve entered have ever returned. There is something in there that hates anything living.”
Wyborn looked at Aziru, his face calm, his expression one of acceptance. “The Persaian is right,” he said at last. “We go to our deaths.”
The sun died in an orgy of color. A last, bitter streak of orange rolled across the sky, touched the tips of the trees in flame and reflected off the snow. It quietly set. A breath of wind stirred the trees. Twilight descended in a rush, snuffed the last lingering glow in purple the color of a bruise.
As eerie as the forest was during the day, it was worse at night. Malrik called for a halt and gave orders to make camp. Many of the men dropped on the path where they stood, exhausted. The rest formed into small groups. Only a few of the soldiers took the time to put up tents. Fires began to sprout up as the men set campfires to cook their food and warm their tired bodies. There was little talking, tension still hung heavy in the air between the common soldiers and the nobles who set up away from everyone else.
Echrod went to check on some of the injured, while Aziru and Wyborn discovered a snow pile that could be used as a windbreak. They used their hands to shovel snow out of a spot wide enough for three people to lay down, then dug down until they reached the rich, black earth. Between the two of them the task took very little time.
Aziru sat down, removed some food from his pack and began to eat. Wyborn did likewise. They ate in silence, their food cold.
Occasionally, a crow called in the distance. It was the first sign of life that Aziru had noticed in the woods. There was no sign of any other, except the the tracks of the mercenaries who had fled from battle. It was as though the woods were devoid of life.
That shouldn’t be so.
Even in winter, there were many animals that did not hibernate. Deers and wolves, rabbits, moose and men.
The smell of the cooking food and the ability to rest eased the pain of march and brought communal peace. As the men ate, they began to relax; filled stomachs made for happy soldiers. The tension eased a bit, the feeling of doom waned.
Aziru kept alert, regardless. Even though they no longer occupied the northmen’s lands, they were still in unknown territory. Every few minutes he would study their surroundings, searching for the unseen, searching for the trouble he knew must be out there.
Echrod stumbled up to them. Eyes glazed. When he finally realized who they were his eyes widened and he slumped down beside them. A trickle of blood had trickled down his nose and frozen. Echrod wiped it away.
“Curses, what wood is this?” he asked. “Do you know where we are?”
Aziru looked to Wyborn. Wyborn motioned to his head.
Head wound.
“You know the wood,” Aziru told Echrod.
Echrod’s mouth dropped. His eyes shifted side to side and his head swiveled hurriedly as he looked around. He leaned towards them and whispered. “The Dark Woods?”
Wyborn frowned.
“Some call it that,” Aziru answered.
Echrod bolted upright. He stared up at the huge black tree that towered above them. The blood trickling down his nose had lessened, but it looked black beneath the moon’s pale light.
Echrod’s shoulders drooped and what little color he had left in his face faded away. “The Black Forest,” he groaned.
“One and the same,” Aziru confirmed. “Have some bread and water to steady your ills.”
Aziru extended a quarter loaf of bread to Echrod.
Echrod shivered, but whether it was from fear or the cold Aziru could not tell. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I will not live past this day.”
“We will make it!” Aziru said. “You have to believe that or you are doomed.”
Wyborn’s face paled. He had spoken little since they entered the woods and he didn’t deny Aziru’s words, but he didn’t support them either.
“Do you have a love?” Echrod asked. “Do you have children?”
The northman shook his head.
“And you?” Echrod turned to Aziru.
Aziru was surprised by the question.
“I do not,” he said. “The world holds much adventure and I wish to experience it before I am so tied down.”
Echrod cried, tears mingling with the blood from his nose. “I once thought as you. I wanted to taste life, to enjoy it. Adventure and fame. But I assure you, all the adventure in the world could not replace my feelings for Zandia. Being tied down was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Was?”
“She died last year,” Echrod said quietly. “Those damn northern devils killed her on a raid.” He clenched his fist.
“I joined the army soon after. I wanted revenge on them all. I left my daughter with her uncle, Zandia’s brother.”
Echrod shook his head. “He told me I was being an old fool. Wars were for young men. Killing and dying would not bring Zandia back no matter how many northmen I visited my revenge upon.”
A fit of weeping gripped him, forced hi
m to stop. He leaned against the tree, head cupped in his hands. His body shook as the sobs grew in intensity. When it finally passed, Echrod looked old and broken.
He shook his head, continued on with his story. “I could not see past my sorrow. Now, I am dead and I will never see my daughter again. I am an old fool.”
He was quiet awhile as he caught his breath. He leaned against the tree, gasping for air. Aziru could tell his strength was waning. Most likely he was right and he would not make it back to see his daughter.
Yet, the mind and body had a strong connection. The mind could push the body if it had a strong enough motivation.
“Think of your daughter, Echrod. Keep her in your mind. Keep her in your heart. That will give you the strength to carry on. To make it through this. Nothing else matters. Think only of seeing her again.”
Echrod stared at Aziru, nodding, then he glanced at Wyborn. “You are not of my people,” he said. “But I feel I can trust you both. What brought you here? Why would strangers fight for a country that wasn’t theirs?”
“I hired on as a mercenary,” Aziru said. “Adventure still requires gold coin in the pocket.”
Wyborn was silent a moment. Echrod clasped him about the shoulder. “You are a merc too, and did not run off like the rest of your brothers.”
Wyborn’s eyes were dark, blue pools. “Like you, I sought revenge,” he said. “My tribe was destroyed by the tribe of the Bear. Any blood I could get from them, even in death, would bring me joy.”
Echrod nodded. “I saw you fight. You were like a bear yourself. And you, Aziru, were like a demon unchained. They could not touch you. Even in my youth, I would be no match for men such as you two.”
Aziru grunted at the approval.
“You seem like honest men,” Echrod said. “You both fight well, and maybe one of you will make it through this alive. I could have use for men like you.”
Echrod removed a gold chain from around his neck. An oval pendant hung from it. When he pushed a button atop the pendant the oval split into two halves. There was a portrait of Echrod on one side and a dark haired woman on the other.
“I must ask you a favor. When I die, take this to my daughter for me. It is all that she will have left of her parents.”
Wyborn looked down and away. He said nothing. Aziru knew Wyborn felt that he would die in these woods, just as Echrod stated that he would. Of the three of them, only he talked about making it out of the woods alive.
Aziru looked at the pendant dangling from Echrods hand. “You can bring it to her yourself.”
Echrod shook his head. “I will not make it out of these woods. If you take this to my daughter, I promise you her uncle will make you a fine weapon as payment.”
“I don’t…”
“Please,” Echrod begged. “To you it is only a tiny bauble. For my daughter it will be priceless.”
A caw came from above them. A crow with strange ice-blue eyes looked down on them as though it was watching with some type of human intelligence. It cawed again and bobbed its head three times.
Aziru gazed at the bird. It gazed back, then sprung into the air, its wings beating against the cold night.
“Please,” Echrod begged. “Will you take it to my daughter?”
Aziru hated making commitments he didn’t want to keep. Or couldn’t keep. Echrod looked at him, his face contorted in hope and sadness. Aziru sighed.
“If you do not make it home safely, then I will return it to your daughter for you.”
Echrod’s smile was like the sun shining through rain. He gripped Azriru’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.
“How will I find her?”
Echrod put the pendant back on and slid it beneath his furs. “Go to the town of Maesa and ask for Ili-Hadda, the town’s blacksmith. That is my daughter’s uncle. He will give it to her and then ask him to make you a fine sword as payment.”
“I prefer axes.”
“It doesn’t matter. He is a fine blacksmith. And a fine wizard too.”
Aziru nodded. “If it comes to it, and if it is in my power, I will return the pendant for you. Now, stop this silly talk of dying, and eat to live, so that you may see your daughter again.”
#
Aziru woke. He lay still a moment. Listening. The woods were quiet except for light snoring and the occasional crackle of wood burning in a fire. Echrod and Wyborn were asleep next to him beneath a layer of blankets. The night had been cold, but it had grown even colder. His breath frosted in the air above him. One of Malrik’s lieutenants stood over Aziru, a stern look on his face.
The man nudged Aziru again with his booted foot. “Get up,” he ordered.
Aziru sat up, instantly alert. Most of the cookfires had been extinguished and two large fires had been built in the center of the path. The wounded slept around one. Malrik and his lieutenants were gathered around the other, drinking and laughing to keep the cold away.
The lieutenant moved to the other side of Aziru. Kicked both Wyborn and Echrod awake. Wyborn jerked up with a flash of steel, a dagger that he had slept with hidden beneath his blankets. Malrik’s lieutenant stepped back, cursing. He regained his composure with a growl.
“Mercenary scum. You men have the next watch,” he said. “Get up and see to it. And don’t try to slink off in the night either. Malrik will have you hung for treason if you do.”
Once he saw that they were all awake, the lieutenant returned to the fire with Malrik. Malrik nodded when the lieutenant said something to him, then touched the scimitar that was shoved into the ground beside him.
Aziru rose, donned his gloves. He returned the dark look that Malrik gave him, then helped Echrod to his feet. Wyborn was already up, and armed, and moving by the time Echrod put on his gear.
“Let us scout ahead,” Wyborn said, looking over his shoulder. He marched down the path, snow crunching beneath his feet. Aziru struggled to catch up, one hand shoved beneath Echrod to support him. After a few minutes, Echrod seemed to come to himself and was able to stand on his own even though he wasn’t completely aware of where he was or what he was doing.
They spread out, about ten feet apart, and slowly circled the camp, extending outward as they walked to cover more ground as they went around. As they moved further away, the glow from the fire disappeared and nothing could be heard coming from the camp. The woods were quiet. The small group didn’t talk to one another, but were able to keep an eye on where everyone was due to the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the trees.
Wyborn stopped up ahead of them. He whistled. Aziru could see him crouch and take a fighting stance. When Echrod and Aziru got to where Wyborn stood, he pointed off into the distance.
Ahead of them, beneath the glimmer of moonlight, was a body. Aziru and Wyborn raced to it.
It was a northman. He lay on his side, his skin white and covered with frost. A spear had pierced his side and the northman’s sword had been dropped a couple of feet away and was buried slightly in new snow.
Wyborn knelt by the body. “He’s been dead a few days,” he said. “His body’s stiff as stone and not just from the cold.”
Wyborn looked around the body, studying it. He touched the ground around the dead man. “He didn’t die here though. He crawled from somewhere else.”
“I thought you said your people never came into these woods.”
Wyborn looked up at Aziru and shook his head. “They don’t.”
“So how did he get here then?”
Wyborn shook his head. He didn’t have an answer.
Echrod finally caught up to them.
“By the gods,” he said. “We are doomed.”
Aziru looked at Echrod irritated by his constant talk of death, but Echrod’s gaze wasn’t focused on the dead northman. He looked ahead. Aziru’s gaze followed Echrod’s own, and he nudged Wyborn in the shoulder and nodded at the horizon.
Northmen. Northmen and mercenaries lay dead beneath the shadow of the trees.
“The battle took pl
ace here,” Wyborn acknowledged as they stood amongst the scores of dead.
Bodies lay scattered across the path and throughout the woods. Frost covered limbs protruded from the snow. Faces remained twisted in agony as the surprise of death overcame them. There a leg bent at an odd angle waited to fell an inattentive traveler, and there, a head split open, both helmet and skull crushed by some powerful blow.
What had happened here?
Aziru studied the scene. His mercenary brothers had fled once they knew the battle was lost. The northmen had most likely followed them. They fought. They died.
Among the dead were old men too weak to have survived any combat they may have seen. And there were boys from the north, no older than sixteen summers. They had barely lived their lives and now they were gone. Some of the fallen had been cowards, their backs bore the wounds they had received while running away. Others were brave men, they fought, and killed, and died. The bodies of those they had vanquished fallen at their feet.
Such was the cost of war, the strong and the weak perished just as easily as one another.
Every where they looked there were bones. Bones littered the ground. It was as though they had stumbled onto a bone graveyard. Oddly enough, there were an assortment of them that did not belong to humans and bones of men that were attached to no bodies at all. Animal bones, leg bones, bones with stones wrapped around them to make crude clubs, and bones sharpened to a knife’s edge.
“These are not northmen’s weapons,” Wyborn said.
Kneeling in the snow, Aziru picked up one of the bone daggers he saw. He turned it over in his hands. The stone head had been sharpened against a rock then attached to the bone hilt with dried vines. It was not a weapon a mercenary would carry. And though Persaians called the northmen barbarians, they were barbarians who knew how to craft weapons of steel. There had been another foe. Aziru looked at the bodies that lay on the battlefield. All were either mercenaries or northmen, but not all of them had been killed with steel. Many had died from these crude weapons made of bones.
“Nor are they the weapons any mercenary would use. What’s happened here doesn’t make any sense,” Aziru said. “Unless there was another army.”
As the Crow Flies Page 2
