Oathtaker

by Patricia Reding

  “Go on,” Mara urged after quieting the infant.

  He drank warm water from his canteen with a grimace. “Zarek encourages the death of infant girls. While most Chiranians buy into his plans, some refuse. I suspect that those who refuse include young women who have daughters, or who fear they will, so they escape Chiran.”

  “Very brave of them.”

  “Hmmm.” He collected the remaining food, wrapped it back up and placed it in his pack, then stood and paced.

  Mara finished with Reigna, then fed Eden. Sounds of the child’s suckling carried through the air.

  “I’m not quite sure what killing infant girls has to do with raising an army,” she finally said, breaking the silence.

  “Zarek wants a large army—and a hungry one. An army hungry for anything can be troublesome, but one clamoring for the things, including the women that only its leader can provide through successful warfare, can be awesome in its strength. I believe Zarek thinks it will make the men more pliable, that they’ll make better warriors.” He urged Mara by his actions to prepare to move out.

  “So?”

  Sighing, he responded. “So I suspect he intends the women of the places he conquers will be ‘spoils of war’ for his men.”

  “Uggghhh!”

  “Hmmm, right.” He took another drink.

  “Have you wondered at all if—well, if it’s wise to trust the girls to a Chiranian?”

  “One who’s shown she rejects all Zarek offers? I think so. In the end, I suppose there might be some danger with such a woman, but we’d know by her actions at least, that she seems to be in agreement with our cause.”

  “Our cause?”

  “The cause of life and of freedom of course, which essentially is the cause of Ehyeh, the Good One.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” She put Eden into her basket and strapped Reigna back to her front side. “All right then, let’s go.”

  Dixon helped her up, then took her bag and Eden’s basket. To her great relief, she now carried only Reigna’s extra weight tied to her front side in a makeshift baby-carrier.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I don’t know what that force was that wouldn’t allow us to pass earlier,” Gadon said. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. Must’ve been some kind of black magic. And two days lost to this foolishness!”

  He and his men bustled through the underbrush, leading their mounts. They stepped around a patch of poison ivy. Flies buzzed around their heads as the sun beat down, adding to their discomfort.

  Gadon’s leather creaked. “Now that the barrier’s down, we need to move quickly. Hopefully we’ll come upon her—or even better, her remains—soon. With any kind of luck, the beasts got to her in time.”

  The storm, complete with winds, thunder, and lightning, but without rain, had come upon the men two days earlier. In its wake, it left limbs of trees torn down and a pathway littered with debris. Now, hot and still, the air hung heavy and humid.

  The men stopped periodically to check for tracks, but found nothing. Where earlier they’d followed a path, albeit a sketchy one, none existed now, and they found no sign of either Rowena or the grut.

  “There . . . just ahead,” Simon said, pointing. “Something burned down over there.”

  They trudged on to the place Simon indicated. There they found the remains of a fairly large fire. Smoke rose from it in tufts and streams, lending a heavy acrid smell to the air. Nearby, some bones from a horse were strewn about.

  Petron stepped up to the fire’s edge. He rubbed his eyes to clear them of the thick smoke drawn his way. He crouched down and poked a stick through the coals. Ashes flurried upward. Small flames erupted from hotspots within the bed of rock and embers. “What’s this?” he asked, pushing out to the perimeter a large solid object.

  Gadon got down on one knee. He reached for the stick Petron held, then moved things around, shoving some additional larger solid pieces to the side.

  “Looks like bone. Human bone, I’d say,” Simon said.

  “Damn,” Gadon swore. “There’s no way to identify who this was. But the trail did lead this way.”

  “’Spose it’s hers?” Bruce asked.

  Gadon scowled. “Damn it. Do I look like I can identify one of the Select—or anyone else for that matter—by their burned up remains?”

  “Now what?” Petron asked.

  Just then, a voice cried out. “Hello!”

  Collectively, the men turned toward the sound as someone neared.

  “Heri,” Gadon called, “where’ve you been?”

  “After you sent me ahead, out of nowhere, a storm of sorts erupted. Lightning struck all around me. I thought I was a goner.”

  “Yeah,” Bruce said, “we was caught in the storm too.”

  “Shut up,” Gadon scolded with a forceful slap to the young man’s head. “Then what?” he asked Heri.

  The man shuffled his feet as though embarrassed. “It was odd, sir. I couldn’t take a single step forward. It was as though a wall blocked my path.” He looked up to catch his leader’s reaction, apparently fearing ridicule.

  “Yeah, we experienced the same thing. So what did you do?”

  Heri smiled weakly, his dirty, crooked teeth making the expression more of a grimace. “I just waited. Then as suddenly as it came, the barrier disappeared about an hour or so ago.”

  “So you’ve seen no sign of Rowena or her Oathtaker?”

  “None. When I could get through, I came straight this way hoping to intercept you.”

  “All right, then. Simon!” Gadon shouted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to search the area. The fire may have been a ruse.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In ever widening circles, the men searched. Cockleburs caught at their pants. Horseflies buzzed around their heads and bit their sweaty arms and necks.

  “What’s this?” Heri called out. Standing not far from a great oak, he held forth a small frayed swatch of cloth.

  Gadon hurried to his side. He took the ragged piece of linen and inspected it. “Where’d you find it?”

  “Here, in the brush.”

  “Looks like it was torn from someone’s clothing.” Gadon ordered Heri and Petron to continue to search for any additional tracks or other clues, then turned to Simon. “Let’s take another look through the remains of the fire.”

  They sifted through the coals, finding only a few more charred bones.

  “I’d guess that’s a leg bone,” Gadon commented.

  “And I’d say these here are from an arm. Given their size, I think these are a woman’s remains,” Simon suggested.

  “Right. But what woman? This could have been anyone.”

  Gadon called for his men. When they assembled, he gave his orders.

  “Simon, you take Wayne and head downriver. Don’t spend more than an hour or two. If you see nothing, return here. If we don’t see you by nightfall, we’ll expect you’ve found something and we’ll make our way back to you come morning.”

  They nodded their understanding and moved out.

  “Heri,” Gadon continued, “my instincts tell me that Rowena would expect us to expect her to go downriver. That would make traveling easier for her. That means she probably did the opposite and went up river. You go that way at a good clip. If you find anything significant, stay on the trail unless it’s safe to head back to report. We’ll follow behind and search more thoroughly. If Simon and Wayne find anything, I’ll send someone for you.”

  Heri mounted up and rode off.

  “All right then, let’s get started.”

  “Did you hear that?” Maggie patted Drake’s arm.

  “What?” he responded sleepily.

  “That.” She hesitated. Long seconds passed. “There. Hear that?”

  “That scratching sound? Probably just mice.” He rolled to his side and punched lightly at his pillow, then laid down his head.

  “Shhh. There’s someone at the door,” she whisper
ed. She sat up and nudged him.

  He pulled his tired feet to the floor. Worn from a long day of gardening and goat keeping, the old couple had retired early, but Drake knew there’d be no sleep until he put his beloved’s fears to rest. He grabbed his pants, thrown over a chair at the side of the bed, and slipped them on. He strained to hear the sounds he now agreed came from outside the door.

  “Shhh,” Maggie whispered again, pulling up on the quilt.

  “I’m sh-shhhing.” He lit a lamp. It cast a soft yellow glow.

  The door burst open. A group of savage looking men exploded into the room. One rushed toward Drake, a knife in his hand. His black eyes narrowed. His breathing came hard and fast. “Where are they?” he demanded to know.

  Maggie trembled. “Who? Where’s who?” Her voice shook.

  “You know who! We tracked them here. Where are they?”

  “Slow down. Slow down.” Drake motioned with his hands. He nodded at Maggie in an attempt to comfort her, then looked back at the intruders.

  The leader addressed one of his men. “Hold him, Simon.”

  “Got it, Gadon.” He held Drake from behind.

  A knife sat on the table. Gadon picked it up and handed it off to one of his men, then grabbed the front of Drake’s nightshirt, staring at him, so near that Drake could smell the intruder’s sour breath.

  “Where are they?” Saliva flew as the man shouted.

  “Sir, we have many visitors here at the edge of the glen. If you’ll tell us who you’re looking for, perhaps we can help you.”

  “Wayne, over there.” Gadon gestured toward Maggie who now stood trembling, her fingers fretting with the ties at her neckline. “If we can’t get the old man to talk, perhaps his woman will do as well.” He grinned menacingly.

  “Please sir, just say who you’re looking for and we’ll help you,” Drake pleaded.

  Wayne pulled one of Maggie’s arms tightly behind her back, then placed a knife at her throat. Its steel glimmered in the dim light. When he added pressure to the tip, a drop of blood spilled down her throat. He laughed when she froze in fear and her eyes widened in terror.

  Drake tried to pull free from his captor.

  “That’s right, you’ll tell us if you want to save your woman here.” Placing the point of his blade below Maggie’s eye, Wayne drew the knife down with just enough pressure to break her skin. Blood flowed freely across her face and neck, then dripped down and onto her nightdress creating a grotesque crimson spiderweb design.

  Gadon watched on. “Show them, Wayne. Show them what happens to those who don’t cooperate.”

  Wayne placed the tip of his knife at the base of Maggie’s throat. Clearly, if he did not get what he sought, he would plunge it into the soft tissue.

  “Drake!” she cried. Her tears spilled.

  The old man pulled at his restraints. “No!”

  “I’m only going to ask you one more time. I’m out of patience,” Gadon threatened. “Keep stalling and your woman will die. Where’d they go?”

  “Who? Who, sir?” Maggie stuttered.

  “Leave her alone! We’ll tell you what we know. Who are you talking about? We’ll cooperate.” Drake felt helpless, weak, and older than ever before.

  “That damned Select whore and her Oathtaker companion!”

  Drake and Maggie looked at one another. His brow dropped.

  “We don’t know who you’re talking about,” she cried. “We haven’t seen any Select. If we had, we’d tell you.”

  “Is that right?” Gadon asked, one brow raised, having seen the old couple communicate with their shared look.

  “Those filthy Select are responsible for— If it weren’t for their money grubbing ways, we might not live in such poverty. They—”

  “Maggie!” her husband cried.

  “That’s enough.” Gadon approached the old man, knife in hand. “So you didn’t see any Select with her companion, huh?” He leaned in closer. “Well, I don’t believe you,” he whispered. “Perhaps you’ll see better with only one eye.”

  “Please, sir, we don’t know who you mean.”

  Simon locked Drake’s head in the curve of his arm.

  Gadon pointed his knife at the old man’s eye. “Last chance,” he said.

  “I don’t know who you mean!”

  Gadon drove his knife into Drake’s eye.

  The old man’s body convulsed, throwing him back. Then he shifted his weight and started falling forward. He shrieked in pain. Blood flowed, splattered.

  Simon let go his hold and Drake tumbled into the bedside table, then fell to the floor. When his face made contact, his lip broke open.

  The table rocked. A drinking glass that sat upon it spilled to the floor in a crescendo of broken bits of glass.

  Maggie screamed and fought against her abductor. The blood dripping from her face splattered across the wall.

  Gadon stepped over the old man and made his way to her. “So,” he sneered, “do you see better with two eyes than your husband did?” He grabbed her chin.

  She shook her head from side to side, but couldn’t free herself from his grip. “All right! All right, I’ll tell you. Just leave him be.”

  Drake, now on his hands and knees, labored to reclaim his feet. He gasped for breath. His blood streamed into and blinded his remaining eye. “No, Maggie!” He breathed in heavy sobs.

  “They were here!”

  “When?” Gadon asked.

  “Two days ago.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “They—they—”

  “Maggie, no,” Drake pleaded between gulps and sobs.

  “They left for Polesk. The woman couldn’t nurse.”

  “A child!” Gadon exclaimed.

  “Maggie!” her husband cried again, a warning in his plea.

  “Newborn.” She did not mention that there were two children.

  Gadon stood up straight. “Heri!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Head for Polesk. Go quickly. We’ll try to meet up with you before that Select whore and her Oathtaker reach the city. If you come upon them, keep them in sight. We’ll stop for a rest, then search more thoroughly in the daylight in the event you miss them, but I don’t expect we’ll be more than a full day behind you.”

  Heri turned on his heel, then retreated.

  Gadon turned back to the drama playing out before him. He grabbed the back of Drake’s nightshirt and pulled him to his feet. “So you didn’t see anyone, huh? Don’t know anything, huh?” He shook the old man like a rag doll.

  Drake tried to focus his remaining eye through his thick blood.

  Gadon released his hold. “Finish them off,” he ordered as he stormed from the once peaceful abode.

  Maggie screamed. “No, don’t hurt him! No!”

  Drake stared at Simon, determined he’d make the thug look him in the eye when the final blow was struck, so he didn’t witness Wayne slide his knife across Maggie’s exposed throat, then loosen his hold. Her eyes flew open. She clawed at her throat, unable to release her scream. Wayne pushed her down, then kicked her violently.

  Blood pooled on the floor, showing crimson in the flickering candlelight. Drake felt its warm wetness on his bare feet. He looked down. “No!” he cried, then hurriedly, he fixed his eye back on Simon. He willed himself to hold the man’s gaze, not to look to his beloved Maggie. She was life and goodness and caring and joy. He would not see her otherwise.

  “Say ‘goodbye’ old man,” Simon growled as, pulling Drake forward, he thrust his blade.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On their second day of traveling, the Oathtakers stopped in a small village for supplies. They haggled over the price for a couple horses, settling on a russet mare for Mara by the name of Cheryl, and on Sherman, a roan gelding for Dixon. From a local artisan, to replace some of the weapons Mara had lost, they purchased two sturdy blades. Near the outskirts of the village, they found a goat farm. As luck would have it, the farmer kept ice in his cellar, so they pu
rchased some of that as well.

  Early on this, their third day, they’d stopped once again for milk and ice. Now, as the sun neared the western horizon, they led their weary horses, hoping to make a bit more distance, but not wanting to risk their own safety or that of their mounts by riding the beasts past their point of exhaustion.

  Dixon walked ahead with Sherman and Cheryl, his silhouette just visible. As Mara slowed to catch her breath, he turned to look back. She couldn’t see the expression on his face in the fading light, but suddenly, he dashed madly her way. He jumped over rocks, moved branches from before himself, and twisted around obstacles, advancing at an amazing speed.

  From behind, a footstep rustled in the dry grass. Carefully Mara set down Eden’s basket, then turned toward the sound, reaching for Spira. Just as she grasped her weapon’s handle, Dixon brushed against her arm.

  “No, Mara, no!” he cried.

  By the time her eyes focused on the intruder, Dixon had slammed full force into the man, knocking him to the ground and pinning him down. He held him by the throat with a single hand, then patted him down, pulling out and throwing aside, the intruder’s sword, and a half dozen knives.

  While Dixon struggled with his quarry, Mara looked for others, but saw no one.

  “Who are you?” Dixon shouted, only inches from the man’s face.

  The intruder tried to pry off the Oathtaker’s chokehold.

  Dixon lifted him and slammed him back against a large boulder.

  “What are you doing?” Mara cried. “I had Spira at the ready. I could have stopped him.”

  “I’m getting some answers!” Dixon didn’t relax in the slightest, his grip on his captive. His eyes were afire. His jaw clenched and his muscles flexed. He slammed the man against the rock once again. “Who are you?”

  He shook his head and pointed at his throat.

  Dixon loosened his grip just enough for him to take in a breath. “Who sent you here? You’d best talk, or—or I’ll kill you.”