by Tom Stacey
With frozen fingers and a knot of apprehension in his gut, he reached underneath the corpse. Despite its eviscerated state, it was still heavy and partially frozen to the ground. There was a great ripping sound as the body came free, and he flipped it over, leaving several ribbons of hide pinned to the ice. Sticking out from the flesh just above the hind legs was a crossbow bolt. As the deer had fallen it had driven the bolt as deep as the leather fletchings.
He gripped the bolt by the little that stuck from the skin and, with practised ease, twisted it and pulled it out. It was followed by a sluggish dribble of blood and a viscous black ooze. He dipped a finger into the mess and touched it to his tongue. It was bitter and acrid, and he spat it out with a scowl. Who would use poison to fell a deer? Certainly not someone who planned to eat it. He pulled the thin strips of meat from his pouch and scattered them on the ground, tossing the dried cuts after them with a curse.
Poison was an assassin's weapon and could only mean one thing. He was no longer alone in the forest. It seemed that his past had finally caught up with him. He had convinced himself that the days of fear and waiting were behind him, but that had been a fool's hope. The Forester pulled on his gloves and hefted his bow.
The cold and hunger that had been the centre of his existence a moment before now felt distant and transitory.
Winter was near and the wolves were coming.
“We will need to stop soon, Lommocel.”
Lommocel Barin sighed irritably and gripped the pommel of his sword more tightly. It wasn't enough that he was frozen to his core, he had to have this miserable little prick making helpful suggestions every ten paces. “We will stop when our guide decides and not before." Barin pulled his thin cloak about his body so that he resembled a great owl.
“I understand that, sir, but the weather is closing in and the sun sets in a few hours. In this part of the world—"
“Yes, thank you, Sarif Morn." Barin glared at the junior officer next to him. “I do believe that I am in command here and that I make the decisions. Is that not so?"
The young man hesitated, perhaps tempted to ask what role the mysterious Guide played in all of this. “Why, yes, but—"
“Well then do please keep your opinions to yourself. They are duly noted." The young sarif fell into silence and stumbled back into rank.
Barin clenched his teeth to stop them from chattering, though he was not sure whether it was from anger or cold. That fool Gain had assured them the snows were weeks away. Barin vowed to give him a beating when they got back to Kressel. He would then stamp the so-called seer's engraved knucklebones into dust, gods be damned.
Ahead, the Guide trudged onwards. Barin shivered. The man unnerved him. Tall and cloaked in black, his face covered by a mask, the Guide was an intimidating figure. He rarely spoke, and when he did his voice was peculiarly sibilant and had an accent that could not be placed. Barin was happy to simply do what was asked of him and avoid the strange man as much as possible. After all, this mission was a directive of the Empron, the Guide presumably a friend or trusted advisor. It certainly explained the funds he had at his disposal. And Barin needed them. Gods, how he needed them. A summer of gambling and whoring in Lanark had worn him down to his last few gold coins. His lommocel’s wage had never been able to cover his expensive tastes, and the Barin estate could not stretch to a winter campaign, let alone another month or two of debauchery. No, he decided, it would not be wise to upset somebody so close to the declining sanity of the Imperial throne.
It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to humour that simpering quim Morn. Worms like him were born to their wealth; had a veritable well of it that never ran dry. Did a group of six soldiers really need two officers to control them? If he was smart, he would have let Morn do the dirty work, while he stayed in comfort in Kressel, living off the credit this job would bring him. He could have been drinking fine wines from Asperia, dining with the Empron on his visit to the second city. He grimaced to himself. On second thoughts, maybe not. Empron Illis was not himself of late. He rarely made public appearances and had ordered the deaths of two courtiers within a day of his arrival, seemingly at whim. All courtiers and noblemen had been ordered to stay and watch while the courtyard of Kressel’s High Palace was desecrated by a hurried public execution. The stench had been overwhelming, like burnt pork mixed with something unsavoury. The oily fumes from the pyres had coated the lommocel’s tongue and no amount of expensive fine wine could wash away the taste. The masked man’s offer had come along at just the right time.
All he had to do was find and kill an old man.
Kiren stared at the back of Shume's head. As they trudged up the mountain path, between tall trees and mounds of snow, it helped his balance to focus on the gangly baker's son's greasy hair. It poked out from under his crimson helm like straw from an old mattress. Kiren stumbled as his scabbard tangled in his legs and earned him a glare from the Sarif. They were supposed to be quiet and look to their weapons, since every blade, arrow, and spear point had been dipped in a black poison before they set out. Dreng had tested it on a deer that had the misfortune to cross their path and each of them had been delighted and slightly appalled at the speed with which the poisoned bolt had brought down the animal. Kiren could only thank the gods that they hadn’t needed to bring shields. He didn’t think he would have been able to manage with the huge lump of iron-bound birch and oak on his back.
Morn hadn't said a word since his rather public rebuke from the Lommocel, and they had been marching for over four hours without rest, trudging sulkily behind the officers and the curious cloaked man at the front. Whatever the foppish Barin's faults, lack of stamina was certainly not one of them.
“You know... what they say... 'bout these woods?” Grosh's voice was a harsh whisper, broken by the sound of his heavy breathing. When nobody answered, the pimply teenager continued. “Probably best I don't say anything. Don't want any of you pissing yourselves.”
A grizzled soldier behind Grosh spoke up. “Shut up, boy. None of us want to hear your old wives' tales. We're not children to be frightened early to bed.”
Grosh gasped in mock surprise. “Who said these were tales? These are things that have happened, and still happen to those what ain't careful.”
Kiren turned and whispered. “Go on then, Grosh. Tell me, I'm interested.”
“Gods,” mumbled the grizzled soldier. “Why can't we just march in peace?”
Grosh ignored him and began his tale, his voice taking on a low, authoritative tone, rich with the confidence of folk knowledge, old as time. “This forest is ancient. Older than Veria, older than Dalvoss even. Before man laid a single stone atop another, he lived in this forest.”
“Every man?” Kiren asked.
Grosh frowned at the interruption. “No questions. I tell you what I know and you make your own assumptions. I don't ‘ave answers to questions like that.” Kiren twisted his mouth to the side and fell silent. He wanted to hear the rest. “Man lived in this forest, but man was not the first thing that came to be. He was not alone in the forest. Man is not the highest power in this land, nor has he ever been. Some say that the other ones still live here in the depths of the forest. The spread of man has pushed them back and they are not as strong in numbers as they once were. Yet still they live, and they watch... and they brood. You see, you may not think it, but we're delicious — right tasty if done right. Think about it: you and me's just meat and bones really.”
"You're boring me now, boy,” the veteran growled.
"Quiet! Let him finish.” Kiren immediately regretted his tone but the old soldier, Huril, fell silent.
Grosh went on. "I've heard people say they've lost friends around woods like these. There's no violence or anything like that. Just a voice, in yer head. Calls yer name, sends you into a trance. Makes you walk away from the others until you're alone.” He paused for effect.
It was too much for Kiren. “And then what?”
Grosh grinned wolfishly. “
Then they come and take you. That's the last anyone ever sees of you.”
His mind lost in dark thought, Kiren did not hear the call for a halt and so bumped into the back of Shume, who swore and thrust an elbow backwards into his ribs.
“Watch where yer goin’, you cowson!” he drawled.
“Quiet there!” Sarif Morn's reedy voice called out. Shume mumbled to himself and fell silent, staring at his boots.
Kiren peered over the heads of those in front to see what the hold-up was. Lommocel Barin was waiting calmly as the wiry figure of Dreng, the scout, picked his way through the thicker undergrowth to stand before him and the Guide. He had been gone all morning. A buzz of muted conversation began amongst the soldiers.
“Silence!” Morn cried out again and the small group hushed, each cocking an ear to hear what happened next.
Dreng made his report to the two men in muted tones. The Guide turned, revealing his blue-black, angular mask to the men behind, and spoke softly to the Lommocel. After a moment Barin turned to address them. “Listen men, Dreng has sighted a woodsman's hut up ahead. Not far. How long did you say, Dreng?”
“About an hour, milord. Maybe two if the weather worsens.”
“Right.” Barin turned and looked at the sky. To the right, the land sloped away through the trees. A dark and ominous cloud was slowly approaching from the east. Barin sighed. “I would say we have time to get to the hut before that,” he pointed, “dumps its contents on us.” The Lommocel looked once more at the Guide as if seeking his permission then nodded to himself and continued. “Sarif, double time if you please.” He turned away smartly, ignoring the groans of his men with a noble’s disdain.
Kiren swallowed the frustration bubbling up to burn the back of his throat and fell into step with the others. This was a soldier's lot in life. Get stepped on, follow orders and don’t ask questions. Still he couldn't help but wonder what he was missing back at Kressel. The Empron’s visit had been unannounced and unexpected, as so many of his actions were recently. His parade into the city had been magnificent: bright colours, tall horses and the grim faced men of the Dremon, His Imperial Majesty’s most formidable soldiers. There had been few enough even of them. Most were off fighting in Carpathin, or cleaning up the Greenlands to the south, putting down the last remnants of a once proud rebellion. Even so, the few with the imperial party had sneered at common soldiers like Kiren. It was not surprising. Kiren was lean and wiry and wore the breastplate and greaves of a dead man who had been both taller and larger than him. The result was comical. Nevertheless, he was too interested in trying to catch sight of the Empron to take much notice of their disdain.
In his youth Empron Illis had been a mighty warrior, staking his claim on the throne and climbing to power with the aid of men like Bellephon Hammerfist and the Dread, as well as a few others that it was not wise to talk of anymore. Yet as the imperial palanquin floated past, there hadn’t been so much as the twitch of a curtain to prove that the old man was even in there. Like many others, Kiren had been thoroughly disappointed. Yet now he was on a mission supposedly from the Empron himself, guided in person by one of the throne’s most trusted advisors. True, nobody knew anything worth mentioning about their guide, yet that did not mean he wasn’t incredibly important. That made this mission incredibly important and, by association, Kiren too. He liked being important. It was a new feeling.
It had been by happy accident that he was chosen for this duty at all. Morn had found the young soldier in a tavern, morose and fuelled by ale as bitter as his disappointment, complaining loudly — too loudly — about the Empron’s secrecy. A nameless soldier had taken umbrage to this and had cuffed the young man on the cheek. A brawl had broken out as several of Kiren’s friends — also drunk — stood up to try and protect him. Several provosts led by Morn had arrived with a dual purpose: to break up the fight and recruit a small team for a special assignment. Short of silver and foggy of mind, Kiren had applied on the spot, despite the protestations and mockery of his barracks mates. Their task was to travel to the mountains to the south and find somebody. Apparently he had been some dread warrior many years ago, when the Respini were strong and dominated Daegermund. Now he was an old man, withered and decrepit, living by himself in the forest.
“He's probably dead by now anyway,” Shume had said as they set out. “Can't live on snow and squirrel shit for long.” Whatever condition he was in, there had to be a reason why they had sent nine men after him.
Kiren shook his head. He didn't like to think too much about it. Out here there were more things to worry about than men.
The Forester watched from the undergrowth as they torched his home. It hurt more than he had thought it would. The flames stretched towards the sky, licking the tops of the trees and turning the snow to rain before it could hit the ground. The crimson men had searched the hut and its surroundings for over an hour. With the weather closing in, their commander had ordered the small wooden building set aflame.
That was clever, thought the Forester. There was no way that all eight of them would have been able to ride out the coming storm in the hut. Instead of taking the comfort for himself as many commanders would, he had removed the temptation, replacing it with a large fire to sustain them all equally. That showed bravery. That showed leadership.
It would not save him.
The Forester slid back from his hiding place and blended in to the shadows. Snow was falling so thickly now that it was hard to see more than a few yards ahead. A peal of thunder crashed around the forest as if some god had stamped his foot to keep warm. Soon it would be dark and cold and terrifying as a man's imagination turned every shadow into a monster from a children's story. That was when they should have come, just like the Sons of Iss had. He had already discarded the notion that these were they. The Sons of Iss came dressed all in dark cloth with long sharp knives, not in plate armour. These were something less. Something he could deal with.
The Forester pulled his hood over his head, becoming a great ogre of dun fur and white ice that only resembled a man. He brought his breathing under control and took one last look at the glowing fire that marked the ashes of his memory, before disappearing into the growing shadows.
The wind began to howl.
Kiren leant in close to Huril, shielding himself from the biting wind. It seemed to be a living thing, screaming in his ears as its icy fingers searched for every gap and crevice. After burning down the small hut, Barin had ordered the men to huddle close. Only a few of the older men — about three of them — had brought furs. The rest sat frozen and miserable, every bit of exposed skin wrapped in whatever they could find. The Guide had disappeared an hour before, hissing something in Barin’s ear and then melting into the bushes like a shadow. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off of Kiren’s shoulders, but he did not know why.
Dreng returned from his scout with a brace of winter hares. Whilst the others ransacked the hut, the wiry tracker skinned and prepared his catch, storing the still warm meat in his pack and scraping the skins clean. He sat now opposite Kiren with the white furs wrapped around his hands, each pelt still tinged pink with gore. At any other time Kiren's stomach would have lurched at the thought of touching the oily, recently dead flesh, but now he glared at Dreng with jealous eyes as his own hands threatened to turn blue.
These few days in the mountains had been miserable. Now it seemed that they would all freeze to death, their mission a failure. They had been outfoxed by one old man who was probably somewhere warm and dry with a full belly. If this weather continued he would return home to eight living statues in compensation for the loss of his dwelling.
Barin stood away from the group, leaning against a tree with his cloak wrapped around him. Kiren wasn't sure whether the Lommocel was dead or not. It was hard to look in any one place for longer than a moment yet he wasn’t about to get up and check. The snow was flying sideways and stung his cheeks with its force. Kiren wanted to close his eyes but every time he did so he felt
incredibly tired. Before the storm struck, Barin had given them a short speech about staying awake. To fall asleep in this cold was death, he had said, and he tasked every man with keeping his neighbour alert. Nevertheless, it was hard to keep the mind active when all there was to do was sit and wait. Kiren turned his head and looked at the men around him. All were so covered in snow that their crimson armour was frozen and powdered white. In fact it was hard to tell them apart.
“You still with me, boy?” Huril's gruff voice penetrated the fog of Kiren's thoughts.
“Still here,” he said and Huril grunted in response. Kiren had never been this close to the old soldier. He smelt of tobacco and sweat. Strangely he found that comforting. It reminded him of a tavern; the smell of woodsmoke, cooking grease and packed humanity. Somewhere warm.
He looked at the men around him one by one. Next to Huril there was Millar, the farmer's son turned recruit. Next to him sat Sarif Morn and then Shume and Dreng. Next to him was Grosh... was that Grosh? Yes, it must have been. Then... Shume. Kiren shook his head. He must have counted wrong. There was no mistaking that the figure to his left was Shume. He had been staring at the back and side of his face all day and knew every inch of that jowly expanse, even huddled as it was into a cloak. Who was the other figure, then? The Guide? No, he was far too broad to be the Guide. Besides, the Guide had left an hour ago. He had to have counted wrong.
Kiren slowly turned his head and stared at the large man between Sarif Morn and Dreng. He was one of the few who had brought furs, although they were caked in frost and snow. He sat hunkered down, staring at the ground, his hands hidden inside the folds of… what was that? A bearskin? Kiren carefully counted the party in his head. Barin, Morn, Dreng... Huril, Grosh, Millar, himself and Shume. Eight men.
But there were nine in this clearing.
Taking a deep breath, Kiren stood just as the ninth man did. At full height the figure was well over six foot, and built like a giant. The Impostor's huge arms unfolded from underneath his furs, revealing a long and wicked looking blade. Kiren made to scream but no sound reached his throat, and he could only watch as the giant slashed his sword backwards, once left, then right. Two heads landed in the snow, glassy eyes staring upwards at the black sky. The next movement was a blur. The Impostor leapt with surprising grace and speed, hacking to either side with a callous efficiency until all six men lay broken and bleeding, dead or dying on the snow.
