The tracker came closer, then Taren could hear others approaching behind him. Three more Nebarans followed a short distance behind, all with loaded crossbows. Their mail jingled, and leaves and twigs crunched loudly underfoot, in stark contrast to the nearly silent tracker.
Elyas nocked his arrow and got to his hands and knees, ready to pop up and fire.
Taren watched the tracker until he was almost directly below them, an easy shot for either of them. “Now,” he whispered.
Elyas rose to a kneeling position, already drawing the bowstring back to his cheek. The tracker froze as soon as he saw movement. He cried out a warning just as Elyas loosed.
The arrow flew true—it thunked into the tracker’s chest, dropping him with a cry. Almost instantly, crossbows were returning fire. Elyas ducked back down, and a quarrel tore a chunk of the log’s bark loose just above his head before thudding into the hillside. Taren heard two more bolts slam into the log.
“I can get them all,” Elyas said. He sat up again, reaching for his placed arrows, but in his nervousness, he knocked the first one over the front side of the log, losing it. He cursed and nocked another.
“Brais, with me!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Keltan, cover us!”
Two of the fighters charged up the steep slope, puffing loudly, shields raised defensively. Loose leaves and soil dislodged underfoot, making it a difficult climb. The third man, Keltan, was reloading his crossbow.
Elyas’s second shot slammed into the lead soldier’s shield. He muttered under his breath and nocked the last arrow while Taren withdrew a couple more from the quiver and laid them on the log, leaving only four remaining.
Elyas’s third shot hit the lead soldier in the thigh. The man lost his footing, falling and sliding back down. He yelped in pain as the arrow dug deep then snapped off during his tumble.
“Down!” Taren warned.
Elyas dropped back behind the log just as the crossbowman, Keltan, got off another shot. It took a large chunk of bark off the upper edge and missed Elyas by inches.
“Here, you take this. Get that archer.” Elyas shoved the bow into Taren’s hands and stood up, drawing Wyat’s longsword.
The remaining Nebaran, Brais, was nearly on them, breathing heavily as he rushed around the far end of the log. Elyas didn’t wait for him to get a good position—he charged with a bellow of rage.
Elyas’s overhand chop of the sword was blocked on the rim of his foe’s shield, but the impact caused the man to slip a couple steps down the loose slope. Elyas kicked his shield squarely, sending the man flying backward. He tumbled downward and slammed hard into the trunk of a tree, and Elyas was on him in seconds. He swung his sword in a sweeping slash, cleaving into the soldier’s mail shirt. Blood spurted, and the man sagged. His next strike split his head open.
Taren had an arrow drawn back, waiting for a shot at the crossbowman, who had ducked behind a tree to reload. Keltan peered around the trunk at the sounds of fighting, then he leaned around and raised his crossbow as Elyas stormed down the slope.
Taren held his breath and loosed. The crossbowman was suddenly hurled back, slamming hard onto the ground. Taren hadn’t seen where the arrow hit, but he’d been aiming for the man’s face and neck area, the only part exposed. He gathered up the remaining arrows, the quiver, and their pack and started down the slope.
Elyas reached the bottom. Without breaking stride, he drove his sword through the heart of the Nebaran with the wounded leg. After checking to make sure Keltan and the tracker were dead, he wiped his sword off and sheathed it.
“Nice shot,” he called back to Taren.
When Taren reached the bottom of the ravine, he saw the fletchings of his arrow protruding from the crossbowman’s open mouth. His eyes stared blankly at the sky, and gore streaked his face.
Taren turned and retched on the ground, suddenly overcome with revulsion. He wasn’t bothered as much by watching Elyas cut down the enemy, but to see the results of his own handiwork made him queasy.
“No time for weakness, Cousin,” Elyas said. “You did what had to be done—they were trying to kill us. Still are, so we need to move.”
“You’re right. It was just a… shock, I guess.” Taren wiped his mouth and took a drink of water to rid his mouth of the taste of bile.
Elyas was taking the fallen Nebarans’ coin purses. He also took the dead tracker’s bow, quiver of arrows, and a dagger. Realizing the wisdom of this, Taren took another dagger from a fallen man’s sheath to replace the one he’d lost back at home.
Home. But not anymore. A nearly overpowering sadness welled up then, and if not for a shout from somewhere in the distance, he might have broken down right there.
Instead, the two cousins turned and fled farther along the ravine. Thereafter, though, they were heartened by the knowledge they wouldn’t be tracked quite so easily.
***
That evening, Taren and Elyas hid out in a storage shed on one of the neighboring farms. Exhausted after their harrowing ordeal, they had traveled many miles, circling back through the woods to the north and east and then crossing the road. Hoping that would confuse any further pursuit, they decided to try to get some much-needed rest and head to Swanford at first light.
The storage shed was built on the back side of a barn, out of sight of the house across the field and facing away from the woods where they hoped they’d lost the Nebaran troops. Although the folk in those parts were friendly and likely would’ve put them up for the night and fed them, the two young men decided to avoid any of the locals for fear of putting them in danger. The evening was cool and pleasant, and they sat outside the shed by a small cook fire they’d built.
Dinner consisted of boiled potatoes and turnips Taren had grabbed from their root cellar, along with a clump of radishes Elyas had plucked from the nearby field, all dumped into the old cook pot that had been stowed in their pack. Without butter, salt, pepper, or any other seasoning, the meal was unappetizing, but it was all they’d eaten since breakfast, so they managed to finish it off without complaint. Two large turnips, four potatoes, and a small bunch of radishes were left over for the next day.
“We need to resupply in Swanford,” Elyas said for probably the third time that evening. “We’ll never make it to Ammon Nor like this.”
Taren didn’t reply, for Elyas seemed to be restating the obvious. Instead, his thoughts were focused on what he’d do next. He’d always dreamed of going on a grand adventure like those in the tales, perhaps visiting all the distant corners of the map as Vego the Wanderer had over a hundred years earlier. Never would he have imagined being thrust into an adventure as rudely as he had.
He rummaged in the pack and drew out the rolled-up map stowed therein. It had nowhere near the detail of Vego’s map, which he’d seen at Gradnik’s, instead displaying only the southern half of Ketania, with the upper edge ending at Carran, the eastern at Llantry.
He was angry for having lost not only The Battle of Nexus, which Wyat had given him years ago, but also A History of Magic in Easilon. He could picture the latter still sitting where he’d left it on the large knot of roots beneath the old oak tree behind the farmhouse. He’d been reading while the laundry dried. The only book he had remaining was Sir Roland the Bold’s Big Book of Beasts, a volume small enough to have fit in a pocket.
“Well, at least it’s something,” Taren muttered.
Their fire was too small to cast much light, and Taren had to squint at the map. He traced across Ketania the long line of the road that passed through Swanford and continued all the way to Ammon Nor in the east. If the way was clear of enemy troops, it would be the fastest route.
During his inventory of his pockets, he’d found two items of interest: the pair of locator stones he’d taken from the Nebaran spy, along with an item he’d completely forgotten about in the pocket sewn into the inside of his cloak—Gradnik’s Wand of Pyrotechnics.
I wonder if that spy we encountered tipped off those troops. Weeks had pass
ed since Midsummer Festival—enough time to get word back to the spy’s superiors. That lieutenant mentioned something about magic users, didn’t he? He sighed and rubbed his temples, not certain what the inquiry had been but fairly sure he’d asked if any mages were being harbored, and if so, they were to be put to death. They couldn’t have been looking for me—I’m no mage. Unfortunate, for if I was, those bastards would’ve been sorry.
He slipped the smooth stones back in a pocket and turned his attention to the wand. I’ll have to return this to Gradnik. Hard to believe I haven’t seen him since Midsummer Festival. The old man had been quite ill, and Taren hoped he’d recovered. Gradnik hadn’t been in the best of health due to his age even before his illness. As he idly ran his fingers along the wand’s smooth surface, he couldn’t help but think of Yethri and her strange trance when she told him to take the wand. She must have had some of her grandmother’s foresight after all.
Taren sighed, trying to picture the young woman’s face. Thanks to that damned spy, he’d never seen her again since the festival when they’d danced and chatted. She and her grandmother could’ve traveled nearly anywhere since then. He knew his thoughts were foolish, but he hoped for an instant to recall her large green eyes and pretty smile, but he no longer had a boy’s luxury of dreaming of a pretty maiden. His life as he knew it was shattered. Wyat was dead—murdered—and his home burned down, he and Elyas on the run from invading Nebarans. He’d been violently shoved onto the path of manhood, his childhood as much a dream as that wonderful night with Yethtri had been. Enemy troops were searching for them, they were short on food and coin, and he had no clue what he’d do once he reached Ammon Nor with Elyas, only that he’d be on his own.
“You could enlist as an archer, Taren,” Elyas said as if reading his thoughts. “That was a damn fine shot under pressure, taking out that crossbowman back in the woods. I’m sure the kingdom can use archers—and good ones at that.” He was running a rag over the length of his father’s sword, cleaning off bits of dried blood he’d missed earlier. “As an archer, you’d not be in the thick of the fighting.”
“I’d rather seek out my mother,” Taren blurted, the words out before he’d considered them. That once-distant dream of traveling to Nexus and meeting his mother was now possible. He was near enough to coming of age, not that it mattered any longer since it was just he and Elyas, and his cousin had a destination already. The thought of traveling to Nexus felt like the right decision as he thought about it. He had always feared his mother would reject him since she’d sent him away as an infant to be raised by Wyat and Shenai, despite Arron’s claims to the contrary. A year had passed since he’d last seen his Uncle Arron, who traveled to visit them every few years to check in on Taren.
The strange events surrounding his visit to the seeress at the festival had nearly convinced him he truly did have latent magical talent. I just need the right teacher to help me access the magic. Who better than my mother, the ruler of Nexus?
“You want to go to Nexus?” Elyas replied after a long moment. “You should let me go with you. That’s a dangerous place. You’ve heard Da and Arron speak of it before.” He looked conflicted.
“No, I won’t keep you from your path. Your calling is to wield a sword and defend the kingdom. Mine lies… elsewhere, it seems.”
“It’s a long road to Rockwallow.”
One of two known portals to Nexus was in Rockwallow, a busy trading center along the northern plains, just at the edge of the dwarven kingdoms. It was too far north to even be labeled on Taren’s map.
“I was thinking Llantry, actually. The road isn’t as long from Ammon Nor.” The capital and largest city in Ketania was where the second portal to Nexus was located.
Elyas grunted. “Mayhap you can carry a message to the capital to rouse the army if news hasn’t arrived already.”
“I’m sure word would have arrived by that point. That will take three weeks afoot, if not longer, to reach.”
“And we don’t have coin for horses, either.”
Taren shook his head, dejected at the thought of nearly a month’s walking that lay ahead. Even with the coin they’d taken off the Nebarans, their total was two gold pieces, eight silvers, and a dozen coppers, and that was before purchasing supplies in Swanford. Even one reasonably priced horse healthy enough to make the long trip would cost at least five gold, he estimated. Unless they suddenly came into wealth, they’d be walking.
“Naught we can do but take it one day at a time.” Elyas rose and stretched. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep? I’ll take first watch.” He kicked out the fire and settled comfortably against the wall, Wyat’s longsword resting across his thighs.
Taren pulled one of the old blankets from the pack. He made a pillow from his cloak and lay down on the floor of the shed. The space was barely big enough for him to stretch out, but that wouldn’t pose a problem since they would take turns standing watch in case the Nebaran patrol managed to find them.
Elyas studied the dagger he’d taken from one of the Nebarans they’d killed. He tested its edge with a thumb, nodded to himself, then hummed a tune quietly while whittling on a stick.
In spite of the turmoil running through his head, Taren’s exhaustion got the better of him, and he fell into a deep sleep after only a few minutes.
***
The next morning, Taren and Elyas headed for Swanford before the sun was even up, skipping breakfast as they planned to purchase food in town. The night had passed uneventfully, the only difficulty being the avoidance of boredom and managing to stay awake while keeping watch. The two headed north and, after half an hour, reached the westerly road, which wended its way from Arkil far on the western coast and east along through Swanford. The road would circumnavigate the southern edges of Fallowin Forest and eventually pass through Ryedale and Ammon Nor.
The sun had been up an hour by the time they made it to Swanford. Thus far, they’d seen no other sign of Nebaran patrols. They walked along the town’s main street and were surprised to find a crowd gathered ahead. With a sinking feeling, Taren realized the mob was outside Gradnik’s shop. A few dozen people were crowding around outside the front door, and more were straggling in even as they watched. Many of the people looked to be strangers, as though they’d traveled from some distance to be there.
“What’s this about?” Taren asked a man standing at the back of the crowd.
The man was clearly out of place in Swanford, due to the fashionable style of his tunic and breeches and fancy riding boots. A floppy cap similar to what Gradnik often wore perched crookedly on his well-coiffed head. “The auction is this morning. Old Gradnik passed nearly a month back. Took ’em this long to sort through that clutter and get everything ready so it could be auctioned off. He had no heir or anybody to lay claim to his belongings, so the mayor proclaimed the proceeds go to the town treasury.”
The news hit Taren like a punch in the gut. Poor Gradnik. Oh, gods… I should’ve come back to town to check on him. A stab of guilt at his own selfishness gnawed at him. The last time he’d seen his friend was at the Midsummer Festival, when he’d fallen ill. He’d apparently never fully recovered.
The man noted his distress. “Hadn’t you heard the news, lad?”
“No, I hadn’t. Gradnik was a friend of mine.”
“Ah, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, then. The old rogue was well-liked.” The man shrugged awkwardly and turned back around when the crowd stirred because the mayor stepped outside the store with a scribe and a pair of assistants. “Looks as if it’s about to begin.”
Elyas rested a sympathetic hand on Taren’s shoulder. “Sorry about the old man. I know you were close to him.”
Taren nodded but didn’t reply. He wondered briefly if he could afford any of Gradnik’s items, but he thought better. They’d need every last copper for food and supplies.
“You coming? We need provisions.” Elyas looked at him expectantly.
“I was thinking I’d wait here
for a bit. Do you mind getting what we need? I’ll rejoin you shortly.”
“Aye, it’s no matter. I meant to pay Bretta a visit before we leave town as well.”
“I’ll meet you at the Melted Candle in an hour, then.”
Elyas agreed and headed off toward the store to purchase provisions, their light pack slung over one shoulder.
“Taren,” someone called.
He craned his neck and looked over the crowd. Scribe Nawten, a wizened old man, was waving to him from the edge of the porch. He made his way around the crowd and over to the scribe. He knew him to be a close friend of Gradnik’s—the two had shared a glass or two of wine often.
“I’m glad you’re here, Taren. Just a moment, please.” Nawten shuffled back into the store. After a minute, he reappeared with a sack in his hand. “Gradnik left this for you. Said he was waiting to give it to you for your name day, but alas, when he knew the gods meant to take him sooner, he bade me give it to you when next I saw you.”
Taren took the maroon velvet sack from the scribe with reverence. “Thank you, sir.”
“Think nothing of it, lad. I’m just glad I caught you.” He patted Taren on the arm before being called away by the mayor.
Taren walked around to the back of the shop and sat on the stoop as he had so many times before with a book in hand while Gradnik conducted business inside. Voices came from the open doorway along with the clunks and scrapes of aides bustling around and rearranging goods and furniture. Other than the sounds from within, he doubted he’d be disturbed.
Scions of Nexus Page 17
