Guardians Watch

by Eric T Knight

  Netra watched numbly, knowing she should help but somehow unable to do so. These women had been like two sides of the same mother to her. She had fought them, laughed with them, cried with them. And now she would never be able to speak to either again. She would never be able to tell them how sorry she was.

  The tears were pouring down her face when Shorn finished the graves. Silently he laid the two bodies into the hole, then scrambled out. With the spade in his hand, he stood by the pile of dirt from the hole and looked expectantly at Netra.

  No words would come. Netra slumped to her knees and her tears fell into the hole. Shorn began to fill the grave.

  Netra rose early in the morning and stared at the gray sky. What had happened here? Where were the rest of her sisters? Were they safe? And over and over, pushing through the questions, was the ugly knowledge that this was her fault, that she had drawn Tharn here and then abandoned her family to deal with the Guardian.

  Shorn rose a short time later and came to stand beside her. For a long time, as the sun rose, he said nothing. Then he said, “What will you do now?”

  She turned on him. The tears were gone for now, and something else was settling in their place. “This was my fault,” she said brokenly. “I should have been here.”

  “You could have saved them from what did this?” he asked. His face was impassive, his words flat, but still they stung.

  “No. I couldn’t have. But that doesn’t change anything. I should have been here.”

  “So that you could have died with them?” Now his words were sharper. “Is this what they would have wanted?”

  She withered under his words and hung her head. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand that you are still alive. You can still do something. So I ask: What will you do now?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “The other women did not die here.”

  Netra shook her head. “I think they were gone when Tharn arrived.”

  “Where did they go?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably Qarath.”

  “Then that is where we go.”

  Netra shook her head again. “I don’t know. I can’t…it’s hopeless.”

  “This was not your fault. You could not have stopped this.” His words were implacable. “But there is much you can do now. If you give up now, then you have failed your family.”

  Netra rocked under the impact of his words. She wanted to lie down and cry. She wanted to scream and beat on the ground until her hands bled. But she could not deny the truth of what he said. Her shoulders sagged. “You are right.”

  “Use their deaths to make you stronger,” he said. “Use them to fight back.”

  Netra stared at him for a long time, then she nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  But before gathering her things together she went to the new graves and knelt beside them. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  A beetle trundled across the fresh dirt. Ants wandered here and there looking for food. A woodpecker landed in a nearby tree and squawked at her, annoyed by her presence. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

  Netra stood slowly, feeling brittle, as if one more shock would shatter her. Slowly she paced around the ruined Haven, stopping when she came to the place where the room she’d shared with Cara had stood. For a few minutes she dug through the broken stones and bits of wood, looking for something she could take away. The only thing she found was a simple clay bowl that Cara had made a few years before and given her for her birthday, but it was smashed into tiny pieces. She let the pieces trickle through her fingers and then turned away.

  “I’m ready to go now,” she told Shorn, hefting her pack. She felt the graves at her back, the shattered pieces of her life before. She’d wanted to be free, but she’d never expected it to happen like this.

  She told herself that she would be strong, that she would not look back, but of course she did, over and over until her childhood disappeared forever behind her.

  Forty-four

  The army was three days past Karthije. It was night time and Rome was wandering through the camp. It was something he’d been doing most nights since they left Qarath, talking to the men, sharing drinks from the flask of rum he carried, assessing their mood. There were only a few fires. The soldiers were worn out from the fast pace and the long hours and most turned in as soon as they ate. The fact that the land was becoming hillier and steeper was taking its toll on them as well. However, there were still a few up, staring into the fires, talking quietly. They were subdued, and Rome didn’t blame them. So much had gone on in the past months that they didn’t know what to expect. Every one of them had seen bizarre things, things that couldn’t be fought with a blade. Now they were marching hard and fast to face an army whose capabilities they couldn’t really know or prepare for. If they lost, the survivors would be a long way from home, and that home would have precious little protection. It was enough to make anyone somber.

  Rome stopped at a small fire with only one man sitting by it. The man looked up as he approached and gave him a nod, then went back to staring at the fire. Rome handed him the rum and sat down on the ground beside him.

  The man drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but did not hand the flask back. “You know I been down many a road with you, Macht,” he said, taking another long drink off the rum. He sighed appreciatively and handed the rum back reluctantly. Long ago he’d lost an eye to a sword, and when the stitcher sewed the socket shut he’d pulled too much down from the top. The result was that what was left of his eyebrow was pulled down on the outside, giving his face a perpetually angry look. But the truth was that Felint was a gentle man outside of battle. “I’d march along with you and hold the nail while you tack Gorim’s tail to the ground, I would.”

  “I know,” Rome agreed. He’d sat around many a fire with Felint. The man had seemed old even when Rome was just starting out. He kept his hair shaved almost to the scalp, and it was the same iron gray it had always been. Maybe the man didn’t age at all.

  “But this one’s got me cold inside, it has.”

  Rome sighed. He felt the same way. He just wasn’t allowed to say it.

  “I hear stories of crazy monsters what can tear a man’s limbs off and use ‘em for toothpicks. I hear their general burns people with a look.” The old veteran shrugged and reached for the flask. Rome handed it to him again. He drank, then gave it back. “But I don’t mind that too much, mostly. Being a soldier’s about marching in the dark and fighting in a blindfold. It’s just the way it is.” He rubbed the missing eye. “But it ain’t the same this time, is it?”

  Rome said nothing, just waited.

  Felint looked about him to see there was no one nearby before speaking again. “Usually, the cost of losing ain’t too bad. Git yourself killed, okay, but that’s the regular price of admission. Git your city sacked and burned. There’s rape and murder, all kinds of unpleasantness, especially the burning part. Takes a while to rebuild.” He leaned back and his back cracked. “But that’s the point. You can rebuild and life goes on.” He coughed and gave a rough laugh. “Didn’t know I was such a thinker, did you, Rome?”

  Rome shook his head.

  “Won’t be no rebuilding this time will there? If we lose?”

  Rome hesitated, torn between what he wanted to say and what it was his duty to say.

  Felint waved off his words before he said them. “Don’t need to answer. It’s what the Tenders say, every day in the city. It’s always, ‘Melekath’s gonna kill everything livin’. Melekath’s gonna break the Circle of Life.’ Whatever that damn thing is. Is it true?”

  Rome looked at the flask in his hand. He looked up at the stars, pressing close overhead. Then he stared into Felint’s one good eye. “I believe it is,” he said softly.

  “Then we better damn well fight!” Felint said with fierc
e intensity, clapping his macht on the shoulder. “An’ we better damn well win!”

  For a moment Rome just stared at him, then he nodded. “If it can be done, we’ll do it.”

  “We’re following the Black Wolf,” Felint said. “Course we’ll win!”

  “Of course,” Rome agreed, standing. “Get some sleep, Felint.”

  “Sure. Maybe later. Don’t need sleep as much as I used to. Ain’t got much time left. Don’t want to waste it sleeping.”

  After he walked away, Rome wandered out toward the picket lines on the north side of camp, planning to talk to the sentries before turning in. “It’s Rome,” he called out as he got close to where he guessed the sentry line must be. He heard a call back and walked in the direction of the voice. “All quiet?” he asked, when a shape loomed out of the dark.

  “Nothing but bats and bugmice.”

  “Any sign of our scouts?” Rome wanted no unnecessary surprises and he wanted to do whatever he could to make sure Kasai didn’t know he was coming, though, since he didn’t know what Kasai was capable of, that might be hopeless. Kasai might be watching the army right this moment. Still, he had to try, so two days ago he had put the word out amongst the Karthijinian troops that he wanted the most experienced trackers and hunters in their squads sent to him. He’d ended up with ten weathered men in rawhide and heavy beards. While staring at them, thinking they all looked somewhat alike, one of the Karthijinian sergeants approached him nervously.

  “What is it, sergeant?”

  “Macht…uh, these are the Telinar brothers.”

  “That’s why they look alike.”

  The man nodded uncomfortably. He was clearly sweating, though it was cool. He looked like the kind of man who sweated a lot.

  “Are they my scouts?”

  The man nodded again.

  “I don’t think they were in my army this morning. Where’d you find them?”

  “They’re not in the army. They live out in the Fells, Sire,” the man explained, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Rome’s shoulder. He said it as though Rome should know what that meant.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Rome said.

  “It’s west and north of here. Next to the Plateau. Hard country. Lions, bears and…things you don’t normally see. They know this country. None know it better. I figured they’d be your men.”

  Rome looked them over. They looked hard enough.

  “Only one problem,” the man said quietly.

  “What is it? Speak up, man. I’m not going to bite you.”

  “They don’t think much of authority.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I had to offer them liquor to even come talk to you. It doesn’t matter what kind,” he added hastily. “So long as it’s strong.”

  Rome gave the men another look. “Are they as good as you say?”

  The man’s head bobbed. “Certain they are. Certain. None better.”

  “Then they’re who I want,” Rome said. He turned to the brothers.

  “I’m not a man who likes surprises,” he said. “That’s what I need you for.”

  If the men were impressed to have the famous Wulf Rome addressing them personally, they didn’t show it. Most of them were squatting or sitting on the ground cross-legged. If there was any real group response at all, it was a collective shrug. One of the brothers looked like he’d fallen asleep.

  “I don’t want the enemy to know we’re here until it’s too late. I want you to scout ahead. If you find anyone who looks like he’s in Kasai’s army—”

  “You mean those with a burn on their foreheads?” one asked. He was a tall, young man with his hair tied into two braids and some teeth strung on a necklace.

  “Yes. And—”

  “So we can cut their throats?” Seemingly from nowhere the young man had produced a knife as long as his forearm and he was stroking the sharp edge.

  “Yes. The important thing is that—”

  “I’ve a mind to cut some throats,” one of the other brothers said. He was scarred from some childhood illness, with a beard that stretched almost to his waist. He was the one Rome had thought was asleep.

  “Cut all the throats you want,” Rome said, starting to get annoyed. “The important thing is that—”

  “The nervous guy said we’d get liquor,” another brother chimed in. Like the rest, he was tall and lean, but his beard was gray.

  Rome took a deep breath, trying not to lose his temper. “You’ll get liquor.”

  “Soon, though,” another brother said. “The dust is bad today.”

  “Shut up while I’m talking to you!” Rome finally yelled.

  “Okay. Jes’ trying to help,” the first brother said. He barely looked up. Most of his attention seemed focused on the knife.

  “Kill any scouts you find. If there’s too many of them, make your way back to the army without being seen and report to me. Above all, don’t let them see you.”

  As one, they managed to look offended that such a thing could even be possible. There were mutters and shaking heads.

  “We don’t get seen,” said the brother with the gray beard. “Less’n we want to.”

  “Do you want horses?” Rome asked. He was determined to stay cool, whatever it took.

  “Naw,” said the scarred one. “Already ate yesterday.”

  “No,” Rome said. “For riding. So you can go faster.”

  “Stranger,” said another brother who was picking at his fingernails with a knife, “horses don’t go faster where we go. Horses just taste good.”

  Rome took another deep breath. “Okay, don’t take a horse, then. Go on foot. The important thing is—”

  “Yeah, kill the ones with the burns, don’t let them see us, go fast. We got it,” another brother said laconically. “If that liquor don’t show up soon I got somewhere else to be.”

  There were nods and sounds of assent from the others.

  “You’ll get your liquor,” Rome said wearily.

  “Soon, right?”

  “Yes, soon.”

  Since then Rome had seen only one of the brothers, and the man refused to tell him anything until he got a flask. The man’s report was barely two words long and basically conveyed that the way ahead was still clear. Rome had called out the Karthijinian sergeant who recommended the brothers, but the man, though clearly frightened, stubbornly insisted that the brothers were the best men for the job.

  Rome stared into the darkness for a while, wondering where the brothers were right then, then headed back to the small fire that T’sim had built for him. As he approached, he saw that someone was sitting by the fire. It was one of the brothers, the one with the gray beard.

  “Your report,” Rome said, handing him the nearly-empty flask.

  The man shook the flask and frowned. He downed the liquor quickly, but said nothing.

  “What did you see?” Rome pressed.

  The man looked up at him—Rome thought he might be the one named Tem—and held up his hand as if indicating he should stop talking. Rome was speechless. He found himself wondering if maybe this brother was mute and tried to recall if he’d heard him speak when he’d met them the first time. What good would a mute scout be? Could his brothers understand him?

  Just then another brother materialized out of the darkness. It was the one who looked the youngest, with the twin braids. He sat down without a word and pointed at the flask. The gray-haired one—Rome was pretty sure it was Tem and this one was Rem—shook his head and flipped him the empty flask. As if on cue, both brothers gave Rome a wounded look. But now Rome was starting to feel stubborn. He wasn’t producing any liquor until these guys talked. Who was in charge here, anyway?

  “Soldiers, I need your report,” he said formally. He sounded foolish even to himself. “Tell me what you saw.”

  The brothers exchanged looks and hidden smiles passed between them. Rome could feel his face getting hotter. Then all at once the young one spoke.

  “Tem don’t like talking with
out the others here.” Tem gave him a meaningful look. “And he ain’t happy about the liquor problem.”

  “Forget about the liquor,” Rome said. They both looked upset by that and sat up in consternation. “Tell me what you learned. We have no idea how long it’ll be before the other brothers get here and I can’t wait forever.”

  “Oh, they’ll be here soon enough,” the braided one said. “Then you’ll hear.”

  “You don’t—” Rome started, then broke off as another brother materialized out of the darkness. He was surprised. He’d heard nothing. Clearly the sentries hadn’t heard anything. Not even the dogs that were trailing the army and raised a fuss at everything had heard anything. These men were good.

  In quick succession three more appeared out of the darkness and arranged themselves around the fire. There were many exchanged looks and subtle hand gestures that Rome could not interpret. Then the young one said casually, while fingering the edge of his long knife, “They’re back. Could be trouble.”

  The others leaned forward at this news and more hand gestures flew.

  “Who’s back?” Rome demanded.

  The scarred brother looked up as if just noticing Rome was there for the first time and said, “Warn’t we promised liquor? Don’t tell me Tem drank it all.”

  Rome started to argue with him, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to be here all night and threatening them didn’t seem like it would do any good. “Okay,” Rome said. “T’sim, will you…” He trailed off. T’sim was already there, a flask in each hand. He handed them out to the brothers who settled themselves more comfortably, looking for all the world as if they were there for the long haul.

  “Now will you tell me?” Rome asked through gritted teeth. He was thinking he could kick the closest one before the man could move.