by Kal Spriggs
“I'm well aware,” Gerlin answered. “But he's obviously not very prosperous if he's by himself with a mule and a cart. Maybe he's just not that business savvy.”
“Or maybe he's another assassin,” Bulmor said. Katarina perked up at that and her hands went to the wands tucked into her belt and the short sword Gerlin had acquired for her.
Gerlin rolled his eyes, “You're still irritated about the bar wench.”
“She tried to kill Katarina! Of course I'm irritated,” Bulmor said. He's talking about the woman who tried to give me that wineskin, Katarina realized. In the last place they had found shelter one of the women in the tavern had given her a wineskin filled with hot mulled wine to 'help her sleep.' Katarina had accepted the offer, but Bulmor had pulled it away and sniffed it before she could so much as unstop it.
She hadn't caught what exactly had happened after that, but she had heard shouts about gold... and that the woman felt no compunction over her attempted murder. Those shouts had died with a suddenness that Katarina hadn't had to guess about. She knew that Gerlin or Bulmor had protected her... and that they had had to leave, yet again.
That was when the cold seeped in, she thought. My own people would kill me, she thought, If I forget that, I will be as dead as my family. She knew that her father, Duke Peter, was well known for his compassion. He had once told her that people loved a leader who understood their pains and plight. He had said that fear brought resentment.
She had seen that Lord Hector's men controlled the people through fear. The gruesome stories of those who had opposed his coup had spread throughout the Duchy, carried by his men and by rumor. No one opposed him, not the peasants and not the noblemen. No one raised a hand against him, not when he could take everything from them. If I am a ruler I will come to learn to use fear in my favor, she thought, even as the wagon came into sight down the road.
“We'll wait,” Bulmor said. Katarina could hear a tone of uneasiness in her armsman's voice. Clearly he felt something was off about the merchant. She'd come to trust his senses, just as she'd come to trust Gerlin's eyes for back roads and trails they'd taken since the first few attacks. Then again, it wasn't as if she had much of a choice. Some part of her might have resented both of them, for that. But, she needed them and they, in their own ways, needed her. Bulmor through his duty to her family and Gerlin... Gerlin seemed to need her to live to prove something. Perhaps he needed to show that, despite his shared blood, he was different from his kin, the Armen tribesmen of the north.
The mule cart drew nearer, and Katarina made out the portly man who sat on its bench. He drew the cart to a halt a good distance down the road. “I've little of value, if you're brigands,” he shouted. Despite his portly frame, he had a light voice.
“Not brigands,” Bulmor growled, his gruff voice derisive.
“Well, not unless we must,” Gerlin muttered.
“What brings you along this road, then?” the other man asked, and Katarina noticed his hand had dropped out of sight. Did he have a bow or crossbow in reserve?
“Keep your hands where we can see them,” Gerlin said, “Unless you care to lose them.” He said it with a friendly grin, yet his voice was serious, “My stocky friend here has some reason for paranoia.”
The other man brought his hands up slowly, “Pardon me, but I've little reason to trust you two. Though I find it odd that there are two men traveling with a young girl.” Katarina could see his eyes narrow, and then the merchant's blue eyes focused on her. “Or maybe it's the other way around...” he said the words just loud enough that Katarina heard, but he clearly spoke to himself.
“None of your business,” Bulmor said.
“What is your business, out here?” Gerlin asked, and his voice had turned a little more pointed. “Not many villages out this way, and no towns – not a lot of traffic.”
“I'm Tom Wolno, a simple peddler, and I'm headed for Watkowa village and the pass,” the merchant said. “Got some trade to do up that way and a friend of mine said the pass is still open.”
“We heard the pass was closed,” Gerlin said.
“It was, but they had a warm spell over the past couple weeks, and with the melt off, you can make it through, if you're careful,” Tom said. “But the villagers don't exactly spread it about.” He climbed down off of his cart, “You're taking the back roads to the Ryftguard?”
Katarina saw Bulmor and Gerlin look at one another. She'd heard their talk, late at night when they thought she slept. They were worried about the Ryftguard – the fortress that controlled the only land route out of the Eastern Duchy. It was the only bridge across the Ryft, the miles wide channel which separated the Duchy of Masov from the rest of the Five Duchies.
“Might be hard, especially if you want to avoid Lord Hector's men,” Tom said.
“What gives you that idea?” Bulmor grunted.
“You're insinuating that we're up to no good again,” Gerlin said. “First bandits, and now what? Smugglers?” Katarina noticed that Gerlin's hand had dropped to his sword and that Bulmor had shifted slightly to stand in front of her.
“You're in the middle of nowhere with three exhausted horses and a young girl who looks like she needs a week of good rest,” Tom Wolno said. “We can dodge around the truth all afternoon, but I'd say that the stout one there is an armsman, and that you're either a scout or spy, possibly both. Since you're on the run, the girl has to be a noble, probably pretty high up if you're worried about Hector.”
Katarina saw Bulmor tense in front of her. She saw that Gerlin had coiled, almost like a spring, ready to burst into sudden motion.
“That really narrows it down, especially given the rumors of the reward money for Lady Katarina's capture,” Tom said. The portly merchant gave a nod at them, “Which means you probably are thinking about how easy it is to make a peddler disappear, especially out here.” He held up a hand, “Before you do something hasty, perhaps I might offer my services?”
“As a peddler?” Gerlin asked dryly, “We have no pots to be mended nor need we buy any trinkets.”
“As a smuggler,” Tom said, his voice calm. “There are many reasons to know the back roads well, and I've one of the best. I know people in every small village along the border and I know a man with a boat in the Ryft,” the portly man smiled and something about his confidence made Katarina instantly distrust him. How dare he be so calm when he knows the danger I'm in!
“Smuggler,” Bulmor spat on the ground. He glanced at Gerlin, “We don't need him.”
“With my help, you could be across the border, on your way to Marovingia or Boir in a week's time.” He glanced at Gerlin, “If you're a scout, you know how useful a local with knowledge of the area could be.”
Gerlin nodded slowly, “Though I also know how untrustworthy some locals can be... especially when they're already sneaky, devious types. Not that I'd accuse you of something like that, of course,” Gerlin said.
“Sneaky, yes, devious even, I'll give you that,” Tom said. “But I've no loyalty to Lord Hector or to the Vendakar coins he pays his men with.” The smuggler gave a wry grin, “For all my illicit trade, I'm something of a loyalist. You'd be surprised to hear the same of the other folk up in the mountains near Watkowa, but it's true.”
Bulmor snorted, “Next you'll say that you served in Duke Peter's army.” He spat again, “How much do you want?”
“Nothing,” Tom said. Katarina heard Gerlin chuckle, but the smuggler spoke over him with a calm voice, “Well, nothing right now. One day, though I imagine that the lady will return. One day, she'll be in a position to reward a smuggler who saved her life.”
“You assume I'll pay you? That I'll even survive?” Katarina asked. If anything, she had to admire his honesty, as calculating as it sounded. She made note that she should remember to look at the long run... and to remember the benefits of friendship.
Tom chuckled, “Why not? It's a gamble, but one that could pay off. And I'm sure you have few enough friends right now. It
doesn't hurt to be remembered for my generosity. Besides, you've spine and spirit: I can see that from here.”
Katarina nodded slowly, “I accept your offer.” She heard Bulmor start to protest, but she cut him off, “We need the help and if Hector's men are already at the Ryftguard, then we have little in the way of options.”
“If it snows again before we make the pass, we'll be stuck in Watkowa Village all winter,” Gerlin said. “Or worse, if it snows while we're in the pass, we'll be dead.”
“It won't,” Tom said. “The weather will hold for the next few days, long enough to make the village and the pass.” He spoke with the total assurance of someone who'd lived in the mountains for cycles.
“You have yourself a deal,” Katarina said.
***
Chapter One
Lady Katarina
Watkowa Pass, Duchy of Masov
Fifth of Silnak, cycle 999 Post Sundering
The icy wind howled and tore at the three travelers like a mad beast as they struggled through the narrow mountain pass. The unseasonal gale ripped the warmth out of them even as it lashed them with razor sharp shards of ice and staggered them with every gust.
Lady Katarina Emberhill, rightful heir to the murdered Duke Peter, the former ruler of the Duchy of Masov, pulled her light cloak tighter around her shoulders and tried to ignore how the wind pushed right through it and her light riding clothes. She felt her mare stagger yet again as she led her along by the reins. The poor beast was more than exhausted, she knew. Then again, Katarina didn't exactly feel well rested herself. She let go of her cloak with her hand and scrubbed at the brass and glass goggles she wore. She had hesitated to buy them, over the expense at such a frivolous thing. Now she wished she had the Solari to buy the ones with high magic weaves to keep them warm.
She gave up the scrubbing when another gust ripped her cloak open and almost strangled her. Katarina stumbled back with a gasp, her hands at her throat and entirely unbalanced. A pair of strong hands caught her and righted her, almost without effort. Katarina didn't need to look back to see her rescuer, she recognized those strong hands, the same hands which had protected her and guided her for the past four cycles. They were the hands that had prevented more than one assassin from taking her life.
She managed to gasp a thanks to Bulmor, though if he heard it over the wind, she couldn't say. Suddenly embarrassed that she'd needed his help, she shoved forward against the wind and pushed up past the mount ahead of her. She had to drag her mare ahead, but the effort brought her to her target.
The dusky skinned halfblood glanced over, “Welcome, my Lady,” Gerlin said. “What brings you here on this lovely day?” He managed to give her a polite bow despite another gust which nearly knocked both of them over. His blue eyes showed humor, though the rest of his face was wrapped in scarves to keep warm. “Out for a stroll?”
“How much further to the bottom?” Katarina asked.
He gave a laugh, though the wind tore it away. He managed to pitch his voice so that it carried against the wind, “My Lady... we've yet to reach the top.” He pointed back the way they'd come, “That crest back there is the false summit, we've another two miles or more to the summit, and then ten or more to Watkowa Village.”
Katarina shook her head, “Twelve miles? We can't make it in this for another twelve miles!” She couldn't remember much of her flight, almost five cycles earlier, but the pass had seemed shorter. She realized that her voice had gone shrill and she hated how that made her sound. Who would follow a shrill child?
“I know,” Gerlin said. “There's a rest shelter ahead, the villagers and some of the mountain folk tend to it. We can shelter from the storm there.” Gerlin glanced ahead, “As long as you don't distract me and we miss it in all this lovely mountain weather.”
Katarina took the hint and let the long-legged scout move ahead. She took the moment to regain her breath. The thin mountain air seemed to exhaust her almost as much as the gale. Even so, she forced herself to stagger after Gerlin's horse as soon as it moved past.
She managed to follow as the trail wound downwards and then widened out in a small vale. A few scraggly trees, more brush than anything, gave some slight shelter from the storm. A low stone structure backed up against the wall of the vale. Katarina paused and she wondered if they should call out a warning to any other travelers. But Gerlin led the way without hesitation. The scout pushed open the rough wooden door and poked his head inside. He leaned back, “Clear.”
Bulmor pushed ahead of Katarina, his hand on his sword hilt. “I'll check it. Do a round, make sure we're alone up here.” He passed the reins to his stallion over to Katarina. Katarina opened her mouth in automatic protest, but she closed it as Bulmor moved into the shelter. She doubted she could persuade him that the cold was more a danger than some lurking assassin. For that matter, it would take longer to do so than to let him search.
She did give Gerlin a look, but the halfblood just gave her a crooked smile, “Let us do our job, my Lady. We haven't failed you yet, have we?”
She gave him a tired smile in return, though the reminder of the past four cycles sat heavy on her. The long, slow grind of days had brought more than a dozen assassination attempts and at least three sets of would-be kidnappers in the past eleven months. The fact that her journey back home should have ended most such threats did not mean that it had ended them all, she knew.
And a part of her wished that she could end those threats... once and for all and with her own hands. Just as the source of those threats had brought an end to her world, four cycles ago. That might at least let her sleep a night through without the nightmares, if nothing else.
Bulmor stepped outside a moment later, “Clear and with sufficient wood for a fire and a small store of food if the storm lasts long.” He looked around, “Gerlin scouting the area?” As usual, he left off unnecessary words, he saved his vocabulary like a miser saved coin.
Katarina glanced over and saw the scout had disappeared. She gave a tired shrug, “I suppose so.” She saw the scout had tied off the reins to his gelding to the saddle of her own. “Where do we put the horses?”
“Inside,” Bulmor grunted. “There's a section laid out as a stable.”
Katarina wrinkled her nose. “That'll be rank.”
“They'll help warm it,” Bulmor shrugged. He snagged the reins to his horse and turned back to the shelter. Katarina followed a moment later. The horses balked, initially, at the low ceiling. Katarina used some of the more colorful words of her extended vocabulary to get the recalcitrant beasts to follow.
She gave Bulmor's stallion Brave a glare as he stared at her from the first stall. Bulmor hadn't said where he got the horse, but it seemed to obey his direction almost without the need for commands. She had a suspicion that her armsman and Gerlin had raided one of her father's stables on their escape, though her memories of the escape remained... fuzzy.
She shied away from the clear memory of the assassin as he emerged from her brother's room with a bloody blade. Those thoughts will lead me only to pain, she reminded herself, I should be grateful I can't remember much else.
Katarina shoved her mare into a narrow stall and then tugged Gerlin's gelding along until she got him in a stall of his own. She used unnecessary force, she knew, but the stubborn beasts seemed a better target for her sudden anger than the bare stone walls and floor.
She heard a crackle behind her, and then a soft yellow glow came from the front of the shelter. “Fire's started,” Bulmor's gruff voice spoke.
Katarina moved toward the flame with quick strides. She found her armsman before the low stone fire pit. The fire flared and guttered as drafts from the door and cracks in the walls let gusts through. Katarina squatted in front of the fire and almost pushed her hands into it. They ached from the cold and as she flexed them in the heat they ached even worse.
“Any frostbite?” Bulmor asked.
Katarina shook her head, “No, no numb spots, just stiff and cold.”
/>
“Good,” Bulmor grunted.
“Area's clear, looks like no one has been through since before the storm broke,” Gerlin said from the door. He pulled it closed behind him and tied it shut with a length of rope that hung from the wall.
“Speaking of storms, how long will this last, you think?” Katarina asked. “And do you think the others made it through the pass before it hit?”
“For your first question, I've no idea, my Lady,” Gerlin said. “This storm came up out of nowhere. If it had hit only a few hours later, we'd be up in the open, and probably frozen or dead from exposure.” He shrugged, “I've heard of storms like this in the Ryft Peaks as late as Attar or even Ilan, but never as late as Silnak.” He pealed some of the layers of scarves off his head, and his smooth-shaven scalp shone in the dim light. “It could last as long as a week or end sometime tonight, I really don't know.”
“Typical scout,” Bulmor grunted, “Might be this, might be that.”
Gerlin manfully ignored the armsman's comment. “As far as the others... they were two days ahead of us. They should have arrived at Watkowa Village on time and without issues.” Katarina nodded, yet she felt some unease. They'd originally sent the guards and her maid ahead as something of a tripwire. The idea had come from Gerlin, yet Bulmor had seized on it as well. They both figured that any bandits, assassins, or kidnappers would focus on the twelve hired guards and the lady they escorted rather than the smaller party.
Katarina had protested, at first, but the hired guards had seemed to favor the thought. Easier, they agreed, to fight without their employer present and endangered. They, and the maid, were common born, men and women from Marovingia. They had no particular loyalty to her from fealty, but her uncle had recommended them for their loyalty as mercenaries. What worried Katarina was that her maid might not be able to keep up the act, not for any long period of time. She especially worried about any escort which Lord Hector might have sent. The Usurper had invited her, with diplomatic assurances of her safety... yet what proof would his men require as to her identity? It would only take a few questions for them to realize that her maid wasn't from the Duchy, much less a noblewoman.
