by A. D. Green
“Why do you stare off into the dark?” Morten asked, concern clear in his voice.
Nihm had heard Morten climbing into the back of the wagon and presumed it was to check on her. Well she didn’t want his concern. She just wanted to be left alone.
“I lieke du cul bwereze ong ma faash,” she snapped, knowing it was unwarranted, knowing Morten had his own struggles.
“I’ll leave you be then,” Morten mumbled. He clambered back out the front of the wagon ducking beneath the awning he’d erected earlier against the rain.
Morten was right, thought Nihm, it was dark out. The overcast skies meant night had set in early. The rain had picked up as well but despite this she had little trouble seeing the camp across the road. Her eye sight was good, better than good in fact. In the dark her eyes seemed to change and adjust, like a lens dropping over them. Her surroundings took on a greener, more muted aspect as if the colour had been drained from everything. Despite this her vision was crisp, clearer than should be possible.
Nihm watched with interest as the young man and his elderly father walked all but naked into the long grass near their camp and danced. Well it looked like a dance, only she sensed there was more to it than that. Their movements had been distinct and separate but each was smooth and controlled flowing from one shape into another. It was surreal and mesmerising to watch, if a little strange.
That night Nihm slept soundly, exhausted physically and emotionally. She dreamt of Ma and Da and the homestead, happy dreams of yesterday. When she awoke she recalled them vividly and cried silently in her bed covers.
Everything had happened so fast, her life changed so dramatically she hardly recognised herself, the homestead seeming a lifetime ago. Now it was just her.
She listened to the patter of rain on the wagon’s canopy, the soothing sound a perfect match for her melancholy. The sound of leather creasing interrupted her reverie. It came from the road outside. Slowly, awkwardly, she got to her feet and walked gingerly to the back of the wagon, stepping over Mercy’s still sleeping form.
The woman had been exhausted when she’d returned from town. She had looked like death and slept like it now. She didn’t stir.
It was still dark as Nihm looked out onto the road. She saw a man on a horse riding towards town. She knew, even from behind, it was the elderly father. Looking at his camp confirmed that one of the horses was gone and she could see only two bundles under their canopy where bodies lay sleeping.
The early morning air was cool on her skin. The rain was little more than a drizzle but everywhere was wet. Turning away Nihm returned to her own bedding, but found she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes Marron’s face stared back at her. Not the happy smiling one Nihm knew and loved, or the one from her dreams, but the one Marron wore as she toppled into the river, a dagger sticking from her chest, pain and confusion on her face. It haunted her. She sat up and dressed, a painfully slow process but important.
Pulling her boots on Nihm tied her leggings then climbed slowly out the front of the wagon. Ash and Snow were ready and waiting as she disembarked. It was still half dark but daylight threatened the eastern horizon and she knew the others would awaken soon. Already she could hear a change in their breathing patterns. She blinked, amazed at herself and how she even knew that or could register it.
Nihm said. Ash and Snow milled around her legs, threatening to knock her over.
“Com on then. Lat’s go far ai wark an stetch ma lags owt.” Nihm whispered, so as not to disturb anyone. She needn’t have bothered. Stama was awake and alert. He said nothing to her though, merely bobbed his head in acknowledgement.
Stama pointed suddenly past her shoulder before bringing his finger to his lips. Turning, Nihm saw a stag not fifty paces away. It must have just stepped from the undergrowth.
Sniffing the air he snorted, looking around. Turning away, the stag trotted eastward following the edge between bush and grasslands. A deer stepped out behind and followed, and then another. Nihm watched, captivated, as soon a whole herd gathered. They didn’t stop to graze but followed the big stag as he trotted east.
Nihm had seen plenty of deer before but to see a herd this big and this close to so many people was strange. It was unusual behaviour.
“What do ya make of that?” Stama whispered.
“Strange,” Nihm enunciated carefully. Her speech was much better. “I gu far wark,” she told Stama.
“Want me to come with you, just in case?” Stama asked.
Just in case what, thought Nihm. “No, I ave dogs,” she said patting Snow as she spoke. Nihm grabbed her staff. My staff, Morten’s staff she corrected herself. Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head to keep the drizzle from her hair Nihm walked a slow circuit around the camp before setting off west along the road to Fallston.
Nihm’s feet led her past the young man’s camp and she couldn’t help but look over. Her eyes locked again with his. He was sat on his haunches pulling his jerkin on as he stared back at her, his brown eyes hawk-like and intense. She raised her hand in greeting like she had the night before.
A pause, a hint of a smile, then he lifted a hand in return. Nihm felt a connection to him and didn’t know why. It bothered her. She felt herself blush suddenly, aware he was half dressed, and embarrassed at being caught out watching him. Turning away she walked on.
Morten was on the road behind. She could tell by his long loping stride. He was jogging to catch her. Snow ran back to greet him, threatening to trip him over. The dogs bore him no grudge and Nihm knew she shouldn’t either.
“Fancy some company?” Morten asked stopping alongside her. He was uncertain, unsure where they stood. Were they friends still? Did she blame him for not finding Marron? He didn’t know, in all truth had been too scared to ask. Morten felt the guilt of it, and was sure Nihm could see that guilt writ all over him. He wouldn’t blame her if she hated him. Last night Stama told him to give Nihm time. That her pain was new and too raw still. Maybe he shouldn’t have come.
“Sure, Mort,” Nihm said.
Morten beamed. It felt good to hear her say his name.
They walked in silence together, neither knowing what to say. It was awkward at first but Nihm found after a while that she didn’t mind it. They walked past campsites on either side of the road. People had risen as the morning light grew and were eating or packing for the journey ahead.
As they neared Fallston Nihm heard horses ahead, lots of horses by the sounds. She watched with interest as they came into view, escorting a carriage and several wagons. Nihm felt her heart racing.
“Red cloaks!” Morten hissed, his hand grasping Nihm’s elbow needlessly.
Moving to the side of the road Nihm counted their numbers. A dozen Red Cloaks rode front and back of the same carriage they had escorted yesterday, Father Zoller's carriage she now knew. Behind them followed another dozen armed guards, Rivers men from Fallston judging by their crest. At their van rode a Lord, breast plate gleaming.
That must be Lord Menzies, she thought, recalling the old guard from the Uppers. At the back rumbled two large supply wagons.
“Something tells me Lord Menzies ain’t hangin around,” Morten said as the horsemen clattered by.
Nihm heard Morten but barely acknowledged him. She had seen something that froze her where she stood. Blood draining from her face she fumbled, pulling her hood down further over her face.
She recognised the three guards they had rode with yesterday but that wasn’t what had arrested her attention. There was another she knew. Small, swarthy, ordinarily pretty indiscriminate, she would likely have missed him only he had looked right at her. Only for a moment, his eyes sliding past but it was enough. She had seen
those eyes before, could never forget them; dead, soulless eyes. Eyes she’d last seen in an alley outside the Broken Axe.
Her pulse raced. It was him wasn’t it? It had happened so fast, the moment so brief. It was hard to breathe all of a sudden and Nihm gasped for air.
Nihm slipped to her knees, her strength suddenly leeched from her limbs, her heart palpitating.
“Nihm, Nihm what’s wrong? Are you alright?” Morten knelt beside her, worry creasing his face.
Nihm felt her strength returning as quickly as it left, energy suddenly infusing her body. Standing abruptly Nihm took a deep breath to steady her racing heart.
Sai stated.
Nihm didn’t know what that was but she felt invigorated. The fear had dissipated, replaced in its stead by anger, her face flushing as it grew steadily.
Morten alongside her looked confused. “You okay? You went white as a sheet there. Now you look like your head is going to explode. Tell me?”
“One of those Reds was outside the Broken Axe,” Nihm blurted. It was the most legible sentence she had managed since her ailment but Nihm hadn’t time to stop and think about it. All she could see were those dead, soulless eyes staring at her.
Morten instantly made the connection. “Oh fuck.”
Chapter 65
: The Oath
Renco finished his forms. He’d risen early as usual to find it still drizzling with rain. The skies above, dark in the pre-dawn, suggested it wasn’t going to let up anytime soon. What he really wanted was to go for a swim and bathe. Maybe later he promised himself strolling back to camp.
Under the shelter of the awning he towelled his torso and legs down with a cloth. It was too low under the canvas to stand so he sat and pulled on his leggings and shirt. He had aired both overnight but they were still damp and clammy against his skin.
Renco was aware he was being watched. Had felt it last night as he did his forms, but that was a vague premonition, this was a surety. Pulling his jerkin on he glanced at the road and saw her. She stood almost exactly as she had last night, leaning on her staff with her two large wolfdogs shadowing her. Her eyes were dark, hooded as she was but despite that, even from twenty paces Renco felt the weight of them. Intrigued, Renco resolved to approach her wanting to know who she was.
As if reading his mind she turned away, walking towards Fallston, staff tapping out as if to pull her along and like that the moment was gone. Idly, Renco noted she was moving better. Not as fragile as the night before. Must be recovering from illness or injury he mused.
“Girl interesting yes?” Maohong said from his covers. Sitting up he stretched, his old bones creaking.
Renco glanced at Mao. His canny eyes never missed a thing. Renco shrugged and signed, “Who?”
“Bah, dog girl.” He gestured towards the road. “Maybe Renco have more girls hiding Mao not see?” He made a show of lifting his covers and looking under them.
Renco sighed, a day or two just him and Mao. It would be a long couple of days. “She is different,” he signed.
“Bah,” Mao exclaimed. “Everyone different. Girl unusual, intriguing, neh?”
Renco smiled, that was exactly what she was.
Mao grinned back, his crooked teeth standing out in his wizened face. “See Mao know, Mao always right.” He chortled.
Renco helped Mao to his feet and whilst the old man dressed prepared an easy meal of nuts, fruits and the last of the stale bread.
Renco picked the mould off the bread before eating it and washed it down with some watered wine. The wine was usually reserved for the evening meal but Mao seemed to think it a good idea to drink it now and who was he to argue. Master did say Mao was in charge.
Renco watched as a young red-haired man, tall and rangy, appeared out of the dog girl’s camp and set off down the road. No doubt to catch her up. Boyfriend, brother or friend he wondered.
“Do you know where master has gone?” Renco signed.
“Master tell Renco if master want Renco to know. Not for Mao to say,” he replied seriously.
“So you don’t know either,” Renco gestured.
Mao laughed and slapped his knee. “No, Mao not know.”
“So what do we do?” It was a long conversation for Renco, but it was wet and waiting was for old men. He wanted to do something.
“We wait. Maybe move.” Mao pointed to several trees a hundred paces or so further east. “That good spot. Cover for campfire, maybe fish later. Mao go town. Get supplies. Renco stay with horses.”
Great, Renco thought knowing the old goat would fetch the supplies via an inn or three. Still he didn’t like crowds and the trees Mao had pointed out were as good a spot as any to wait for master’s return.
Renco’s ears were sharp, much sharper than Mao’s, so he was the first to hear the sound of horses on the damp road. At least four hands and some wagons he judged. Looking towards town he caught a glimpse of red and the flash of steel. Mao came and stood by his side following his gaze.
As they approached Mao clutched his arm. “No snap, no use flow. No matter what Renco.”
“Why?” Renco signed. What was happening here? What did Mao see that he didn’t?
“No matter what, Renco,” Mao insisted. “End badly for Renco and Mao. Swear. Swear on master's life.” The earlier banter and good humour was gone, replaced by a hard, cold stare that brooked no argument.
“I swear it Mao,” Renco signed back, a knuckle of fear sitting in his stomach. They were Red Cloaks, Mao had known it instantly. But how could they know about them? They’d left the hunters behind, dead. Maybe they headed south, escaping like everyone else. Somehow though he knew Mao was right. They were coming for them.
The surrounding camps were packing up, preparing for the march south. It didn’t take long with the few possessions they had. A few had already left. The road would soon be busy. It wouldn’t matter; they might bear witness but they would be no protection for Mao or Renco. As the Red Cloaks approached, any on the road quickly left it making way.
It looked at first as if they would ride right by but at the last instant the hulking brute of a man leading them turned his horse off the road. Instantly the Red Cloaks fanned out, surrounding their makeshift camp. They didn’t speak, just sat upon their horses glaring.
An ornate carriage stopped on the road adjacent and Renco watched with trepidation as the door opened and a man stepped out. He wore a blood red cassock and looked disdainfully up at the sky.
The colour drained from Renco’s face and he started to shake. He knew that face. It was etched forever in his mind. It was the face of a murderer… a torturer… a priest. It was the face of Father Henrik Zoller.
Mao grabbed his arm. “Quiet Renco,”
He was keening, a low deep sound, not even aware he made it. Mao’s grip tightened and Renco took a breath. He held it, closing his eyes and waited for his pulse rate to gentle, before exhaling slowly. Mao taught him that, master wasn’t his only instructor. Mao, who had sworn to do no violence, seemed nevertheless to have an intimate knowledge of it despite this. The technique, Mao once explained was to calm a warrior before battle.
One of his master’s lessons voiced in his head. “Control is everything. If you have no control you are lost, neh! If you lose control you can be manipulated, out thought and out manoeuvred.”
At his side Mao muttered. “Sometime best do nothing. Do nothing can sometime be hard thing.”
Renco opened his eyes. A small swarthy looking Red Cloak hovered near Zoller pinning a long red cloak and hood on him as he waited.
“Thank you Tuko.” Zoller pulled the hood up over his head. The priest should look ridiculous thought Renco, in his all red ensemble only he didn’t. It was appropriate; after all he was bathed in the blood of others.
Renco saw not all the men wore red cloaks. Two wagon’
s pulled up behind Zoller's carriage surrounded by guards bearing the twin rivers emblem with a fish leaping between them. A Lord in a shiny breast plate slid from the back of his mount and, flanked by two of his own men, marched over to Zoller.
“What’s the delay Father? We need to go now and you’re blocking the road.” He looked nervous, glancing over his shoulder to the north and the low foothills.
“A personal matter Lord Menzies, I shan’t be long.” Zoller replied. He walked over and carelessly stood in front of Renco. He surveyed him briefly before turning his attention to Maohong.
Renco watched as the brute leading the Red Cloaks climbed from his horse and stood to the right and a pace back from Zoller who was flanked on his other side by the smaller guard, the one called Tuko. There was something dangerous about Tuko. Even stood next to his giant companion it was the smaller man Renco was most wary of; his eyes were dark and flat. They promised violence.
“Where is your master old man?” Zoller asked.
“He gone,” Mao answered.
“I can see that. Where has he gone?”
“Don’t know.”
Zoller was silent a moment looking thoughtfully at Mao.
“By all that’s holy, Father we need to go!” Menzies exclaimed impatiently.
Zoller held his hand up silencing him and Renco saw Menzies' face stiffen at the gesture.
Zoller turned to Renco who felt the full weight of the priest’s stare. “Where is your master boy?”
“Boy mute, no talk. He just serv…” The brute stepped past Zoller with surprising speed and drove his fist into Mao’s gut. With a whoosh of breath Mao crumpled to the ground. He moaned, coughing and gasping for air.
“Forgive Holt, he can’t abide bad manners and it’s rude to interrupt,” Zoller said. The ugly giant grinned. One of his teeth was black, Renco noted.
“I know you can talk boy. Think I don’t remember you? Was a time when all you wanted to do was talk,” Zoller touched a hand to his cheek and the faint tear shaped scar that hung beneath his right eye. He stepped around Renco. “You’ve grown. You’re almost a man.”
