by Scott Rhine
“No chance of walking on top of the wall?”
The mason winced. “I wouldn’t, sir. If you double back to that last dirt road to the south, it winds its way back to the Emperor’s Road on the dry side.”
“That’ll cost me an hour,” the sheriff lamented. He’d led his pursuers at a grueling pace that would walk most normal men into the ground. Every day for the past week, he’d gained a little more distance on the mercenaries that had been sent after him. Now his lead was slipping away.
The mason didn’t laugh. “Sir, anyone important around here rides by boat. Everyone else gets used to the mud and more delays. Since the Scattering, things have fallen apart. To make up for your inconvenience, I’ll share my afternoon tea with you.”
Tashi bowed. “Thank you for your kindness, but I am pressed for time.” Already, he was revising his strategy. They were near the border of the sea and two individual kingdoms: Intaglios and Zanzibos. The crossroads of the three would be a sacred place where he might find the strength to face his enemies. A thought occurred to Tashi. This might not be a simple mason. Therefore, in parting, he asked, “Do you know where I might find the Answer?”
“To what, sir?”
Tashi replied, “I unask the question.”
****
Walking along the narrow, inferior, dirt road, the Sheriff of Tamarind Pass kept watch on the scrub forest to either side. Unlike the Emperor’s Road, which was kept cleared of large trees for the distance of a bow shot on either side, this road was fraught with opportunities for ambush.
Sn the forest thinned until trees merely represented the border between one subsistence farm and the next. Since no farmer wanted the road going through his land, the path meandered to skirt the property lines. The scrub was reduced to a glorified hedgerow used to ensure a measure of privacy and windbreak. In spite of his situation, the sheriff’s mood lifted when he smelled freshly cut hay and he envisioned children riding in a hay wagon.
A league later, about the time he would normally schedule a rest, he saw the way-station cottage by the side of the road. This way station was more like a home than an inn. Typically, it would be small but serviceable, providing nourishing but inexpensive fare for all travelers in need of refreshment from the road. This building bore the sign of the temple, three nails fused together in the distinctive star shape affixed above the entrance. The way station served priests and the armed men who patrolled these roads for free. The hunted man breathed easier, looking forward to some time resting his legs in a warm, dry, and friendly environment. The proprietor might trade news and give him detailed directions for these back roads.
The sheriff pounded three times on the front door and pushed it open. He smelled fresh bread and an overtone of something else. Even before he consciously identified the smell of human death, the long dagger from his boot appeared in his hand. The sword needed too much room to swing, and the knight’s code said he couldn’t sheath it again without drawing blood. If there turned out to be a logical explanation, such as a recently slaughtered pig, the bared sword would also have been an insult to his host. He could see the whole common room and part of the kitchen area, and there was no immediate danger. The only two places remaining to check were upstairs and in the stockyard.
In the kitchen, the sheriff noted a staircase to the owner’s bedroom. There were several pairs of muddy footprints leading out the back door. That could mean either there was no wife, or foul play was afoot.
Opening the back door a crack, he could see nothing moving outside. Even the pigsty out back was empty. The pantry door was wide open. The food stores were empty, except for some flour spilled on the floor and a few pickles floating in a keg of garlic and vinegar brine. Shelves and cabinets had been ransacked more than a pack of raccoons could have managed. Then, he noticed that a large, hardwood cudgel had been dropped on the staircase. Three steps higher lay a single house slipper. The sheriff breathed a silent prayer under his breath.
The symbol over the front door was also a declaration of protection. Anyone harming or stealing from this house would face swift and determined justice. As he climbed the steps, he hoped, for his own sake and the proprietor’s, that his nose was wrong about this. The trap door above him was wide open, so he announced himself at the halfway point. Silence.
Reluctantly, Tashi climbed to the top. In the attic was a modest bedroom with a straw mattress and assorted personal items. Face down, in the act of reaching, was a dead man. Something had taken him down from behind by attacking the right ankle. The body had a dark, crescent-shaped bruise on the exposed skin. Perhaps the night robe he had been wearing had prevented any punctures. The fatal wound had come from a similar bite on the neck. Blood had sprayed everywhere. Even though it had been licked off the walls and furniture, the sheriff could still make out the distinctive stains on wood and fabric. The killing looked like the work of a large, savage animal. But the cudgel would have made a credible defense. How had the animal gotten inside? Why hadn’t the man’s flesh been eaten?
The terror on the innkeeper’s face was obvious. Tashi scanned the murder scene again, and wished that his master were here. The old priest would have solved the riddle instantly. “Ask the right question and any secret may be known,” he would quote from the ancient scrolls. What was the owner coming up here for? What hope did this room promise? Moving the edge of the mattress with his dagger, the sheriff found a large, leather sack of coins.
The sheriff, still puzzled, opened the bag. Inside was a collection of every possible coin of the realm. The relative value of each coin was proportional to the amount of time it represented. There were seventy heartbeats in a copper bit, and seventy bits in a silver hour. Hexagon-shaped, the golden week was the standard of pay for one week’s service for a commissioned officer of the Imperial Army. There were special rods that went though a hole in the center of each coin, enabling them to stack neatly.
The jewel of the innkeeper’s coin collection was the single, rare, sesterina coin, worth seven weeks. Because the soft metal was the most valuable in the realm, the coin had steel rims on both the inside and outside edges to keep its form and prevent shaving. Sesterina was also known as spirit metal, and the only substance other than Emperor’s Sand that could affect the unseen world.
There was no doubt in the sheriff’s mind that the innkeeper had been reaching for the salvation of spirit metal. That meant the man had probably been murdered by a revenant beast. These vile creatures didn’t know they were long dead and persisted as ever-hungry shadows of their former selves, going through the same motions. Their touch could disrupt nerves or cause cramping of muscles, like he had seen on the ankle. Several times, he had seen spirits move light-weight items: blow maps off a table, wrap a swimmer’s leg in seaweed, or hurl tiny chips of stone to induce an avalanche. However, spirits had to be very angry and expend a great deal of life force to affect the physical world directly. These spirits often fed on those buried alive in order to become stronger. The more they fed, the more solid they could appear.
But that sort of supernatural animal never wandered far from the Inner Sea, and couldn’t cross the protective wards that every peasant had cast over their thresholds. A quick check verified that the man’s slippers were not muddy and did not match the tracks made near the pantry. Having eliminated all other alternatives, the sheriff deduced that the beast had been summoned for the express purpose of killing. Sighing heavily, he went outside to make sure the culprit wasn’t still lingering around. A thorough check indicated that everything of value from the first floor had been loaded into a wagon and hauled away to the north. He did manage to find a shovel with a broken handle in the shed.
By the time the last spadeful of dirt had been thrown into the grave, the sheriff had spent nearly all of his lead over the hunters and received little rest in exchange.
Fortunately, there had been a large, detailed map painted on the wall of the common room where he had eaten his journey bread. On the wall, this way s
tation was marked with the traditional X. One of the characters grabbed his attention more surely than the whisper of steel sliding from a sheath. A nearby temple site had originally been labeled in white paint with an old symbol for spirit. This label had since been converted to the one for demon using black ink.
From this place of tragedy, he took the nail symbol from above the front door and a cup of sediment from the bottom of the pickle keg. He put botho the new coin pouch at his waist and set out the after the summoner’s wagon.
Chapter 3 – The
Price at the Tollbooth
The band of fourteen hunters traveled down the road in pairs. On each man’s shoulder was a badge showing two crossed swords. They were all members of the elite executioner’s guild of Tamarind.
Hon Li, the dapper lieutenant, complained, “Boss, why are we chasing this fugitive across the ass end of the world? Patience is wearing thin for the whole group.” Usually, they carried out sentences on condemned criminals from the surrounding kingdoms, like cutting the hands off of thieves. Townspeople always showed the guild respect. In major cities, guildsmen could always drink, bathe, sleep in a dry bed, or find a companion to warm it for free. None of that was available out here.
Sulandhurka was an ex-slaver; no one had dared question him. He glared at the idiot, a beanpole-thin weakling who had only qualified for his rank based on his family connections. His assignment to this squad was more babysitting than command training. After weeks of silence, the leader said, “The sanction came from the guildmaster himself.”
“There won’t even be a bounty?” the lieutenant hissed. “Send some of us home. He’s only one man. Why waste four swords from Kiateros and all the support crew?” Such swords could slice through armor and lesser metals like a seamstress through silk and were rare things indeed. The art of their making was the greatest secret of the metalworking guilds of the northern kingdom.
“The fugitive is a traitor from inside our own ranks. He knows as much about the hunt as we do. This won’t be like taking down an unarmed, panicked peasant; Tashi will be slippery and deadly.”
Their quarry had to be close, but they had no way of knowing where. The hawk had flown away without warning half an hour ago—just deserted them. This company considered this an ill omen because their banner was the hawk. Ever since the bird left, their leader told them to listen and be careful every thirty paces. To make matters worse, the road was heading straight down into the marsh. Instead of trees, duck grass as thick as corn stalks grew on either side of the road to the height of a man’s hip. Anything could be hiding in the long weeds. The scrub forest, though meager, had provided at least some cover from the rain and kindling for fire.
The group came to a halt in front of an elaborate, stone bridge, an old-fashioned sort made with a single, high arch and floored with wooden planks. The wood had been covered in soot to repel rain, but there were still dubious, leg-sized gaps torn or rotted through in places. Nonetheless, it was their only way across. The river may have been a mere stone’s throw wide, but it had steep banks and a current strong enough to drag a man under before he could call for help.
On the other side of the river, a mill wheel creaked as it turned steadily. The immense, old, stone mill appeared untenanted and in ill repair. The many windows and holes in its walls watched them approach. An archer could be waiting in any of them. Water from the wheel fed into a smooth, stone trough twenty feet off the ground. The aqueduct ran straight east with inhuman precision. The pillars and arches supporting it had no seams visible from this distance. The place reeked of old magic, long lost to men.
The trail beyond the bridge was not so much a road as a maze of silt heaps and sand bars. It would be dak soon, but the slaver demanded they press on. “He can’t be far. If we lose him in the quicksand, we lose what he stole, and I don’t want to explain that to Dhagmurna. What’s that up there?”
“The map calls it Miller’s Crossing, sir,” his lieutenant piped in.
“I was talking about the sign on the bridge, asking for volunteers to read it. While you’re over there, scout me a safe path across. And remember…,” Sulandhurka cautioned.
“Listen and keep an eye out. Yeah, yeah,” muttered the comedian in the rear. Babu was just the opposite of the lieutenant, good at everything he did without effort. The backup swordsman took nothing seriously and always wore a secret smile on his broad, flat face.
Normally irritated beyond measure by Babu’s antics, the lieutenant chuckled because, if he had learned nothing else about the military, he knew that shit always rolled down hill. “No, he was going to say ‘you can take one volunteer with you.’ Guess who?” Babu didn’t grumble but followed the second-in-command while the rest of the group maintained a safe distance from the mill windows.
The pair ran over to the sign in a crouch, attempting to use the stone sides of the bridge as partial protection. From a distance of thirty-five feet, the slaver bellowed, “Well?”
The lieutenant swallowed and read the sign again. In a strained voice, he stage-whispered, “There’s a big box here, with a slot in the top. The warning over top of it says we have to put in a gold coin apiece if we want to leave this place alive, sir.”
The guild of executioners never paid tolls. All the men chafed at the insult. “Smash it,” the slaver ordered. The lieutenant nodded to the comedian, who crushed the box with his mace. After several blows, the container fell off its moorings and shattered on the road.
“Empty, sir. There’s nothing but a funny mark inside,” called the lieutenant.
Sulandhurka scuttled over to see the mark for himself.
Meanwhile, one of the men had gone into the long marsh grass to urinate. His friend waded in to see what was taking so long and found the first man facedown in the water. When the second man bent over to help his friend up, something slashed at his throat and froze his vocal cords. A heartbeat later, something jerked his pant leg hard, sending him to the ground. More than one creature hid in the grass, and they were hunting together as a pack. Clawed feet pounced on his back.
As the slaver arrived at the box, a third man attracted everyone’s attention when he said, “Ah hell, it’s raining again. But why’s it red?” Then he screamed when phantom teeth tore out his hamstring from behind.
The eight men standing in what was supposed to be a safe place watched something nearly invisible knock the victim down and hunch over to tear into his kidneys. Only the eyes, nostrils, and serrated maw of the attacker could be seen faintly, but the cumulative effect was saurian. While the victim thrashed, two swords and three arrows passed harmlessly through the carnivorous spirit’s chest.
“Aim for the mouth,” the slaver shouted. “What can touch us can be touched,” he hoped. The hunters all shouted at once.
“Damn, I stabbed Gri by accident.”
“The mouth is too small.”
“It’s faced away.”
“Well grab it with your hands and open it wide like a dog’s jaws. Let me see that soft, pink gullet,” said a hunter, with his bow cocked back.
Sulandhurka knew before the next action that disaster was in the air. The poor pikeman, who had wrapped his hands over the jagged edges of the maw, first lost his grip and then two fingertips off his right hand. The hastily fired arrow went through his left hand as the beast raised its head to sniff him. The bleeding volunteer ran screaming into the duck grass, and the invisible carnivore crashed after him, rustling the tassels like an evil wind. After running twenty feet, the volunteer jerked to a halt and vanished beneath the green waves.
The morale of the group broke all at once, and they scattered, running for the safety of the trees. Sulandhurka swore as he searched for an enemy to fight. Then he heard a muffled voice from under the bridge. “Hide down here. The demons can only see what the wizard in the mill does. Besides, the big one is very clumsy and can’t negotiate the slope. They’re all afraid of the running water.”
While the slaver considered the possibilit
y of a trap, Babu gasped, “There are more of those things?” Then the joker vaulted over the right rail of the bridge and skidded painfully down the shale-lined bank, abrading away a fair bit of clothing and skin in the process. He might not have been able to halt his descent, but an arm reached out of the shadows and caught him by the shoulder of his uniform. The comedian sighed in relief, thanking the man. His rescuer had no badges, but the cloth tabard covering his chest was emblazoned with three crossed swords instead of just two. For once, the wise-cracking executioner was speechless.
“Parley—humans should band together against spirits, whoever those humans may be,” said the sheriff.
“Agreed,” said Babu, eager to be talking rather than dying.
With great care, the thin and timid lieutenant made his way down to the safety of the riverside, sword drawn.
Sulandhurka followed close behind. “Ahh, Tashi, we meet again.”
Babu bowed. “May I know your formal name, sir?”
Since the injury over his right ear, the sheriff couldn’t remember his given name. The slaver interceded. “As a child, people in Tamarind Pass called him Shoto Tachi, or little sword, because he was the constant companion of his father, Daito Tachi, the big sword or head sheriff.”
The words had the ring of truth, so the sheriff nodded. “At three, I mangled the title to Tashi. I was so proud of the label, but everyone else thought it was hilarious.”
“Because it was only a syllable away from saying you were a girl!” said Babu, laughing. “Classic. And you kept the nickname?”
“That name gave me a lot of experience at fighting from a young age.”
