Jeric held Hersir’s gaze. Jeric’s smile stretched, delayed. “I understand.”
Yes, he understood. He was a spoke on Hersir’s wheel now. Jorvysk’s company had been an unwanted addition, and as they rode on, Jeric found himself wondering if he’d simply traded one tyrant for another. At least this tyrant had a conscience.
Hagan had attended the induction ceremony. Jeric had spotted Astrid there, as well, but both she and Hagan had slipped out of the hall immediately after Jeric’s vows, and neither lingered to offer congratulations. Not that he’d expected it, and oddly enough, he hadn’t felt like being congratulated.
What have you become, my darling Jos?
Jeric absently turned the Stryker ring on his finger—the one Hersir had given him after he’d taken his vows—then urged his stolik onward.
“Hey!” Jorvysk called after him, saddling up and trotting after him. “Everything okay?” he asked, once he’d caught up.
Jeric’s eyes narrowed on the road ahead. “Fine.”
“No need to be nervous,” Jorvysk said, misinterpreting Jeric’s mood, as he consistently did. “We’ll find what’s hunting the wolves.”
Jeric didn’t answer.
“Grag and his men… they spook easily. Grag thinks he’s got some connection to these woods.” Jorvysk sighed and glanced at the rustling leaves above. “Think the man smokes to much grass. Makes him paranoid.”
Jeric cocked a brow, and Jorvysk winked.
“If I had my bets,” Jorvysk continued, “I’d say some Scabs probably caught a wolf and ripped the poor bastard to shreds just to scare us. Ain’t no creature in this world that could mutilate an animal like that.”
Jeric didn’t agree, but he didn’t offer enlightenment. People like Jorvysk didn’t want a discussion. They already knew everything.
“Scabs always hunt in packs,” Jorvysk continued. “You rarely find one in the woods alone. Sometimes they’ll use one as a lure, but there’s always at least a half dozen out there hiding. You’ll wanna check your back first. They like to come up behind, slit your throat.”
Jeric glared at the sky.
“I came up on a pack of ’em this one time. Leader was taking a piss when I got him in the back.” Jorvysk chuckled to himself. “Shot down the rest of ’em before they even knew I was there. They had a woman with ’em too. She was a rare treat.” He laughed again, but this time there was an edge to the laughter.
Jeric glanced darkly back at Jorvysk.
Jorvysk bristled. “Don’t look at me like that, Wolf. You steal from them too. We just steal different things.”
Jeric looked back at the road.
“How many have you actually killed?” Jorvysk asked conspiratorially, as if expecting the rumors to far exceed the actual count.
Jeric didn’t respond.
“I’ve got one hundred and seventy, give or take a dozen. Hard to count anymore.” He snickered. “Come on, Wolf. How many of the bastards have you got? Fifty? A hundred?”
What have you become, my darling Jos?
Jeric stopped his horse and looked around. The wind stirred his hair. “One thousand, two hundred and sixty-three.”
The words fell out of him, unbidden, in slow confession.
One thousand, two hundred and sixty-three.
Gods, he even knew the exact number.
If you’re going to question your actions on one life, you’d better question your actions on every single one of them, she had said.
Jorvysk’s vaunting expression stalled, and he stopped his horse beside Jeric. “That’s your pack combined, right? Because even that would be—”
“No.” Jeric said, eyes fixed on the road, unseeing. “That’s just me.”
Jorvysk gaped at him. “You’re rutting serious?”
Jeric gave him an annoyed look, then kicked his horse into a trot before Jorvysk could say another word.
Jorvysk didn’t talk as much after that, thank the gods. The two of them tracked their way through the Blackwood until they reached the steep, rocky terrain at the foot of the Gray’s Teeth Mountains.
Gray territory.
The men exchanged a glance. What few clues they’d found—blood or animal hair and entrails—had led them here.
“Guess we’re going up,” Jorvysk said.
The trees grew thinner as they climbed, and a bitter wind nipped at them. The narrow path climbed, switching back and forth to ease the steep incline, and they stopped often to give their horses rest. The thin air proved a strain on all of them, but Jeric kept his attention pinned to their surroundings.
“Awfully quiet up here,” Jorvysk said warily, glancing about them.
Jeric filled his water skin in a small stream and took a long draught.
Jorvysk folded his arms and leaned back against a boulder, watching Jeric. He’d been doing that a lot, ever since Jeric had admitted his death toll.
Jeric refilled the skin.
“Who’s Sable?”
Jeric froze; water bubbled over his hand. He glanced up and caught Jorvysk’s gaze.
“You call out her name at night,” Jorvysk said.
Jeric stood and capped his water skin.
“Who is she?” When Jeric didn’t answer, Jorvysk said, “A lover?”
“None of your godsdamned business,” Jeric said, shoving his skin in his belt as he strode for the horse.
Jorvysk pushed himself off the rock and followed. “She dead?”
Jeric leapt in the saddle and looked hard at Jorvysk. “I said, it’s none of your godsdamned business.”
Jorvysk regarded him a long moment, then climbed into the saddle, and the two of them continued up the mountain. The farther they climbed, the greater Jeric’s unease. They should’ve spotted evidence of grays by now.
It wasn’t long before the front pillars of a bridge came into view, dusted with fresh snow. The pillars bent toward one another, joining at the apex and forming an archway large enough for a god. Realization widened Jeric’s eyes.
“Is that…” Jorvysk started.
“Kerr’s Summit.”
Kerr’s Summit had been built by the Sol Velor as a gift for the people of Corinth, though they’d originally named it Vandi e’Sancta Mai. Gateway to the Holy Land. That was well before the Sol Velor’s Liagé had betrayed them. Jeric’s great-grandfather, Kerr Angevin, had renamed the bridge after himself.
Apparently, pride was an inherited trait in his family.
The bridge spanned a deep crevice in the mountains where snowmelt rushed into the River Dienn—a river named after the Corinthian goddess of water and rain. The only other passable point along these mountains lay three days in either direction. The bridge provided access to one of the Gray’s Teeth’s shallower passes, which led straight to Corinth’s former capital: Sanvik. But Sanvik belonged to Brevera now, and as people ceased using the pass, eventually the bridge was abandoned to nature and the grays. Time and weather stained the white stone black in various places, and moss crept over its grand archway and supports, slowly reclaiming it.
“I’ll be damned,” Jorvysk said eloquently. “Thought that thing crumbled ages ago.”
Jeric stopped his horse at the foot of the bridge. He could just make out remnants of old wards etched into the stone, faded with time. The river roared beneath, drowning out all else, and to his right, the Dienn careened over a cliff, disappearing into a cloud of mist. Even from here, Jeric felt its spray.
He understood why it’d originally been called Gateway to the Holy Land. Up here, on top of the world with such beauty all around, one felt as though they stood at Aryn’s gates. Of course, Aryn wasn’t the god the Sol Velorians had had in mind when they’d named it.
What have you become, my darling Jos?
Jeric leapt out of the saddle, and his boots landed with a crunch. Jorvysk watched from his saddle as Jeric stepped onto the bridge and stopped before a pillar. He held out his hand, fingertips hovering over a faded ward. He took a slow breath and pressed his pal
m against it. Grit and cold pushed against his skin. He frowned, not sure what he’d expected—if he’d expected—then pulled his hand away and glanced ahead. Across the bridge, nestled at the base of the mountain peaks, stood a small cluster of buildings dusted in snow. They’d once been an outpost where guards lived and merchants traded, but that’d been a very long time ago.
“Looks abandoned,” Jorvysk said.
“It does look that way,” Jeric said, then grabbed his stolik’s reins and led him onto the bridge.
“What are you doing?” Jorvysk asked.
“Investigating.”
Jorvysk dismounted with a grunt and followed, or tried to. His horse jerked and pulled, and Jorvysk cursed to the heavens. In the end, Jorvysk was forced to secure his horse at the bridge and cross alone.
Once across, Jeric loosely hooked his stolik to an old post and looked around. Their answer was here. He couldn’t say how or why he knew it, but he did. He patted his stolik, then left him to search the grounds.
“Wonder how long it’s been since anyone’s seen this?” Jorvysk asked.
“Not as long as you might expect.” Jeric dusted snow from a charred log.
Jorvysk frowned at the evidence. “Think the Scabs have been hiding here?”
“Seems likely.” Jeric stood and drew his sword.
“Then where are they now?”
“Good question.”
With a slight motion, the two split up to search the buildings. Jeric found nothing of consequence until he reached the old bunker. A ladder of beds lined two walls, and a dark hearth stood between them. It was a skeleton of a home, its flesh and blood having been stripped away over the years, leaving only bones behind. Jeric moved to the hearth and pressed his fingertips into the ash.
They were still slightly warm.
He investigated the bed frames and rubbed his fingers over the wood. Dust coated the creases, but not the faces. A glint of metal caught his eye, wedged between one of the planks and the wall. He reached in and pulled a dagger free.
A Corinthian dagger, made of skal. He wondered if it was part of Murcare’s stolen inventory.
He shoved it in his belt and dropped in a plank to search under the bed. There, he found a hunk of half-eaten bread and a small, empty vial. He grabbed the vial and sat back on his heels.
What in the…?
It was the vial he’d uncovered during his last hunt with his pack. The one he’d left with Rasmin.
The cork was gone, the contents emptied, though the rancid residue remained. Jeric scanned the room again, senses on high alert, and then his eyes narrowed on the broken window.
Boards creaked beneath his weight as he approached. He noticed the deep grooves in the floor and walls around the window, as if something had been trapped inside and clawed its way out. Jagged shards of glass were all that remained of the window, and a black substance stained some of its edges. Jeric bent his head closer, careful not to touch the shards, and noted a tiny patch of leathery black skin frozen to the glass.
That wasn’t the soft, silvery fur of a gray. The wound in Jeric’s side ached.
He was suddenly glad he’d demanded Rasmin give him one of the nightglass blades he’d confiscated months ago while hunting with his pack.
A shadow fell over the room, and Jeric looked to the sky. Bruised and swollen clouds collided above, and the wind pushed stronger, smelling of rain. He’d forgotten how quickly the sky changed in these mountains. With one last glance about him, he slipped the vial into his pants and stormed out of the bunker.
“We need to go,” Jeric said, approaching Jorvysk, who was arranging wood for a fire.
Jorvysk glanced up. His brow wrinkled in confusion.
“I know what’s killing the wolves.” And judging by the grays’ continued absence, it was probably near.
Jorvysk arched a doubtful brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Jeric tossed the skal dagger at Jorvysk, who barely caught it.
“The hells?” Jorvysk looked from Jeric to the blade. “Where’d you find this?”
“In there.” Jeric jerked a thumb toward the bunker. He didn’t show Jorvysk the vial. “Let’s go.” He had questions for the Head Inquisitor that could not wait.
And he needed more nightglass.
Jorvysk’s expression soured as he stood. “You’re a right bastard, you know that? You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
Jeric didn’t know or care what Jorvysk thought he was doing, and he strode for his stolik.
Jorvysk grabbed his arm.
Jeric glared at him. “Let go of my godsdamned arm before I break yours.”
Jorvysk’s confidence wavered, and suddenly, Jeric’s scars burned. He glanced past Jorvysk just as a massive dark shape emerged from behind the bunker.
Jorvysk released Jeric’s arm. “What the…?”
The shade bolted for them with impossible speed and lunged in a snarl of claws and fangs. Jeric shoved Jorvysk, and the two of them leapt apart as the shade landed between them.
“The hells is that!” Jorvysk yelled, scrambling to his feet.
The shade’s yellow eyes fixed on Jeric, and it snarled, taking a step toward him. Jorvysk threw his new skal dagger, but it bounced off the shade’s hide. Because skal wasn’t the right material.
It took another predatory step toward Jeric, peeling back its lips, showing off wide rows of needlelike teeth. Its pupil contracted, focusing, as if it recognized Jeric. As if it knew what Jeric had almost become—what still lived within those three little lines—and Jeric’s scars flared hot.
Jorvysk ran at the shade, but it swung a powerful arm, launching Jorvysk into the air. He screamed, collided with the ground, and rolled over with a moan. The shade turned on Jeric.
What have you become, my darling Jos?
Suddenly, the shade bore his face—his eyes—as it stalked steadily toward him. Ready to finish the job Gerald, the changling, had started. To make Jeric’s outward appearance finally reflect the violence within.
I am not that man, whispered a voice inside his head.
The shade took another step, but rather than move away, Jeric drew the nightglass blade and took a step forward. The shade growled, eyes narrowed. Jeric took another step, holding the nightglass steady. He feinted to the side, flicked his wrist and threw hard.
But not fast enough.
The shade leapt into the air, and the nightglass soared beneath it, out of reach. Jeric cursed, and the shade charged him. He reached desperately for his sword, Lorath, but before the shade could make contact, the stolik barreled into it, knocking it off course. It shrieked, stumbling over itself, and skidded across the frozen ground, knocking Jeric’s nightglass blade even farther away.
Jeric seized the opportunity.
“Jorvysk!” he yelled, mounting the stolik at a sprint. The blade was forfeit. The stolik took off with Jeric, and they galloped straight at Jorvysk. Jeric lowered his hand, Jorvysk gripped his wrist—all animosity between them forgotten—and Jeric swung Jorvysk behind him just as the shade righted itself.
The stolik galloped on, hooves thundering over the great stone bridge, and the shade barreled after them. Jeric found himself looking hopefully to the wards, but the shade bounded across the bridge, undeterred. The wards were too faded, too gone.
Jeric wished he knew what they meant. How to use them.
He looked ahead, where Jorvysk had left his horse, but he was nowhere to be seen. Behind him, Jorvysk cursed. And the shade was gaining on them fast.
Jeric made a hard right, following the canyon, looking for a place to jump. Shades couldn’t swim in The Wilds; he hoped they couldn’t swim here. Water was the only reliable weapon he had left.
At last, Jeric found what he was looking for.
“Go,” he said to the stolik. “Don’t look back.” To Jorvysk, he said, “On my count…”
Jorvysk didn’t need to ask to know what Jeric intended. Jeric was a
lready standing in the saddle, attention fixed on a lip of rock jutting over the raging Dienn.
“Are you rutting mad?”
“One…”
“We’ll never make that!”
The shade swiped, the stolik swerved.
“Two…” Jeric steadied himself, releasing the reins.
“The water’s too shallow!”
“Three!” Jeric gave the stolik’s neck a good shove, urging him onward before grabbing Jorvysk’s tunic and jerking him off of the horse.
They fell.
The shade shrieked.
Jorvysk screamed, flailing, smacking Jeric in the face on the way down. Down into darkness as the cold consumed them.
34
Jeric emerged with a gasp. Water frothed around him, carrying him away and dragging him down, but he kicked hard, intent on the nearest bank. Somewhere between the swiftly moving current and his own strength, he made it to a rock and grabbed hold, steadying himself against a river that kept trying to steal his anchor. He glanced back. Jorvysk’s head bobbed desperately above the water, arms flailing for purchase.
Jeric was struck by a split second of irony, of another time, another place. With a resigned growl, he let go of his refuge and dove back into the water. A little later, he and Jorvysk were clambering up a rock, drenched, and choking on the Dienn. Jorvysk rolled onto his back, arms folded protectively over his stomach, eyes closed. Jeric gave him a quick once-over, just to be sure the shade hadn’t nicked him, and then he glanced back at the river.
Amidst the white swirls, he spotted a large black shape lodged between two currents, its head submerged. Jeric watched it a moment, then stripped off his cloak and sword, removed his belt, which he then wrapped around his arm, and dove back into the river.
Water roared in his ears as he swam, hand over hand, pushing against the current. Swimming was much easier without his cloak and sword, but his body dragged with fatigue.
Perhaps this hadn’t been his best idea.
He reached the shade, grabbed a limb and pulled. It didn’t budge. He pulled again, harder this time, and the body came with it. Its skull was completely bashed in on one side—dead.
The Gods of Men Page 30
