The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  She ducked her head, gulped, then squared her shoulders and met his eye. “I understand. But I’m stronger than I look. My whole life I’ve been laboring. I’m no fine lady that you need to look out for. I’m -” Tears again, crystalline in her eyes, which for the briefest of seconds he could have sworn shone gold. “Please, Sir Hugh. Please take me with you. I can’t stay here. I just can’t.”

  Hugh stood there, nonplussed. “If it’s different work you’re looking for, I can find you a place at Stasiek castle -”

  “No.” She then blushed for having interrupted him so brazenly. “Forgive me, that was - that was rude of me. I meant, no thank you, Sir Hugh. I don’t want to scrub someone else’s floors, or avoid a new set of hands wherever I go. If I could - if I could have my wish - it would be to serve you, my lord. In whatever small way I can. Wherever you go.”

  “But why, Elena?” Hugh stared at her, as if sufficient scrutiny could reveal the heart of this puzzle.

  She looked down once more. Knuckles white where her hands clasped each other. “I can’t quite put it into words, or - perhaps more accurately - would rather not, but you deserve an answer to that question - so.” A deep breath. “You’re different from everyone else I’ve ever met, Sir Hugh. Which, given the company I keep, is no startling revelation, but something tells me even the other nobles are more akin to the men that frequent the Rusałka than you. I respect you. And - well - feel safe with you. I mean, I - Fortuna take it, why can’t I get the words right?”

  “Elena,” began Hugh, but once again she cut him off.

  “Please. I know you won’t accept my service, but I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t do this. Don’t do my best to convince you. And in a minute you can send me away, and I’ll go scrub the vomit off the tables and floor just like I was intending. But. It’s not that I idealize you, my lord. I know that you have your… your own problems. But I’ve had a series of dreams, my lord. Dreams that I can’t ignore. That urge me to follow you, to serve you, and in doing so, help you achieve -”

  The sound of hooves cut her off. They both turned to the main gates that rose beyond the stable yard, and from which the royal highway led five miles across gently rolling farmland to the noble city of Stasiek.

  The two guardsmen roused themselves just enough to push off the posts as three dark steeds came pounding up and blew right past them into the stable yard. The horses were caparisoned in the slate blue trimmed with gold of his brother’s personal guard, and immediately he felt tension curdle his blood - had something happened? A dozen possibilities flickered through his mind - an assassination attempt, news of war, an accidental death -

  The lead rider slid effortlessly from the war saddle to land lightly on the balls of her feet. Hugh recognized the captain of his brother’s guard just from the way she moved; Morwyn was easily the most dangerous person he’d ever met outside the Reavers, bar none, and her every movement was economical, efficient, and yet infused with a feminine grace that had driven him crazy until he’d learned better.

  Her raven-black hair was pulled back from her temples and tied off at the nape of her neck, allowing the rest to fall free down between her shoulder blades. Hair so dark it held blue tints in its depths, but nothing so dark as the cruelty in her blue eyes. Eyes that had such a piercing, crystal clarity that he swore her gaze was sharper than any blade, cutting through artifice, pretense, or defenses as if they were gauze, and promising unending punishment and pain if you even thought to deceive her or harbored any ambition to harm her master.

  Hugh crossed to where she stood waiting, and was surprised - as always - at how small Morwyn was. Almost everyone was shorter than he was, but in his mind’s eye Morwyn loomed large, so that she seemed to top six feet whereas in reality she was little more than five foot three in her trim, sober martial uniform, all slate blue and gold trim, the upraised collar starched stiff, the cut severe and buttoned crosswise over her chest, a gold sash wrapped around her flat stomach. All of which was spattered with mud, some drops of which had even flicked across her pale features.

  Morwyn reached up and smeared one away with the knuckles of her hand. “Lord Annaro requests your presence. Now.”

  Hugh tried for a mocking smile. “Captain Morwyn. A pleasure to see you again.”

  Her dark blue eyes traveled down the length of him, slowly, taking in the blood, the vomit, the beer stains, the rumpled clothing, and then back up to lock with his own eyes. “You have a mount?”

  Hugh stifled the shame. Two years he’d not seen her, and she chose now to drop by? No matter. He’d given up any hopes of a friendship with Morwyn long ago when she’d made her loyalty to his brother painfully clear.

  “I’ve a mount. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  He strode into the stables. The shame faded. Hard to feel bad when you had little pride left to begin with. Stepped over the legs of a sleeping stable boy, empty beer jug cradled in his lap, and down past the stalls to where his horse was dozing. A black mare called Blue, she snuffled and swung her head over the stall door to nose at him as he patted her cheek.

  “Ready for a morning ride?” Hugh let himself into the stall just as Elena appeared at the stall entrance.

  “Hugh?”

  He effortlessly hoisted the saddle off the shelf and laid it on the blanket draped over Blue’s back. “Elena.”

  “I’m sorry, I know you’ve been summoned, but we were talking about -”

  “Elena.” He reached under Blue’s stomach to catch the belly strap and slide it through the buckle. “I’m sorry. No.”

  Tightened the strap, took up the bridle from where it hung from a hook.

  “Just like that? No?”

  Blue whickered as he slid the bridle over her head, adjusted it, draped the reins over her neck. “Sorry, Elena. I didn’t mean to give you a false sense of hope. It’s best you steer well clear of me. Wherever I end up won’t be good, and it definitely won’t be a place for a girl like you.”

  “A girl like me?” He could hear the fire in her voice. “What do you know about me, Sir Hugh?”

  “Enough.” He lead Blue out the stall, forcing her back. “That you harbor delusions about this world and the people in it. That you think anything can change for the better. That by associating with monsters like me you can somehow avoid your fate. You’re wrong. On all counts. Find another man to pin your delusions on. I won’t be responsible for you. I won’t be responsible for anyone, ever again.”

  He undid the cords tying his money pouch to his belt, hefted it, and lobbed it underhand over to her. “There’s not much there, but it’s all I’ve got. Fortuna bless you, Elena. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me. Goodbye.”

  Elena snagged the pouch from the air with one hand and stood there, bristling, but Hugh put her from his mind. Led Blue down the length of the stable, ignoring the apologetic blustering from the stable boy who woke up and scrambled to his feet, and back out into the dawn light.

  Morwyn was mounted once more. “Where is Avalanche?”

  Hugh restrained the urge to wince. “I sold him. He deserved better than to be stabled in perpetuity.”

  No expression on Morwyn’s perilously beautiful face. Of course not. The only thing that aroused emotion in her cold heart was bloodshed and licking his brother’s boots. He hoisted himself up onto Blue’s saddle, took up the reins, and stared coldly back. “Is my brother hurt or in danger?”

  “If he was, do you think I’d be wasting my time on you? No more questions. Follow.” She wheeled her mount around and spurred it back out the gate with a cry. The other two guards rode right after, leaving Hugh to follow last. An obstinate desire to ride slowly arose within him, to force Morwyn to slow and wait, but he crushed that childish petulance and dug his heels into Blue’s flanks.

  She responded gladly; he’d not been exercising her enough of late and was eager for a morning run. Five miles was too far to gallop the whole way, but Morwyn’s impatience was showing through; she gave
her horse its head, allowing it to open its stride so that the four of them pounded along the broad highway, the sun just barely cresting to their right over the undulating farmland, the air crisp and clear, the colors of the landscape yet leached of their vibrance due to the dawn flatness.

  Hugh felt his heart expand with gladness. He’d not known this, but a dawn gallop was just what he needed. Blue trying to catch up with the first three horses, the thunder of their hooves filling the air, and almost he could imagine himself riding once more in good company, the future bright and filled with potential, no tragedy, no horror.

  Eventually, Morwyn reined in her mount to a canter, but kept their formation strung out, making sure there was no opportunity to talk. Hugh rode at the rear, taking in the familiar landscape, each swell and dip, the occasional knots of small buildings gathered at the side of the highway, the high walls of Stasiek finally coming into view up ahead and turning golden in the light of the sun.

  Carts and peasants already filled the road, many of them having set out from their farms while it was still dark, and as they closed in on the city Morwyn took to riding alongside the road, too impatient to weave a path through the traffic.

  Up to the city gates, massive and capable of withstanding the assault of a small army, but open now and admitting everyone willing to subject themselves to a cursory check and pay the toll. Morwyn didn’t even slow; ignored the salute from the sergeant on duty, and led Hugh inside the walls and along the winding cobbled avenue, winding higher and higher to the castle itself.

  Too many memories. A lifetime, a world that he’d lost. Hugh numbed himself to old pains, to old sights, not acknowledging greetings and ignoring the glances and whispered conversations that he left in his wake. Two years since he’d been here last, and he’d sworn to not return unless expressly summoned.

  Two years since his brother had seen fit to call for him.

  What by Fortuna’s bounty could Annaro want with him now?

  The great market square was bustling with activity, swamped with stalls, the air alive with shouts, catcalls, dust and a thousand aromas from the food stalls. A Fate Maker stood in the central dais, his arms raised, his voice pitched to carry as he lectured the masses. Hugh slowed, lips thinning in distaste as he listened.

  “…if you follow the burning path, if you step in the footprints of your forebears, then and only then shall you earn the righteous life, and avoid the cold, skeletal grasp of the Hanged God, thrice cursed be his name! Be true to your heritage, be true to your calling, seek not to raise your station through ambition or avarice! What was good for your father and mother is good for you, and shall, in turn, be good for your children; to stray from the burning path is to invite disaster, to draw the eye of the Hanged God, thrice cursed be his name…”

  The Fate Maker caught sight of Hugh from across the crowd, and stared at him, no hint of deference in his eyes. Hugh turned away, irritated.

  Damn the Fate Maker. He was Fortuna’s now, for better or worse.

  They dismounted in the bailey, stable boys a cut above those from the Rusałka racing forward to take their reins.

  Morwyn tugged on the hem of her military coat and inspected him with supercilious disdain. “I was instructed to bring you immediately to the duke, but perhaps we should ask the stable boys to dunk you in the trough first.”

  “Tell my brother I’ll be with him once I’ve washed.” Damn her if he’d rise to her provocations. “He’s waiting in his study?”

  “Of course. Don’t force me to come fetch you.” She snapped her fingers and the other two guards fell in behind her as she marched toward the keep entrance, no doubt to deliver her report.

  Hugh tried to not watch her go. The subtle undulation of her hips, the confidence, the utter disregard she exuded for everything around her. You’d never guess from her svelte, minimalist uniform that she had an amazing body beneath it, but -

  Hugh palmed his face, sighed at his own frailties, and tried not to imagine what Black Evec and the others would say about all this if he was ever forced to summon them again. Marching toward the kitchen entrance, preferring a quieter approach than the main hall, he composed his face into a studied mask of neutrality, and made his way quickly up to the second floor where his quarters had once been.

  Down the hall, forcing himself to not think, not remember. Not allow the past to manifest, haunt him with old dreams, suppressed memories. Down to his door, and there, at last, to hesitate.

  Had Annaro given his rooms away? No. Morwyn would have told him if so. A self-imposed exile was not quite equal to actual death and its bureaucratic consequences. He pushed his door inward and was rewarded with the sight of his old room. The bed massive, the windows little more than archery slits, several armatures arrayed against the wall where he’d once kept his various suits of armor, the clasps affixed to the walls above them where he’d hung his weaponry. All gone. All sold to finance his drinking and whoring. Nothing, in fact, left to remind him of his old life.

  Which was exactly as he wanted it. He strode to his old wardrobe and flung it open. Mostly empty, but a few court outfits remained, too fine to easily sell, and these he pulled free and laid out on the bed, staring at them with some measure of equivocation.

  “My lord…?” A servant girl stood in the doorway, looking ready to flee. “Can I be of assistance?”

  “Bring me a bath and as many pitchers of boiling water as you can manage. A bottle of wine. My brother’s best.”

  The girl bobbed her head and disappeared down the hall. The sound of her slippered feet was just loud enough for him to tell she was running.

  Crossing his arms, Hugh moved to the closest window and peered out the vertical slit over the castle walls and at Stasiek itself. The closely packed roofs, the familiar streets, the sounds of city life: the cries of street vendors, the lowing of cattle in Butcher Square, the rumbling of carts, the clanging of bells, the shouts and bellows of the multitudes below.

  Home.

  Hugh frowned.

  Not anymore.

  Someone ran down the hall. He didn’t bother to turn.

  “My lord? Your wine.”

  Hugh extended his hand behind him, still not turning. A bottle was placed in his palm. The cork had already been pulled. He read the label. A Clignancourt, fifteen years old. Ruinously expensive, brought as it had been across the Burning Waste to the west which separated Mendev from the coastal cities. He sniffed at the neck and then took a swig straight from the bottle. The rich medley of flavors after years of downing Rusałka’s swill was heady; he raised the bottle and drank, throat working, needing to drown the pain, the emotions, the memories.

  Slowly, steadily, he drank the whole bottle. Part of him, some old vestige of the man he used to be, shied from the way he was consuming this exquisite vintage. But the man he’d become didn’t give a fuck and when he was done he held the bottle out, still not looking.

  “Another.”

  “Ah - yes, of course, I’ll set this goblet - uh - never mind.” Hurried footsteps, out the door, and gone.

  The wine worked its way into his blood. He felt a faint fuzziness cloud his thoughts, a light euphoria that pushed the world into an ever so slight remove. Ever since the accident. Ever since Goat’s Wood, everything had become… harder to succumb to. Wine was no exception. Where before he’d have been laid out by four bottles, now it took that much just to get him going.

  The tub was brought in. Six or seven servants filled it with steaming pitchers. Hugh turned, ordered them all out, saw that the previous servant had brought a crate of wine bottles and made a mental nod to thank her. Clever girl.

  He plucked a bottle free, sank his blade into the cork, twisted, yanked it out, then stepped into the scalding hot water as he raised it to his lips.

  The temperature was perfect. He drank the bottle, finished it, then took up one of the fresh pitchers and poured it over his head.

  Best not to look down and see just how much dirt was coming off him.


  Twenty minutes later he was done, dressed, beard combed out, hair unsnarled and bound back, blade at his hip, an old pair of boots of much finer quality replacing those he’d worn.

  Ready.

  Three bottles stood empty on the headboard. A fourth? No. He’d no doubt need some measure of his wits about him. Whatever Annaro had summoned him for would involve more than brotherly reminisces.

  Out into the hallway, down its length to the narrow stairwell, up to the third floor. Made his way to father’s study, now claimed by Annaro as his own. An unfamiliar guard stood at attention, clad in mail and armed with blade and shield. He gave Hugh a curt nod, his expression as readable as that of a fish, and knocked on the door before pushing it open.

  “Lord Hugh, milord.”

  Hugh stepped in. It was like stepping back in time. The huge stone blocks of the walls covered by sparsely filled shelves and interspersed by tall, angular windows filled with stained glass. A faded carpet covered the checkered floor, while a huge, heavily waxed table as old as their family line dominated the rear half, over which his brother leaned, studying a map of Mendev, different figurines standing across its face to represent armed forces. To one side, hands linked behind her back, stood Anastasia, his disciplus.

  “Are we at war?” Hugh asked, moving forward after a formal bow.

  “Not yet.” His brother straightened. He was a decade older, and had always been a remote, forbidding figure; while Hugh’d played in the hallways Annaro had been training in the bailey, and when Hugh first took up a wooden practice blade his brother had already fought and found distinction in the battle of Agarun.

  Still, despite the difference in years, there was a family resemblance between them; you might have to squint to spot it, but it was there, in the strength of the nose and jaw, the harshness of the cheekbones, the high brow. Yet Annaro had the face of an ascetic, forbidding and prematurely lined, his hair graying at the temples as if the weight of office had aged him before his time. His clothing, as always, was of the finest cut, yet modest in hue; only his heavy gold necklace of office betrayed his true wealth, for as always he was without rings or pearl buttons or other signs of ostentation.