The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  Spiraling closer, never hurrying, presenting her with his profile - until he burst inward, spinning around as he came, blade careening in a backhand blow that would have taken off her head if she hadn’t simply ducked.

  No counter. She rose, eyes narrowed. Taking his measure still.

  Again, he circled, and this time his approach was direct, deliberate. A probing thrust, immediately parried, which he turned into an explosive series of chops and stabs, fast, close work, the kind you’d use in a tunnel or castle stairwell.

  She didn’t back away. Held her ground and leaned forward, parrying with the base of her sword, their bladework intricate, the clangor causing the songbird to burst from the trees and fly away as Hugh disengaged and began to circle once more.

  “Pancakes are ready,” he said.

  “Fuck the pancakes.”

  He pretended to consider. “Possible, but messy. Ultimately unsatisfying.” He lunged at her, using his superior reach to try a surprise, arm fully extended, but she batted aside his blade and rolled up his arm, a movement so graceful it was almost a pirouette, bringing her fist around in a vicious backhand he recalled from Stasiek castle.

  He caught it, stopping it cold.

  “We brawling?”

  She grunted, and faster than he could follow, stepped on his bent thigh to backflip and kick him under the chin. He felt the lightest of pressure on his leg, a moment’s shock that she’d even try something so outrageous, and then the world exploded into a flare of white as he took the kick square under his jaw and nearly bit off his tongue.

  Hugh staggered back, vision blurring.

  “No,” she said, landing neatly. “We’re fighting.” And then she was on him, hewing from both sides, and it was all he could do to parry drunkenly, staggering, left, right, left again - but as fast as her attacks came he didn’t take his gaze off her own eyes, slitted and slate blue, ferocious and unyielding, and the inane thought came to him, spoken as if in his ear by Zarja: she desires me?

  He parried her stab, swept his blade down and around, stepping into her attack as he trapped her arm between his forearm and bicep so that they came to an abrupt stop.

  Hugh looked down into her upturned eyes. “What the hell was that kick?”

  She released her blade. Plucked her arm free, dropped, and spun so that her leg swept around to hook him at the ankles.

  Hugh leaped. Somehow, she plucked her falling sword from the air and rose with that upward scything cut he’d seen her practice and nearly took off his leg. He barely parried as he dropped but toppled over as he did so, crashing down onto the grass on his side.

  Morwyn placed her boot on his chest, the tip of her blade at his neck.

  “You’re good,” she said. “Very good. But not good enough. I can beat you easily. Why are you holding back, Hugh?” He could hear her frustration. “Why by the Fate Maker bruised balls are you fucking holding back?”

  Because I don’t dare summon help after fucking a lisica, he wanted to shout. Because that strength is stolen, not earned. Because I don’t deserve their aid and never shall.

  “Why do you need to lose so badly?” he asked instead, propping himself up on his elbows.

  She recoiled as if slapped, then lunged forward to stab her blade into the dirt beside his head, barely missing him. She leaned in low, supporting her weight on the cross guard of her sword so that her face was but inches from his own, sweat dripping from her nose. “I don’t need to lose. I never lose. But somehow you beat me. I aim to learn your secret, so I’m going to push you until you either fight back or die.”

  Before he could respond she pulled back and kicked him across the chin. Again. His vision exploded into stars and he rolled with the blow onto his chest from where he pushed up to his hands and knees. Blood, hot and salty in his mouth. Ears ringing. It took but seconds for his head to clear, but when he got up she was gone.

  “Well, that went well,” he said, wiping the dirt and flecks of grass from his legs. “Last time I come to tell her about breakfast.”

  He scooped up his blade, then paused. Defeating her so soundly at Stasiek castle had been a mistake. Perhaps he should have just barely won the bout. Now? She’d never make peace with how thoroughly he’d trounced her.

  Fortuna wept, how was he supposed to handle her? Summon the Lost Reavers and thrash her again? But… he rubbed at his aching jaw. Might that not break something within her? Her pride was so intense, that a second such defeat… maybe that was why she couldn’t accept it. Perhaps her very sense of self depended on her martial superiority. To have lost to him, especially when her last memory of their fighting was that crushing bout in the bailey when he’d been eighteen…

  Hugh sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and made his way back to camp. If he crushed her again he risked breaking her. If he didn’t, she might kill him. What the fuck was he supposed to do?

  * * *

  The next week passed in similar manner. Morwyn retreated into silence, giving them all monosyllabic answers if she spoke at all, and always leaving to train furiously by herself - but always giving Hugh a significant glance before walking away, weapons drawn.

  As if saying: do you dare fight me at last?

  Anastasia was content to treat the journey north like an extended study vacation, working her way through the different texts she’d brought along in a large case, choosing to let Elena guide the cart on the second day on, so that she could lean back, tome in her lap, and read by the sunlight she said was infinitely preferable to the years of studying by candlelight. When she wasn’t reading, she chatted with Elena, the two of them laughing and sharing confidences, the lisica drawing the stoic disciplus out with artless questions of admiration and wonder.

  And Elena played her role to perfection; ubiquitous, helpful, thoughtful, demure. The camps seemed to spring into being moments after they arrived, the dishes wondrous given how little she had to work with. Good food and not having to build their own tents won the other two women over; by the third day it seemed inconceivable that they’d have traveled without Elena.

  Each night she’d come into his tent to pleasure him and be pleasured in turn, neither attempting an all-night session given the proximity of their companions but exploring each other in a manner that was made more intimate and sensual for their forced silence and constrained quarters.

  For his part, Hugh settled for exercising whenever he could and drinking only five or six bottles of wine each night. Otherwise, the journey was a delight; the farmland of southern Stasiek gave way to rolling hills over which herds of goats were pastured; the mountains finally making themselves known, appearing like ghostly versions of themselves on the horizon, and always they climbed, the highway growing rougher and narrower each day.

  The rise in elevation was accompanied by a drop in temperature, and each night Hugh grew more glad for Zarja’s presence by his side. Strips of forest started to appear, the land growing ever wilder, and soon even the goat herders were rare. The air grew crisp even during the middle of the day, the mountains loomed ever closer, and the inhabitants of the villages and hamlets they passed ever more suspicious and wary. Riding by, Hugh saw plainly their fear of bandit attacks, a fear made concrete by the occasional burned farm they sighted off the side of the road.

  Fortuna blessed them with her bounty, however, and though they came across more than one scene of banditry along the road, they were themselves never molested.

  The mountains reared high above them by the time they reached the outskirts of Erro. The imperial highway hardly deserved the name, having become little more than a rutted and grass-ridden path that wound its way up the steep, forested slopes, following the banks of the Mandroga. The river was swift-flowing and icy cold, and seemed all boundless enthusiasm as it hurtled over the many rocks and boulders that choked its course in its bid to join the Zienko hundreds of miles below.

  “We should be getting close,” said Anastasia, looking up from her book as the cart bounced over some loose roc
ks. “What did that tavern keep say back in Vuk? One more day’s ride? And we set out early.”

  “You’re generous, calling that place a tavern,” said Hugh, riding just ahead of the cart.

  “An aspiring tavern, then. An aspirational tavern-keep. There is always room for largesse. Regardless. It’ll be dark in an hour. Should we press on or -”

  Hugh leaned forward, sighting up the length of the Mandroga. It curved off to the right up ahead, the bank growing higher, rising a good five or six yards above the rushing waters. And was that - yes.

  “I think we’ve arrived. Looks like a bridge up ahead.” He took a deep breath. This was to be his home for the next seven or more months. Please don’t let it be an absolute shithole. Please give it something to commend it.

  He dug his heels into Blue’s flanks, urging her up the incline, and in the late afternoon light he saw a broad bridge crossing over the Mandroga, taking them from the right bank to the left, and beyond it the rise of buildings hidden amongst the trees, the village itself hugging the length of river bank.

  His attention, however, was arrested by the crowd of armed men standing on the far side of the bridge.

  Hugh brought Blue to a stop just shy of the first wooden planks. These were clearly no village toughs; they wore good armor, a combination of large-link chainmail over which metal bands were laced, along with simple metal helms with nose guards. Each man had a war spear in one hand, round beater shield in the other, with short swords scabbarded at their hips.

  Despite none of them wearing an insignia or indication of their loyalties, they couldn’t hide their martial nature. The way they stood, their look of quiet competence, all of it betrayed their professional nature.

  Something else was immediately apparent: they’d been expecting Hugh and his friends. An advance scout had probably noticed their approach and sent word. Or perhaps someone back in Vuk. Either way, they were tense but not surprised.

  “Good afternoon,” said their leader. He was a rakish man, one-eyed, his blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, his smile easy. Unlike the others he wore a long sword on each hip, and his armor was a stylishly cut studded leather. “My lord Hugh of Stasiek. Your visit does us more honor than we can reasonably bear.”

  The cart stopped a good ten yards behind. Blue was no war horse; any attempt to charge this crew would result in her rearing and tossing him into the river. But to dismount too soon would give up his psychological edge; always best to converse with enemies from horseback.

  “Good afternoon,” said Hugh. “You have me at a disadvantage. Who are you, and what are you doing in Erro?”

  The man bent low in a courtly bow. “I am Istlav, and this is my band of merry companions. We have been hired by the humble town of Erro to protect them against all intruders and monsters, a task that we are only too glad to perform, as truly, the people here are the salt of the earth.”

  Morwyn and Anastasia stepped up alongside Blue.

  “Very well.” Hugh didn’t like Istlav’s smirk. Nor the fact that there were a dozen men with spears guarding the far edge of the bridge. “Stand aside, good Istlav. I am here on behalf of my brother, Duke Annaro of Stasiek. Erro belongs to him.”

  “Alas,” said Istlav, crossing his arms and rocking back on his heels. “The people of Erro no longer recognize Duke Annaro’s claim. It’s true that once Erro was one of his many fiefs, but it has since declared independence. My condolences. Please throw down your weapons. You are, I fear, to be our guests.”

  “Alas indeed,” said Hugh, dismounting. Energy thrummed through his powerful frame. “Duke Annaro does not recognize this bid for independence. I would speak with your employers.”

  “They do not wish to speak with you, my lord. Uncouth, to be sure, but who am I to question them? And I see that there is only yourself and three ladies. The situation is not in your favor. I urge you in the strongest terms to disarm. I swear that I will observe the terms of surrender. You shall be honorably treated.”

  Hugh laid his hand on the hilt of his blade. Immediately, the men on the far side lowered their spears, six across, with those at the rear lowering theirs between the ranks of the first, forming an intimidating phalanx of bristling spear points.

  “No archers,” murmured Morwyn.

  A good point. Which meant they were no doubt hidden in the woods. In fact, given their knowledge of Hugh’s arrival, it would be child’s play to hide men on this side of the river, up in the undergrowth to their right.

  A neat trap. Such a setup could massacre a much larger force.

  “A moment,” said Hugh, making his voice as haughty as he could manage. “I shall confer with my friends.”

  “You don’t have a moment,” began Istlav, but cut off in frustration as Hugh turned his back to face his friends.

  “Thoughts?” he asked, voice low.

  “Not good,” said Morwyn, sounding more frustrated than afraid.

  “I have an idea,” said Anastasia. “It requires my fetching my cloak from the cart.”

  “I must insist!” shouted Istlav. “Drop your weapons now, or I shall be forced to take them from you.”

  “I trust you,” said Hugh quietly. He turned to glare over his shoulder. “You would have these ladies enter your custody without even the bare minimum of warm clothing? Elena, throw us our cloaks.”

  Elena had remained up on the cart’s headboard. She didn’t hesitate, but turned, dug through the equipment piled at the front of the cart, and pulled free Anastasia’s blue and gold cloak. Bundled it up and threw it down.

  “How civilized,” said Istlav, clearly frustrated. “Now, if you are quite ready?”

  Hugh caught the cloak, shook it out and draped it over Anastasia’s shoulders. She flipped the hood up with one hand, having drawn her wand with the other. Immediately, she began to whisper and work its tip against the inner folds of her cloak.

  “Walk toward them slowly,” she whispered.

  “Very well,” called out Hugh, turning back to Istlav. “We’ll hand you our weapons. Come, Morwyn.”

  He stepped onto the bridge.

  “Leave them there,” said Istlav.

  “I’ll not place my family blade on the ground,” said Hugh, undoing the thongs that held the scabbard to his belt. “I’ll place it in your hands or not at all.”

  Istlav glanced past him and up to the forested bank beside the cart. “Very well. By Fortuna’s bulging rear end, you nobles are a pain in the neck.”

  Hugh smiled. “It’s a hard life.”

  The spear points didn’t waver. Twelve of them packed tightly, filling the far end of the bridge. Istlav standing in their midst like a bee nestled in the petals of a flower. Fortuna, bless Anastasia’s plan with whatever bounty you care to share.

  Moving slowly, fighting to exude pained dignity, he crossed the bridge. Wide enough for the cart, solidly built, but without a railing, the wooden logs and planks smoothed down by wear instead of actual polish.

  “What’s your friend doing?” barked Istlav, staring past Hugh, who turned to consider the disciplus. Anastasia had dropped into a crouch, her voluminous cloak pulled all about her, wand neatly inscribing a symbol on the surface of a pebble she held in the other hand.

  “I honestly don’t know,” said Hugh. “Anastasia! What are you doing?”

  “Hmm?” She looked up, brows quirking. “Oh. This.” And she flicked the pebble off her palm.

  It sped faster than Hugh could follow through the air, thwipping past him and Morwyn to disappear into the massed ranks of the spearmen. One of their number screamed, reared and staggered back, blood fountaining from a hole in his stomach.

  “Here we go,” said Morwyn, tossing her scabbarded blades up, catching them by the hilts and slashing back with them both so the scabbards flew off.

  Istlav backed through the spears. “Let loose! Kill the disciplus!”

  Anastasia had finished a second pebble. Flicked it. Thwipp. Another spearman screamed, one from the frontline, sinking
back on his ass, spear clacking against those of the men to his left, knocking them askew.

  It wasn’t going to be enough. Morwyn was launching herself forward, blades streaming behind her, a scream tearing itself from her throat. But even with this moment of chaos there were too many spear points trained on them.

  Foughtash! Black Evec! Kevanir! Come! Hugh drew his blade, time slowing as he heard the distinctive twang of bow strings from above and behind, the afternoon light running down the length of his sword. Akilina! Wladimir, Yaros, Bolek!

  A moment of hesitation as time slowed, as the specters came flooding to the fore, summoned by his will, infusing him with their power, their strength, their rage, speed, and terrible killing instincts. A moment’s hesitation as the impossibility of the situation filled him with despair, and then he cried out for one of the Lost Reaver’s true monsters, one of the members he’d never thought he’d summon.

  Dragoslav!

  Too much. Too much energy. The world swam, sweat broke out over his whole body, immediately soaking his clothing. The wind was roaring in his ears, his heart was racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. His skin was too tight, his bones seeking to tear themselves free of his flesh. He wanted to scream, to scream and never stop, but instead he sprinted at the phalanx, passed Morwyn with two long strides and then leaped.

  The logs cracked under his boots from the power of his thrust, and then he was airborne, leaping up, the faces of the spearmen rising to track him in shock. Up and over, blade held out to one side, and his whole body shook, the sky suddenly no longer a limit, and for a mad second he thought: I am a brother to the eagles.

  Up and over the spears, a somersault that cleared the entire line, to fall neatly into a crouch on their far side.

  Then he rose, no longer rushing, sensing in his heart of hearts that the fight was already over. Turned, expression cold, the warring essences in his mind and soul too much to give vent to.

  The soldiers were good. The back line dropped their spears, abandoning them without hesitation to tear free their short, stabbing blades, locking shields.