The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  “This here is Lord Hugh of Stasiek,” said Baric, bowing with exaggerated deference to Hugh. “We’re heading up to Fystov for a meeting with Aleksandr. Any news?”

  Luciv didn’t answer immediately. He studied Hugh and his group, expression blank, and then glanced over to Morov, who gave a curt nod.

  “Weather is fair. Pass is dry. Saw some activity while coming down. A dozen men, it looked like, marching single file. Not toward Fystov, though. Heading toward higher ground.”

  “Interesting,” said Morov.

  “If they’re not heading toward Fystov, it’s none of our business,” said Baric. “Nothing else of note?”

  Luciv looked like he would speak, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Then we’ll press on.” Baric clapped Luciv on the shoulder. The young man might have been cast in bronze from how much he moved under the blow. “We’re heading up Itrik’s trail to stay off the path. Should be at Fystov’s by dusk. If we’re not back tomorrow by midday, let Branka know.”

  “All right,” said Luciv mildly.

  Morov hawked and spat. “We’ve a long ways ahead of us. Best be off.”

  “Lead on,” said Hugh.

  Morov did so.

  They hiked through the woods for another two hours, sometimes following a faint trail, other times veering off to weave through the forest. The approach seemed haphazard, but they always avoided the thickets and denser undergrowth that would have slowed them down.

  They marched in silence. Hugh tried to find a way to approach Morwyn, dropping back to hike alongside her for a while, but her stony expression and steadfast refusal to answer his questions ended his hopes of making an apology.

  Up they climbed, the way occasionally becoming so steep they had to grasp the slender trunks of saplings to haul themselves up, the ground sliding out from under their feet, only to reach ridges along whose length they’d march till finding another near vertical ascent. The trees thinned out. The underbrush grew scarce. More and more often they were afforded sweeping views of the valley.

  They stopped by a splashing waterfall for a quick lunch. Morov and Baric sat to one side, speaking quietly to each other. The mood amongst Hugh’s companions was somber. Not, Hugh thought, munching on his hunk of dried summer sausage, because of what lay before them. Rather, some natural ease had been shattered. Their respite had ended, and now they were going to confront their enemy. Thoughts no doubt strayed ahead to what awaited them.

  Fortunately, their lunch break was short.

  They resumed climbing. Switchbacks. Trails that were literally used by mountain goats. Narrow defiles that would open onto mountain meadows, each small and precious like a handful of emerald gems cupped between two palms, hidden until you stumbled upon them. Flowers and pools of standing water so crystalline they were hard to discern.

  The sun began to make its way down toward the western horizon. They reached the first of the rock faces they had to climb, and Hugh found the experience invigorating; Morov led the way, pointing out handholds, and they scaled a height of some thirty yards.

  No incident plagued their ascent.

  The next climb required ropes. Morov went up first, affixed his cord to an old piton, and lowered the other end which Baric expertly tied about Hugh’s chest and thighs so that it formed a harness. Hugh climbed, feeling no fear, pushing himself to move quickly, not hesitate when handholds seemed insufficient, using momentum to carry him up the sixty yards and haul himself over the ledge.

  Morov gave him a grudging nod of approval. Hugh kept his expression neutral but couldn’t resist feeling some modicum of pride.

  Shadows lengthened. They were high enough now that the wind was cutting, the trees reduced to evergreens that had grown dwarfed by the altitude, the mountain peaks themselves seeming within reach, their tips capped with glittering ice that smoldered like guttering coals as they caught the dying sun’s last rays.

  “We’re almost there,” said Morov, turning to face them as their trail wound its way past a fork, the other path climbing precipitously to what looked like a large ledge overhead. “Two hundred yards past this point we’ll pass the rear of the fort to come out over the Fystov Bridge. It’s a scramble down, perhaps a dozen yards of loose rock. There’s a small clearing before the bridge itself. What’s your plan?”

  “Elena will scout for us,” said Hugh. “Do Aleksandr’s men know about this approach?”

  Morov and Baric shared a look, then both shrugged.

  “Regardless. Elena will scout, and if all looks well, I’ll take the lead. Anastasia, Elena, you both keep to the high ground. Morwyn, you come down with me.”

  “And us?” asked Baric, his voice tense.

  “You’re not being paid to fight.”

  “No, we’re not,” he said. “So, we’ll keep to the high ground as well.”

  Hugh studied the man. Had he hoped he’d volunteer? He couldn’t say he was surprised.

  “If I raise my fist,” said Hugh, “that’s your signal to send stones amongst their number, Anastasia.”

  “Very well,” said the disciplus, her voice as tense as Baric’s.

  “With a little luck we’ll learn something useful and soon turn around to go home with a nice bag of gold,” said Hugh, forcing himself to sound encouraging and amused. “Remember, this is a parlay. They think they’re dealing with a greedy younger nobleman and will treat us with the same contempt. We’ll gather our intelligence, return to Erro, and make our plans from there.”

  Nobody spoke. Only Elena gave him an encouraging nod. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

  “Why her?” asked Baric. “You want someone to scout, send me or Morov. We’ve more experience.”

  “Elena is up to the task,” said Hugh. “Good luck.”

  She smiled at him and walked ahead, down the trail, disappearing around the curve of the cliffside moments later.

  To shift, as agreed earlier, into her fox form, and reconnoiter anonymously.

  Their group stood in tense silence. The wind was a constant, blowing past them and causing their cloaks to ripple, hair to stir. Cold fingers probed through Hugh’s clothing. He ignored it. Waited, watching the far curve of the cliff.

  Not many minutes later Elena returned. She approached them silently, lowering her hood as she stepped in close.

  “They didn’t learn from Istlav’s defeat. There’s only a dozen men down there, though they’re all gathered on the far side of the bridge. I couldn’t get closer without being spotted. The fort looks empty.”

  “A dozen,” said Hugh. “How many can cross the bridge at once?”

  “Four or five,” said Elena.

  “Then we’re all right. Shows that they’re more interested in talking than fighting. We ready?”

  Nods.

  “May Fortuna bless this venture,” said Hugh gravely, and strode past Elena.

  Dusk was upon them. Details were being washed out in the gloaming, but there was no mistaking the group of men with their lit torches on the far side of the bridge. A hard lot, standing with quiet focus, without any of the usual banter you’d find amongst a casual militia that had been forced to wait for who knew how long. One man stood at their front, his form silhouetted by the torchlight behind so that Hugh couldn’t make out his face.

  The bridge itself was an impressive feat of engineering; about twenty yards long, it spanned a terrifying chasm that seemed to have been cloven into the mountains by the Hanged God’s own blade. Ancient, furred ropes as thick as Hugh’s thighs held it aloft, their ends tied to huge plinths that flanked the approach on each side.

  I’d not fancy my chances crossing that on a cart, thought Hugh as he surveyed the planks laid across its length. But on foot? Sure.

  The ruined fort rose on their side of the ravine, dominating the approach. Even now, knowing that the building was free of Szidora’s spirit, Hugh felt a shiver as he gazed upon its damp stones. Given its reputation, he doubted anybody was hiding within it.

 
With no way to descend the steep slope of scree without betraying his approach, Hugh took his time before attempting it, crouching up on the narrow trail, studying the environs, seeking out some sign of an ambush. No movement. The pass here all bare rock. Plus Elena had scouted it out in her fox form; her nose was no doubt infinitely sharper than his eyesight in the gloom.

  Time to go.

  Hugh stepped down and slid as gracefully as he could down the slope, pebbles and dirt skittering about him as he left deep furrows behind, to step out onto the firmer ground. The group on the far side oriented on him, tension obvious amongst their ranks. No spears, this time. Blades at hips, bows in hand.

  That could be problematic.

  Confidence was key. Morwyn stepped down beside him, and together they approached their end of the bridge. Someone had placed torches in the ancient sconces affixed to the plinths, so that there was no chance of creeping across without either being seen or dousing the flames first.

  No matter. This was a parlay. Hugh moved into the firelight. The flames streamed and raged in the wind that poured lonesomely through the chasm’s length, crackling and sending sparks dancing into the darkness.

  Movement on the far side. Their leader was approaching, stepping out onto the bridge.

  Perfect.

  And coming by himself.

  Covered, no doubt, by the archers he was leaving behind. The plinths would provide excellent cover if needed. The enemy must have realized that. Perhaps their motives truly were pacific.

  “I can’t move,” said Morwyn, voice vibrating with panic and strain.

  Hugh wheeled to regard her. She stood frozen by his side, eyes straight ahead, cords of effort standing out in her neck.

  Zarja’s cry broke the night. “Sorcery!”

  Hugh drew his blade. The man was halfway across the bridge and still approaching calmly.

  “Hugh! We’re -” Elena’s voice cut off. The sound of scrabbling high up on the hidden trail, and then the shadows there seethed with movement.

  The tromp of boots coming up the main trail from the direction of Erro. Another dozen men, marching into view around the fort’s far corner, still a goodly distance but closing fast.

  “My lord.” The voice was gravelly and pitched to carry, weighed down with an almost melancholic authority that twisted Hugh’s gaze back to the approaching man. He’d entered the torch light on Hugh’s side; an impressive chestnut mustache hid his lips, and one eye gleamed with cold calculation, its partner covered by a black patch. Dark hair shot through with runnels of silver, his face carved by deep lines as if by some vast grief or private sorrow that made it hard to pin down his age.

  “My lord, put down your blade. This meeting is not what you thought it would be, and in truth it is already over.”

  Hugh licked his lower lip. He couldn’t back away and leave Morwyn defenseless. She yet struggled by his side, straining fruitlessly against her invisible shackles. No more cries from the hidden path. A dozen men behind. A dozen bowmen across the chasm. He could kill them all.

  “I argued in favor of doing you the courtesy of explaining what was happening,” said the man. He continued to approach, uncaring of Hugh’s blade. “You are outmatched and insisting on fighting will see your friends killed. Put down your blade, my lord.”

  Take the man hostage. Use him to have the others released. Turn him toward the bowmen -

  “I’ll ask the one last time,” said their leader, stopping at last but a couple of yards beyond the plinths. “You do me insult by not returning my courtesy. Will you force my hand?”

  Hugh burst forward, not calling on the Lost Reavers yet, sure that he could take an unarmed man - only to stagger to a halt, frozen in place.

  It was as if he were sheathed in ice. Encumbered across every inch of his skin by an unyielding force that held him in place with perfect exactitude. He cried out in fury and strained against it.

  There was no give.

  “Alas. It seems even the nobility of this age act like peasants.” The eye-patched man stepped off the bridge, past Hugh, and out of his field of vision. He didn’t go far. His voice remained close. “The world insists on disappointing me. No matter. You and your friends are to be our guests. More will be explained when we reach our camp. Zubar, bring down the others.”

  The sound of scrabbling, the hiss of rocks, overlaid by the marching tromp of the approaching boots from down the trail.

  This can’t be happening. To be trapped so neatly. Men in place anticipating our arrival, and up on the hidden trail, too. Down the road and out of sight. A force nearly thirty strong. We could have taken them were it not for this magic -

  Katharzina.

  His field of vision was locked on the bridge and the far bank. The archers stood at the ready, arrows nocked but aimed at the ground. They were never seriously concerned. Where was she?

  A hand reached out to curl along the line of his jaw, the touch gentle and feminine. The smell of leather and magnolias.

  “Don’t resist, Lord Hugh.” Katharzina’s shadowy purr. “I can sense your frustration. To fall so easily into our little trap. How galling.”

  Her fingers on his chin turned his head around, the rest of his body following, so that he could see her at last, clad as before in her leathers and cloak, smile somber, hood up over her raven hair. Beyond her the others were descending the scree, Elena and Anastasia blindfolded and bound, escorted by only four men, Baric and Morov -

  Baric and Morov were unbound.

  Traitors.

  Baric’s eyes were wide, his face flushed, his grin nervous and insulting. “Sorry about that, my lord,” he called out. “But what you offered couldn’t compare to what my lord Aleksandr’s paying.”

  Morov kept his mouth shut.

  The dozen soldiers formed a wall just beyond them. One of their number, a large brute of a man wearing a balding bear skin and with a chin like an anvil stepped up to glare at Morwyn.

  “This the bitch that killed my brother?”

  Baric’s grin grew wider. “That’s what I heard, Boletin, from at least three different people who saw the fight.”

  “Give her to me,” Boletin rasped, turning to Eye-Patch.

  “No. They’re all to be taken to our lord.”

  “He specify in what condition?”

  “Lord Hugh was not to be harmed.”

  Boletin grinned, revealing massive teeth so filthy they seemed green in the torchlight. “Excellent.”

  Hugh strained against his restraints once more. Yaros! Bolek! Mikita, Nevkha, Sidorko, Blind Igocha! Come to me, lend me your strength!

  The shades invested him. He felt his muscles cord with power. Felt Blind Igocha take residence just beneath his skin, as powerful and indomitable as the mountains.

  Strained.

  Sweat coursed down his face. His muscles felt like they were tearing.

  There was no give.

  Hugh reached deeper. Called on Chavaun, on Evassier, pulled on Birandillo and Foughtash, on Sweet Severen and Black Evec. Felt the crowd within his being multiply. Inhaled deeply as Boletin stepped over to where Morwyn stood shaking. Felt terrible strength flood through him, his vision grow hazy. Bent his will against the constraints.

  Katharzina turned toward him with a frown.

  Boletin backhanded Morwyn across the face, hard enough to spatter blood.

  Hugh’s vision was darkening, turning red. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Fought the icy constraints - and felt himself slowly begin to move. Inch by agonizing inch.

  “How is that…?” Katharzina’s frown deepened. “My Lord Hugh. Hear my voice.” She moved around to stand directly before him.

  “What’s the problem?” asked Eye-Patch.

  Boletin laughed and buried his fist deep in Morwyn’s gut. Frozen, she was unable to do anything but let out a terribly wounded sound of pain.

  Hugh felt his bones begin to bend as they strained beneath the demand of his musculature. More, he thought to himself. I n
eed more. Dragoslav -

  “My lord, hear my words and obey: cease to struggle against your binding.”

  It was as if a wall slid between his mind and his body. His muscles went slack. Within him howled a dozen Lost Reavers, and Hugh’s voice was raised amongst theirs, so that they cried out in despair and fury like a pack of wolves.

  But for all the power at his command, Hugh couldn’t command movement. Couldn’t so much as lean forward against the magics that held him.

  “Katharzina?” Eye-Patch moved to stand before her and stare at Hugh. “Speak to me.”

  “He… Lord Hugh was defying my spell.” Her voice prim with displeasure. “That should not have been possible. I don’t understand it.”

  “Is he still a threat?”

  A scream from Morwyn. Boletin had her by the throat. Punched her square in the face with his other hand, then leaned down to lick blood of her split lips and broken nose. His grin was feral, and the cheers of his men rose up in the night.

  “No longer,” said Katharzina. “There is more to him than we can see, however. That was… that should have been impossible. Best we knock him out to ensure no more problems.”

  “Very well. Boletin.” His voice was a whip crack. “Hurt her too badly and you’ll pay.”

  “I’m just having a little fun with her,” came the massive man’s response. “Teaching her what happens when you kill one of my blood. Teaching her what the word consequences means.”

  Hugh hurled himself against the glass wall that kept him from his own body again and again, like a raging dog against an iron collar. Felt his mind spinning with such sickened fury he couldn’t think, couldn’t reason.

  Have to stop this. Have to free Morwyn. Free them all. Kill Boletin. Kill Katharzina first! Kill -

  His whole body was aflame, and around him he felt the roiling specters of his fallen comrades, felt their indignation and outrage. Like an ocean they threw themselves at the glass wall - and felt it start to break.

  “What the fuck,” said Katharzina, a wild look entering her eyes. “How by the – Quick. Knock him out. Now.”

  Morwyn let out another scream, a sound that seemed to be torn from the depths of her soul, and which rose, and rose, rising up into the night sky into a tormented wail.