by Mike Truk
But where had she sent him? We’ve little time, she’d said, and had acted fast. He was to be in Vuk tomorrow. That was a day’s journey from Erro. And judging from the subtle slope to the needle-covered ground, he was still in the mountains. Somewhere.
Hugh sheathed his blade.
He had to get back to Aleksandr’s camp. Cold fury coiled in his guts like a snake curling tighter about its prey.
Revenge.
The desire to wreck his vengeance upon everyone involved in the events of the past night beat within him in time to the pounding of his heart. His body wasn’t large enough to contain his fury. His shoulders rose and fell with each burning breath.
This is all for the best, she’d said. An unexpected bounty. The game grows more complex, the stakes higher.
“You’ve no fucking idea,” growled Hugh, casting around for any sign as to which way to go.
There. A hint of a path winding down between rocks. This space had been frequently used. Hugh strode down the near invisible trail, losing it quickly but allowing momentum to carry him forward, down the slope, between rocks and trees. Picking the easiest path until he stepped out on the main road north of Erro.
Stopped.
Looked up the trail in the direction of Fystov Bridge. The urge to race back up there was near overwhelming. But to what end? He didn’t know where their camp was.
But he knew who did.
Where along the path had he come out?
He turned downhill. Began to jog.
Far sooner than he expected, the trail turned, took a familiar cast, and the woods peeled back to reveal Erro, the path crossing the bridge over the falls to River Road. A few windows were lit, but the village yet slept.
Hugh stopped, surprised at how quickly he’d reached the village. Of course. Why would Katharzina wish to hike farther than necessary to reach Erro. Almost he turned to head back.
But no. Since he was here. First things first.
He jogged down the trail, crossed over the mended bridge, the sight of the fresh wood where he and Morwyn had broken the railing causing a shaft of pain to leap into his heart, his throat to close with panicked fear.
Let them be alive. Let them still live. Please please please don’t let them be dead, but if so, I swear by the blood that roars through me -
Down the road to the tavern. The door was locked. Hugh stepped back, took a breath, then plowed his foot straight into it. Shattered the crossbar on the other side. Stepped in through the wreckage.
Wlad was climbing to his feet from where he lay beside the dead fireplace, eyes wide with shock. “M’lord?”
Hugh ignored him. Strode across the room, to the stairs, and took them three at a time. Burst into Branka’s room as she climbed out of her bed, her body pale and nude in the half-light.
She was going for a blade.
He leaped over her bed and knocked it from her hand. Pushed her by the shoulder against the wall and found his own dagger up and against her throat.
“Hugh?” She could barely choke out his name. “What - ? Why - ?”
“Are you with them?” His voice was hoarse with rage.
“With… who?”
“With Aleksandr!” His roar must have woken half of Erro.
“With…” Her confusion was plain. “I… no!”
“Don’t lie to me!” He leaned in, searching her face for some hint of duplicity.
“By the Fate Maker I swear it!”
Nothing there but fear and naked honesty. For a terrible moment he wrestled with his need for an enemy, with his conviction that she’d set them up, and then he stepped back, released her. Branka stared at him, eyes wide.
“Swear it,” he whispered, gut churning. “Swear it by the Fate Maker. Swear it with the Final Vow, or I’ll take off your head right here and now.”
“I swear it,” she said quickly. “May the Fate Maker hide my burning path if I lie, may he lose me to the darkness and consign me to the thrice cursed god, I swear in his name that I’m telling you the truth.”
Hugh stepped back again. Passed his hand over his face. “Baric and Morov betrayed us.” His voice sounded alien in his own ears. A harsh, bitter rasp. “We were ambushed. I don’t know if the others live.”
“I didn’t know,” said Branka, voice urgent, desperate. She made no move to cover her nakedness. “I thought Morov dependable, Baric’s an ass, but he’s always been one of ours. An ambush?”
Hugh gave a bitter laugh. “Like lambs to the slaughter. Where do they live?”
“Morov has a small house up on the slopes. Baric spends most of his time at the lodge since his wife left him.”
“Then that’s where I’ll look for him,” said Hugh. Turned to leave, then stopped. Closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Branka’s voice was quiet. “I understand.”
“It made… I could have sworn you betrayed me. In choosing those two. But no. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’ll get dressed. I’ll come with you.”
“No,” said Hugh. “I’m going to move fast.” Another moment’s hesitation, and then he made his way down the stairs, out the tavern, and back onto the trail.
Began to run up the street.
People had emerged from their homes to stare. They drew back as he passed. Opened up his stride for speed. Devoured the uphill slope, ran across the bridge, then back to the road. One hand on his sword to keep it from bouncing against his leg. Up to the lodge. The eastern sky starting to lighten further. The air wet and crisp. Frost across the ruts and icing the potholes.
Up. His breathing deep, sweat prickling his brow. His stride devouring the distance. Higher and higher he ran, never slowing, furiously studying the forested side of the trail, searching, searching for the spot that marked the approach to the lodge.
He stopped. Nothing obvious leaped out, but this was it. The innocuous spot where Baric had led them into the woods. Hugh was certain. He leaped over the ditch, pushed aside the undergrowth, and in a matter of moments found the deer path.
Followed it.
Felt his fury mounting. But he’d learned his lesson. He couldn’t let it dominate him. Make mistakes. So he leashed it tight, brought it to heel, and forced himself to approach with caution.
Birdsong overhead. The rush and rustle of animals in the undergrowth. The forest alive at this dawn hour. And there. The dull, squat shape of the lodge. Windows dark.
A moment of fear: what if the guides hadn’t come back? What if they rested still up in Aleksandr’s camp? It was only a three-hour march down, but why would they have made it in the night?
Fuck.
Best pray Luciv was still home.
Up to the door. The windows tightly shuttered. Hugh stopped, held his breath, strove to hear anything within.
Silence.
Once more he kicked in the door, shattering the old portal into fragments of mossy wood, and into the dark interior he stepped, blade drawn.
Movement off to his left, the darkness shifting. Hugh lunged. He saw a figure rising from a cot, reaching for a blade beneath his bed.
Hugh swung his sword down, hard, as the man raised his blade, and knocked it out of his grasp. Moved in, clasped the man by the neck, and lifted him bodily out of the bed to slam him against the wall.
There was fight in the other man. He lashed out with a kick against Hugh’s ribs. Hugh didn’t even feel it. Placed the edge of his sword against the other man’s pale throat and leaned in, barely able to make out the other’s face.
The man stilled.
“Good,” snarled Hugh, then he stepped back and hurled him across the room, at the open doorway.
The man hit hard, rolled, came up with admirable dexterity. But Hugh was on him, and thrust a kick right into his chest, lifting him up off his feet to fly out the door into the dawn light, crashing down onto the path and lie there gaping and wheezing.
Hugh emerged from the lodge, blade yet in hand, to stare down at Luciv. “You. You took wo
rd to Aleksandr.”
Luciv had the dignity to stare up, fear and defiance in his gaze, and not attempt a petty denial. Then his lungs unlocked and he sucked in a shuddering gasp.
“You know where their camp is,” said Hugh, leaning down, placing the tip of his blade at Luciv’s gullet. “You’ll take me there.”
Calculation in the young man’s eyes. “All right.” Quietly spoken. “I’ll need my boots.”
“Get them.”
Hugh moved aside. Luciv gingerly rose to his feet, massaging his chest, and casting dubious glances behind him, moved back to the lodge.
Hugh followed behind.
Into the gloom.
Luciv crossed over to his bed, bent over. Hugh lunged forward and kicked the man in the hip, hard enough to send him sprawling over the bed and crash down between bed and wall.
A flash of metal. A dagger he’d been pulling from inside his boot. Hugh snarled and kicked the frame of the bed, driving it into Luciv and slamming the man’s head against the wall.
Luciv cried out in pain.
Hugh reached across, grabbed a fistful of flaxen hair, and wrenched the ranger back over the bed to hurl him across the floor again. Followed with kicks, driving him back outside.
“March,” snarled Hugh.
“Fine,” said Luciv, voice hard, expression sullen. “Can’t blame me for trying. But I still need my damn boots if I’m to lead you up there.”
“You’re going to have to march without them.” Hugh’s voice brooked no denial. “You’ll not slow down because if you do I’ll cut a piece off of you.”
Luciv stared at him, jaw working, then nodded. Turned. And marched along the trail toward the main path.
Hugh was ready when the man broke into a sprint.
Chased right after him, blade flashing back and forth. The pair of them careened through the woods, both fleet-footed, but fury and power lent Hugh greater speed. At the last, just before the trail proper, he leaped and rode Luciv to the ground, roaring his anger as he seized the man by the back of the neck and slammed his face into the rocky path.
“Enough!” He slammed Luciv’s face back down. Once, twice, three times. Rose to his feet, so furious he was forced to pant for breath. Grasped Luciv by the neck and hauled him up off the ground. Raised the man a good foot off the ground, fingers a vice around his neck.
Luciv’s blood and dirt-inflected face darkened as he gripped Hugh’s wrist.
“You’re mine,” growled Hugh, bringing the man close. “Mine to do with as I will. Keep giving me cause, I’ll start cutting pieces off you. Ears. Fingers. Your fucking cock. Anything you don’t need to lead me up this mountain. I’ll fucking strew the trail with pieces of your flesh. You hear me, you miserable piece of shit?”
Luciv gave a desperate nod.
Hugh released him. The man fell like a sack of stones onto the path and lay there gasping. But he stood up quickly enough. He was strong. Massaged his throat, then bowed his head.
“I’m done. I’ll lead you up there. You’re… you’re going to kill me when we reach the top, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Hugh.
“Fuck.” Luciv stared off to the side, blood running down his upper lip and from a cut under his eye. “Fuck.”
“Consequences, asshole. Now move.”
Something in Hugh’s voice. Some absolute certainty. A promise of blood. Luciv drew himself up to his full height, body trembling, and nodded. Turned, stepped out onto the path, and began to climb.
Luciv was strong and in excellent shape. But Hugh was powered by an unnatural fury and drove Luciv before him, his very presence causing the ranger to never slow down to more than a jog. Up they climbed. Up the trail curled, curved, occasionally looping out wide along the mountain face so that a break in the trees showed the morning valley below.
Hugh didn’t spare it a glance.
How dare they take him and his companions like that. How dare they seek to break him, to humiliate him, to torture him in that stone cell, seeking to shatter his very sense of self.
The bastards. Hugh had killed in anger before. But what he was feeling now transcended those moments of heated passion. His was a vast and coruscating anger, turning ice cold in his breast, freezing his higher sensibilities, making him capable of anything.
The bastards.
Up Luciv ran, feet cut to bloody ribbons. Up he staggered, panting after an hour. On he ran, ever higher, the trees changing, the air growing brisk and frigid.
“The fort,” panted Luciv, coming to a stop and bending over, hands on his knees. “Up ahead. Nobody will be guarding the bridge beyond. But there’s a chance. After what happened last night.” He forced himself to stand upright. “Look. I didn’t have a choice in last night. But I’m warning you now. Not just leading you into it blind. I’m helping you, understand?”
“I understand,” said Hugh. “And the camp?”
“Another half hour past the bridge.” Luciv wiped the gleaming sweat from his brow. “Though you leave the road pretty quickly after crossing over.”
“Very well.” Hugh marched past the ranger. “Then let’s see who they left behind.”
Were they dead? Had they been stabbed and tossed aside? He thought of Boletin hammering his fist into Morwyn’s face. What other use could a band of soldiers have for gorgeous, young women?
Hugh’s fury grew colder.
If they dared.
If they even thought of it.
He rounded the curve. There was the fort, beyond it Fystov Bridge, barely visible. Hugh marched past the fort, glancing up at it, and then up to the chasm. The bridge looked different in the early morning light. Innocuous. Yet it was all too easy to recall last night’s scene. The fury and terror. The soldiers. Morwyn’s cries of pain.
Four men were lounging against the far posts. Bows propped up alongside them, arms crossed against the chill, muttering to themselves.
“Look sharp,” said one of them, pushing off to stand straight. “That his lordship?”
Hugh didn’t change his speed. Shoulders back, chin raised, he marched onto the bridge.
“Heard he was one of ours now,” said a second one. “Commander Demian?”
“Greetings!” The first man forced fake cheer into his voice. “Care to identify yourself?”
“Sure,” said Hugh. Kept walking.
“Then go right ahead,” said the first. The others took up their bows, expressions nervous.
“My name’s Demian,” said Hugh, not attempting to convince them.
Unease. “Stop there, if you will, your lordship.”
Hugh kept coming. The wind swirled and howled below in the chasm. The bridge rocked slightly. The board reverberated under his boots.
“My lordship?”
Bows came up. Arrows put to strings, but not drawn.
Hugh forced a smile. It didn’t seem to reassure them. “What’s the matter? You look scared. No sorceress to do the hard work for you?”
“Shit,” said their leader. “Ready, boys. Stop right there! One more step and we’ll fill you with arrows.”
Hugh rolled his shoulders. Didn’t bother drawing his blade. Sweet Severin, he whispered. Evassier. Akilina. Kuryan. Zovhna. Acipa.
And they came, filling him, suffusing him, so that the world seemed to fade away, the howling of the wind to grow muted. Hugh shivered, his body feverish, suddenly feeling light as a feather, as if a particularly strong gale might lift him up and blow him away.
“Fuck this! Loose!”
Four fingers released. Four arrows sped toward him, faster than thought.
Hugh tore his blade free, sliced upward and across at precisely the right moment, shearing through the shafts, sending their halves tumbling past him to spin out into the void and fall out of sight.
The faces before him went blank with astonishment.
And then Hugh was upon them.
From upper right to lower left. Cutting through bows, forearms, six inches of abdomen above the hip.
Screams.
Men scrambled backward.
Blood fountained.
Hugh strode on.
Reverse cut. Put some muscle behind it. Grunting as his blade sliced through the leader’s hip and up through ribs, lungs, heart, out from under his shoulder, through his upper arm, the cut continuing, removing the top of the next man’s head.
The meaty thud of bodies falling, screams cut short. The rocks slick with crimson.
The remaining man backed away, face waxen, clutching the stump of his arm. “Please,” he gasped. “Please, no, don’t, I beg of you -”
Hugh stabbed him in the chest, the tip of his blade sinking in effortlessly, skewering his heart, punching out the back. Hugh kept walking, the man leaning forward as if into a hug, only to fall away, his weight pulling him off the blade.
Hugh never changed his stride. “Luciv!”
The rumble of running across the bridge. Luciv entered his peripheral vision. “That was… how did… Fortuna wept…”
“The camp,” said Hugh, voice pitiless. “Lead me there.”
“Yes,” said Luciv, his tone different, extreme violence having made of him a fresh believer. “This way.”
Up the path a few hundred yards, and then off to curl behind a plinth that hid a trail that wound up between the rocks.
“There’ll be lookouts posted,” said Luciv, turning back to him.
“Not a problem.”
Up they climbed. The ascent effortless. The Lost Reavers hovering within him, caressing the inside of his skin, making him shiver with pent-up energy and anger. The urge to leap forward and sprint up the trail was nearly impossible to restrain.
“There,” said Luciv, pointing up. “See him? Top of the cliff?”
Hugh bent down and palmed a rock. Looked up. Sixty yards up. Saw a lookout peering right back down at him. Horn in one hand.
Three short skittering steps forward, and Hugh hurled the rock. Large as his fist. It sailed up, sped from his hand, to crack into the man’s face. The man didn’t even cry out, but simply fell back and out of sight.
Luciv stared.
“Keep moving,” growled Hugh, thinking of Anastasia, her thwipping rocks. Anxiety roiled within him like a storm-lashed sea.
The ranger tried to swallow, near choked, hurried on. Bloody footprints in his wake. Up they climbed, the path wide enough for two, but clearly couldn’t be the main approach; they’d never bring enough goods this way with which to build a camp. There were other entrances then. Exits, at this point. For those who survived his initial attack.
