by Dan Wells
“Almost?“
Orsus laughed and ducked his head as she punched him in the shoulder. He’d made her crack first. She punched him again, giggling almost as madly as he, before settling back into the wagon’s front bench and leaning against him. He watched the forest roll by, scanning every shadow for wolves or bandits or other dangers.
After a long silence, waiting for her to speak, he laughed. “Well at least say it. I know you want to.”
“Say what?”
“The joke,” he said. “You’re dying to say it, so just get it out.”
Lola furrowed her brow. “What joke?”
“The lumberjack!” Orsus cried. “You’ve been dying to call Laika a lumberjack, so just—” He stopped short at her laughter, then rolled his eyes when he realized she’d taken the joke one step further by tricking him into being the one who said it. “I can’t believe I fell for that.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said sweetly. “You work on a logging crew, after all—you don’t exactly have a large imagination.”
He shook his head, and she laughed again, putting her arms around his shoulders—as far around them as she could, at least—and squeezing him happily. “I love you, Orsus Zoktavir.”
“I love you, future Lola Zoktavir.”
“Just one more month,” she said. She rested her head against his arm. “Thanks for bringing me on this trip. I needed the break.”
“It’s not much of a break,” Orsus said, “just an errand.” They had found an axe deep in the forest, clutched in the hands of a battered warjack so ancient it made Laika look new. It had identified the logging crew as enemies and refused to submit to Orsus’ control—whether through damage to its cortex or something more—and so Orsus had been forced to put it down with an axe of his own. The ’jack itself was beyond salvage, but its axe needed only minor repair and looked like the perfect size for Laika. Aleksei had commissioned the repair from a mechanik in Hedrinya, a mining town not far from the valley, and now that the job was done he’d assigned Orsus to retrieve it. Orsus had asked Lola to come along as company. Any day he got to spend with her—and only her—was a day to be treasured.
“My mother wants crocuses,” she said. “I keep telling her that it’s chamomile or nothing.” She sighed. “I think she’s ready to call my bluff and insist on nothing.”
“She doesn’t like chamomile?”
“She says they’re too plain for a wedding.”
“I say she’s too plain for a wedding.”
“She’s my mother, Orsus.”
“Which means we’ll see plenty of her before and after.” He shifted the reins in his hands and shrugged. “Same with everybody else, really. All we need for the wedding, technically speaking, is you and me and a priest.”
“Don’t even say it.” She buried her face in his shoulder. Her voice was muffled. “It’s far too tempting, and my mother would kill me.”
“Better not, then,” he said with a grin. “I can protect you from a lot of things, but she frightens me.”
She pulled back and scowled at him, but broke into laughter almost immediately. “Stay on her good side as long as you can,” she warned. “She’s a much better cook than I am.”
“I’ve been cooking my own meals since I was ten,” said Orsus. “I think I’ve got that covered. Which do you like better: cracked wheat gruel or cracked wheat gruel with lumps?”
“Real food is going to amaze you,” she said. “Even mine.” She leaned on him again, watching the forest creep by as their horse pulled them. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and sad. “I’m sorry your parents can’t be there. They’d be very proud of you.”
“Not as proud as they’d be if I’d saved them.”
Lola sat up straighter. “Is that . . . ?” She frowned. “Are you still blaming yourself for their deaths?”
“Forget I said anything.”
“That’s what you say every time, Orsus, but we need to talk about this. Is that really how you think of them? Of yourself? You were ten years old.”
“I killed their killer. Obviously I wasn’t too young, I was just too late.”
“It was not your fault,” Lola said.
“I should have saved them.”
“You were ten years old! Can you even imagine the kind of bloodthirsty, paranoid, horrifying life a ten-year-old would have to lead to outdo a massacre by Tharn raiders? To outfight monsters who fight every day of their lives? I don’t think I would have liked that ten-year-old very much, and I certainly wouldn’t have fallen in love with whoever he’d grow up to be.”
“And what if they come for you?” Orsus said. “The Tharn aren’t gone. They raid through these valleys every year, and sooner or later they’re coming back to ours, and they’re going to hit our village, and I’m going to have a family again. I’m going to have you, and maybe a son or a daughter, maybe more. What do I do then? I want to protect you, Lola.”
“If that time comes, you’ll protect me,” she said. “I know that for a fact; I don’t even have to wonder. But I pray every day that that time never comes, and you . . .” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know if you do. Sometimes I think it’s all you ever think about.”
“I think about you.”
“You think about hurting things that hurt me.” Her voice was suddenly small and weak, like the sound of a mouse in vast, empty room. “That’s different.”
Orsus wanted to tell her she was wrong, but his eyes were already scanning the forest shadows again, his ears pricked up at a sound he’d heard off in the trees. “I’m not going to close my eyes,” he said evenly. “There’s a balance between living for violence and pretending it doesn’t exist.”
“Have you found it?”
“Probably not, but I think it’s a lot farther to one side than you seem to. I refuse to lose you, and if that means I have to be ready for certain . . . problems, then I’ll be ready for them. I don’t drag you into it, and you never have to know.”
“But you drag yourself into it. You drag yourself through it, like mud, and it breaks my heart to watch you do that to yourself.”
“Then I’ll . . .” He grunted in frustration. I’ll hide it better, he thought.
“You put yourself through agony over what happened to your family,” said Lola, “and you don’t have to. You don’t have to put yourself through agony over what might never happen to me. You’re a good man, Orsus—you have to deal with darkness sometimes, and maybe even with death, and I understand that.” She put her hand on his chin. “But you don’t have to wallow in it.”
They had reached the foothills now, and the road turned up the mountain toward Hedrinya. Orsus didn’t answer Lola because he didn’t know how; she saw the world as a bright, happy place where good people were rewarded for good deeds, and if you stayed away from the bad stuff it would stay away from you. That was a tempting view of the world, but it had never proven true in his experience. The bad stuff, the darkness and the death and the pain and the loss, they came for you whether you invited them or not. No matter how far away you tried to stay. Even the best intentions could go wrong.
He thought of his mother, cowering in the cellar, telling his sister to hush as they hid from the raiders, telling her to stop crying, to stop breathing. Limp limbs dangling like meat in a smokehouse.
“I love you,” said Lola. “I’m sorry we fought.”
“I love you, too,” said Orsus. But still he rode in silence.
The mechanik had a storefront built up against the mountainside and a shop within that cut deep back into the stone; boilers churned and whistled, big curls of smoke billowing out from chimneys on the cliff side high above. Orsus pulled the wagon to a halt and tied the horse at the post in front, offering him a splash of water in the trough before taking Lola gently by the waist and lifting her down to the ground. The valley stretched out before them like a deep-green blanket, vast swathes of pine forest covering wide, rolling hills, with the bright-blue line of the Neves River co
iling through it like a ribbon. A wisp of wood smoke here and there was the only sign of the tiny villages nestled in the folds of the land.
A young boy covered with soot and eating an apple jumped up on the porch when they arrived, running inside with a shout. He returned to hold the door open, inviting them in with hands stained black from coal dust. “Yermo’s inside.”
Orsus nodded and offered Lola his arm as if they had just been announced at a royal ball. She took it with a smile, and they entered the workshop, Orsus ducking his head through the doorway.
They were greeted inside by a bronze-skinned man with singed eyebrows who shook Orsus’ hand enthusiastically, surprising him with the crushing strength of his grip. Orsus nodded. There were not many men who could impress him with their strength. “Yermolai Garin,” said the mechanik. “But you’ll forgive me—I thought I was repairing an axe for a steamjack.”
Orsus frowned. “You were. Was there a problem?”
“It’s not for you?”
Orsus glanced at Lola, embarrassed, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain something awkward. “Why would it be for me? I wouldn’t . . . commission a weapon.”
“Of course, of course,” said Yermo. “I apologize, I simply saw how big you are and wondered if maybe I’d heard wrong and the weapon was supposed to be for you. All is well! Come, come, I have it right back here.”
He led them deeper into the shop, and Orsus marveled at the odd combination of familiar and bizarre: blacksmith’s tools he had seen before, but some of the old man’s devices seemed downright arcane. Generators burned, buzzed, and crackled. One table was covered with thick sheaves of smudged paper, each page bearing an intricate pattern of lines, like the veins in a leaf. Thick metal rails crisscrossed the ceiling, and here and there a bundle of chains hung down to hold some part of a ’jack leg or torso. “A lumber axe for a steamjack,” Yermo said as he walked. “You could call it a lumberjack, no?”
Orsus groaned, and Lola giggled.
“I straightened the haft and replaced the blade,” said Yermo, “but the real work was the accumulator. You may have found this on a ruined warjack, as you say, but it was built for a warcaster.” He stopped by a wide metal cabinet and fumbled with a set of keys. “It’s an absolute shame to waste it on a warjack—someone with the skill to channel magic energy can use this axe to double his strength, at the very least, probably more. Ah, here’s the key I’m looking for. Isak, fetch a chain.”
He opened the cabinet to reveal a full rack of tools and weapons, but it was obvious which one Orsus had come for. The soot-stained boy ran up with a chain to help carry the giant weapon, dragging it along one of the ceiling rails, but Orsus simply grasped the axe by the haft and lifted it out.
It was a thing of beauty.
“I like the balance,” Orsus said.
“You’re sure it’s not for you?”
“The opposite, actually,” Lola said with a grin. “Orsus works for Aleksei’s logging company, but he’s leaving soon to start a wood shop.” She beamed at the old mechanik. “It was Orsus’ idea to teach the steamjack how to fell trees so the company could keep going without him and not lose their pace.”
“They need a ’jack to replace him,” said Yermo. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.”
Orsus moved the axe a bit, as much as he could in the cramped workshop. He longed to get outside and test it with a real swing. It fit his hand and arm almost perfectly. It was heavier than any other axe he’d ever used, but it was better made, better weighted, and looked a hundred times more powerful. He wondered how many cuts it would take to segment a tree with it—or to cut through a steamjack’s armor. If they ever faced another one, like they had with Nazarov, an axe like this would give them a fighting chance.
Almost as soon as he thought of it he stole a guilty glance at Lola. She was clucking playfully at the shop boy, Isak, and didn’t seem to have noticed.
“How much did Aleksei offer you for this?” he asked. Aleksei was too much of a skinflint to pay even a fraction of what the axe was worth, and the bagful of coins he’d given Orsus to deliver, allegedly the second part of the full payment, didn’t seem remotely adequate.
“Oh, I don’t remember,” Yermo said, “something to cover the materials. It doesn’t matter—I’ve never had the chance to work on a piece this intricate before, and I’ve learned more just studying its design than any amount of compensation could pay for. Don’t tell Aleksei that, of course, or he’ll never pay me for anything again. That old Laika of his will be due for repairs soon, don’t let him forget.”
“I won’t.” Orsus pulled the bag of coins from his belt and dropped it in the mechanik’s hands. “Thank you, this is . . . it’s perfect.”
“My pleasure,” Yermo said, turning to lead them back out. Orsus gripped the axe in one hand and Lola in the other, smiling like an idiot.
His smile faded with every step.
I promised to give up that life for her, he thought. The fighting and the violence and the death, and yet . . . I see a weapon like this, a perfect work of art, and I know that this life is a part of me. I can give it up, and I will, but it will always be there, and I will always know it, and I think she will always know it. Even if I never kill anyone again, I’m still a killer. I’m still that same little ten-year-old boy plotting vengeance in a nightmare cellar. She said she’d never love the man that boy grew up to be.
How can she ever love me?
Luka Kratikoff, riding point for Kommander Zoktavir’s small contingent, was the first to see Deshevek. The rest of their forces were behind them, breaking camp and preparing for the final leg of the march, and the kommander had taken a small force of fifty riders and a Juggernaut ahead; the ’jack slowed them considerably but made for a much more impressive sight. If their mission was to impress the locals, this was an effective way to do it.
Luka examined the tiny village carefully through his spyglass, furrowing his brow in consternation as the villagers reacted to his presence—not gawking as most peasants did when the Winter Guard arrived, but running madly. At this distance he couldn’t tell if they were excited or terrified. He watched a moment longer, then turned and rode back to the kommander.
“Report,” said Zoktavir.
“No obvious dangers on the road, sir, and the outriders report none in the trees.”
“None that we can see,” said Zoktavir, “but we will proceed with caution.”
“Yes, sir,” said Luka, frowning at the thought of spies. The people in the village had been acting so strangely. “There’s one more thing, sir. The villagers were . . . I don’t know how to say it, sir. They acted strange.”
“You spoke to them?”
“I saw them from a distance, and they saw us. They started running, not away, just . . . in circles. Almost like they were trying to prepare something.”
Zoktavir’s eyes darkened. “A trap?”
“Here? Luka said. “In our own lands?”
“This is the utmost border of our lands, Korporal, with nothing between that village and Ord but a mile of fallow farmland. They’re practically foreigners.” He turned and called out to the other riders. “Kovnik Bogdan!”
“Sir!”
“Tell the men to draw arms. We may face resistance in the village.”
The kovnik delivered the orders, but Luka felt unsettled. There was no sign that the villagers were traitors. They were just running. It could mean anything.
I suppose it’s better to be prepared, he told himself. The kommander is zealous, but he’s not a murderer. He won’t attack harmless villagers unless they attack us first, and at that point they aren’t really harmless anymore, are they? He drew his sword and thought of the promise he’d made to his daughter—barely thirteen years old and devastated to watch him ride away to active duty. Don’t worry, Sorscha, he’d said. I’ll be home again soon.
They approached the village at a steady canter, not charging but not ambling peacefully either. Luka’s first impression was
that the village was shaped wrong—there were more structures than he’d seen in the spyglass, or maybe the same structures in different places. It didn’t make sense, but he gripped his sword more tightly, ready for the worst. In the back of the village he could see them gathering women and children into the old stone church—a sure sign the inhabitants expected battle. It made Luka even more unsettled than before.
And there, in the far distance, the worst sign of all: a single horse with a single rider, galloping hard toward the rugged Murata Hills. The dim shape of Boarsgate squatted darkly on the horizon, and Luka felt a chill so cold he couldn’t help but shiver. It was possible that the rider was simply a lone man fleeing the scene of battle, but unlikely. He’d been in the Guard too long not to recognize the rider for what he was: the villagers had sent a messenger to Boarsgate. Luka looked at Kommander Zoktavir, almost too terrified to tell him, but the fury in the man’s eyes told him the warcaster had seen it for himself.
As they drew closer, he saw that the villagers had constructed a barricade across the road, and a handful of men were huddled behind it clutching rakes and hoes. Luka’s heart sank.
“I am Kommander Orsus Zoktavir of the Fifth Border Legion.” Zoktavir reined up a dozen yards from the barricade. “I order you to tear this outrage down immediately, and to explain yourselves. Who speaks for this village?”
A man stood up behind the barricade, trembling in obvious terror. “I do.”
“Are you a rebel?” asked Zoktavir.
“N-no.”
“No faithful servant of the Motherland would bar our way. You’re a traitor and a liar.”
“We want no trouble, sir,” said the peasant. “For us or for you—”
Zoktavir drew his giant axe, holding it up like a fearsome totem of destruction. “What trouble do you think you can cause me?”
“It’s just that . . .” The man swallowed, practically too nervous to stand. “Begging your pardon, sir, it’s just that this land is so distant from Korsk, and often forgotten. We see more Ordic soldiers than Khadoran.”
