She tried to keep her voice even. “The more of you I strangle, the less chance I have of coming out of this alive, so why don’t you two let Teacher ride in between.”
Slate saluted. “Yes ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am. I’ll be sure to be on my best behavior until then, ma’am.”
Crymson faced ahead and did her best to ignore him. Buffoon. What she wouldn’t give for Slate’s horse to step in a gopher hole and throw him on his face, and with the empty fields opening up to either side of the road, picked clean in the late summer, the thought held promise. Morning faded to afternoon, and heat trickled down Crymson’s back, a sticky mixture of dust and sweat.
City living had turned her body into a vessel of weakness. Her legs were cramped and her throat screamed for any water but that of her warm canteen. What fool had built a frame that loved frumpy carriages but failed when left with more basic tools – shouldn’t it be the contrary? She chided herself: power wasn’t only about what one wielded, but also through what receptacle the power flowed – both needed growth. Her only consolation was that they’d made it halfway to Fayne. A small blessing.
A grove of trees, nothing more than green blots on the landscape, came into view. She opened her mouth to suggest resting their horses – a convenient excuse for her aching body – but Alocar turned in his saddle and said, “Trees ahead. Thirty minute lunch and water break, then we’re back on the road.”
“Not happening,” Crymson heard Slate mutter. For once, she agreed with him.
They approached the grove at a glacial rate. Crymson squinted and pulled the hat’s brim down her forehead. There was a wagon beneath the trees, painted vivid red, intersected with occasional splashes of green and blue, people sitting on and around it, making friends of the shade. Four-wheeled, its back rims were half again the size of the front’s, and a team of horses, still hitched to the wagon, grazed on the long-stalked grass.
Crymson booted her horse up next to Alocar’s. “When we get up there, just answer to me. I’m the priestess, and you’re my guards. Easy lie, easy story.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so,” said Slate as the rest of them caught the lead. Isaac and Teacher hung back, watching.
“You don’t think what?” Crymson started edging her horse to the front of the pack.
“We can’t just be waltzing up in there like that. Our mission requires secrecy, a fact you’ve already managed to forget.” Slate made a “what a surprise” face.
“They can’t possibly know our identities,” Alocar said.
“Aren’t you supposed to be famous, Old Man? Besides, her dress doesn’t exactly blend in out here.”
“Which is why we need to go with my original story.” She’d nearly made it to the front. “It’s near enough the truth that it should be easy to tell, and they won’t suspect a thing.”
“Bullshit. We should kill them and hide the bodies in the grove. Insurance.”
“Absolutely not.” Alocar shook his head. “We’re not killing bystanders.”
“Besides,” Crymson cleared her throat, “that might be more trouble than it’s worth. We don’t need the additional risk.”
“Pah! Additional risk is what you’re getting by allowing them to live. Just wait and see.” He waved them contemptuously forward.
A few minutes later, they arrived within shouting distance of the grove. “Ho! Weary travelers. Mind if we share your shade?” Crymson spotted a bow and arrow lying on the wagon’s jockey box. Maybe I should have let Slate lead.
“Come on in!” The shout came from an older man, his hands knotted and scarred along the knuckles.
They entered the grace of the shade and the temperature dropped ten degrees. Crymson sighed. The trees felt like nurturing mothers, replenishing the moisture the sun had wrung from her body. She reached for her canteen and listened to the man with scarred hands speak. Alocar and the others lined up behind her – even Slate.
“Names Cenedia. This here,” Cenedia jerked his thumb at the wagon, “is my family. Wife, Selma. The oldest, Jamar. The twins, Markle and PF, and my youngest, Illana. We’re on our way to Hammonfall. Got some goods to trade.”
“Well met. Crymson Mendora. I’m Cao Fen, and this is my guard. We’re passing through Hammonfall as well, heading on to Fayne.”
“Pleased.” He nodded amiably. “The shade is comfortable but ever shrinking, so let’s enjoy it while we can.”
They settled down. Alocar found a small, scratchy blanket that he wrapped and placed beneath Crymson before she sat on the grass. Slate opened one of the mule’s packsaddles and snacked on a piece of beef wrapped in bread; he threw a piece to Teacher but didn’t offer any to the others. The sound of snapping came from Isaac’s direction, but his back hid whatever he occupied himself with.
“What kind of trade?” Crymson asked. Thrice-damned small talk.
“Odds and ends, mostly. Your uh, your guard must be pretty tired.”
Crymson glanced behind her. Slate, wide-brimmed hat over his face, had laid his head down against the base of an oak, and light snores sawed the air.
“Oh him? He’s not really one of the guard. More just a court clown that we suffer to ride along with us. They say his type are God-Touched.”
“Ah.” Cenedia stroked his chin. “Makes sense.”
The small talk, pitiable though it was, died, and time passed, measured only in the occasional falling leaf of the white oaks, balanced against the regular snores originating from beneath Slate’s broad-brimmed hat.
Cenedia put a hand to his head and looked into the sky. “Well, it’s high time that we be getting on the road. Sun looks like it’s fallen a bit. Good luck finding more shade. I’ve traveled this land aplenty, and it’s a scarce sight. Few groves is all you’ll get.”
He turned toward his family, the reins already in his wife’s hands. “Take care. This road can be dangerous, so we’re just going to keep on pushing through.”
Crymson waved good-bye to the wagon. Its wheels crunched against the road for hundreds of yards before it disappeared around a bend.
“We might want to be a little more discreet with our comings and goings in the future,” Alocar said. “The man was right; there are some less than admirable people on the road that will take advantage of travelers.” He shaded his eyes against the sun. “We need to get a move on pretty soon, too.”
“Not anytime too soon, we’re not!” Slate yelled from the oak tree, surprising Crymson. “I’m not moving for at least another hour, maybe two.”
Alocar scowled and opened his mouth, but Crymson cut him off. “I’m not leaving yet either. I had to entertain our wagoner companion, and I’d like to eat some lunch before we start off.”
Brow furrowed, Alocar said, “One hour.” Only Isaac didn’t move, busy scrutinizing his hands.
Crymson walked to where the dividing line between shade and sun cut across the ground like a serrated knife, chewing on a piece of dried jerky as she watched the empty road. Alocar joined her, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Holding up pretty well?” Alocar asked.
“If you call being alive holding up, then yes.” This jerky is awful.
“You’ll get used to the road after a while. The worst of the break-in period is behind you.” He put a blade of grass in his mouth. “Think we have a chance?”
“Against?” Crymson let the jerky fall to the ground.
“In general.”
Not a prayer in hell. “Maybe.”
He looked at her. “The sooner we come together, the better our odds. Splintered, we don’t stand a chance. I’d like your help in creating a unit. Building trust. Relationships. That’s what will see us through this. Thoughts?”
Slate’s snores sounded in her ear. Might prefer remaining splintered. “Whatever will help us come out on top, I’m willing to do.”
“I can get us there,” Alocar said. Crymson raised her eyebrows.
“You don’t have to believe me, but you look like you’ve seen toug
h times before, and tough people know what it takes to survive.” Alocar tightened his belt a hair. “You’d better rest up while you can. Another week to Hammonfall, and then one more to Fayne.”
Crymson couldn’t find any argument. Already the idea of the saddle, the cramps, the muscle tightness, even the ghastly monotony of the road, it all made her dread the coming weeks. It dulled the mind, this long ride.
She glanced at the ground, strewn with the bodies of her comrades, except Alocar, still staring into the distance. A memory of her time as an urchin in Dradenhurst, begging for scraps, struck Crymson, and she bent to retrieve the jerky. It could always be worse.
Miles down the road, underneath a solitary oak, Mendoza counted silver coins into Selma’s hands. He stopped at ten, and then added two more.
“Cenedia, huh? Didn’t you have an uncle named that?”
“Best I could come up with,” Mendoza said. “I thank you for the borrowing of your family and wagon. You made a splendid wife today.”
“Glad I could be of service.”
Selma spat in her hand and held it out to Mendoza, who did the same. They shook, and the wagon departed down an obscure dirt trail, Selma’s capable hands guiding the horses much better than his scarred ones ever could. Mendoza watched them for a few minutes, and then roused himself enough to go to the oak and untie his own horse. Plans didn’t make themselves, but plans didn’t feed a man either, and Hammonfall’s greasy breakfast smelled like a chunk of home right now.
The King’s Road:
“A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”
John Steinbeck
Slate and Teacher
Fucking military men. Be on time for this. Be on time for that. Never a second to just sit back and enjoy things. Life didn’t happen in timely intervals, and that made people like the Old Man twitchy, so they imposed routines, marking designated break spots and planting flags where ebbs and flows would be convenient, pigheadedly refusing to admit defeat in the face of life’s inherent disorder.
Slate remembered, as a youth, watching anthills for hours: their willingness to enslave other ants, their tireless lines for food and disposal, their lifting of enormous objects over their heads, all for the almighty anthill, destroyed at the whim of a child’s foot. To Slate, people like the Old Man were similar to those ants: always building, promoting, watching, timing, never realizing that their work mattered for naught, liable to be kicked over and destroyed without anyone the wiser.
A week had passed since they’d met Cenedia and his family beneath the grove. With a wagon in tow, they should have caught Cenedia long ago, but Slate hadn’t seen any sign of them. It made him suspicious. Worse, it made Crymson and the Old Man feel justified in their decision against Slate, and that irritated him more than anything.
He rode at the back of the group, brushing off any attempts at conversation. Ahead, Teacher smiled and nodded his big head at Isaac. Angras’s words about reversing history whispered to Slate, but he ignored them.
Crymson and the Old Man rode side-by-side. Everybody had found a little friend, he thought bitterly. Morons. They’d drag each other down in the end.
“Move,” Slate said. Isaac looked at him, but ducked his head and dragged his horse to the side.
To Teacher, he said, “You saw that, ole’ buddy? The way Cenedia’s knuckles were scarred to hell and back? A week ago, when we saw that big red wagon? How much you want to bet they’re up there somewhere, just waiting on us?”
Teacher looked at him and blew out a sigh.
Slate punched him in the arm, dancing his horse back to avoid the return blow. “Bah, you’re no fun today. Maybe we can pray and hope I’m wrong? But no, God isn’t on our side, he just likes to sit up top and laugh.”
Wisely, Teacher didn’t respond.
Slate switched tactics. “Isaac!”
The runt turned in his saddle, his eyebrows raised.
“Nevermind. I forgot they cut your voice box along with your balls.” Isaac’s shoulders slumped.
Slate sighed and leaned back in his saddle. This is why he hated the country. No alcohol. No women. Nothing. Who said purgatory was better than hell? At least down there he’d be able to play with fire. Here, he saw nothing but monotonous grey.
Hammonfall couldn’t come any quicker.
Leaves rustled with the chill wind of coming dusk. The trees around them, stolid beings all, moved not an inch, convenient resting spots for the ambushers. A fire’s remains. Self-rolled cigarettes ground in the dirt. The charred ends of pointed sticks, gristle still on their ends, lay next to man-shaped hollows indented in the grass.
“We should attack now, while they’re still weary from the day,” said Proln, pulling one of his many throwing knives from the bark of a nearby trunk.
“No,” Denison said emotionlessly. “Boss said to wait ‘till dawn, we wait ‘till dawn. You want to collect the other half of your money?”
“Course I do. Just don’t want to get killed for it, is all.”
“You’re a sword-for-hire,” said Jacks, cleaning his battle-axe with an oak’s green leaves, “should be used to it by now.”
Yas voiced his thoughts. “He’s right. We should do what the boss says.”
“Shut the hell up, you sniveling little weasel,” Proln said. “It doesn’t matter where we attack because you’re gonna be out of harm’s way, sitting back here all pretty with your toy bow while us real men jump in feet-first and attack.”
Yas opened his mouth to respond, but then thought better of it. In his first outing with the men around him, he’d fallen hopelessly far behind and then almost spitted himself on his own sword. They’d later given him a crossbow and told Yas not to shoot himself, an order to which he’d willingly agreed.
“All right,” Denison pointed, “Yas, you and Windslow stay back behind the trees wherever they make camp. I think they’ll stop here – it’s the best setup for miles – but we can move with them if they don’t. A little before dawn, on my signal, Proln, Jacks, and the rest of us will rush the camp. You and Windslow take out a few of them before we close, and if all goes right, it’ll be over in a few minutes and we’ll be able to collect big from the boss. Questions?”
Nobody spoke up.
“Good. Everybody go ahead and get your positions. We have some waiting to do. And God help you, if I see anybody out of place, I’ll let Proln throw knives at you instead of these trees.”
Yas gulped. He moved to his handpicked oak and fitted himself into its hollow; images of an arrow sprouting from Proln’s throat entertained him as he drifted to sleep, waiting for dawn.
The Old Man called a stop in what looked to be the entrance of a lightly dotted forest, more a collection of groves than proper woodland. Slate thought that the Old Man had been lucky thus far in selecting defensible camps, but the presence of the forest made Slate edgy; he wondered if the Old Man’s luck had finally run out.
He poked the Old Man in the shoulder. “You trying to get us shot full of arrows or you have some kind of plan I’m not following?”
“Take a step back, and don’t think to touch me again,” Alocar said. “What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wondering why the hell you’ve put us in an open area with trees on all sides.” Slate swept his arm around, palm up.
“What would you rather, continue in the night and risk a broken leg? It’d be foolish to push on at this point.”
“It’s more foolish to risk an attack from the trees just because you’re afraid of the dark.”
“Sometimes you have to compare options and take the one with the least negatives,” Alocar said. “We make camp here tonight.”
Without a motion spent other than to take care of her horse and bedroll, Crymson collapsed to the ground. Isaac followed suit, staring up into the starry night as the Old Man and Teacher kindled the be
ginnings of a small fire.
Slate kicked Crymson’s shoulder and squatted next to her. “You remember that wagon last week?”
Crymson rubbed her eyes. “This again?”
“Cenedia - which I doubt was his real name – is a liar through and through. No simple merchant has that many scars. I figure he’s been waiting for a place like this, easy for an ambush and plenty of places to hide the bodies. We need to be on the lookout.”
“Lots of people have scars. It’s called life. Now go be paranoid somewhere else.” Crymson turned away from him and reburied her head in the bedroll.
“Yeah? I hope they stab you first. Right in your obnoxious mouth.” He kicked dirt on her sleeping form and stalked off. If they wanted to die, then who was he to stop them? Keep one eye on Teacher and the other on himself, just the way they’d always operated. He bulled his way through the undergrowth, away from the camp, and stopped in front of a small copse, one cresting a gently sloping hill overlooking the camp. He climbed one of its number, the bark smooth and ungracious in its lack of handholds.
A nook in the tree offered him comfort, and he settled in to wait. The runt took first watch, eyes away from the fire to preserve his vision, useless though the effort may be; at least the Old Man would have a chance at holding his own against an attacker.
Night passed. He traced the rough bark and thought of wind chimes, remainders of a time long passed, before life had seen fit to take and change the immutable. Fuck sleep. That could wait.
Sweat coated Yas’s skin, dripping down his face and onto his neck and collar, into his eyes, and onto his lips, leaving the aftertaste of salt. He wiped his hands on his trousers, the sweat reforming seconds later. Were they ever going to attack? Or were they just going to sit here and wait for old age to take the lot of them?
Fallen Victors Page 11
