Three of Swords
Page 7
“I am Rufus, one of Emperor Eberhart’s Seekers, and Third of Swords.”
This was the highest official Jak had ever encountered, and he was immediately intrigued. Clearly, so were others, for the questions came faster than Rufus could respond.
Do you like Everdawn? How many men have you killed? Do you know the emperor?
The Thane responded with tepid nods and mild pleasantries. “I find your village quite…unpretentious. I thank you for your hospitality. I hope to spend more time with your lovely citizens.” It seemed to Jak that Rufus directed this last comment directly at Calla, and there was something slightly unsettling about it.
“What brings a Third this far north?” A wise question, in Jak’s opinion, and only a moment later realized he had asked it himself.
“I seek the Blade of Yagos, God of Immortality. I’ve traced its existence to the Feuersten Mountains.” He waved a hand behind him, as if they needed to be reminded where the nearby mountains stood.
“Why do you want it?” Calla asked. “Will it make you immortal?”
“It will have to be studied,” came the calm reply. “It may take centuries to learn all there is to know of an item like this. But we do know it has immense, indescribable power. And the empire is in need of such power now.” The Seeker seemed to take for granted that everyone would accept his words as simple truths. Jak, however, was not so easily convinced.
“If this treasure is here, why has no one else come for it before now?”
“Surely, others have looked. But it is a long, difficult road to walk. I have been on this mission for two years now, and only recently learned the location of the item. What’s more, not just anyone can retrieve the Blade, let alone wield it. One must be careful of these god-spawned artifacts. They have souls of their own. Souls, and personalities.”
Apparently, Jak was not the only one with a certain skepticism of the tale. After all, part of the tradition was to embellish one’s stories. He heard a few snorts and chuckles from the crowd, although none from those closest to the stranger.
“Why is that bad?” Calla asked.
“Because most men are weak-willed. Corruptible. A sword made by a god is nothing to trifle with. It requires a man…or a woman,” he said with a nod toward her. “That is, a man or a woman of rare discipline. The very discipline the order instills in its highest members. One who cannot be corrupted, you see. A hero.”
“So, you’re a hero?” Calla asked. Jak could not tell whether she was mocking Rufus, or buying into his braggadocio.
“I am, else I would not risk this endeavor. I am a Third.”
“How will you recognize this Blade?” someone asked. “Maybe I’ve got one in my weapons chest and don’t know it.” Laughter followed, and the Swordthane frowned as though the wine turned bitter.
“It is a sword carved from the blackest stone, the very core of the mountain, inset with three onyx gemstones—”
“Jade,” said a voice. Jak was surprised to see that the interruption came from Disciple Lukas. It was shocking that the stammering youth was even listening to the narrative, let alone participating. The collective eyes upon him brought a return of irresolution, for he lowered his head back to the goblet of wine in his hand.
“Onyx gemstones, as I said,” Rufus continued. “The blade itself appears rough. Crudely crafted. But it shines with its own light, even during the darkest night.”
“It sounds beautiful,” Calla said.
Jak stood up. “Does anyone know where Kevik is?” he asked aloud. No one did, and most appeared intent to hear the rest of the stranger’s story. Jak had heard enough, however.
The first place he looked was the tent where mead was still being distributed, and was relieved not to find his friend there. Jak checked a few of the food tents, but still had no luck. He considered returning to the manor—it was quite possible that Kevik had simply gone home—but worried about encountering Kleo, who would find more chores for him to do.
Jak wandered aimlessly through the thinning crowd for a few minutes while pondering the day’s conversations and events, searching for an understanding of the nagging feeling that hindered his full enjoyment of the homecoming. Then he recollected a fragment of an earlier discussion.
Leaving the festivities behind, he headed into the expanse of patchy woods and rocky terrain that bordered the village. He thought he could remember the old path, even in moonlight. Old man Broker did not like the villagers trespassing on this land, but the risk of being seen was acceptably low.
As soon as he saw the silhouette of the fallen dead tree jutting out above the quiet stillness of Brokers’ Pond, Jak could see the outline of a person sitting on it. He had no doubt this was Kevik, even before getting close enough to discern how tall and broad the shape was.
Coming closer, Jak could see the other boy’s legs dangling just above the placid waters. A little closer still and he heard the crying.
Jak deliberately stepped on a branch to alert the other that he was there. The crying did not cease, nor did Kevik turn to look at him. Unsure of himself, Jak slowly climbed onto the fallen tree, sat down, and placed his hand on a trembling shoulder. To his surprise, the big man leaned over and pressed his head into Jak’s chest. Jak held it there with one arm, patting the stout back with the other.
Something was happening inside his friend, that much was certain. He wished he knew what it was.
Chapter Four
Vilnia
CONSCIOUSNESS BROUGHT immediate recollection, although Yohan might have preferred otherwise. He sat up, feeling stiff muscles complain, and stretched them briefly as he climbed to his feet.
One glance revealed that it was already well past sunrise. The air was crisp, clear, and invigorating, although the gravity of the situation made appreciating small blessings difficult.
An inch of white covered nearly every surface. He was desperately lacking in nearly every manner of provisions, but at least nature provided an infinite supply of water.
The fire had burned itself out during the night. He spent a minute retrieving some kindling, then restarted it. Fuel was sparse, but Yohan added what he could.
Captain Marek’s company had left enough debris behind from the previous morn to allow Yohan to fashion a crude tripod over the flames. Then he turned to his pack. Every soldier in the Vilnian army carried a tin cup. He filled his with snow and suspended it from the tripod, then waited a short minute for the snow to melt. The water was refreshing. He refilled the cup and hung it again.
Only then did he become aware that the princess was watching him. He wondered how long she had been awake, staring.
He also wondered what was the last thing she remembered. Her pale, bloodshot eyes exposed a mix of anger, terror, and discomfort—all perfectly understandable emotions.
Yohan acknowledged her with a lift of the chin, then continued his preparations in silence, allowing her to initiate discussion when she was ready.
“You’re the Oster,” she said at last. She seemed calm, not panicky, for which he was thankful. Yohan nodded as he retrieved the cup a second time, then approached her.
“And we’re the only two?” It was less a question than a statement.
“Aye.” He brought the cup to her lips. “Drink.” He tipped it as the princess opened her mouth. She closed her eyes as she swallowed, then reopened them to examine him.
“The others? All dead?”
“Aye.”
She nodded, then let her head sink back to the hard ground. “Why?” she mumbled to herself, emotion finally getting the best of her. “An entire company of kinsmen and I’m left with the Oster.” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes closed. He let her rest.
Yohan was not glad for her consciousness. The bolt in her side would need to come out, and that was a task far better conducted on an unconscious patient. The maneuver would be tricky on a fidgeting subject, and terribly painful. Better for them both if the gods had given her a few more hours of oblivion.
The destrier—he did not know its name, nor did he wish to—eyed Yohan suspiciously as he approached. But it did not back away, no doubt hoping he would bring it food. Alas, he was hoping for the same from it.
Hope never entered his thoughts as he searched the saddle bags. There were only a few carrots commingled with a collection of figurines. These were fashioned from various materials—ivory, blackwood, jade—and all shaped like animals. Lovely, yet functionally useless since they could not be eaten.
The carrots were probably a special treat for the horse. Yohan saw no reason to taunt the creature, so he concealed them in a square of linen before taking them back to the fire. With his back blocking its view, he sliced one carrot into pieces with his knife, involuntarily recollecting how its keen blade had slashed open a man’s throat the day before. He added the pieces to another cupful of snow and let the meager stew cook for a few minutes.
Her eyes opened when he approached again. “I suppose you couldn’t be troubled to retrieve my sword,” she said.
Yohan did not recall seeing her sword at the scene—it had no doubt been claimed immediately by one of the looting tribesmen—but did not feel inclined to explain this. He had witnessed enough wounded patients to know that acerbity came naturally to them, and any response would only be an irritant. Instead, he held the cup to her lips again. “Eat.”
She struggled to swallow even the small, soft morsels, but he forced her to finish the cup. What little strength it would provide was needed for what came next.
He crouched and examined the wound. The shaft of the bolt stuck cleanly through the rings of her armor. It looked similar to the ones he had seen his fellow soldiers use. Those were two teninches in length. Estimating that the exposed portion here was about fifteen, that meant a quarter had penetrated inside. The removal would be brutal.
“I need to get this out,” he said.
“You couldn’t do it yesterday?”
He shook his head. “Not enough light.”
She fidgeted a little, finding a better position. “Go ahead.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you want some time—”
“No. Do it now.”
He reached down, lifted the skirt of her armor, and slid a hand under it and the thin wool tunic beneath, feeling smooth skin and surprising muscle as he slowly worked back up to the wound. He moved as quickly as possible while trying to be gentle, knowing that he was failing badly on both accounts.
She flinched, saying nothing, but making him feel an unexpected pang of self-reproach. It was impossible to block out the knowledge that this was a noblewoman whose skin his calloused fingers were touching, and upon whom he was about to inflict great pain.
He found the offending length of wood, felt the dried blood caking the wound. Her armor was tight to her body, but Yohan was able to wrap three fingers around the shaft. He placed his other hand on the visible stretch. He looked into her eyes—wide, blurred with sudden moisture, and indescribably lovely—and she nodded. He tugged, hard and fast, hoping to get the entire thing out in one pull. It resisted, then moved, and he managed to withdraw a few inches before needing to reposition his hands.
Yohan heard her suck in another breath, but that was the only sound she made. He tugged again, got two more inches out, quickly moved his hands, and tugged a third time. Feeling a fresh flow of blood as the tip come out, Yohan snapped the bolt in two and discarded both pieces.
He looked at her face. She was breathing heavily and sweating despite the chill. So was he.
“The chain needs to come off,” he said. She hesitated, then nodded.
This cumbersome process took nearly as long and caused as much distress as had removing the bolt. That could not be helped—the armor was no longer protecting her, it was only preventing him from tending to the wound. He wanted to slice open her tunic at the seam, but knew she would prefer to keep the garment intact for modesty. Instead, he gently folded it upwards until her bloody side was exposed.
He warmed more water with which to wipe away the blood, old and new. He sniffed closely, relieved at the absence of odor. Then he placed another square of linen over the hole and tore off a portion of his own tunic to wrap it in place.
Her breathing had returned to normal, but she still watched his every movement. He felt awkwardly self-conscious, every motion being judged, and was relieved that she held her tongue throughout the ordeal.
He nodded to her once the job was done.
“When do we start back?” she asked.
“In a few days, when you’re healed enough.”
She shook her head. “No. We need to report what happened. My father and the generals must hear of this attack immediately.” She paused. “Give me a few hours to catch my breath. Start packing up camp, we can move out after midday.”
“There isn’t much camp to pack. It can wait a day.”
She shook her head. “No, it can’t. I’m in command here.”
“Not while you’re like this, you’re not.”
Her lips twisted angrily. “I’ll have you hung for insubordination.”
“Do as you will. We go on the morrow.”
She opened, then closed her mouth. Then she looked away. “We’ll discuss it later.”
I can’t wait, he thought.
Yohan fed her the last of the carrots that eve. His own stomach was moving past the hunger pains toward a dull, steady ache. He ignored that for now, being far more concerned about the destrier. It had not eaten in over a day, and yet he expected it to carry her at least a tenmile over a rough mountain trail. He did not like the way the horse looked at him, accusingly, following his movements around their tiny encampment. As if his own guilty conscience was not bad enough.
The looks his companion gave him did not help. She said nothing more about the food, although her unhappiness was evident. If she had asked him to explain how they had reached this untenable juncture, he would have done his best. But she had not asked, and he did not volunteer excuses.
Throughout the day he had waited for the princess to black out, or expire entirely. She did sleep off and on, but the intensity of the stare she fixed upon him—a perfect complement to her mount’s—convinced him that there was a greater stamina in her than he initially assumed. Perhaps a genuine desire to warn her father sustained her, or simple self-preservation. Perhaps it was a determination to see him hang. Whatever the reason, Yohan slowly allowed his mind to accept that she was going to be with him for a while. He wished his heart did not feel so glad.
The next morn his first conscious thought was a panicked fear that she had died during the night. One look at her peaceful, slumbering form told otherwise. Yohan broke camp and packed what little they could take with them into the bags he and the stallion would carry. Then he crouched beside her and watched her breathing, feeling an inkling of pride.
Her eyes opened and met his. They stared back and forth for a long moment. He considered asking how she felt, then decided she would probably find a way to take it as an insult.
“We’re moving out as soon as you feel ready,” he told her instead.
He saw the familiar flare in her eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked.
“I just now finished packing.”
She nodded. “All right. Help me up.”
He did, and continued to support her weight until she pushed him away. Yohan half-expected her to tumble back to the frosty earth, but after a slight wobble, she managed to stand on her own.
“Let me help you onto the horse.”
She looked at the animal, and he saw her face transform into an unfamiliar expression of care and compassion. “Oh, Ofero,” she said. “I’m so sorry for this.”
She held up her hand, and Yohan watched the stallion approach its master and lower its nose to her tender fingers. Then he looked away, toward the sky.
“We shou
ld take advantage of the good weather while it lasts.” He looked back at her, saw her staring at him strangely, then went to the packs. He brought the saddlebags to Ofero before slinging his own over broad shoulders, adjusting its weight until balanced in the center of his back.
The princess was still appraising her mount. “I don’t think he can carry me,” she said.
“He has to.”
“I can walk.”
Yohan looked at her, wondering how she was even standing up, let alone how she might walk. But he had to admit the horse looked pitifully weak. “Half hour on, half hour off,” he suggested. “We’ll adjust based on how he does.” And you.
She nodded. He lifted her onto Ofero’s saddle, trying not to worry about the painful flinch she could not avoid showing.
Just as they set off, a growl echoed through their little canyon. Not too close, but not far away, either. Although the patrol had not seen any during their march, the mountains were home to more than a fair share of predators—white and black bears, great tigers, gray wolves, and a myriad others smaller but no less ferocious.
These beasts would avoid a patrolling army, but the three of them now presented a more attractive target. Yohan had his sword and a modicum of energy with which to wield it. That was not much against a determined pack of animals. The sooner they could get to the fort and safety, the better.
At the pace they began setting, he had to revise his original estimates of the time it would take. Yohan had assumed that he, being on foot, would limit their speed. But it quickly became apparent that the stallion, Ofero, moved even slower. Even though the princess was as light as riders came, the weakened creature slumped beneath her weight as if she were a fat cavalryman clad in full plate.
They were slower yet when she walked beside the destrier, whispering reassurances like an attentive mother to a tired child. Yohan was glad she had some company with whom to feel some benevolence. His own interactions with her provided little to boost the morale of either.
At least she did not complain about their desperate lack of food, nor the agonizing pain she must be enduring. Pride prevented her from expressing discomfort to a common soldier such as he. Incredibly, she seemed more determined to succeed as the obstacles stacked up against them. She was not living up to his preconceived notions of a pampered princess.