Three of Swords

by Michael Jason Brandt

  He smelled the animals before he saw them, allowing time to stand outside the shelter as they pawed into view. At least the small scale of the camp played in his favor, for there was limited ground to cover. His highest priorities were the woman and himself, but he similarly needed to protect a saddlebag packed full of meat that lay half-buried in a mound of snow for preservation, and he also could not allow any crashing impact of a body—his or a wolf’s—to damage the shelter. For this last reason, he stepped a few paces away from the fragile construction and closer to the three beasts.

  Two of them might have been the largest wolves he had ever seen, if not for the third. At least seven feet from massive jaw to sweeping tail, Yohan guessed it doubled his own weight. The others were a mere five or six feet apiece. He hoped to take one of them down quickly to lower the odds against him. But in this fight, he was necessarily constrained by the tactics they chose, and the large one attacked him first.

  They all shared the same dull gray coloration, but while the others had pale eyes, the largest’s had a frightening orangish tint. He had always considered wolves to be magnificent creatures, but this one was truly a monster.

  It leapt gracefully, not directly at him but toward one side, forcing him to turn in order to face it. He was aware of another—the runt of the pack by a small margin—circling behind, and the impossible positioning that would leave him in. He lunged forward, less to make contact than to drive the monster back a few steps, then spun his body around to meet the charge of the second. His sword slashed into its side, but between the dull blade and weak momentum of the swing, barely drew blood. The wolf bounced away, seemingly untroubled, a very slight patch of red marring the sleek gray fur.

  Yohan knew he needed to keep moving. To remain stationary was to invite a collision at best, and a neck-tearing bite at worst. He swung the sword in a wide arc, forcing the third wolf back from the shelter, then turned again toward the largest. It had silently come within a few feet of him, and he swiftly stabbed out to give it other ideas. It was a hurried attack, aimed purely on instinct, but he made contact with the wolf’s face near one eye. It yelped pitifully and rolled onto its back and away from the blade, and Yohan hoped that he had partially blinded it—or taken the fight out of it completely.

  He spun again, sidestepping toward the shelter, and saw the unwounded wolf frighteningly close to the princess. He charged at it, yelling “Huzzah!” to draw its attention, and the creature quickly backed away. But only a step. He knew that as soon as he turned again, it would be back at his helpless companion. He gritted his teeth and grimaced, and its maw opened lazily as their eyes met. There was no fear in that expression, only savagery.

  Yohan yelled again as he lunged, and instead of pulling away the wolf leapt to meet him. Its jaw clamped on his left arm and he felt a shot of pain, but he had held the arm out intentionally, an offering of bait. It twisted its neck and head, tearing the flesh of his unarmored forearm, but was now close and stationary enough to provide an easy target. He thrust the sword into its side, hoping to hit the heart. It released his arm and tore itself away, its thin legs frantically pushing at the snow.

  The beast was badly hurt, but not dead. He quickly drew the blade out and positioned his feet for another stab—then felt the powerful impact of hundreds of pounds crashing into his back. Yohan landed face-first in the snow, but immediately twisted his body to get hands up. Fiery eyes stared down into his, no less terrifying for the vicious cut along one socket, the dark crimson of blood mixing with the pale hate of the iris and the hollow blackness of the pupil.

  It opened its mouth and pressed down, seeking his neck. His wounded left arm found the strength to push back, and the jaws clamped shut mere inches away. He felt and smelled its hot breath, turned his head to the side, and located his sword. Fingers stretched out, closed on the grip, and he brought the weapon up quickly—smashing the pommel into the monster’s face close to its injury. It howled and shifted, and Yohan was able to roll to his knees. He drew the blade back, ready to stab its flank, but the wolf was already leaping away.

  All three were wounded, but Yohan gave himself no time for reflection. Scrambling to his feet, he turned back to the shelter. The first glance informed him that the princess was safe, but a second revealed something every bit as frightening. The runt had found the bag of meat and was already dragging it free from the snowy hole. In an instant Yohan was after the thief, even while cursing his own shortsighted stupidity, knowing he should have buried the food completely at the first sign of the wolves’ approach.

  He was too slow. The runt already had the heavy bag ten feet from the shelter, and the other two wolves were closing back in on him. Yohan dared not step farther from the camp for fear that the monster would attack his helpless companion. He braced himself for the possibility that it would make one more attack on him directly. He wanted it to, in fact—he would kill it and replace the meat he had just lost. It stared evilly at him for a long moment, then began to back away. He realized it had instinctively covered the retreat of its friend. There was a sinister intelligence behind that cruel visage.

  Watching the shapes fade into the rapidly darkening distance, Yohan’s heart sank. Another day was nearing an end. And perhaps so, too, were their lives. The memory of incredible, intense hunger lingered in his mind. Now that terrible prospect loomed again.

  The princess awakened for real the next day. Yohan was staring into the fire, his mind a complicated maze of doubts and guilt. He noticed her slight movement, the opening of her eyes, but was in no hurry to engage in conversation. He dreaded the accusations—spoken and unspoken, deserved and not—that would surely come.

  “Oster,” she said at last. “How far?”

  “Not far. One day’s walk.”

  He kept his eyes on the flames. Their warmth was about the only thing he could still offer in comfort.

  She was shifting under her blanket. Sitting up, looking around.

  “Snowed in?”

  “Aye.”

  “How long?”

  He shrugged. He had counted the days, but did not want to distress her any more than necessary. She knew the calendar and could do the math as easily as he.

  “Ofero?”

  Yohan had been waiting for this. “He saved our lives. Twice.”

  She nodded, then quickly looked away. Concealing her emotions. He understood, and respected the silence. As much as he would have liked for her to reassure him that he had made the right decision, he knew that would not happen.

  When next she spoke, her voice sounded weaker. Tentative, as if she did not really want to ask. “How much is left?”

  He shook his head. “Wolves came yesterday.” He held up his left arm. Blood had soaked through the bandage, another piece of torn cloth. He had not replaced it—clean cloth was becoming a scarcity, like many other precious supplies.

  “You let wolves take our only food?” The bitterness was audible.

  “I did not invite them to sup, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Don’t get sharp with me,” she warned. “You forget your place.”

  Yohan was barely able to suppress a laugh. He smiled, instead, hoping she did not see it. Or perhaps hoping she did. It was all one, now.

  He expected more questions, or more commentary. Only after a few minutes of silence did he realize she had fallen asleep again.

  The brief exchange had been encouraging, though, all things considered. There had been no trace of delirium, and the last few cleanings of the site had been promising, as well. The princess would survive the wound. She was destined to starve to death, just like he.

  The weakness was more noticeable the next day. Yohan could only imagine how badly she must be feeling, considering her ordeal. Although he had given her more food than he had taken for himself, he knew how much energy it took to recuperate from sickness and injury. Once more he considered whether it would have been better for her had she perished from the crossbow bolt. He had little enough h
ope to offer her now, and yet that was the only sustenance that remained.

  In hindsight, Yohan wished he had glutted himself on the meat while they had plenty, instead of conserving it to last as long as possible. But he did not let that thought fester; it was only one regret of many.

  There was not enough wood to keep the fire going throughout the day, so as long as the temperature remained bearable, he waited until eve to restart it. As such, the daily ritual had become his favorite part of the day, a recurring gift of warmth that filled his body and spirit. He spent long hours, well into the darkness of night, simply staring at the crackling flames.

  “What is an Oster doing in the Vilnian army?”

  These were the first words she had spoken in hours, and they stirred him from a comfortable reverie. He wondered how long she had been awake, watching him.

  “I was born in a town near Kleinricht, but my ma was from Northgate. When Da died, she moved us back.”

  “And the army?”

  “Growing up, I thought I would work in the mines, but they started to run dry when I was a lad. I found out I was handy with a sword, though.” He shrugged. “I requested station in the southern army so I wouldn’t have to fight any of my kinsmen. Although it might not be so hard. I barely remember Nurosterlend at all. Just trees, and cold.” He looked around at the surrounding mountains. “Not so cold as here, though.”

  “As a little girl, I was so afraid of these mountains.”

  Yohan was taken aback. This hardly seemed like the same woman, and he found himself watching her. Studying her. She was not looking back, having been pulled into the soothing depths of the flames now, too.

  “I had heard stories,” she went on. “I don’t really remember them now. Magical creatures, and demons, and barbarian men. I suppose the barbarians were true.”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you kill any tribesmen? During the ambush, I mean?”

  “Aye. A few.”

  “I think I killed two or three. I cannot recall exactly what happened, even before I was wounded. But I remember the first. It was all instinct—I’ve trained as a swordmaiden since the time I could hold a weapon. He was easy to kill. Much easier than I ever imagined.”

  “Aye. The tribes don’t lack for strength or courage, but their training must be poor, indeed. If they train at all.”

  “He was the first. The first man I ever killed, I mean. I didn’t think about it then. I’m not sure why I’m thinking about it now.”

  “It’s natural. We all do it after the first. Every one of us.”

  “So I’m one of you now?” She wore the faintest hint of a smile. Yohan assumed he had inadvertently offended her again.

  “Nay, I did not mean it like that. You’re a princess. But you’re also a commander. And now you’re a killer.”

  She nodded. “It’s all right. I know what you meant. Part of me has always wanted to be one of the soldiers. I should thank you.”

  “No need. They were just words.”

  “I don’t mean for the words.”

  He was taken aback again. “Aye.” Another long silence.

  “What was the name of it? The town near Kleinricht?”

  “Parca.” A name he had not used in a very long time. The one part of Nurosterlend he could still remember, however. The three of them in one tiny house. A small community centered on an enormous lumber mill—or at least it had seemed enormous at the time. The townspeople made arrows of fir, and a statue of an archer stood in the center, carved from a single tree, its booted feet blending into roots. He would like to see it again.

  He heard her gentle breathing, knew she had fallen back asleep. That was good. Sleeping kept the hunger pains away. He was reaching that stretch where they subsided for a time, leaving only the growing weakness as a reminder. But he knew the pains would come back, and with a fury. The last time they had come, he had done what he had known all along he would have to do. This time, there was no such option. He wondered if the returning desperation would drive him mad.

  Even so, he was content enough for the moment. He thought about trying to sleep some himself, but did not feel particularly tired. He would watch the flames for a while longer.

  The great white mountain tiger padded into the camp as quietly as a dream. In fact, Yohan’s first inclination was that this was a dream, that he had fallen asleep sitting up. He instinctively dug fingers into palms to confirm he was awake. Perhaps the hunger was making him hallucinate.

  The tiger was larger even than the giant wolf he had wounded, yet seemed less menacing. The beast took a moment to consider the sleeping woman, then looked at him. Then back at the woman.

  “I’m sorry, Friend. You can’t have her.” Yohan was more amused than concerned. His sword lay near the fire, but he made no attempt to retrieve it. He had not a prayer of fighting this creature, should it come to that. He likely would not have been able to in his finest hour, and currently was as weak as a mouse.

  He watched the tiger quietly sniff the air. Then it stepped toward the princess.

  Yohan stiffened slightly, the protective instinct stirring within. If the animal sensed his tension, it chose to ignore him. Instead, it lowered a curious nose to her prostrate form and sniffed again. Then nudged her shoulder, and Yohan watched her arm reposition itself. He had no idea how she could sleep through this, but was immeasurably glad she did. He could only imagine the scream at waking to the sight of such a tremendous beast, majestic though it was. And he did not want to imagine how it would react.

  The creature lifted its great head, then faced Yohan again. Its mouth opened, forming into a leisurely yawn. He laughed—weakly, a single snort—and it felt good.

  “I’ll make you a deal, Friend.” He wondered if he was going mad already. Talking to monsters was not a positive measure of sanity. “You leave us alone for a few more days. If we’re still here in a tenday, we’ll be dead. Then you can do as you will.”

  The tiger stared at him. Then it yawned once more, and padded away from the camp as silently as it had entered.

  “Did you say something, Oster?” the princess asked. Her eyes were still closed, and her lips were curled into a smile. He watched her until he knew for sure she was asleep again.

  In the morn, she stood up and stretched out her limbs. The wound was healing nicely. She had resisted allowing him to continue cleaning and inspecting it, but Yohan had the moral authority from her previous attempt to deceive him on his side, and she relented. He noticed that her already significant muscle tone was more prominent, now that she had lost weight. And her ribs were showing. He still felt guilty, and was relieved that she said nothing further about food.

  By the eve, however, the topic was unavoidable. He could barely bring himself to pick up the wood and start the fire—instinctively understanding that the thought of skipping this, the best part of the day, was a bad sign of his weakening resilience. The notion of lying down and falling asleep without a fire was scarily appealing, and all the more so because the pains in his belly had returned worse than ever.

  He forced himself to build the fire anyway, not for his own sake but for hers.

  “Now that I am much better, I could watch the camp while you hunt,” she suggested.

  “Aye,” he replied. It was easier than listing all the reasons her suggestion was impracticable.

  Apparently, she had learned his mannerisms better than he expected, and recognized his reserve for what it was. “Come on, Oster, we have to try.”

  “Yohan.”

  “What?”

  He did not know why now, after all they had been through, he had decided to initiate this argument. They had gotten past the point where she used his heritage as an insult. Now it was just a name. But it was not his. Perhaps he simply wanted to hear that again before he died. “My name is Yohan.”

  “Yohan,” she said. And shrugged. “It’s as good a name as any, I suppose.”

  He smiled. A minor victory, perhaps, but he felt better.
<
br />   “No more ‘Princess,’” she said. “Commander, if you prefer. But I’m okay with Jena.”

  “I’m a bit tired right now, Jena,” he said, trying out the name. He thought he would have a problem saying it—nobility was not meant to be addressed so casually—but the name came easily to his lips. “We can discuss your plan on the morrow.”

  “All right, Yohan. Sleep well.”

  He awakened in the middle of the night. Something felt unusual, and it took him a moment to place it. Then he realized the fur blanket covered him. A moment of panic disturbed his mind. Had he kept it for himself? Then he looked over at Jena, sleeping peacefully a few feet away, uncovered. She had placed it on him, no doubt.

  Since her recovery, they had not been sleeping as closely pressed together as before. The natural, if impractical, social mores that separated them had briefly slipped away during her ordeal, but once again reasserted themselves.

  Yohan sat up and spread the blanket over her. It would not do. He had already shown more weakness than he thought himself capable of. There would be no more.

  The fire was getting low. He pushed himself up and added a few small pieces of wood. Their supply was running out again. Soon he would have to summon the strength to go foraging for more. An impossible task, of course—but everything they had done to this point was impossible. They had made the impossible doable by taking one step at a time. Perhaps it would happen again.

  The prospect of dying in these mountains had once filled him with dread, but the notion no longer bothered him much. This place had come to seem like home, the stars a roof and the surrounding peaks like walls. He had not known a real home since leaving Parca as a boy. The people of Vilnia had made sure of that.

  Jena had seemed like one more of them. Perhaps worse. But not any longer. Somehow that had changed.

  Home. He could die at home. It was better than the alternative.