A few more yards and the two of them would no longer be getting closer, they would start moving away. This was the moment of greatest danger, although safety would not be absolute until they cleared the perimeter of light.
He cautiously stepped over a buried form, hoping this was the last—and not only for sentimental reasons. Tripping again, so close to the tower’s entrance, could be heard inside.
Yohan froze as he saw movement, then dropped to the ground and lay motionless, hoping his companion followed suit. He heard the sound of boots in snow, then nothing, then a satisfied grunt. And finally the sound of piss hitting the body behind him. Yohan closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain completely still. Just how drunk was the man? With luck, too much to count.
Yohan felt the stream hitting his own calf now. Not its wetness—days of crunching through snow had already soaked his legs through and through—but the mild pressure was intensely uncomfortable. He was less upset about himself than at the thought of how many dozens of times his fellow soldiers, murdered and discarded unceremoniously in the cold, had been treated to this vulgar ignominy.
The pissing stopped, and the man returned to the warm confines of the fort. Yohan crawled on, then lifted himself into a crouch, then finally took Jena by the hand as they hurried from this valley toward the next.
It took them eight more days to reach Halfsummit. The fortress was visible in the distance, perched on its gray bluff high above a pool of blue, not more than a few hours away. Between the two of them and the fort was a cascading waterfall of three levels, the last a precipitous plunge of a thousand feet to the foot of the bluff. A lovely sight, and not only for the scenery.
For the first time in over a month, they were able to see the sun sinking toward the far, flat horizon. The day was longer, the terrain easier, and the destination visible. He wondered whether she would press them to pick up the pace. At their current speed, they would easily make it by midnight.
Safety. Companionship. Normalcy. He could only imagine the urgency she felt to return.
“Let’s camp,” she said.
He did not question her, but set to helping out. They had gotten into the habit of sharing the chores, even though her authority had slowly reasserted itself as her strength improved and they drew nearer to civilization. Now free of the mountains and immediate danger, she was fully his commander again. She had every right to give orders and expect obedience, and he took it as a kindness that she set about cooking while he set up their meager bedrolls. There was no hint of precipitation in the sky, so he did not bother to rig the crude portable shelter they had constructed shortly after their flight from Westsky.
As they ate in silence, he watched her stare into the flames while a pleasant moonlit night enveloped them. He sensed that she had something to say, but was without a guess as to what.
As usual, she fell back on the practical. “I’ll report what I can, but your account is the better. I suspect General Ariens will want to hear the full report from you.”
“Aye.” General Ariens had been in charge of the garrison at Halfsummit for as long as Yohan had been stationed there, yet the two men had never spoken. As a recruit, Yohan’s interactions extended only as high as Captain Marek. He rarely talked with any other officers—including Jena, prior to the ambush. The commander had traveled with their patrol since leaving Halfsummit that autumn, but the only person she regularly spoke to was also Marek. She had the authority to speak to whomever she wished, but the air of superiority she wore like a second armor prevented casual contact.
The other men had long speculated on the reasons why—her royalty and her beauty being the two most obvious. Yohan had never really cared. If she wanted to banish herself to a life of proud loneliness, that was her own decision.
Now he knew better, of course. She had doubted that they would take her seriously, and had every reason to worry. She had not received her commission through merit but through birth. Moreover, although the army had its share of female soldiers, the life was unquestionably tougher for them. In Jena’s case, she was also an officer, unable to fit in through the simple sharing of burdens with everyday recruits.
Making circumstances worse were her youth and allure. These were the things that formed the first impression she made—long before one could get a sense of her intellect, capability, and icy resolve. Yohan had seen her suffer through incredible pain and hardship without complaint—of those things, at least—yet he knew he could tell that story to a barracks full of comrades and they would still obsess over her blood and beauty.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“I suspect I will return to Northgate. Father will want to hear about this first-hand. And he may have a new assignment for me.”
He will also weep for joy at seeing you alive again, Yohan thought. It was not his place to conjecture aloud, however. Besides, he was hardly an expert on emotions.
“What about you?” she asked.
“It will take them a while to reassign me to a unit. I imagine they will mobilize the reserves. I might get a posting with those. I would not be surprised if they make me a corporal and put me over a squad of fresh recruits.” He paused a moment, wondering whether she would offer to make a recommendation for him. She said nothing, however, and he was not entirely sure she had even heard the answer. Clearly, her thoughts were still in the flames.
During their time together, he had learned to recognize subtle changes in her mood. Currently, she seemed a bit sad, and he wished he knew why. Yohan was perhaps the worst person in the empire to cure someone of sadness, but decided to at least make an attempt.
“I have something for you,” he said. “I’m no artisan, but I hope you’ll like it.” He rummaged through his scant belongings for the piece of wood he had spent so many afternoons whittling. The work had been finished days earlier, but he had not found the right moment—nor the courage—to give the piece to her.
He handed the wooden figurine over. It was crude compared to those in her bags, and he had lacked the materials like ivory or jade to make it truly valuable. But he believed he had done a passable job, and hoped she might associate some sentimental value to it.
She held the small object to the light of the fire for closer examination. It was a horse, with straight back and head held proudly high. Then she stared at Yohan, saying nothing.
As if the figurine had the power to magically summon its kin, they heard the sound of hooves. Both of them looked toward the noise—the same direction as the fortress—and for a split-second Yohan expected to see Ofero gallop into sight. Instead, a scouting patrol of three rode toward the campfire.
“Who the Devil are you?” asked their leader as soon as they reined in.
Yohan waited for Jena to answer, and was surprised that she did not. “Survivors from the mountains,” he said.
“I see that,” the man snapped. “You were spotted by the lookouts even before you made this enormous fire. I presume you wanted to be seen.”
Yohan nodded. Jena had still not stood, so neither had he. It was fine by him. He had spent enough time on his feet these last tendays. “I wasn’t certain your lookouts would see us, so I made sure.”
“We’ve been particularly vigilant lately. There were reports of raiding savages in the mountains…that they even attacked one of our patrols. The company escorting Princess Jenaleve, no less.”
“Commander,” Yohan said.
“Your pardon?”
“It’s Commander Jenaleve,” she said as she stood.
In the flickering light, Yohan watched confusion become realization on the man’s face. It took him a moment to reconcile this disheveled derelict before him with his preconceived notions—but when he got there he acted swiftly, hopping off his mount and holding the reins out to her. “Your pardons, Commander. Please, you must take my horse and ride to the fort immediately.”
She accepted them—both reins and apology. “Thank you, Private.” Yohan was relieve
d that she did not reprimand the soldier over a foolish mistake.
“Elis and Borger will escort you. Elis, make sure she gets to the general’s post.”
Yohan remained seated, watching events transpire. The unnamed private offered a hand to Jena, but she ignored the gesture. Yohan was proud to see her mount unassisted, the shakiness in her legs almost unnoticeable. She quickly barked a few commands to her escorts, and he marveled at how quickly the air of arrogance returned to her after these past tendays with a single insolent companion.
He watched as the three of them set off at a trot. One look, Yohan told himself. He could be content if she looked back a single time. It would not be much, but at least it would be an acknowledgment of his efforts, and his company, and him. But she did not, and once the three figures disappeared into the distance, the private turned to him at last.
“I imagine you have quite a story.”
“Aye.”
The man crouched and held his hands to the flames. “Not much of a talker, are you?”
Not in the best of circumstances. And now less than usual.
“What’s your name?”
“Yohan. Yours?”
“Brody. It will be some time before they come back for us, Yohan.” He pulled a length of jerky and a small apple from one pocket, and a knife from his belt. “Care for some?” He held them out.
Yohan felt his mouth salivating. So much time had passed since he had eaten anything other than unspiced meat. That had sustained them for a long time, but this offering was a feast fit for nobility.
He said nothing.
“Here,” Brody said, tearing off a piece of the jerky for himself and tossing the remainder to Yohan, then expertly slicing off a sliver of apple to toss Yohan’s way, as well. “I have bad news for you, Yohan… I am a talker, so I’m going to chat your ear off. Take as long as you need to join in.”
“Know any jokes, Brody?”
The other man smiled. “A few.”
General Ariens summoned Yohan into his office an hour before dawn. Brody had waited with him for an hour—yawning toward the end—as they stood in a small antechamber with the general’s aide. When Yohan was finally called in, Brody patted his shoulder and left the building. Straight to the barracks, Yohan assumed. The man looked like he would be asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.
The broad-shouldered general and a short, slender officer Yohan did not recognize were conversing before a large map of the kingdom, spread across a wooden table and pinned at the corners. Neither looked up, but the general proffered the briefest of congratulations to Yohan on his survival before getting straight to the point.
“Our scouts are reporting increased tribal activity in the mountains. I presume you can confirm that?”
“Aye, General.” Yohan noticed that there were two chairs pushed under the table, and another pulled out beside each of the other men. How nice it would feel to sit, he thought. But they did not offer.
The general’s companion—Yohan could now see commander insignia—spoke sidelong to the general. “The other survivor confirmed as much.”
Yohan wanted to ask about this other survivor, but Ariens was already leading into his next statement. “Yes, Faruk, I am aware of that.” Then he continued to question Yohan. “These raids seldom come so far into Vilnia. We also hear reports that some of the tribes are working together, which is unheard of. What do you say?”
“I can confirm that as well. In the pass I saw dozens of tents and a train at least a quarter-mile long. There could have been more, as the pass bends out of sight. In any case, it was far more than one tribe can account for.”
Commander Faruk spoke again. “I wonder if this is a migration. Such has happened before.”
General Ariens grunted. “A migration would be problem enough, but that still doesn’t explain everything.” He continued staring down at the map as if answers would magically appear on it. “You’re sure about your report, Private? You could see this clearly?”
“Aye, General. From the roof of Sky’s Pass Tower.”
Ariens looked at Faruk. “They must be desperate, for them to act so brazenly.”
“If the rumors from Gothenberg are true, many tribes may be working together.”
Ariens nodded. “If it’s four or five, that might be a problem.”
Yohan cleared his throat. He was very tired, and wanted to get this over with. “Your pardon, General, but there’s more.”
“More than four or five?”
“Nay, General. More than tribesmen.”
For the first time, Ariens stood up from the map. Yohan had his full attention now. “What else?”
“Banners. White emblem on a black field. The six-legged snake.”
Both men stared at Yohan intensely. Then the general sat down as if the strength had drained from his legs. “The devils come back,” he said at last.
Faruk glared at Yohan. “Do you understand the significance of what you saw, Private?”
“I think so, Commander. The tribes are being led by others. And they aren’t raiding. It’s an invasion.”
Faruk nodded, then turned to Ariens. “General, if this is true, we must send word to Northgate immediately. Requests must be sent to Akenberg and Nurosterlend—”
“Requests, yes.” The general snorted derisively. “But those fools in the central kingdoms are already at each other’s throats, and the bastard Osters are more like to laugh than help.”
Faruk’s shoulders slumped in discouragement. Then he, too, took a seat in his chair.
Yohan glanced from the two sitting men to the two unused chairs. He had done all he could getting this far. That job done, he felt the reserves of fortitude that had sustained him these last tendays draining away. The least they could do is offer him a seat.
“Private, we need more information,” General Ariens said at last, standing back up. “Come over to the map. Tell us everything you know. Dates and numbers and the like. Leave nothing out. The kingdom may depend on what you say.” He paused for a moment, staring intensely at Yohan. “And great Theus, man, take one of the chairs before you fall over.”
Not until after Yohan finally reemerged into the dazzling sunlight of mid-morn and began walking toward the barracks did he realize he had forgotten to ask about the other survivor they mentioned. He wondered whether it could be someone from his own company—and could not help but think of Karlo. Good news had been decidedly sparse of late, but the thought gave him a scrap of hope.
There were faces around the fort that he recognized, but none that he would call friends. He was exceedingly low in spirits just now. Seeing Karlo would go a long way toward reviving them.
Arriving at the barracks, he searched for Brody. Not surprisingly, the soldier was sleeping. Yohan claimed a spare bed nearby. He lay down, expecting sleep to wash over him instantly. But as soon as his eyes closed, Yohan was haunted by a face he did not wish to think about. He forced himself to visualize a field of sheep, leaping one by one over a narrow brook. But the sheep became goats, and the goats became horses. He cursed his traitorous mind and sat up.
He saw that Brody was awake, shaving with a razor and a small square mirror that had likely been passed around the barracks thousands of times. Yohan rubbed his own beard, considering.
“Mind if borrow that when you’re done?”
Brody grinned. “I do. You’re already too handsome as it is. You lose that beard, and there won’t be any women for the rest of us.”
“Don’t make me fight you for it,” Yohan growled cheerfully, smiling for the first time in ages. His jovial companion was already having a positive effect on his mood. Perhaps Yohan needed to revise his earlier estimate; he did have one friend, after all.
Sitting to await his turn, he forced himself to make idle conversation. “When’s your next patrol?”
Brody shook his head. “Don’t have one. I’m heading out with a merchant caravan on the morrow.”
Yohan sighed. It figured. Ju
st when he made a friend for himself, he found out the man is leaving.
“What about you?” Brody asked. “How did the report go?”
As terrible as could be expected. “Fine.”
“Good,” Brody nodded. He finished one last stroke up his neck with the razor and handed everything over to Yohan. “So what’s next?”
“I wait for them to assign me a new unit.”
“That might be a while, the way things move around here.”
I have a feeling things will pick up soon. And we’ll all wish they hadn’t.
“Why don’t you join us?”
Yohan raised an eyebrow. “The caravan? I’m not sure they would let me.”
“Are you serious? They’re desperate for volunteers. Most soldiers prefer even this desolate place over a long slog through the frontier, especially with winter coming.”
If you think Halfsummit is desolate, you should try a month deep in the mountains. “Where are you headed?”
“Furs and tin to Threefork, first. Not sure after that.”
That was hundreds of miles, Yohan knew, spirits sinking again. His new friend would be gone quite a while.
“Have you heard about another survivor?” he asked, eager to change the subject to one less depressing.
“You mean from the raiders? Aye. He’s around here somewhere.” Brody stood up and began looking around.
Yohan felt his hopes rise, despite his attempt to restrain them. “Do you know his name?”
Brody shook his head. “Nay. Wait here,” he said, leaving Yohan to finish shaving.
He concentrated on the task. It would not do to survive the ordeal he had gone through, only to slice his own throat with a hand that had gotten unnaturally shaky.
“Yohan!” called a voice a minute later. A familiar man’s voice. He looked up.
Redjack’s beard had grown even longer than when Yohan had last seen it. Behind the ginger outgrowth was a friendly smile, and above the smile gleamed lively eyes.
Redjack had been one of the most popular soldiers in Marek’s company. His wit had been on display around many a campfire, and his laugh echoed like rolling thunder. That good humor had made more than a few dreary days pass faster. Yohan was pleased that the man had survived. But he was not Karlo.
Three of Swords Page 20
