by Scott Kaelen
“Yeah.” Oriken sighed, then barked a laugh. “Remember when we went all the way to Mount Sentinel?”
Dagra nodded. “Clambering over its foothills to see as far as we could across the water.”
“We couldn’t climb any higher.”
“And there was fuck all out there except frothing waves.”
Oriken laughed. “True. It was quite the underwhelming end to an otherwise fun adventure. Your grandparents were sick with worry.”
“They didn’t let me out of their sight for weeks. Yes, I remember.”
“Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt the nostalgia, but it looks like we’re running out of dry land again.”
Dagra looked ahead and saw that she was right. His resolve wavered. Although the marsh-fog was clearing, the telltale signs of bog-infested ground spread out not only to their left but now also before them, blocking the way. A half-mile distant, a dark-green strip of conifers marked the return of solid ground. “If we keep heading west, the wetlands might thin out closer to the coast.”
“That’s the spirit.” Oriken clapped a hand to Dagra’s shoulder. “We’ll find a way across. We always do. Right?”
“Aye,” Dagra rumbled. “We always do.”
Their break came long before reaching the coastline. Five hundred yards along the edge of the marsh, a crude crossing of partially sunken tree trunks had been slung across the marsh in rows of three.
“Well, there you go.” Oriken grinned. “That was helpful of someone.”
“Thank the gods,” Dagra said. “But I’m not sticking around to meet whoever built it.” He placed a foot onto the first half-submerged trunk, testing his weight upon it. “Seems firm enough.” He stepped up onto the wood, found his balance and moved across to the next trunk.
Jalis sprang lightly onto the timber. “This walkway looks decades old, maybe a century, and probably laid upon the remnants of a previous crossing. Whoever constructed it should be long dead.”
“A hundred years or a day, the gods see the future and set the pieces in place,” Dagra said. “They send things to test us, but they send things to aid us, too.”
“Hey, Dag,” Oriken called from behind. “I don’t care if it’s gods or goat-herders. Whatever gets you to the other side.”
Dagra shook his head. “The gods have been using you to test me for years, Orik. Mock all you like, my friend. One of these days I’ll convince you I’m right.” Smiling to himself, he added, Even if it takes until the afterlife.
Eriqwyn wandered along the gently rising coastline several feet from the rocky shore. The hushed lapping of the tide was the only sound other than the distant cries of gulls behind her. Ahead there were no birds as the green grasses yellowed and thinned to lifeless earth. The steady incline of coast rose to a cliff that jutted into the ocean and circled the distant promontory of land. With scarcely a shrub or sickly-looking tree in sight, the arid earth sloped towards a looming, jagged wall that stretched all the way into the heath. Another wall topped the southern outcrop, and beyond its battlements the hazy tops of towers and spires faded against the blue sky.
Her bow was strung, but Eriqwyn did not expect to have to use it. The closer she walked towards the perimeter of the Forbidden Place, the chances of seeing wildlife of any kind became increasingly unlikely; as with the grasses, the creatures shied from the high and ancient wall. Here, only one reason existed for which she might need a weapon, and she prayed to the goddess that such an event never come to light.
There was no need to head all the way up to the wall, she could see enough detail from a distance to be sure that nothing lurked near its base nor between the battlements above. Veering inland, she took a parallel course to the long wall, following a route walked by Warders or hunters of the village each day for generations. Far to the east, the angular lines of Minnow’s Beck’s southernmost buildings peeked from behind the foot of the tree-covered Dreaming Dragon Brae, the village’s natural hide from the north and west. Increasing her pace, she kept her eyes alert and cast continuous glances all around, especially towards the Forbidden Place’s implacable barrier.
Half an hour later, Eriqwyn reached the north-east corner of the wall and the vast heathland opened up ahead of her in swathes of green and gold, the high sun streaming down onto the rolling landscape. Glancing along the northern wall, she traced its length until it tapered into the horizon. It was not her turn to check on the entrance today; that job fell on Linisa, who would be taking a hunter-in-training to look through the iron bars of the Forbidden Place’s entrance for the first time, just as one of the previous Warders had done with Eriqwyn when she was a girl, and just as Wayland would soon be doing with Demelza.
Satisfied that the coast was clear, she turned onto the third and final leg of her circuit, following the trail that led back to the village. After some minutes, she saw a lone figure up ahead.
Demelza, she thought. Out on her own again. Off to get a peek through the bars, is she?
No sooner had she spotted the girl, than Demelza darted off the trail and disappeared into the tree-line. Frowning, Eriqwyn’s hunter instincts kicked in and she entered the wood, stepping lightly through the undergrowth between the trees. Catching a glimpse of movement as Demelza flitted up the shallow foot of Dreaming Dragon Brae, Eriqwyn lowered to a half-crouch and gave pursuit. At the flat crest of the hill was the natural clearing of Dragoneye Glade. Eriqwyn hid within the trees and bushes and watched the girl enter the glade. Demelza crossed to an ivy-covered stone block at the glade’s centre – the offering stone after which the clearing was named, its only attendant the ivy as none had worshipped the primordial gods since long before Valsana changed the world.
Eriqwyn waited as one minute stretched into the next, and Demelza remained hidden behind the altar. Across the clearing, the underbrush rustled. Eriqwyn’s senses pricked. Her eyes quickly found the area of disturbance. Within the bushes a pair of wide-set yellow eyes glinted in the sunlight low to the ground. The creature poked its head into the clearing, and Eriqwyn immediately reached for an arrow. Sarbek, she thought, nocking the shaft as the wolf-like creature crept from the undergrowth, its sword-like ridge of bone arcing over its back, pale against its dark fur.
Wolves were uncommon this close to Minnow’s Beck, but Sarbeks were much rarer. Such creatures tended to keep to the hilly woodland far to the north-east, but if one were to come across a lone, unarmed human…
The sarbek’s attention was on the altar stone, behind which Demelza was still hiding. The creature took several tentative steps forward, then crouched, ready to spring.
Eriqwyn drew and released the arrow, and it punched into the sarbek’s side. With a high-pitched whine, the creature toppled and Demelza was out of her hiding place in an instant and running to its side. Crouching, she held a hand to its flank and with her other gently stroked the sarbek’s head. Eriqwyn stepped from the trees and the girl stared at her, her eyes glistening with moisture.
What in the name of Valsana is she crying for?
“Why’d you have to do that?” Demelza sobbed.
Eriqwyn was taken aback. That was not the reaction she’d expected from the girl. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Demelza blinked and tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned her attention to the sarbek, and after a moment the creature blinked and closed its eyes, huffed one last breath, then died. Still kneeling, she turned on Eriqwyn. “What’s she ever done to you?” she yelled.
“I…” Eriqwyn faltered, then checked herself. “You were in danger, girl! Clearly you can’t fend for yourself. You should be thanking me, you ungrateful child! If I hadn’t been here, you’d currently be getting mauled to death in that creature’s jaws.”
Demelza hung her head, tears spilling to the dead sarbek’s fur. “I were in no danger. She was my friend. Couldn’t you see that?” She rose to her feet and squared on Eriqwyn. “I got no friends in the village, do I?” she said accusingly. “Ain’t none there who likes me.”
“Aye, it’s true. And you know it, cos you’re one of ‘em what don’t like me. I see it, you know? I ain’t daft.”
There was nothing for Eriqwyn to say. It was true, she really didn’t like the girl, not that she could say exactly why. And that was the truth for many of the villagers. But this was a different side to Demelza she hadn’t witnessed before. The death of the sarbek had animated the girl more than Eriqwyn had ever seen.
“You can’t make friends with the predators of the wild,” she said. But, somehow, despite her years of training, the statement felt weak. Had the sarbek really been about to attack? Eriqwyn was no longer so sure.
“Maybe you can’t,” Demelza sobbed. “I only kill to eat, not cos I think everything wants to kill me or cos I enjoy it.”
Eriqwyn stifled a gasp. “I don’t enjoy—”
Demelza cast her a venomous glare, then ran off into the woods.
Leaning her bow against the altar stone, Eriqwyn blew out a long breath. She turned to the sarbek, grasped the arrow jutting from its side, and pulled it free, Taking a rag from a pouch at her waist, she wiped the arrowhead and replaced it into her quiver, then paused to regard the dead creature. No matter the reason, the sarbek was dead, and, in the wilds of Scapa Fell, nothing useful should ever be left to waste. With a shrug, she unsheathed her hunting dagger, knelt, and began to work.
CHAPTER FIVE
CONTRACTUAL COMPLICATIONS
Maros winced as he leaned down to the barrel of Saltcoast Tan, transferring his weight to his good leg while giving the ruined one some slack. He grabbed the iron rim of the ale barrel, tensed his muscles and heaved upwards. With a grip as strong as the metal in his grasp, he brought the barrel to his chest and locked his elbows, holding it firm. Transferring a little weight to his bad leg, he took a step forwards. Agony lanced up the side of his leg and he spat a curse as a breeze blew through the back yard of the tavern, cooling the sheen of sweat upon his brow.
“Damned leg,” he growled. Time was, I could’ve carried this barrel across the way with no effort. Now I’m straining and sweating like a rutting pig, not to mention having to use this accursed cart.
He felt a sudden urge to kick the wheel of the barrel-cart, but restrained himself; it would be foolish to lose his temper while hefting twenty gallons of his most popular ale. Another precarious step forwards brought him to the rear of the cart. He lowered his burden to the planks beside a smaller barrel of Carradosi Pale and an even smaller cask of Vorinsian Redanchor.
Rubbing at his rounded belly, he sighed and shook his head. “It's Maros the Mountain more than ever these days,” he mumbled. “Curse that krig of a critter getting its damned needle teeth in my knee.” He limped around to the front of the cart and paused to massage the side of his throbbing leg.
If I could kill that lyakyn all over again I’d do it here and now; smash its teeth in and tear its jaws right off its face. And it’d be as satisfying as the first time. He sighed and shook his head. Aye, but no amount of daydreaming’ll get me walking proper again.
Hefting the cart’s long handle, he limped and grunted his way across the evening-dark yard to the tavern’s rear door. Once there, he began the task of dragging the barrels off the cart and into the Lonely Peddler.
The tavern was quiet. Other than a handful of freeblades at one of their regular tables in the front corner, just a few townsfolk were peppered throughout the common room. Maros had allowed the young barman, Jecaiah, to leave early and go home to his wife, and he’d sent a couple of the serving girls home, too. With the unopened barrels secured beneath the bar beside those currently in use, Maros set the cask of Redanchor atop the rear counter, ready for tomorrow or the following day for the patrons with more expensive tastes.
He snatched up his barstool and limped out from behind the counter, hobbled over to the freeblades and sat with his back against the wall.
“What were they thinking?” Alari was saying. “The ten percent divided between the three of them”—she nodded to indicate Maros—“and the boss’s and headquarters’ cuts; it’s good, but it ain’t gonna get them far.”
Beside Alari, the novice under her charge snorted. “They could’ve gotten a bunch o’ menial jobs instead, in the month or more they’ll be gone, like you told me to do.”
Maros frowned at the young man. “Kirran, that’s the right attitude for a novice, but not if you want to stay one for the rest of your freeblading days.”
“Uh, sorry, boss.”
“Don’t be sorry. Those menial jobs have to be taken by somebody, and right now that person is you.”
Kirran pressed his lips together and said nothing more.
Across from him, Henwyn gave a hearty chuckle. “The boss has you there, lad.” He took a sip of his wine. “Seriously though, boss, you think this contract will prove to be worth it?”
Maros grunted. “Your guess is as good as mine, Hen. Truth is, I’ve been wondering about the Chiddari woman’s agenda. That’s some serious money she’s handed over, but something ain’t sittin’ right with me. You ever known someone to care so much about a trinket they’ve never seen? And at her age?”
Henwyn shrugged and glanced at Alari. “Me, I’d have taken the contract just for the ten percent. It’s still a sizeable amount. Truth be told, I’m a little miffed that I wasn’t here when you posted it on the board. I would’ve snatched it up. A month alone out in the wilderness? Aye, I’d take that.”
“Alone?” The girl beside Henwyn fixed him with a disheartened look. “What happened to you showing me the ropes?”
“Bah.” Henwyn grinned through his close-shorn beard. “Don’t take this the wrong way, lass, but you don’t know your tits from your toes out there yet. You ain’t ready for being one with the land for that amount of time.”
The girl eyed him coolly. “I know the wilderness,” she said, then turned away.
Alari cleared her throat. “Do you put any stock in the legend?” she asked. “I mean, I just hope our friends are fully prepared, is all.”
“I don’t know,” Maros admitted, shifting his weight on the stool. “I know some who disagree, but I reckon stories is all they are. If I were able, I’d be out there with them instead of cooped up in the Folly. I ain’t never been inclined to venture into the Deadlands, and I ain’t been too curious about the Blighted City, but—” A phlegmy cough issued from the table beside them. Maros glanced across at Jerrick, a regular at the Peddler, sitting alone as usual and spluttering into his cup. “That cough’s getting worse, old feller,” Maros said. “You oughta get a tincture for it.”
“Heh.” Jerrick looked up, his rheumy eyes darting to Maros. “It don’t help when I hears what you young’uns are flapping your lips about.”
“This is freeblade business,” Maros chided. “Not for you to be listening in on.”
“Aye, well, when a man hears what he hears, he has to speak up, don’t he? I had a friend in the blades once, you know? Hard to fathom that an old codger like me might’a had friends, ain’t it? Well, I did. All dead now, an’ Lijah was the first to go. He were a good man.” Jerrick sighed and frowned in thought. “Let me see now… Must be fifty years gone when Lijah and me were sat in this very tavern an’ he said he was off on a mission. Aye, they called ‘em missions back then.”
Maros glanced at Alari and gave her a discreet shrug.
Jerrick coughed, then cackled into his hand before wiping it on his trousers and raising a bushy, white eyebrow. “Said he’d be gone awhile, that he were going down south to find a stone for a lass. You know, the usual questy nonsense you freeblades get up to. I asks him where south, an’ he says to the Blighted City, of all places. Well, off he went. Never did come back. Consensus were that he’d got himself lost, beset by monsters or such, fell into a swamp, somethin’ like that. Me, I’m not so sure. Lijah were a wily one.”
Alari shifted her stool around and waited as Jerrick noisily clear
ed his throat against his gnarled hand. When he was finished, she leaned closer and said, “Who was the lass?”
“Buggered if I know.”
Maros shook his head. “This is news to me.”
“No reason you’d have heard,” Henwyn put in. “One contract among thousands, from half a century ago?”
“Check the records,” Alari suggested.
“Won’t find anything in there,” Maros said. “The archives here only go back ten years. The headquarters at Brancosi has all the older contracts and member records.”
Jerrick spluttered another bout of coughing, then drew a wooden pipe and pouch of what Maros knew to be nepenthe-laced tobah from his coat. Despite his gnarled knuckles, he deftly stuffed the moist leaves into the pipe, then took a sip of ale. “Live by the blade, die by the blade, you young’uns say, don’tcha? Aye, well, I reckon these are my blades.” He brandished his pipe and cup, drained the last of his ale, then rose from his chair. “It were good chatting with you lads.” He nodded to Alari. “And you, lass.”
“Hey, Jerrick,” Maros called after him.
A puzzled expression crossed the old man’s face. “Ah, what were we talking about?”
Maros smiled sadly. “Life and death, I believe.”
“Ah, yes.” The old man gave a toothy grin. “Two topics I know enough about. Well, then.” He raised a liver-spotted hand to his head as if tipping a hat, then shuffled across the common room and out into the evening.
As the saloon doors swished shut, Maros sat in thought. Jerrick’s revelation bothered him. It bothered him a lot.
Henwyn was looking at him. “When the courier next arrives, send him back with a request for the files from fifty years ago.”
“The courier won’t be back for a fortnight,” Maros said. “Then he’ll have rounds to finish before heading back to the Bay. And it’ll likely be several more weeks till he returns again. That’s too long.”
“Too long for what, boss?” the girl beside Henwyn asked.
