by Brian Fuller
When the Shadan returned, his pants wet up to the knee, his humor had not improved, and Regina’s golden brown offering and a newly cleaned and set table did nothing more than prevent another beating. The Shadan ate in silence, eyes smoldering and focusing on nothing in particular.
“Play!” he commanded once the meal had ended. Rafael and Gen speedily retrieved their instruments from their rooms.
When they returned, the Shadan had his feet on the table and his arms crossed, face slack and unreadable. Gen’s back ached horribly, but he hadn’t the courage to ask the Shadan to heal it. They played for two hours before Captain Omar interrupted them.
“I have come with the report you asked for, Shadan. The scouts have returned.”
“What word?” the Shadan asked dully, staring at the fire.
“We have confirmed that both the Baron Forthrickeshire and Duke Norshwal have received your letters, but there is no evidence of any preparation for war. The people certainly have no idea of it.”
Torbrand’s fist slammed down on the table.
“But what of the head? I sent the Magistrate’s head in a sack to the Duke! How could he ignore that?”
“From what our spies could gather, the head was unrecognizable by the time it arrived and he simply had the two youths thrown in the dungeon.”
“And the Baron?”
“He didn’t believe the storekeeper. They took matters to some local Puremen but fared no better there.”
Both fists slammed down on the table this time. Gen, Regina, and Rafael despaired anew. They had harbored some hope of rescue, and it now seemed impossible.
“Thickheaded dolts. Take twenty men and go to Sipton. Kill as many people there as you can safely get away with. Leave some tabards and armor behind as tokens. Perhaps then the Baron will take the claim seriously.”
“I will do it, Shadan.”
“Begone with you.”
The Shadan crossed to the door. “Gah! Stupid rural nobility. I’ll return after lunch. Eat what you like. If you’re lucky, I may actually have to go knock on the Baron’s door myself to announce my presence.”
The Shadan absented himself for nearly four hours. They talked of their plan and peeked out of windows, trying to get an idea of how the Shadan had placed his men. They managed to see a column of soldiers, bundled against the weather, ride out of town in the deep snow before the door guard roughly pulled the shutters closed.
By the time Torbrand returned, his fuming anger had again settled into dissatisfied irritability, and after dinner he sat, face blank, head propped on his elbow. Regina leaned against the door frame of the kitchen, watching silently. The fire provided the only light, and in that light Gen could sense that the Shadan’s uses for them were nearly exhausted. While otherwise expressionless, Gen read in his silence a brewing contempt. Anger at the Shadan welled up within him, and he fought to keep his own manner civil.
Just as Rafael opened his mouth to announce his next story, the Shadan interrupted him. “Why is it that no one ever really wins in your stories?”
“What mean you, Milord?” Rafael asked nervously.
“What do I mean? Why, let’s see. Two people fall in love and then one of them tragically dies. Two people dislike each other until one of them dies, then the other one realized he loves the dead one, but alas, she is dead. A King wins a mighty battle, but he is mortally wounded and dies. A man has a great fortune but must give it up to wed the woman he loves. Can no one in your stories kill all his enemies, have the woman he wants, and keep the gold all at the same time? In fact, you come up with a story like that by tomorrow or Regina will be very sorry.”
“You leave her alone!” Gen wished he could take the words back as soon as he said them. There was much more he wanted to yell at his captor, but the thin malicious smile turning up at the edges of the Shadan’s mouth at his outburst silenced him. Torbrand stood, and Gen knew something awful was about to happen.
“Leave her alone?” Torbrand mocked. “I assume you mean Regina there.” He started walking toward her and Gen ran forward, stabbing pain erupting down his back. Torbrand didn’t try to stop him as he took up a defensive position in front of the kitchen doorway, pushing Regina behind him.
“Beat me all you want, Torbrand. Leave her alone.”
“My, my, how gallant. Rafael, I do believe we have the material for one of your tragic stories, here.”
Gen’s heart pounded, every sense alive. And somehow, despite the Shadan’s speed, he saw it coming. The narrowing of the eyes, the slight twitch signaling the backward movement of the arm, and the setting of the jaw. The Shadan’s fist careened with frightening velocity straight for his nose—and Gen dodged it, ducking to the right and swinging his own fist in return.
Torbrand intercepted Gen’s right-handed blow with his left hand and pulled Gen away from the door and out into the room. Gen gathered himself, anger pounding through his veins. Dimly, he was aware of Rafael shouting at him to stop. Gen turned, ready to charge, but the Shadan stood stock-still, staring at him in such a way that Gen held up, awaiting the outcome of Torbrand’s odd shift in mood.
After an uncomfortably long silence, the Shadan laughed, posture relaxing, and he strode forward to embrace Gen.
“Excellent,” he beamed, backing away and regarding him at arm’s length like a long lost son. “I should have noticed before. You are not built for power, but there is speed there. And as a bard, you would be dexterous. Well, well, perhaps this winter can be put to some profit after all. We’re taking a little trip tomorrow, Gen. We’ll be gone for a few days. Bring the warmest clothes you have. I’m going to bed.”
Torbrand talked with the guard outside the door briefly before retiring, mumbling instructions excitedly to himself.
Regina and Rafael came to Gen quickly. Regina took his hand and pressed her shoulder against him.
“I’m not sure what he’s up to, boy,” Rafael whispered after several minutes of quiet speculation. “But you watch yourself. He intends you no good, I am sure.”
Gen nodded his head in agreement. “There is one good thing. You’ll have several days without the Shadan. You should be able to get about town and get some information.”
“Leave it to us,” Regina said. “You just worry about yourself. Come back to me.”
Squeezing his hand, she lifted her veil and kissed him on the cheek before going to her room. He felt warm inside, and Rafael smiled for the first time in days.
“Off to bed with you, lad. Stay alert. You may learn something on this ‘trip’ that can help us.”
Gen, bewildered and scared, retired and laid awake for many hours. What did the Shadan want with him? A trip with the madman sounded less appealing every hour he thought about it, and his mind conjured up one horrible scenario after another until sleep finally took him.
Chapter 8 - A Frozen Menagerie
Torbrand kicked him awake before the sun had pushed itself over the horizon. Gen scrambled to his feet and followed the Shadan out into the kitchen. Regina was there, slump-shouldered and tired, putting the finishing touches on a large breakfast. Gen rubbed his eyes as he sat, trying to clear his vision. Torbrand was dressed for travel and practically bounced at every step.
“Isn’t this quite a feast, Gen?” he effused. “I do apologize for rousing your woman so early to prepare it, but our journey today will be long and cold and we need a full belly against the task. Eat! I daresay this will be the best meal you’ve had in some time. And come sit with us, Regina. Sit close to Gen. Say whatever sweet goodbyes you have! For my part, I can hardly wait to be off!”
Regina happily complied with the request, but neither she nor Gen had it in them to say anything in the presence of the Shadan. Even if they had the desire to speak, they wouldn’t have had space to edge in a word. Torbrand talked incessantly about everything, from challenges by other Warlords in his land, to the food he liked, then on to an energetic yet gruesome description of the slaughtering of a band of Uyumaak deep
in the immense Lakewood.
“You should have burned the biscuits this morning,” Gen whispered as Torbrand laughed over his own story of ramming an Uyumaak basher into a tree with his horse.
“Oh, yes,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I do apologize for that fiasco yesterday, Regina. I promise not to throw Gen on the table again unless the biscuits are truly ashes or he looks good enough to eat. Come now, Gen, give her a kiss and let’s be off! I’ll even remove myself for a moment.”
While Gen could never trust Torbrand’s magnanimity, for once he had little difficulty complying with the tyrant’s orders. Regina lifted her veil and smiled, kissing him deeply.
“I wanted to thank you for risking yourself for me yesterday,” she said, holding his eyes. Grasping his hand, she placed a braided lock of hair in his palm. “Remember me. Be safe.”
“Enough of that,” Torbrand said, entering the room. Gen turned and barely caught a backpack the Shadan had tossed at the back of his head. “If you can’t fit it in there, you can’t bring it.”
Regina squeezed his arm and he ran to his room. He hardly had clothes enough to fill the pack even halfway, but stuffing his heavy woolen blanket inside used up the space. After donning and tying his cloak, he pulled on the pack and returned to the kitchen.
“I hope you left room for food in there,” the Shadan said as he stuffed his own pack. “We only need enough for a day and a half.”
With some creative shifting and cramming, Gen managed to get in an ample amount of dried meat and fruit. “And here is your waterskin. Wear it close to your body so that it does not freeze. All ready to go then.”
“Say goodbye to Rafael for me,” Gen instructed Regina as he followed Torbrand to the door. “He never did like mornings.”
Once he shut the door behind him, Gen wished for the indoors again. The morning was bitter cold. The sky, just starting to lighten, was clear of clouds. Their breath ejected billows of steam from their mouths, and Gen could feel the hairs of his nose freezing together. The ice-covered stairs of the Showles’s front porch creaked and crunched wildly from the cold, and the sound of it sent shivers through Gen’s body.
The Shadan set a brisk pace north into the empty plains to the east of the Alewine forest, and Gen’s back started to ache from where the Shadan had hit him with the chair. Here the wind blew so chill that it penetrated his cloak with ease, pimpling his skin with its icy touch. As day fully broke, spreading a weak light about them, the Shadan turned west, putting their backs to the wind, and headed into the forest. While the wind lessened, the snow deepened. The Alewine forest was thick with new growth and littered with fallen branches and trees. Skinny pines blown over by the wind slanted across their way, a thin line of snow running down their trunks.
While no path was evident, the Shadan walked forward confidently, angling this way and that without the slightest hesitation. Small puffy birds and snow-white rabbits scattered at their approach, and they crossed the tracks of wolves, deer, and foxes running in thin trails all around them. While grateful that the Shadan was blazing the trail through the knee-deep snow, by the time he called their first halt, Gen could no longer feel his legs or his feet.
Torbrand took a healthy swig. “Drink up, Gen. They call it a waterskin, but that’s not what you’ll find in it.”
Gen unstoppered the leather bag and drunk deeply, coughing as fiery liquor cascaded down his throat. The Shadan chuckled at his sputtering, but Gen felt warmth gradually return to his extremities and he wiggled his toes in his boots to ensure they were still there. “We wouldn’t last a mile where we’re going without this, so don’t drink it all.”
“Where are we going?” Gen asked, taking advantage of the Shadan’s comment to put forth the question he had pondered through the night.
“To my homeland, of course. I need to retrieve something.”
“That will take at least two months on foot!” Gen exclaimed incredulously.
“Calm yourself. You don’t think an entire regiment of my soldiers walked to your hometown during the summer, do you? We’ll be using a Portal.”
“But that’s illegal! The Portal Guild would never let you send an army into a land not your own! It’s against the law!”
The Shadan laughed and took another swig. “Well, let’s reason this out as we walk, shall we, Gen? Maybe it will keep your mind off the cold.” They adjusted their waterskins inside their cloaks and started forward again. “I should have thought, Gen, that one who prides himself on being intelligent as you do would have figured this out by now.”
“I do not pride myself on any such thing. I have much to learn,” Gen contradicted, irritated at the Shadan’s assumptions.
“Please, Gen. It’s as Captain Omar said. ‘This one thinks he has a brain in is his head.’ It’s in your eyes and the lift of your chin, Gen, and you should not be ashamed of it. But to the matter at hand. Since the formation of the Portal Guild, every nation has paid them handsomely to provide use of the Portals and enforce the laws to prevent them from being abused. Additionally, there are small fees to pass through them. You may not know this, but who do you think gets all that money and lives on fine estates with an overabundance of women, wine, and food?”
“The guildmasters.”
“Correct. Now, your average Portal Mage lives about as well as Regina’s family did, which certainly is not bad. Consider, though, that if the prophecy proves correct, Ki’Hal will all knit itself together again and there will be no need to pay for Portals, Portal Mages, or Portal guildmasters. Now, the guildmasters have an abundance of wealth and will live quite nicely in the end. Can you piece out the rest of the story?”
It wasn’t hard for Gen to understand the gist of Torbrand’s train of thought. “The Portal Mages will be destitute.”
Gen knew that as soon as anyone showed talent for opening Portals, they were immediately removed from whatever station they were in—no matter how low or high—to be trained. Most Portal Mages had no other skills or profession with which to eke out a living.
“And destitute people are highly susceptible to what?”
“Bribery.”
“And so you have it. But it is even a little worse than that, I’m afraid. What your distant little town probably hasn’t the slightest notion of is that several Portal Mages have simply left their posts and are clandestinely offering their services to whomever wants to pay for them. This is all kept very quiet by the guild, of course, and the guild hunts their ‘traitors’ vigorously. I have no doubt that all three kingdoms—and perhaps a few wealthy individuals besides—have their own Portal Mages on retainer by now. I have three. You will meet one soon.”
“But there isn’t a Portal near Tell. The closest one is near Blood Throne.”
“As far as anyone knew, yes. But new Portals are being discovered constantly, and, well, there is one close by which Portal Mages under my control found nearly a year ago. In your view, a most unfortunate occurrence, I’m sure.”
The conversation ended and Gen walked glumly in Torbrand’s wake. Tell would provide a stronghold for Aughmere in southern Tolnor, a place hard to reach due to a great dividing crack in the Menegothian shard and the uninhabitable Rede Steppes that divided the lands of Duke Sothbranne of Bloodthrone and Duke Norshwal of Graytower from their peers to the north. That Shadan Khairn had found such a direct link of travel illuminated the often wicked face of chance, though chance was not all to blame. The Tolnorian people’s general understanding that Shadan Khairn was a stupid, bloodthirsty brute was wrong. He was bloodthirsty, but in his lucid moments he possessed a sharp and calculating mind.
The sun at last hefted itself firmly into the sky, sending slender beams of light to the forest floor, though the shadows of the wood stripped them of any vitality. The throats of winter birds finally thawed enough to enliven the wintry scene with a bit of music, but their cheer was lost on Gen, who found his prospects as bleak as the scene around him.
Gen half-considered attempting
to run from his captor, who thought nothing of letting the bard’s apprentice walk behind him. Gen was smart enough to realize that this wasn’t folly on the Shadan’s part. Torbrand had every confidence that he could catch and kill Gen at his convenience—and he was right.
The smell of wood smoke pulled Gen from his dark reverie. At the base of a low wooded hill a fire burned in a small, shadowy clearing. A crude shelter had been excavated into a steep slope of the hill, a curtain of hides covering the entrance. A man huddling close to the fire stood and regarded them unhappily as they approached. His close-cropped black hair was greasy and matted, and stubbly cheeks told the tale of several days living in the rough. He wrapped his arms around his thin frame, gray woolen cloak pulled close about him. Dark circles ringed his brown eyes, highlighting them against his pasty white face.
“Do you have any idea how cold it was here last night?” he asked hoarsely in greeting. “Damn near froze to death!” Torbrand stopped and put his hands on his hips as the man turned his gaze to Gen as if just noticing him. “And this isn’t one of your soldiers! I thought you weren’t going back until spring!”
Torbrand continued regarding him, face displeased. “Gen, this is Udan. Not his real name, of course. Perhaps you can help him think of a less stupid one on the way. He is the aforementioned Portal Mage in my employ. He is here through the rest of the month as the last of my men and supplies are brought over. And of course, you see he has a problem.”
Gen regarded Udan, wondering if the Shadan were referring to the cold, but Gen caught the fire in Torbrand’s eyes. Udan didn’t have time to blink in the instant it took for the Shadan’s fist to travel to his nose. Udan stumbled back and nearly fell into the fire, accidentally kicking several burning sticks into the snow to hiss and steam.
The Shadan extended his hand. “Look! He has a broken nose. That certainly won’t make the nights any warmer.”
“What was that for?” Udan’s voice was stuffy and muted, hands over his mouth and nose.
