Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  The Hillffolk’s expression put a lump in the young man’s throat; he had never seen the bull frightened. “We do what Hillffolk do when we face Dushken – we run. Get the others.”

  THE SIX OF THEM RAN, turning from the twisted path and up the slopes toward the Gap of Baeden.

  Groush led them through dense pines, setting a loping pace the others struggled to match. The Hillffolk employed every trick he knew to confuse their path – doubling back on their trail to complicate their scent and winding them between the dense trees and before taking them into the open terrain to make some distance. They ran in a rocky streambed for a time, the icy trickle seeping through the seams of their boots.

  No one complained once they realized what the bull was attempting; they did not have the breath as they stumbled along. Sweat streamed down their faces, and steam rose from their shoulders and scalps. Groush was doing all he could to give them an advantage, but the Hillffolk’s grim expression told Tristan it would not be enough.

  Emphasizing the threat was the occasional otherworldly howl piercing the air. It was a thin, distant cry at first, lost beneath running feet and gasping breath. As the day progressed, the call grew clearer and closer.

  “Dushken hunting call,” Groush said during one of their infrequent rests. The bull removed his thin shirt and stuffed it through his sword belt, and took a long swallow from the water flask Brenna offered. “Each Dushken has his own, known to the others in his pack. When one finds the prey’s trail, he calls out; the pack moves toward that place while the huntsman continues.”

  Nisha mopped her brow with her sleeve. “How do you know how they hunt?”

  “Hillffolk hunt in a similar fashion.”

  “Do you think you can throw them from our trail?” Esra asked.

  Groush handed the flask to Brenna with a shrug. “You said you were chased by Dushken in the dungeons, yes? These are not unblooded pups in a stone maze, but branded huntsmen.”

  “Can we fight them off?” Nisha asked, her voice small.

  “Hillffolk are strong and numerous, but we run when Dushken come.” The bull shouldered his battered rucksack and swept the group with a glance. “We lack numbers, and you are sick and weak. We don’t fight; we run.”

  SUNLIGHT FADED BENEATH the pines, and behemoth redwoods cast long shadows as the sun dipped behind the craggy peaks to the west. The air grew colder, its piney richness burning their lungs as they followed Groush deeper into the woods and away from the basin’s open lands.

  Rathus and Tristan struggled the most, their vision popping with gray speckles as lungs accustomed to the lowlands’ thicker air labored. Face flushed and sweat-dampened clothes clinging to her, Brenna cast worried glances their way, but there was little she could do for them. Instead, she and Nisha slung Esra’s arms across their shoulders and hurried on.

  Groush sprinted ahead, finding the easiest path before returning to guide the others. He had given up obscuring their trail not long after the sun struck its zenith. As the day wore on, his irritable expression became defeated and fearful. He tilted his head as the huntsman’s cry sounded again – three notes rising before a two-note fall, the last note drawn out in a declining wail.

  “Three miles, perhaps four,” the bull said as Tristan and Rathus sagged against a tree, gasping for breath. Golden sunlight shafted through the trunks in thin knives, turning the forest into a blinding mix of brilliant light and deep shadow.

  Hands propped on his knees, the bard coughed and spat on the ground. “I have strong lungs and can hold a long note. How in all hells does he have enough air for that kind of length and volume?”

  The Hillffolk ignored the question as his black eyes dropped to the sword slung at the nobleman’s waist. “You know how to use that?”

  “I’ve had some training, but I’m no soldier. I can use it well enough to intimidate brigands.”

  “These aren’t brigands. When the time comes, swing to cripple. Do not kill.”

  “Killing one would piss off the others, I suppose,” Rathus said with a humorless laugh.

  Groush eyed Tristan’s hatchet. “Think you can fight well enough with that? We have one more sword.”

  “I’ve never used a sword. It seems simple enough, though.”

  “It isn’t,” Brenna said from where she sat beside the other two women. “Take my word for it.”

  “How would you know?” Rathus asked.

  “My father taught me a bit of how to use one. Just as he had a lot of books, he had many swords.” She rose and held out her hand with a sniff. “I used a lighter blade, but I think I can manage.”

  Tristan gave her a perplexed look, but without the suspicion he once harbored. With her knowledge of what was edible and medicinal, he had no doubt there was more to the young woman than he suspected. He met Groush’s questioning look with a slight shrug.

  The Hillffolk handed her the extra blade and thrust his bearded chin toward Nisha and Esra. “Get them away if you can. We’ll fight while you run.”

  Nisha clenched her teeth as Brenna cinched the sword belt around her waist. “We can fight. I want to fight.”

  “You can barely put one foot in front of the other,” Rathus said.

  Groush crouched beside the young woman and patted her knee. “You have a spirit like the women of my people. This is a Dushken on the hunt, not a whelp in the dungeon or a mailled soldier tired by the weight he carries. When the time comes, run – and do not look back.”

  THERAGUS HUNG LOW ON the eastern horizon, full but for a thin black crescent. The moon’s silver light drowned out the brilliance of the stars as it dodged between black clouds, bathing the ground with a shifting, ghostly radiance.

  Tristan was thankful for the light, which allowed them to continue running. Groush was leading them higher into the mountains in hopes of slowing pursuit, but the forest’s cover faded away as they entered a swath of blackened, burned-out trees. The scorched ground was powdery and crumbling under their feet, clumped together by moisture and frozen into slippery clods. Pines stood naked in the moonlight, bone-white ash clinging to blackened bark.

  Breath fogging the chill air, Groush slowed as they crested a ridge. The others staggered to a halt, breath coming in ragged gasps. Thrusting his hand toward a gap between two peaks Tristan could barely see, the Hillffolk grunted. “We make for that gap.”

  Nisha panted and leaned against a tree. “How far? Two miles?”

  “Five, at least.”

  “It may as well be as far as the moon. I can’t go any further.”

  “You must. We all must.” The bull opened his mouth to urge them onward when a cry split the night air. The sound shivered through the air, different than the others they had heard – a primal howl, with a challenging, human quality. Fear crossed the Hillffolk’s hairy features as he grabbed Nisha by the arm and pulled. “We must go. Now. He is a mile off, no more.”

  Tristan pulled his hatchet from his belt and shoved his rucksack into Esra’s arms. “I’m done running. I’ll hold him here for as long as I can.”

  “You can’t win this, but I might. Go. Take the others and run,” Groush said with knitted eyebrows.

  “They have a better chance with you. Get them to Caer Rochiel, then go to Caer Ravvos. They will listen to you more than me.”

  “This isn’t the time for stupid heroics,” Brenna said.

  “I’m expendable,” Tristan said as he transferred the axe handle to his right hand. “Go with Groush. The five of you will be able to convince people to listen to you.”

  “Tristan—"

  “The longer you stand here arguing, the closer that Dushken gets.”

  Brenna frowned and opened her mouth to say something else, but Groush grabbed her by the arm. His voice was menacing as he clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Remember, strike to cripple, not to kill. If you put him down, run. The others will soon catch up.”

  The bull turned and trotted off with Brenna and Nisha. Esra hesitated for a moment, t
hen hurried after them. Tristan gave the bard a sharp look as the nobleman made no move to follow. “You too. You know how to tell a story. Tell them this one.”

  “Not happening,” Rathus said. Steel hissed against the scabbard’s locket as he drew his sword. “I may not be the best with a blade, but two against one is better odds. Besides, I can’t run another step.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want to die. If I had any wind left, I’d take what sense I have and run. This way, I can catch a breath and maybe stagger a few more miles if we live.” The bard grinned, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Besides, think of the story I’ll have to tell. Two men against a monster in the depths of the night, fair maidens weeping for fear we might die.”

  Despite the grimness of the situation, Tristan snorted. “You’re insane.”

  Steel glittered with reflected moonlight as Rathus smirked and swung his sword to loosen his shoulder and wrist. “You might be surprised how many thighs a good story will part, even if the ladies suspect it’s bullshit. Besides, how tough can this Dushken be? He has to have been running hard to catch us, and I am half dead.”

  The younger man knew it would be useless to try to explain the danger. He had dealt with Urzgeth and was familiar with how vigorous the aging graybeard could be; he also knew how dangerous the younger huntsmen were. Palms sweating inside his gloves, he tried not to speculate on the threat posed by an experienced Dushken in its prime.

  The pair waited in silence as the rising moon turned their surroundings into a monochromatic dreamscape. They knew the huntsman drew closer with each passing moment; any shadow, or none, could be the huntsman.

  Tristan’s muscles tightened as he spied movement through the stark, dead trees. Groush was large, and Urzgeth larger; he had grown so accustomed to both that he forgot how big they were. This Dushken dwarfed them by a least a head in height and three stone in weight, and moved with lupine grace.

  Spying the two humans waiting for him, the Dushken slowed. Moonlight gleamed along a waved blade’s edge as he unslung a massive sword from his baldric and drew it over his shoulder. With only one hand controlling the blade, the savage figure cut the air with a forehand and backhand cross and stalked forward.

  “Sweet Siranon’s tits,” Rathus breathed, the front of his pants darkening.

  Chapter 53

  The huntsman growled a wet, rolling snarl reminiscent of a vicious dog. Black eyes glittered in deep-set sockets. Silver moonlight illuminated the whorls, curves, and lines of the runes seared into the predatory face; they had been cut open and rubbed with soot to darken them. Curling lips bared long canines, and the elongated jaw heightened the face’s animalism.

  The Dushken stalked forward, the tails of his long coat whispering against his boots.

  Sidling away, Tristan kept his eyes on the predatory figure. Tendons ached as he gripped the hatchet’s wooden handle, the weapon seeming pathetic against the Dushken’s size and layered leathers. Fear spurred his heart to a gallop, pumping liquid ice through his veins – yet deep within, the rage built through long months of imprisonment kindled in response to the huntsman’s challenging snarl.

  He glanced at the bard. Slack-jawed, Rathus stared at the stalking warrior with his sword in a loose grip. His hatchet knocked loose a chunk of burned bark as he smacked it against a tree. “Rathus!”

  The thick braid running down the center of the Dushken’s skull brushed the animal bones sewn to the coat’s shoulders as his head turned toward Tristan. Bark crunched beneath thick-soled boots as he stalked toward the young man, the imposing blade held level.

  Steel hummed as the huntsman swung. The young man threw himself into a shoulder roll to open up distance between him and the brutish warrior. His shoulder burned as the Dushken altered the flow of the cut; the waved blade’s point split his shirt and sliced the skin over his scapula. Hissing, Tristan turned with the blow, throwing the hatchet’s bit into a backhanded swing.

  The warrior caught the blow on his five-foot blade and jerked his arm back. Vibration rattled through Tristan’s palm as the hatchet’s bit stuttered across the sword’s waved edge, nearly causing him to drop the weapon. The distraction covered the hooked punch that blasted across the young man’s jaw.

  Tristan dropped to his knee and shook his head to clear his tilted, sparkling vision. The looming figure of the huntsman lifted his blade high, readying a cut that would send his head rolling.

  The blade never fell. Leather parted as the bard rallied and struck from behind. The nobleman’s sword failed to pierce the brigandine’s plates.

  The huntsman whirled and slashed his blade at an angle, which Rathus evaded with a duck and a lean. Halting as though it weighed nothing, the giant sword reversed with a surge of muscle. The bard parried with a blind reaction, staggering as steel rang and the smaller weapon bent. The Dushken moved in for the kill with a thrust at the nobleman’s unprotected side.

  Steel clashed as another sword smacked against the waved blade and deflected the blow into the dirt. Nisha stood between Rathus and the Dushken, both hands wrapped around a sword’s hilt to lend the parry strength. She lifted her weapon and advanced with a two-handed cut.

  The huntsman laughed and snapped his head away from one slash and then another. He spun on the ball of his foot as he evaded the third cut and rolled along her side behind the slash. The massive blade arced through an overhand chop as he completed the pirouette.

  Nisha staggered as her sword – and the arm holding it – fell to the ground. Black in the moonlight, blood spurted through the air as the young woman toppled.

  Fury blazed in Tristan’s breast as he roared and crashed into the huntsman’s side. Almost as tall as the brute, the blow upset the predator’s balance. Ashy soil gave way as their combined weight sent them tumbling from the ridge. Dirt and charred deadfall flew as the two men bounced and slid down the steep incline, unable to slow themselves.

  A rock smacked the young man’s elbow. His axe spun from his numbed grip as the world pinwheeled around him. He dug his boot into the burned soil to alter his tumble, which brought him momentarily upright. Momentum carried his shoulder into a sapling’s charred trunk, snapping the wood and throwing him headlong.

  Sliding to a stop on his belly as the ground evened out, he found the Dushken a few yards away. Disarmed by the fall, the huntsman rose with his black eyes fixed on the young man. Scrambling to his feet as the huntsman snarled and charged, Tristan’s throat tore with an answering shout.

  Impact jarred the young man, and the Dushken’s greater weight slammed him into the ground beneath the huntsman with an explosive exhalation. Fingernails clawed the brute’s upper lip as his left hand gripped the savage’s chin with desperate strength to keep the bared canines from his throat. His knee slammed the warrior’s side as he thrashed beneath his opponent’s bulk and twisted his hips free.

  A gloved hand plowed into his jaw, its strength stolen by an awkward angle; he responded with a kick to the huntsman’s gut as he scuttled sideways and climbed to his feet – and took a punch to the ribs as the warrior did the same. Pain stabbed through his chest as the lowest rib cracked, and he went down once more as the Dushken crashed into him.

  Heel wedged into the ground, the young man gripped huntsman’s coat in both hands and flung them into a downslope roll once more. A broad hand cracked his face hard enough to pop the hinge of his jaw; he answered with a fist to the Dushken’s mouth and busted his knuckles against the sharp teeth. Blood flying from split lips, the gaping jaws whipped around for another bite.

  Tristan’s forearm slipped beneath the Dushken’s jaw and narrowly prevented having his throat torn out as teeth snapped closed. With a snarl, his heavier opponent flung them into a tumble to gain a superior position. Scorched soil crumbled and sent them down a sharp decline, and their bodies bounced off sharp stones, roots, and charred deadfall. His heart hammered as the Dushken landed several devastating blows to his side, and he struggled t
o keep the roll going. If he ended on his back, he was finished.

  Emptiness yawned beneath them.

  A gap opened between the two combatants as they dropped over a ravine’s edge. Jutting roots smacked Tristan’s shoulder, sending him tumbling one way as the Dushken went another. For a sickening moment, he could not tell up from down. Icy water shocked him as he plunged into a shallow stream, seizing his lungs and preventing him from screaming as something in his shoulder tore.

  The huntsman splashed into the water more than a yard away, head cracking against a stone jutting from the rushing surface. The warrior did not move, lying face down in the flow, then sat up with a gasp. Blood flowed from a gash in his temple as the dazed warrior stared at Tristan.

  The young man ignored his pain and lack of breath and jerked his dagger from his belt. The Dushken caught his wrist as he lunged, but he lacked the strength to keep the blade from plowing into his chest above the brigandine.

  Gloved fingers dug into his wrist and twisted, driving Tristan to his knees as the blood-slicked dagger pulled free. Bloodied steel splashed into the stream as his fingers spasmed open. Desperate, the young man slammed his hand into the brute’s windpipe. The huntsman’s grip relaxed, allowing him to wrench free. He fumbled beneath the stream’s surface and closed his fingers around a jagged-edged stone. Broken, bloody teeth flew from the Dushken’s lips as he cracked the rock across the warrior’s face and toppled his foe into the water.

  Dropping the smaller rock as he forced himself to his feet, he lifted a larger stone from the stream bed. Despite the sweet hate and heady rage coursing through him, his arms trembled with the strain of lifting the stone over his head as he straddled the huntsman’s chest. Bones caved with a dull crunch that sent a thrill through his chest as he brought the rock down with repeated blows to the warrior’s skull.

  “No!” Groush roared from the darkness, too late to stop the killing blow.