by Lee Ramsay
Luring men to their deaths
Cast upon a knife.
Youth a broken illusion,
Youth cloaked in the shade of night.
Deceit, deception,
Deception is revealed in Theragus’ light.
Deception the truth...
Deception the truth...
I can hear
I can hear
The cries of the Kin
A whisper
The cries of the Kin
Fading, fading, fading...
Tristan shivered as the bard’s voice dwindled, the taps of the growing lighter until the drumming faded away. “He’s quite good. I didn’t know a song could be sung in such a way.”
“It’s an old song and rhymes in Anahari. Some think it is about Ankara and the Purge. It isn’t.”
“The Purge?”
“The fall of the Kingdom of Bayeren, or rather what happened afterward.” Brenna adjusted her coat as a breath of wind slipped beneath the collar. “When she was young, truly young, Ankara left the realm at Seban Terador’s side as both student and consort. Depending on the version of the story one listens to, she was gone for years numbering between twenty and thirty, but they all agree that she had aged not a day when she returned. She stood before the king and demanded he abdicate the throne as a debt owed for a promise broken. Some versions of the tale say Ankara was the king’s cousin or perhaps his eldest child. Others claim she was the king’s betrothed, and the betrothal was broken.”
She shrugged. “The king refused and ordered her executed. Before the guards could lay a hand on her, she burned the king before the assembled nobility. The fortress where Feinthresh Castle now stands was destroyed, and Ankara alone emerged from the firestorm unscathed.
“Thus began the Purge. Ankara eliminated the heads of Anahar’s Houses and the royal family, but they had kin who would deny her the throne. Gathering her supporters, she hunted the survivors and wiped out – root, trunk, and branch.” Brenna shuddered and licked her lips. “How she did so varies from tale to tale, but the one consistency is that she plotted their destruction for years. Most wandered into her traps and were slain, lured out by cunning deceptions. I think the only person who knew the truth was Ankara herself.”
“She was ruthless.”
“It is why people think the song is about her.”
“But you think it means something else?”
“It is a song about the Huddelkin,” Brenna said. “The Ancient Ones, the dwellers of the forest. Have you not heard of them?”
“A few stories, nothing more. Anthoun discourages a belief in folklore.”
“They’re a myth, though some Anahari believe they are a myth born of legend drawn from truth. Who can say? There are ruins rumored to be scattered across Celerus, supposedly all that remains of great cities credited to the Huddelkin. It is said you cannot be harmed if you find yourself in one of these ruins, but that you may vanish from the world of men for all eternity.”
“I wouldn’t have believed in such a thing before I left Dorishad,” Tristan said after a moment. “I would have thought them no different than the Hillffolk – a story meant to frighten children. I also believed magic was a matter of deception and misdirection until l witnessed what Ankara and Sathra could do.”
His eyes slid toward Brenna. “You don’t think the Huddelkin exist, do you?”
“No, I don’t, though it wouldn’t mind finding a place where we could disappear,” Brenna said, a wistful smile on her lips.
Chapter 62
“This is not a good idea,” Brenna said, frowning as she looked down on the village resting on the River Ernhesh’s northern bank. “Seamus said we should try to get to Naas Reach.”
“You heard the soldiers we passed yesterday,” Rathus said, facing a short hedgerow separating the road from a pasture full of bleating sheep. He gave his manhood a shake and retied his britches before turning around. “Naas Reach is another day’s walk at the least, and there have been Meridan patrols seen in the area. If Merid’s armies are crossing into Troppenheim, don’t you think it would be wiser to cross the river farther from their border rather than closer?”
She pursed her lips. “The Meridan aren’t looking for us. The Dushken are. They would be less likely to try to kill us in public if we were in a larger town.”
Tristan shifted his weight on the stone he sat on and thought back to the patrol of eight Caledorn soldiers they passed early the previous day – spearmen in conical helmets and brigandine. “I don’t think it matters whether the Meridan are looking for us or not. The patrol’s captain warned us about hamlets being burned along Braeriach Mountains, as well as on Troppenheim’s side of the river.”
Brenna glanced westward across the rolling fields and found the short but jagged mountains that formed the border between Merid and Caledorn. Bands of ragged clouds played sneak-and-peek with lower slopes. Chewing her lower lip – something she was doing with more frequency the past few days – she looked southward across the mile-wide expanse of gray river. “I don’t like this. Perhaps we should backtrack east along the river. Didn’t they say there was a bridge?”
“We cross here,” Groush said with a note of finality. He had allowed Heather to trim his beard and wild mane; unless he opened his mouth and revealed his long canines and sharp incisors, or unless someone looked too long at his black eyes and the slope of his forehead, the Hillffolk could be mistaken for a tall, well-muscled man. “A day to the west is too far. Sixty and more miles eastward is two days too long. Near three weeks now, and no sign of the Dushken.”
“Perhaps they lost the trail?” Rathus asked.
Groush and Tristan traded a look, and the bull shook his head. “Don’t count on it. They may have lost it in the mountains, but they’re not stupid. I would patrol the riverbanks if I hunted someone. They could already be at Naas Reach.”
Tristan nodded and gestured at his feet. “I’m moving better, but not fast. They could have gotten ahead of us.”
“Or they could still be behind us,” Brenna said, shoving her hands in her coat pockets. “I don’t like the thought of putting these people in danger. How many do you think might live here?”
“About a hundred,” Tristan said with a quick count of the buildings. “I don’t like putting them at risk either, but I like the thought of running into Urzgeth and the other huntsman less. We should cross now.”
Groush held out his hand to help the young man to his feet. “Agreed.”.
Brenna glanced at Rathus and frowned as the bard stroked his goatee. She slung her rucksack over her shoulder with a sigh and trudged toward the village.
A weathered sign named the village on the River Ernhesh’s shore Bruach Aibhne. A collection of fifty residences and several smaller structures clustered around a public house. Willows lined the muddy road separating the buildings from the simple docks, their hairlike branches blazing orange, gold, and pale green. Smoke drifted from the chimneys bookending each building, sharp with the tang of pine and cooking meat.
Several boats bobbed against docks thrusting into the river. Shallow drafted with broad decks, they were meant to carry cargo to the Troppenheim village Tristan spied on the southern riverbank. It was so late in the season, though, that it did not surprise him to find little trade being made. It had been warm the last two days, but he knew it to be a false warmth before winter’s plunge. Even so, fishermen tossed nets into the iron-gray water from long, narrow skiffs.
There were few people about as they entered the village. A handful of men wrapped in fleece-lined coats and with knitted round caps on their unbound hair loitered on chairs around the public house’s door with pints in their hands and pipes in their mouths. Several women carried woven baskets filled with wet laundry or vegetables, while others mended fishing nets or engaged in various other tasks. A gaggle of children played by the riverbank, skipping smooth stones as small dogs yapped and plunged into the water.
The four strangers brought mor
e than a few curious, even suspicious, glances.
“Why are they staring? We don’t look very threatening,” Brenna whispered.
“Probably not used to travelers with the rumors we’ve heard,” Rathus said. “Ah, maybe this fellow will help us find someone to ferry us across the river.”
The man in question was older, perhaps in his middle years, and approached them with a rolling gait. A heavily salted brown beard matched the thick curls spilling across his long coat’s cedar wool. Hazel eyes flicked across each of the companions, noting the swords swinging at Groush’s and Rathus’s hips, the round bodhrán the bard carried, and the hatchet angled in a leather sling across Tristan’s shoulders.
The man took his long-stemmed pipe from between his yellowed teeth and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Good day to ye. We’re not fer seein’ many come this way so late, either in the day or the season. Might we be askin’ what yer business is in these parts?”
“Good sir, I’m Rathus mac Ranier of House Ranier, of the Isle of Thorsbend,” the bard said with a polite half-bow.
The man spit off to one side with a frown. “Got no use for nobles ‘round here.”
A charming smile split Rathus’s bearded face. “Then it is fortunate that I barely qualify. I am but a wandering minstrel, and my friends and I—"
“Get ye gone.” The man scowled and clicked his teeth clicking on the pipe’s stem, then shooed them away with a curt flick of his hand. His coat swirled around his knees as he turned and walked away. “We’ve no time for beggars and thieves.”
Tristan met the bard’s perplexed eyes with a wry smirk. “Maybe you should stop telling people you’re a musician or a nobleman. Neither seems to work for you.”
“At least I’m not the only one he annoys,” Groush muttered.
Brenna ignored the banter and pushed between her companions. “Please, sir, we need to cross the river. Yours is the nearest crossing, and we’re trying to return home before the weather turns.”
The man turned at the sound of Brenna’s voice, a bemused expression on his face. His eyes ran from her hat to her heels, a stream of smoke passing his lips as he took a few steps toward her. A sweet scent rose as the tabbac in his pipe bowl crackled with several puffs. “Bless me, lass, but I thought ye were a boy. Why are ye dressed like a lad, and keeping such company as this?”
Brenna hooked her hand around Tristan’s elbow. “We’re traders. Or rather, we were. My husband’s family are weavers down in Shreth. We thought we’d take a risk and expand trade to Caledorn, though the fleece raised here is said to be warmer than what is raised in the south. We had hoped to acquire enough of the warmer wool to weave; the south may not be quite as cold as Caledorn, but it’s a wet cold.”
The man sucked his pipe as Brenna spoke, a cloud of smoke rising around his face as he turned to Tristan. “Ye’re Ravvosi, then?”
The young man nodded. “From a hamlet down near Dresden Township.”
“How is it ye’re bedding an Anahari wife? They are a picky lot.”
Brenna turned her eyes up at Tristan, somehow managing to fill them with sincerity. “I’m from a village along the River Ossifor, and we met at a town called Akemaar during their spring festival. He did this foolish stunt to get my attention, which almost got him killed, and...”
“Ah. A few months on then. Explains the awkwardness between ye,” the man said as she trailed off. His eyes rested on Tristan’s bandaged hand, then moved to Brenna’s shorn hair and boyish garb. “Ran into trouble, I’m guessing?”
A flush stained the Anahari’s cheeks. “We’d overheard rumors of trouble in Troppenheim and Caledorn, but we didn’t credit them. In hindsight, we should have. We were camped by the road a few weeks back. I had gone to relieve myself when we were assaulted. I hid in the trees, but they...they...”
Tristan frowned and held up his bandaged hand. “They took my finger, thinking I was hiding money, and wanted to know where the woman they heard earlier had gone off to.”
Rathus winced. “I’m afraid they overheard me. Have you heard Dockside Arhen? The notes of the lady’s voice are hard to hit, and I was practicing for my companion.”
“Companion?”
Groush blew out a heavy breath. “Hired bodyguard. We happened to be going the same way.”
“It was terrible, listening to them beat Tristan and hearing him cry out as they took his finger. What was I to do?” Brenna widened her eyes and shifted her weight while gnawing on her lower lip. “I had nothing but my shift, and from what I could hear, there were at least five highwaymen. That’s when Rathus and Groush came along and drove them off. My husband was hurt and grew feverish, and they’ve been kind enough to offer an escort back to Dresden Township. It was their idea for me to cut my hair and dress like a boy.”
“We were heading south anyway,” Rathus said with a shrug. “There aren’t many people wanting to house a bard and his guard, what with the rumors of war we’ve heard.”
The man chewed the inside of his cheek as he looked them over once more. His eyes lingered on Tristan’s wan, pain-sharpened features. “They didna ravage ye, then?”
“No, sir, thank Siranon for that.”
“Hmm. Well, be welcome to Bruach Aibhne. Me name is Kavan ó Gallchobhair, and me wife runs yon pub. Come, let’s put a warm bowl of summat into yer bellies and find ye a place by the fire fer the night.” Kavan took another puff on his pipe and let the smoke stream from his nose before heading for the door to the public house. “’Tis approaching a lousy time of the year to be tryin’ a crossing, but mayhap we ken a person or two who might be willing.”
Brenna arched an eyebrow at the three sets of staring eyes, then led Tristan after their host with a tug on his arm.
Groush sucked his teeth and smirked at Rathus. “She’s more charming lying than you are telling the truth.”
THE FLATBOAT’S PROW parted the river, which mirrored the leaden sky overhead. Mist swirled around the companions as they huddled in the boat, beading on their clothing and darkening the canvas covering crates, barrels, and bales of wool taken from one of the dockside storehouses. Rathus sat in the bow, wrapped in his cloak and staring toward the far shore. Tristan and Brenna sat along the side, trying to stay out of the way as the polers – two lean but muscular Caledorn in heavy oilskin coats – pushed long, flexible rods against the river bottom.
Kavan stood at the flatboat’s stern, leaning on the tiller as the current bumped the hull and pushed it downstream. Groush shifted the swing of his sword and moved toward Brenna and Tristan, and jerked his thumb at the pilot as he sat down on a crate. “He says it is good we came when we did; this will be his last trip across to Troppenheim for the season. A few more days and the shallows will begin freezing, and it’s a dangerous crossing at the best of times.”
“We still would have been able to cross at Naas Reach, though?” Brenna asked, looking downriver.
The bull shrugged. “The river gets shallower further on, and it depends on the flow as to whether the boats cross. There are places to ford, but he says those who try risk freezing.”
Tristan hunched his shoulders as icy water dribbled down his neck. He crossed his ankles and leaned back against the side of the craft as he looked back at the receding riverbank. “Maybe our luck has turned,”
“Maybe,” Groush said with another shrug.
“How long do you think before we get to Caer Ravvos?” Brenna asked.
“Not quite six hundred miles. Maybe twenty days.” The Hillffolk stripped off his glove and stabbed a finger at the lines cutting across his palm. “This is the River Ernhesh, and this the River Ossifor. Between them is Troppenheim. Easy country, lots of roads. Perhaps a fortnight to cross if we put a good foot under us. If we are lucky and find a wagon with a good team of horses, maybe less.”
“Let’s say ten days if we do,” Tristan said, stroking his stubbled chin.
“Don’t count on it. Kavan says we might find a wagon heading to a town called Morges. Crafte
rs and tinkers from all over Troppenheim winter there. With Meridan raiders roaming the countryside, though, there may not be anyone on the roads.”
The young man chewed his cheek as the boat bobbed and slipped into a faster portion of the current. His eyes turned south and east. “Maybe we should try for Caer Rochiel after all.”
“I asked,” Groush said as he tugged his glove back over his hand. “The city has docks on the River Ossifor, but with the troubles in Troppenheim, they’ve been closed – or so the rumors Kavan heard say.”
“Maybe he heard wrong,” Brenna suggested. “How far away is the Ossifor?”
“Less than three hundred miles from here to Caer Rochiel. Traders trade more than goods; they swap news. King Garoos holds little love for the Troppenheim.”
“That seems rather hateful.”
“Troppenheim and Merid were allies during the War of Tenegath, and soldiers posing as refugees crossed the Ossifor to attack from behind. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to risk the same thing happening now.” Groush’s eyes turned toward Tristan. “Crossing into the Kingdom of Fershan won’t work, either. They like the Troppenheim less than Garoos.”
“We should have crossed earlier and made for another ford to Caer Rochiel’s east,” the young man frowned.
“We wouldn’t have made it. You were too sick and weak to cross the widest part of Troppenheim. Even if you had been well, we’d have risked the Dushken finding us sooner.” The bulls shook his head. “Caer Ravvos is the right choice.”
“Couldn’t we make for the Ossifor and see about taking a boat downstream?” Rathus asked, working his way around covered crates and barrels after catching snippets of their conversation. “I saw plenty of barges when the ship from Thorsbend tied off at Caer Ravvos, and heard much of the Hegemony’s trade of the moved along the river. Surely the Troppenheim do the same.”
“We have seven Archs left to us,” Tristan said, referring to the coins Seamus had given them. “It cost us two to cross the Ernhesh, and we need to buy more food. I’m not sure a barge would take all four of us for so little money.”
