Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  “So, we save two Archs and go as far as the barges on the Ossifor will take us. We jump overboard before they put us off.” Rathus tilted his head. “Or we part once we reach the Ossifor. You and Groush need to reach Caer Ravvos, not Brenna and me. Perhaps they’ll take the two of you for the coin we have left, and we find lodging somewhere. I can pay for our upkeep through the winter with my songs.”

  Brenna stiffened and opened her mouth to disagree. The Hillffolk shook his head before she could protest the bard’s suggestion. “Too dangerous. Four of us have a chance against two Dushken. Not a good chance, but better than two against two. We stay together.”

  A relieved look crossed Rathus’s face. “Then we’d best figure out a way to hire a coach or find a wagon, and still feed ourselves. I can sing us the occasional supper, and maybe a place to lay our head, but—”

  A hum like the fast-beating bird wings cut the air. The bard grunted as the droning ended with a thump. A black shafted arrow fletched with eagle feathers pierced the bodhrán, lodging itself in Rathus’s shoulder. The nobleman gasped for breath as his knee struck the decking.

  Brenna reacted on instinct and lunged forward, tackling the bard to the deck as Tristan and Groush crouched low. The polers shouted in the Caledorn tongue, hauling in the long poles while trying to shield themselves behind cargo. Kavan shouted something from the tiller, and ducked with a curse as another arrow skittered off an exposed crate.

  Dread welling in his breast, Tristan’s eyes found what he feared to see. More than two hundred yards separated the flatboat from the dock. Urzgeth stared after them from the pier’s edge, the wind stirring his iron-gray hair and the hem of his coat. The bow’s long arms were bent, an arrow nocked to the string.

  He imagined more than heard the bowstring twang as the aged huntsman loosed his shaft, the arrow arcing through the air with a menacing hum. His eyes snapped to Brenna and Rathus as he pressed himself against a barrel; the bard squirmed with pain as blood pooled beneath his shoulder.

  Groush deflected the arrow with a lid wrenched from a barrel and sent it splashing into the water. The Hillffolk snarled a challenge to the immobile huntsman, his bared teeth gleaming against his beard.

  Urzgeth stood unmoving, matching Groush’s gaze but not the challenge. Tristan could see the disdain on the branded face even at a distance. The huntsman turned, coat swirling as he slung the bow and loped away, people scattering from his path. A second, younger Dushken joined the elder, emerging from between two of Bruach Aibhne’s houses. The two warriors jogged away without another glance at the flatboat, moving eastward along the riverbank to the east. They were soon lost in the shadows of the trees and the drizzling rain.

  “So much for our luck holding out,” Tristan muttered to Groush.

  “It may have run a wee bit shorter than ye hoped.” Kavan pushed himself up from where he crouched. The leather of his glove creaked across his knuckles as he gripped the tiller, his bearded face locked in a grim scowl. “Best explain yourselves, and quickly, lest ye be taking a swim.”

  Chapter 63

  Kavan put them off his boat in Troppenheim rather than throwing them over the side. Tristan suspected the only reason they were not floating downstream was because Bruach Aibhne did not sprout columns of smoke. With the disappearance of the two Dushken, people could be seen roaming the streets.

  Though Tyrol’s residents welcomed their Caledorn neighbors warmly enough, they viewed the four companions with suspicion. Groush drew concerned looks as he strode through the Troppenheim village, his cloak billowing away from the sword strapped to his hip. His curled lip revealed his long canines as he voiced his frustration. “We have at most three days before the Dushken find our trail again. We are moving too slowly. Now, with the singer wounded, we’ll go slower.”

  Tristan winced as his still-tender feet twinged from his efforts to keep pace with the bull’s hurried steps. “Brenna doesn’t think the wound is that bad. She said it was a deep cut more than a puncture, and easily stitched.”

  “It had better be an inconvenience more than a hurt, or we’ll have no hope of outrunning the huntsmen.”

  They stopped in Tyrol’s small marketplace to gather more food, the cost of which consumed four of their precious coins. Tristan added the bags of dried fruit to Groush’s rucksack, along with a half-round of smelly cheese and a sack of dried beef. One merchant sold them hardtack; though his tongue soured at the thought of eating the dry, salted wafers, he knew it would keep them fed.

  By the time they acquired a few skins of cheap ale, Brenna and Rathus had caught up with them. The bard’s skin was a shade paler than usual, but he seemed well enough. When Tristan gave him a questioning look, the nobleman gave a short nod in response. “I’ll do.”

  Groush shoved four of the eight leather ale skins into Rathus’s arms and slung the rucksack of food over his shoulders. He divided a frown between each of them as he settled the weight more comfortably. “Three days, at most. We’ve had our rest. Now, we run. Kavan said Troppenheim patrols are strong along the river; let’s hope the Dushken meet a patrol that can kill them both.”

  “Our luck isn’t that good,” Rathus said.

  “Pray it is. Let us hope, too, we can find a coach, or we may only cover a third of the distance.” The bull’s black eyes moved from Rathus to Brenna, then settled on Tristan. “Are you ready for this?”

  The corner of Tristan’s lip curled upward beneath his short beard in a mix of humor and discomfort. “Do I have a choice?”

  DRIZZLE TURNED TO SOFT rain as they left Tyrol behind. To Tristan’s surprise, it did little to slow them. Broad enough for two wagons to pass with room to spare, the road’s surface was hard-packed dirt with a slight rise in the center. Stone-lined drainage channels on both sides kept rainwater from pooling beyond a few small depressions.

  He tried recalling what he had read about Troppenheim, but there was little that he could bring to mind. An agrarian society, the nation commanded the floodplain between the Ernhesh and the Ossifor rivers and traded much of the food it grew with Caledorn and Merid. Relations with the Hegemony of Ravvos remained frosty since the end of the War of Tenegath near thirty years earlier. The land itself was rolling; low hillocks rose from a patchwork landscape of fields fed by irrigation channels dug from streams branching off the rivers. Both rivers overflowed their banks when the snows melted in the mountainous east, depositing rich silt on the fields.

  While Anthoun avoided discussing Troppenheim’s military capabilities in favor of geography, politics, and economics, Dougan was far more forthcoming to a boy more interested in soldiering than scratching figures into ledgers.

  “The Troppenheim are damned good footmen. They’re lightly armored and fast on their feet, and there’s a damned lot of them,” the veteran had told him. “One of the benefits of growing so much food – they can feed larger numbers of children, some of which grow up to be soldiers. One against one, they’re as good as any Ravvosi soldier with a blade or spear, but get them into a formation...”

  The older man shook his head, forking hay into a stall before pausing to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Troppenheim’s real strength is their charioteers and roadbuilders. With so much flat land and so many people, it is easy to put together road gangs. Some of the best roads I’ve ever seen cross the countryside, and their chariots are deadly as all hells.

  “We called them bumblebees, see, the way they come roaring around the hedgerows in their yellows and blacks,” Dougan explained. “Three to a chariot – a driver, a spearman, and an archer – and three chariots to a patrol. They’ll sting you to death if they catch you on the road, and if you see a swarm of them on the battlefield, well, you’re right fucked.”

  Tristan had hoped to one day see such a patrol. He got his wish on the second day out from Tyrol.

  Hedgerows flanked the road, dense evergreen bushes knitting their branches together to create a wall taller than Tristan. Gnarled oaks stretched their limbs over the roadw
ay, creating a tunnel of golds and oranges over the rich brown dirt. Through the dense fog came the honk of geese flying south, the sound muffled by the thick moisture and lush growth. At first, he thought the miles of straight roads sheltered by the hedgerows ideal for hiding from the Dushken. He soon realized it would be easy for the huntsmen to leap on them from atop the earthworks. Every stray rustle of leaves became painfully loud and threatening in his ears.

  The hedgerows grew shorter the closer they approached a crossroad, the tall earthworks flattening out and replaced by more conventional walls and fences. The companions slowed their stride and strained their ears, not wanting to be surprised. Groush’s sharper hearing caused him to lift his hand in warning as they stepped into the open.

  A distant rumble came from the southern road. Within a few heartbeats, the thunder of hooves became distinct, accented by chiming metal. The companions traded concerned looks as the first of three chariots burst from the fog, the driver blowing a shrill two-tone whistle as he hauled back on the reins of the team of four pulling the conveyance.

  Tristan understood Dougan’s respect for Troppenheim’s charioteers once he caught sight of them.

  Two large wheels supported the war chariots’ deep, tall-sided deck. Bronze gleamed in the fog, rising to the riders’ waists and decorated with Troppenheim’s rampant bear sigil. A broad-shouldered man in black leather armor under a brilliant yellow tabard guided each chariot, reins wrapped around bronze bracers on their forearms. Spearmen rode to the drivers’ right, their weapons long and tipped with angular spearheads. Archers armed with recurve bows stood to the drivers’ left, a quiver on their hip and another lashed to the chariot. Each soldier wore a conical, open-faced bronze-plated helmet, and carried a short-bladed sword at one hip and a triangular dagger strapped to the small of their backs.

  The patrol rolled to a stop, with one chariot facing each of the crossroad’s three branches. As the horses stamped and snorted, the archers slipped from the back of the chariots and fanned out with arrows nocked to their strings. The spearmen dismounted next, moving to the road; one faced down the road from which the chariots had emerged to ensure no one approached from behind the patrol, while the other two angled themselves to look across the fields.

  While the drivers lashed their reins to a tie on the chariots’ inner front wall, the soldiers secured the crossroads in moments. Tristan, Brenna, and Rathus exchanged impressed looks; Groush appeared unmoved by the efficiency.

  “You there!” an archer called out as he spotted the four travelers, his words gutturally accented. The bow’s arms creaked as he drew back on the string. “Identify!”

  Groush held his arms away from his sword as he stepped from the hedgerow’s shadows and beckoned for the others to follow him with a curl of his fingers. “Simple travelers. Four in total, heading south, two of whom are injured. We are lightly armed.”

  The archer did not lower his weapon as the companions moved closer. Weapon readied for a thrust, the nearest spearman left his post and approached the four travelers at an angle.

  One of the chariot drivers approached as well but left his sword sheathed as he passed the archer. He stopped a half-dozen paces from Groush. “If you will be so kind as to disarm and leave your weapons and bags on the ground, we will speak. These are dangerous times, and we would know your business.”

  Groush laid his pack on the ground before unbuckling his sword belt. Tristan followed suit with the briefest hesitation, reluctant to lay the third hatchet that had come into his possession beside Brenna’s rucksack of food, bandages, and medicines. Rathus took longer to disarm, fumbling with his sword belt’s buckle as his injured shoulder twinged.

  The driver hooked his gloved fingers on either side of his silver belt buckle as the companions moved away from their possessions. Unlike the other soldiers, a moss green sash wrapped his waist beneath the black leather. Muddy blonde hair curled out from beneath the wool coif and conical helmet, and gold-flecked brown eyes moved over each of them before settling on Groush. “I am Hauptmann Yannik Koller, captain of this patrol. I would know why a Hillffolk is in Troppenheim and in the company of an Anahari boy. I would also know who your companions are and from whence they come.”

  “I am Tristan.”

  “You speak like a Ravvosi.”

  “I am Ravvosi. This is Rathus, a bard from Thorsbend, and Brenna of Anahar.”

  Yannik’s eyes narrowed as he peered at Brenna’s face before dropping briefly to her chest, where he could make out the roundness of her breasts through her coat. His eyes turned back to Tristan. “Do you speak for the four of you, or does the Hillffolk?”

  “None of us speaks for the others. Groush is helping us return to Ravvos.”

  The Troppenheim soldier glanced at Hillffolk. “Ravvos is a long way from the Laithach Mountains.”

  “Life is more interesting outside the tribe,” the bull said, folding his arms across his broad chest as the spearman rummaged through their belongings.

  “No doubt,” the officer said dryly. “Now, tell me why such an odd group is so deep inside Troppenheim. It is dangerous to wander the roads. We’ve had farms burned by Meridan raiders, and seen Dushken as well. Our patrols are under orders to take no risks; you chance being attacked by Troppenheim soldiers as much as marauders.”

  The companions gave the Troppenheim soldier a story similar to what they told Kavan in Bruach Aibhne, though they had smoothed the details to be more plausible. They spoke of the two Dushken pursuing them and explained that the huntsmen had gone east.

  “Like as not, they will try to cross at Bienden Ford,” Yannik said with a frown. “It is a tricky place to cross in the best weather. There has been talk for years of bridging that turn of the Ernhesh, but relations with Caledorn can sometimes be fraught.” He scratched his stubbled chin. “If they can’t cross there, they will make for the bridge at Baile Drochaid.”

  “How long from there to Tyrol?” Tristan asked.

  “Two days at a good run. You’ll need it, too, if you have Dushken after you. Those bastards don’t abandon prey easily.”

  The young man glanced at Groush as he calculated the distance. “Four days behind us.”

  The bull shook his head. “Three. Remember, they don’t need as much rest as we do. They’re also not sick and injured.”

  “If we can find them, you may not have to worry about them at all, as we are traveling to Tyrol. In my experience, the Dushken will try to find your trail there,” Yannik said before gesturing at the three chariots. “My men and I should be enough to deal with them. We will pass the word to others to watch for them as well. We often rely on rumor and luck to track Meridan raiders and Dushken hunting parties.” A wolfish smile crossed the officer’s face. “It would be a pleasant change to have them walk into our waiting hands.”

  Chapter 64

  Snowflakes drifted through the air, collecting on Urzgeth’s clothing before melting away. The alpha huntsman paid the chill no mind despite his joints protesting prolonged contact with the cold ground. Black eyes staring at the Troppenheim village of Tyrol, he relied on his keen senses to inform him of all that transpired in the settlement.

  Beside him, Drazzag stirred with an impatient growl; the elder huntsman ignored the whelp. His son wanted nothing more than to storm through the streets and interrogate or butcher whoever he could grab to ease the shame of not besting the Hillffolk weeks earlier. He could appreciate the desire even as he scorned it. More than once in his long life, he had given in to the temptation to bathe his face and hands in blood. Each time had been satisfying, but had cost him pack members. There was no denying the power of the enhanced senses that came from his packmates’ deaths, but the resulting augmentation of strength and endurance was less potent than well-honed skill.

  Time was the greatest of hunters, and it preyed on Dushken as it did on all others; survival and success required cooperation in numbers. It was a lesson he hoped his son would learn. As the young huntsman shifted and
growled once more, Urzgeth suspected it would be a difficult lesson.

  “They are not here,” Drazzag said after another hour drifted past. Fresh snow grayed the stalks of yellowing grass in which they hid. “A day wasted, and we have learned nothing from watching these people. The road between us and the prey grows longer.”

  Urzgeth’s nostrils flared as the wind shifted off the River Ernhesh. His graying beard brushed his sleeve as he looked to his son with an irritated sigh. “Patience. Watching these people tells us much. We were seen in Caledorn, and the village has been alerted to our being on the hunt. They watch, looking to the east for us to show ourselves, but they do not fear. Why?”

  The runes branded into Drazzag’s forehead deepened as he furrowed his brow. “They outnumber us, but I see no weapons. Do they think they can defeat us with farming tools?”

  “Doubtful. The Troppenheim, like the Caledorn, are familiar with our kind. Our Meridan kin rely on barbarism to strike fear into the masses, yet these people are unafraid. Again, why?”

  “They think they have the advantage.”

  “Which tells me soldiers are in the village. A dozen if they are footmen, nine if they are charioteers.”

  “No challenge to us.”

  Urzgeth shook his head. “No? A sickly boy, a girl, a singer, and a Hillffolk have taken two of our number already. Luck has been with them, but the Hillffolk was your match. The boy we hunt is not particularly smart, but he is stubborn. There is the female to consider, too.”

  “One of them has taken her as a mate?”

  “Possibly, but doubtful. Humans are not like us. They will protect her for no reason other than she is female, especially with the other women dead.”

  “They should leave the girl behind if they are not breeding her. She is weak, and will slow them.”

  “If you think her weak, I made a mistake in vouching for your branding. The girl is Anahari, and she survived years in the dungeons.”