Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  Drazzag met his father’s sharp gaze. “Why does that matter? She scuttled from shadow to shadow, hiding and stealing. At least the boy fought back.”

  “The girl has a brain, which is more than I can say for you at the moment,” Urzgeth said, baring his canines. The younger huntsman lowered his head in submission. “The boy is stubborn and the girl cunning, and that makes them strong. The others have experience, which makes them dangerous. If you wish to master your own pack, you must learn to outthink your prey – or you will die like Ryzam and Shamar.”

  The alpha studied the village a few moments longer, then slid backward deeper into the grass. “Come. It is time we move on.”

  Traveling the roads had been perilous since entering Troppenheim. They tried crossing the River Ernhesh at a ford, but the water had proven too deep and swift to wade, and the chill was such that Urzgeth’s joints ached at the thought of submerging them. Forced to travel further eastward to the bridge town of Baile Drochaid, they crossed the span in small hours of the night – and were nearly caught by a patrol of Troppenheim footmen camping near the stone span. They avoided being slaughtered by slipping through the woods while the soldiers slept.

  Having spoken with Sathra’s pet Meridan, Marcus, before setting out after the prey, Urzgeth had expected to encounter frequent Troppenheim patrols. Both Troppenheim and Caledorn had become recalcitrant over the past year, their kings forgetting they were such at Seban Terador’s sufferance.

  In response, the Meridan conducted a campaign of harassment against both countries' populations and often sent war parties to terrorize travelers, homesteads, and hamlets. Caledorn had thus far prevented military incursions by blocking the few passes through the Braeriach range, but less proven successful against roving Dushken. Troppenheim, by contrast, shared a long, watery border with Merid, which was harder to secure.

  Harassment, in Urzgeth’s opinion, was a foolish way to cow the two countries. The strategy would drive the peasantry to the larger towns and cities for protection and force Caledorn and Troppenheim to arms. Both nations were warlike; those villagers who did not flee their homes were either too stubborn to abandon their homes or, more likely, were veterans of the War of Tenegath.

  They had discovered signs of Meridan intrusion within hours of crossing the river. Abandoned farmhouses overlooked unplowed, grass-choked fields, and Urzgeth and Drazzag passed more than one burned-out homestead. The huntsmen took refuge in these places to rest and replenish what supplies they could. They had consumed the meat taken from their companions and the bodies of the slain females, leaving them to chew unpalatable hardtack and overripe fruits scavenged from untended groves.

  Now, Urzgeth remained uncertain where their prey may have gone. The targets had demonstrated foolhardiness with their plunge over the waterfall, and were proving cleverly elusive. Luck alone had brought the huntsmen to the Caledorn village as the flatboat carrying the four escaped prisoners poled across the river, allowing them to reacquire their prey. Traveling to Tyrol was a sound strategy, and from that village, several possibilities presented themselves.

  South and east made sense. The prisoners would pass near Byonn, Troppenheim’s capital, and be better able to blend into denser populations around the city as they made their way toward Caer Rochiel in the Kingdom of Shreth. The huntsmen would need to rely on stealth if they attempted to track their prey in that part of the country, as blending in would be difficult. Doing so would be easier for them than for the more brutish Meridan cousins, but still problematic; their size, the brands on their foreheads, and their gear would make them stand out among the smaller statured Troppenheim and their brightly colored clothing.

  It was too obvious a direction to his mind; he felt it was illogical for the prey to travel so far west, only to double back. Crossing the River Ossifor into the kingdom of Fershan also made little sense. Though one of the Hegemony’s larger kingdoms, it was sparsely populated, and the prey would find little refuge.

  That left the city and castle of Caer Ravvos. A long run with Tristan ill, the bard wounded, and with the girl slowing them down. Urzgeth had little doubt the Hillffolk would be able to endure the journey.

  Further complicating the matter was Sathra’s explicit order to bring back Tristan, and he suspected the grand duchess would delight in having the Ghost of Feinthresh taken as well. Capturing them without killing them would be difficult, especially with Drazzag’s frustrated blood hunger. The young huntsman was growing more difficult to keep under a leash. The whelp often expressed the opinion that his father was old, slow, overcautious, and indecisive. The alpha expected to be challenged for dominance any day.

  Keeping low to the ground as they retreated from Tyrol, the two huntsmen slipped over one of the innumerable hedgerows crisscrossing Troppenheim and into an abandoned field. The evergreen bushes dense enough to obscure their forms from observation, Urzgeth led his son to the deeper shadows of an orchard.

  “Where do we go now, Father?” Drazzag asked, cowed for the moment by the threat the elder Dushken had made while observing Tyrol. “The trail grows cold, and the snows are coming.”

  Urzgeth leaned his bow against a tree and reached for an overripe apple. The skin split with a crisp snap as he bit into the fruit. “West,” he said around the mouthful, juice trickling into his beard. “Troppenheim is a land of many roads. They could have taken any number of them in the past few days, but I believe they are heading to Caer Ravvos.”

  He took another bite, then tossed the fruit aside as he noted the eagerness on his son’s face. “Go. Find their trail, and prove you deserve the brand you bear. I will do the same. Remain out of sight of Troppenheim or Meridan.”

  He raised a warning finger to dampen the boy’s exuberance. “If you find their trail, you will not attempt to take them alone. Do so, and I will kill you myself.”

  FIVE DAYS AFTER CROSSING the River Ernhesh and seven since shooting an arrow into the bard, Urzgeth still had no sign he was on the right track. Assuming the prey was indeed traveling toward Caer Ravvos – though their reasoning for that destination remained a mystery – Urzgeth and Drazzag systematically searched the grid of roads as the weather grew colder.

  Conceding his age and cold-stiffened joints, Urzgeth took the rougher but shorter cross-country path south and west, climbing hedgerows and crossing overland while Drazzag ran the roads. Had Shamar and Ryzam survived, they would have doubtless found the troublesome quartet already, but it was a matter of time before they found the preys’ trail.

  More critical to the alpha’s mind, the running burned away some of his son’s impatience and forced the youngster to be more cautious. By far the most vicious of his get, Drazzag was more than capable of wreaking havoc were he to encounter Troppenheim soldiers or a Meridan patrol. As a boy, the whelp had killed two of his elder brothers and six older youths in the tribe.

  Urzgeth was more concerned about the youth encountering Meridan Dushken than Troppenheim soldiers. Unlike Anahari Dushken, bred for agility and intellect as much as for strength, Meridan tribes focused on savagery and muscle. Even with the strength of fourteen dead packs augmenting his muscles, the alpha would not want to face his brutish northern kin without a full hunting pack beside him. Should Drazzag be stupid enough to challenge a one rune peer, he would be torn apart.

  The alpha paused and lifted his nose to scent the breeze as his keen ears caught a sound from the south. A deer, nothing more; he wrestled with his instincts’ demand to chase the fleeing animal and rip out its throat as he clambered over the hedgerow before him.

  He slid down the opposite side and emerged from the brush lining the earthwork, then searched the road’s hard-packed dirt and the drainage channels for any sign of his prey. His nose picked out the scent of urine from dozens of people, both male and female, and scat hidden in the bush. Deer and horse musk competed for his attention, and he found signs of badger, porcupine, and fox.

  An irritated grumble resonated in his chest as he concealed hi
mself in the hedgerow to wait for his boy. He rummaged through his coat pockets for his dwindling supply of dried meat and hardtack and calculated the distance they had covered. Unless he had misjudged their destination, they must be drawing closer to their prey.

  The hunt is over if I have misjudged. Drazzag will have all the justification needed to challenge me.

  Instincts honed over decades assured him he was not wrong, but he was growing concerned at how long it was taking to complete the hunt. Though he had no qualms about disobeying Sathra in some matters, she had explicitly forbidden him from crossing into the Hegemony of Ravvos. The grand duchess did not wish to risk the huntsmen being spotted or killed on Ravvosi soil, lest the Hegemony’s gaze would turn east instead of remaining on the troubles in the north. Until she was secure in her throne, she did not want unwarranted attention.

  “Three days,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper as he stretched a stiff knee. Three days, four at most, before the foursome reached the fords, bridges, and ferries over which Troppenheim transported goods to and from the port at Caer Ravvos. Every crossroads they passed with no trail narrowed the possible routes the prey could have taken, and every passing hour increased their chance of escape across those bridges.

  A shift in the breeze brought the graying huntsman a scent he had overlooked. Urzgeth turned his face into the wind and inhaled a slow lungful of air.

  There it was – a fleeting scent, so faint and obscured by other odors that it would be easy to miss. Eyes half-closed, the alpha slung his bow over his shoulder and emerged from the brush. His steps were slow as he moved into the open field on the south side of the crossroads, and his nose twitched as he sought a stronger trace of the scent.

  He came to a stop as the wind shifted again. Acorn, hardwood ash, dirt, and deer urine covered a faint muskiness and the iron tang of blood. He pressed his finger to each nostril and blew out dried, dusty mucus before dropping to all fours. Crawling through the tall grass, he came upon a patch of disturbed soil.

  Urzgeth snuffled as he dug his fingers into friable dirt. The spoor strengthened, a mixture of acidic odors he had not detected in close to a month. Something spongy yielded beneath his gloved fingers, and he dug it out. The tang of moonblood stung his nostrils as he pressed the blood-blackened moss to his nose and breathed deep.

  “Clever girl,” he said, lips pulling back in a predatory smile. All the aches and stiffness in his joints vanished as he rose, supplanted by the thrill of the hunt; the sign was no more than a day old. He swept his eyes across the crossroads. “Come, Drazzag, or I shall take the prey myself.”

  From the west rose a cry, distant and faint. The Dushken alpha lifted his head and waited for the wolflike yowl to crest and fade. The distance was so great he could not be sure it was Drazzag’s call until the last notes warbled in his son’s distinctive pattern.

  With a grunt, he broke into a rolling lope down the western road.

  Chapter 65

  Snow filtered through skeletal oak branches. Tiny starlike shapes collected on Brenna’s gray wool coat, holding their form for a moment before melting into the fabric. A golden blanket of dropped leaves muffled her footsteps. Despite walking through the autumnal forest for weeks, the colors stung eyes accustomed to weak light and gray walls.

  She pushed her hands deep into her coat pockets and ignored the bickering between Groush and Rathus. For all his grumbling and sharp comments, the Hillffolk liked the bard. Rathus had not yet struck upon that realization, however.

  Tristan hobbled along beside her. Despite the weight gained in recent days, travel slowed the young man’s recovery; they were often forced to stop and allow the young man to rest. When she changed the bandages on his hand, she was pleased to see the severed finger was healing clean. The sword and spear wounds were healing well, which allowed her to cut the stitches and pull them from his skin. His injured feet concerned her, however. Despite the many pairs of thick wool socks Heather provided to keep his feet cushioned, warm, and dry, the skin remained tender. Seamus’ boots him fit well, but his feet still chafed.

  “With luck, we’ll be there soon,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking out loud.”

  “I could use the conversation. It distracts me from everything that hurts,” the young man said with a tight smile. He glanced around as though he had not been paying attention to his surroundings. “I have no idea how Groush knows where he is. I can’t tell one road from the other.”

  “I don’t think it matters. We can go so far west before we come to the ocean.” She hooked her fingers through Tristan’s rucksack straps. “Let me carry that for a while.”

  Handing over the bag, the young man stepped across the drainage ditch bordering the road to pluck several apples from a branch hanging over the hedgerow. He jumped back over the channel and handed her an apple larger than his fist. “Here, these shouldn’t be too ripe.”

  Sweet juice zinged her tongue as she bit into the fruit with a snapping crunch. Troppenheim’s generosity was something she had not expected; Yannik, the captain of the chariot patrol, had told them to help themselves to anything that grew on the side of the road. The hedgerows were intended to keep cattle and sheep in their pastures more than prevent people from taking food, and fruit trees often filled gaps between the oaks strengthening the earthworks. Troppenheim produced so much fruit and grain that to starve with such abundance at hand was an impossibility.

  Brenna wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Is Dorishad like this?”

  “In its way. We have orchards, of course, but we don’t have hedgerows. The land around it is wilder and has even more colors at this time of year. We have an even wider variety of trees growing in Shreth, judging by what I’ve seen since we left Anahar.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes before she asked, “Who is Jayna?”

  Tristan’s footsteps stuttered, and he tossed the apple core aside. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “You mistook Heather for her while you were feverish. She must be someone from Dorishad, given what you said about not having left the place before. Are you her man?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Has it been arranged for you to court her?”

  “The man usually has to ask in Ravvos, but no, we are not courting.”

  “I see. You asked for her quite a bit. I assumed she was your betrothed.” Brenna brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Will you ask to court her when you return to Dorishad?”

  “I hadn’t thought much about it, to tell you true.”

  She cast him a doubting look and started to say something when a howling cry rose – a human voice torn from an animal’s throat. Her heart flopped over, her pulse drumming in her ears as both Tristan and Rathus blanched.

  “A few miles off. We must run for the nearest village or hamlet and pray a Troppenheim patrol heard the call,” Groush said through clenched teeth. His black eyes settled on Tristan. “Can you run?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Groush started to turn away but froze when he caught the Anahari woman’s expression. “What?”

  “I’m tired of running,” the young woman said, black eyebrows slanting over her nose. “How many miles have they chased us?”

  “We dare not stand against—"

  “How many?” When the Hillffolk remained silent, she gave a curt nod. “We started with fourteen. There are four of us left. I think it is time to make them pay.”

  “Did you forget my warning about killing Dushken?”

  Brenna’s heart stuttered as the wailing cry rose once more. “Who said anything about killing one?”

  Chapter 66

  Drazzag smelled the prey as clearly as if they cowered before him, but allowed caution to temper his eagerness as he stalked through the evening gloam.

  He recognized the boy’s scent; his stink had lingered on Shamar’s body, and he wore the dead huntsman’s coat. Urzgeth h
ad warned him that the youth possessed both stubbornness and a surprising tolerance for pain. He dismissed the warning as having little impact on the hunt’s result. The youth was sickly; his death was all but assured. Drazzag had thought Shamar weak; though young and new to the branding, he had considered murdering the Third to advance in the pack’s hierarchy. Even so, prudence was needed if the boy had succeeded in killing Shamar through skill rather than luck.

  The musician was of little concern, though he may have provided a distraction that allowed Tristan to kill Ryzam. Survivor of five packs, the spear-wielding Second was ferocious enough that Drazzag had not wanted to challenge him directly. After the prey escaped over the waterfall, he had examined Ryzam’s fatal wound – and was unsure if the blow resulted from skill or luck.

  Either way, the death of two experienced huntsmen tempered the bloodlust which made his mouth water. With his senses, strength, and agility enhanced by Ryzam’s and Shamar’s deaths, he had little doubt he could best two human males, but if luck favored them with a solid blow...

  He gazed up through the web of leafless branches as he drank from his waterskin. Thin clouds swept across the sky, turning the fullness of Theragus’ face milky rather than silver. He slipped the empty leather bag into the deep pocket sewn into his coat’s fleece lining and shifted his axe into his right hand.

  Training had forced him to signal his location upon finding the spoor. Son or not, Urzgeth would have slaughtered him had he failed to do so. As it was, he risked the alpha’s wrath by engaging the prey without him. Success would help him avoid death for disobedience.

  The hunt had taken on a personal edge that made the risk worthwhile, and he cared little about his disobedience to his father or the orders to bring Tristan back alive. If the boy resisted capture, he would die, and he would amuse himself with the girl after the others were dealt with. The Hillffolk had fought him to a stalemate before fleeing like a coward; settling the score between them was a matter of pride.