by Aaron Hodges
Watching him, Alana slowly relaxed, and took her hand from the sword. “I guess so.”
Nodding, Joseph turned to where he’d discarded his axe and pack. Rummaging inside, he came back with a bottle of what Alana took to be spirits. He offered it to her, but Alana only shook her head. Grinning, Enala took the bottle instead, and their conversation resumed, though Alana caught the old woman flash her a warning glare.
Alana rose and wandered away. Enala could take care of herself, she decided. Determined not to let her hard-earned fish go to waste, she finished her remaining portion and then tossed the bones into the stream for the crayfish to finish.
As the night grew older, she found a place near the fire and settled herself down. Enala and Joseph were still conversing, but she curled up without offering either another word and closed her eyes. At least the giant’s appearance had distracted her momentarily from her brother, though thoughts of him returned now to haunt her. It was a long time before the darkness finally rose to claim her.
In the morning, Alana woke with a start. Sitting up, she looked around to find Enala already at the fire, a pot of stew bubbling over the flames. She frowned, then suppressed a groan as pain came from her neck.
“I made you a fresh batch,” Enala said, as though reading her mind. The old woman nodded to a makeshift bowl of paste sitting beside Alana.
She took it gratefully. The relief as she applied it was instant, and she closed her eyes, almost willing to sing the old woman’s blessings. Almost.
Rising, Alana crossed to the fire. “Where did that come from?” she asked, gesturing to the pot and stew.
“Joseph left it for us,” Enala replied, a smile that screamed I-told-you-so on her lips.
“How nice of him,” Alana said sarcastically. “You sure it’s not poisoned?”
“You need to open your mind, girl,” the old woman snapped. She took a breath, her eyes flickering closed, as though she were in pain. “Sorry, I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”
Alana grinned despite herself. “You think?”
“Watch it, girl,” Enala shot back, though there was no venom in the words. She sighed, her face turning serious. “Before we start today, I need to know, what are you trying to achieve, looking for Braidon?”
Alana quickly looked away. “I need to see him.”
“Is that all of it?”
The words caught in Alana’s throat as she looked up to refute the old woman’s unspoken accusation. She swallowed them back. “No,” she croaked. “I…he could still be alive.”
Enala sighed. “I don’t think so, Alana. Not with the fall he took.”
“Even so…I want to see him, need to see him, or I’ll never…”
“It won’t be long, you know, before the Tsar regains enough magic to sense us. My magic is rebuilding, yours must be too. His own Magickers won’t be far behind. Once his power is restored, there will be no place left for us to hide.”
“So be it,” Alan replied.
“So be it,” Enala repeated. She grinned then, gesturing at the bubbling pot. “Well, if I’m to fight alongside someone, I’d appreciate it if she were at least a half-decent swordswoman.”
“What?” Alana spluttered. “I am—”
“You’re competent, I’ll give you that, but you’re no master, girl,” Enala replied.
“I can take you, old woman,” Alana growled.
Enala only grinned. Reaching behind her, she lifted two long sticks from behind the boulder she was perched on. She tossed one at Alana’s feet.
“Then show me.”
Chapter 10
Quinn wore a grim smile as he listened to the crackling of the flames, their roar as they rushed up the sides of the wooden houses, the boom as roofs collapsed in on themselves. Great pillars of smoke spiralled upwards, merging with the grey winter sky. His men moved with swift efficiency between each house, dragging out all occupants before tossing flaming torches through the open windows.
The whoosh as the new building took light was music to Quinn’s ears. He looked at the gathered villagers, on their knees in the centre of the settlement. They wore a mixture of grief and rage on their faces, though none moved to try and stop Quinn and his men. Nor did any come forward with information, and he grated his teeth at their continued obstruction.
Someone had to have seen them. Four renegades could not have gone unnoticed in this forest. With her blonde hair, Alana might have passed for a local, but not the others. Certainly not a young boy barely of age accompanied by an old priest, nor the giant that was Devon. A traveller, a passerby, a villager, someone, anyone had to have glimpsed them, even if they had kept to the backtrails.
Yet there had been no word for six days, not since the village of Onslow. There, at least, he had found a witness to Devon’s precipitous disembarking from the trading ship. The man was no fool, and had obviously decided making his way through the forest was a better option than taking the Gods Road to Trola.
Of Alana and Braidon and Enala though, there had been not a whisper.
Quinn was starting to grow desperate. This was the fourth village they had burned, and the other Stalkers were becoming restless. They had taken to questioning his orders, challenging his authority at every turn. He was loathe to call on the Tsar’s aid, and lose whatever respect he had left, but if there was no word soon he would have no other choice.
Turning to the villagers, Quinn strode across to where they knelt in the mud. “Any sudden recollections yet?” he growled.
The villagers glared back at him, tears streaking their cheeks. Ash fell heavily around them, staining their faces and clothes, all that remained of their livelihoods.
“You would rather see your village burned than betray a couple of renegades?” he asked, shaking his head.
“What can we tell you when we know nothing?” one of the men spat back.
“Liars!” Quinn shrieked, his sabre hissing as it left his sheath. He pointed the tip at the man’s throat, but the villager barely moved.
“We do not lie,” he replied. “You are mad, Stalker. The Tsar will hear of what you’ve done.”
Quinn smirked. “The Tsar sent me to rat out these traitors. He does not care if I burn a few others along the way.”
“But we are loyal—”
The man’s protest was cut short as Quinn drove his blade through the man’s throat. Screams went up from the other villagers as the dying man clutched at the wound, trying hopelessly to stem the bleeding. The others tried to scramble up and flee, but Quinn’s Stalkers intercepted them and forced them back to their knees. Finally, the man gave a soft groan, and toppled face-first to the ground.
Looking at the next villager in line, Quinn raised his bloody sword. “Well?”
“Please, don’t hurt me!” the man screamed. He tried to scramble away, but a Stalker gripped him by the shoulder and shoved him down.
“Where is the renegade known as Devon? The blonde girl, Alana, the black-haired boy, Braidon?”
“I don’t know!”
“Then die.”
The man cried out, but Quinn’s blade took him in the heart before he could put up any fight. He sagged against the impaling sword, then toppled sideways as Quinn dragged back his weapon.
“Who’s next?” he growled, swinging his sword in an arc that spanned the remaining villagers.
“The Baronians!” a man at the end of the line shrieked as the blade stopped at an older woman.
Quinn glanced along the line. “What?”
The man paled, and he shook his head as though trying to recall the words. At a gesture from Quinn, one of the Stalkers grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him across to where the lieutenant stood. Quinn rested the cold point of his blade against the man’s chest.
“Well?”
Swallowing visibly, the villager glanced from Quinn to the woman he had threatened. “Please, you have to promise to leave us alone, if I tell you.”
Quinn scowled. “F
irst tell me what you know, peasant.”
“I…it’s not much, only a rumour I heard.”
Lowering his sword, Quinn walked around the man to where the older woman knelt. “I take it she is something to you, lad?” he asked, resting his blade against the woman’s neck. She flinched away from its touch, though her eyes remained defiant.
“Please don’t hurt her!” The man tried to rise, but a shove from the Stalker at his side sent him face-first into the ground.
“Then speak,” Quinn hissed.
“There’s a tribe of Baronians here, they passed by a few days ago, to collect their ransom. I overhead one of them talking about two woman he’d met in the forest.”
“Yes?” Quinn said, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.
“He said one was a priest, seems she impressed him.”
“And the other?”
The villager cleared his throat. “He described her in…some detail,” he whispered, “but…he mentioned she had blonde hair.”
A fire lit in Quinn’s stomach at the villager’s words. He had no doubt the so-called Baronian had been speaking of Alana. Who else but she would be cavorting with the thugs inhabiting these woods? He had no idea how she had come to be travelling with the old priest, Enala, but the two of them together presented a serious threat. He would need to find a way to trap them.
If he could find them at all.
“Where?” Quinn grated as he returned to the man’s side.
“West of here,” the villager replied quickly. “In the forested valleys leading up towards the Sandstone Mountains.”
“Very good,” Quinn replied. They weren’t too far from the western mountains now, though finding the two women in such dense wilderness would be another matter. He was about to move away when another question occurred to him. “You spoke of Baronians? How is that possible, the Tsar hunted them to extinction decades ago. You had best not be lying to me.”
“No, I swear!” The man swallowed. “They came here a year ago, took up residence in the forest. Word was sent to the Tsar when they began raiding our villagers, but no one ever came. Eventually we agreed to a ransom to keep them away from us.”
Quinn stared at the man to the count of ten, but he could see no sign of deceit in his young eyes. Finally he nodded and moved away from the villagers, aware his Stalkers were watching him. This was the first substantial news they’d had since leaving Onslow, and it was still little enough at that. Time was running out and another failure would spell the end for Quinn.
“Mount up!” he shouted, spinning back to his Stalkers.
There was a moment’s hesitation amongst the black-garbed men and women of his regiment. Then one stepped forward, a smirk on his face. “Are you sure, Quinn?” the man rasped. “Would it not be better for you to call on your master?”
The anger that had begun with the villager’s news of Alana roared. Quinn clenched his fists, struggling to keep control of himself. He would gain nothing by rising to the man’s provocation.
“You want me to distract the Tsar from his conquest, Zarent?” he asked quietly. “To call him here when we are still empty-handed? Is that truly what you want, to look him in the eye and tell him we have failed?”
Silence answered his question as the man Zarent blanked, and Quinn nodded.
“Very well then. If there are no other questions...? Then mount up!”
Chapter 11
Topping the rise, Braidon stumbled to a stop, his breathing heavy as he looked up and saw Devon already extending the distance between them. Letting out a groan, Braidon started after him again, trying to ignore the burning in his calves. Six days of marching through the wilderness had taken their toll, and while he thought he’d done a good job of keeping up with Devon’s massive strides, he had a feeling the hammerman was holding back now.
Ahead, Devon glanced back at a bend in the narrow game trail, and Braidon picked up the pace, determined not to show the giant warrior any weakness.
A grin spread across his companion’s face as Braidon marched up. “You’ve got stones, sonny,” he said, slapping Braidon on the back.
Braidon staggered beneath the blow, his trembling legs barely managing to keep him upright. By the time he recovered, Devon was already several feet ahead. Braidon poked his tongue out at the man’s retreating back, then shaking his head, continued after him.
They had no particular destination or goal in mind, and many of their six days on the road had been spent wandering the backtrails of Onslow Forest. All Braidon knew was that they were working their way west towards the Sandstone Mountains. The going was slow in the dense forest, with its low-lying scrub and steep valleys, but Devon was sure that the only alternative, the road through Brunei Pass, would be guarded against them.
Braidon came alongside Devon as the path widened once more. Glancing at the hammerman, he wondered how the man maintained such a pace for so long, seemingly without exertion. Especially with the giant warhammer kanker strapped to his back.
“Is it heavy?” he asked, suddenly curious if some spell on the weapon made it lighter than it appeared.
Devon cast him a sidelong look and grinned. “Try it for yourself.” Unsheathing kanker, he tossed it into the air as though it weighed no more than a sack of feathers, caught it by the head, and offered it to Braidon.
For a full five seconds, all Braidon could do was stare at the ancient weapon, but finally he found his nerve, and reached out to grip the black haft. Still grinning, Devon released the hammer. Braidon cried out as the hammer’s weight almost dragged the weapon from his hands. His other arm snapped up to grip the haft in a two-handed grip.
“Gods, how much does this weigh?” he groaned.
Chuckling, Devon retrieved the weapon and sheathed it.
“Not so much for a giant like me, sonny,” he said. He eyed the dagger on Braidon’s belt. “But maybe we can find you something a little more suitable for a growing lad.”
Braidon glanced up sharply. “Really?” Alana had never let him have a sword—at least, not that he could remember.
“Why not?” Devon replied, resuming his march down the winding dirt track.
“I don’t know how to use one,” he mused as he caught up. “Or at least, I can’t remember how… It does seem like something my father would have taught me.”
“What’s it like?” Devon asked, tapping his head. “Having these other memories you can’t quite…remember?”
Braidon frowned, his attention distracted by a blackbird as it raced squawking across their path. “It’s not easy,” he said finally. “What I can remember of my other life, they don’t seem like my memories at all. It’s like they belong to some other Braidon, if that makes sense?”
“I’m not quite sure it does,” Devon admitted, scratching his wiry beard.
Closing his eyes, Braidon tried to find some way to explain. “There’s only a few, enough for me to know I truly was the Son of the Tsar. I can see them as clear as day, I can see myself in them. But I can’t remember what I was thinking or feeling when I was doing those things.”
“Ah, I think I get it!” the warrior grinned. “So it’s kind of like watching bards performing a play, with you as the main character?”
“That seems like a very specific example,” Braidon said, eyeing Devon thoughtfully.
“Yes, well,” Devon grunted. “There might have been a play or two featuring yours truly after the civil war. All ancient history now, of course. You were probably too young to remember them. There was one, The Butcher of Kalgan, think it was. Pretty popular in the local taverns of Ardath. Well, until word got out that I’d rescinded my commission in the army.”
“Yes!” Braidon exclaimed. “I do remember!” A grin spread across his cheeks as he looked at the hammerman. “They changed the title though: The Cowardly Hero, I think they called it.”
Devon’s own smile vanished as he glared at Braidon. “I prefer—”
Before the warrior could finish his reb
uke, a high-pitched scream echoed through the trees. Braidon and Devon shared a glance. The cry sounded again; this time it was clear it came from the path ahead. Reaching up, Devon drew kanker and started down the track.
“Stay there,” he shouted over his shoulder to Braidon as he leaped a half-buried tree root.
Braidon stood frozen to the spot and watched as the giant charged off. Another scream came from ahead. Putting aside his fear, Braidon raced after his companion. He reached down and drew his dagger as he ran, already wishing he had a larger blade to hand.
Around the bend, Braidon looked ahead, expecting to see Stalkers or soldiers with weapons at the ready. He had been waiting for them for days now, thinking at any moment that his father’s warriors would come leaping from the trees. His magic restored, Braidon had hidden them both from the Tsar’s powers, but with an army under his command, it was only a matter of time before they were flushed from their hiding place.
Yet as the track straightened and the source of the commotion was revealed, Braidon was surprised to find a very different scene playing out before him.
Devon was still charging ahead, but beyond the giant hammerman, a desperate battle was taking place around a small horse-drawn wagon. A man and woman stood on the seat of the wagon, longswords in hand, each struggling to keep a surging crowd of black-garbed men at bay. They might have been mistaken for his father’s Stalkers, if not for their threadbare clothing and half-rusted weapons.
His heart beat faster as Devon shouted a war cry. Chasing after him, Braidon’s gaze was drawn to the wagon as one of the assailants leapt, his blade catching the woman’s weapon near the handle. The impact tore the sword from her grip, but screaming out in rage, she drew a blade from her belt and plunged it into the man’s eye. Blood blossomed as she ripped it loose. Her attacker crumpled in a pile, but another one of his comrades was quick to take his place.
Roaring, Devon surged into the fray, his warhammer clutched one-handed. Braidon watched in awe as he carved through the bandits gathered around the wagon. The first of them went down without a sound, taken unawares by Devon’s sudden attack. Next to him, another assailant staggered as the body of his comrade fell across his feet. He spun around in time to catch kanker squarely between the eyes. Braidon winced as the man crumpled.
