by Bruce Blake
The old one’s gaze held steady on him as she answered, her voice still even and firm.
“We have no vial. You’ve made a mistake.”
Suath almost smiled. This one won’t cry. Not until the blood flows.
“A woman,” the mercenary said, “a whore like you. She passed this way with two men-strangers.”
“There has been no one here,” the old one said but the gasp from the blonde confirmed what he already knew. The pudgy woman wriggled against his grip. He pulled her close against him, pressing the bulge in his breeches against her pillowy ass.
“Lies. The young one knows. Where did they go?”
He pushed against the dark-haired one’s back, ushering her closer to her friends, stopped her a few feet from them.
“Tell me or the fat one dies.”
“It’s okay,” the young one said stepping from behind the other. Tears streaked her smooth cheeks, her voice quaked as she spoke. “Everything will be all right, Leigha.”
The old one moved to keep the blonde behind her, protected, and Suath saw what he needed to do. He drew the blade across Leigha’s throat sending a fountain of blood splashing across her friends. While they gaped in horror, he grabbed the blonde’s wrist, pulled her to him. The old one tried to fight him; he punched her in the face and she stumbled back.
“Where?” he asked, the calmness gone from his voice.
Impatience tingled his limbs. He wanted to be done with this before the pudgy one’s body grew cold. At his feet, she gurgled through a mouthful of blood. The blonde sobbed and shook in his grasp.
“South,” the old one shouted, blood streaming from her nose, her composure finally broken. “She took them to the entertainers.”
“How many?”
“Just the three of them.”
“Horses?”
The old one’s eyes dropped to the dark-haired woman on the floor. Blood still pulsed from the slash in her throat but she no longer moved.
“Horses?” he asked again, more insistent. The pudgy one’s eyes were going glassy. The grandmother shook her head. “Where are these entertainers?”
She shook her head, crying now. “Don’t hurt my Aryann.”
“Where are the entertainers?”
“South-outside of town. I don’t know where.”
“And then?”
She squeezed her eyes closed, shaking her head. Suath waited until she opened her eyes again, then dragged the point of his dagger down the blonde’s cheek. She screamed.
“Tasgarad,” the old one squealed. “They’re going to Tasgarad.”
Suath nodded.
He lunged, burying his dagger to the hilt in the old one’s eye, then spun the blonde around and slid his blade into her belly, drawing it upward to her breast bone. She gasped and coughed, spattering his breastplate with blood, then slumped to the floor between the other whores as he withdrew the knife. Suath bent over and wiped the blade on her dress then put his hand on the pudgy one's leg.
“Warm enough.”
He pulled her dress up above her waist. As he removed his sword belt, he saw the blonde looking at him, tears still running from her eyes. He smiled at her as he removed his breastplate and the shirt beneath. Uncountable white scars criss-crossed his chest. He searched across the ridged landscape of scars with his fingers until he found a clear spot, then brought the tip of his dagger to it and made four new incisions.
“One for each of you,” he told the blonde, “and one for the fat one’s lover.”
He set his blade purposely on the floor just out of the blonde’s reach, removed his breeches and knelt between the dark-haired one’s legs.
“It’s okay,” he said, though he doubted the pretty one heard him anymore. “You can watch.”
Sitting on the edge of the well, Suath used the cloth the dark-haired one had used to clean herself to wipe blood from his boots, then cleaned his dagger, sheathed it, and tossed the blood-soaked cloth down to the dark water below. Gray smoke snaked its way from the thatched roof of the whores’ house, but he didn’t hurry. A few of the men from town would want to rush to extinguish a fire in this particular hut, but their women wouldn’t let them. He snickered at the thought of those self-righteous town’s people putting less value on the lives of whores because of how they earned their living. Didn’t they know all their lives were worthless?
Suath rose and walked into the woods, leaving behind his thoughts of the town and the dark-haired whore. His quarry had three days head start, but he had a horse. If he hurried, he might catch them before they reached the border.
The vial would be in his hands soon.
Chapter Eighteen
The rough land of low scrub through which they rode from Tasgarad became new-growth forest littered with brush, slowing their progress. A fire had ravaged this area many years before, leaving blackened stumps and logs scattered throughout-burnt-out skeletons laid to rest beside their replacements. Khirro supposed there were roads through the woods, but they avoided them. The only people traversing them would be soldiers or merchants escorted by soldiers and nothing good would come of any encounter.
Khirro coaxed his horse forward to ride beside Ghaul.
“Why did you do that?” He kept his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.
“Do what?”
“Kill that man in Tasgarad. He was a soldier of the king.”
“Use your head, Khirro,” Ghaul said making no attempt to conceal his words from anyone. “Forget what he may have done to Elyea, what would have happened had he alerted the guards? What would they think of us carrying the blood of the king toward the Vendarian border? Do you forget we’re hunted men?”
Khirro neither answered Ghaul’s question nor met his angry look. Killing came too easily to this man for Khirro’s liking, but it may be exactly this which would keep him alive.
There must have been another solution.
Ahead, Elyea and Athryn’s mounts leaped over a fallen tree. A moment later, Khirro’s did the same, nearly unseating him.
“They wouldn’t have known I carry the king’s blood,” he said, blushing after his rough landing.
“True, but a vial of blood in your pocket, no matter whose, would have raised questions we couldn’t answer. When soldiers don’t get answers, they employ crueler means to get what they want, and you are the worst kind of liar: a bad one.”
“Ghaul’s right. It’s far better one drunken lout dies than our mission be discovered.” Elyea slowed her horse to join them and poked a finger at Ghaul’s shoulder. “Though I could have taken care of myself.”
Ghaul harrumphed. “Of course you could, m’lady. I forgot we ride with the warrior harlot of Inehsul.”
“I’ve kept myself safe from worse threats than him-or you.” Her tone remained playful but Khirro saw the pride burning in her eyes.
“That sounds like a challenge.” Ghaul raised an eyebrow as he guided his horse past a thorny bramble brimming with over-ripe blackberries. He plucked one from the tangle and popped it into his mouth.
“No, simply a fact.”
“And would you have taken care of yourself in the same manner when first Khirro and I came upon you?”
“I’d have handled them without problem had two fools throwing stones not interrupted.”
“Such gratitude.” Ghaul smiled, teeth purple with berry juice.
“I need the aid of no man.”
She urged her horse forward, rejoining the magician and his brother, ending the conversation.
“Women,” Ghaul mock whispered, intending for Elyea to hear. “What are we to do with them?”
She ignored him.
They pushed on for several more hours with little more conversation before Athryn called a halt. Khirro glanced at the sun dipping toward the horizon and judged that an hour remained until sunset.
“The border is a few leagues from here.” Athryn lowered Maes from their horse, then slid from the saddle. “We will rest a while.”
&n
bsp; They unsaddled and fed the horses before settling to partake of the food purchased in Tasgarad. The pork tasted tough and bitter to Khirro’s tongue, but it would do as well as anything to return his strength. As he ate, he watched Athryn cut bite-sized pieces and hand them to Maes who accepted them with a nod. They seemed so different from the men performing in Inehsul, more real than the larger-than-life figures commanding the stage under that sweltering tent. As he watched the tenderness with which they shared their meal, questions came to his mind. He swallowed a mouthful of salt pork and asked the first.
“How did you know we’d be in that lane?”
Athryn looked up from cutting a chunk of hard cheese for Maes, his flesh-colored cloth mask inscrutable. His blue-gray eyes held Khirro’s gaze for a moment before he answered.
“Does it matter?”
Khirro shrugged. “I guess not. It’s just… I don’t understand how this all works.”
“It is not to be understood, Khirro. Accept it is and be glad it works for you, not against you.”
“But it’s not all working for me. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for sorcery.”
Khirro thought of the undead thing standing over him, threatening to end his life and a shudder ran down his spine. He’d let a detail of this journey slip from his mind: the only practitioner of magic capable of animating those dead soldiers and the man they needed to raise Braymon were one and the same.
“What do you know of Darestat?”
“The most powerful sorcerer there is. The only man who can raise the king. Why do you ask?”
“I saw strange things at the Isthmus Fortress.”
“‘Strange things’ is an understatement in my estimation,” Ghaul said through a mouthful of bread. “Your words could only be deemed accurate if you consider walking dead men a ‘strange thing’.”
Khirro nodded. He didn’t want to dredge up these memories, but he needed answers.
“It’s as Ghaul said: dead men fought alongside the living Kanosee. Walking corpses with flesh hanging from their bones and the stink of rot on them. One of them killed Braymon. And Bale.” His voice sank to a whisper. “And nearly me.”
“Ugly bastards,” Ghaul commented as he sliced a bite of cheese.
“How many, Khirro?”
“I don’t know. I saw only a handful, but the Kanosee army numbered in the tens of thousands.”
“One is too many, if my opinion is wanted.” Ghaul wiped his knife on his breeches and replaced it in his boot.
“Darestat does not meddle in the trivialities of men. He has never lent his hand to sway a war.”
“If this Necromancer doesn’t meddle in man’s affairs, why do we risk our lives to take the blood of the king to him?” Ghaul’s eyes narrowed. “He won’t help us, especially if he sides with the Kanosee.”
“There is a difference between raising the dead and animating a corpse.” Athryn shook his head. “He will aid us, but not for the sake of the kingdom or Braymon. He will do it because Bale was his student once.”
“The Shaman is dead,” Khirro said. The pit of his stomach twisted and writhed, upset by salt pork and dread. “How will he know Bale sent us?”
“He will know.”
Maes wandered to a nearby tree and dropped his breeches to relieve himself-scars even blemished his buttocks. Khirro looked away from the little man to the magician, his eyes diverted in deep thought, and noticed for the first time how frustrating it could be when a man’s face is hidden. Elyea sat beside Khirro and rested her hand on his forearm.
“Everything will be okay,” she said. He tried to smile a thanks to her for the reassurance, but concern waylaid his intent.
“Tell me more of these undead soldiers,” Athryn said returning from his thoughts.
“There’s no more to tell. I spent my time defending myself or fleeing.” His eyes flickered to Elyea, but he saw none of the judgment in her expression he might have seen from someone else. “They were decomposed, but not skeletons. And fierce fighters.”
“Recently dead.” Athryn nodded. “Without fear of death, the re-animated make superior warriors. Do you recall anything else?”
After a moment’s thought, Khirro said he didn’t.
“You certainly are a farmer.” Ghaul shook his head and laughed. “A soldier is trained to observe his foes. The undead fighters wore black chain mail splashed with red paint, as though splattered with blood.”
The mask didn’t hide the way Athryn’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Black with red? These are the markings of Sheyndust, Shaman of the Kanosee. I did not think Sheyndust capable of such an act. It would take much more power than I have, or Bale had.”
Ghaul snorted. “Either someone has learned a new trick, or we ride into the grasp of our enemy.”
“Animating the dead is the act of someone striving toward necromancy. This does not bode well for the kingdom.”
Maes returned to his brother’s side, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed toward the sky. Athryn nodded.
“It is time to continue.” He rose and brushed bread crumbs from his breeches. “Night will be upon us soon.”
Khirro saddled his horse, stomach churning. If Darestat was swelling the Kanosee ranks with soldiers of the dead, they’d be riding to their deaths, no doubt of that. But what did it mean if Sheyndust possessed the ability to bring forth the dead? He swung into the saddle and allowed his horse to follow the others. Thoughts of Emeline sprang to his mind, and of his farm, but the image appeared vague, unclear, like a child’s drawing left in the sun too long, the lines had faded.
Will they eventually disappear?
A hand on his arm roused him and he turned to Elyea riding beside him.
“All will turn out.” The small action settled his gut a bit; Emeline disappeared from his thoughts. “Have faith. Athryn knows what he’s doing. Besides, the Gods smile on people like you.”
He smiled thinly. “And what of people like you?”
“Some of us have to take care of ourselves.”
They concealed themselves in the thin brush at the edge of the swath of cleared land separating the two kingdoms. The bare tract stood five hundred meters wide and stretched the length of the border, the trees cut down centuries before to provide wood to build the guard towers dotting the frontier. Originally built to discourage bandits and refugees, the kingdoms maintained the non-barrier more out of habit than need. During wartime, however, no doubt the border guards would be more wary.
A fingernail moon cast sparse light as they watched torches flicker in tower windows and a foot patrol pass between the towers at irregular intervals. After an hour’s observation, a whispered discussion between Athryn and Ghaul decided they’d attempt the crossing one by one. They’d already let the horses go knowing they couldn’t sneak them across the border.
Ghaul glanced at the sky and Khirro followed his gaze: clear, as it had been for a month. No wisp of cloud hid the moon. Ghaul looked at the others, then nodded silently. They tightened straps and secured loose items then, without a word, Ghaul broke cover, moving swiftly across the field, crouched low and halting at the slightest hint of movement. Khirro reminded himself to breathe as he watched Ghaul zig-zag over the bare expanse, choosing a path which took him farthest from the towers. After a few minutes, Athryn sent Elyea and Maes.
A finger of fear prodded Khirro’s heart, shaking him. It didn’t matter who they were or why they were here, any soldier manning the outposts wouldn’t ask questions before launching an arrow or swinging a sword. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction they’d come, wondered how difficult it would be to find one of the horses and make his way home.
That’s why Athryn will send me next: they don’t trust me.
A burst of anger flared but quickly disappeared.
I thought of leaving. They shouldn’t trust me.
Elyea and Maes stopped suddenly and dove to the ground. Khirro’s breath caught in his throat, anger and fear forgotten. He
squinted into the night but saw no sentry, darkness and distance obscuring all save outlines and shapes. A tense moment passed. Ghaul’s form had disappeared long ago and he assumed he’d reached the forest on the other side-the forest of Vendaria. Beside Khirro, Athryn’s lips moved, forming a wordless whisper of breath. As if in answer, Maes rose, helped Elyea to her feet, and they continued, darkness swallowing them after another minute.
Khirro jumped when Athryn touched his shoulder.
“It is time,” he whispered. His black cloth mask and the cowl of his black cloak covering his blond hair concealed all but the scant glint of moonlight in his eyes; Khirro might not have noticed him crouched beside him.
Khirro’s heart climbed into his throat, threatening his breath; Athryn urged him forward with a gentle push. Out of the brush, Khirro felt like he’d been thrust naked into the middle of a busy marketplace, exposed and vulnerable. He crouched low, scuttled across the field. His foot struck a rock, kicking it away, and he stopped, listening, not breathing. When he heard no other sounds, he moved forward again more slowly, the weight of pack and shield on his back suddenly immense. The stillness of the night amplified every creak of his armor to ear shattering levels. In his mind, an unseen voice challenged him, the whistle of an arrow cloaked in darkness came to pierce his heart. He stopped, kneeling, pausing to catch the breath which had fled him.
To Khirro’s right, a guard tower loomed, slivers of light leaking through shuttered windows and under closed door. He looked left and made out the next watch tower in the line a little farther away. His legs didn’t want to move but Khirro forced them to creep forward, eyes pinned to the near guard post. Each step brought more confidence and he straightened, moved more quickly expecting the guard tower door to swing inward at any second.
Directly between the two towers, his foot caught in a clump of weeds and he pitched forward to the ground.
Khirro turned his shoulder, took the fall on his back. The clank of shield impacting ground seemed as loud as a clap of thunder. He rolled off it, came to a halt lying on his chest, sweat cold on his forehead. Afraid to breathe, he strained listening for any sound of men but heard only crickets chirruping and an owl call out a question that went unanswered.
