by D Mickleson
“Don’t say it.”
Triston struck the stray flint piece he’d found at the bottom of one of the saddle bags against Owain’s hunting knife and another shower of sparks fell into his pile of twigs and cones.
Alden shrugged, taking his eyes off Triston’s face to look with disappointment at the tiny apple he’d been nibbling at. He shrugged again, then tossed it into the river thirty feet below where it dipped a few times before disappearing under the frothy current. “I didn’t say anything.”
Triston’s cheeks puffed as he coaxed the sparks to life. A tiny yellow tongue flared and he blew more gently. “Good. Don’t. Where’s the kid?”
Alden’s gaze stretched across the rickety woodplank bridge they’d just crossed to the shadows of the forest towering over the far bank. Above a line of hills the eastern sky blushed with pink and gold. Near at hand the tops of trees, glittering in the dawn, sang with the morning joy of countless birds.
This was the second sunrise since their escape from the Farthian encampment. With nothing in mind but avoiding recapture, they’d forced their way through the Wildwood, fleeing southward. They took turns, two on horseback and one walking. Their straining ears had heard no sounds of pursuit, but even so Triston was taking no chances. When they’d reached the bridge leading over the Bitter Tears River and found a battered drift-boat moored on the far side, he had devised a plan much to his liking, but little to Alden’s.
“He probably saw you prepping the fire and went to get dry kindling. Dead useful travel companion, eager to please. Reminds me of you a few years back.” Alden sighed theatrically. “Ahhh for the good old days.” He watched Triston carefully place a few sticks over the smoking nest of tinder, then hunched down beside him with a grin and patted his cheek. “Not as pretty as you used to be.” Triston pulled back and they both stood up. “I’ll be honest, Trist. Your face looks like a horse’s ass.”
“I warned you not to say it.” He stepped forward and brandished the hunting knife menacingly. Alden stared down at the weapon, his face inscrutable, his eyes growing hard. Suddenly the cool facade collapsed into intense anxiety. “Oh no. Trist, this is bad. Horrible really.”
Triston waved the knife back and forth in front of him, advancing a step. “What’s horrible. Facing my steely-edged justice for your cruel barb.”
“No, your fire. It’s already gone out. You didn’t even bother collecting dry pines like I showed you.”
Triston dropped his arms. “Dammit. In that case, I guess there’s only one thing to do.” Hopping over the pile of smoldering twigs, he aimed carefully, then let fly into it with his right foot.
Alden brushed himself off, regarding Triston with a half-frown, half-grin. “Still got your winning personality I see, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble with the ladies. Besides, it doesn’t look that bad.”
“My fire? I’ll admit, it looks better now that you’re wearing it.”
“No, I mean your face. You’re not that ugly.”
“You’re too kind, Ald. Stop it.”
Triston knelt back down and started rebuilding his tinder pile, determined to ignore Alden’s obnoxious smirk. “OK, you try having a deranged sorcerer cut your face up with a floating dagger and see how you like it.”
At that moment, their stolen stallion Windy—as Owain had had affectionately dubbed him—grazing nearby on sweet riverbank shoots, gave off a long, loud fart, then unleashed a generous pile of manure. Triston looked up at Alden, and two pairs of eyebrows rose.
“I look like horseshit.”
They both laughed, Triston painfully, as the cuts on his cheeks still stung. “Nah, you look tough. Like a thief or a knifefighter. Like nobody would want to mess with you. Girls are into that. You’ll see.”
Triston placed his last stick, then looked up at Alden. “Ald, I haven’t said it yet but I should have. Thanks for coming for me. I couldn’t have gotten away without you guys.”
Alden’s face became unusually grave. “You’d have done the same for me. You did do the same for me back in Luskoll. Not that I wouldn’t have beat that minotaur . . . eventually. But I owed you one.”
Triston struck the flint and a spray of sparks drenched his tinder pile. “You mean the same minotaur who was shaking you like a doll on a string?”
Alden grimaced, then turned away, gazing down at the old drift-boat, bobbing on its rope in a swirling eddy. His brow furrowed. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea. Or even necessary. I mean, yeah, I get that we ate what was in the saddlebags and now we don’t have a lot of options, but do you want to end up in a dungeon again? Because that’s where this is heading.”
Triston snorted. “What, for taking the drifter? Look at the moldy rope, Ald. That piece of junk hasn’t been used for years.”
By the sudden groaning of timber and creaking of weatherworn planks they knew Owain was crossing over. “What? No. I’m talking about your plan to go to the king.”
Triston rolled his eyes and looked away, watching Owain stump across the bridge proudly bearing a pile of firewood. “Not this again. I thought we had this settled.”
Alden stepped in front of him, his eyes intense. “Listen, I’ve given it more thought. I’ve seen a little more of how this world works than you, Trist, and I’ve actually met King Stentor. He’s not a man to be trifled with, and I’m telling you, he won’t believe a word of your story.”
Triston made a scoffing noise but Alden pressed on. “Think about it. What will you tell him? You discovered the long lost tomb of Magog the Great and found an ancient artifact that hasn’t been seen in centuries? But where’s the gold? You don’t have any! Where’s the Relic? Some mean old man took it and cut your face. And you expect him just to up and raise an army and march off for Wyrmskull and arrest Sarconius? Hey, WATCH IT!”
Alden glared, suddenly red-faced, at an abashed Owain who had just unceremoniously dumped his woodpile all-too-near a carefully arranged lump of bright green mushrooms. “Are you trying to kill all three of us? They’ve already been drying for a full day, kid. They’re not safe anymore.”
He turned back to Triston. “No, I’ll tell what’s going to happen. Stentor’s going to find out that we killed the Seer and destroyed half of his cousin’s city. He’ll have us clapped in irons if we’re lucky. And if we’re not,” Alden stepped forward and gripped Triston’s shoulder, “well, it’s a short trip to the gallows and a long way down to hell.”
Owain rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “But don’t you guys think—”
“You don’t have to come with me,” Triston cut in, pulling away from Alden and adding some larger twigs to the fire. “I told you, you go back for the treasure if you want to—”
“And I’ve told you over and over, I can’t get in there without you. I tried, twice. Once after you climbed in and . . . and once after you were captured. I’m telling you, it’s a magic door.”
“But shouldn’t we—”
“And I’ve told that someone has to warn our king that the emperor’s made a deal with the Wildmen. If the empire’s betrayed us then Corellia has got to—”
“Triston! Triston!” Alden was shaking his head. “You really don’t get it. We call Stentor ‘King’ but he’s just an imperial stooge. If the emperor was behind the attack on Wyrmskull, you can bet Stentor knew about it ages ago. Whitecastle does what Whitecastle’s told.”
“Listen guys. I say the only real option is—”
“Whitecastle?” repeated Triston, looking up from the fire with sudden interest. “What’s that? I was talking about going to Leviathan.”
Alden raised an eyebrow. “Whitecastle’s what they call the king’s palace in Leviathan,” he said as though addressing a dimwit. “Sometimes I forget how untraveled you are.”
“And they call it that because it’s a white castle, right?” said Triston, the urgency in his voice rising.
Alden raised the other eyebrow.
“But that settles it, Ald. I saw a white castle in hi
s mind, the creep I told you about. It’s by the sea, right? That’s what I saw. I’m telling you he and Sarconius, they’re after Relics. I know it. I felt it as sure as anything. And if that foul mind is thinking about Leviathan, or Whitecastle, whatever, then it’s not just the king’s life at stake. These sorcerers are bad enough with one Relic of Power. Do you want them to get another one?”
Alden cursed. “But heading west means leaving Magog’s hoard to the Wildmen! Are you mad?”
“They don’t even know where it is. And how are we supposed to get it with a thousand Farthians prowling around on Magog’s Rise? And you said only I can get in there!”
“Hey!” shouted Owain at the top of his lungs, causing Triston and Alden to turn and stare in exasperation.
“What!” they demanded in unison.
“Don’t you guys think our only chance of getting the treasure is to convince the king that one of his villages has been overrun? His army sends the Wildmen running for their treehouses, then we’re free to take as much as we want once things are back to normal. There’s no other way to get away with all that gold, so we might as well try it.”
Alden stared at Owain, his mouth hanging open, while a slow grin spread over Triston’s face. “Kid’s got a point, Ald. It’s the only way. So, if that’s settled, I think we’re nearly there. Owain, if you’d take care of Windy, then the fun can begin.”
Owain hurried over and grabbed the horse’s reins. Pulling the beast away from his morning meal while he whinnied in protest, he led him down to the bridge. “We should have just left him on the other side. Hope this bridge holds one last time.” He turned suddenly, his face creased with worry. “Don’t do it till I come back. Promise?”
Triston chuckled, Alden joining in despite his dour mood. “We promise, kid,” Triston assured him, one hand behind his back.
Alden mimicked him. “We swear. We wouldn’t set out for Leviathan without you, sonny boy.” Owain scowled, giving Windy’s reins a tug and setting out cautiously over the creaking planks. “Who do you think’s gonna do all the rowing?” Alden called after him, provoking a rude hand gesture from halfway across the bridge.
“All right. Here we go,” said Triston, rubbing his hands together, then bending down and carefully plucking one Hellcap from the pile. One-by-one he moved the pyramid-shaped mound of mushrooms onto the bridge while Alden watched, grim-faced.
“Do you have any idea how much that pile would get us on the streets of Leviathan?”
“Nope,” said Triston, placing the last Hellcap and stepping back to stand next to Alden. “But it was nice of you to go to so much trouble over the last couple of days gathering these. You’re a dead useful travel companion. Eager to please.”
“Shut it.”
A minute later Owain came tearing into sight, crossing the bridge at a sprint and leaping over the Hellcap pile with relief on his face. “Thanks for waiting,” he said, panting. “I gave him a good slap and he took off down the road. Should confuse any dogs on our trail. Where’s that road go, anyway?”
“This is the Slave Trail,” said Alden. “Runs over from Northgate up to the copperpits at Brazen Heights. Well, I’ll do the honors since they’re my caps.”
He picked up a flaming stick, edging closer to the bridge while Triston and Owain ran for cover. Tossing the brand, he dove backwards at the same time and scrambled over a boulder. A second later, a spine-jolting explosion sent a hailstorm of splinters everywhere. Triston peaked out from behind the shelter of a birch tree just in time to see, through a swirl of flame, the bridge vanish into smoke and dust. Its shivered timbers swung down like a pendulum and broke on the rocky bank of the far side before plunging into the foaming depths below.
A billowing cloud of debris hovered over the river, muting its frothing torrent in a ringing silence, then—“That. Was. Awesome!” shouted Owain, springing forward from the shelter of a thorn bush and pumping a fist in the air. “Did you see how it fell? Total destruction! Try to follow us now, losers!”
Triston and Alden shared a superior look behind his back, neither wanting to show their complete agreement with Owain’s enthusiasm.
“Come on,” said Triston, grabbing Bloodprice. He picked a cautious and, with the longsword, awkward path down to the water’s edge where the drifter awaited.
They’d already tested the boat to make sure it could handle all three of them; it could, barely, but it was cramped.
“Still, it beats walking all the way,” said Triston doubtfully from the prow when Alden had pushed them into the stream. He leapt in beside Owain as he pushed off. “And probably shaves a full day’s travel time.”
“Sure, this is really great,” said Alden. He handed Triston the moldy paddle, then nudged Owain off the center of their seat so that the unfortunate boy was squished against the gunwale.
With a few strokes Triston guided them to the middle current, and the rippling waters bore them at a surprising pace along the canyon, west toward the sea.
An hour later they passed out of the narrow way, the river broadening and the current slackening. “How long is it till we get there?” came Owain’s pained voice behind Triston.
Triston picked up the paddle and began rowing at a slow, even pace. “What was your guess, Ald? Two, maybe three days’ steady going?”
After a few moments’ silence, Triston twisted around to look behind him. Sitting hunched over and somehow looking uncomfortable despite occupying more than his fair share of the seat, Alden had lifted a hand to his brow and was shaking his head. “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, Trist,” he said at last.
Triston smirked, turning back to face downriver. “Worse than that time when we were kids?”
Alden groaned. “I told you never to speak of that.”
Owain perked up. “Speak of what?”
“Once upon a time I thought it’d be funny for Alden to plant a dead bat in Gorbald’s chamber pot, so I dared him.”
“You mean the bat you said was dead? The one that flapped back to life at the worst possible moment and I ended up covered in . . . I couldn’t get the smell off myself for three days and yes, this is even worse than that.”
“So that’s why you reeked so bad,” laughed Owain. “I remember that. Actually, it was more like a week. Ouch!”
The lands sped by in a blur of fleeting images. At wiles woodlands marched down to the riverbank; spruce, fir and hemlock pocked with the softer greens of maple, alder, and beech. Gnarled branches reached toward each other from bank to bank, never quite touching above the broadening river. They shaded the travelers in a dappled light which danced in endless variation on the surface of the water. By midday the forests receded. A rugged country of craggy outcroppings and hillsides rolled by, broken by flatlands choked with briars. These reached over the riverbanks into the water, sometimes grasping at them with thorny tendrils.
Their spirits sank as the day drew on and their hunger waxed. The cramped feeling grew until each traveler believed himself trapped and helpless while all the world around was wild and free. During the morning, as the merry woodlands sailed by, Triston and Owain had filled their time with singing, serenading the empty lands with every drinking song and love ballad they knew. During their second rendition of Fickle Felinda even Alden joined in, attempting the final refrain in a booming bass he couldn’t quite reach: “She tells me she loves me whene’er we’re alone, but when Rubert’s with her she changes her tone. O Fickle Felinda!” But soon the familiar tunes became too travel worn, and as the lands grew dreary, their thoughts turned inward.
“Do you think they all made it?” asked Owain that evening as the first stars flickered to life above. Triston stopped paddling and turned to face him. He had wondered when Owain would ask this question and he had his answer ready.
“Look—your parents are healthy and strong. There’s no way they let those stinking Wildmen catch up with them. They’re probably a little worried about you, but I’d bet all I have they’re alive and well
themselves. Probably in Luskoll, drinking to our health and fortune right now.”
Owain relaxed visibly at these words. “Probably. Except the drinking. Mom would fix herself between dad and the alehouse door and not even a hundred stampeding centaurs could make her flinch.”
At nightfall no one spoke of stopping. The moon had risen early and now bathed their course in silver light. Eager to reach their journey’s end, they halted only to trade places, taking turns keeping watch at the prow while two rested fitfully behind. The drifter, hardly longer than Alden’s body, was sturdy and extremely buoyant. Even with limbs hanging uncomfortably over the lip of the boat only a little water found its way inside.
They woke together suddenly. Someone was shouting. Or barking. Whoever they were, they were making a lot of noise. Triston found himself lying on his stomach at the prow, the oar pressed painfully against his chest. His right knee was resting on something hard and jagged. He shifted, straightening up to find the source of the racket. With a curse he lifted his aching leg off the hard thing, the hilt of Bloodprice.
“Ahoy there, laddies! Wake up now, my sluggards. What are you athinking, eh? Get up there and man your craft or I’ll send you packing! Hey now! Oy!” There was a thud and a splash. Triston looked up from his aching knee just in time to see the tip of the prow drive straight into the side of another boat, toppling it sideways. Its contents spilled with a splash: a man, a dog, a fishing pole and a lunch basket.
The man stood up in the waist-high water as they drifted past. He cast about for his pole and basket, issuing a torrent of water-choked curses through his splutters. “Asses! Swamp-slugs! Stop and help me! Hey there! Come back! Dog-faced ruffians, curse the lot of ‘em. Wait, where’s Scruffy? That’s ma’boy! Come on now!”
Triston watched as the man flipped his tiny drift-boat back over and dragged it to the shore while a water-logged sheepdog scrambled after him. “Sorry!” he yelled, feeling regretful but totally unwilling to risk tipping their own boat by turning to help the man.
“And thank you!” shouted Alden from the stern.
