by Nat Russo
He sighed. Sometimes she knew exactly the right thing to say.
Aelron’s fate had been decided by The Moot, the court of elders at the ranger mother house, and there was nothing he could say to Captain Jacobson to change it. Still, there was a growing anger inside. His pulse thrummed at his temples. There was nothing he could do except stew in an impotent rage that would only get him killed if he didn’t get it under control.
He took a deep breath and looked out at the desolate countryside.
It was as if they’d ridden into one of the hells. The fragrant pine forests of the north ended abruptly, giving way to a dead land, devoid of even a blade of grass. The rangers traveled light, only packing water. Food was something they could hunt for with ease. But the lack of game trails worried even Simmons, their best hunter.
The terrain of the northern region of the Shandarian Union grew flat as the rangers made their way inland through a torrential downpour. They’d stopped and donned Arinwool, making sure to cover their adda-ki as well, rendering them invisible to all but each other.
Aelron couldn’t see them, though. Being unmoored meant he didn’t share a mystical bond with an adda-ki, and so he didn’t have the creature’s heightened agility or keen eyesight.
Aelron donned his as well, but when he asked why they were traveling with stealth, all Jacobson said was “We’re not ready to meet with our southern brothers just yet. Best we give that some time.”
Several hours into their journey, soaked from rains that slowed but never stopped, they emerged from the near-barren fields onto a muddy road that, according to Jacobson, ran between the capital city of Shandar and the city of Caspardis.
Aelron recognized the names. He’d even been to Caspardis once. But he was five when his father sent him to live with the rangers. After forty years under the dome, he doubted those cities existed as anything other than ruins anyway.
His opinion changed when he spotted crops growing a few hundred paces up the road. A herd of domestic adda grazed there—shorter versions of the adda-ki. Muscular, hooved, less agile. More a source of food and transportation than a weapon of war. Could there be survivors? Someone must have tended those fields and shepherded those adda.
And there was smoke rising from nearby thatch-roofed buildings.
Aelron thumbed the silver ring Master Nigel, his blademaster, had awarded him. It was set with a stone resembling the cat’s eye symbol of the Shandarian Rangers, and was only supposed to go to a moored ranger. But Nigel had made an exception.
“Whoa, men,” Jacobson said, pulling his mount to halt at the head of the group.
Aelron could see Jacobson’s outline, but only because he knew what to look for.
The rangers formed up around him.
“This is as far as we take you,” Jacobson said.
“But Captain,” Orvin said. “Our agreement was to take him to his father.”
Jacobson struck Orvin with the back of his hand, and Orvin grabbed the pommel of his saddle to steady himself.
Striking a subordinate without cause was forbidden, and from the looks on the faces of two of the other rangers, they intended to do something about it.
They urged their adda-ki forward. But before they reached Jacobson, Simmons rode between them and waved for them to stop. He whispered something Aelron couldn’t hear.
“Simmons!” Jacobson yelled and nodded toward Aelron.
Simmons spun his adda-ki and shoved Aelron off the back of Orvin’s mount.
Aelron landed hard on his side, splashing mud and water up around him. Rough hands tore at his Arinwool until he was visible.
“Don’t forget the medallion,” Jacobson said. “We don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
Aelron cursed. He’d hoped they’d forgotten about it. Without the medallion it would be difficult, maybe even impossible, to convince people he was a ranger. And without that, he was nothing more than a vagrant. A drifter.
And that violated the Shandarian Justice Protocols. Was that what Jacobson wanted? For Aelron to get arrested by a local ranger patrol and tossed in jail before he reached his father?
The medallion lifted off his chest and disappeared into the pocket of whichever ranger was doing Jacobson’s bidding. They hadn’t removed their Arinwool, so he couldn’t see who had taken it.
Whoever it was hadn’t thought to check Aelron’s cloak, or he would have discovered a small piece of Arinwool tucked away for safety. Aelron thanked the gods he’d had the presence of mind to hide some earlier. It wouldn’t be enough to render him invisible, but it would render him immune to magic. Any spell cast against him would either reflect back toward the caster, or else be absorbed by the Arinwool itself.
“Captain,” Simmons said. “What about the ring?”
“Maybe you should check with Master Nigel first,” Aelron said. Nigel and Jacobson weren’t on friendly terms, and Nigel outranked him.
Aelron couldn’t see Jacobson, but an awkward silence stretched on for several moments.
“Keep it,” Jacobson said. “Just make sure you don’t go identifying yourself as a ranger.”
The truth was Aelron didn’t care about the festering ring. He treasured Nigel’s friendship, but sentiment wasted on an object was a weakness an observant enemy could exploit. Nigel himself had taught Aelron as much. But right now, the ring gave him power over Jacobson. And he liked that.
Jacobson pulled the Arinwool hood from his head and stared at Aelron through feline eyes.
“Now that the dome’s down, you can go back to your festering family,” Jacobson said.
The downpour grew stronger, making it difficult to hear Jacobson’s voice.
“We did our part,” Jacobson said. “But hear me well when I say this, Aelron unmoored.” He spoke the last with disgust. “Our duty ends here. When we turn and leave you’ll be governed by the Shandarian Justice Protocols, like everyone else. Violate them and you’ll suffer the fate you deserve, rather than the one that’s been negotiated for you.”
So that was what Jacobson was after.
“You’re just going to leave me here?” Aelron asked. “No food? Water? Not even you would survive in a land without animals.”
“You have everything you were sent with,” Jacobson said. “Even the money your father gave you. Provisions weren’t part of the negotiation.”
Aelron couldn’t see the other rangers, but he heard their laughter.
“Neither was a map, I take it,” Aelron said as he climbed to his feet.
Jacobson’s hand appeared from under his Arinwool, pointing toward the small village ahead.
“That’s east,” Jacobson said. “Make for Dyr Agul. You’re welcome.”
“What village is that up ahead?”
“Don’t know. Wasn’t here forty years ago.”
As Jacobson and the rangers left in the direction they’d come from, Aelron had a decision to make.
East or west?
Aelron regretted what he had done the moment he formed the question in his mind. The familiar dread, which often faded but never vanished, washed over him in waves, covering him like dirty water.
He retrieved a silver coin he kept in a special pocket hidden in his cloak. It wasn’t just any coin. It was the only thing that kept the dread at bay when certain questions needed answers. He hated that coin, but he needed it all the same. And he’d learned to never disobey its command.
The coin had told him to kill Letcher sooner, while the man was asleep, but he disobeyed it. And doing so nearly cost him his life. He’d won in the end, using Letcher’s own dagger against him in a fist fight. But how much simpler it would have been had he done what the coin had told him to do sooner.
And there were other times. Times rangers and civilians could have been saved, if only Aelron had obeyed the coin. There must be at least a dozen people dead who should be alive, and a dozen people alive who should be dead.
He wasn’t going to make those same mistakes again.
Aelron turned the coin over in his hand, alternating between the side stamped with an adda, and the side stamped with an adda-ki. He pushed the dread away, telling himself he’d get around to flipping it in a moment. Besides, it wasn’t all that bad. What was it Master Nigel had told him after he’d beaten Aelron at a game of Shrillers and Adda? “You can’t plan some things,” Nigel had said. “Oftentimes chance rewards us better than strategy.”
Chance it is, then. If it comes up adda, I go east, toward Dyr Agul. Adda-ki, I go west.
He flipped the coin into the air with his right hand. As it descended toward his waiting palm, the tension in his neck eased with every inch it fell. When it landed, the euphoria was pure relief, like he’d taken a good piss after holding it a half-hour longer than prudent.
He flipped the coin onto the back of his left hand.
Adda. East it is.
He put the coin back in its special pocket and headed off toward the village as the sun set behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
1The Power looked upon his creation and found it incomplete. 2The beasts of the air shared his freedom, but they were not like him. 3The beasts of the ground shared his strength, but they were not like him. 4The beasts of the fire shared his warmth, but they were not like him. 5The beasts of the water shared his speed, but they were not like him.
- The Mukhtaar Chronicles, attributed to the prophet Habakku
Origines Multiversi, Emergentiae 3:1-5
Sun had set, plunging the roadway into darkness. It was the first time Aelron had felt safe since the rangers left him. His black cloak and dark trousers would keep him hidden from prying eyes.
Heavy rains pelted him as he followed the muddy road into the village. He pulled his black hood over his head to keep the water out of his eyes.
As he got closer to the village, his stomach grumbled.
The scent of roasting meet threaded its way through the smell of rain and damp earth.
As hungry as he was, he’d have to be careful. It didn’t take much to get small-town folk suspicious, and the last thing he needed was a fight.
The scent was a good sign, though. He needed provisions if he was going to survive out here. Whatever had happened under the dome made game and vegetation scarce. It didn’t matter how good the hunter if there was nothing to hunt.
He should find a place to gather his thoughts, away from the road leading into the village.
A partial building on his right—uneven bricks and no roof—would provide no shelter from the downpour. The brickwork looked sturdy, though. It would have taken something powerful to cause its collapse.
No. On second look, it was under construction. Judging by the parapets and gated yard, it was a military barracks. The Union wanted a garrison here for some reason.
And, if custom hadn’t changed, Union soldiers built their own barracks.
A sobering thought. He put his attention back on the road in front of him.
Two tile-roofed buildings, each with an awning, formed an entrance to the village proper. There was no gate, but a muddy road ran between the two buildings into the village center.
He patted the pocket containing his special coin to satisfy his paranoia. A nervous habit, like the way he always rinsed a cup before filling it, even it had just been washed—there might be dust in it. Or the way he lined his daggers up before going to sleep—he might need to retrieve one in a hurry. Though he wondered, sometimes, if the absence of the coin would be any worse than its presence.
I could make my way around the northern building. Then they wouldn’t see me coming.
The fewer people he encountered, the safer the village would be. All it would take is someone asking the wrong question, and it could set off a chain of events that demanded the coin’s intercession. That’s the way it always worked. If anyone—himself included—asked a question with only two possible answers, the coin’s malevolent compulsion would take hold, squeezing him in its grip until it drove all other thoughts from his mind.
Better to take some food and vanish than to confront a bunch of inbred farmers who felt invincible around strangers.
But which way would be safer, taking the road, or using stealth around the building?
As soon as he formed the question, the compulsion returned in the form of tension in his neck and shoulders. It was mild at the moment, but if he didn’t didn’t consult the coin, panic would follow.
He took the coin out of its pocket.
Adda, I follow the road. Adda-ki, I sneak around the building.
He tossed the coin and caught it on the back of his left hand. The tension evaporated even before he glanced at the result.
Adda. Road it is.
As the wind shifted, driving the rain into his face, sounds of merriment and song came from the village center. What would people be doing out in a storm like this?
Celebrations meant foreign merchants and craftsmen. Perhaps this town would be less suspicious of strangers than other hamlets he’d visited in the northern country.
He stopped at the corner of the building on the north side of the road and listened.
Too many conversations to pick one out. There must be at least twenty people.
The music swelled and with it the crowd’s laughter.
At least twenty more dancing. Musicians. Cooks. Serving people.
A familiar dull crack told him someone was on the losing end of a punch to the jaw.
He reached for his daggers and swore when he remembered they’d been taken.
But he couldn’t stop now. The only way was forward.
He leaned around the corner to get his first look at the village center.
The village was little more than a ring of buildings circling an area one hundred yards in diameter. The glow of torches lit an expansive, rectangular cloth canopy that spanned the village center, held aloft by tall poles decorated with corn stalks and gourds. Beneath the canopy, people danced in time to festive music played by a troupe of bards at the far end of the makeshift pavilion. Smaller tents lined the outer ring between the canopy and the buildings, and people stumbled in and out carrying tankards.
Harvest festival. I could go for one of those tankards about now.
“Oy!”
An aging, high-pitched voice startled Aelron from behind.
“Who are you, skulking about then?” the voice asked.
Malvol’s festering stones! If I’d been listening, I’d have known he was coming.
“No skulking,” Aelron said as he turned. “I promise.”
Standing before him was an older man in his late fifties, wearing a tall hat, a hide cloak, and a chain of office around his neck. It was too dark for Aelron to make out which office it represented, though.
I’ll have the advantage of speed. I can tangle him in his own cloak. His arms are folded under it, so he’s probably not very good with a blade. And he’s favoring his left knee.
“And what do you call it, then?” the man said. “Looks a lot like skulking to me.”
Aelron straightened up and held his hand out. “Aelron. You are?”
“The bleedin’ constable, that’s who.”
Wonderful.
“Well met, sir,” Aelron said. “You have a name, Constable?”
“Constable. Now what are you about?”
“Look, I’m just passing through. I’ve never been here before and wanted to see what I was getting myself into. That’s all. I swear it.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. I’m going to walk straight into that crowd, buy a drink and a meal, and be on my way. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”
Just let me walk into the crowd, old man.
“Well you keep in mind, ale rod—”
“Aelron—”
“…that I’ll tolerate no chicanery, subterfuge, or churlish behavior. I was appointed by the local ranger captain hisself. If I catch wind of any furtiveness, skullduggery, or devious machinations, I’ll bring the full for
ce of the Shandarian Justice Protocols down on you like a blacksmith’s anvil!”
“I think you mean hammer, friend.”
“I said no chicanery!”
Damned inbred farmer.
“I do apologize,” Aelron said. “It’ll never happen again. Tell me, though. What village is this?”
The constable squinted as if he didn’t understand the question.
“Where am I?” Aelron asked.
“You okay, mate? This is Blackwood.” A note of pride entered the constable’s voice, and he straightened his back. “Twenty-seventh largest village in the Shandarian Union. Says so right on the sign.”
“You have a sign?” Aelron must have missed it. He was getting sloppy. First, an old man crept up on him, and now he was missing signs.
“Did one of those quakes shake your brain loose, man? Of course we have a sign! In case you weren’t listening, we’re the twenty-seventh largest village in the Union. It’s a wooden sign. We even have wooden buildings, for Arin’s sake! Wouldn’t be much of a village without a sign, now would it?”
Why is he going on about wood ?
“How far outside of Dyr Agul are we?” Aelron asked.
“That’s a different festering country.”
“How far?”
The constable looked toward the east, through the village center.
“Well, I don’t know,” the constable said. “Nearest city is Caspardis. About seventy miles southeast, along the road you skulked in on. Now get your meal and skulk on out the other side of Blackwood.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And you just remember—”
“No chicanery. I know.”
“Or devious machinations! One whiff of duplicity or surreptitiousness and I’ll—”
“Bring down the anvil. I remember.”
“I’m watching you, ale rod!”
Aelron shook his head and went over to an outer tent. He memorized the layout of the village center as he went, the same way a Shrillers and Adda player memorizes the position of pieces on the board before his opponent’s turn to hide them.
Three paces between tents. Four paces to the canopy. Fifty paces and I can be out of the village.
