Nay. It would do no good to be friends with the man, Yohan reminded himself for the dozenth time. Patrik would likely be dead soon enough, and Yohan had lost enough friends already. Nay, don’t think of him by name. Better that he remain the harpa, the caravaneer.
The caravaneer used a finger to wipe the last vestige of food from his cup, then stood and replaced it on the loop of his leather pack. Then he moved the pack aside to rummage through their other gear. Yohan knew what he was looking for.
The harpa had recently taken to carrying one of the slain tribesmen’s swords. Now he swung the weapon around in a pitiful facsimile of the daily exercises Yohan performed to stay in fighting shape. In time, the regimen would help the amateur get used to the weight, and strengthen the necessary muscles—but what the would-be warrior really needed was personal instruction.
Yohan considered a moment, then offered his advice. “Perhaps you should keep to the bow.”
The harpa stopped and stared. Then he shook his head adamantly. “Nay. I hate the bow. Always have. It’s a coward’s weapon that the empire forced us to use.” He raised the sword in his hand. “I feel better with this. This is strength.”
“It takes more than a little swinging to learn how to wield it.”
The harpa continued to stare, waiting.
An hour per day would work wonders, but even ten minutes would help. The two of them were continuously pressed for time, but they could spare ten minutes.
Yohan looked away, saying nothing. The distant mountains were now visible, and he always found them strangely comforting. Soon his mind was lost in them. When the crude practice resumed, he did not even notice.
At last, he stood. “Ready?”
The harpa had already prepared both packs for the day’s long walk. Instead of replying, he lifted one and slid it onto his back.
All remnant of fog long gone, the morn sun blazed down on the two men as they resumed the march.
“You’ve been to Threefork before. Is that it?” Yohan asked.
“Aye.”
The two of them stood on one of the region’s few rocky highpoints, staring at a thin cut of river in the distance and the small community of buildings just beyond.
“I didn’t realize we were so close.” Yohan frowned. “Isn’t there typically more activity around this town?”
“Aye, usually. Perhaps the bands of tribesmen in the area are keeping folks indoors.”
“In that case, where are the patrols? There should be army patrols. Or at least militia patrols…” He trailed off, hearing the trace of distress in his own voice. Since when had he taken to voicing his doubts?
Yohan had been hoping to encounter one of those nonexistent patrols long before now. Assuming the presence of tribesmen operating in the region was known—and he did not see how it could not be—the local officers or civilian officials should have arranged proper defensive measures. An enemy should never be allowed to move with impunity through Imperial lands.
Similarly, he had been wondering where the other people were. There were always folks living and traveling around a trading community, even a relatively modest one like Threefork. This hard earth was not impossible to farm, and Summer’s harpa caravan had been evidence enough that merchants passed through these lands. Merchants traveled with guards, and when the merchants were scared away it was time for soldiers.
If truth be told, Yohan had been hoping for aid. Supplies at the least, if not additional swordarms. He had believed the tribesmen they chased were making a strategic mistake by getting so close to a settlement, but now he was not so certain.
In fact, it now seemed likely that the town was their destination all along.
There had been no more scouting parties sent out over the last few nights. At first, Yohan believed that lack was forcing the band to move blindly, right toward where he wanted them to go. He had let himself believe that all his efforts were nearing a payoff, and had even allowed a modicum of hope to creep into his spirits.
What had his father taught him, at the end? Hope was for children and fools, not soldiers.
“Is that them?” Patrik whispered.
“Seems likely.”
Although smaller, the encampment before them certainly appeared similar to the one they had grown accustomed to chasing. The change in size was promising, though it was too much to hope that their numbers were reduced from fighting the Goths.
In fact, there were no indications at all of conflict with the locals. And the proximity with which the tribesmen currently camped suggested a lack of concern for any. The only conclusion was that the town was so cowed by the enemy that they dared not resist. Most likely, the inhabitants lived in a mixed state of continuous fear and eager anticipation for the Gothenberg army to show up and drive off the invaders, an event that could be anywhere from imminent to illusory.
Either way, Yohan could ill afford to wait.
“Shall we move closer? To confirm, I mean?” The harpa’s hopeful tone betrayed his desire. He wanted to catch a glimpse, however fleeting, of his betrothed.
Yohan understood the impulse all too well, but he shook his head. “Too risky.”
The two of them were lying flat on their bellies, well concealed within the thin dry grass. But the cover provided by the landscape was much too sparse to afford them the opportunity to get close enough to see individuals. Not without accepting the possibility of being spotted.
The situation remained bleak, but not desperate enough to require that kind of gamble. There was little doubt that being spotted would result in instant failure of the chase, for even a reduced camp contained too many foes to fight in direct battle. Moreover, even if things turned against the invaders, the prisoners would immediately be executed.
This was actually one of Yohan’s greatest fears. Not that he and his companion were likely to provide that threat. Perhaps if the tribesmen were so foolish as to leave only five or six men to guard the prisoners, he might be willing to consider a direct attack. Even that would be a last resort, for he remembered the fighting prowess of the enemy from his two previous battles against them. He liked his chances one-on-one, and ambushing them in small groups had worked out so far, but any more than a few would overwhelm him in seconds.
Nay, what Yohan feared was that a Gothenberg or Imperial army would arrive on the scene, forcing the tribesmen’s hand. Why this had not already happened was a mystery, for the empire was under invasion and this lack of response revealed either great neglect or great confusion within the halls of power.
He knew that Emperor Eberhart had abdicated, of course, but it was still hard to imagine a void of power so vast that these raids were not countered. Was the fighting in Vilnia now so dire that every soldier was occupied there?
From first-hand observation, Yohan was aware that the enemy occupied Sky’s Pass and threatened Halfsummit. But he had relayed that information long ago. Surely, those higher up the chain of command had used the report to plug the pass and hold the invaders in the mountains. That could be accomplished with a small army, leaving plenty of soldiers to handle other threats.
He turned away from these confusing thoughts. There were too many unknown factors, and his mind was already too muddled to piece together a puzzle. All Yohan could do was react according to what he saw directly in front of him, and that meant continuing to operate like a lone hunter tracking its prey.
Not completely alone, he reminded himself. The harpa had proven useful in prior trials, and perhaps would again—though it would be foolish to rely on him any more than necessary.
“What do we do, then?”
Yohan considered. “Wait for this eve. Without the cover of land, we’ll have to use the cover of darkness.”
He began the uncomfortable half-crawl, half-slither away from the enemy encampment. After a significant hesitation, the harpa followed suit.
Having finished the eve meal early in preparation for a long night, Yohan watched his companion muddle through another practice.
As all amateurs did, the harpa awkwardly took long, pronounced slashes toward the body of a pretend opponent. A pretend, stationary opponent the approximate height of a small dog or large housecat. Even a light blade grew heavy to an arm unused to wielding it, and the swings arced lower and lower until Yohan expected the point to strike the ground.
This exercise would certainly make the caravaneer more proficient at chopping down thin trees or thick stalks of wheat, but little else.
Yohan looked away, considering the plan for the upcoming reconnaissance. Night’s enveloping darkness would allow them to get much nearer the camp, but would also hinder their own ability to see. As much as he, too, would like to see the women once more, he began to wonder whether they would not be better served to venture into town instead. Perhaps they could find a night watchman or discreet civilian who would fill in some of the many nagging holes in his understanding.
He glanced back, noticing that the practice had transitioned from attack to defense. Patrik brought the sword up in a two-handed posture, parrying first an attack from the left then the right. His feet remained firmly planted a few feet apart, knees locked, ready to absorb the force of an incoming blow.
It was all good work for preparing to fight an enemy with the agility of a cow. Or perhaps he was practicing for the collapse of that tree he had just cut down.
“Bend your knees,” Yohan said aloud.
Without replying, the harpa followed the suggestion. He blocked another pair of blows, his motion already looking more natural.
“And keep your feet moving,” Yohan added.
The caravaneer stepped sideways, blocked an attack, then a little more, blocking another. “How long?” he asked.
“Always.” Yohan remembered this being one of the very first lessons drilled into him, yet one that was so easy to forget once fatigue set in.
He stood up and drew his own sword. “Never stop moving, if you can help it. Alternate between short and long strides, left and right, forward and back. Combat is not a dance, you’re not communicating to your partner where you’re going next. You’re doing the opposite, so they never know where you’ll be.”
An oversimplification, to be sure. There was more to it than that. Far more. Little ideas, difficult to express in words, that came instinctively to some swordsmen after long experience. For one, the feet were creatures of habit. Let them get used to moving, and they would do so without thinking. Allow them to get settled, and they would be slow to respond when you needed them most.
There was also something to the dance comparison, now that he thought about it. This was a notion that had occurred to Yohan when Summer taught him a few basic steps, but now he applied it in the reverse direction. Just as with music, combat had a particular rhythm—a cadence that all participants could feel. Thinking of an opponent as a partner opened up new possibilities, except that instead of leading them where you were going next, you could deceive them in the wrong way to seize an advantage. This was the basic idea behind feinting, of course, but taken to a new level.
Turning these thoughts over in his mind brought back memories of the harpa, memories so strong that he could hear the melody as though they were here, playing. He had known their music had a powerful influence on him, changing his perspective on life and love and spirit and happiness. But he had never before felt the music like this, blending with his martial mind as it calculated ebbs and flows, angles and speeds.
Patrik’s right foot tripped on his left heel, sending him tumbling to the ground and snapping Yohan back to the moment. He reached down to pull the caravaneer upright. “Do not worry, that happens at first. It takes time for your feet to learn.”
“How long?”
Years. “A tenday or two.” He noted the burgeoning glare of a sunset. “Come on. That’s enough for now. It’s time to scout.”
The breeze was all but dead by the time the two crawled within a few hundred yards of the encampment. That lack, along with a sky fairly lit by the bright moon, made this spring night feel very much like a late summer eve.
The moonlight was appreciated, for it allowed the men to see into and between the makeshift tents with a measure of clarity. But the temperature was not, for the exertion of moving at a brisk pace made them both sweat uncomfortably. After long minutes pushing earth, Yohan’s hands felt as though they had been washed in mud, and his eyes stung from the intrusion of unwiped moisture.
Yet these were mere trivialities compared to the cruelties inflicted on the prisoners in the camp. He could see five—two who made his heart pound excitedly, along with two straight-haired girls and one smallish man who spent more time prostrate on the ground than sitting up like the others. None of the prisoners talked to one another, as each seemed preoccupied by personal torments—the man’s face shook into a meaty forearm, the girls contemplated their bonds, Jena stared daggers at every tribesmen within sight, and Summer rubbed one leg with such endless attention that Yohan feared she had suffered serious harm.
He was desperate to make his presence known to the women, a compulsion no doubt shared by his trembling companion. Yohan began shaking as well, his muscles electrified by a surge of that same feeling that came during battle.
Yet in combat, time always seemed to slow down. This was the opposite, as Yohan felt the minutes slipping by in a blur. During the entire long chase, this was as close as the pursuit had ever reached. His desperate desire to free the two women was so overwhelming, he felt his heart squeeze painfully, and his mind race with illogical anticipation. Feeling Patrik’s unspoken, impatient stare, Yohan doubted his own capacity to make a sound decision.
He closed his eyes, gave his nerves a moment to relax, and focused. The fog in his mind cleared. Ever-so-slightly, but enough to think.
Nay. It would not do. The opportunity was an illusion born of pure hope. The very idea was folly, for the countless enemy warriors in that camp had a far better chance to see trespassers long before the women did. There would be other, better chances. He had to believe that, or else he was condemning them all.
Yohan shook his head, tapped Patrik on the shoulder, and pointed to a group of five tribesmen separating from the others. They appeared to be leaving camp.
“We follow them, for now,” Yohan whispered.
Patrik stared back intently for a long moment, then closed his eyes tightly. His cheeks twitched, and a sudden stream of wetness rushed down one. But he nodded.
Yohan felt a strong temptation to reach out to his companion. Instead he moved ahead, circling the perimeter of the camp as quickly as the awkward movements allowed, hands too busy to wipe the flow of moisture from his own eyes.
Roughly halfway between the camp and town, the two of them found a rocky cluster suitable for cover. From there, they positioned themselves to watch the intermittent traffic that passed within a few dozen yards. The position was not without risk, but none of the passers-by seemed particularly alert. Most looked as tired as Yohan felt, and not a few yawned so loudly they could be heard from this distance.
All appeared to be tribesmen, wandering casually in and out of town as if they had nothing to fear from it. At this hour, Yohan had a pretty good guess what they were doing there, and he felt sorry for the women of Threefork who had to endure those barbaric demands.
But not until the original group made their way back toward the camp did he feel genuine revulsion so sickening that his judgment clouded again. Only now did he see their faces, and the distinctive gingery tint of one beard reflected in torchlight.
Patrik pointed and whispered. “Look there. Isn’t that your friend?”
The hair on Yohan’s neck bristled. “He’s no friend of mine.”
“I mean—”
“Aye. It’s him.”
“Can we—”
“Nay.”
This was turning into a long series of frustrations, but there were five men in this party. Yohan might succeed in killing the traitor, with the effect of alerting every tribesman in the vicinit
y to his presence. “Not here. The next time, though, we’ll follow him into town.”
Yohan saw the harpa’s disappointment, matching his own. But just as with the prisoners, he had to hope they would get another opportunity. When it came, they would be better prepared.
Once it became clear the tribesmen were taking no risks—with either the prisoners, who remained guarded at all hours, or with their own patrols, which never ventured far from camp—there was little for Yohan and Patrik to do but bide their time, awaiting a change in disposition.
There was always the temptation to sneak into Threefork itself, simply in hopes of learning what was going on. But the dubious relationship between the tribesmen and town gave Yohan pause. It would take no more than one citizen to sound an alarm, and all would be lost.
Instead they returned to their hideaway far from town to spend more time scouting, more time resting, and more time practicing.
Yohan remembered the hard lessons of his own drillmaster in Vilnia. He attempted to apply some of those lessons to Patrik’s training, although without the same curses and insults.
“Yesterday was your feet. Today, let’s talk about your arms. They don’t just perform an attack, they also tell an opponent what that attack will be. Your swings are far too long, too pronounced. You’re indicating where the attack is going well before it gets there. Only a crippled foe or a fool wouldn’t be able to dodge.”
Patrik watched a few sample movements then did his best to emulate them. It would take time, of course, but at least he was performing exercises that would improve his skill if he repeated them enough.
Yohan had done what he could to help. Now it was up to the other man himself to learn from the instruction. For a civilian, he was not completely without potential. Give him a year or two and he might make a fine warrior, after all.
Which was a ridiculous notion. They would both be dead in a matter of days, most likely. So, too, would the prisoners. They were being kept alive for some purpose, but Yohan did not doubt its climactic conclusion was nigh. He was not sure whether he wanted to know exactly what that purpose was, or not.
Empire Asunder BoxSet Page 60
