The Wolf and the Sparrow

by Isabelle Adler

  Derek flushed, his cheeks turning crimson. Strangely, Callan realized he was annoyed, if not outwardly angry, on Derek’s behalf. Whatever bad blood there’d been between Mulberny and Camria in the past, Derek was far too decent to deserve any kind of derision.

  “As you see, the issue has been sorted,” Callan said mildly but firmly, staving off further unpleasantness. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to hear the answer to that particular question myself.”

  Lord Morgan gave him the briefest nod to indicate he deferred to his wishes.

  “Our troops are patrolling the coast,” he said. “But they are spread thin, and we cannot afford to allocate any more soldiers toward that purpose. My duty is to protect the city and its inhabitants should the raiders decide to attack the harbor.”

  “Waging such an organized offensive doesn’t fit their current modus operandi,” Callan said. “It seems they prefer wreaking havoc on unprotected settlements rather than engaging our main forces.”

  “That has been true so far, but I cannot take the risk of leaving Bryluen in a vulnerable position,” Morgan said. “Drawing our contingent farther north might well be precisely what they are counting on, so they could go for the bigger prize and loot the city.”

  There was no faulting Morgan’s reasoning, considering Bryluen and its populace had had the misfortune of carrying the brunt of the assault during the war. Morgan’s husband, Lord Nesten, who was a healer, had almost died while organizing makeshift field hospitals for the sick and injured, which had been far more numerous than anyone had expected. Now, the city was still in the stages of rebuilding, and Callan could well understand Morgan’s misgivings. His instincts told him there was something else brewing under the surface and that the raiders’ purpose had nothing to do with attacking a well-defended harbor, but he couldn’t argue with Morgan based on his hunches. He was here to find out more about what was going on, after all, and that was precisely what he was going to do.

  “I DON’T THINK he likes me very much,” Derek said in a tone that was probably meant to be light when they left the war room, on the way to their assigned quarters. “But to be fair, none of you Mulbernians seem to.”

  “I think you’re all right,” said Leandre, who was following them down the hallway. She shrugged when Callan shot her a warning look. “What?”

  “Lord Morgan can be a difficult man to handle,” Callan said, choosing his words carefully. “Especially when challenged by somebody so…uhm…”

  “Inept?”

  “Young,” Callan said with a touch of exasperation.

  “I’ll meet you in the courtyard in an hour,” Leandre said as they entered the guest wing, and strode off, heading to the barracks.

  “Wait, we’re leaving?” Derek asked, turning to him in confusion.

  “We didn’t come here to sit at the fort and look to the sky for answers. If we want to hunt those raiders, we must take to the coast—and every minute of delay might cost someone their life.”

  “But the attacks have been so random,” Derek said as they entered their room. “Lord Morgan said he sent patrols. What makes you think you’ll have better luck stopping the pirates?”

  “Nothing about these attacks is random. They are deliberate. Despite the stories the idle folks at the royal court like to tell to scare one another, Agiennans aren’t mindless savages—not even the rogue clan raiders. They always scout their potential targets in advance. Lady Elsie informed me of the locations of the most recent pirate-ship sightings, which is where we are headed. This is our best bet at guessing where their next attack will take place.”

  Derek didn’t appear convinced, but he nodded. Lines of pain and fatigue marred his face, and his clothes were still covered with road dust. Callan took a deep breath, considering how to broach the next subject as delicately as possible.

  “It’s just a short scouting mission. Most likely we’d be back early tomorrow. Why don’t you stay here, get a good night’s sleep, and—”

  “No.” Derek made a move to cross his arms over his chest but then seemed to remember the sling and thought better of it.

  “There’ll be plenty of other opportunities to prove your worth. You’re driving yourself too hard. You need rest.”

  “I’m not here to ‘prove my worth.’ Certainly not to the likes of you and Lord Morgan. I’m here for the same reason you are, as hard as it may be to believe.”

  “I can order you to stay,” Callan said, struggling to keep his grip on patience.

  “You can’t order me,” Derek said, an edge to his voice Callan hadn’t heard before. “I’m a count. Until you come into your inheritance, I have the privilege of seniority over you. And even if I didn’t, don’t ever presume you have the right to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

  “Fine.” Callan threw up his hands, giving up on trying to reason with him. If Derek passed out during the ride, Callan would tie him to his own horse.

  They took turns washing their hands and faces in the water basin, and ate the meal that had already been waiting for them on a little side table in pointed silence. Callan could see Derek had difficulty managing the tasks one-handed, but he didn’t ask for help, and Callan didn’t offer it. He had no desire to have his head chewed off again.

  In an hour, they were both ready and descended into the main courtyard where the rest of their troop was already waiting. It hadn’t been much of a rest for the horses, but Callan was loath to switch his Arrow for an animal of an unknown quality.

  The sky over the fields that lay farther to the east was already turning deep purple-blue when they rode out of the northern gate, going in the opposite direction from which they’d come earlier. Callan planned to reach their first destination—a small cluster of farms and homesteads off the shore of Moss Rocks where a faraway sighting of a longship had been reported two days ago—shortly after nightfall. The darkness would provide good cover for them to lie in wait for the raiders if they indeed intended to hit that particular spot.

  Lord Morgan’s grim account proved to be correct. Despite the late hour, the northern road was busy with mule-driven carts and people walking on foot—families taking to the safety of the city walls, peasants and fishermen who were frightened enough to forsake their crops and their boats. The villages they rode past, built either by the side of the main road or directly on the seashore, looked half-abandoned, some surrounded by hastily erected fences and stockades. As they got farther from Bryluen, they began to see the evidence of destruction. Huts and sometimes entire villages burned down, sheep carcasses lying rotting on the ground, their bones exposed by scavengers and the elements.

  The mood was definitely somber as their little troop followed the winding ribbon of the road. Dusk settled around them, smoothing the harsh landscape, turning hills and copses into ominous shapes made of shadow and silence.

  By the time they reached Moss Rocks, night had completely fallen. The jagged rocks that gave the place its name loomed like the ruins of an ancient fortress in the middle of a sandy beach. The tiny lights in the windows of the nearest fishing village dotted the shoreline, mirroring the stars above.

  Despite the cold and wind, the night was clear. The moon shone brightly overhead, leaving a long trail on the inky water and clearly limning the shoreline around the massive rocks. They dismounted and left the horses in a nearby thicket with one of the soldiers. This time, Callan didn’t even try suggesting Derek stay with the animals. If his hunch proved right and tonight they’d cross swords with the Agiennans, he’d just have to make sure the man didn’t get himself killed for his stubbornness. He most emphatically did not want another dead spouse on his conscience.

  Directed by Leandre, the men took positions behind a stone outcrop overlooking the stretch of beach between the rocks and the village, their dark clothing melting into the night, their breathing and the rustling of their cloaks the only sounds to give them away. Someone was playing the flute in one of the huts, snatches of song carried on the wind.

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nbsp; Minutes stretched into hours, the monotonous music of the waves threatening to lull them to sleep after a long, tense day. The distant flute had fallen silent as their vigil wore on. Callan glanced at Derek, who crouched in the tall grass behind him, but his face was almost indistinct in the darkness.

  “There,” one of the soldiers, Rema, whispered.

  Callan turned in the direction they were pointing. A long shadow drifted on the sea across the moonlit path. For a moment, the silhouette of the bow figurehead was outlined against the glow, enough for Callan to see in his mind’s eye the maniacal grin of Dagorn, the trickster sea-god of Agienna, the patron of pirates and explorers.

  “Rema, take Jorn, Mathis, and Gella, and move to cut them off after they disembark. We move when they reach the grassland.”

  Rema nodded and slunk away, keeping low, followed by the other three soldiers. The rest kept tense silence as the ship finally reached the shore. Soft splashes gave the Agiennans away as they leapt into the water and advanced toward the beach. There couldn’t have been more than twenty people aboard a ship that size, so the odds weren’t terrible—provided they didn’t have a witch with them.

  Callan gripped the hilt of his sword, looking for the subtle changes in the quality of darkness around them. The drum of his heart was loud in his ears, drowning the sound of waves, and the bitter ghost-taste of copper filled his mouth.

  He caught the glint of moonlight reflected off drawn blades, and it was time.

  “Now!” he whispered, and then they were running, the wind tearing through their hair, their weapons eager for blood. The jolt of the first hit of steel on steel reverberated through his body, but instead of banishing all thought, it brought the kind of serene calm he always reached for in battle.

  Callan danced among the raging, snarling shadows, the touch of his sword turning them into vulnerable flesh as if by magic. Every grunt, every clash, every curse, every thump of a falling body on wet grass, his senses were temporarily heightened to an almost supernatural degree. Maybe some kind of magic did linger in that lethal hyperawareness, that anticipation of impact, but at the moment, he didn’t care.

  He drove his sword under the arm of a man who swung a heavy battle-ax at Leandre’s head, and spun around, straining to find Derek. An irrational panic surged through him when he didn’t spot him right away, threatening to shatter his focused calm.

  Shouts came from the direction of the ship, indicating that Rema and the others had reached their goal. Fire blazed, engulfing the rectangular sail, casting the scene unfolding on the shore in stark relief. The raiders, clad in furs, their faces streaked with blue and green paint and their long hair braided and adorned with carved teeth and bones, clearly hadn’t expected an ambush on what they must have considered an easy hit. Despite being outnumbered, Callan’s men drove them back, to the wide stretch of sand between the rocks where Rema’s squad rammed into them from behind, sowing further confusion in their ranks. Several bodies were already strewn on the ground, blood pooling beneath them and seeping into the sand.

  Callan finally caught sight of Derek, pressed with his back to a mossy rock, fending off two attackers. His left arm was cradled uselessly in the sling, but he wielded his sword with his right with a skill that defied Callan’s expectations. As he watched, Derek ducked under one pirate’s raised ax and slashed at the other’s knees, sending the man sprawling with a cry of pain, and then sprang in time to parry a blow aimed at his back.

  As he continued to watch, with something close to wonder, Callan’s perception rearranged itself into a new understanding. He was far from considering the ability to fight as the defining merit of a person, but he’d been brought up to appreciate capability and skill of any sort, and, right now, he was witnessing Derek exhibit a surprising level of proficiency. Callan realized that despite knowing Derek had fought against Mulberny in the recent conflict, he’d never actually believed him to be a warrior, focusing instead on the softness of his manner. In Callan’s mind, Derek’s injury only went to prove his supposition.

  But Derek wasn’t soft at all. He doggedly accompanied Callan, placing himself in harm’s way when he had every opportunity to withdraw. And for what? Standing by a man who’d offered him nothing but scorn, risking his life for the sake of people he had considered his enemies only a few short months ago?

  Duty had been Callan’s axis of existence his entire life. Perhaps Derek wasn’t so different from him in that regard.

  Mud and spatters of blood dirtied the white linen of Derek’s sling and his face, illuminated by the glare of the fire. His second attacker slumped to the ground, and Derek’s eyes met Callan’s above the carnage. Derek grinned at him, saluting him with his bloodied sword.

  Callan returned the salute automatically, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He tried not to examine why he was so disproportionately glad to see Derek unharmed, or why his heart sped up at the sight of him in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of battle.

  Leandre’s triumphant cry, picked up by the other troopers, roused Callan from his stupor. He wheeled around, leaving Derek to permanently dispose of his opponents, and joined his men in driving the last of the pirates toward the burning ship.

  Chapter Seven

  DAWN WAS ALREADY breaking when they finished piling the bodies into the ship and pushing it into the open sea, still burning. A burial at sea was the way of the Outer Isles, Callan had said, and he wouldn’t deny it even for the worst kind of scum he considered pirates to be. Not to mention that a blazing ship, set adrift, would send a warning sign to any other raiders who might be watching the coast at a safer distance.

  They were all utterly exhausted, but the spirits among the troop were high. All the raiders were dead, and their party had only paid with minor injuries.

  Derek couldn’t help but notice the attitude toward him had changed as well. Instead of talking around him, as before, the soldiers now addressed him directly, asking for his help or opinion. And all he’d had to do to ingratiate himself to them was prove he could kill people just as well as the rest of them.

  He couldn’t deny, however, that this tentative camaraderie felt good. To his surprise, he liked most of them well enough—Leandre, with her often blunt humor and no-nonsense style of command; Rema, with their quiet efficiency; Mathis, with his quick smile and childlike eagerness to prove himself to his older companions. And even Callan seemed to change his mind about him somewhat, judging by the lingering looks he gave Derek when he thought he wasn’t paying attention, and the slightly more civil tone he used when addressing him.

  Derek should have sneered at that kind of condescension. He didn’t want (or need) Callan’s approval—certainly not for the dubious task of taking the lives of other people, no matter how despicable their actions had been. But for some reason, he was ridiculously pleased when he caught his blue-eyed gaze, tinged by some new emotion Derek was hard-pressed to identify. Respect? Appreciation? Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to turn up his nose at this implied offering of rapprochement.

  Seeing as the troop was in good enough shape and raring to fight, Callan had decided to push on north instead of turning back to Bryluen. He purchased the supplies needed for their extended journey at the nearby village, paying perhaps too generously for the simple fare the locals had to offer. For once, it was a decision Derek couldn’t fault him for.

  In truth, he’d be glad to return to the city, if only for the prospect of sleeping in a proper bed. Derek would rather die than admit it to any of the Mulbernians, but his shoulder was bothering him a fair bit, and he longed for a hot bath and some uninterrupted sleep. But he clamped down on his disappointment. There was work yet to be done, and his personal comfort didn’t factor into that equation.

  By noon they were on the road again. The fields and the pastures were replaced with steep hills and pine forests, and the coastal settlements grew even smaller and more scattered. Every once in a while, they came upon signs of the same kind of carnage they’d
witnessed closer to Bryluen—a grim reminder of the insignificance of one small victory. It certainly couldn’t bring back the dead.

  Thankfully, that evening Callan called for an early halt, intending to let the men rest after a sleepless night. All Derek wanted was to crawl into their newly erected tent and pass out, but it soon became apparent he was too hungry and too wired to sleep.

  Drawn by the alluring smell of cooking and the laughter, he emerged from the tent to be hailed by Leandre, who sat by a campfire next to Callan and a few soldiers. The rest were busy tending to the horses and hauling water, taking turns with various chores before the watch duty.

  “Derek! Come join us.”

  Wrapping his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, Derek sat where the soldiers made room for him, mindful not to bang his injured arm. He felt Callan’s eyes on him again but pretended not to notice as he accepted his portion of fish stew, setting it carefully on the ground in front of him.

  “Things are bit more exciting here than in Camria, I bet,” Leandre said, passing him a jug of wine.

  A few days ago, he would have bristled at the comment. But by now he knew her well enough to realize she wasn’t being derisive.

  “They are, in a way,” he said after taking a swig of the wine. “I must admit this is the first time I’ve fought actual sea pirates. And I’m afraid I don’t know much about Agienna and its people in general, aside from what little I’ve learned during my school years. Perhaps you could fill in some gaps for me. I’d like to know, at least, what we’re up against?”

  “How much time you got?” Rema asked, deadpan, and the other soldiers snickered.

  “Ask away,” Leandre said, shooting the others a quelling look.

  “Well, it seems these pirates strike where they know they’ll meet little to no resistance. Could they have another advantage? Could they be using witchcraft as well?”

  Callan raised his head sharply, but it was Rema who answered.