Summersong fell quiet with worry for her betrothed.
But the modest pace made life a little easier for the prisoners, in a physical sense only. The sisters whispered words of encouragement to one another, and the magistrate mumbled unintelligibly to himself. All three appeared near tears, just as they always did. Jena watched them for a minute, sorry for their suffering, and thankful that she had managed to retain a hold on her own sanity. Perhaps there was something to the harpa rite of attesting, after all.
Constrained though her relations with Summersong were, at least Jena had someone to talk to, to sympathize with. Someone to worry about beyond herself. Her own pain was diminished by the other’s.
The group’s progress was slowed by the frequent stops, delaying whatever inevitable fate lay in store for them, and for that Jena supposed she should also be thankful. But now each time the reaver set off on its hunt, she worried more for the two men behind. One of these days, it would find them.
A new ritual began to play out in her mind. Each time the demon disappeared, she hoped to never see it again. Each time it returned, she counted the minutes until it was gone again, for she knew what it meant when a killer stopped hunting.
And each night, despite her own admonitions, she fell asleep clutching the figurine.
Yohan awoke, as always, clutching the sapphire Summer had given to him. And, as always, the scant hours of rest had brought no comfort to body or mind.
He kept his eyes shut, desperate for a few more minutes of oblivion. Or perhaps he was just not prepared to face another day.
The exhaustion was killing him, as surely as a grievous wound. He had pushed himself through long marches before. Always he had made it through the grueling days by looking forward to the deep, restorative sleep that came naturally to the weary.
This march, however, was different. Sleep came haltingly at best, and when it did it brought only nightmares and unwanted memories.
There was a chill in the predawn air of the Gothenberg backland. That, at least, was new. A change to the dreary routine that the chase had become, for the weather had seemed determined to pass without pause straight through spring to the dreaded heat of summer.
Perhaps this day would bring some relief, then. Or not, he decided at once, realizing that the chill was nothing more than a tepid breeze brushing over the sweat that dampened his filthy skin. He and his companion had last passed bathable water back at the river, well over a tenday ago, and their bodies stank like corpses.
Was the sweat from the premature heat, or another nightmare? Most likely, a mixture of both.
As his fingers slipped out of the pocket that housed the stone, he felt a momentary panic that he had soiled it with blood, for he could not remember taking the time to clean his hands after last night’s killings.
He had left the bodies face-down in the barren openness of this unpeopled grassland. But yes, he now recalled wiping the blood on the short stalks of brittle, half-brown vegetation.
Yohan opened his eyes to examine his fingers, and in so doing noticed something else. There was a change in the weather, after all. A thin fog hung low over the hard ground, a murky white just visible in the diminishing darkness.
How appropriate, he thought. A fog in the air to match that in his mind.
The chase had always been exhausting, but even more so since Twoscar’s unknowing deception. Yohan had pushed hard to make up the lost days and miles, in the process cutting their rest each night from four hours to three.
How the caravaneer had managed to keep up, Yohan did not know. Vengeance was a powerful emotion, he supposed, allowing the two of them to push on beyond normal limits of endurance. But there would be a price, in the long run. There always was.
Yohan believed he was already paying, for each coming day was a fresh misery in more ways than one. The weakness and pain of his muscles were a minor annoyance—something he knew how to live with. But there were other, greater, concerns.
The most immediate was the toll taken by the lack of rest. His senses had lost their sharpness, and his wits were no better. They were as dull and useless as an ornamental sword.
He could blame the fatigue for allowing Redjack’s latest ruse to be so successful. But deep inside, Yohan knew there was more to this persistent mental fog he battled endlessly, like an elusive combatant that taunted and slashed but stayed out of reach. The closest experience he could compare it to was the bout of hunger and starvation he and Jena faced in the Stormeres, but even that had been a foe they knew how to beat. This was worse, for there was no weapon to fight against nightmares.
Sleep had betrayed him as surely as Redjack, for his dreams were haunted by the faces of the lost. His brothers and sisters in the army—disagreeable Bostik, freckled Krisa, dimwitted Ledo. That they had chosen to fight for a living did not make their deaths any less regrettable.
The fun-loving harpa, friendly to a fault. Able to glean every scrap of enjoyment from the trivialities of everyday routine, to minimize the hardships of endless travel and fill the spaces between with song. Silvo, with his ugly visage and beautiful soul, whose dying body had crushed the fragile lute he loved more than anything. Flirtatious Meadow, who had been sweet on Yohan despite—or perhaps because of—his inattention.
Brody had fallen in love with her, and had defended her with his final act. Had he known his bravery and sacrifice would not save her? Almost certainly, for though he acted one in many ways, the soldier was no fool.
That left Jena and Summer, the only two who remained. And, for most of the tendays since the massacre, the strongest source of his agitated thoughts—for he could not make sense of their hearts, nor his own.
But in recent nights, those faces appeared with less frequency than one, unexpected, other. Twoscar’s pathetic expression, full of ignorance, had become an infected wound of the mind.
Not all people deserved to live. Yohan had accepted that long ago. Some men ranked below the lowest of the animals, and deserved no remorse in the killing. The world was better off without them.
Never before had Yohan thought he was one of these.
It did not matter that the tribesmen were murderous cowards. It did not matter that they had slaughtered his friends. It did not matter that nearly all of them died fighting.
Only this one bothered him. Twoscar had not died in combat, and though Yohan had known the difference at the time, he had not appreciated its impact until later. The death had been necessary, for the tribesman had to pay for his hideous crimes—nor could an enemy be allowed to roam Imperial lands to wreak more unspeakable havoc.
But he had been helpless, which made Yohan little more than a murderer himself. Was he really any better than the barbarians? It was a question with no welcome answers, yet the more Yohan tried to ignore it and focus on the numerous other problems confounding the pursuit, the more this face taunted his dreams.
Yohan was sick of the killing, but he could not avoid it. He was forced instead to embrace it. Though it damaged his soul, the persistent anger was the only fuel that kept him moving, on and on, through an interminable quest with an impossible goal.
He had not chosen this task, it had been chosen for him. By taking away all he held dear, the barbarians had made Yohan the hunter. At least this was a role of which he was capable.
Ever since the encounter with the mountain tiger, Yohan had felt that the animal was a part of him, spirit within spirit, a blessing he did not understand but always welcomed. Until now.
Now he felt more tiger than man. Hunting and killing had become his only purpose in life, a never-ending cycle. Hunt, kill, hunt, kill.
There was purpose, but no pleasure in this existence. This, too, he was sick of.
Which brought him back to the sapphire, and to Summer. The days with her had been the happiest of his life. The music, the dancing, and the camaraderie. The laughing, the talking—all the simple joys of everyday routines that the harpa taught him to appreciate, and Summer more than any.
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br /> Keeping the sapphire was a mistake, of course. He should have left it behind as soon as he learned its significance—to her, and to Patrik. Simply being in possession of the uncut gemstone caused no small amount of guilt, for Yohan had unwittingly complicated one precious heart. And if his companion should ever become aware of that possession, it would ruin another.
Yet he had never been able to bring himself to get rid of it. She had chosen to give it to him, after all. Who was he to decide her decision was wrong? And why would he want to? That she had selected him for this gift, even over her betrothed, was a warm sense of pride to a man who desperately needed something to feel good about.
Nay, it had come to mean too much to discard now. The gem was a tangible link to a woman who had changed his life in many ways, all of them for the better. And it was a daily reminder of the quest he was on, of the difficult job that needed doing.
Yohan could not make enough sense of his feelings to know whether he loved her more than Jena, but he knew he needed her more right now. She had to remain in his life, or that life would not be worth keeping.
How had he not seen any of this at the time? All those tendays together, and he had completely failed to recognize what was right before him. Both her feelings, and his own.
It was this blindness that bothered him the most. The utter stupidity of it all, and himself at the center.
But was that not the nature of man, to never understand, never appreciate, until too late? At least now, after losing everything else, Yohan understood that he needed her to heal the damage he was doing to himself.
The earliest sliver of sunlight pierced through the foggy dampness, and Yohan watched his companion set about starting a small fire, then step away to relieve himself. Upon returning, the harpa quietly poured out and heated a small tin-full of water, then added two handfuls of oats from the diminishing supply.
Yohan sat up and watched the sun rise, hearing little but the occasional sounds of stirring and a rising chorus of insects.
The caravaneer was another problem. A minor one, to be sure, compared to all the others that Yohan had to contend with. But a problem nonetheless.
This journey—this life—was no place for the man. It was a brutal existence, even for a soldier, and the harpa was far from that. And yet here he was, pushing himself on day after day, blithely unaware that the woman he sought to save had already rejected him.
Perhaps Yohan should pull the sapphire from his pocket and explain what Summer had done. Surely then the other man would leave this hopeless quest behind. If so, he might even survive long enough to return to his own people, where he belonged. That was a far better chance of leading a decent life than where current circumstances led.
Without a word exchanged, a cupful of thick oatmeal was placed on the ground beside Yohan. He turned his head, watched the rising steam blend with the dissipating mist, then picked up the cup and began to eat. The oats were thick and flavored with a touch of honey. A change from the jerky—able to be eaten while walking, its only redeeming quality—that served as their staple fare, yet utterly tasteless to Yohan. He ate without appetite, casting one more glance at his silent companion, who consumed his own portion with equal solemnity.
The harpa would never go, of course. Yohan did not know the man well, but he understood this much. Discovering that his love had given Yohan the stone would inflict nothing but pain. The caravaneer was every bit as resolute as the soldier.
Besides, there was always the possibility that Yohan misunderstood Summer’s intentions. Perhaps she had made a mistake, one that she had since come to recognize. Perhaps if the improbable rescue actually happened, she would choose the man she had spent years with over the one she barely knew. In fact, that seemed so likely that Yohan felt a stab of premature jealousy.
Yet he could not bring himself to see his companion as a rival. Instead, Yohan simply felt sorry for him. The other man was trying his best to get through a terrible ordeal, and it was all going to be for naught. The least Yohan could do was say a kind word, to acknowledge his efforts, to thank him for the breakfast.
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 a
ll 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.
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