“You are aware only of the thoughts I allow you to be,” Ijilv scowled.
Chapter 40
Revenge
It is difficult to gauge the passing of time without the benefit of daylight. In that dark, cool place surrounded by the rotten stench of death, it was near impossible. Tarantian had snuck up the stairs only twice since he and Chagon had hidden away among the bones of dead men who had been the meals of a small, horrible village peopled with vile men who eat their own. The first time had been during the daylight hours after waking from his first sleep. He had only made it halfway up before the sounds of beasts scared him back down into the safety of the horrid tomb. It may not have been grizzly mongs grunting and growling, but he had still been weak enough at that point to not take the risk. The second time was during the night after two more sleeps. That time he ventured all the way to the back door. That time he saw a grizzly mong roaming alone along the tree line. It may have been it was the only one remaining, but again, he was not quite ready to test how much of his might had returned. It had been four solid sleeps since then, and he was ready to take another chance.
Tarantian touched Chagon’s arm as he whispered, “I’ll be checking them stairs again.”
Chagon managed to keep from crying out, but he jumped nearly out of his skin. “Do that again and my heart might explode right out of my chest,” his frightened tone was a bit louder than he intended. After a few moments, he continued in a quieter tone, “I hope them beasts are gone. If I have to choke down another raw rat, I might just kill myself down here among the dead.”
“I am ready,” Tarantian assured him. “Them rats might be raw, foul, and awful, but my strength is returning. I am ready to fight if need be.”
“Good, I’m coming with you,” Chagon whispered as he scrambled off his back to a seated position. He nearly lost himself when the bone he pushed on for leverage shifted on the pile beneath it. “I am full ready to be gone from this place too, and I’ll be fighting any beast barring my way.”
The door creaked as Tarantian gently pulled it open. It was a quiet sound. If not for the stark silence surrounding them, it would have been imperceptible. With no other sound to mask it, he may as well have been blaring a horn to announce his presence to every soul within a mile of the place.
Each of the fourteen steps it took to get from that pit of decaying death to the butcher’s block above creaked like the door. The entire journey took near half an hour, but it felt like days. After the first step had settled, Tarantian looked back at Chagon and said, “One step at a time. Step when I step and listen before taking the next.”
Chagon nodded and did as he had been told. The step would creak and groan, calling out through the quiet darkness like an alarm. Then they would wait and listen. A few moments would pass with no sounds to disturb the stillness, Tarantian would nod, and they would take the next in unison. As they approached the floor above, they both crouched low to avoid being seen until they were ready to jump out.
There were three steps left when Tarantian turned to Chagon and put a finger to his lip to quiet his companion. Then he took three deep, though quiet, breaths and gathered himself before slowly standing. The room was still as a corpse. All the killing and eating the grizzly mongs had done must have happened outside of the hall. The only body in the place was Theiron’s. His corpse had not been touched. Grizzly mongs are hunters. Dead things hold no interest for them.
Tarantian cocked his head to the side and listened. A horny witch called out in the night. They were big birds, but nothing to be frightened of. It was probably calling out before swooping down on a rat scurrying across the forest floor. Hopefully, that bird would enjoy its meal more than he had enjoyed the handful of rats he had eaten while hiding away in that pile of bones.
He had been crouched there so long his thighs burned and shook. Finally, Chagon gave him a nudge and whispered, “I ain’t heard nothing. You think it’s safe?”
Is it safe? That was the question. Tarantian was not sure. The entire time he was crouching and listening, suffering through the burning in his thighs, he had been trying to convince those legs to stand, to take the next step. Had he been alone, he may have crouched there forever. It certainly was not that he expected Chagon to be much help in a battle. There was a good chance the farm boy would be more hindrance than help. However, his presence there gave the soldier the reason he needed to press on. Duty is a powerful elixir against fear. “Sounds that way,” he finally whispered back before standing upright, sweeping the room one more time with his eyes, and adding, “Slowly. No need to go rushing to our doom like a couple fools. We will check the back first.”
The last three steps were slow, but not nearly as slow as the first eleven had been. It was only a short five to the open door at the back of the big room. Tarantian approached tentatively, crouching deep again as he neared the opening. The dark bank of trees with their leaves carelessly tossing about in a light breeze looked far more welcoming than a dark and scary forest should.
He turned back toward Chagon and whispered, “It is clear.”
“Let’s go,” Chagon whispered back. “We’ll charge them trees and be gone from this horrible place.”
“Hold,” Tarantian put his hand up. “We need supplies. I refuse to take any meat from this wicked place, but bread, any nuts or fruits or berries we might find, I will take those. And water. We will not get far in the darkness without nourishment,” he paused long enough Chagon thought he was finished before adding, “And my sword. I need my sword. You should find a weapon too.”
They slipped out the door and worked their way right along the backs of the huts. They found enough fresh fruits and bread to take them three days into their journey before reaching the last hut at the edge of the town, but no weapons.
“I am not keen on traveling these woods unarmed,” Tarantian complained as he pushed the back door to the last hut open, “and we will not get far if we are unable to hunt. It will take weeks to get back to Havenstahl on foot, and that is only if we move quickly with all the hours of...” he stopped short.
The moonlight which made it through the thin slit in the thick drapes covering the one window in the small, single-roomed hut was scarcely a dim glow. However, that dim glow glinted marvelously off the sharp blade it kissed. That glint was all Tarantian needed to recognize his sword. That beautiful hunk of deadly metal was the sweetest sight he had seen in longer than he could remember.
“This looks to be an armory,” Chagon blurted as he pushed past Tarantian into the small hut.
The farm boy was correct. So rapt in the glorious sight of his own blade, Tarantian had failed to notice it was mounted to the wall between two blades of similar caliber. How many warriors had fallen victim to the man eaters of this wicked place? Judging by the quantity of weapons stored there, the number had to be great. The pieces mounted along the walls were all of the finest craftsmanship, blades and axes which must have been wielded by warriors of true note. The floor of the place was piled with pieces of lower quality, but still adequate to take into battle. The village could have armed a small army.
Tarantian quickly made his way to the wall and retrieved his blade, an exceptional piece next to it, and two glorious daggers. He handed the new sword to Chagon and asked, “Know how to use this?”
Chagon nodded, “I’d be far more effective with a rake or hoe, but I’ve no problem with swinging this thing around if need be.”
“That is a fine blade,” Tarantian commented as Chagon fastened the belt it hung from around his waist. “Treat that beauty like a lover. And you’d best be jealous about it. Never let her out of your sight.”
“Will you be training me in the ways of the warrior,” a bit of excitement slipped into Chagon’s tone.
“I will,” he promised. “After all you have seen that farm will no longer suit you. It will be like a prison.” He glanced around the room one more time and looked down at his clothes, “There is no armor in this place. These nigh
tshirts will do us little good in the dense wood. We need to find more durable garb. Come, let us check the huts across the road.”
The building immediately across from the armory was stocked with leather trousers, shirts of mail, armored plates, heavy tunics, gauntlets, and other pieces of armor neither man had seen before. Tarantian found his entire set. He left the chest plate and helm behind—they would be too much of a burden traveling through thick woods—but he took the rest. Chagon managed to find a similar set that fit his burly size. He found one piece especially intriguing. It was a riveted mail and plate coat. He had never seen any soldier of Havenstahl wear anything like it.
“Well, do I look like a warrior?” Chagon beamed as he turned toward Tarantian.
Tarantian examined the coat. “That is fine craftsmanship. I have never seen the like. These markings, like the great eagle, but not quite. I cannot say where they might be from. I can tell you this. That mail will be quite heavy tromping through the woods.”
Chagon’s smile never waned as he nodded his head, “Aye, it will. But this is the one. The sun glinting off this coat will blind my enemies in my glory.”
Tarantian was deep into a chuckle before realizing it was the first moment of joy, regardless how brief, he’d had since leaving Havenstahl for a destination he would never reach. “Fine then,” he finally said. “Wear that heavy thing, but it had better not slow you down.”
“It won’t,” Chagon’s excited reply seemed more fitting for a young lad leaving on his first hunt than a man finding a nice coat.
After getting all their clothes fastened up and weapons properly strapped on, the two men departed the small hut. They had grown less and less cautious as it became clear nothing remained alive in the village but them. On top of that, despite feeding on a diet of raw rats for probably a week and a half, the groggy weakness had left, and Tarantian was feeling quite able. If any souls remained roaming about the deserted trail who wished to get between him and his goal, he was ready to send them to the Lake with the rest of their foul tribe. He marched right back across the road without hesitation.
Chagon, on the other hand, turned left. There was one more hut he wanted to check. What he hoped to gain was elusive for him, but something in him needed to go back to the place where that man had treated him so kindly only to betray his trust. Perhaps it was closure he sought, seeing that vile wretch dead upon the floor with his entrails spilling out from his gut and the meat picked clean from his bones.
“The straight route is always the best route,” Tarantian called out.
“I know,” Chagon stopped, but his gaze remained locked on the hut further down the road, “but there is something I need to see.”
“Your host?” Tarantian shook his head. “To what end?”
“Aye, Brinzo. I need to know,” Chagon’s voice dropped as he looked at the ground and kicked a stone.
Tarantian walked over, stood next to the farm boy, and gazed over at the place which had made such an impression on the young man. “Are you certain?” he asked after a few moments of silence.
Chagon nodded without dropping his gaze from that terrible place.
“And what if he is not dead? Will you send him to the Lake?” Tarantian’s eyes scanned Chagon’s face as he asked the question.
“Aye,” Chagon replied confidently. “You think the fate ain’t deserved by that horrid creature?”
“Well deserved,” Tarantian shrugged. “I only wonder which of us will carry out the sentence.” He paused for a moment, his eyes still scanning the young man’s face, before asking, “Have you ever taken a life? I mean a man’s life not a beast. The two acts are not the same.”
“Once,” the answer surprised Tarantian.
“You killed a man?” he could not help the skepticism in his brow as it furled up.
“Farragon was his name,” Chagon’s eyes remained locked on Brinzo’s hut. “My sister, Mianna, was the sweetest girl you ever could meet. She had only seen twelve summers when it happened…” his voice trailed off.
“Farragon, what did he do to her?” Tarantian knew the answer before Chagon gave it voice.
A tear perched atop Chagon’s lower eyelid as he whispered, “He took her innocence, but it wasn’t only that. He did things to her. Made it so she could never have no babies.” That tear dribbled quickly down his cheek.
“How old were you when it happened?”
“It was the end of my fifteenth summer, the celebration,” Chagon cleared his throat and found more power to put behind his voice. “Farragon was a man, lived down the road. He’d been kind to me. I even looked up to him. My father had let me tip back a few ales. Ain’t nobody even noticed Farragon and Mianna had gone with all the revelry. My father found them the next day.”
“And he did not kill the man?” the idea was difficult to grasp for the dutiful soldier.
Another tear made its way down Chagon’s cheek, “No. He just sent the scrod away. Mianna refused to speak for a long time after that, so she wouldn’t say nothing about her bruises or swollen face. When I asked my father about it, he told me when girls go chasing men all full of the ale them girls get what they deserve. She had dishonored our house and would be leaving the next morning to stay with our aunt for the rest of her days.”
“Her own father said those vile things?” Tarantian’s head shook slowly as he tried to process the horrible tale the farm boy told. “What did you do to him?”
“My father? Nothing,” a few more tears dribbled down Chagon’s face. “The thought crossed my mind more than a few times, but I was afraid of that man until the day he died. Farragon, that wretch, was a different story. I found him that same afternoon at the pub telling his chums about what he’d done to my sister as they laughed and egged him on. My eyes went red. I didn’t even think about what I would do. I walked right up to him, slipped a dagger belonging to the man seated next to him out of its scabbard, and jammed it right into his throat. A couple members of the royal guard were there having a few pints. They weren’t dressed up in all their armor, but they dragged me out before Farragon’s chums could have a go at me for what I’d done to their friend.”
“Did they throw you in the dungeon?”
“No. One of them said he’d been listening to Farragon’s vile account and been a shallow breath from running him through himself. They sent me home,” Chagon set his jaw tight as he finished.
“It was right what you did,” Tarantian decided, “as is what you plan to do.”
The hut was dark when Chagon pushed the door open. At least one grizzly mong had been through the place. Tables were toppled, the walls were scarred with claw marks, and the horrible paintings decorating the place were torn up and tossed about. But there were no bodies. Perhaps one of the monsters had dragged him away to finish him up. He was just about to leave when he heard breathing from the loft above the kitchen. The ladder had been smashed, but somebody remained alive up there.
“Brinzo?” Chagon called. “Brinzo, are you up there?”
A moment later, the terrified man poked his head out from the darkness of the loft. “Thank Coeptus for this good fortune. I thought you to be one of them vile beasts,” he said before slipping over the side of loft and hanging from his hands. He remained there for another moment before dropping lightly to the floor. He fell to his knees before Chagon and wrapped his arms around the farm boy’s legs.
Chagon gripped the handle of his new sword. It would be easy to slip it out and slide it into the cowering cannibal right behind his collarbone. That would never do. He needed the wicked creature to know. He needed to accuse him. “You would have eaten me, picked the meat from my bones with the rest of your wicked tribe,” he said instead.
The man’s pleading eyes filled with tears as he looked up at his accuser, “Forgive me, please. I ain’t wanted to do it. Theiron forced us all to do these things. You are a kind soul. Let me go in peace and you won’t never see me again.”
“Come with me,” Chagon’s to
ne lacked any emotion.
Brinzo followed Chagon to the road where Tarantian waited. “This wicked thing who eats his own kind yet lives?” Tarantian asked.
“Aye,” Chagon replied flatly as he drew his sword and continued past Tarantian to the center of the road. There he turned back toward Brinzo and continued, “I could have sent you back to the Lake as you cowered about my feet, but then I’d be as horrid as you. No, I’ll give you the chance you never gave me.” He turned toward Tarantian and asked, “Honorable soldier, would you allow this wicked thing the use of your blade to defend himself?”
It seemed impossible, but Brinzo’s eyes grew even larger as Tarantian placed the heavy sword in his hand. “And what if I kill him?” he asked the massive soldier. “Will you just kill me then?”
Tarantian looked back at Chagon and shrugged. The farm boy shook his head and replied, “No. If you can defeat me, you are free to go.”
“It seems you are lucky to have wronged one far more honorable than you,” Tarantian opened his arms as if to invite Brinzo to attack Chagon.
Chagon worked through a couple moves he had picked up watching the soldiers practice their sword techniques along the road from Havenstahl to Druindahl. They were less than crisp, but the sword felt good in his hands. After a few moments of slicing through the still air while watching Brinzo’s eyes dart all about like a tubber primed for the slaughter, he finally assumed a defensive stance and waved for his opponent to attack.
“Keep that elbow up,” Tarantian coached.
A mere five seconds passed before Brinzo raised Tarantian’s sword high above his head, but it seemed an eternity. By the time Brinzo began his charge, the handle was behind his head and the blade pointed toward the dirt behind him. It took three long strides to close the distance between the two, and the blade came slashing down at Chagon’s face.
The attack was easy to avoid. Chagon was slightly disappointed as he stepped to his left and stabbed toward Brinzo’s throat. He had hoped for more from his first real sword fight. It seemed sad the battle would end minus the sound of swords clashing. Then his opponent surprised him by jumping back quickly enough to save his neck and swinging wildly toward Chagon’s waist. It was instinct more than skill or training that saved Chagon’s gut from being split as he spun his blade down to block the blow. A second later would have been too late.
Kill the Gods Page 25
