by B T Litell
Chapter Six
The knife’s sharpened, steel blade slipped through the stiff, leather armor and between the ribs of the inattentive guard, his breath escaped his lungs one last time in a quiet gasp. With a quick motion, Iona quietly guided the body to the ground then moved it out of sight. She looked to her left at Týr, doing the same with another guard a couple meters away. The pair moved through the shadows toward another pair of guards, striking swiftly and quietly. They both had to drag these guards’ bodies away as they stood too close to the main pathway through the camp, and they could leave no chance for anyone to find a body. At least, not before they were ready for any bodies to be found. And that wasn’t supposed to happen before the pair was already standing well outside the camp.
The dead man must have weighed twenty stones without his armor. What did they let him eat? Iona thought to herself angrily. Behind a tent, she quietly lowered the man down and buried the blade of her knife in his neck out of anger. Before she moved on, Iona checked the area and quickly looking for anyone that might notice her. With no one around, she ran to the left and met Týr outside a larger tent that had been marked on their maps as a supply tent. Hopefully they have plenty of food, Iona thought, trying to ignore the emptiness of her stomach. Týr used his knife and cut a makeshift door into the back panel of the tent, making a hole just big enough for them both to go through. The soft light of the oil lamps flooded through the cut into the darkness of night.
“What took you so long?” Týr whispered behind the dark linen wrapped around his face. Only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible, the same as Iona.
“That guard was too big for me to carry!” Iona snapped quietly.
Týr huffed after that, rolling his eyes, and then disappeared inside the tent. Iona slipped inside moments after and blinked at the light inside the tent. Oil lamps cast light throughout the tent from every corner; something about this tent felt wrong. Why would a supply tent be this lit at night? With a brief scan of the tent she noticed a man lying on a chaise in the tent, his head held up by his wrist and pillows. She looked down and noticed that there was a rug in the tent, covering the wooden pallets that made up the floor. A goblet lay on the ground in front of the man. A deep red stain marred the rather elegant carpet where a goblet of wine had spilled, most likely from when the fat man fell asleep. He had clearly passed out after drinking too much of the sweet-smelling, spiced wine. His chest rose and fell with his rhythmed breathing and soft, wheezing snores.
She crept over to the man, knife in her hand, ready to bury the blade if he stirred. His silky robes and extravagant jewelry showed he owned a bit of wealth. He was probably some fat, pompous under-lord. Elsewhere in the tent, she heard Týr rifling through some canisters in the tent. He never really could be silent, unlike Iona. In fact, the two of them had ended up in more than one dungeon cell because of that. Back before the killing ban had been lifted. Those had been simpler days, though missions were harder for the thieves. Sneaking was much easier when no one could see you or raise an alarm.
Týr tapped Iona on her shoulder twice; they were leaving. As Iona knelt beside the sleeping man, his eyes fluttered then opened. He looked right at her, his mouth opening briefly. Before any sounds escaped, she swiftly plunged the blade into his thick throat. Air gurgled from the opening as blood spilled onto the chaise, rug, and the goblet beneath the man. Involuntarily, she felt her stomach heave and empty itself onto the rug. Her eyes watered as she retched twice more, trying to be as quiet as possible.
“Is everything alright, m’lord?” a voice outside the tent asked. The heavy canvas of the tent slightly muffled the sound of the guard’s voice, making him sound further away.
Oh shit! Was this Lord Dennison? Iona scolded herself. She had to wonder as she had only heard stories about the man who oppressed the band of thieves and had never seen him. If this was Lord Dennison, she would catch an earful from Lars when they got back to their camp. Or she might be praised. It was really hard to guess what might happen when dealing with Lars.
A firm hand gripped Iona’s shoulder and quickly pulled her toward the hole in the back of the tent. Once outside the tent, she saw darkness. Her eyes had to adjust themselves to the darkness of the night sky. The hand dragged her a few tents away and finally stopped in a darker area between two tents. Týr stood over her, his breath erratic and uneven, his mask pulled from his face. Even in the faintest light from the hidden moon, she saw beads of sweat gathered on his brow; his eyes burned with an unbridled anger.
“Have you lost your mind?! We were supposed to grab the map of their supply routes and get out. ‘Only kill guards, and only if necessary,’ were the orders,” Týr fumed. His fists clenched and the leather of his light gauntlets creaked as the leather stretched over his fist.
Before Iona could get out any response other than weak gasping, Týr dove beside her and threw his hand over her mouth. Shouts came from the tent they had just left, and footsteps approached quickly, armor plating clanking together, swords drawing from scabbards. Several guards ran past, yet none of them carried a torch. Only the slightest sliver of the moon shone in the sky, yet these guards expected to find whoever had killed that lord?
Pah, foolishness! Iona scolded herself crossly.
“We have to get out of here quickly and quietly,” Týr whispered, motioning south toward the woods where they had set up their camp.
Iona put her hand on Týr’s chest before they moved. He stopped, and their eyes locked for a few moments. She motioned to the west, where they could slip out of the camp faster, then double around to their camp. Týr nodded, looked around a few moments, and checked for any guards before getting up and going across the path to the next set of tents they could hide between.
Iona followed and Týr moved on to the next spot before she fully settled between the tents. They kept this pattern up until they reached the edge of the camp. Týr motioned for them to halt and they scanned the area to watch for any outlying guards that may be patrolling outside the camp. Neither of them had seen any movement outside the camp, or near the edges of the tents, but guards could be patrolling without torches, which would make them especially hard to see in the nearly moonless night. This camp would be difficult to sneak away from, especially after what Iona had done. They had chosen a nice spot for the camp. Fields to the north and west with sparse trees and few hills offered a good view for anything coming toward the camp. To the south spread a vast forest, trees too thick for any invading forces to march through. At least that is what they had assumed, but the thieves had built their own camp in the forest for that same reason. To the east a small river flowed from the north to the south. A source of water nearby and plenty of space to see around the camp.
“We have to stay low and move quickly,” Iona whispered to Týr, who only responded with a curt nod. “Did we at least get what we needed?”
Týr gave Iona a quick glance that clearly said they had missed their mark; Iona felt an instant pit forming in her stomach. Lars would surely have her lashed for this. He always punished failure swiftly and mercilessly. She turned her gaze from Týr, unable to take the judgment in his eyes. He touched her shoulder to try comforting her, but she still feared returning to their camp.
They set off into the field heading west until they crested a couple hills then turned south where they came to a road the soldiers had trampled through the fields. Such disgraceful oafs, Iona thought to herself. They had to stop for a moment as a trio of soldiers ran down the road toward the town a few miles southwest of the camp. Once they could no longer hear the clanging of armor plating, they once more set off to the south. Týr looked around constantly and watched to ensure they had a clear path. Iona felt lost within herself as she thought about what Lars might do to punish her for this mistake; she floated in a pool of emptiness, aware that her legs moved as they ran through the tall grass. She couldn’t tell if she was making her legs move or if they did that on their own.
After an hou
r, they reached the tree line and could move more freely through the woods. The soldiers had only patrolled through the first few meters of the woods, but there was no sign of any soldiers being in the woods today. After a few of them came back from the town’s inn spouting fresh tales about a mysterious curse that surely accompanied the woods. It always felt so easy to fool soldiers with a few stories of curses once they had some liquor. It was really a disgrace how sloppy an army could be and still function enough to oppress the people.
Massive oak and pine trees stretched meters into the sky, their mighty arms blocking out the small bit of moonlight that night had left. Bushes, twigs, and dried leaves from years before rustled, as they ran through the trees. Iona and Týr had grown familiar with these woods over the past season, learning the trees and their gnarled roots, the stones between the trees that offered the best footing, and those that only brought injuries. As they came closer to their camp, they had to slow down, avoiding traps that had been placed to keep interlopers away. Some traps were simple: holes in the ground with wooden spikes in the bottom covered with leaves and sticks to hide them. Others had been intricate with truly nasty consequences. One such trap always made Iona shudder to think about. They had rigged high in the trees that would swing down and crush whomever had tripped the cord hidden amid leaves and twigs. The thought of the only person ever caught by that trap still haunted her dreams. That was not a fun mess to clean, Iona thought, feeling her stomach start to lurch again.
They passed through the last series of traps and reached the edge of their camp which remained still. No one stirred in any of the tents, but that seemed normal for this early in the morning. The first few hints of sunlight started coming between the trees as the sun came over the horizon. Týr and Iona moved through the camp, neither fast nor slow, as they made their way to the center tent where Lars would surely be leaned over his table, planning their next move on the map. The man spent his entire thieving career planning and strategizing; few of his plans had failed.
Halfway to Lars’s tent, Týr stopped and grabbed Iona’s arm firmly right above the elbow. They stopped in the middle of the foot-worn path that had been made over the last few months from their camp being in the woods. Iona glanced at Týr’s hand then up to his face. His eyes had never been so wide. Every drop of blood had drained from his face.
“Something is very wrong,” Týr said, his voice faint and almost cracking.
“What is it?” Iona’s mind raced thinking of what it could be. Týr composed himself before answering.
“No one has welcomed us back, I don’t smell any food, and it’s far too quiet even for early morning,” Týr observed. Iona started looking around, taking in everything Týr had mentioned. Then she noticed.
Blood. Lots of blood. Everywhere. Blood that stained the canvas walls and flaps of tents and trailed into the packed dirt paths. Týr’s hand loosened on her arm, and she turned around, seeing the faint glistening of blood throughout the entire camp, reflecting the soft morning sunlight. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground where her stomach once again emptied itself. Vomit poured over her hands, warming them slightly.
She heard Týr walk away while she knelt there, unsure how long she knelt there. When he came back, he draped a blanket over her and stood there with her. Iona finally felt like she could move, and Týr helped her stand slowly, supporting her with his arm tight around her waist. His body felt warm, a wonderfully welcomed comfort at that moment. They stood there for a long time, though Iona wasn’t sure how much time had passed since they had gotten back to the camp. Finally, she looked at Týr. His face looked ashen; blood drained from his cheeks. He looked at her and handed her a note he had found.
“What’s this?” Iona asked, gazed at the note then noticed splatters of blood on the thick parchment. The rough edges looked as if they had been torn and planted against someone with a knife. Whoever left it clearly wanted to leave a message the massacre hadn’t already left. Iona scanned the note at least half a dozen times, not knowing fully what it said any of the times she read the note. When she finally read the note, she felt a white-hot rage boil up inside her.
“By decree of Lord Dennison, the occupants of this camp have been sentenced to, and executed for, the crimes of treason and thievery against this land, its Lord, and His armies.”
The note bore no sign or seal. The message read plain and simple. But Iona knew that only four people would have done this and left the note, and those men were officers of Lord Dennison. As thieves, they always knew there was a chance they would be caught. Iona never expected it to end quite this way. As she finished reading the note for a third time, she handed the note back to Týr, who pushed her hand back to her. The look in his face showed that he had no desire for keeping the note.
“Maybe someone survived. We should check for survivors,” Iona said as she cast off the blanket and threw the note to the ground. As she started moving toward the central tent where Lars’s table and map always stayed, Týr stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder.
“If anyone survived, they’re not here. I’ve already checked,” Týr said. Iona felt tears welling in her eyes, her vision slowly blurring and a trail of warmth streaking down her cheek.
“There’s… There’s got to be someone left!” Iona said, as tears ran down her cheeks.
“We need to leave. Who knows if someone will come back? Especially after our raid,” Týr suggested, after a long pause. He scanned the woods around the camp, looking for signs of anyone coming through the trees.
“Where will we go? We don’t have the map we went after, and I doubt we can get it now,” Iona replied.
“Forget the map! It would have only led us to another map then another and another. I don’t know what Lars was so desperate to find. We have been searching for months for whatever he had his heart set on, and we kept finding nothing.”
Iona and Týr went to their tents to gather their belongings before leaving. As thieves they never had many possessions, but an hour had passed before they met once more in the middle of the camp. The sun had started its descent to the west and the shadows from the trees grew longer. Dusk was a few hours away, but they had to go somewhere. Týr looked at a map he had grabbed from Lars’s tent, and the surviving thieves tried to figure out where to go next. Nothing made sense anymore.
“We need to find whoever did this. They have to pay for what they’ve done,” Iona said, her voice weak.
“Don’t you think that’s exactly what they’ll expect us to do?” Týr tried to keep his voice down while speaking firmly.
“You think they expect anyone to have survived this?”
“I don’t know. Would they have attacked the camp if they thought anyone was away? They’ll be able to connect the murder to our camp. We’re too close for anyone not to connect the two. We’ve been stealing from them for too long for them not to know exactly where our camp was.”
“At most they would think one person survived,” Iona argued.
“We have a bounty on our heads, Iona. It may not say our names specifically, but whoever did this wants us dead. If we go anywhere near the camp or soldiers from it, we will end up just as dead as everyone here,” Týr replied.
“We can’t do nothing. This camp was our whole life. We grew up with these thieves.”
“We will figure out something but first we have to get out of here. These woods aren’t safe. The villages aren’t either. According to this map, there are four villages nearby, all of which are likely to have any number of soldiers from the camp we just raided. We have to go far away from here. The coast isn’t far, I think we can make our way there, and start new lives in Erith. There has to be something there for us. Lord Dennison doesn’t have any control there either, so this,” Týr said, as he waved the map at the bloody camp, “can’t happen to us.”
“Erith? We can’t survive in a city that big! We’re thieves. We’ve never known any other life,” Iona replied.
“Well, we won’t
have any life if we stay here. Lord Dennison will be watching these woods for anyone coming here. We have already spent too long here. We have to leave now,” Týr said. Iona’s face rumpled with frustration. She knew he was right but refused to admit that. She had never liked to admit she was wrong, especially not to her brother. “For now, we need to head anywhere Lord Dennison doesn’t have his soldiers.”
“That’s a good idea. Is Erith the closest city where he isn’t?”
“For now, yes. We could try to make our way to Shemont, but we would be going right through Dennison’s territory, which is crawling with his soldiers. It is safer for us in Erith.”
“Then let’s head there. It doesn’t seem there’s much choice right now,” Iona admitted.
“We should leave camp and head east toward the river. It leads to another river north of here that should lead us to Erith,” Týr said, looking at the map he had grabbed.
With a sigh from Iona, the thieves started their journey toward Erith. Staying in the woods meant they couldn’t take a direct path to the river. This also took more time than Týr wanted, and when they finally reached the river, they both had gotten too tired to travel any further. The sun was already halfway across the horizon, and without its light traveling along the river would have been perilous. They made a camp without a fire, to the protest of Iona, for fear that any passing soldiers would see the light or smoke and come to investigate. Ending in jail, or worse, would only make matters worse. And if Dennison found out they were the ones who had been stealing from him, he wouldn’t waste a dungeon cell with them. Lars had taught them that Dennison was a cruel monster with the appearance of a man. Iona and Týr drifted off to sleep watching the sky grow dark as the sun descended beyond the horizon and a gentle breeze rustled the trees...
