The Silver Claw

by Erik Williamson

  “You saw her die?”

  “I left a man to confirm that.”

  “And where is that man?”

  “As I’ve said, he disappeared almost immediately.” Lomuir had repeated the lie so often and so easily, she practically believed it herself. “He went mad and killed himself.”

  “Your dead man is in a tower cell in Longardin!” Haddurah surged from her throne, lunging at the bowed woman. “And the map you claimed to have drowned with the princess surfaced recently in the Bersteg Basin.” The guards, who were at no risk personally, flinched as Haddurah raged. “You assumed!”

  “M’lady. . . I. . . After all these years, how can—?”

  Haddurah made a slashing gesture. A man stepped from behind the throne and aimed a small steel crossbow at Lomuir. Her eyes went wide with recognition. With a click, the crossbow dart neatly sliced through her neck.

  “Get her out of my sight,” Haddurah fumed.

  The guards quickly hurried Lomuir’s dead body out of the room, a thick trail of blood flowing behind. Haddurah slid back onto her throne. The stout man, face obscured under the hood of his fox-pelt cloak, moved gracefully across the floor to retrieve the dart from the far side of the room.

  “She had an otherwise impeccable record. You are sure, Wolf?”

  “Sure as sunrise.” He sauntered back towards her. “I rode to Longardin myself. The Aegorite man in the tower answered to Kelebis. Oh, he tried not to, but I have my ways. It could be no other, from what we can piece together, than the man our late friend here referred to.” His eyes followed the trail of smeared blood to the door. He relished seeing the aftermath of his handiwork. “The rest is conjecture, educated guess. But when do I guess wrong?”

  No, Haddurah mused, this Wolf was a savage, disagreeable man but was not often wrong. But neither had Lomuir been often wrong, except for this one appallingly horrific error. For which she paid with her life.

  “My man saw two young Bandu females, along with a Vale-looking boy, at a tavern in Bersteg. They had a leather map—dark red oxskin; like only the Bandu breed. Couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t get a good look. At the time, he’d no reason to; we’d yet to suspect. And too many people were about to simply poach them. In hindsight, though, could only be the traitor’s map, which was to have sunk with the young princess to the depths of Winnepaca, as the ritual dictates.”

  “I know the ritual, Wolf. It is my ritual, as you well know.” A thin tension hung in the air. “So, two young Bandu. Is one our princess, back from the dead?”

  “Never dead. She should have been silenced more thoroughly. Would that I’d been given the task.” He grinned fiendishly, notching his fingers along a serrated knife. “Course, we can’t be sure. Perhaps she died. Perhaps the map washed ashore. Perhaps found its way into the hands of two unsuspecting Bandu girls. But what are the odds, m’lady?”

  “Indeed. . .” The witch-queen stared into the fire of a brazier. “Assemble two divisions. We will lead them ourselves. If it’s the princess, we finish her. If they are some unfortunate wheat-heads who’ve happened upon something they shouldn’t?” She turned her back on him, bathing her face in the light of the great window. “All the more unfortunate for them.”

  “As you wish, m’lady.”

  “I need my eyes in the sky.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Alert the Falcranery. No oversights this time.”

  XXXIII - The Wild Woods

  “Hi, Emmie.” Renn brushed her shoulder, rubbing his elbow against hers. They were deep in the woods, four days removed from their Wolf Rider encounter, on a spidery trail scarcely wide enough for two to walk side by side. They did anyway.

  “Yah,” Emmie replied coyly. Renn was wearing the sheepish expression that had hardly left his face since they’d travelled safely away from the mainway. She loved it. “You got something for me?”

  “Picked you a lily.” He handed her a tiny white flower, pulling back his fingers before they touched hers. “By the stream.”

  “Ooo, I love the black streaks in the petals. So pretty. Just found it, did you?”

  “Well, they are your favorite.”

  “Like that first day, down at the river.” Emmie grinned, fingering the silky flower.

  “Yeah, but then, Brie told me you’d like it. Now, I. . . I can guess what you—”

  “Your eyes are blushing, Sheep.” Alixa stormed past them, shouldering Renn into a bush. “And what’s your problem, you wet your pants when you see her now?”

  “I waded through the stream,” Renn replied.

  Emmie, not caring if her eyes were indeed somehow blushing, batted Renn’s arm and laughed.

  “Knock it off already. . .” Alixa ground her teeth. Since leaving the road, the two annoying kids had somehow lost the ability to communicate like normal people.

  To be clear, Renn hadn’t said yes even to the mere prospect of pursuing anything official. Or no. Neither had Emmie. But Renn frequently tripped or ran into things, seemingly unable to keep his mind on what he was doing. Emmie would giggle at him and he’d get that goofy grin. Sometimes the goofy grin greeted her if she merely looked his way. Emmie soaked it in. Ate up the little looks and compliments and kind words. Shared back and forth.

  Sporadically, of course, and nothing too overt. Neither of them could quite bring themselves to be honest about their two calligraphic cards or their two bashful hearts.

  “Geez, you two! Do I need to separate you?” Alixa was the only one who understood, or at least would openly acknowledge, what was obvious. “Knock it off!”

  “What? We’re not doing anything.”

  Alixa stalked ahead, grumbling about flirty teenagers. She hadn’t signed on to chaperone a blossoming couple. Especially two so nauseatingly awkward they’d be stuck in this giddy, flirtatious stage until they were old and feeble. And probably driven her out of her mind to boot. Alixa may have been hating it, but Renn and Emmie savored every moment.

  For five glorious days.

  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the fear Emmie hadn’t wanted to tell Renn—the fear he’d say yes—brought it all crashing down. She wasn’t even sure how. Or when exactly. Like a boulder tumbling downhill, all the baggage she feared would emerge if Renn said yes, flattened her without even getting to hear him say it. It clung to his actions and expressions like a leech, and sometimes she couldn’t even look at him. When he spoke, she could hear an old mocking voice start whispering around the edges.

  Emmie wanted to steal off away by herself; see if by some stroke of luck or hard work she could get her heart properly ordered. And do it alone, without having to see Renn’s confused, questioning face. Especially when she knew he could read an undeserved look of betrayal in hers.

  Alixa knew a cloud had passed between the two, yet she didn’t much care. Their path re-emerged unexpectedly on the road again and she was livid. Neither Renn nor Emmie dared speak as she cursed loud and long—and quite creatively, Renn admired—then called them to attention.

  “You, Miss Giggles.” She hauled Emmie to the east side of the road. Emmie scowled. She couldn’t have made herself giggle just then to save her life. “Eyes on the treetops. Stay three feet—no, four feet, with those stubby legs—off the side. Look for a ridge thick with big firs, just over the tree line. You can’t miss it. And I mean you cannot miss it. Must not.”

  “Yes, Alixa.”

  “And you.” She squeezed Renn’s arm and dragged him to the west side. “Three feet from this edge. Again, over the tree line. You’ll catch a glimpse of three snowy mountain peaks. Keep your eyes open: that marks our trail towards the Pass. We miss ‘em and. . . we miss ‘em. Tough to find it if we have to backtrack. Clear?”

  “Clear,” they both replied.

  “What’ll you be doing?” Emmie asked.

  “Something feels. . . wrong.” Alixa backed further up the road. “I’m counting on you. Keep your eyes above the trees, your feet where I placed you, and your minds off each other. You see those landmarks,
sit your butts down until I get back!”

  Alixa strode ahead, low to the road, ranging from side to side. She’d stop, toeing rocks and downed branches, scraping the ground. Occasionally, she’d pick at something, bring her hand to her face, and keep moving. Renn and Emmie exchanged befuddled looks, then began walking slowly and methodically, precisely as directed. After Alixa disappeared up the road, they continued sneaking glances at one other. Now though, it was more to attempt to figure out who the suddenly-seeming-stranger on the other side of the road was.

  After a couple monotonous hours, Renn caught Emmie’s attention and motioned her to the center of the road. Emmie shook her head, not caring to disobey Alixa. Or open herself up to any probing questions.

  “Emmie, please, meet me in the middle?”

  Was the double meaning intentional, Emmie pondered, or purely coincidental? Dropping her pack at her feet, she relented and dragged herself towards Renn. “Better be good.”

  Coning together on the roadway, Renn toed a pile of dark, crusty dung. One corner had a chunk cracked off. “She’s tasting poop. This is the third one like this, where she’s stopped. Strange, eh?”

  “Strange and gross.” Emmie wrinkled her nose. “What’s she doing?”

  “Don’t know.” Renn grinned. “Think we can still trust her? She’s a brazen poop-eater!”

  A snorty laugh escaped Emmie’s nose. She slapped her hand over her face, then spoke through her fingers. “Well, look at the upside. If she can live on poop, more food for us. We get the vittles, then she can eat a couple hours later when we’re—ah—done with it.”

  “You’re disgusting, Emmie.” Renn, relieved to see the Emmie he knew re-emerge, laughed over-loudly.

  “Coming from you, that’s a grand compliment.” She lowered her voice. “She’s actually trusting us here. I don’t want to screw it up.” Emmie forced a smile; the first one Renn had seen that day. She waved him back to his side of the road. “Get your eyes off the crap in the road and don’t lose sight of what’s important.”

  “Right.” Renn turned, then pointedly whispered back. “Good advice any time.”

  Emmie found her groove same as Renn found his. They set off together, eyes on the treetops. Good advice any time. . . Emmie frowned. She shook it off. After a couple more hours, they spied their landmarks and sat. Renn wanted to talk, but Emmie was resolutely not looking his way. She was correct, besides; best follow Alixa’s orders. After what seemed an eternity of uncomfortable silence, Emmie heaved a massive sigh of frustration.

  Soon they spotted Alixa running towards them, a wisp darting through the shadows along the side of the road, so effortlessly and agile it seemed her feet didn’t even touch the ground. The déjà vu of it made them both queasy. She waved them off the path, pushing them deeper into the woods along an overgrown wisp of what was once a wide, proud road.

  As they stumbled forward, full Alixa-speed, a bushed Emmie called up to her, “This mean. . . you didn’t like. . . what you saw?”

  “Not one bit,” she replied curtly, her words clipped and stern.

  That night, Emmie wanted to be alone—to beg her crippling emotions to behave. Renn wanted to be alone with Emmie—her telling him what he’d done wrong. But Alixa demanded everyone stay together.

  At least there was a warm rabbit dinner (courtesy of Alixa’s sharp eyes, arrows, and skinning knife) and a tiny but adequate fire. Emmie, her stomach full of savory rabbit and enjoying the fire’s dance against the sky, found a brief respite from her troubles. That peace eluded Renn. He quietly sank into a perplexed funk, like a well-fitted glove.

  “Alixa?” Emmie stretched out along the log she was leaning on. “I’m surprised you’re eating so much.”

  “Why’s that, Sheep?” Alixa licked her fingers

  “Renn caught you eating poop today.” Emmie shook with humor. “Not as filling as you hoped?”

  Alixa chucked a rabbit bone at her, hitting Emmie square on the forehead. Which made her giggle even more.

  Renn ignored them, unable to fathom the source of Emmie’s buoyant goofiness. Whatever their problem was, it seemed to be all on her. Why did she get to be happy, and him miserable? He shot her a resentful scowl.

  “If you’d control yourself for one second, little girl. . .” Alixa wiped her knife clean. “I wasn’t eating, just getting the feel of the horse-crap in my mouth. Testing its age. A good goat-boy, Renn, ought to know that trick?”

  “You a poop-eater, too?” Emmie asked playfully.

  Renn shook his head, eyes not leaving the fire.

  “Enough.” Alixa paused until Renn gave her his full attention and Emmie made herself serious. “Only Lobrids—maybe—would bother with even occasional patrols this remote. Little lesson for you; Lobrid patrols ride in tight formation. They are fanatical about precision. They’ve been here—I’d recognize their marks in my sleep—scouting sporadically. But their precision is fanatical, right down to the mash and grains they feed their warhorses. That crap was not Lobrid crap.” Alixa sighed, massaging her temples. “There’s a lot more happening in the north than you Valelanders realize. Patrols from the Lone Mountain have hardly been a presence in our parts for years. This is. . . unnerving.”

  “They have any particular interest in us?” Emmie asked.

  “Anybody wants to avoid their patrols at any cost.” Alixa privately acknowledged Emmie’s was an excellent and disquieting question; one she had no desire to broach. “I could I.D. five distinct patrols, spread over the last month or so. That’s disturbing for as remote as we are.” She stood and shook herself off. “Still, barely even once a week. Odds are we’re fine. But I refuse to place my wellbeing in something so flighty as odds. We are putting space between us and that road. Immediately.”

  Alixa stalked away, mind churning. The old north road, the best in the region, was already out. Now, she deemed its spur trails too dangerous as well. Their options had narrowed to one. Exactly where Baerdron had tried to steer her in the first place.

  Lamberden Pass it is, Alixa concluded.

  XXXIV - Lamberden Pass - 300 Years Prior

  The role she’d been groomed for was that of a spoiled princess in the royal court and at official functions. Her training in international diplomacy relegated to fluttering her eyelashes at visiting dignitaries and nobles.

  That her temperament was ill-suited to feigning vacuousness was given little credence. That she yearned for a more substantial life was discounted out of hand. When the opportunity she craved—to prove herself—arrived, however, it came in a manner she never would have chosen.

  Her father, the king, was assassinated when she was 16. Yet the necessity of preparing her for a greater leadership role was subtly ignored. So when his successor, her brother, was poisoned by his own regent two years later, a heartbroken and untrained teenager was thrust headlong into queenship. In the midst of an international catastrophe, no less. This transpired precisely as those who conspired against her family had quietly groomed her for years. She was universally viewed as an incompetent lightweight, easily manipulated and disparaged.

  History, however, would tell a different story.

  Young Queen Chastien breathed in the palpable tension of the command tent. She touched the hem of the flag; the Bandu snowy cougar defiantly gazing back at her. She wished she possessed his defiance. Yes, he was on her sword, her necklace, embroidered on her gloves even. But the undeterrable willpower he represented. . . that’s what she needed. No, she needed her brother. Chastien wished he was here. But when didn’t she wish that?

  The Bandu encampment seemed to fill the whole west-central section of the Lamberden Pass. This was the last full rest before spilling out into the basins and attempting to span that vast space in a mere two days to catch Haddurah’s army by surprise in the rear.

  Chastien surveyed the assembled 15 leaders; her chief advisors and military captains. Nearly half had expressed staunch opposition to her plans. This is their last chance to attempt to dissuade
me, she reminded herself, or persuade enough of her commanders to call off this risky offensive. She knew many mocked her. Laughed at the silly girl trying to play at war. Still seeing nothing beyond fluttering eyelashes and elegant balls. Chastien hated balls, and she hoped to never be expected to flutter anything ever again. I’m sick of being pushed around. She ran her fingers across the cougar on the flag. “Into the breach, eh, friend?”

  Chastien strode forward, head high, to address those assembled. Stretching every inch of her frame to her full height, she was still the shortest in the room. But her cloudy-day-grey almond eyes were today striking and fierce, making her presence much more imposing then any of her opponents would have believed as they’d manipulated the young princess for this very moment. Had they any inkling of what truly lay inside her, they never would have let her get this far.

  “Tomorrow, we charge. We ride hard until we roll over them,” she clipped out succinctly. Chin out, she steeled herself for dissent. She smiled coldly, realizing she actually welcomed it. “Who would challenge my orders?”

  Muttering rippled through the tent. She counted the six immediate pledges of support from exactly who she expected. The body language of four others conveyed they’d acquiesce unless swayed by a strong show of opposition from her detractors. Fine, she thought gravely. Weak and disgusting, but I’ll take it.

  “We’ve nothing to gain by this, Queen Chastien,” Governor Thannix said in his milky politician’s voice. As expected.

  It’s ‘CHAS-tee-un’ she stewed. She hated how they insisted on rhyming her name and title—another petty means to make her sound like a lightweight.

  “And everything to lose,” he continued. “You know, surely, we’re better served by returning home, protecting what is ours.”