Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The meeting of the roads was without grass or weeds, so it was well trafficked. But Druadaen would never have guessed that the humble lane that wound northward led to a city, even a small one.

At the edge of the forest through which they’d approached, Aleasha put out a hand and gestured him to sit. “First, Druadaen, if you were preparing to offer payment for the food and knowledge I have shared, do not. It is what beings should do for each other without thought of gain. I tell people, ‘help another as I have helped you.’ But your words and your eyes tell me you know this already. So you do not need that lesson from me.

“Instead, you must learn where you are and what is around you. So attend.

“This world—strange to think of it that way!—is called Hystzos by those who dwell around the sea of that same name. The name of the sea itself comes from the largest island, whose people built an empire that reached far in all directions. What other peoples from other places call this world, I do not know.

“The Haze—Shimmer—through which you came is at the south edge of a vast land called the Godbarrows. You saw the many strange ruins and strongholds? They were already old when the Hystzossi came to rule there and for hundreds of leagues all around. After several thousand years, they were overthrown by an even mightier invader: the Annihilators. I know little about them except that they arrived without warning and, after several generations, departed even more suddenly than they came.

“The Annihilators did not take the Hystzossian empire for their own; they destroyed it, starting with the Godbarrows. The lands we are in now were the empire’s most distant part: small states that paid tribute to it, and were safe and wealthy under its protection. Pecthin and Trawn were two such colonies, valuable only because they had ports at the eastern end of the Straight Sea, which reaches in to them from the Sea of Hystzos.

“It was the cities along the south shore of the Straight Sea that became truly wealthy, because they were crafty merchants and even better liars. And that was also why they did not suffer as much when the Annihilators arrived, because under the empire, its princes had learned to bow down to stronger powers. So they excelled at being the Annihilators’ djheb’wasi.” When Druadaen frowned at the unfamiliar word, she stopped, considered. “Lickers of rectums,” she supplied.

“Across the Straight Sea to the north, there were two other realms that the Annihilators did not completely destroy: Morba and Kaande. Morba is called the Shield because no invaders can reach Kaande without conquering it first, and that has never happened because of its many mountains. And so Kaande was not much touched by the hand of the Annihilators.

“Because these three countries and the lands around them survived the coming of the Annihilators and the chaos that followed after they left, they became known as the Last Lands. The smaller countries beyond them—Trawn, Tharn, Pecthin, Bronseca, more—were not so fortunate and so are still called the Broken Lands.

“Across the Sea of Hystzos are scattered towns and cities, and two lands large enough to be called nations: the horse-people of Ruildis, and the sea-people of Tyrmcys. But, large or small, that far coast had fewer people and less metal when the Annihilators arrived and so were of little import to them. Together, these western and northern lands are known as Absolutia: a strange name with strange stories to explain it. Some say it is because their distance from the empire ensured that their deliverance from the Annihilators was near-absolute. Others insist it was because their ‘gods’ were pleased by their entreaties and, as a sign that their sins had been absolved, spared them that fate. I do not know which of those, or other stories, is correct. Nor do I care.”

“And what of the island of Hystzos itself?”

Aleasha shrugged. “Not much is said of it. It still has a city, I am told, but mostly deserted. A strange place. After birthing an empire, it fell into a… a waking sleep. I do not know your word.”

“I think you mean a coma.”

“If that is a waking sleep, then yes. But it still gives its name to all these lands: Lorn Hystzos. Beyond them, you enter the Godbarrows, which stretch all the way to the Cloudcap Mountains: the ones you say you saw beyond the eastern horizon.”

“And beyond them?”

Aleasha cast a sideways glance at him. “I see why the priests chased you away from your homeland. Beyond those mountains is the Shun, about which very little is known. Mariners know more, but not a great deal, I think. Most of those lands are wild. Tribes roam them.”

“Is it called the Shun because it is forbidden to go there?”

She shrugged. “No, it is just unknown and feared. Those who go there rarely return. Legend has it that long before the Annihilators and even before Great Hystzos itself, the people of those lands were the first in learning and power. But they were proud and polluted by their own greed and arrogance. That is why the first abominations were bred among them.”

Druadaen tried to keep his voice casual but failed. “Abomination?”

“Dangerous creatures. Monsters, really. They are mostly found in Death Lands: the only places that are forbidden.”

“And where are the Death Lands?”

“Where are they not? The largest of them are in the Godbarrows, but there are even small ones in Absolutia. Many say they are unhealthy to inhabit. Whether or not that is true, criminals, outcasts, lepers—and yes, abominations—hide there.”

She waved away Druadaen’s queries before the first could leave his lips. “I do not know more about these places. I know little enough of what happens in the Godbarrows, and I was born there. Live there, too.” She sighed. “There is nothing much to know about the Godbarrows. Creatures live and creatures die. People pass through or settle, then disappear or depart.”

“Why did you leave?” And how do you know about the road to the city, if you are rarely here?

“I left because there are strange disturbances. I do not mean the bandits and tribes that are always at war over some forgotten or imagined insult. This is different. Many of the bandits and tribes are gone, now. Those that remain work together. Creatures from the Death Lands destroy farms and hamlets. And it is thought that the cause of these changes came from down here, in the south. Possibly from the Broken Lands, or maybe from the coast.” Druadaen watched as her eyes became less focused on her surroundings, began seeing something beyond: assessing, measuring, projecting.

As if she were aware—and annoyed—that she had done so, she stood quickly. “You will need to move quickly to reach the hidden spot in which you can make camp. Look for two tall pine trees on the right side of the road. Walk between them. Walk another ten paces. You will find a small glen with a place that is easy to defend and safe for sleeping. There is a spring close by. If you start before the sun is up tomorrow, you might arrive in the city—Pakobsid—just before dark on the second day.” Her various animal followers had risen, sensing—or having been informed?—that the other human would not be traveling with her; the way they formed around her left no room for a companion.

Druadaen rose. “If I could ask one last, practical question?”

Her almost worried impatience relented slightly. “Ask.”

“Where should I say I am from?”

Her sharp nod signaled both approval at his inquiry and her certainty answering it. “Say you come from a steading in the northern Godbarrows. Your accent is not unlike one that exists up there. It is a wilderness with few hamlets, and even fewer towns, so will not meet anyone who has been there.”

“Still, anyone who has heard of it might also expect me to know the regions that border it, or with which it trades.”

She sighed. “There is little trade that far north, but yes, they will expect you to know the places from which settlers have come and to which others may travel. I have already mentioned two: Ruildis and Tyrmcys. They are where Absolutia touches the Godbarrows.”

“Which of the two is closer?”

“Ruildis, but the ships of Tyrmcys range farther and may have small trading settlements along the rivers or the coast.” She thought for a moment. “Tyrmcys is actually the best place to mention. You have some of that accent. You even know some of its words.”

Druadaen started. “I do?”

“Of course. Some of the words in that ancient tongue you tried—Tualaran, I think?—were ones that I understood because I know a bit of Tyrmcysan. Now, stop asking questions! You must get to that camp before the sun sets. These lands were never safe, but they are less so now.”


Dusk was starting to tip into night as Druadaen began to unpack. Having just finished filling his largest skin with fresh water, he considered taking a bite of one of the cheese-nut-berry cakes that Aleasha had gifted him.

A distant whinny. In the direction of the road, but closer. So perhaps Aleasha wasn’t the only one who knew of this campsite.

Druadaen didn’t rise but began hastily reloading his goods into his rucksack. By the time he was finished, he could hear voices. Not enough time to get into the brush, let alone hide. And if I’m caught wearing this damnable pack during a fight… He stood, checked the angle and placement of his weapons, and called in the local dialect, “Who goes?”

“Ho, the camp!” came a reply from just beyond the two pines. The speed of the response and the lack of surprised, whispered debate indicated that he had probably been detected beforehand. And if so, why hadn’t they called out earlier? Druadaen measured his distance from the path to the spring, from his back to the sheer stone shelf behind him, from the various low bushes and large rocks between him and the direction of those approaching. But his primary attention was not upon what his eyes saw in front of him, but what his ears might detect behind.

“I say again, ho, the camp!”

Druadaen had no reason to expect it would have any effect, but he glanced down at the bracer. “You would be most effective as a surprise.”

Faster than Druadaen could blink, his wrist was obscured by a flash of uncoiling silver that became a mad flutter of wings. But as it arrowed into the darkening sky, the velene blackened… and disappeared.

Well, there’s a first time for everything, Druadaen told himself, feeling that the odds had tipped in his favor as he prepared to confront… well, whatever was out beyond the two trees. “You may advance.” He was pretty sure he got the local word for advance wrong.

A responding guffaw confirmed that suspicion. “Ah, a traveler from far parts, then!” The speaker appeared between the trees. A modestly tall man of average build, he led a horse into the small dell, still chuckling. He was followed closely by a slightly shorter and very lean younger man in a full-length cloak, hand near the bit of his rather shaggy palfrey. He glanced at Druadaen with the barest hint of a nod and he drew his increasingly skittish mount behind him, clearing the gap between the trees. In which appeared the third, and very strange, member of this group.

He was a big man, almost as tall as Druadaen and easily half again as heavy. He was bulky in the way of wrestlers for whom victory depends as much upon weight as strength, the kind he’d seen when visiting Z’datien as a young Courier. The fellow was wearing only a kirtle, sandals, and a harness. Its shoulder straps were each fitted with a loop, and each loop held a hatchet. The load upon the harness’s frame was so large that it would have been a reasonable load for the two horses. However, despite the punishing burden, the man was smiling. And blinking rapidly.

Without any words of introduction, the other two tied off their horses on a half-fallen tree and approached, the older one lighting a pipe as he came. He stared around, as if surprised. “What? No fire, yet?”

“I mean to keep to myself,” Druadaen replied, watching to see how they’d respond to that extremely broad hint.

If they realized he was indicating that he meant to camp alone, none of them gave evidence of it. Rather, the oldest of them sat on a stump and rummaged in his pocket. “Fancy a pipe?”

Druadaen shook his head.

“Ah, that’s a shame… but more for me!” he said merrily. He studied Druadaen soberly. “I must say, I’ve seldom seen a man less happy for company while camping alone on the edge of wilderness.”

“I’m used to it.”

“I suppose you are,” the younger man murmured, staring more fixedly at his gear. “A nice sword, judging from that hilt. But the rest looks Trawnish.”

Druadaen wondered at his ability to understand the man—understand him far too well, in fact. Although there were a few stumbles and hesitations, it was as if the newcomer already knew which words Aleasha had taught him from which local languages. Which was not possible—unless Druadaen was not proof against this world’s mancery or wyrding, contrary to what he’d experienced thus far.

The middle-aged man stroked a neat beard as he waited for a response that did not come. “Quite the dialect you speak,” he commented finally. “Where are you from?”

“The far north.”

“Tyrmcys, maybe, judging by that accent?”

Druadaen shook his head. “Beyond that. North and inland.” And thank you, Aleasha.

“That’s far indeed!” He waved the broad bearer to approach the camp as he stared at Druadaen’s clothes and gear. He waved at the whole ensemble with a circular gesture. “Your kit: is all of it, er, your local wares?”

“Not all. I had to replace some.”

The fellow nodded sagely. “Trouble along the road?”

“So to speak.”

“What from?”

Druadaen shrugged. “Bent.”

The other one scowled in confusion. “Bent? What’s that?”

Damn me for a fool! Of course there might not be any urzh here. Wait: maybe… Druadaen managed to keep his voice and face unchanged as he offered, “You might call them urzh, here.”

“Hah! Yes, urzh,” the older one agreed, motioning that the bearer was free to shrug out of his harness and sit down. “Although Bent is a right enough name for them. So, you have trouble with them, up north?”

“More than here, from what I’ve seen.”

“What makes you say that?” asked the thin one, who had opened a sachet and was scattering lightly scented dust in ritual motions.

Druadaen shrugged. “Where I’m from, every steading has to have a wall. Has to. Here, some do, some don’t.”

“That’s because some farmers are smart and some aren’t,” explained the lean one.

“Aye, ’cause there’s trouble enough here, too,” the garrulous one agreed in a more congenial tone than his partner. “But the threat isn’t from urzh. None around these climes, and they’re far more likely to avoid than attack.”

Druadaen nodded, but did not take the bait to find out what, rather than the Bent, was the source of the local danger.

The leader’s brow curved in annoyance—but straightened just as quickly. “So, then,” he restarted, “judging from your gear and your readiness to travel alone, I presume you’re a sell-swor—er, soldier of fortune. Am I right?”

Druadaen shrugged. “I have been called that, from time to time.” Which was technically true.

“Maybe you’d be looking for work, then? Is that why you’re bound north for the big city?”

Another shrug. “That’s one possibility. But I’m told there’s more work in Sarmasid.”

The other emitted a bark of surprised laughter. “Work? You think that folk with coin will use it to hire someone who—well, who looks like that?” He pointed at Druadaen’s mismatched and much-battered gear.

The human pack mule laughed maniacally, eyes still wide and staring. But they no longer blinked.

The quiet one barely smiled. “Why would you wish to go to Sarmasid? It does not look like your purse could support lodging there… unless you mean to sleep in the fields. Which are half a day’s walk from the walls.”

Druadaen sighed. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

The leader of the three waited for him to expand upon that answer. When none came and the silence grew long enough to be uncomfortable, he scratched an ear and made a great show of looking crestfallen. “You don’t talk much, but you say even less. Why is that, friend?”

Druadaen had intended to make a slower, casual exit, but the leader’s carefully controlled tone and intrusive question told him: it’s time to go. Now. “I keep to myself, mostly,” Druadaen answered, fastening the flap of his rucksack as he rose. Can’t put it on, but carrying it in my hand makes me look eager to leave. Well, nothing for it. He picked up his kit.

“Here now, where are you going? I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“I’m not insulted. But I’m in want of quiet.”

Before he’d finished, the big, staring fellow had risen and stepped in his way. His eyes widened along with his grin. “Quiet,” he giggled. “Yes, quiet.”

Druadaen dropped his pack.

“Now, this won’t do!” said the taller one as the lean one rose and backed away… but moved out toward Druadaen’s flank as he did. “There’s room for us all, here. And see: you’ve upset Mawnk.” He indicated the staring bearer.

“Is that what I’ve done?”

The fellow smoking on the stump studied Druadaen, gaze suddenly canny. “Ah, so yer not interested in a job. Well, it was worth trying.” He made a rapid gesture with both hands that ended with them focused on Druadaen.

Who, in the instant before it occurred, knew—did not conjecture, but knew—two things: he could ignore the older fellow’s wyrding, but not that which might come from the lean one on his flank.

As he drew his sword and turned to face that threat, the pipe-smoker grunted in surprise, then snarled orders at Mawnk in a completely unfamiliar tongue.

The lean fellow had thrown open his cloak, hands raising much as did Elweyr’s just before finishing a readied thaumate. The space separating them emitted a snap like shattering slate and the hair on Druadaen’s arms rose abruptly, along with the smell of lightning-burnt air. He started forward, saw his enemy’s hands moving into the position of completion, feared he would not close the distance in time. But at the same instant, Druadaen again knew—knew—the correct counter: to stand fast and extend the tip of his sword toward his opponent. Madness! he thought—and thrust the sai’niin blade outward as far as he could.

An instant later, a roiling mass of sparks appeared between, rushing toward Druadaen. But the point of the sword seemed to suck them out of the air, brightening the whole blade—from which they immediately shot back across the space, leaving blue after-images on Druadaen’s eyes.

The coruscating discharge hit the summoner in his hands and chest, blowing him off his feet and backwards into the brush. His fluttering robes trailed smoke as he fell.

Running feet—heavy, thudding—closed from the other side: the bearer. Druadaen started to spin back in that direction, but heard the rush of small wings: the velene, coming down just beyond the sound of the footfalls. Druadaen ended his turn at the midpoint, turning it into a long step toward the pipe-smoking mantic.

That ambusher was just getting his feet under him, reaching for a small bag on his belt. Mancery or not, Druadaen had no immunity to alchemical compounds; he ran the blade through his enemy’s chest. As he turned away from the falling man’s gargling shriek, he discovered the ogrish bearer just a few feet away, clawing at his ears. The velene hovered just out of reach, projecting a thin, almost undetectable sound that was the apparent cause of the hatchet wielder’s desperate agony. A hand clamped to one side of his head, he pulled a hatchet and hacked at the dragonette. It fluttered back and sideways. The howling ogre turned to follow.

Druadaen stared as the fellow’s broad back finished rotating, his bullish spine facing the tip of the sai’niin blade. For a moment he couldn’t move. All battles are slaughter, but this—? On the other hand, Hystzos might be a world where combatants never gave nor asked for quarter. Besides, the bearer’s mad eyes held no promise of scruples: just unbridled mayhem.

But Druadaen was a creature of a different world and the Consentium’s values. “Stop!” he shouted at the man’s back, stepping beyond leaping range.

The meaty fellow turned quickly, an instant of puzzlement burned away by a howling blast of sheer, animal rage. He raised his hatchet, bounded forward—

Stop!” Druadaen shouted more urgently.

The man yowled a single word in reply as he closed, bringing the hatchet back for a cut.

A feint wasn’t necessary. He was too slow to shift with Druadaen’s sidestep or counter the quick cut behind his left knee.

The man went down heavily, his yowls becoming one long bellow of pain.

Druadaen raised his sword meaningfully. “Stop. Now.”

The man’s face contorted, darkened until it was almost purple, and he screamed the same word at Druadaen. Again and again. Then he rose to one knee, right hand cocking the hatchet to throw—

Druadaen leaped to the man’s left, cutting at the level of his neck as he went past. The man threw up a vantbrassed forearm to block the blow…

The sword’s edge shone, crackling faintly as it sliced through vantbrass, arm, and neck as easily as if they had been half-melted butter. Then:

Silence. Except for the high-tempered palfrey, which was whinnying and rolling its eyes.

Druadaen felt a strange surge of emotion. Not guilt, exactly: more akin to regret, and not just for the three lives he had taken. Somehow, without ever intending it, his existence had become one in which killing was not merely frequent, but almost routine. He had certainly aspired to a life in the military, as legiar of the Consentium—ironic, since few who served in the Legion ever drew a sword in anything larger than a skirmish. But still, those were battles, whereas this…

He surveyed the three bodies. When he killed, it was not part of a battle. It was close, brutal murder. You didn’t just see your enemy’s eyes as you fought; you watched as the light in them went dark, left them as lusterless and inert as old beads.

Druadaen started, then stepped sharply away from the bodies and his thoughts. First task: determine if the melee had attracted any attention. He clambered up the striated stone spur at his back and scanned the open woodlands around him. Half an army could have been hidden in the scattering of trees and brush, but if anything was out there, it was not moving in his direction.

Still, it was not safe to remain in this camp. The sounds of the fight might not have been heard, but the smell of fresh kills were almost sure to attract predators, scavengers, or even more dangerous visitors.

He hopped back down, already planning the best way to choose the salvage, load, and leave in the shortest amount of time. As he began the grisly work, it occurred to him that without the sword, it might have been him who wound up like the still-smoking corpse in the bushes. And not just because of the way it had reflected the lightning. How else had he known exactly what he needed to do at every step, even when he did not know his enemies’ powers?

As the velene swept back toward him, he asked it, “I don’t suppose you had something to do with that, too?”

The velene simply curled back into a smooth bracelet on his arm.

“No, of course not,” Druadaen sighed. “You’re a great friend, but poor company.”

The velene’s head reappeared, emerging far enough from the bracelet to regard him balefully. But only for a moment; before Druadaen could respond, it flowed back into the featureless bracelet.

Walking toward the horses, he stepped around the body of the dead axeman, his severed forearm, then his head. Well, since the velene is listening now… Druadaen shook the sword. “I am not complaining, but if many others see you are this sharp, tales will be told. Soon, we will not be fighting off a few chance-met highwaymen, but legions of sword-stealers. We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

After a moment, the blade became a little less like a perfect mirror seen through the waters of a pure mountain lake. It resembled steel.

Surprised at the response, Druadaen managed to mumble, “Well… that’s a bit better,” and got on with the unpleasant job of salvaging what he could and hiding the bodies.


Druadaen did not stop to equip himself with the much better gear of his attackers; he simply packed it for travel. Besides, he spent too much time contemplating two mysterious discoveries.

Beneath the lean mantic’s traveling cloak was a full-length gray robe with a faint hint of purple in its weave. It did not feel or look like a garment made for personal use, but rather had the appearance and simplicity of an item distributed to the members of an army or a temple. He was tempted to take it, but he was already carrying too much on the two horses. It might prove to be an item of interest, but it might just as easily invite pointed questions from the servitors of a great power. But more interest was a torc worn by the middle-aged mantic whose effect had failed to exert any influence over Druadaen.

Firstly, it had a pronounced, musky scent: not unpleasant, but not particularly appealing either. It might simply indicate that some fluid or growth had leaked into its presumably hollow interior, but Druadaen did not dismiss the possibility that it was built around, or to house, something that was alive. Secondly, where it had rested against its owner’s neck, the flesh was as pristine as an infant princess’s. The torc’s purpose was as mysterious as its origins; it had no characters or pictograms which might indicate who had fashioned it or to what end.

But all such concerns were secondary to the challenges of Druadaen’s current circumstances: to travel alone, at night, mounted on an unfamiliar horse while leading a second, skittish one. The only way he could have made it worse was by attaching bells to them all and blowing a coronet every ten minutes. Which he would have been sorely tempted to do, had he been carrying such frivolous objects.

After all, if one was going to tempt fate, one might as well do so boldly.


Back | Next
Framed