Authors: Victor Gischler
But he wouldn’t know until it was happening to him, and by then it would be too late.
In a stab of panic, he seized on Tosh’s scheme to steal a horse and ride out fast. His grandmother lived down in the valley. He could hide there. Most of the lowland villages had evacuated to the imagined safety of the city walls, but Alem knew his grandmother wouldn’t budge. She was stubborn and would die on her own land, and anyway she was too old to make the climb up the mountain road. Or at least that’s what she would claim. Maybe he could get lucky, ride past all the Perranese warriors before they could …
The door to the stable slowly creaked open again.
Alem quickly retreated back into the hay, gestured for Tosh to get out of sight, but the deserter was already in motion, frantically trying to find a good hiding place.
Tosh backed against the wall where reins and harness hung, grabbed a horse blanket off a peg and tossed it over himself. He squatted next to a barrel.
Four Perranese warriors strode into the stable. Alem watched them though an opening in the hay. Even their most casual movements seemed precise and catlike. With swords and spears, they would make a lethal fighting force. Klaar had never really had a chance once the gates had been thrown wide.
One of the Perranese pointed at the horses, gibbered in his foreign tongue to the others who nodded along. Alem’s heart sank. Of course; they’d just come across the ocean, and horses would be in short supply. They’d take these for their own use and with them Alem’s idea to ride out of town.
The warrior in charge motioned to the other three, barking orders in his quick, clipped language. They went to the stalls and picked out three horses, all large stallions, and led them out of the stable.
That meant the gelding Alem had selected for the officer was still in the end stall. Still saddled.
When the other three left, the remaining Perranese turned away from Alem, reached under his scale mail skirt. A second later, Alem heard the stream of urine splashing against the stable wall.
Okay, he’ll finish pissing, and when he leaves I’ll hop on the gelding and make a run for it.
The warrior finished, turned back to the stable door. Paused.
He looked down at Tosh’s discarded chainmail on the ground.
Alem’s stomach lurched.
Oh … no
.
The warrior gripped the hilt of his sword, turning his head slowly to scan the stable. His demeanor had changed, like a wire now pulled tight. Alem held his breath. Silence fell heavily over the stable, broken by one of the horses snorting. The warrior slowly drew his sword from the sheath.
The hiss of metal made Tosh flinch beneath the horse blanket. Not much, just the barest hint of movement, but it was enough. The warrior lifted the sword over his head, walked deliberately toward Tosh’s hiding spot.
If Alem had been given ample time to plan his next move, it would never have occurred to him to rise from his hiding place under the hay and leap from the loft at the Perranese warrior below.
But that’s exactly what he did.
Rina could no longer feel her feet. Limbs cold and heavy. She knew she was still moving forward by the sound of snow crunch. Only Kork kept her from dropping where she stood, lying down in the snow, and falling asleep forever. She was dead on her feet, and it was almost a blessing. Little energy was left to think of the horror that was only a few hours old. Her fingers ached holding Kork’s cloak closed in front of her. She would never be warm again.
And if she did sprawl in the snow to surrender to sleep, a dim awareness told her Kork would simply heave her over his shoulder and keep climbing the mountain. A shred of pride in her wouldn’t allow that. The man had done so much for her already. He shouldn’t have to carry her too.
But when she slowed, began to drift, she’d feel Kork’s large hand take her by the elbow, pull her along until she was able to tap into some hidden well of strength.
The snow fell harder.
They climbed higher.
She looked back. Klaar was far below them. Smoke still rose in parts of the city, but it didn’t seem as bad. Maybe the fighting was over. Not that it mattered. Klaar belonged to the Perranese now.
Rina couldn’t feel anything about that. She was too numb.
“Come.” Kork had her by the elbow again.
Rina realized she’d stopped hiking, had been staring unblinking at the city below. She allowed herself to be led, trudging with a rhythm like a dirge through the snow which was now knee deep. The numbness in her feet circled around to pain again, reaching up into her hips. She’d heard of trappers being caught out in blizzards, losing toes or even a foot to frostbite.
I don’t care. Take my feet, my legs. Take it all
.
She turned her head to look at a low marker of gray bricks about the height of her waist. One of the top bricks displayed the seal of the Duchy of Klaar. A path marker. Of course. Kork wouldn’t lead them randomly up the mountain. He’d known the way all along, but she hadn’t seen the path so thickly covered with snow.
There was another marker at the foot of a well-worn set of stone steps leading steeply up the rocky slope. It was very nearly invisible beneath the snow, but Rina knew what to look for now. They started up the stairs, and within minutes the muscles in her legs burned. She refused to complain, biting her lower lip to keep from groaning until she tasted her own blood.
Up. Endlessly.
She looked down again at Klaar but couldn’t see it. It was lost amid the thick snow flying sideways on the bitter wind.
The stairs ended at last at the opening of a cave. Rina turned to Kork, her expression unmistakable.
Really? In there?
“The cave of the old mage,” Kork said. “He was banished by your father’s father. I don’t know why. But the Duke told me if all other hopes should fail to bring you here. He told me this only this morning. I wonder if he had a premonition that maybe the Perranese threat was more than suspected. He was right, I’m sorry to say. So I have brought you as instructed.”
Rina gazed into the dark cavern as if mesmerized. Her father had told Kork to bring her here? “What else did he say?”
Kork grunted.
“Kork.”
“He said nothing more. But he seemed … conflicted. I think he was reluctant to send you to this mage.”
They stood a moment in the mouth of the cave. The wind howled behind them.
Kork put a hand against the cave wall to steady himself. He slid down into a sitting position, his other hand held tight against his side. Rina looked at him. The big man was covered in blood, and for the first time it occurred to Rina some of it might be his.
“You’re hurt.”
Kork lifted his chin, indicating the depths of the cavern. “In there. Go.”
“Alone?”
“I will guard the entrance.” He drew the large sword from the scabbard on his back, set it next to him. “My wound is minor. I only need rest. You must go on.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
She advanced into the cave. The sound of the wind dwindled behind her. She rounded a long gradual bend, and it grew darker then lighter again, firelight glowing ahead. The cavern opened into a wide chamber.
A shrunken old man sat perfectly still on a threadbare rug. He did not move, look up or open his eyes at Rina’s approach.
The room was lit by a low, brass brazier, the flames casting misshapen shadows on the chamber walls. When the heat of it reached her, Rina almost wept. She stood, letting the warmth seep into her, not caring for the moment about the old man. Hot needles pricked her feet as they thawed. Now she did weep very softly, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and over her lips.
Rina knelt in front of the old man, wiped away the tears with trembling fingers. She leaned closer, looking at him. She wasn’t even sure he was alive. His head was down, chin almost touching his bony chest, eyes closed. He wore a tattered and faded woolen robe of muted red. Bald. Completely clean shaven and wrinkled. He sat cross-legged, gnarled and spotted hands on his knees.
Rina cleared her throat.
Nothing.
“I’m Rina Veraiin.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I … my father …” Would names even mean anything to him? How long had he been here?
A long pause, then the old man spoke without lifting his head. “You are Little Belly’s daughter?” His voice was like heavy stones grinding together.
Rina searched her memory. They’d called her father Little Belly as a child because he had a little round belly. Relations would rub it and tickle him. Rina had thought the story silly at the time. She had to master herself to keep from sobbing. Her father would never tell her another story again.
“Yes,” Rina said. “Dead now.”
He lifted his head. Opened his eyes. One was completely clouded over, the other a clear, rich brown. Shadows played across his face, making him seem strange and sinister. “Something’s happened.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“The Perranese,” Rina said. “They came across the Long Bridge. Somebody opened the gates.” She stopped talking. Couldn’t bear to recount all of it. The pain was still too close.
He nodded. “I’m surprised you are here. Little Belly must have turned out different from his father.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d never known her grandfather.
“What do you want of me?”
“I don’t know,” Rina said. “I was brought here.”
“I see,” the old man said. “You are duchess then.”
Am I?
Yes, she supposed she was. With Father and Mother dead, Rina was now Duchess of Klaar. It was meaningless. Klaar might as well have been the moon. It wasn’t hers. Not anymore.
“So, Duchess, how may I serve you?”
“I don’t know,” Rina repeated. “I … need help.”
“I have already decided to help you,” he said. “I am dying. I am killing myself with every word I utter to you. I have the wasting disease in my belly and in my lungs. You understand this sort of sickness, yes?”
Rina nodded. An uncle on her mother’s side had died that way.
“It takes all my energy and focus to keep the sickness at bay,” he said. “So in deciding to help you I am welcoming death. Even this simple conversation is enough to divert my energies. Do you understand this?”
Her eyes widened.
“Yes, I see that you do,” he said. “So let’s make it worth it, shall we? Let’s try to focus with clarity on the best way I can help you. For it will be my dying act. Do you wish to live?”
She blinked at the question. “Do I wish to live?”
“You’ve brought yourself here in a blizzard. Not easy. In your despair it would have been simpler to throw yourself off a cliff. This would end your grief, yes? But you didn’t do that. I infer you prefer to live.”
“Yes,” she said. “I want to live.” A strange and simple admission but effective. In spite of everything, she did want to live, to go on even though it all seemed so hopeless.
“That’s a start, then,” the old man said. “We’ve established you want to live. Now what shall you live
for
?”
What?
He sighed, impatient. “Something must drive you, girl. Find something. Foreign savages have killed your family and taken your land. Do you want revenge? Do you want to take back what is yours? Tell me. I am neither a priest nor a philosopher. I won’t judge you.”
She hadn’t thought about it. Would she take revenge on those who had robbed her of everything if given the chance? She saw her father’s face, surprised at Giffen’s betrayal. Would she seize any opportunity to slide cold steel into Giffen’s belly? “Yes.”
“Now we have direction,” he said. “And what do you have to accomplish your task? Do you have an army with which to recapture Klaar? Generals to do your bidding?”
The old man acted like he wanted to plant an idea in her head one second then disabuse her of it the next. But of course he was right. “I have nothing. Just myself.”
“That’s more than you think.” He stood slowly, joints popping and creaking as if he’d been sitting there for centuries.
He gestured, and Rina followed the gesture with her eyes. Strange syllables fell out of the old man’s mouth, tickling her ears and then vanishing. The old man flicked a pinch of some fine powder into the air. Halfway across the chamber, a small fire sprang to life beneath a large brass tub.
“The water will heat soon,” he said. “You must bathe.”
“But …” She looked down at her clothes, back at the old man.
“Don’t be silly. Modesty is a peasant’s virtue, Duchess. Besides, I am old and harmless.” She thought she saw a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
“Why a bath?”
“Because I’m going to give you a gift,” he said. “And we must prepare you to receive it.”
The Perranese warrior had just enough time to turn his head, his eyes popping wide as Alem slammed into him. They went down hard, and the warrior’s chin caught the edge of the barrel near Tosh’s hiding place.
With Alem’s weight on his back, the warrior’s head was forced back sharply. There was a sickening snap, and the two of them went down in a heap.
Tosh sprang from his hiding place, tossing the horse blanket aside, a short dagger in one hand, ready to fight, but the Perranese warrior lay lifeless, eyes wide open, mouth agape. Tosh nudged the body with the toe of his boot. “Damn, kid, you’ve killed him.”
Alem sat up next to the dead warrior. He rubbed his side, winced. Flying through the air and slamming into a fully armored man had bruised a few ribs. What had he been thinking?
“Guess I owe you one,” Tosh said. “But his pals could come back any moment, and finding us here with their dead captain won’t go well for us.”
Alem lurched to his feet, grunted, one hand holding his ribs. It hurt like blazes, but he prodded his side with tentative fingers and didn’t think anything was broken. “Pick one of the mares in back and saddle it,” Alem told Tosh. “I’ll be right back.”
“Kid, I told you already. There’s no way we can ride out past them.”
Alem ignored him and limped across the room to the stable master’s tiny room. It wasn’t much. A cot. A stool. A small iron stove for cooking and warmth. Alem crawled under the cot, pried up the floorboard where old Nard the stable master kept the little strongbox. Alem wasn’t sure how many coins might be in it. Probably not many. When visiting nobles lodged their horses in the stable, they would often flip the stable master a coin to pay for extra oats, replace a lost horse blanket.