The eaters of time, p.41
The Eaters of Time, page 41
“Yes, Lord,” said he, and rode into position.
-II-
Thorion County
The Shivering March
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
They’d ridden for perhaps three quarters of an hour. The sky had covered itself in a hazy twilight that turned every shadow soft and downy. Their path had taken them through thickets of pine and poplar, oak and willow, and—within the last few minutes—hawthorn. These thickets and groves had been separated by gorgeous glens of lady’s mantle, sedge, and heather grass.
Methias had ridden in relative silence. He’d been content to let Mezofel run and natter in his head. Such conversation—if indeed that was the right word for it—always amused and delighted him. It wasn’t quite speech, according to the more traditional definition of the word. No familiar ever quite spoke to the caster whose cloth they’d been cut from. Yet after so many miles and so many years together, Methias had learned a trick or two.
I’ll need to find a way to explain the how of it to her, I think. If she hasn’t changed her mind by the time we return home, she’ll need as much understanding as I can give her. He paused for a moment, allowing Mezofel’s message to filter through his mind’s eye and ear. He let out an audible chuckle. No, I don’t mean to teach her how to talk to you. Just how I’ve learned to listen.
“Lord?” Jastar sounded as if Methias’s chuckle had set him on edge.
Given his reaction to everything else thus far, I’m just pleased he hasn’t turned tail and fled back to Thorion. In all honesty, if he hadn’t been knighted by the County Throne, I’d have left him at the kor. His rank and station here should make gaining an audience much easier when we arrive—should even lend weight to my words, which may well save lives.
“Nothing, Sir Jastar. A conversation came to mind and made me smile. Nothing more.”
He resisted the urge to chuckle again when Mezofel chastised him for that reply.
I only spoke the truth, thank you. The fact that your side of our conversations always involves “coming to mind” is quite beside the point.
His face fell. How bad? He nodded.
“There’s been trouble over this next hill. We’ll see it for ourselves once we clear the hawthorns.”
Tharus’s beard-stubble voice made a grunt of agreement. He sighed through his speech a moment later. “Aye, Me—” He cleared his throat. “Aye, my lord. There’s death not far ahead, though it’s from a bit back up the hourglass.”
He saw Jastar do battle with and ultimately defeat the urge to both gawk and ask questions. “As you say,” was all he allowed into the air.
Impressive. He’s a man of excellent self-control.
“Weapons, Lord?” Apiné’s tone made it clear her question was little more than a formality.
“No, Lanbachsel. In easy reach, mind, but no.” He paused to absorb Mezofel’s message, nodded, then turned to speak over his right shoulder. “You’re right, Tharus. Before the sun sank behind the hills, at a guess.”
A moment later and they’d broken through the hawthorns. They found themselves at the edge of a hilltop—the tallest within view, and by several feet. The early moonlight shone down on the open heath across from them. In the gloaming, they could see the wreckage of what looked to be a merchant’s wagon. It lay there like an overturned beetle. One of its wheels was missing, presumably buried in the wild sedge that surrounded it.
Methias stiffened for a beat, processing what Mezofel relayed to him. He stood up in his stirrups, looking down along the gentle slope of their own hill.
“There.” At the place where the dip between the hills bottomed out, a horse’s broken body lay blanketed in shadow.
Methias sighed, calling back over his shoulder. “Lanbachsel? Secure the next hilltop. Touch nothing you don’t need to touch. Tharus, Jastar? Stand a watch up here. Ibhroth? With me.” He didn’t wait for a reply. With the slightest pressure from his knees, Mezofel trotted down the near side of the hill.
He came up beside the sadful body, wincing. The animal had been piebald—either deep brown or black—but had a strangeness to the white patches that he couldn’t at first place. It was too dark to tell the difference, nor did he think it much mattered, save that the dark patches made him think of Mezofel. His own charger’s sable skin and coal-colored coat had always brought to mind a warm blanket on a windy winter’s night. Now, looking down—seeing what’d been visited upon the beast below—he felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the wind.
Ibhroth came down after him. “Lord? Do you … see it?”
Methias wrestled himself away from the miserable thought of what if this had been Mezofel. Further, he forced himself to reject the urge to say what he’d been thinking—how painful it was to contemplate what had been done to this creature. How much seeing it hurt his heart.
He swallowed, then glanced at Ibhroth’s eyes. No, he’s looking at the body. He didn’t see me swallow, so couldn’t have misread it. Good. I… I should answer him, though. Before he asks again.
“Tell me what you see, Cr ke.”
The Yebu Ke nodded, giving a thorough once-over to the poor thing before answering. This was why Methias had chosen his company for this grim chore. It was absurd to think all Eodenth were trackers, just as it was absurd to think all Naushaii were casters. Yet a goodly portion of each realm’s respective populace did fall into those groups, he and Ibhroth among them.
“Didn’t fall, Lord.” He shook his head. “Attacked, else I’m the Emperor of Ashes.” He stood in the saddle for a moment. “…Sweat lines in its fur from where its harness hung.” He paused to point. “D’you see the strap of leather pinned beneath its front? Poor bastard’s legs were broke after the fall, not ‘cause of it.”
I must hear his conclusions, not interrupt by stating my own. He may see a thing I don’t. And if I speak first, he may decide his thoughts aren’t wanted, or worth sharing.
Methias nodded. “Anything more, Cr ke?”
Ibhroth considered. “Been chewed on. Odd that an animal’d start a meal then flee, though…”
Methias followed the man’s eyes. He understood exactly what had struck him as being so strange now. He waited to see if the young Eodenth would see it as well. It would be better if he himself weren’t the only one to mark the truth, but the hourglass was emptying. He couldn’t afford to give the man too much more time.
“Ah…” The Yebu Ke didn’t sound pleased, but he sounded satisfied. “Missed it ‘neath the mane, but there’s a hole in its neck. An arrow—a broad-headed one, or I’m blind.”
Fighting the urge to sigh, Methias forced himself to speak. He didn’t want to, but there wasn’t much choice. “Cr ke… do you see the legs?”
Ibhroth nodded, following Methias’s gaze to the nearest one. It was clearly broken, bone showing through the too-ragged flesh. “Aye lord. I see. As I say, they’ve been… Gah!” He actually jumped a little, unintentionally forcing his horse to rear. When he had his steed under control again, he turned to Methias with a look of horror on his beardless face.
“Why is… why is the blood white?” His tannish dreamer’s lamps raked over the body. They seemed to stop at all of the places showing what, at first glance, had looked to be piebald coloration. His face grew pale. “Bear’s breath… It’s white everywhere that’s been gnawed!” This last had come out in a strangled croak.
Methias closed his eyes for a moment, then gave a nod toward where the third of the two-two held the lower hillock. He lifted his chin toward the men on watch. “Tharus? Sir Jastar? If you’d join the others?”
Shuddering, Ibhroth followed Methias’s gaze, then followed his horse as they rejoined Apiné and her folk.
Other than the broken wagon, the hill was empty. Methias could see a road to the south. He raised his head to lock eyes, first with Pallith, then Jastar. “Does that road run all the way to Wick?”
They looked at it, then at one another for a beat. It was Pallith who answered.
“Yes, Lord. From Eastshadow to Wick. There is a fork that will run directly to Thorionden’s gate to the south as well.”
Methias nodded. “The blood from the horse’s wounds … was white.”
Tharus and the folk of the third all grew grim, nodding. Ibhroth and Jastar looked to Methias, then the others. Finally, it was Jastar who asked the obvious question.
“What … does that mean, Lord?”
“There are creatures whose death blow can damage if not outright devour a man’s force.”
“Falx’s fall… Things that can eat a man’s spirit?”
“No. The spirit is something different. It’s altogether real, but it’s something else.” He shook his head. “Language often fails us. Force is so regularly borrowed to mean other things—from weight and pressure to raw strength, demand to destructive power. You might have heard force called by a different term—the shadow.” His instinct was to both explore the reasons why Jastar had leapt to link force to spirit, and to explain the differences in detail here and now. But no. The hourglass is emptying. And nothing eats at time quite like self-indulgence.
Pallith bowed his head, kissing his fingertips in a plea for spiritual protection that needed no explanation.
Methias saw varying degrees of understanding on the assembled faces. He had to summarize. What did they need to know?
“The shadow is what binds the spirit to the flesh. It holds all that you see and do—all that you learn and experience throughout your life. There’s more, much of it bound up with the Weave… what you might have grown up hearing called magic or sorcery, Sir Jastar.” After a pause to gauge his audience, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What does is this. Creatures who can do this gain real power—genuine strength, in one form or another, by taking a dying man’s shadow. It not only makes the eater more potent a foe, but it can stop a spirit from continuing on to whatever might be next for them. It can even turn, or help to turn, such an unfortunate into a haunt.”
Jastar blanched, clearly shaken. “Storms be swift… What manner of monster could do that?”
It was the Kieran who answered. His voice was low and grim—leagues from the bright music of his usual easy laugh. “Once-men… some of them, anyway. I know there are other creatures with that power, but I couldn’t name them. Some of the unquiet dead, though? Aye, they’ve been known to have access to such arts.”
Tharus spoke up from atop his brindled stallion. His voice was quiet, his face grave. He looked as if he were trying to suppress a shudder. “The isbryd drayag come to mind. The wraith dragons. This isn’t their work, though. They don’t eat animal shadows. Also, they’re beaked, not fanged.”
Tharus’s words struck Methias like a fist. Pangs of pain, sadness, regret, and inadequacy did battle for dominance within him. He looked away from Tharus’s haunted face.
Self-indulgence, he reminded himself. Nothing eats at time like self-indulgence.
Sweeping them all with his eyes, Methias offered them a thin grin. “At bottom, we’ve been lucky. We’ve learned this bit of news before we face the foe… a foe that likely doesn’t know we’re coming.” He turned Mezofel toward the moon-washed way that led to Wick. “Ibhroth? Jastar? When the fighting starts, you stay with me, or you stand with the Ban’ze Ruun. Apiné’s folk know what they’re about, as does Tharus. It won’t matter if the foe’s living or dead.”
Mezofel carried him forward at a walk. “Now, come. We’re for the red, ruined road.”
-III-
County Thorion
Wick
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Gordan paced the wide alure that crowned Wick’s wall. The sunless chill scraped at his mood as much as it did his flesh, and he was agitated.
Agitated? No. That’s underselling it. I’m… I’m…
He didn’t know what he was. Angry, fearful, embarrassed, confused? He was all of these things and more. No word or phrase felt weighty enough to accurately describe it. Hells, is there even a word for it? If I could name it, I could probably stomach it!
Well, if he couldn’t name the stew of emotions churning within him, he could at least name its cause. It was the goblins—the Nebelblut.
Goblin… He spat over the side to the grasses below. Falx’s fall, but goblin is such a soft name for them. Such a fanciful, cradle-tale term.
Only after that thought had fully formed did he realize how accurate a sentiment it was. Of course, it sounded like a cradle-tale term. It was a cradle-tale term. Likely it had been chosen because of how readily it rolled off the tongue, regardless of what languages a body spoke.
He tried to laugh at himself, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was too intent on looking for—smelling for sign that the alien things were near. No hint of their scent came to him. As for seeing…
True twilight’s all but claimed the sky. This is the dangerous time—the uncertain time. The fading daylight turned everything vague, while the torches and lanterns did their best to help the eye wander. A watch at dusk is bad enough when bandits are about. With the Nebelblut…
The wind shook the trees. The movement made him think of narrowed eyes looking out past the foliage. Foliage that had been pushed aside by fingers with far too many joints…
Gordan shook his head, trying to banish the black flowers now thriving in the fertile ground of his imagination. How much time do we still have? How long before they’re upon us?
He turned to look at the village below, then lifted his gaze to the broad lands beyond it. He could just make out the sun’s final flirtation with the day—a pale, purple light lowering in the west.
Unbidden, a song floated into his head. He couldn’t think of its name, but it had started infecting his mind back before he’d left Eastshadow. Lyrically it was a dove-caller—something sweet, meant to make women smile and sigh. But the way its melody bounced from word to word, it wasn’t far off from a drinking song. It just wasn’t quite bombastic enough for such a label. Drinking song or dove-caller, his mind seized on it as if it were a last ledge before the fall. And he’d no idea why.
He heard someone nearby singing it in a soft baritone. Gradually, he realized the voice was his own.
…The snows draw close upon winter winds,
A strange and silver sweetness while my love, she is away.
Each eddy’s dance where the rivers bend,
Every waterfall and forest glen,
A perfect, purple passing while my love, she is away.
What storms may come? What horrors hum,
In darkest… coldest…
He stopped singing, trying and failing to fight the shudder that strode up his spine. Things are bleak enough without me calling down worse. Havoc’s Horn, were all songs hiding secret horror within their staves?
Well, at least there’s no movement among the outer grasses, save a few sheep and cattle in their wooden pens. If they aren’t smelling them, maybe…
No. No, he knew what he’d seen. The… whatever it was, now. The former goblin, he supposed, had mouthed words to him… words in the Trade Tongue. He’d swear to it.
Gordan turned back to the east, resuming his vigil. When the monsters came—if they came—it would almost certainly be from that direction.
He registered the sound of rapid footfalls mounting the nearby stairs just before an unfamiliar voice called out.
“Sir Gordan is it?” The man sounded as if he were from the southwest of the county—probably somewhere between Southwall and Oakwind. Gordan felt his spine stiffen at the use of his honorific. He puffed out a shaky stream of air. It was still too warm for his breath to show, and he was glad. It would be better if no one saw the shameful proof of his fear.
Forcing his voice to steady, he gestured for the speaker to join him up on the wall without turning away from his vigil. “I answer to that name.”
Not one, but two men joined him on the alure—one with short blond hair cut in a meticulous style, the other with a shag of light brown on both head and face. They were armed and armored in leather breastplates and bracers of deep blue. Only the blond wore a cloak, also of blue.
“We’re sent by—”
“The Lord Ricgerd. I know.”
“By Sir Kaith, actually, though the Lord Ricgerd is with him.” The man’s voice was as mild as milk. Still, Gordan had to fight not to do a double-take.
“Kaith is here?”
The blond gave a single nod, looking out over the parapet. “Aye, Sir. He’s sent us on ahead to see what’s to see. We were told we were besieged…” His tone implied the addition of all evidence to the contrary. That was reasonable. Clearly, Wick was not, at this precise moment, under siege. Yet it wouldn’t be much longer.
“We are—or soon will be. We need every hand at the ready. Arrows and archers, swords and boards, and those who can wield them.” Gordan felt a flare of anger rise and welcomed it like an old friend. “Are you questioning me…?” He trailed off in a way that invited the blond man to fill in the missing name.
“Terrek, Sir. Sergeant Terrek.” The man’s voice was still mild, yet it had shifted to something slightly colder, almost clipped. “Your assessment.”
Gordan blinked, turning to look at the man’s hawkish profile. Terrek might have been Gordan’s own age. Then again, you could just as easily have as much as a decade on me. Your bearing makes it hard to do more than guess.
Both the sergeant and his heretofore silent companion were scanning the landscape beyond the wall with real scrutiny. Valad would’ve said they weren’t just looking, but actually seeing their surroundings.
After a beat or two, Terrek elaborated. “You asked if I were questioning you, Sir. I’m questioning your assessment. You have knowledge we d’not. As I say, we were told we were—at this moment—besieged. That’s plainly not so, which means the messenger made a mis-take.” He separated that last word into two distinct syllables. “So yes, Sir. I’m questioning you, so I know how best to help.”
-II-
Thorion County
The Shivering March
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
They’d ridden for perhaps three quarters of an hour. The sky had covered itself in a hazy twilight that turned every shadow soft and downy. Their path had taken them through thickets of pine and poplar, oak and willow, and—within the last few minutes—hawthorn. These thickets and groves had been separated by gorgeous glens of lady’s mantle, sedge, and heather grass.
Methias had ridden in relative silence. He’d been content to let Mezofel run and natter in his head. Such conversation—if indeed that was the right word for it—always amused and delighted him. It wasn’t quite speech, according to the more traditional definition of the word. No familiar ever quite spoke to the caster whose cloth they’d been cut from. Yet after so many miles and so many years together, Methias had learned a trick or two.
I’ll need to find a way to explain the how of it to her, I think. If she hasn’t changed her mind by the time we return home, she’ll need as much understanding as I can give her. He paused for a moment, allowing Mezofel’s message to filter through his mind’s eye and ear. He let out an audible chuckle. No, I don’t mean to teach her how to talk to you. Just how I’ve learned to listen.
“Lord?” Jastar sounded as if Methias’s chuckle had set him on edge.
Given his reaction to everything else thus far, I’m just pleased he hasn’t turned tail and fled back to Thorion. In all honesty, if he hadn’t been knighted by the County Throne, I’d have left him at the kor. His rank and station here should make gaining an audience much easier when we arrive—should even lend weight to my words, which may well save lives.
“Nothing, Sir Jastar. A conversation came to mind and made me smile. Nothing more.”
He resisted the urge to chuckle again when Mezofel chastised him for that reply.
I only spoke the truth, thank you. The fact that your side of our conversations always involves “coming to mind” is quite beside the point.
His face fell. How bad? He nodded.
“There’s been trouble over this next hill. We’ll see it for ourselves once we clear the hawthorns.”
Tharus’s beard-stubble voice made a grunt of agreement. He sighed through his speech a moment later. “Aye, Me—” He cleared his throat. “Aye, my lord. There’s death not far ahead, though it’s from a bit back up the hourglass.”
He saw Jastar do battle with and ultimately defeat the urge to both gawk and ask questions. “As you say,” was all he allowed into the air.
Impressive. He’s a man of excellent self-control.
“Weapons, Lord?” Apiné’s tone made it clear her question was little more than a formality.
“No, Lanbachsel. In easy reach, mind, but no.” He paused to absorb Mezofel’s message, nodded, then turned to speak over his right shoulder. “You’re right, Tharus. Before the sun sank behind the hills, at a guess.”
A moment later and they’d broken through the hawthorns. They found themselves at the edge of a hilltop—the tallest within view, and by several feet. The early moonlight shone down on the open heath across from them. In the gloaming, they could see the wreckage of what looked to be a merchant’s wagon. It lay there like an overturned beetle. One of its wheels was missing, presumably buried in the wild sedge that surrounded it.
Methias stiffened for a beat, processing what Mezofel relayed to him. He stood up in his stirrups, looking down along the gentle slope of their own hill.
“There.” At the place where the dip between the hills bottomed out, a horse’s broken body lay blanketed in shadow.
Methias sighed, calling back over his shoulder. “Lanbachsel? Secure the next hilltop. Touch nothing you don’t need to touch. Tharus, Jastar? Stand a watch up here. Ibhroth? With me.” He didn’t wait for a reply. With the slightest pressure from his knees, Mezofel trotted down the near side of the hill.
He came up beside the sadful body, wincing. The animal had been piebald—either deep brown or black—but had a strangeness to the white patches that he couldn’t at first place. It was too dark to tell the difference, nor did he think it much mattered, save that the dark patches made him think of Mezofel. His own charger’s sable skin and coal-colored coat had always brought to mind a warm blanket on a windy winter’s night. Now, looking down—seeing what’d been visited upon the beast below—he felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the wind.
Ibhroth came down after him. “Lord? Do you … see it?”
Methias wrestled himself away from the miserable thought of what if this had been Mezofel. Further, he forced himself to reject the urge to say what he’d been thinking—how painful it was to contemplate what had been done to this creature. How much seeing it hurt his heart.
He swallowed, then glanced at Ibhroth’s eyes. No, he’s looking at the body. He didn’t see me swallow, so couldn’t have misread it. Good. I… I should answer him, though. Before he asks again.
“Tell me what you see, Cr ke.”
The Yebu Ke nodded, giving a thorough once-over to the poor thing before answering. This was why Methias had chosen his company for this grim chore. It was absurd to think all Eodenth were trackers, just as it was absurd to think all Naushaii were casters. Yet a goodly portion of each realm’s respective populace did fall into those groups, he and Ibhroth among them.
“Didn’t fall, Lord.” He shook his head. “Attacked, else I’m the Emperor of Ashes.” He stood in the saddle for a moment. “…Sweat lines in its fur from where its harness hung.” He paused to point. “D’you see the strap of leather pinned beneath its front? Poor bastard’s legs were broke after the fall, not ‘cause of it.”
I must hear his conclusions, not interrupt by stating my own. He may see a thing I don’t. And if I speak first, he may decide his thoughts aren’t wanted, or worth sharing.
Methias nodded. “Anything more, Cr ke?”
Ibhroth considered. “Been chewed on. Odd that an animal’d start a meal then flee, though…”
Methias followed the man’s eyes. He understood exactly what had struck him as being so strange now. He waited to see if the young Eodenth would see it as well. It would be better if he himself weren’t the only one to mark the truth, but the hourglass was emptying. He couldn’t afford to give the man too much more time.
“Ah…” The Yebu Ke didn’t sound pleased, but he sounded satisfied. “Missed it ‘neath the mane, but there’s a hole in its neck. An arrow—a broad-headed one, or I’m blind.”
Fighting the urge to sigh, Methias forced himself to speak. He didn’t want to, but there wasn’t much choice. “Cr ke… do you see the legs?”
Ibhroth nodded, following Methias’s gaze to the nearest one. It was clearly broken, bone showing through the too-ragged flesh. “Aye lord. I see. As I say, they’ve been… Gah!” He actually jumped a little, unintentionally forcing his horse to rear. When he had his steed under control again, he turned to Methias with a look of horror on his beardless face.
“Why is… why is the blood white?” His tannish dreamer’s lamps raked over the body. They seemed to stop at all of the places showing what, at first glance, had looked to be piebald coloration. His face grew pale. “Bear’s breath… It’s white everywhere that’s been gnawed!” This last had come out in a strangled croak.
Methias closed his eyes for a moment, then gave a nod toward where the third of the two-two held the lower hillock. He lifted his chin toward the men on watch. “Tharus? Sir Jastar? If you’d join the others?”
Shuddering, Ibhroth followed Methias’s gaze, then followed his horse as they rejoined Apiné and her folk.
Other than the broken wagon, the hill was empty. Methias could see a road to the south. He raised his head to lock eyes, first with Pallith, then Jastar. “Does that road run all the way to Wick?”
They looked at it, then at one another for a beat. It was Pallith who answered.
“Yes, Lord. From Eastshadow to Wick. There is a fork that will run directly to Thorionden’s gate to the south as well.”
Methias nodded. “The blood from the horse’s wounds … was white.”
Tharus and the folk of the third all grew grim, nodding. Ibhroth and Jastar looked to Methias, then the others. Finally, it was Jastar who asked the obvious question.
“What … does that mean, Lord?”
“There are creatures whose death blow can damage if not outright devour a man’s force.”
“Falx’s fall… Things that can eat a man’s spirit?”
“No. The spirit is something different. It’s altogether real, but it’s something else.” He shook his head. “Language often fails us. Force is so regularly borrowed to mean other things—from weight and pressure to raw strength, demand to destructive power. You might have heard force called by a different term—the shadow.” His instinct was to both explore the reasons why Jastar had leapt to link force to spirit, and to explain the differences in detail here and now. But no. The hourglass is emptying. And nothing eats at time quite like self-indulgence.
Pallith bowed his head, kissing his fingertips in a plea for spiritual protection that needed no explanation.
Methias saw varying degrees of understanding on the assembled faces. He had to summarize. What did they need to know?
“The shadow is what binds the spirit to the flesh. It holds all that you see and do—all that you learn and experience throughout your life. There’s more, much of it bound up with the Weave… what you might have grown up hearing called magic or sorcery, Sir Jastar.” After a pause to gauge his audience, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What does is this. Creatures who can do this gain real power—genuine strength, in one form or another, by taking a dying man’s shadow. It not only makes the eater more potent a foe, but it can stop a spirit from continuing on to whatever might be next for them. It can even turn, or help to turn, such an unfortunate into a haunt.”
Jastar blanched, clearly shaken. “Storms be swift… What manner of monster could do that?”
It was the Kieran who answered. His voice was low and grim—leagues from the bright music of his usual easy laugh. “Once-men… some of them, anyway. I know there are other creatures with that power, but I couldn’t name them. Some of the unquiet dead, though? Aye, they’ve been known to have access to such arts.”
Tharus spoke up from atop his brindled stallion. His voice was quiet, his face grave. He looked as if he were trying to suppress a shudder. “The isbryd drayag come to mind. The wraith dragons. This isn’t their work, though. They don’t eat animal shadows. Also, they’re beaked, not fanged.”
Tharus’s words struck Methias like a fist. Pangs of pain, sadness, regret, and inadequacy did battle for dominance within him. He looked away from Tharus’s haunted face.
Self-indulgence, he reminded himself. Nothing eats at time like self-indulgence.
Sweeping them all with his eyes, Methias offered them a thin grin. “At bottom, we’ve been lucky. We’ve learned this bit of news before we face the foe… a foe that likely doesn’t know we’re coming.” He turned Mezofel toward the moon-washed way that led to Wick. “Ibhroth? Jastar? When the fighting starts, you stay with me, or you stand with the Ban’ze Ruun. Apiné’s folk know what they’re about, as does Tharus. It won’t matter if the foe’s living or dead.”
Mezofel carried him forward at a walk. “Now, come. We’re for the red, ruined road.”
-III-
County Thorion
Wick
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Gordan paced the wide alure that crowned Wick’s wall. The sunless chill scraped at his mood as much as it did his flesh, and he was agitated.
Agitated? No. That’s underselling it. I’m… I’m…
He didn’t know what he was. Angry, fearful, embarrassed, confused? He was all of these things and more. No word or phrase felt weighty enough to accurately describe it. Hells, is there even a word for it? If I could name it, I could probably stomach it!
Well, if he couldn’t name the stew of emotions churning within him, he could at least name its cause. It was the goblins—the Nebelblut.
Goblin… He spat over the side to the grasses below. Falx’s fall, but goblin is such a soft name for them. Such a fanciful, cradle-tale term.
Only after that thought had fully formed did he realize how accurate a sentiment it was. Of course, it sounded like a cradle-tale term. It was a cradle-tale term. Likely it had been chosen because of how readily it rolled off the tongue, regardless of what languages a body spoke.
He tried to laugh at himself, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was too intent on looking for—smelling for sign that the alien things were near. No hint of their scent came to him. As for seeing…
True twilight’s all but claimed the sky. This is the dangerous time—the uncertain time. The fading daylight turned everything vague, while the torches and lanterns did their best to help the eye wander. A watch at dusk is bad enough when bandits are about. With the Nebelblut…
The wind shook the trees. The movement made him think of narrowed eyes looking out past the foliage. Foliage that had been pushed aside by fingers with far too many joints…
Gordan shook his head, trying to banish the black flowers now thriving in the fertile ground of his imagination. How much time do we still have? How long before they’re upon us?
He turned to look at the village below, then lifted his gaze to the broad lands beyond it. He could just make out the sun’s final flirtation with the day—a pale, purple light lowering in the west.
Unbidden, a song floated into his head. He couldn’t think of its name, but it had started infecting his mind back before he’d left Eastshadow. Lyrically it was a dove-caller—something sweet, meant to make women smile and sigh. But the way its melody bounced from word to word, it wasn’t far off from a drinking song. It just wasn’t quite bombastic enough for such a label. Drinking song or dove-caller, his mind seized on it as if it were a last ledge before the fall. And he’d no idea why.
He heard someone nearby singing it in a soft baritone. Gradually, he realized the voice was his own.
…The snows draw close upon winter winds,
A strange and silver sweetness while my love, she is away.
Each eddy’s dance where the rivers bend,
Every waterfall and forest glen,
A perfect, purple passing while my love, she is away.
What storms may come? What horrors hum,
In darkest… coldest…
He stopped singing, trying and failing to fight the shudder that strode up his spine. Things are bleak enough without me calling down worse. Havoc’s Horn, were all songs hiding secret horror within their staves?
Well, at least there’s no movement among the outer grasses, save a few sheep and cattle in their wooden pens. If they aren’t smelling them, maybe…
No. No, he knew what he’d seen. The… whatever it was, now. The former goblin, he supposed, had mouthed words to him… words in the Trade Tongue. He’d swear to it.
Gordan turned back to the east, resuming his vigil. When the monsters came—if they came—it would almost certainly be from that direction.
He registered the sound of rapid footfalls mounting the nearby stairs just before an unfamiliar voice called out.
“Sir Gordan is it?” The man sounded as if he were from the southwest of the county—probably somewhere between Southwall and Oakwind. Gordan felt his spine stiffen at the use of his honorific. He puffed out a shaky stream of air. It was still too warm for his breath to show, and he was glad. It would be better if no one saw the shameful proof of his fear.
Forcing his voice to steady, he gestured for the speaker to join him up on the wall without turning away from his vigil. “I answer to that name.”
Not one, but two men joined him on the alure—one with short blond hair cut in a meticulous style, the other with a shag of light brown on both head and face. They were armed and armored in leather breastplates and bracers of deep blue. Only the blond wore a cloak, also of blue.
“We’re sent by—”
“The Lord Ricgerd. I know.”
“By Sir Kaith, actually, though the Lord Ricgerd is with him.” The man’s voice was as mild as milk. Still, Gordan had to fight not to do a double-take.
“Kaith is here?”
The blond gave a single nod, looking out over the parapet. “Aye, Sir. He’s sent us on ahead to see what’s to see. We were told we were besieged…” His tone implied the addition of all evidence to the contrary. That was reasonable. Clearly, Wick was not, at this precise moment, under siege. Yet it wouldn’t be much longer.
“We are—or soon will be. We need every hand at the ready. Arrows and archers, swords and boards, and those who can wield them.” Gordan felt a flare of anger rise and welcomed it like an old friend. “Are you questioning me…?” He trailed off in a way that invited the blond man to fill in the missing name.
“Terrek, Sir. Sergeant Terrek.” The man’s voice was still mild, yet it had shifted to something slightly colder, almost clipped. “Your assessment.”
Gordan blinked, turning to look at the man’s hawkish profile. Terrek might have been Gordan’s own age. Then again, you could just as easily have as much as a decade on me. Your bearing makes it hard to do more than guess.
Both the sergeant and his heretofore silent companion were scanning the landscape beyond the wall with real scrutiny. Valad would’ve said they weren’t just looking, but actually seeing their surroundings.
After a beat or two, Terrek elaborated. “You asked if I were questioning you, Sir. I’m questioning your assessment. You have knowledge we d’not. As I say, we were told we were—at this moment—besieged. That’s plainly not so, which means the messenger made a mis-take.” He separated that last word into two distinct syllables. “So yes, Sir. I’m questioning you, so I know how best to help.”
