Something stirs

Previously: Mira, her concerns and distrust of their 'guide' voiced, reluctantly follows her companions into what she believes will be certain danger...

My legs, watery as they were, propelled me forward. Hustyn. Great, shaggy, man-beasts as ill-tempered as a wounded bear--and about as intelligent. Their reeking kind were not as common as they once were (probably because male and female Hustyn had no stomach for each other) and rarely seen in most civilized lands. In some, they were thought to be mere myths or villains in stories meant to scare children into doing their chores. I knew they yet lived, for I had encountered plenty of strange, dangerous creatures in the course of my travels, but I was be surprised to learn of a settlement so close to an established human town. Surprised and frightened: I had no qualms with admitting that. Hustyn were fearsome creatures, prodigious in strength and driven to acts of unprovoked, unspeakable violence.

And, from the looks of Seymuhr's posture—he moved stealthily, with a mace in each hand—we meant to provoke them.

I had time to think of an escape. We were still among the trees that bordered the town of Alt. Tall and straight with thick branches beyond the reach of any but the tallest man, the trees provided few obstacles but plenty of cover, should we have need of it. We moved with relative ease, although the occasional low-lying twig slapped painfully against my skin. A blanket of last year's leaves softened our footfalls. Soon the trees would grow wider apart and the land would slope up, giving way to the grassy hills where, apparently, our quarry...nested? Lived? What did a Hustyn settlement look like, anyway? Well, now, that would certainly provide for an interesting detail. Perhaps if I survived this mad quest, I could gather enough information to earn a few coins for my trouble. If I made it out alive.

The easiest way to make a hasty retreat was to use my Traveling Stone, a magickal trinket given to me long ago by the priests of Tooman, but I was loathe to use that device for I knew not how long it would last. Surely, the energies infused into it would run out at some point. Besides, it was a better idea to rely on one's own abilities rather than some supernatural artifact. It kept you from getting careless.

Should I abandon my new companions, then? I owed them nothing—less than that, even, for I was brought to them unwillingly. Still, the idea of leaving a man (however repugnant) to face such a horrid fate merely to save my own hide didn't sit well with me. Some type of diversion, then, would be in order. Hustyn weren't known for their intelligence—there was a reason that the phrase 'as gullible as a giant' was heard in so many marketplaces. I would have to take careful note of our surroundings when we arrived to develop an appropriate plan. Still, I felt the familiar, smooth shape that hung from a plain strand of leather looped around my neck. It was good to know that my Traveling Stone was still an option.

We moved silently through the forest for what seemed like hours. It could not have been so long, for the night was still unblemished by any gray trace of dawn and the trees above us were still live with the sounds of night creatures stirring or hissing at our sudden passage. This wounded man must have been deaf as a turtle not to hear the commotion our presence caused—that or he knew that he was not alone in the forest and didn't care. That was a chilling thought, because that meant...

I swore silently and looked around for Merrick, Broo-Fang—even Seymuhr—but didn't see any of them. Then I noticed that the forest had gone silent, at last, and I was the only person moving in the twilight. I paused, holding my breath as my heart pounded in my ears like a drummer on a marching line. Had I somehow veered from our course? Fallen behind? Or had they stopped and allowed me to stumble on into certain danger?

I knew better than to call out and my throat was too tight to try, anyway. I decided that I could manage a hoarse whisper and was about to give it voice when a cold hand grasped my chin and I was pulled roughly to the ground. I struggled, my voice muffled by the strong fingers clamped over my mouth. I kicked and felt my heel bite into a hard surface—a shin, judging from the grunt of pain that followed, and was about to start throwing elbows when I was turned quickly over and found myself staring up into the face of Connell Malak. He held a finger over his lips—which were, in fact, squeezed in an expression of pain—and nodded to see if I understood.

I stopped struggling, and he released me. I rolled away from and spat to rid myself of the taste of his flesh. It didn't quite work. "You keep your lice-ridden paws off me," I hissed.

He rubbed his shin with one hand, an irritated expression on his face and pointed beyond the trees with the other.

"Just be quiet, you stupid woman," he snarled. "And look."

The trees fell away, revealing a clearing that was shaped roughly like a gigantic egg. The grass there was well-trampled and still. A figure cautiously detached himself from the trees on the up and to our right and moved slowly into the center of the glade. He looked about wildly, jumping at sounds I suspect only he heard, and kept his hand on his sword. I could see the bandage even in the wane light of the moon. It was the wounded man from the tavern.

And beyond him, where the trees gathered together once more at the base of a gentle slope, something was stirring. Something big.

 

Silence shrouds the forest

Previously: Bracing for an attack, Mira instead is confronted by her old familiar nemesis, Connell Malak, and is surprised to find that her new companions not only know the man but are willing to follow him into the darkness. Where? She's about to find out...

I couldn't help but recall that frenzied trip up the hillside so long ago. This was nearly the same: the pounding fear, the uncertainty, the snap of thorny twigs sent hurling toward my flesh by an uncaring leader. The forest sped by in a blur. I stumbled, my foot caught in a root and nearly fell. Nobody else seemed to be having this much difficulty. Was I truly that clumsy? As clumsy as my father always told me I was?

I thought about stopping and letting whatever mad mission this was continue without me, but I faced two fears: first, I didn't want to be left alone in the forest--even this close to the city. I was not exactly helpless, but the darkness is always embraced by all manner of creatures that cannot stand the light of day. I would rather not test my short blade against them. Second, Malak was now leading this exhibition. I recalled the woefully inaccurate map and his signature, with proud loops and artistic curls at the bottom of it. No matter who these men were, they deserved a better fate than to follow one such as he.

Cursing, I rubbed another fresh welt and ducked under a different, thicker branch. My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom and I saw three of my companions moving with stealthy haste in the same direction. Merrick's bulk was easy to pick out, as was Seymuhr's squat form. Malak would be the one directly ahead and between those two, picking his steps as carefully as could be under the circumstances.

I caught up with Merrick first.

"I don't like this," I hissed. "We should not be following this man into anything. He's not only shown a remarkable propensity for providing false information...he's signed his name to it!"

He shot me a quizzical look. I didn't care to expound. "I'll tell you later. Trust me when I say that is reputation among my circle is suspect at best. His reputation among any outside his own mind is suspect, now that I puzzle over it."

Merrick grunted, nodded and surprised me. "I know," he said. "I have my reasons. For now, you ask me to trust you. I ask you to trust me. I'll explain myself when we reach our objective."

"Our objective?" I pointed toward the fading shapes of Malak and Seymuhr. "If we follow him into the night, there's no tell where we'll end up—or if we'll be able to find our way back!" I felt under my shirt, where my traveling stone hung protected in its soft pouch. I, at least, could escape, and perhaps take two companions with me. I had never tried to summon anything so large—because I never had the need. I was usually alone.

"Of that, you need not fear," he said. "Our stout companions will protect us, and I am adept at finding my way in the wilderness—as you must be, yourself. Surely, you didn't find your way into the city by accident?"

It had been nearly an accident, but Merrick was right. I had more than a rudimentary knowledge of the area surrounding the town, because I had spent some time recently mapping it out. In fact, now that I had a better sense of my surroundings and at least a fair idea of the direction we were heading, I had a pretty good guess at where we were going--and why Merrick thought it prudent to mention the words 'stout' and 'protect' in the same sentence.

"Hold!" I hissed again. "We're moving north, toward the hills? I've heard tales of Hustyn settlements..." Hustyn. Others called them giants, but none called them friend. They barely tolerated their own kind.

"Aye," Merrick agreed. "That tale has been told, but none have verified it. I fear another, deeper evil at work, as well. That is my objective. Our objective—and if you tarry any longer, we'll be late to the slaughter!"

He pushed me away and hurried off. I hesitated, then followed. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else and were attached to yet another's feet. If I was clumsy before, I lurched like a drunken cripple now. Five of us, heading toward a settlement of giants? That was a slaughter I wanted to be late to.

 

The Wounded Man's Gold, Part 10

Previously: after joining an oddly-mixed band of adventurers, Mira settles in to get more acquainted with her new companions. She is startled--and soon dismayed--when she learns of the ambitions of Seymuhr, the brute who abducted her. He considers himself a poet, and subjects her to some really, really bad poetry. Just as she's shaking off this latest experience, the company hears strange noises in the forest. Expecting an attack, Mira finds herself alone to face down this new foe...

There was little enough time to react, but I was frozen anyway. I barely had time to curse my misfortune when the figure burst from the trees, panting and with a wild look in his eyes. He yelped when he saw me and his eyes widened in shocked recognition--as mine must have, as well.

"Malak?" I asked at the same time he shouted my name. "What are you doing here?"

Connell Malak had, in a way, introduced me to this tale, but had abruptly left when things started to get uncomfortable. I assumed that he was well on his way to some safer location--or a nearby bed with a warm, willing companion. He was about the last person I expected to see. Was there was someone or something chasing him? That seemed more likely.

He looked past me and made eye contact with Merrick. "It is time," he said. "He moves now, with speed and stealth. We will have to hurry to catch him."

Merrick nodded, grunted, and sheathed his sword. Seymuhr kicked dirt over the fire. Broo-Fang Tane dropped silently out of a nearby tree, landing like a cat. I knew he was nearby, but even so his quiet appearance startled me. He flashed me a shy smile.

"You know these men?" I asked Malak. "Are you a member of this company?"

They ignored me and I hissed in exasperation. "Who is moving? Moving where?"

"I will explain later, if there is time," Merrick said. "Right now, if we're to accomplish our objective, we must make haste."

Malak nodded and started back into the woods. "It's this way," he said over his shoulder, a hoarse, tense whisper. "He was heading north, toward the hills."

Seymuhr slipped into the forest behind him, with Broo-Fang on his heels. Merrick took one last look around the clearing, nodded and motioned for me to follow.

"Come," he said. "We have a task tonight, after all. If you would have a hand in this tale--or the telling of it--hold your questions and take flight. We are in pursuit of of an elusive quarry: the wounded man you spoke to earlier, and his gold."

He turned and followed the others into the forest, leaving me stunned, a pool of ice spreading throughout my stomach.

"Thieves? Do you mean to tell me you are nothing but thieves...?"

"Just come, Esmiralda. I promise you we are not. We are interested not in the weight of his riches, but the mystery and, I suspect, treachery behind it."

Alone in the forest or following blindly a group of men toward an uncertain goal. My own lack of coin had brought hard choices to me these past few days. I stepped out of the clearing, into the darkness, where the sounds of pursuit led me I knew not where.

The 'poet' speaks

Previously: Mira, a freelance historian and seeker of tales, thinks she has stumbled onto a mystery when she is abducted. After coming to an uneasy truce with her new companions, she begins to learn more about them. She is surprised--and very skeptical--when told that Seymuhr, the brute who tossed her over his shoulder and whisked her into the woods, considers himself a poet in training....

Seymuhr got to his feet, brushing dirt from his back side. His mouth contorted in what I assume was a smile and he made a few rough, moist noises with his throat. What an unlikely appearance for one who claimed to dabble in the softer arts. Most who attempted to move others with their words too some pride in the way they presented themselves; even those who spent more time traveling the back pathways of the land from village to hamlet had a certain quality that made them appealing to the eye, whether it was nice hair, a pretty face, strong jaw line or a pleasing shape. And, in my experience, at least, they all had nice, engaging smiles.

Not Seymuhr. He was shorter than most men—and many women, for that matter, including myself—but nearly as broad as he was tall. That he was strong there was no question, for his limbs were thick and solid, his torso like a chunk of stone waiting to be sculpted. He had no hair, save for the wisps that protruded from his misshapen ears. His cheeks were pocked, his teeth irregular and yellow. His knuckles were gnarled and prominent and dotted with fresh scabs that stood out from the blotchy patches that identified old wounds like broken beads on dirty tile. But his eyes were a deep and piercing blue, a shade darker than I had seen before, and flecked with orange. Maybe I could concentrate on those.

"My knuckles were keys
freeing several teeth from the
prison of his jaws."

He paused, eyebrows lifted like squirming caterpillars, as if asking if he should continue.

I could only gape at him. After a few moments, I looked at Merrick, who gave me a mischievous smile.

"Sneering with disdain,
I popped his eyes, crushed his skull
and split his sternum."

Of course. It would have to be Nogovian poetry. The Nogovs were a peaceful people who lived on the eastern coast, where the tumultuous winds of the Heanen Sea nurtured all manner of flowers in the spring time, eased the harsh air and scalding sun during the summer, scattered the brilliant leaves of the fall and brought sleet and ice in the winter. Their land was a virtual mosaic, no matter when you arrived and how long you stayed and their poetry usually reflected that. I say usually, because its simplicity made it the most abused form of all the arts. Nogovian poetry consisted of three lines of defined length: the first was five syllables, the second, seven. A third five-syllable line finished it.

I looked again at Merrick.

"I call them versus verses," he said with the hint of a chuckle, then called to Seymuhr: "How about something a little...softer, for the lady?"

Seymuhr nodded, tilted his head back and buried a finger into his bristling beard, apparently to scratch his chin. Then, his expression brightened.

"He would have held her
so tenderly, but then I
pulled off both his arms."

Merrick clapped his hands, whether in mock appreciation or genuine affection, I could only guess. I certainly hoped it was the former.

"He can do this all night," Merrick said.

Perhaps, but I could not. "If you ever travel to Govon," I told Seymuhr, "it would be best to keep your gift to yourself. They are protective of their art."

I grunted as I got to my feet, intent on finding some true nature to reflect on, but that was not to be. I froze, heart skipping, as I heard the sound of someone—or something—crashing through the underbrush, heading directly toward our clearing. Merrick's expression had turned serious, and a short blade scraped from his scabbard and glinted in firelight. Seymuhr had a mace in each hand. The monk was nowhere to be seen.

Life is all about timing, being in the right place at the right time—or at least not the wrong place at the wrong time. That simple fact never seemed more relevant than it did at that moment. I shared a clearing and, I think, a common objective with three men who most likely knew hot to fight, yet they were behind me and I, alone and unarmed, stood closest to this new threat.

 

Next, The Wounded Man's Gold continues...

A Hidden Skill

Previously: Asked to recount what made her decide to become a Falcuhn, or freelance historian, Esmiralda tells of a day in her early childhood, while on a ill-fated hunt with her father. After investigating a desolated village, they realize their mistake....

The forest had gone silent, save for the swishing of the leaves above us and the slow crackling of the dying fire. Broo-Fang Tane had melted into the shadows, unseen and unheard; I had barely registered his movement. Seymuhr had his back to us and was relieving himself of all the ale he had consumed earlier that night and, from the sounds of it, then some. Merrick gave me a sympathetic look that I brushed off.

"We were too late, of course," I said. "Maybe if we had...as soon as I saw the smoke, but..."

He cleared his throat. "There was no way of knowing. You could have suffered the same fate. Was she...?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. We didn't find her. We never found her, although we searched and searched. My father...well. Enough of that. What of you? How did an educated man come to be traveling with this brute?"

Seymuhr glanced over his shoulder, correctly assuming I had referred to him, and gave me a lecherous smile. The man must have a bladder the size of an ox.

Merrick chuckled. "In these times, a man who knows how to fight as well as he does isn't such a bad companion, you know."

I had to acknowledge that simple wisdom. It was a large part of why I was still in the clearing, and not clawing my way through the forest.

"But the fight is not all he knows. And, besides, I couldn't refuse an apprentice."

That surprised me. "An apprentice? Him? What could you possibly be teaching him."

Seymuhr hiked up his trousers, turned and sat on a log.

"Why, one of the Arts, of course. Seymuhr is a bit of a poet, and would build on that skill."

I gaped and looked back and forth between the two, looking for the hint of a smile. I saw none, although I thought I detected a twinkle of mischief in Merrick's eye. It could have been a tear. My guess was that someone with arms as thick as Seymuhr's could claim to be whatever or whoever he wanted. It wasn't too much to assume, then, that Merrick had little choice in the matter.

"Oh, yes," Merrick went on. "He is a poet all right."

"I admit, I find that hard to believe," I said.

Merrick shrugged. "If you are attacked and are forced to defend yourself, are you not a fighter? Thrown into the ocean, are you not a swimmer?" He paused and then tapped the side of his forehead. "If you jump from a tree, do you not—however briefly—fly? So it is with him."

He settled back, arms crossed, a satisfied look on his face. Did he think he had just imparted some life-changing wisdom? I hoped not. That would mark him as a follower of Aphor, who was known for the simplistic truths he passed along to his disciples during his time wandering the territories. The problem with Aphorists was that they were never as intuitive as the divine being they emulated. Their truths, therefore, tended to be a bit one-dimensional.

No matter what Merrick's personal beliefs were, I remained skeptical--both of Seymuhr's ability as a poet and Merrick's argument. "If I set a cow on fire, it does not make me a cook," I told him.

But Seymuhr got to his feet, dusted off his hands and cleared his throat. He leaned his head from side to side, stretched his arms and flexed his muscles.

"Would you like to hear a verse or two?" He asked, his voice raspy.

I glanced at Merrick, who was smiling now, and then back at Seymuhr, taking in his sturdy legs, thick chest and powerful arms and the maces that hung from his belt on either side of his hips. I guess I had to.

Ashes and Dolls

Previously: Asked to recount what made her decide to become a Falcuhn, or freelance historian, Esmiralda tells of a day in her early childhood, while on a ill-fated hunt with her father. The forest is quiet, Mira is cold and tired and then she sees smoke in the distance...

I don't remember much of the trek up the hillside, toward the smear of smoke in the sky. Mostly, I remember the way the branches stung my face as I hurried along, heart pounding at the thought of losing sight of my father. He was already so far ahead of me, crouched low but moving quickly, knife in his hand. I slipped and landed on my knee, but bit back a cry—better to bloody my own lip than to earn a reproachful look from him. He would not have slowed anyway.

I wanted to call out to him, to call him back, to tell him to turn around. I wished—and still wish, to this day—that I had never seen that smoke or at least never pointed it out to him. Maybe then we could have just gone back to our home and things would have gone on the way they always had. I think that even though I know it wouldn't have made any difference whether I showed him the smoke or not. We hadn't caught anything yet and he would have stayed on the hunt until he had something for supper. My father was not one to return empty handed, no matter how quiet and empty the forest seemed. He would have seen the smoke eventually and wanted to investigate it.

Some things are just meant to be.

I nearly bumped into him at the top of the hill, so well-hidden was he. He hissed and cursed my clumsiness, then shoved me harshly to the ground. I whimpered, afraid to move or speak. Father was crouched behind the same bush he had thrust me under, peering through the top branches down the slope below. His eyes were wide and alert, scanning the scene and horizon for any sign of movement. I could hear my own heartbeat, but not the sound of his breath. The air smelled of cinders.

"They're gone," he whispered. He didn't move, but I sensed that he wouldn't be angry if I did. I slowly rolled over, pushed myself up and peered down through our hiding spot, taking great care to be as silent as possible.

Still, I couldn't contain a gasp.

The forest fell away at the base of the hill and opened up into a small valley that had once been clustered with homes and, from the look of it, a small mill or smithy. Now scorched earth replaced the soft grass between skeletal structures that still smoldered with putrid smoke. I saw a few shapes that may have once belonged to people—both large and small—but their bones had been so consumed by fire that there was nothing left for the birds, and there were no other scavengers in sight. I whimpered and pulled on the back of my father's shirt.

He was already pulling away, drifting down the slope with his bow half ready. I stumbled behind him, heart racing, eyes scanning the horizon the way he had always taught me to. He reached the bottom and his boots churned up new clouds of dust and ash that clung to his legs. He stood in the middle of the town road, ears cocked, then lowered his bow and slung it over his shoulder.

"It's okay," he called to me. "There's nobody here." His voice seemed impossibly loud and I wanted to tell him to be quiet. I could never do that.

"What happened?" I think I spoke just to break the silence. It was obvious what had happened.

He picked a torn bit of fabric from a scorched bush and looked at it in disgust. "Salviks," he spat. "That'd be my guess. Don't know how or why they'd be this far north."

We crept through the ruined village, poking at piles of rubble and refuse. Nothing stirred. The silence was so thick it pressed in on my ears. I peered around a ruined chimney, black with soot and crumbling, and saw the remnants of a scorched table—the only recognizable form in a blasted square peppered with piles of burnt furnishings.

"Where are the people?"

My father grunted in reply. "Gone," was all he said.

I caught a glimpse of a tiny splash of color and broke away from his grip, pulling at a piece of fabric that had somehow escaped the destruction. It was a doll of some kind. Most of the color had been bleached away or dirtied with soot, but it looked like it might have once been dressed as a pretty young girl, maybe a princess, with blue eyes, dark hair and rosy cheeks. I held it up.

"Take it if you like," he said. "Nobody will care where you found it, or who had it last."

I shook some of the dust free of it. Nobody would care where I found it. Something stirred in me when he said those words. This had once been a loved plaything, most likely hidden when the trouble first started. It had brought someone joy, perhaps dreams of a better life, yet that person was gone now, and there would be none to remember her. None to tell what happened here.

"I want to go home," I whispered.

Father suddenly straightened, ran a hand over his head, and swore. He was looking back over the hill, toward where I thought our home would be, with real fear in his eyes.

It took a second to register and when it did, it felt like I had turned into ice.

"Momma," I said, and then ran after him.

 

An ill-fated hunt

Previously: Mira, a freelance historian loosely in the employ of Queen Phedera, is alone in a small town and running out of coin when she stumbles across a potential story. As she investigates, she is kidnapped and taken out of the city and plopped down in the center of a clearing and threatened further by a small group of men. Fearing for her safety, she forges an uneasy truce with them. Now they prepare to share their stories...

"What of you? How did you come to bear the mantle of the Falcuhn...?"

I sat back and looked down at the fire, then picked up a stick and poked at it. I asked myself that very question throughout the years, when I was involved in one bizarre situation after another, or sat, cold and hungry, outside some city I didn't have enough coin to enter. There were plenty of opportunities to question it, to question myself, to question the very world around me and to wonder why I didn't just settle down with some well-meaning and congenial farmer who would offer sturdy walls and a warm bed. Or, better yet, a brewmaster with his own tavern. But there would always be people to toil in the fields, to provide people with their vices and to wash up after them and not—as I learned long ago, someone to care that they did, or even that they lived.

My first memory that mattered was of a wisp of smoke curling above the pointed trees that dotted the hillsides in Kenemeh. I had survived five or six winters by then, and my father had grudgingly come to accept my presence. He and I walked along the the base of the hills, weaving in and out of the forest, he with his bow ready and me stumbling over roots, rocks and ducking branches as I tried to stay close to him. So far, my first hunting lesson was similar to those handed down as he taught me how to plant seeds, milk a goat or the proper way to act at mealtime: stay quiet and try to keep up.

I tugged at the bottom of his shirt, eliciting a hiss of frustration. He stopped and turned abruptly, face painted with impatience, probably expecting me to tell him I was tired, cold or needed a bush. All three, in fact, were true, but even then I knew better than to speak of my many wants or needs. Instead, I just pointed to the black smear over the horizon. He followed my wavering finger and swore quietly.

"Too much smoke to be a campfire," he muttered. He ran a calloused hand through his thinning hair, then looked down at me. "Can you find your way back on your own?"

He must have seen the terror in my eyes. We had been walking for hours and I lacked his memory of the land. I saw myself wandering, cold and crying, until my whimpers attracted a pack of hungry wolves. I shook my head, my lip quivering.

He crouched and gripped each of my shoulders. "Girl, you must know the way by now." If it weren't for my mother, I wouldn't know my name.

I shook my head again. I didn't want to leave his side.

He stood up and scratched his head with a barely concealed grunt of disgust. He slung his bow over his shoulder and loosened his knife in its sheath. "We won't get too close. I only want to see what happened and if anyone needs help. We'll need to be careful, too, so..."

"Be quiet and try to keep up," I mumbled.

"There's a good girl." He scanned the horizon again, looking for some kind of clue, then started up the slope. We would stay among the trees now, I knew, and move as quietly as we could. I suddenly realized why we had seen no game yet that day. The woods were utterly silent; the skies free of birds. All the woodland creatures were cloaked in shadows, hiding in their dens or concealed thickets. We were the only things moving in the forest and I felt very much out of place. Every twig I snapped sounded like a thunderclap.

My father moved ahead of me like a shadow while I clumsily stumbled behind him, shivering in the ominous silence.

Next: The Wounded Man's Gold continues in: Ashes and dolls