The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 11

  “This is your one chance,” Kelturin told him. “We need him alive. If you fail again—if he escapes or dies--I will be forced to have you decommissioned.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good. Pack your bags and rendezvous at the teleportation chamber in two candlemarks. You are the Crimson Hunter now. Make me proud.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  *****

  Cob was ready to leave the moment they returned to the cottage, but Ammala did not allow it. She ordered him to finish his work first, and so he spent several marks patching the roof then doing the same for the garto coop, while the birds clambered all over him to see what he was doing to their cozy home. He daydreamed about the Imperial City meanwhile—how he would walk up the white road in a penitent’s robe, through the flowering gardens alongside the other pilgrims, all seeking the same thing he did. Salvation.

  Around him, time on the homestead went by quietly. Nana Cray’s loom shuttle clacked methodically inside the cottage, and Ammala bustled about outside, washing and stringing up laundry until mysterious feminine garments hung everywhere like flags of an alien empire. Cob tried not to look at them, or at the barn-cat that napped atop the tool shed, deceptively indolent. He did not want to be distracted by reality.

  Only when he finished with the coop did she let him come inside. Ordering him to the floor, she presented him with a bundle made up of clothes, soap and travel-supplies wrapped in a blanket. He tried to refuse, but the look she gave withered his resolve. After that came a brisk parade of food—milk tea, porridge, boiled greens—and he ate quickly, worried that she would smack him with a dish if he did not take it when she offered.

  She whisked the last bowl from his hands before he had finished chewing. In its place, she presented a scroll. He blinked at it, then up at her.

  “A letter to my son Paol,” she said. “He is a soldier. If you go on your pilgrimage, you will pass his post atop the Rift. See that he gets this.”

  Cob swallowed the last lump of greens and took the scroll cautiously. He could neither read nor write, and the ability to interpret all those little squiggles had always seemed like some sort of magic. Stranger than that, though, was the thought that Ammala had a son in the Army. “If I can, I will.”

  “And this is for you. A protection.” She held out a cord of three braided strands—red, white, white. “Man, husband, father,” she said, “unless I have misjudged you.”

  “I told you, should’ve been all white for him,” chortled the old woman. “He’s no man yet, not the way he’s been looking at you.”

  Cob reddened and looked down. “I can’t take it. Anyway, I don’t--” Deserve your protection. I would have burned down your house if I’d come with the Army.

  “So you will eat my food and sleep beneath my roof, but not accept my blessing?”

  He grimaced. “I can’t, ma’am. It’s… Y’know I’m not allowed.”

  A sigh, then the multicolored skirts filled his view. He looked up to find aggravation and pity commingled on her worn face. “Then you bring it to my son,” she said. She took his hand and folded the cord into his palm.

  Cob nodded slowly, impelled by her eyes, and after a moment she released him. Turning away, she brushed her hands on her hips as if wiping them clean.

  “You should go now,” she said. “It is many marks’ walk to Bahlaer; you may not reach it by nightfall.”

  Cob rose, feeling more out of place than ever. The old woman stared at him from her seat at the loom, for once not sneering, only watching, her eyes like two seeds in her dried-apple face. Ammala moved to the hearth as if the matter was closed.

  As if he was already gone.

  “Thank you for everythin’,” he told her back, his throat tightening around the words. “I won’t fail you.”

  She gave no response, no indication that she had heard him. Cob’s heart sank, and he told himself, This is how it’s supposed to be. They’re heretics, my enemies. Shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

  In the stifling silence, he slung the bundle over his shoulder and gave the old woman a brief but respectful nod. She waved him on impatiently, and he turned and pushed out the door.

  Outside, the sun was at its zenith, baking the parched land below. The gartos in the garden turned their scaly heads, then discounted him as no threat and returned to their pecking; beyond them, the sea of dry grass rippled in the faint breeze. Thunderheads had piled up in the southwest, like distant grey towers in the clear sky. Insects droned lazily in the heat.

  The stick he had carried here from the woods still lay among the plants. He slid the scroll and cord into his tunic and picked it up. Its heft had been comforting when he had run from wraiths in the darkness, when confusion and delirium had consumed him. But his mind felt clearer now, and his enemies were no mystery.

  He would not go to them unarmed.

  A sigh, and a last jaundiced look to the boy-shaped poppet hanging from the eaves, and he stepped out into the dust and the yellow grass.

  *****

  Ammala stood at the window, watching as his hat bobbed away into the distance.

  “Come off it, girl,” croaked Nana Cray from the loom. “You shouldn’t get all misty over an Imperial.”

  “He is a child,” she said tightly. “He can not be blamed for their crimes.”

  “Of course he can. There’s always a choice, girl, and he ain’t as ignorant as he pretends. No man is. You can’t pardon ‘em for every error and still expect ‘em to act decent. That’s how the Empire draws ‘em, acting like they can be redeemed from everything.”

  Ammala’s mouth thinned, but she did not argue. Paol was out there at this moment, enmeshed in those same fantasies--sure that somehow, something of what the Imperials did was right.

  That was where all the men went: to the woods or the Empire's war. There had been no dissuading Paol as there had been no chance to sway Cob.

  And some day all too soon, there would be no chance with Aedin.

  Chapter 5 – Hunter in the Farmland

  The walk to the cart-road felt longer than ever. The wind had picked up, rattling seedpods and bowing the grass in slow waves, and the outlines of the footpath before him blurred and wiggled. Cob kept alert, glancing side-to-side to catch any errant motion within the fields, but it was hard to tell. The harvest men could have gone home.

  He knew better. He was a threat, and now that he was out of Ammala’s care, they would deal with him.

  Well, they can try.

  He was halfway to the road when the first one stepped out ahead of him. Not a surprise; the cluster of trees nearby made a perfect watchpost, with enough shade to hide several men. Cob unslung the stick from his shoulder and heard grass rustling behind him.

  There was no point in talking.

  He rushed the man blocking his path, thinking to bull past him and just keep running. At the last moment he saw the gleam of the knife. He planted his heels and sprang backward as the man stabbed out, the blade nicking his belly through the shirt. One-handed, he brought the stick down hard on the man’s thrusting arm.

  The man grunted in pain and stepped back, and Cob pressed forward, lashing out again. He had a long reach and the stick took the man in the shoulder as he ducked away from it, hard enough to jar Cob’s arm and send the attacker tripping into the grass.

  Quick steps behind him made Cob turn. A young man with a battered sword lurched for him, hacking down wildly. Cob parried with the stick and heard the wood crack. Stick against sword was no contest, no matter how shabby the blade, but when Cob advanced instead of retreated, the man was too surprised to dodge his kick to the crotch.

  Farm-boys, Cob thought as that one doubled over in pain, the sword hanging loose in his hands. Cob raised the stick, meaning to bring it down on the man’s head; in a camp fight, beating your opponents into the infirmary was the only way to keep them off your back later. No one just went down and stayed down.

  Be
fore he could strike, a third harvest man hit him from the side with enough force to slam him into the grass.

  Bundle and stick were torn from his hands. Plant-stalks bristled against his cheek, and someone was on top of him, a hand on his neck. In silhouette he saw a fist rise against the pale sky. He bucked and twisted, and the first blow glanced across his temple. His right arm got free, and he grabbed for the wrist that held his neck and dug his ragged nails in. Someone tried to catch his leg but he thrashed away.

  The second punch caught him on the mouth, and he saw red. He dug his feet in the turf and wrenched sideways, the wrong way, face down; the man on top was not braced for it and half-rolled off. Someone had Cob’s legs again but he planted both hands in the dirt and lurched up, throwing the first man off. The other had him by the trouser leg awkwardly. Just a few kicks—

  Then the sword came down on his back like an iron bar. He gasped as pain striped across his spine, and for a moment he could not move. Weight pinned his legs again, and he heard one of them step closer. The swordsman, aiming for his head.

  Fear shot through him—and then pure, rending agony in his skull. The world darkened. An itch ran up his arms, somehow familiar.

  There was no thought. He shoved up on one elbow and twisted, lifting his right arm to intercept the blade. Metal slammed down with enough force to break bone, but he heard only a shriek like steel on stone, and felt nothing at all. His arm looked black against the sky, the man above him gaping, sword held two-handed but stopped cold.

  Twisting again, Cob got his feet under himself somehow despite the man still lying across his legs, and he lurched up, forcing the sword back on its wielder. The swordsman stumbled back and tripped over his comrade, and they went down in a torrent of curses.

  Two others stared at Cob from the footpath, one with a knife and the other with a better-looking sword. He snarled at them but they did not advance; their eyes were round in bleached faces. When he stepped aside from the downed two, they moved to mirror him, keeping their distance.

  A quick glance away and he spotted the bundle and the stick among the grasses. The hat had fallen underfoot and been crushed to uselessness. As the two downed men struggled to regain their feet, Cob sidestepped and grabbed his belongings, keeping his eyes on his enemies at all times. If they rushed him now, together…

  But they did not. Even when the first two rose, they hung back, staring at him like he had grown a second head. Fear and faint knowledge nagged at the back of his mind, but his skull ached and he could not focus. This intimidation was a boon, no matter where it had come from. With the bundle tucked under his arm again, he edged to the trail, waiting for them to break ranks and pursue, but when after several long breathless moments they had still made no move, he turned and bolted.

  Soon he heard them behind him. Whatever had fixed them in place was gone.

  He ran on, long-legged, teeth gritted with every headache-jarring step. The road drew closer, but once there he knew that he had to keep running; carts came by rarely and he could not expect any to stop.

  The trail was flat and straight. His canteen whacked against his side at first, then eased as he fell into a rhythm. Lungs made vast by his youth in the High Country drew air in deep gulps. He had the lead and he would keep it; while he was only a decent fighter, he was better than any of his comrades at running away.

  They shouted behind him but he barely heard through the pounding in his head. A knife whistled past his shoulder and disappeared into the grass. Fortunately they had no bows, no crossbows—it must be an Illanite thing to ambush with blades rather than shoot from cover.

  The road opened ahead, with the river glinting beyond it. He raced up the embankment and glanced back once, to see his closest chaser a few strides behind and the others straggling. No time to pause. He turned north, and though what he saw on that horizon was a mere smudge, he knew it must be the city.

  Bahlaer.

  About to leap down to the road, he caught the rattle of cart-wheels coming up from behind and took off along the embankment instead. Voices rose in his wake, shouting to the carter. His heart lodged in his throat. The weeds and brambles of the embankment made for rough running, but if he took the road, the cart would run him down.

  The wheels juddered closer, heavy horse-hooves stamping the dry earth. Cob jumped a bush, landed wrong and hissed as pain shot up from his heel.

  Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

  “Hoi, lad, you need a ride?”

  He shot a sideways glance to see that the wagon had come alongside him, the big tan Tasgard horse that drew it champing at the bit, sharp canines showing. The wagon looked like a tinker’s, lightweight and brightly painted with images of hammers and tools, and a grizzled old man sat on the carter’s bench. He flashed a grin at Cob, eyes hidden in the shadow of a battered leather hat. “Come along, I don’t jest,” he called, his voice gravelly but amiable.

  “What are you doing!” bellowed one of the pursuers.

  That was proof enough for Cob. Barely breaking stride, he leapt for the wagon-side and latched on, his feet slamming home on the open edge of the carter’s box. The wagon jerked from his sudden weight, but the old man leaned the other way to compensate and the horse lunged onward. With a recalcitrant creak of axles, the wagon righted itself and stayed on course.

  A wide grin cut through the old man’s scrub of white beard. “Get on, get on,” he said. Cob swung onto the bench, then jerked in surprise as the tattered rug in the footwell lifted its head and cocked an ear at him. An extremely scruffy, tan-brown dog.

  “Don’t mind Toivo, he won’t bother you. Just don’t step on him,” said the old man.

  Behind them, a pursuer yelled, “Imperialist bastard!”

  Cob gritted his teeth and peered around the side of the wagon. The four harvest men stood in their dust trail, panting heavily. One caught him peeking and made a rude gesture with his knife, but they had given up the chase.

  Odd.

  “What was that about, lad?”

  Cob sat back and eyed the old man. “I dunno,” he said. “They jus’—“

  “Catch you stealing?”

  “No!”

  The old man chuckled and clapped Cob on the shoulder companionably. He was a big man, bull-shouldered and brawny-armed, with teeth like flat white tiles. The paunch of maturity showed beneath his homespun tunic, but he looked fit to wrestle a bear. When he tipped his hat back, his jovial eyes gleamed like emeralds.

  “It’s catch-as-catch-can these days, lad. No shame in it,” he said. “Survival’s the force that drives all men.”

  “I didn’t do anythin’.”

  “Right you are. Headed north?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How far?”

  Cob hesitated. If he said he was headed to the Rift Climb, what would the old man think? Only merchants and pilgrims trekked back into the Empire, and he was obviously no merchant.

  “Bahlaer, then Savinnor,” he decided. The city of Savinnor stood at Illane’s northwestern border, called the Cornerstone for the way it intersected with the territories of Averogne and Jernizan. It also marked the western end of the Imperial Road, just as Daecia City was its eastern terminus. The Empire had controlled Savinnor for a long time, but it had fallen to rebels during the Crimson Army’s Jernizan campaign two years ago. Cob had been there for its second conquest, among the ruined walls and the rubble. It was not a place he would forget.

  There was something appealing about the thought of walking the length of the Imperial Road for his pilgrimage.

  “Few days’ ride,” said the old man, “but I’m headed through to Averogne anyway. I wouldn’t mind a helping hand if you can tolerate some stops. What’s your name, lad?”

  Cob eyed the man. He had expected to be run down, not offered working passage into the north. Dubious.

  “Cob,” he said anyway.

  The old man grinned and offered his fist. “Jasper.”

  That simple gesture filled Cob with relief,
and answered several of his questions. This was no lifelong merchant ready to clasp hands and count his competitor’s rings, or a bandit or slum scum who clasped arms to check for hidden knives. No civilian. The offered fist was the soldier’s greeting, and Cob knocked knuckles with him easily. Retired and Illanic, but still a soldier, with a soldier’s code.

  “And you’ve met Toivo. He’s an old fellow; worst he’ll do is drool on your feet,” said Jasper, nodding to the rug of a dog. The dog’s ears perked, the left just a tatty stump. Cob held out a hand and was rewarded by a warm brush of muzzle and a whuff before the dog settled down again. “So, ride along?”

  “Well… What d’you need done?”

  “Nothing tough. Ever patched a pot?”

  “No, sir, I—“

  “You can learn. You look rough enough to be a traveling tinker’s apprentice,” said Jasper with a chuckle. “And the look is more important than the work.”

  “What?”

  The old man fixed him sidelong with a merry green eye and said, “I’m as much a tinker as you’re an honest traveler, lad.”

  A jolt went up Cob’s spine. He clutched the stick in his lap; it was notched from the fight but still not broken, still a passable weapon. He heard the shout…

  But Jasper did not elaborate, only snapped the reins. The Tasgard horse pressed on with new vigor, its leonine tail flicking, and the wagon picked up speed. Cob gripped the edge of the open bench and awkwardly tried to hold onto both bundle and stick. Behind him, metal clattered in the closed-up wagon. If not a tinker, then what? Cob thought. Weapon-smuggler?

  “Can tuck your gear under the seat,” Jasper said. Cob reluctantly stuffed the bundle down there, but kept the stick across his lap with one hand.

  They traveled a while in silence, Jasper driving and Cob watching the countryside pass in rattles and jolts. His thoughts never strayed far. The man was surely witchfolk, though he did not have the red cords or the poppets or anything blatantly witchy about him.