What Remains of Heroes (31 page)

Fencress didn’t know whether to laugh or shudder with fear. At last she settled upon a long, heavy sigh. “Dark work yields dark rewards, they say.”

The Arranese marched north without pause for the remainder of the day, through the night and then well into the day after. At last, as evening fell the great army slowed their march to a halt and made camp. Fencress suggested the company do the same after finding a narrow creek winding through the rocky ground. They set about watering the horses and scrubbed themselves free of the dust and barbs they’d collected on their ride.

She found a spot beside the creek and stretched out to stare at the purple sky, letting the cool water wash over her feet. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a decent bath. She was no stranger to rough going, but if truth be told she sometimes fancied the comforts of a plush inn. “Paddyn,” she called, “do we have any wine?”

“No wine, but we still have a good deal of Old Crook’s cider.”

Fencress smiled. “Do a friend a favor and bring me one of the skins.”

Paddyn did as requested, and soon Fencress had swallowed more than a few mouthfuls of the fruity stuff. She splashed her feet in the creek and tried to remember the names for the constellations of stars in the sky. There was the Dragon’s Wing, the Three Witches, the Spitted Sow, and in the sky’s center rested the Eldest Eye. She recalled stories of them all, mostly from the tawdry dramas in which she’d performed as a younger woman. She recalled an entertaining moment when, just after a performance, she’d caught the troupe’s leader servicing the well-fed lass who’d played the role of the Spitted Sow, and how the man had so much trouble pulling his jingles out of the woman’s costume.
Or his “spit,” as I called his jingles for months afterward.
She laughed aloud.

Just then there was a clamor behind her, a cascade of dirt and rocks. She started upward and whirled about to see Merek scrambling down a hillside toward the creek.

“Dead gods,” Fencress grumbled. “Can’t a girl enjoy a bath without you barging in? You have no sense of etiquette, friend.”

“There’s something amiss among the Arranese,” Merek said, scanning the area about them. “There,” he gestured. “That hill should grant us a better view. Follow me.”

Fencress cursed, tugged on her boots and grabbed her swords. “Saddle the horses,” she said as Paddyn looked at her with a cocked brow.

Fencress followed Merek through a dark ravine and then up a steep slope. It was a difficult climb, but in time they managed the top. There, they were granted a panoramic view of the Arranese camp and the scrubby grasslands about them.

The distant camp looked much like a reflection the starlit sky above, with innumerable, flickering fires adorning the dark landscape. Fencress squinted to sharpen her eyes, and after a moment was able to discern among the fires the faint angles of tents and ghost-like shapes of soldiers.

“Do you see it?” Merek whispered.

Fencress was about to confess she did not but then caught her tongue. On the periphery of the camp there was commotion. Her eyes struggled for details as the scene shifted in that maddening way of the deepest shadows of night where movements seem imaginary. But there
was
something.

“They’re forming a hunting party,” Merek said, leveling a finger toward the army’s edge. “Two riders just arrived at the camp, and now they’re gathering greater numbers. Look at the torches alighting. The Arranese have decided to hunt something in the dark.”

Fencress could see it, although the scene didn’t remain in focus for long.
Perhaps a bit too much cider
. The lights were multiplying, and she imagined soldiers setting torches ablaze and making ready to move. “Let’s hope they haven’t decided to hunt us.”

Merek snorted, whether from amusement or derision Fencress could not be certain. “You see they’re moving into a formation. A crescent shape, with the outer ends at the lead. That is their way.”

“Looks to be about twenty men, by my count.”

“Twenty-one,” said Merek firmly. “The Arranese always group into units of seven.”

Fencress rolled her eyes and figured she would have repeated back the words in a snarky tone had she swilled any more of the cider. The fellow was useful, yes, but lacked any measure of charm. “You just said a group of two riders returned to the camp.”

“Which means five men from that group did not return. The party is heading southwest,” Merek said. “And quickly.”

“Perhaps hunting down stragglers or deserters?”

“That would seem a strange quarry to pursue at night. I can’t imagine an army that size would concern itself with a few desperate and very likely wounded soldiers wandering nearby.”

“It could be any number of things.”

“It could be your friend.”

Fencress stood. “Well we should ride, then.”

Merek waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll never catch them, not while riding at night on this terrain. We should wait until morning, then track where they went.”

“On your feet,” Fencress said. “We’re following them.”

The ride proved more difficult than Fencress had anticipated, and her horse staggered repeatedly on the patches of loose stones. After being pitched from the beast she wondered if it’d be best to abandon caution and ride down from the hills and onto the wide plain below. She thought of the odds, and reckoned it was a necessary gamble. “We’ll head down,” she called to her companions.

“That will be an easier ride,” said Paddyn, adjusting the quiver of arrows slung across his back, “but we’ll be awfully close to the Arranese.”

Fencress shook her head. “An army that size won’t care about a few riders wandering near their flank. They’ll think we’re farmers or shepherds or something.” She looked at Merek. “Won’t they?”

Merek pulled his green cloak about him and said nothing.

“We’ll head down,” Fencress said firmly.

The broad face of the hill was a steep slope, replete with crags and gullies and slicks of mud. It was a place better suited for goats than horses, and at many points the horses stopped dead, not daring take another dangerous step downward. When soothing words failed, the company dismounted and tugged the beasts by their reins. At last the horses complied, and they chose a slow, crisscrossing route across the breadth of the hill.

In time the slope eased and flattened, and they descended into the gentle rolls of the fields. It was an eerie landscape, with a low fog blanketing the earth and set with the pale hue of moonlight. It looked as much like the open sea as dry land. There were also the distant sounds of the Arranese army: the shrill rings of steel being sharpened, the low din of discussion, and the echoes of strange songs sung about their fires.

There came then a murmur of voices nearby, and after scanning the fields about them Fencress caught sight of an Arranese patrol atop a rise no more than fifty yards away. She gestured to the others and they stopped and held motionless. After a long, tense moment the patrol dipped behind the far side of the rise. Fencress patted her horse and congratulated herself on her sense of fashion, her steadfast resolve to dress ever in black.
Hard to see at night, and always welcome at funerals
.

They resumed their ride, kicking their horses to a brisk trot. They’d lost sight of the hunting party, but Merek was certain of the direction they’d headed. He suggested they make their way due south in order to have at least some thin chance of finding them. It seemed a fool’s errand, Fencress thought, but then so did this entire endeavor.

As they rode Fencress wondered how long she’d last in this task, how long it would be before she abandoned Karnag. There was war all about them, and the kingdom she’d called her home seemed on the brink of disaster. She held a small fortune in her pocket, yet had chosen a path that left her no chance to enjoy it. She was in the middle of nowhere, hoping to find a friend who seemed to have turned into as wicked a demon as any poet had ever described. And when she found him? Merek seemed to know something of these “old powers,” as he called them, but there were no sure bets, no guarantees they could help him.
If this were deadman’s dice, this wouldn’t be a smart play
.

But she thought too of her bond with Karnag. It was never a romantic thing—nothing with men was after what she’d endured as a slave in her youth. No, it was no romance, but it was just as deep. In their work, she and Karnag trusted each other with their lives when death was the most imminent of possibilities, when all the coins were in the table’s center. Their bond had endured the darkest of deeds, had withstood the most depraved acts imaginable. And through it all, Karnag never questioned her, never doubted her capability because of her gender. And because Karnag respected her, others had been made to, as well. Because of him, she’d earned as much sway with the criminals of Raven’s Roost as any man.

The odds matter not at all when the prize is the life of my friend.

They pressed on for some time, passing through empty field after empty field and encountering no more than the occasional fallen soldier or burned-out farmhouse. Gradually the stars shifted overhead and the moon sank low against the horizon.

“It will be morning soon,” said Drenj. “There’s a chance I could track the hunting party with some light, but we’re sure to be seen by the Arranese.”

Fencress’s shoulders sagged. “No. We shouldn’t risk being seen or hunted down. We’ll head back to the high ground and out of sight.” She pulled her horse to a stop and turned it about.

Just then a faint cry caught her ear.

Fencress threw back her cowl and pressed a finger to her lips. The company halted. The field about them was featureless but for a low wall of rocks. The ground was obscured by mist and shadow. Fencress could see nothing.

She listened, and in time heard a quiet sob. She urged her stallion toward the knee-high wall and rode beside it, her companions behind her. She squinted, struggling to discern details in the dark. Soon she saw what seemed to be a shape huddled near the wall.

Another agonized cry sounded, frail and pathetic. Fencress had slain enough men to know the sound of the dying, and this was it. Odds were it was a soldier bleeding from battle, shuddering as he pulled his last breaths.
But perhaps the fellow’s seen
something…

“Who’s there?” Fencress said quietly, urging her horse another few strides forward.

“Please… No…” came an accented voice.

An Arranese warrior
. Fencress slipped from her horse and crept ahead, eyes straining for details in the darkness. The man likely posed no threat, but she dropped her hands to the hilts of her twin blades, just in case.

“No… Don’t kill me…” the voice said again.

“Easy, friend,” Fencress said as she neared the figure slumped against the low wall. “We have no stake in this fight.”

The soldier shifted slightly and his face caught some of the dim light of the moon. His sharp, angular features were covered in black blood and his eyes were wide with fear. He looked not at Fencress with his almond-shaped eyes, but straight upward. His mouth trembled and his breathing was quick and shallow.

Fencress stepped forward, close enough to where the soldier was sure to see her. “Friend?”

“Don’t kill me… Please…”

“We’re usually an awful lot, but we’re not going to kill you.” She took her hands slowly from her blades. “You have my word, for whatever that’s worth.” She held out her hands just as she would after winning a round of deadman’s dice, turning them over and then upward to show she didn’t have something hidden in her sleeves.

The man’s eyes didn’t move. They remained frozen, staring blankly at the sky. It was at that point Fencress noticed the fellow was missing both of his arms.

“Dead gods, man,” Fencress said. “That’s tough luck. That must have been some rough bastard you crossed. Can I give you a hand?” She paused and frowned. “Sorry. Terrible choice of words.”

“Please… No…” the soldier said again.

Fencress stood over the man, hands at her hips. Still the fellow’s eyes remained fixed on the stars, unblinking and twitching slightly. “Friend?” she asked again.