The Nightblade Epic Volume Two: A Book of Underrealm, page 4
“And if we were any other travelers, how much would we pay then?” said Loren, folding her arms.
“That I shall keep to myself, if it is all the same to you.”
“It is not,” said Loren. “But so be it. Ten gold weights, as you say.”
After grasping wrists to seal the pact, Mag returned to Sten in the common room while Loren went to their room upstairs. She took from her coin purse ten gold weights and dropped them in a spare purse. After a moment’s thought, she added five more. She did not know if it was a fair price—if anything, it seemed somewhat high. But the extra could pay for their food and rooms, for Mag had been far too generous. It left her purse somewhat lighter than she liked, but she would have to worry about that later. As long as they had enough to reach Jordel’s brethren in Feldemar, that was all that mattered.
With Chet still by her side, she went back to the common room where Mag stood speaking with a customer. She threw the spare coin purse to Mag, who scarcely looked up as she caught it with a deft hand and carried on speaking. She did not open it to look inside. Satisfied, Loren went to her usual table in the corner, where Albern, Xain, and the children were already tucking in for lunch.
“I have fetched as many provisions as I thought the horses could carry,” said Albern as they sat down. “It should see you at least halfway through Dorsea, though you shall need to stop for more supplies at some point.”
“We will stop as rarely as we can afford,” said Xain. “The fewer people who mark our passing, the better.”
“Once you are deep into Dorsea, I think the danger shall lessen,” said Albern. “In the south their kingdom is preoccupied with the war, and in the north they remain as untroubled as ever at the goings-on of the nine lands.”
“Who is that man there?” asked Gem.
Something about the boy’s tone raised the hairs on the back of Loren’s neck. She looked over her shoulder to see Mag talking to someone new: a thin man with a hooked nose and spindly fingers, whose head darted about constantly as he spoke. He was altogether different from the simple folk she had grown accustomed to in Northwood, and it set her nerves on edge.
They all watched him for a moment, until Mag looked up from the conversation and caught Albern’s eye. She tossed her head at him, and wordlessly Albern rose to approach her. Loren quickly found her feet and went with him, but when Chet, too, started to rise, she waved him back into his seat.
Mag wore a dark look as they reached her. “Len, tell them.”
The thin man pinched his nose and sniffed. “There is a man. He is wandering about the city, searching for a girl in a black cloak.”
Loren felt the blood drain from her face. Albern’s mouth set in a grim line. The thin man nodded, pinching his nose and sniffing again.
“Aye, that is what I thought when I heard,” he said, though Loren had said nothing. “Black cloak and remarkable green eyes, he asked for. Used that word, remarkable. Calls himself Rogan, which sounds foreign to me. He is dark of skin, like the girl with you, though from their looks I would not call them kin. Big. He carried no weapons, but he felt like one, if you follow me. When I heard him asking around, I thought to myself that I seen eyes just like that, and a black cloak as well, here in your place, Mag.”
“Our thanks, Len. Drink up, and tell Sten it is my gift.” He sidled off, and Mag fixed them with a hard look. “Is this Rogan some friend of yours?”
“I do not know that name,” said Loren. “We should have left long ago.”
“Stay your concern, at least for the moment,” said Albern. “We know nothing for certain. Mayhap there is cause for fear, but mayhap this Rogan is some friend to Jordel.”
“He said nothing of a red cloak.”
“Hist!” Albern glanced over his shoulder. “Speak not so openly of our fallen friend’s order where others may hear. And if this Rogan is one of them, and he sought us in secret, do you think he would show himself so openly?”
“We should go and see after him, and mayhap find our answers,” said Loren.
“I think the same.”
“I shall come,” said Mag. “Len is a good sort, but his nerves can get the better of him. I may recognize the man’s face where Len could not.”
Loren ran quickly to put her black cloak away upstairs and fetch her dirty brown spare. When she returned, Chet again rose to go with her.
“Stay,” she said. “Albern and I have something to look into. It will not take long, and too many at once may draw attention.”
“Is it some trouble?” said Xain sharply.
“It may be, or it may be nothing,” said Loren. “Rest assured, we will return in safety. Wait—but mayhap ready the horses, just in case.”
She returned to the bar, where Albern still waited for her. Sten, too, was there, and through his beard Loren could see his frown of concern.
“Not long at all,” Mag was saying. “Do not trouble your ugly little head over it.”
“When have you ever given me cause for concern? I fear only for anyone who may think to tussle with you,” said Sten. But the creases in his forehead deepened.
Mag placed a hand on his arm and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “See to the customers. Get those layabout children to help, if you need them.” He let her leave him then, with no more than a long squeeze of her hand to see her off.
THEY SET OUT INTO THE streets, and though it was warm Loren quickly raised her hood to mask her face. Its shadow would hide her eyes—or at least, so she hoped.
Mag took them into the heart of the city. Northwood was no burg so great as Wellmont, or even Cabrus, the first city Loren had seen after leaving her forest home. Here there were hardly any buildings more than a single storey. The city was wide rather than tall, sprawled across the land with its streets twisting haphazardly in upon each other. Yet with unerring certainty Mag wove her way through them, until it was all Loren could do to keep up.
“Len said he was near here,” said Mag, looking around in the lazy afternoon sun. “Stay close to the walls, and find shadows to stand in if you can.”
Loren needed no second urging, already doing all she could to avoid being seen. Yet it seemed she need not have worried, for though the streets were well-peopled, not a single eye turned to her.
Search as she might, she could see no sign of the man Len had described. They searched every street and alley they could find, but had no luck for a long while, until Loren began to wonder if there was anything to worry about after all.
“There,” hissed Albern at last. He seized Loren’s arm and drew her against the wall of a smithy. Loren peeked out from under the very edge of her hood.
She saw him at last. Len had spoken truly: this man Rogan felt dangerous, and though he wore no armor his size protected him like a suit of plate. His arms were covered, yet under the sleeves she could still see his strength. Dark was his face, and he had scars across both eyes, though he had lost neither of them.
Something about him seemed familiar. Loren could not place the reason, and the more she searched for it the more she grew afraid. She knew she had seen something like him before. Not in Jordel, nor any of the other Mystics she had met upon her road.
Albern put words to her thoughts. “Do you see it? He moves like Trisken.”
Loren thought her heart might stop. “We must leave. We should have fled the city last night. Why did I delay? We must leave.”
“Albern, what is it?” said Mag.
“Nothing, or at least no great matter if we leave at once,” said Albern.
His grip on Loren’s arm tightened, and he very nearly hauled her down the street. Mag quickened her pace to match them. Loren glanced back over her shoulder once as they fled—and in a frozen, terrible moment, her eyes locked with Rogan’s. Then he was gone, buried in the crowds that filled the streets.
“He saw me,” she said, trying not to wail.
“We were too far away,” said Albern. “He could not have remarked upon you, not dressed like this. You are not the only girl in the nine lands with green eyes.” Yet he redoubled his pace. Now they were half running.
“Is it them?” said Mag. “The ones you fought in the mountains?”
“Mayhap.”
“We have no time,” said Loren. “I only hope the others have readied the horses.”
Albern looked quickly back over his shoulder. “Mayhap I should come with you.”
Loren wanted to refuse. Albern had sought to part ways with them and return to his home in Strapa, far to the south. But now she welcomed the thought of his company, for Albern was as skilled at using a bow as he was at making one. Indecision kept her silent, and she could not sort through her thoughts for the fear that filled her heart.
She saw Jordel’s broken body on the valley floor.
She saw Trisken’s bloodied grin.
The brute Trisken had commanded the fortress they found in the Greatrocks, the one filled with Shades that had inspired such fear in Jordel. Jordel, who had always been a solid rock for Loren to lean on. Trisken had fought them in the mountain’s caves, and there they had cut him down with arrows and with swords. And Trisken had risen again, mortal wounds stitching together before their terrified eyes, and they could do nothing but run.
They had slain him at last. But in the slaying they lost Jordel, the greatest among them.
Mag’s inn loomed above. Loren ignored the back door and burst in through the front, running at once to the table where the others sat. Gem and Annis looked at her in surprise, but in Xain’s eyes she saw a dark recognition—he knew something was amiss.
“We are leaving,” Loren said. “Now. Where is Chet?”
“With the horses,” said Annis. “What did you see in the—”
“Now, Annis,” snapped Loren. “Go with Gem and fetch our things, as quickly as your feet can carry you. Meet at the stables.”
Annis and Gem caught Loren’s panic like a fever and ran away upstairs. Xain tried quickly to rise, but stumbled and had to catch himself on the table. On thin and shaking legs he ran after Loren as she made for the inn’s back door.
“A man in town searches for us,” said Loren, before he could ask. “He is one of them, certainly. He holds himself as Trisken did.”
Already pale, Xain’s skin turned Elf-white. “We are too long delayed.”
“We can be miles away before they learn we were ever here,” said Loren.
“That is true enough,” said Albern. “And unless they are mightier woodsmen than I guess, I shall see to it that they have trouble following us once we are beneath the eaves of the Birchwood.”
“You will find Chet and me no slouches in that regard,” said Loren. “We are children of that forest.”
They struck the doors of the stable so hard the hinges nearly broke. Chet’s gaze shot up from where he was inspecting his chestnut’s bridle.
“Loren? What is it?”
“We are leaving,” said Loren. “I hope you are ready to sit that saddle.”
“I am,” said Chet, eyeing Albern and Xain. “But I do not understand what—”
The sharp blast of a horn cut the air outside. Chet went quiet. Screams tore at the silence that followed, and somewhere far away, a bell began to toll.
LOREN WAS ON THE VERGE of running back to the inn when Gem and Annis appeared at last, bags tucked under their arms and eyes wide with fright. Chet and Albern took the supplies and began throwing them upon the backs of the mounts, while Xain slowly gained his horse’s saddle.
“What are these horns?” said Gem, his voice quaking. “I heard shouting.”
“An attack,” said Loren. “I knew he saw me.”
The stable door flew open again. The party whirled to the sound as one. Loren drew her dagger without thinking, and Albern his sword. When she saw Mag and Sten, Loren relaxed for a moment—until she saw the blades they held in their hands, and the shields upon their arms.
“The city is under siege,” said Mag. “We shall see you safely beyond the walls.”
“You should go back inside,” said Loren. “Wait until we have gone. They will pursue us beyond the city and leave Northwood in peace.”
“That I doubt,” said Mag. “There is already killing in the streets. And you have no time to convince me otherwise. Mount your horses. Quickly.”
Loren began to reply, but Albern seized her and nearly threw her into the saddle. “You are nearly a match for Mag in stubbornness, girl, but not quite. Heed her.”
Loren ground her teeth, but she stuck her boots through the stirrups. The others were quick to follow. With Mag and Sten on either side, she led the way through the streets, away north where the gate to the Birchwood waited. From the west rang the screams of the dying, and Loren heard the clash of steel.
“They would kill all these people just to find us?” cried Annis. “How can they hope to keep themselves a secret after this?”
“If none live to tell the tale, it will remain hidden,” said Albern with grim finality. “Even if some spare few escape to spread word of the attack, most will assume it is an army of Dorsea.”
“You mean to say it is not?” said Sten. Mag had heard the tale of their journey, but her husband had not, and knew nothing of the Shades.
“Time for that explanation later,” said Mag. “We should hasten. If I were them, I would move to cut off escape to the north and east. With luck, we should gain the gate before then.”
But just as she said the words, they came into an open square to find their foes before them. Shades in blue and grey stormed into view, mail shining and blades flashing with the sun. Folk fled before them, but the Shades cut most down as they ran. They were so intent in their slaughter that they paid no mind to Loren and the others.
“This way!” cried Mag.
She led them aside and down another street, away from the killing. Loren caught sight of Chet’s face as they rode on. It was white as a sheet, his teeth bared in a grimace of horror. She gripped his arm as they rode, and squeezed until he met her gaze.
“Try not to look,” she said. “Keep your eyes front, and your mind on where you are going.”
He gave her a shaky nod. Beyond him, Loren saw Gem and Annis. Their mouths were grim lines, and their shoulders were set. The rest of them had seen so much death that even this wanton slaughter did not make them despair. She was unsure whether that was a good thing or not.
Mag took them through many twisting alleys, but the next time they came into the open they happened upon more Shades. Here some citizens of Northwood had taken up arms, shovels and pitchforks turned to makeshift weapons. But the Shades were disciplined, and fought in coordination. One or two had fallen in the fighting, but scores of their victims littered the ground.
“No use. It will be a fight,” said Mag. Her voice was a chilling monotone. It had turned flat and lifeless—a terrible sound from the woman who had been so warm to them, so motherly to the children. Loren found herself shivering despite the afternoon’s heat.
Albern drew an arrow from the quiver at his hip and turned to the rest of them. “Stay behind Mag and Sten. Stay your blades unless you have no other choice, for they will try to seize them and pull you down. Now, charge!”
Then, for the first time, Loren saw death made beautiful.
Mag struck, filled with battle-lust at the sight of her fellows killed in their own homes. She fought, blade lent the speed of her rage, her shield like a castle wall in motion as it warded their blows. Not once did her blade strike without drawing blood, faster than a serpent’s strike, elegant and fluid as a flowing waterfall. Beside her Sten used his size and strength to batter his foes, knocking them back until he could find an opening for his sword. And behind her Albern let forth a flurry of arrows, each finding its mark, his archery like wizardry to Loren’s eyes. But Mag’s blade was coated in death, her fighting cry the wail of a banshee, and no foe came under her gaze and survived. In twos and threes they fought her, but they could not pierce her guard, nor could they stay her blade once it swung towards them.
The fight was over almost before Loren knew it had begun. The Shades who did not fall to their assault turned and fled through the streets, vanishing behind the buildings and into the alleys of the city. Mag turned to them, her face spattered with a mist of red. Loren saw flecks of it on her bared teeth.
“On!” growled Mag. “Do not stop moving, not even for a moment.”
Wordlessly they followed. From the side Loren could see Albern’s dark expression, and Sten looked sadly at his wife as they pressed through the streets. But Mag had no eyes for them, only for the road ahead.
Twice more they came upon Shades in the streets, and twice more Mag drove them back with a furious charge. Sten could barely keep up—indeed, even Albern’s arrows seemed to strike a moment after Mag’s lightning blows. Loren and the others tried only to stay out of the way, quaking in their saddles as they watched Mag slice through the heart of her foes like a scythe.
At last they came within sight of the city’s north wall. But there they paused. More Shades came marching in through the gate, in rank and file. It was an army of them, a far greater strength than they had seen even in the Greatrocks.
“There are so many,” breathed Loren.
“Surely not even Mag can defeat them all,” said Gem. “Albern … what do we do?”
Albern hesitated. Sten had stopped in his tracks, and even Mag paused, as though the sight of so many foes had at last broken through her killing rage.
The moment’s silence grew long. Loren tugged on Midnight’s reins and began to wheel around. “Come. Mayhap they have not reached the eastern gate yet. We can try to—”
“They will have reached it,” said Mag. She spoke in a battle commander’s bark, but still it held no fire, no anger. Only emptiness. She turned to them, and Loren saw none of the warmth she had grown used to in the woman’s eyes. “Come now, little children. Do you fear so few of them? Come with me, and you shall reach the Birchwood. I swear it.”
