Skeleton Company E-Book

Aaron M. Fleming

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Hunter has been a soldier, monk, rebel, thief, and kingmaker - or queenmaker, to be precise. Now he wants nothing more than to settle down with Marna, his long-lost daughter, and to court lovely Dahlia Rancher.

Hunter's quick trip to fetch Marna unravels when he and Chekwe, his best friend, arrive at Hunter’s ancestral home to discover that Marna has been kidnapped.

The friends track Marna to their old battlefield haunts in the north, dogged by old foes and finding new enemies every step of the way: seers and necromancers, warlords and heretics, once-dead warriors and renegade pacifists. Their only friend is Dru, a woman pushed out of her job as a constable by men returning from the Orgooth wars.

With Dru’s help and the grudging support of a new king, Hunter builds a force capable of rescuing Marna. It’s a plan that just might work, if the Orgooth don’t jump into the fray too. But with Chekwe and his pet kitten on the prowl for whisky, milk, and something to kill, nothing Hunter plans is certain.

Leseprobe

Skeleton Company

THE HUNTER AND CHEKWE ADVENTURES

BOOK TWO

AARON M. FLEMING

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Aaron M. Fleming

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Charity Rabbiosi

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to…

Everyone, everywhere, who feels small or unimportant yet remains relentlessly self-assertive – but especially to Scarlet Rose.

Acknowledgments

I needed to publish a second novel for no other reason than rectifying two glaring omissions in the acknowledgements of my first book:

First, several years ago when I was bogged down with the first draft of Kingmaker, Mora Kennamer treated my family to a lovely week of vacation in her home. The pool, the beach, the river, the enchiladas…it was all so lovely and relaxing, I finally managed to break through writer’s block and finish the draft. I simply couldn’t have done it without Mora’s hospitality.

Second, I failed to mention Chris Liotta. I had nearly given up on getting published when Chris and I got a little zany with a couple of plunges into the freezing Atlantic. In the hour it took to warm back up in a hot tub, Chris made me believe in myself again, and within a week I had a contract with Next Chapter.

Speaking of Next Chapter…thanks to the whole crew there for your passionate work to bring great stories to hungry readers! It’s an honor to work with you all.

For help with the multiple drafts of Skeleton Company, I owe deep thanks to Dave Kuhns and David Fleming for invaluable insight into story and pacing. Ana and Abby Fleming weren’t just beta readers, they were inspiration. Adam G. Fleming is the most committed writer I know, and he makes me want to work hard…sorry my humor is too juvenile for you, bro, but it makes Dad and me laugh. Thank you, Dad, for laughing at the funny stuff and for helping me clean up my prose…and thanks for making sure I know it's “Dad and me” and not “mean Dad”.

Without Garrett Keaough and Scott Clark, I wouldn’t know the difference between whisky and whiskey. Also, their friendship gives me a place to just be myself, and I am deeply grateful.

Other friends inspire me with their brave creativity in a variety of media: Wes Burnham, Hannah Nisly, Steve Shettler, Derek Beachy, Bryn Hovde, Jonathan and Christa Reuel, Ben and Anne Metz, Cindy Dickel, Kay Fleming, Megan Fleming, Neil Schlaubaugh, and Casey Miller are just a few.

Finally, to Melissa – I saved the best for last, because you’re the best.

Prologue

The man called Seer had no eyes.

His captors had taken them with a white-hot iron, to prevent bleeding and to keep him alive. If he had anything to thank Quam for, it was that they had taken his eyes while he was unconscious with pain from the loss of his legs. Those had been crushed off at the knees by an Orgooth war wagon, which he thought was fair enough since he was trying to set the wagon on fire to roast the Orgooth alive.

What was not fair was that while he was unconscious, either Quam, some devil, some dark Orgooth deity, or his unseen captors themselves, had cursed him with some grotesque oracular power. His captors called it ‘second sight’ as if it were some great boon from Quam, but they used his so-called gift as if he were no less a tool than a spade or an adze.

There was, however, no wizardry called ‘second mobility’ to compensate for the loss of his legs, so day by day and year by year, Seer sat in a chair and seethed with dreams of escape and revenge, and dread for the next time they would come to draw new visions of horror from his mind.

The guards came for Seer this time on a gentle autumn day. He was in his chair soaking up the sunlight, his head tilted back so he could feel the warmth on his face. There was a tree somewhere nearby; he could feel its shade begin to fall across his face as the sun dropped towards the horizon. He heard the guards coming, their boots rustling crunching on the first fallen leaves of the season.

There were four of them. They picked up his chair and carried him away.

“Where are you taking me?” Seer asked. “Who are you? What are you doing with me?”

There was no response. As usual.

“Quamdamn your devil-spawned souls,” Seer said. He said the words calmly, but clearly and sternly. He had always been a pious man, not given to vain blasphemy. He picked his curses carefully and meant them.

The guards remained silent. Seer counted their steps as best he could. They carried him sixty paces or so, up over a little rise, and downslope another eighty paces. The path dipped more sharply, the guards’ movements becoming more jolting as they went down a flight of steps, and then the air became cooler as the path leveled off. They were underground, Seer believed. The sound of boots on earth and stone and the smell of earth suggested a cave, or perhaps a dugout. Some sort of devils’ lair, no doubt.

They set Seer down and their feet scuffed away, aligning in a row a dozen feet behind him and then shuffling nervously for a few heartbeats before going still. The sound of lackeys in the presence of a cruel lord, he thought.

“I need your gift again, Seer,” came a voice. It was the same voice Seer heard each of the five previous times they brought him to this place. The voice of The Bloodless, as Seer had heard him called. It was an odd voice. Too high for a man, too low for a woman. There was a hint of an accent. From north of the Kistrill valley, but not Orgooth. Polished in tone, but not touched with a nobleman’s arrogance. A scholar then, or maybe a priest. Though if he was a priest, he was unholy as hell. Bloodless was as good a name as any for him, or her. In any case, Seer kept his own lips pressed tight.

“It will hurt you less if you give it willingly,” Bloodless said. Seer jerked his head up. Four years without eyes and he still hadn’t lost the impulse to stare in surprise.

“Go to hell,” he said evenly.

“Tut-tut,” said Bloodless. “So angry. Haven’t my people been treating you well?”

“I said, go to hell.”

“I mean you no harm. In fact, if you were willing, we could be partners. Well, I’d still be your lord, but your status would grow with your power.”

“The only power I want is to go home,” Seer snapped.

For a moment the underground space was still, quiet but for Bloodless’ soft breath and Seer’s own heartbeat pounding in his temples.

“I have uncovered new lore,” said Bloodless. “Well, old lore, but lost so long that it appears new to us. The knowledge increases the immediacy of my need for your gift. It also confirms my fear that there is a limit to your power. Now I know for certain that I can only summon you seven times…if you are unwilling. Without your cooperation, that seventh vision will kill you.”

Seer kept his mouth shut, but he felt a tremor of fear pass up his spine. Bloodless’ voice resumed.

“If you have been counting, you know this is your sixth viewing. One more, after today, and you will die, Seer. Surely you suspected as much. Your suffering has increased with each use of the gift.”

Seer drew a long breath.

“Use me again then, twice in one night, for all I care. I left my wife, my children, and my hearth to serve my Emperor, and I knew I probably would not see them again. What makes you think I would betray Quam to help a devil like you? Again, you can go to hell.”

Bloodless gave a soft laugh, but otherwise ignored Seer’s curses. Seer heard flint on steel, a few puffs of breath, and in twenty heartbeats the sound of a small flame racing through a pile of twigs.

“What’s at home?” Bloodless’ voice wafted toward him with the smell of smoke. There was a fierce crackling as something new, dried herbs or some such, was tossed on the flame. A new odor filled the space around Seer, a bouquet that started soft, became sweet, then sickly sweet, until finally the stench of death filled his nostrils. He’d been on enough battlefields to know the horrific reek for what it was. He began to gag.

“Quamdamn you!” Seer yelled. He felt his grip on his mind loosening. “Quam shrivel your…your…your…” he stopped, words failing him. There was something there, something obscene he’d heard soldiers say a thousand times. But he couldn’t remember now. Just when he really wanted to curse.

“What’s at home?” the voice came again. Whose voice? Seer couldn’t remember.

“A wife,” he groaned.

“Ah. Beautiful?”

“As the starlit sky.”

“Strong?”

“As the mountains…”

“More’s the pity,” Bloodless taunted. “Another will have her. She will taste his lips, rest in his arms, surrender to his caresses.”

“You bastard!” Seer screamed. He tried to lunge forward, to claw his way to Bloodless and rip his voice from his living throat. Instead, he found that the guards had belted him to his chair with leather straps. He writhed and bucked and nearly tipped over the chair before a steadying hand suddenly pressed down on his forehead. Seer was feverish, sweating, but the hand was hotter still, like a red-hot branding iron. Seer screamed again, wordless in torment.

“Where is Kingmaker?” Bloodless asked. Seer saw nothing. He jerked his head back and forth. “Hmm. What is the Corpsemaiden?” the voice came from just inches away from his ear.

Seer clenched his jaw so tight his teeth nearly cracked, but it was no use. Pain, searing and electric, shot through his mandible and his lips parted.

“She raises the dead who are not dead!” he shrieked. “Swordsmen with no eyes. Pikemen with no blood. Warriors with no flesh – company after company after company of them.”

“Ah,” came the voice, inches from his ear and yet a thousand miles distant in spirit. “Who is she?”

Vision burst in Seer’s mind. A maid, womanhood fresh on her like the first blanket of flowers on a spring meadow. She was the child of a brown skinned Kistrill and a pale northmarcher; her skin was like dark cream, her hair like fire, her eyes bright sapphire. She walked by a stream that wandered through a little vale, under the brow of a soft old hill where an ancient manor house sprawled its moss-and-ivy-covered bones. An old man was with her, his wrinkled brown skin spotted with age, his once-ochre hair now thin and pale blue. He smiled at her and doted on her, but her thoughts were far away.

Seer screamed all these details, then collapsed back against his chair. He was panting for air as if he had raced a mile over rugged ground.

Please, no more! he begged Quam. It hurts too much to see!

Quam did not answer, but Bloodless did.

“Where is the manor? Where is the vale?” he demanded.

Seer twitched again, resisting the seeing. He jerked and slammed against the straps, whipped his head upward and gnashed at the hand that pressed him down.

Bloodless seized Seer’s head with both hands, palms on his cheeks, fingers digging into his temples, and his thumbs pressed into Seer’s empty eye sockets.

“Where?” Bloodless’ voice was as shrill as the Seer’s.

The vision came again. There was a stone lintel over the manor’s gate. A word had been carved into the stone, generations long past. Wind, snow and salt mist from the sea had eaten away at the letters, and moss obscured much of what remained, but there was just enough etching left to read the name of the estate and its owners. The word tore itself out of Seer’s throat in an anguished howl:

“Grenvell!”

* * *

The man called Seer awoke to the feel of gentle hands swabbing his face with warm, wet rags. He was still sweating, and every muscle in his body ached. He couldn’t tell if the ache was from fever or from his struggle against the straps on his chair. Maybe both. Probably both. He was burning up from the inside and exhausted down to his bones.

“Water,” he croaked, and discovered his throat was as sore as his muscles, raw from his screaming.

“There is broth for you, Seer,” came an old voice. Veista was one of the servants who took care of him. Her accent marked her as a northmarcher. Probably a heretic, but more than kind.

“Yes, Seer,” said Dunner, Veista’s old husband. “Beef and onion broth for strength. For Quamsake, you must eat.”

Seer raised his head. Beef and onion was his favorite. Did the servants know that? Or was it some puny kindness from Quam? It didn’t matter. Veista fed him, and he slurped greedily until the spoon clattered on an empty bowl.

Other sounds came from further away, from outside whatever building he was in: the sound of a dozen horses or more, heavy beasts, jangling with the accouterments of armored cavalry.

There was always war after his visions. First the sounds of troops marching away, followed later by their return. Always victorious, Seer thought. He always heard the swaggering pace and arrogant banter of triumphant warriors, followed by the shuffling and moaning of captives. With each venture there was a longer interval between the departure and return. They were campaigning further afield each time.

Bloodless’ power was growing, his reach extending further from his underground devils’ lair. This time his troops – knights by the clank of their armor – were going to some place called Grenvell. Seer had not heard of it, but the age of the manor in his vision suggested an ancient house indeed. Probably deep in the heartland of the Kistrill valley.

Quam, he rasped.

“What is it, Seer?” the old man asked.

“Help,” Seer gasped. “Help, please, for Quamsake. I have betrayed an innocent maiden. They’re going for her. Help me get out of here. I have to get to her. I have to warn her before he uses her too.”

“Hsst! Quiet!” the old man urged. “You must not say such things! Quiet now, Seer.”

“He is evil,” Seer whispered. “I don’t know what he is doing, but it is wrong. You must know it too.”

“Yes, we know,” the woman breathed, barely audible. “But the guards are too close now. Maybe tomorrow we can join you when you sit on the hillside. If there is sunshine, we can talk then. But for now…silence.”

But there was no sunshine the next day, or the day after that, or for many days in a row after that. And each long day, the man called Seer sat in darkness, seeing again and again in his mind the fiery hair and sapphire eyes of an innocent maid who figured, somehow, into Bloodless’ devilish schemes.

ChapterOne

Hunter watched ash swirl with flurries of snow, then drift down to the flagstones of Northport’s main wharf. The ash came from a row of burnt-out warehouses. Ash and snow settled on dark crimson splotches of blood that stained the wharf all around him. Hunter scraped the toe of his boot across one of the stains and found the blood was dry, but the violence hadn’t been too long ago. The stench of fire and sudden death still clung to the place.

He scanned the wharf, counting a score or more of the bloodstains. Down the quay, a gang of stevedores hustled sacks of grain out of a warehouse and onto a barge. A squad of leery crossbowmen in faded blue coats and trousers kept close watch over the grain and the wharf.

Hunter shouldered his pack and strolled toward the soldiers. One of them took a few steps towards him. The man had a blanket draped around his shoulders like a poncho, so Hunter couldn’t see if he had an officer’s piping on his jacket, but he seemed to be in charge.

“Afternoon, Sergeant,” he guessed the man’s rank. The soldier stopped half a dozen paces away. He had a month’s growth of beard and his ochre hair cut short and rough with a knife instead of shears. Besides a threadbare uniform and the blanket, his boots were nearly worn through at the toe. But his crossbow was kept up, his sword belt was solid, and the hilt of the sword he wore on his right hip looked polished by frequent handling. Hunter nodded approvingly.

The man gave Hunter a good look up and down, and then he nodded too. “Afternoon, traveler. Have to ask you to stay back from the warehouses.”

“I just got off a boat,” Hunter said. “I’ve got no intention of making trouble.”

“Saw you. You and the little green fellow. He went straight for the tavern. Thirsty voyage, huh?”

Hunter nodded. “We sailed up from the south. Orzan province. Had a hell of a storm. Blew us so far east, only Quam knows how we made it back. Lost six weeks. Sailors ran out of grog. My friend’s making up for lost time. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here. It doesn’t look good.” He glanced meaningfully at a nearby bloodstain, then looked back at the sergeant with a raised eyebrow.

“I seen you scouting the wharf,” the sergeant replied. “Looks like you’ve scouted before, and seen blood stains before, too.”

“I wore the blue in my time. For twenty years.”

The sergeant raised an eyebrow of his own. “Quamdamn. I been in seven years and I thought that was a long time. I bet you outrank me, huh?”

Hunter shook his head. “Maybe once, friend, but not anymore. I’m done with all that. But…I’m still curious. I’ve been out of the Kistrill Valley for a long time. What’s going on? We heard down south that the Emperor was dying.”

The sergeant grimaced. “How far south were you? Orzan, you say? Well, you’re in for a hell of a shock, traveler. Emperor Willard is dead. Crown Prince Willmun’s dead too. Lord Krodon declared himself emperor, but he won’t or can’t produce Kingmaker. Can you believe that? Kingmaker is missing.”

Hunter gave a low whistle, pretending to be surprised. “Kingmaker is missing? Quam save us. So…what about here in Northport?”

The soldier pulled a sour face. “It’s a turd parade. Lowking Cordice rules here…for now. He thought he could go it alone and pulled out of the Empire. We,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his companions, “were stupid enough to believe him. Well, at least we believed he’d pay good coin. We were wrong about that too. His coins are more lead than silver. And then…this.” He waved his hand at the burnt warehouses and the bloodstains.

“Food riots?” Hunter guessed.

The sergeant nodded. “Cordice thought he could hoard grain and force the neighboring lowkings to bow to him. They’re invading instead. Meanwhile the people are hungry, and scared, and mad as hell. Two nights ago things boiled over.” He waved at the flagstones again. “I’m glad I was on garrison duty and not down here shooting townsfolk.”

“Well, if you get tired of this, get on a boat to Orzan. The new governor down there is taking on veteran soldiers. Particularly the kind who keep their bows in good order but don’t like shooting townsfolk.”

“Appreciate the word, traveler, but I’m no deserter. I enlisted for six months, so I’ll be here awhile, yet. You better keep moving though…unless you want a share of Cordice’s coin too?”

“No,” Hunter laughed. “I said I’m done with all that, and I mean it. I’ve got a daughter to fetch and a woman to go home to.” He gave a little wave and turned to go find Chekwe.

“Good for you,” the sergeant called after him. “Just be careful in the taverns. They’re crawling with Schoolers…”

“What?” Hunter stopped short and turned back.

“Schoolers. Swordsmen from the School of Harmonious Blades and—”

“There’s Schoolers here?” Hunter snapped.

“You know ‘em? Then you know if your friend gets rowdy in there, he could get hurt….”

Hunter started running down the wharf. “It’s not my friend I’m worried about,” he yelled over his shoulder. “If you don’t want more blood on the streets you’d better follow along.”

Hunter raced across the flagstones towards a row of taverns and flophouses. Each place had a sign hanging out front, most with garish or lewd depictions of the food and drink and women that were available inside. He wasn’t sure which one Chekwe had gone into, but he guessed the one with only drink on its sign. It was the cheapest looking place in the row, and Chekwe was looking for booze, not food or flesh.

Hunter didn’t have to reach the door to find out he was right. The door banged open, and a troop of young men came swaggering out. They were dressed alike, with tall black riding boots with trousers stuffed into the tops, leather dueling vests over long-sleeved crimson tunics, fur-lined capes, and black caps worn at outrageously jaunty angles. They all wore slightly curved swords on their left hips, the scabbards hanging from wide silk sashes. Six of them had bright yellow sashes. The seventh had a black sash and a black plume in his cap.

Chekwe stumped out the door after the swordsmen, his pack in his left hand and a drinking horn in the right. His scarred green face was set in a dark scowl, but Hunter took one look at his friend’s silver eyes and saw a glint of glee. Bloodthirsty glee.

Quam help us, Hunter prayed as he hustled to Chekwe’s side. The swordsmen were fanning out in a skirmish line to face Chekwe, and a noisy crowd of afternoon drinkers were piling out of the tavern to watch the fun.

“Gentlemen!” Hunter cried, skidding to a stop. The swordsmen looked at him. They all sported wispy mustaches and patches of peach fuzz under their bottom lips. The one with the black sash was a bit older than the others, with carefully trimmed sideburns and a razor-thin scar at the top of his right cheekbone.

“Step back, stranger, this isn’t your business,” Black-sash snarled. He was trying to deepen his voice for ominous effect, and Chekwe giggled.

“I have offended the School of Harmonious Blades,” Chekwe warbled.

“You’re drunk, Chekwe,” Hunter muttered. “Let me talk them down. They’re barely boys.”

“They’re rakehells,” Chekwe announced to the crowd. “Fops. Fools. They need a lesson.”

“You can’t kill people just because they’re fops,” Hunter warned.

“What are you muttering about, stranger?” Black-sash barked. “Who are you? What are you doing in Northport?”

Hunter shot a glare at the youth, then tried to wipe the anger off his own face. He made patting gestures in the air.

“We are simple travelers. We’re traveling north, to my ancestral home. We’ll be on our way…”

“Not until the ugly little greenie apologizes and buys us a round of drinks,” Black-sash interrupted.

“What’s this all about, anyway?” Hunter asked Chekwe.

“They were bragging about driving a band of Refugees out of town. Kicked down some old men and made sport with the girls.”

“Oh,” Hunter said. He pointed a finger at Black-sash. “Is that right? Did you beat up old men and take advantage of young women?”

“They’re a bunch of Quamcursed heretics,” one of the yellow-sashed youngsters shouted, and the crowd murmured in agreement.

“They put a hex on the city,” Black-sash leered. “The girls are witches, but they’re pretty, too. We were just having fun, but you know how cowardly they are. They ran off before we really got started with them.”

“Then Quam protect you,” Hunter said, “because I’m done trying.” He unslung his pack and set it on the ground. “Go ahead, Chekwe.”

“A wager,” Chekwe sang. “Double or nothing. Double or nothing is always fun, don’t you think? You up for a wager? Here it is. You, with the black girdle. You and me fight to first blood. When I win, you and your dog-faced friends leave your purses with me as you leave town. If you win…well, that won’t happen. Well, Quam’s buttocks, that’s not much of a wager, is it?”

Black-sash’s grin turned feral. “You’re as stupid as you are ugly, greenie,” he barked. “I’m Submaster Tavin. You think you can beat a submaster? I’ll cut you six ways before you can get a sword out of your pack.”

“Tavin? I beat one of you Schoolers once, Tavin.” Chekwe laughed, setting his pack down beside him. He straightened and took a drink from his drinking horn. “He had a pretty purple sash. Is that a good color?”

“You lie. Purple is for pastmasters. No one beats a pastmaster, except another pastmaster. That’s how you get to be a pastmaster.”

“That’s Quamdamn funny,” Chekwe said. “I never seen a member of your School on the battlefield. Too busy practicing your poses to do any real fighting. How’s your ‘gliding swan’ and ‘raging ram rush’, Submaster Tavin?”

Tavin’s eyes narrowed. “You know the name of some of our poses, it seems. What are you, a failed acolyte?”

“I’d lick Quam’s muddy toes before I used your poses,” Chekwe laughed. “Your pastmaster came at me with ‘adder eye’, but I defeated him with ‘prancing pony passes a poop’.”

“You…what?”

Chekwe bent over his pack and undid the toggles that kept it closed, fumbling since he hadn’t put down his drinking horn. He finally got the pack open, pulled out a fluffy black kitten, and set it on the ground. The kitten let out a pitiable yowl.

“Meet Quarla,” Chekwe announced. “Quarla the kitten. Go on, Quarla, say hello to the nice submaster.”

The seven swordsmen of the School of Harmonious Blades and the afternoon crowd from the tavern gawked as Quarla took a few staggering steps off to her left, listing like a rudderless cog in a storm. She righted herself then, approached Tavin, and stopped to sniff his boot.

The whole crowd took a half step forward to watch. Tavin bent and reached towards Quarla’s fluffy fur. His reach was hardly more than a flinch and he caught himself almost right away, but almost was half a heartbeat too late.

Chekwe was already moving. He took two long steps and turned the third step into a driving kick. His booted foot connected squarely with Tavin’s groin.

Tavin squealed and he began to buckle at the waist in agony, but Chekwe ducked low and brought the crown of his head up into the submaster’s face. There was a crunch of breaking cartilage. Tavin’s knees buckled, Chekwe punched him in the throat with his left fist, and the youngster toppled over backwards. The back of his head thunked on the wharf’s paving stones and he lay still, breathing raggedly while blood gushed from his nose.

Hunter hadn’t watched a thing. He took the opportunity of Chekwe’s burst of violence to swiftly undo his own pack and whip out a sword in his right hand and one-handed war ax in the other. He straightened in time to see Chekwe drain his drinking horn and toss it away, then stoop and pull Tavin’s sword from its sheath. Chekwe examined the blade thoughtfully, took a cut through the air with it, then stepped back next to Hunter.

“Remember, lads, ‘Cuddly kitten’ beats ‘pretentious dandy’ every Quamdamn time,” Chekwe chortled.

The swordsmen looked from Chekwe to their fallen leader and back again. They all had their hands on their sword hilts, and they dearly wanted to draw those blades. Hunter spoke up first.

“Chekwe made a wager. First blood. Looks like he won. You really don’t want to see what he can do when he’s actually armed, do you? Now turn your submaster on his side so he doesn’t drown in his own blood, and then get him the hell out of here.”

One of the swordsmen looked like he was about to speak when a call rang down the wharves.

“Ho! You there! No blades!”

Hunter turned and looked. The sergeant and his squad of soldiers jogged towards them, crossbows drawn and quarrels in their grooves.

“No blades!” The sergeant ordered again.

Chekwe looked up at Hunter. Hunter nodded to him. Chekwe rammed the sub-master’s sword into a crack in the paving and gave the flat of the blade a sharp kick. The blade snapped with a clatter and Chekwe tossed the hilt and its six-inch stump of steel after his drinking horn. Hunter slowly tucked his sword and ax back into his pack.

One of the Schoolers pointed at Chekwe and piped, “He attacked our submaster!”

“Clear out, all of you!” the sergeant barked.

“But they started—”

“Out! Get back to your camp or we’ll shoot you full of holes. I’m arresting these two, so quit your whining.”

“Our master will demand justice,” the Schooler threatened, but he and his mates began to back away.

“Take your man and go,” the sergeant insisted, and they hoisted their fallen submaster and hauled him off. The crowd of gawkers looked at the crossbows and beat a retreat to the comfort of the tavern. The sergeant turned to Hunter.

“I’m not going to arrest you, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you to the edge of town and banish you. I hate to throw out a couple of men who wore the blue, but I’ve got to do something. That kid was right, their master will be at the barracks gate first thing in the morning, howling for blood. Personally, I’m glad to see someone punch in one of their faces, but we can’t afford a battle in the streets right now. You understand?”

“Completely,” Hunter said. “Go ahead and escort us out.”

The sergeant stepped to Hunter and murmured, “People are watching. Too many of them prefer the Schoolers to King Cordice, and they’ll report to their master. I’ve got to make a show of it.” He put his hands on Hunter’s chest and gave him a good heave backward and shouted, “I said you’re under arrest, Quamdammit! Now move!”

Hunter hung his head in feigned defeat and scooped up his pack. Chekwe popped Quarla under his jacket and followed along, playacting with Hunter. They marched away down the wharf with six crossbows trained on their backs.

“Right turn,” the sergeant said behind them when they reached the burned warehouse. They swung up the street, a narrow, cobbled way that threaded between tight-packed rows of three-story buildings. Most had a lower story of stone and upper stories of timber, wattle, and daub. Many had signs that indicated a shop or business, a bakery or inn or shoemaker or tailor. Only a few, perhaps one of four, had light showing through windowpanes or shutters. The winter’s afternoon was giving way to dusk, and the shadows of the buildings were gathering to wrap the street in heavy gloom. Alleys and side streets intersected the main street at irregular intervals. Some were cobbled and some merely dirt, but all of them were utterly deserted.

The sergeant spoke again in a low voice. “You can relax. But keep your heads down and eyes straight ahead. People are watching. We want you to look like you’re good and arrested.”

The sergeant hustled them along, but by the time they reached the outskirts of Northport it was nearly dark, and the flurries were gathering into a good hard snow. He pulled up where the town finally gave way to some broad cornfields – harvested of course, and now nothing more than rough stubble – with timber lots on the far side. The road ran away north into the darkness.

“Sorry again,” the sergeant said. “Wish I could let you stay for a night in an inn, but…”

“We understand,” Hunter said. “It’s not a problem. We’ll find a haystack to sleep in.”

“Good luck. Cordice has hauled as much hay into the city as possible. The rest, at least for ten miles around, he torched. To deny it to his enemies. Speaking of which, by midday tomorrow you might start seeing enemy patrols. They’re no worse than us, but no better either. I don’t know how they’ll treat you. They may let you pass on through. They may conscript you. Hell, they may shoot you. So keep a sharp eye out.”

“Appreciate the word,” Hunter said. He looked the man in the eye, then around at his soldiers, nodding at each of them. They nodded back. Then the sergeant turned on his heel and led his squad back into Northport.

Hunter and Chekwe walked away from town. The clouds blotted out moon and stars, but the road was well paved and had good ditches making it easy to follow even as snow began to stick to the surface. After half a mile they came to a cottage with a couple of outbuildings. No light showed at the windows, but a couple of dogs kept up a vicious barking from inside. They went on. The snow fell heavier still, so that between the wet flakes and the darkness they couldn’t see further than the ditches. They passed several lanes, but the farms were too far off the road to see, and Hunter didn’t want to take a chance coming up on a nervous farmer with a twitchy finger on a crossbow. They went on. It was hard to gauge distance in the dark, but five miles or so later Chekwe spoke up.

“Hell of a welcome home. Quamdamned snow the very first day. No inn, no haystack. I didn’t even get enough ale. But at least you should be happy.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Food riots, blood in the streets, war, chaos, that sort of thing.”

“Why would food riots make me happy?”

“The empire is falling apart,” Chekwe observed, turning to look up and Hunter in the dark. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No!” Hunter protested.

“Then why the hell did we steal Kingmaker?”

Hunter sighed. “To topple Willard’s dynasty. To stop the Orgooth war.”

“You didn’t think the empire would fall apart if Willard’s dynasty failed?”

“I knew it might. But it’s not my fault. I always said we were giving the lowkings a choice about what to do when Willard was dead. I always said they might choose peace just as easily as they choose war.”

“Kings might choose peace as easily as they choose war? Are you mad?”

Hunter ground his teeth for a moment. “You never objected when we made the plans,” he growled.

“Why would I object? When did I ever care about your empire? Also,” Chekwe giggled, “It sounded like fun. And it was fun!”

“Well, if we end up walking all night, we’ll get to my father’s manor all the sooner. We’ll get Marna, get back to Orzan, and be with Dahlia.”

“Quam’s buttocks, is that woman all you think about? Hell, you should have kept those moonstones. Would have kept you feeling nice and close to her.”

“Heh,” Hunter grunted. He did wish he and Dahlia had each kept an enchanted moonstone. The little gems had given him a warm, delicious sense of her presence. He wished he had that now. He had turned all the moonstones over to Tennea, his sister, when he gave her Kingmaker. It had seemed right at the time, but now, missing Dahlia in the cold and the dark, he could curse himself for giving up the precious link.

They walked on, teeth chattering and toes turning to ice, hands tucked into their armpits for warmth. Every so often Chekwe cursed the snow or muttered about rum, but otherwise the world was still and silent. Eventually even Chekwe shut up and the only sound was the rumbling of their bellies. They plodded on, miles more, until a stand of fir trees loomed in the darkness.

“There,” Hunter muttered. “We’ll sleep under a tree. A bed would have been nice, but we’ve slept under firs plenty of other times.”

There was dry ground under the trees, and a deep bed of soft pine needles. They rummaged blankets out of their packs and huddled up, back-to-back. Hunter felt a very slight motion beside him – Chekwe petting Quarla in the dark. Twenty heartbeats later he heard the kitten’s soothing purr. Hunter closed his eyes, sleep crashing on him like a breaking wave.

Then, suddenly, Chekwe’s voice jolted him awake.

“What if Marna doesn’t want to go home with you? And what if Dahlia finds someone else while you’re gone? Hell, it didn’t take her more than a week to fall in love with you, why wouldn’t she fall right back out?”

Hunter’s eyes went wide, and his heart raced at a gallop. Quam, he prayed. You won’t let that happen. Would you? He shifted and squirmed. The pine needle bed didn’t seem so comfortable anymore. The wave of sleep was gone. Quarla was still purring and Chekwe was breathing the deep, even breath of sleep, but Hunter was very much awake.

ChapterTwo

Swordmaster Ellig of Roundoin sat with a cozy charcoal brazier on one side of him and a clutch of beeswax candles on a small table on the other side. He should have been mellow after a chicken dinner and a glass of wine, but instead his face was flushed with anger.

“Two unarmed men did this?” He jabbed a finger at Submaster Tavin’s smashed face. “Out in the open? And the whole town saw you humiliated?”

Tavin stared miserably at the ground. Novice Oldwin stared at the back of the tent wall. Only Herbst, the other novice, had the courage to look the master in the eye.

“Swordmaster, they surprised us. I mean, they challenged us to a duel. They were former soldiers, they said, so we assumed they were honorable, but…” he tailed off, thinking hard.

“But?” Ellig probed.

“Tavin accepted their challenge, Excellency. He was going to take them on, both at the same time!”

“Foolish,” Ellig spat at Tavin. “You’re just a sub-master. Wisdom must come along with skill, or our School will be humiliated. Was humiliated. What next?”

“They tricked me!” Tavin broke in, looking up for the first time. His voice was muffled and stuffy, as if he suffered from an awful head cold. “Oldwin and the one, the brownie, they were talking terms of the duel. The other one, the little greenie, he was getting in his sack for his sword, when all of a sudden, he pulled out a cat!”

Ellig stared. He blinked, three times, trying to figure out if he had just heard right. “I have fought and won no less than eight duels, two of them to the death. I have also helped kill half a dozen men from ambush, and I know a lot of tricks, but…a cat?” he rasped. “He tricked you with a cat?”

“It was all black,” Oldwin explained. “Maybe it was devil-hexed?”

Ellig stared again, willing his face into a stony wall instead of giving vent to his wrath. When he spoke, his voice was soft but clear. “It was not a cat,” he declared. “It was a jaguar. A beast of the southern jungles. A kit, yes, but dangerous already and growing swiftly. In the wild such a monster can bring down a full-grown bull, to say nothing of a man. And in those Quamforsaken southern lands, certain warlocks enthrall such beasts, calling them familiars, and use them as assassins. It is clear that you came across just such a warlock and his familiar. You were most fortunate to escape death.”

“It didn’t look dangerous,” Novice Herbst put in.

Ellig switched his glare to the honest youngster. “It wasn’t, you fool,” he said, still icily calm. “But the School must save face. And we can use the tale in our favor if a kitten becomes a jaguar in the retelling. And even better if its owner becomes a warlock instead of a cat-lover. These are dark times. There are rumors of treachery, desertion, heresy, wizardry, and gross immorality of the worst kinds, all coming up from the south. That is why Lord Krodon – Emperor Krodon – has us here watching the docks in the first place. People will be quick to believe a tale of an evil warlock. The story will spread swiftly as the three of you ride north to track them down.”

“We’re going to track them down?” Tavin gulped.

“You are going to track them down, but not confront them. You’ve proven yourself incapable of that. But when you find them, you will summon me and I will bring several other masters and a pastmaster, and we will destroy them. Both men and the cat. You will ride at first light.”

“Yes, Master,” the three novices said together.

“One more thing before you go. These two men. Describe them again to me. I must be certain of something.”

“The greenie was short,” Oldwin replied. “Yea tall.” He held his hand about five feet off the floor to demonstrate. “Purple hair like any other greenie, and silver eyes. Heavy scars, and ugly as hell. Quam knows what happened, but he looks like he’s taken a dozen ax blows to the face. The other’s a brownie. Tall, rangy. Stands like a soldier. Grizzled, but still good looking.”

Ellig tossed a shrug. “Hmm. Doesn’t sound familiar. But thank you. Now go.”

Sub-master Tavin and the two novices trooped out of the room. Ellig sat for a moment, weighing options. The pastmasters did not have much patience for false alarms and hysteria. Worse, they hated being reminded of humiliation. Not that the School was frequently disgraced, but it happened, every now and again. Such incidents were never recorded, never even spoken of, so that the reputation of the School remained unsullied. The most worthless acolyte must still believe that the School was above embarrassment. But Ellig remembered the day Pastmaster Tshun had died. He had been there at the duel. He remembered the flash of ax and blade, the sound of splintering bone and rending flesh, the aghast faces of the other pastmasters, and Tshun’s final scream.

And Ellig remembered the greenie. His evil silver eyes, his grotesque scars, the echo of his drunken cackle as he stalked out of the dueling yard.

“Tavin,” Ellig whispered, “you don’t know how lucky you were today.”

Ellig took a candle and moved to his writing table. He shuffled among his papers and found a miniature tube with a wisp of a blank scroll inside – paper for emergency dispatches sent by pigeons. He had only two birds left, and he had already been cautioned about using them too frequently. But this news of the scarred greenie, he was sure, qualified as School business of the most urgent sort. He took his finest pen in hand and began composing a short, neat, but unignorable message.

ChapterThree

Dru sat her pony up on the old highroad and watched the odd maiden wander through a cow pasture. The girl was on a cattle track that meandered along a quiet stretch of the River Gren. The pasture’s grass was dead and dry, its trees bare and pointing like claws towards a cold slate sky. Against the backdrop, Dru thought, the maiden’s flame-colored hair stood out like a wedding dress in a leper colony. Even more striking was the girl’s sky-blue cape, which billowed out behind her when she hiked up her skirts and ran a little way into the cold breeze. She spun around once, twice, as if she were dancing at a fancy ball, and then caught sight of Dru and stopped.

Dru gave a big, friendly wave. The maiden stared up for a bit, then gave a tiny wave. Dru swung off her pony and waved again, beckoning this time. The maiden took a small step towards her.

“Hello!” Dru called. “Hello! Can you come here?”

The maiden suddenly smiled, hiked her skirts again, and trotted up the hill to the highroad. She stopped about five paces in front of Dru and stared gravely with eyes that sparkled like polished sapphires despite the wan daylight. Her skin was light, not quite pale like the northmarcher Refugees, but like burnt cream custard. Under her cape she wore a plain but thick and warm-looking dress and sturdy boots.

“Hello,” Dru said again with a smile. “You’re Marna, aren’t you?”

The maiden gave a shrug as if she didn’t know. Dru frowned in confusion, and suddenly the maiden smiled and nodded.

“Good,” Dru said. “I thought so. Marna, I’m Constable Dru, from Grenfaire, up the road. Do you know where that is?” Marna shrugged. Dru went on. “Someone told me you were wandering in the meadow, a long way from home. You’re from Grenvell Manor, right?” Marna raised an eyebrow, again as if she didn’t know. “Well, I know you’re from the manor. I’ve seen you and your grandfather in town, on market days and fair days. You’re about three miles from home, sweetie, and I’m afraid you’re not going to get there before dark unless you head home now.”

Marna looked off over the pasture and said, “Nanana.”

Dru waited. Marna said nothing else.

“Marna, I’m going to see you home. Come along, alright? Marna?” She stepped forward and reached to take the maiden by the elbow, but the girl pulled away and flashed her an angry glare. Dru stepped back. “Fine, I won’t touch you, but you need to come. This way, sweetie.”

Dru pointed eastward. Marna looked that way, then smiled and tossed her hair.

“Nanana!” she sang the words, then began skipping and singing towards Grenvell Manor. “Nanana, bolabo, nanamu!”

“Odd only begins the description,” Dru muttered, and followed behind the maiden. The girl skipped along so rapidly that it wasn’t long before Dru swung up on her pony and kicked him into a trot to keep up.

They made good time all the way to where the manor lane turned off from the highroad. An old man leaned on a cane there, shivering despite a knitted cap pulled down over long, thin, age-blued hair. His wrinkles seemed to disappear when he saw the maiden, his teeth showing in a wide smile as she ran to hug him and kiss his cheek.

“Are you Squire Grenvell?” Dru asked. The old man looked up and nodded.

“I am. And who are you, little lady?”

Dru frowned. “I’m Constable Dru, from Grenfaire.”

“Well I can see the jacket and badge and truncheon, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lady constable before. Quam have mercy on us all.”

“Maybe it is Quam’s mercy that you have a lady constable,” Dru said sourly.

“Oh. I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to offend. I’m sure you’re very capable. You’ve brought my little Marna back to me. She’s not a naughty girl, but she does get to dreaming and then there’s no telling where she’ll be off to. You have my thanks, Constable.”

“No thanks necessary. Just part of the job. You better get yourself inside before it starts snowing, Squire. Looks to be a nasty night.”