The Northern Approach (37 page)

“No…no…” Estin said softly, gasping for breath. Turning to the only other room of the tiny home, Estin rushed inside, nearly clipping his ears on the low doorway. He came to a stop atop a pile of rotted and moldy blankets that had been partially shielded from the weather over the years by the windowless room.

“Estin?” Yoska prodded, coming into the house behind him.

On’esquin’s shadow fell across the doorway, along with the tiny shadow of Estin’s fox.

“This was my home,” he said at last, falling into a seated position. “I was born here.”

“Is long way from what you called home when we met,” admitted Yoska, coming over and sitting down beside Estin. “You are sure, no?”

“Very sure,” said Estin. “Those blankets were where I hid while they killed my parents. The chair in the other room broke while my father fought the man who was taking my mother. Everything is how I left it when I ran.”

Yoska reached out to comfort Estin, but Estin shrugged off the man’s attempts at sympathy and got back to his feet. Storming out of the house, he looked around at the abandoned village. He searched, nearing panic because he saw the village as the place that had been the backdrop of all of his nightmares. He remembered playing around those homes as a child. He remembered other wildling children laughing and running near the trees. He even remembered a few others that were not wildlings, but his memories were blurred, too far gone to recall more than that they were “different.” Estin had spent his whole life as the one who was different, but here, those who did not have fur were the odd ones.

“I…I always thought…” Estin rubbed at his face, trying to form coherent thoughts. “I thought this was near Altis.”

“This is a very long way from that city,” On’esquin interjected, giving Estin a worried look. “We are a full country away. A very long distance to forget traveling.”

A sharp whistle from farther out near the old farm plots made both of the other men jerk to alert, but Estin could not snap himself out of his dazed staring at the old village. The men ran off, leaving him and the fox there in front of his childhood home with the ghosts of his memories, now visiting him during his waking hours.

“This is where I lost my family the first time,” Estin said aloud, jumping a little as the fox poked at his hand. Looking around, Estin saw the others were not far away, looking at something near the wood line. He started off toward them, but Raeln quickly moved between him and them, putting up his hands to stop Estin.

“No, this is not something you need to see,” Raeln tried, but Estin pushed past him. The wolf immediately leapt back in front of him. “Estin, please don’t. As your friend—”

“I barely know you,” snapped Estin, punching Raeln as hard as he could in the stomach. Hitting Raeln’s muscles felt like hitting a wall, but Estin growled, trying to hide the pain in his hand.

Raeln grunted but seemed relatively unharmed by the blow, though he did move aside.

Estin went on toward the others, but he did not have to go far to see what they were looking at. A field of dirt and grass-covered bones lay strewn across the edge of the village. To him it looked as though a hundred people had been piled up and left to rot, with some of the remains having been dragged a short distance into the woods by scavengers. The bones were so old he could easily have walked right past the mound and not even noticed.

“Estin, you don’t need to see it,” said Raeln, though he made no further attempt to stop Estin. “We can’t be sure they are anyone you knew. We should go. Let them rest.”

Yoska immediately looked guilty, letting Estin know who had already managed to tell Raeln about his memories. Not a huge surprise.

“Stand back and let me find my parents,” Estin told the large man, forcing himself to keep walking. Estin strode into the grisly open grave and could not restrain himself from trembling. These were people who had lived near him as a child, children he had played with, and possibly even his own parents. It was more than he was ready to cope with, but he saw no other way. Worse still, he would never know their names or faces to be able to piece together the glimpses in his dreams with these remains.

Kneeling beside a large pile of old bones, Estin picked up a pair of skulls and examined them. The first was a squirrel wildling, of that he was certain from having tended to several back at Feanne’s father’s camp. It had been female and she was probably only about five or six when she died, if he had to guess. Still very young.

The other skull Estin held was an orcish man, likely twenty or so years old.

Looking around, he saw a pattern beginning to form. For every two wildling skeletons he could identify, there was one orc. Every so often he spotted a human-looking skeleton with one or two odd features—a fae-kin, he surmised. They might not be as hated as wildlings and orcs in the region, but they were looked upon superstitiously. He honestly could not be surprised to find one or two here.

“None are my breed,” Estin said happily, though he felt more than a little guilty. There would be others like him out there, unaware that their family lay in the open grave. “There’s still a chance…” He let his words trail off as he noticed Raeln was not looking at the corpses, but rather, the woods. Estin followed the man’s gaze and saw what he thought were vines hanging from the trees. He knew of no vinelike plants that grew so close to the mountains.

Getting up, Estin walked toward the trees, trying to make out what he was seeing. It took him until he reached the first tree with one of the vines to realize they were actually old ropes that had decayed and broken with age. There was one on each of several trees, making eight ropes in all that Estin could see. There might once have been more, though those were the only ones he could see.

Something snapped under Estin’s toe-claw and he immediately knew it could not have been a twig. Walking through ancient tombs had familiarized him with that sound and feeling. He looked down and saw more bones, mostly piled under the broken ropes.

“They were hung,” he said to himself, taking a knee by the remains he stood over.

Sifting through the bones with his fingers, Estin pulled out a few that helped him recognize the victim had been a wildling. A raccoon. Estin moved to the next skeleton and found a wolf’s remains. The next two were raccoons again, followed by a skunk, and then a cow. The breeds were not ones he was overly familiar with, other than the wolf, forcing Estin to rely on having dealt with the regular animals enough times to recognize a wildling version.

“Every one of them is a wildling,” he said, sitting back on his haunches. “What do wolves, skunks, cows, and raccoons have in common that they were hung separately from all the others? What about them would necessitate a different death?”

Raeln spoke up first. “They all can be patterned with black and white. I only say that because the barbarian tribes near where I was raised viewed black and white animals as a bad omen that needed to be killed and eaten. At least that was the excuse they used for raiding our farms.”

A groan from On’esquin made Estin’s skin itch.

“What do you know?” Estin demanded, turning somewhat.

“Some of Turess’s prophecies may have fallen into Dorralt’s hands over the years,” On’esquin explained, putting a hand to the bundle at his hip. “‘The harbinger of destruction across the world would be from our lands, but the one who let us know it was time to stand up and fight it would be a man draping himself in black and white.’ Another translation would be ‘of black and white.’ Those were Turess’s words. What was least helpful was that we conquered most of the known world, so telling us that the person was from our lands meant little. A purge of anyone that might be ‘of black and white’ would be a way to fight the prophecies.”

Estin wanted to scream, to howl at the sky in anger. The idea that people like him had been hunted down like beasts for a stupid prophecy was too much. Murdered solely because of the color of their fur. Clenching his hands, he stood and went to the last two bodies.

Like the others, these were torn apart by animals after their deaths. However, Estin did not need much of their remains to still be there to recognize the excess of tail bones and the shape of their skulls. These were other members of his breed. These were possibly the last two in all the world for all beyond himself and the female he had met in Corraith before her death.

“Raeln,” Estin said over his shoulder, though his voice quavered as he tried to keep himself calm, “thank you for trying to protect me from this. I’m sorry I hit you. You were doing a good thing, but I had to see this for myself. These were my parents.” Turning, Estin marched up to On’esquin. “How many have died because of your prophecy?” he demanded, getting up as close to On’esquin as he could, considering their difference in height. “How many of my kind are lying in shallow graves because of something your master said on his deathbed? How much blood is enough, On’esquin?”

“This is not Turess’s fault any more than it is yours,” answered On’esquin, though he lowered his eyes. He did not sound as though he believed his own words.

Laughing, Estin replied, “This is my fault, though. Don’t you understand? I ran! I ran until I found a city where I thought I was far enough away to escape all this. I could have stayed…died with them…maybe saved them…”

“You were a child, Estin,” snapped On’esquin, no longer looking ashamed but standing up to Estin’s anger. “Dying beside them would not have brought them back! You ran like any child would. In your case, your people are arboreal. You fled to the highest place you could find…Altis. Think about your own children and what would have happened if you had not run to those lands! Would they have lived? Would they even have been born?”

Taking a deep breath, Estin nodded and looked over at Raeln and Yoska, who, unlike On’esquin, appeared genuinely concerned about Estin. Yoska in particular kept glancing toward the bodies of Estin’s parents and whispering what sounded like some kind of funeral rights in a language Estin did not know. From what he knew of Yoska, he was likely wishing them well in whatever lands they roamed.

“You’re right, On’esquin,” Estin said at last, backing down. “I need to think about my children.”

“I’m glad you understand—”

“Right now, my children are on the far side of the mountains and the desert beyond, being protected by their big sister against an army of ghouls and a town that doesn’t know them. They are wondering where their parents are and when—or if—they will come home. I need to think about them, not your foolish war against the north. Go on without me…I’m done with this.”

Estin turned and walked west toward the mountains. He did not look back once as he made his way into the deep woods and up the first rise of the foothills, the first leg of the journey back to Corraith, with the fox bounding along at his side.

He had more than a thousand miles across mountain and desert to work through his anger. He hoped it would be enough and prayed the kits would be all right when he arrived.

“His Weakness”

Those I see present themselves as invincible. I laugh at their posturing, their subtle cues to others that they cannot ever lose, the way even their foes view them as agents of a long-gone god. These are the true betrayers, those who placed blame on On’esquin during my final days.

This is pure ignorance. A hero is not someone who wins because they cannot lose. Rather, a hero is made from weakness, sculpted and shaped…and then they get lucky enough to live long enough that anyone has heard of them. Thousands of heroes die every day, simply because they did not see an arrow coming or food was scarce one winter. Thousands more heroes die without their names being spread to the bards. Most heroes are known to none beyond their kin.

That is what I have long believed a hero to be and is what I see of those in my visions. These are deeply flawed individuals who will die if they make a mistake. They can fail and often will. It is only the ending that matters, not how they get there. A hero is still a hero if they fail every step of the way but succeed when it matters most.

They will learn this lesson through pain, regardless of having read what I say. They will give up everything to win even the smallest victory.

-
         
Excerpt from the lost prophecies of Turess

“That could have gone better, no?”

On’esquin shot an angry glare at Yoska for the comment, but Raeln could not fault the man for saying what they all were likely thinking. He had seen Estin’s anger growing since the moment he had come to his senses and honestly could not imagine not going after the children if he were in Estin’s place. Raeln would never fault the man for it, even if the group—or the prophecy—depended on him in some vague way. His place in the world was with those children, not here.

“We will rest in one of the houses until morning,” Raeln told them, deciding to take charge before Yoska and On’esquin came to blows. “Maybe longer, if the place seems secure enough. These people have been dead a long time. No one is going to come looking for them. At worst, we might have to deal with animals searching through the remains.”

“Or angry ghosts,” muttered Yoska, making a quick motion with his left hand. Raeln guessed it was some superstition meant to ward off spirits. “Is not great place to stop, but is better than the journey Estin intends to make.”

“Forget about him! He’s made his choice! I made that clear the last hundred times you brought it up since he left,” On’esquin snarled, marching past them toward the heart of the village.

Yoska was not about to stop, pushing past Raeln to follow On’esquin. “This is not about prophecy. Estin seeks his family…all the family he has left. I think any of us would do same, yes? We walk to snowy lands because we have no family to go back to. If one of my wives managed to show up, I would leave the same way Estin has. I will not be mad at him for doing so, and I take offense that you expect me to be!”

“I said forget him!” snapped On’esquin, rounding on Yoska. Baring his deadly sharp teeth, he jabbed Yoska squarely in the chest with a thick finger. “Six was how many Turess saw making this march. Six! We had four. I doubt we could do this with an army, but we have to do this with three now!”

Showing no hint of being intimidated in the slightest, Yoska grinned back at On’esquin. “Confidence is inspiring, no?”

Raeln groaned as the men continued to bicker and he soon started walking away toward the more intact hovels with the two making enough noise behind him to let half the countryside know where they were. He guessed he could secure a safe place for them to rest long before they finished fighting. If nothing else it would give him a chance to get away from all the anger and possibly prepare what supplies they had to tend to the men’s wounds after they did come to blows.

He rubbed at his stomach as he walked, wishing he knew how to make Estin understand he honestly wanted to help him get through these things. The man had been through so much—more even than Raeln, which made Raeln’s heart melt each time the world seemed to kick Estin again. It made his own anger at what had happened in Lantonne pale and become easier to bear when he could worry about someone else. Right now, he needed that.

Raeln soon reached the second house in from the outside of the village. Most of the outer ones were badly damaged or outright collapsed, and those closest to the center would be too difficult to defend without a clear view of the approach into town. Checking the house he stood near, he found much of the interior was buried under collapsed wooden beams that had supported the roof. Given a strong wind, the remainder of the house would likely collapse.

He moved on to the next house and the one after that, trying to find one in any kind of reasonable condition. At last he found one that looked sturdy enough to survive a night with people inside it. Picking up the broken door and setting it aside, Raeln leaned into the house, intending to look before stepping in, just in case there were animals or loose stones inside that might pose a threat.

Raeln’s ankle touched something and he looked down to see a thin string run across the doorway, resting taut against his fur. Tracing it with his eyes, he followed it up the wall to his left on the inside of the house, all the way up to the roof, where it fed into the stones. The string looked fairly new, unlike everything else that showed signs of having endured many winters and rains.

Easing back from the string, Raeln walked slowly around the house, searching the roof for some indication of the string’s purpose. It took him a minute, but he found a small box hidden among the tiles of the roof that looked far newer than anything else in the village. This he touched gingerly, feeling a slight trembling from it—a strong spring that was primed. If that had gone off with them inside…he looked around and saw that this was the only house that appeared intact. Someone had tried to coax visitors inside, where the trap would have been triggered.

“We need to go!” Raeln shouted, backing away from the house. There was no telling how many more of the homes were trapped or what else might be waiting within the village. “We’ll find somewhere else!”

A crack behind Raeln warned him he was too late.

Running around the building that blocked his view of the others, Raeln saw On’esquin lying on the ground under a heavy net that had come down from a stable’s roof where he and Yoska had been standing. The netting had been attached to stone blocks, which kept On’esquin from being able to lift it off without help.

Yoska had pulled out his weapons before Raeln could reach them, turning on the woods, where crashing noises had begun. In seconds a wall of corpses emerged from the trees somewhat east of the village, marching straight toward them.

Drawing his sword, Raeln fell in beside Yoska as the undead came steadily over the low stone walls of the village and into the open space, while more continued to come from the trees. There were easily a hundred of them from what Raeln could see, and with On’esquin trapped, they had no chance of running. Only then did the wind shift enough that Raeln caught the scent of death. The attack had been planned carefully, hiding their approach from both of the wildlings that had been present.

Raeln turned and slashed at the net, hoping On’esquin’s ability to rapidly heal would be enough to protect him from any careless swings. That became a nonissue when Raeln’s weapon glanced off the netting as though he had hit steel.

“It’s been enchanted,” On’esquin explained, managing to pull himself up onto all fours. He strained against the weight of the stones but barely moved them. “I can get free with some effort. Hold them off!”

Raeln needed no other prodding. He had waited a long time for another chance at the armies of the dead. Stepping out ahead of Yoska, he dug his foot-claws into the soft ground, preparing to charge them once they were closer. They vastly outnumbered him, but he intended to see how many he could bring down before they could stop him. Keeping them down would be another matter altogether.

The zombies came like a tidal wave, stumbling in a tight-packed line toward the living, both ends of the mob moving around to circle them. Were it not for the small stable at their backs, Raeln would have had to worry about undead attacking him from all sides.

Once the nearest corpse was close enough that Raeln could not only smell it, but see the deep crack in the side of her skull from an axe, Raeln launched himself at them. He ran hard and crashed into the lead zombie with his shoulder, taking it and three others off their feet as he slid to a stop in the middle of the front line. Whirling, Raeln cleaved through flesh and sometimes bone with his sword, while following up each strike with either his free hand’s claws or a kick. Soon he was entirely surrounded, but the undead only had eyes for him, which allowed Yoska to approach from the side and cut down one zombie at a time with his knives, making the attacks count.

The zombies fell one and two at a time, but more often than not, they got back up. It made Raeln’s position difficult, as corpses he intended to step past or use as barriers to the approach of others would suddenly lurch and sit up, reaching for him once again. Raeln fought as hard as he could, tearing through the zombies while taking little in the way of injuries. He was hurting, but he knew he could fight on for some time. Whether it would be long enough was the real question, with more undead coming from the woods. He was fast enough that they most likely could not bring him down until he tired, but that would be long before the undead would.

With a kick that cleared him a brief opening, Raeln tried to get back to the stable in hopes of using it as a shield against the undead. The zombies were mindless and would attack him at the door into the stable, rather than thinking to break down the walls. It would buy even more time for On’esquin to free himself so they could run.

That plan died as Raeln realized he had been cut off from On’esquin. Standing in the small gap between the undead and the stable was the same black-robed human woman he had seen in Pholithia. She held Yoska with her gloved hand clamped on his throat, lifting him off the ground so only the tips of his boots touched, while her free hand held blue flames. Both of Yoska’s knives were already shoved to the hilt in the woman’s ribs.

“Hello again, beast,” the Turessian said, glancing over her shoulder at On’esquin, who was still struggling with the net. “I honestly had hoped the four of you were smarter than this, but as always, savages disappoint. This trap was intended to be a precaution…I did not expect it to so easily catch most of you. I do have to admit I did not anticipate you being quite as deadly as you are…that was my error.”

Raeln held his ground, trying not to panic as the undead stood all around him, their lifeless eyes staring hungrily. They would not attack without the woman’s cue, that much he knew. Why she would wait, he had no idea. What he could not do was risk Yoska so long as she had him at her mercy. Everyone’s life came before his own; it was his way and his training as a child.

The Turessian backed away from Raeln, dragging Yoska as she went into the stable to stand beside On’esquin. With a flick of her free hand, the flames vanished. “Did you think I would not speak with Dorralt about you?” she asked the orc, laughing lightly. Had she been anything but the monster she was, Raeln would have considered her laugh pleasant. “All that power and what can you do to free yourself, traitor? Such a simple way to defeat our greatest enemy and the only person we consider a true obstacle to reclaiming the empire. You should be ashamed of yourself for making it this easy.”

On’esquin roared and tried to leap to his feet, but the netting kept him from moving more than a few inches closer to the woman. He then tried to shove his hand through the gaps in the net to attack her, but his hands were too large to fit.

“We’re missing one,” the woman mused, slamming Yoska hard against the wall of the stable when he tried to reach for his knife in her chest. “Where is your fourth? Tell me where he is and I’ll make this easier on all of you.” When none of them spoke up, the woman looked first to On’esquin. “Abandon your foolish mission and come back with me, traitor. Dorralt will show mercy…eventually. All you need do to redeem yourself is give up all of your companions.”

On’esquin took a deep breath and sat down, closing his eyes in what Raeln thought resembled meditation. He was trying to calm himself.