And So It Begins (26 page)

The northerners looked like nothing more than animals, shaggy hair and ragged beards covering their faces, animal skins covering their bodies. They fought with both axe and sword, and shouted in loud, guttural voices. Kherin fought his way through the mass of hair and fur, intent on wounding rather than killing. Wounding would take them out of battle, would take less time and less strength, and would leave them alive for questioning later. And though the northerners were vicious fighters, they were not skilled and not trained, and yet it was his own anger that proved to be his greatest strength. His anger, and the rain that began to pelt down as the sky opened up, heralded by a deep rumble of thunder.

The fighting was fierce on both sides but, strangely, lasted for only a moment. In an inexplicable move, the northerners began to flee with the coming of the rain, the abruptness of the reprieve surprising Kherin. The sudden abandonment of the fight left him disoriented, left him behind the sudden surge to the river. It took him a moment to realize the fight was over. Others followed them to the water’s edge, but stopped short of stepping into the current, instead standing in confused silence as the northerners slipped out of reach.

Kherin reached the banks by pushing his way through the mass of bodies, breathing heavily as the icy water lapped over his boots, and he stared in utter disbelief at the figures bobbing across the Ford. Retreating. The northerners had forfeited what would have been a damaging attack, if not a minor victory, giving up when the advantage had still been theirs.
Why?

He had no answer, and as they leisurely made their way home, he nearly spit in disgust at the one victory the northerners did claim. They knew the Defenders wouldn’t follow them into the river, and so they paid them no heed once they had begun wading back to their own lands. They knew the Defenders had no trained archers, and so made no move to protect themselves against arrows. They knew the river was a line the Defenders wouldn’t cross, and used it like a wall to secure their safety. And it worked.

He glowered at them as they moved easily through the current, their efforts taking them swiftly away from Llarien land, and he let out a growl of frustration as the first of the figures reached the far shore. A glance along the northern bank and then to the watching Defenders threatened to turn his growl into a vicious tirade—until he realized what he was seeing, and he swore fiercely at his own and everyone else’s blind stupidity. He let his bloodied sword drop tip first into the mud at his feet, the point quickly buried under its weight.

The northerners had crossed unnoticed, not just one, not only a few times, but enough times to gather a force to outnumber a Defender camp. Outnumber it and attack it.

And they had just shown him how.

The river behind the barracks was no deeper than it was past the camp, but the area was heavily wooded on the Llarien side and considerably less watched—he had learned that through his duties. He had learned how far from the camp the patrols went, how often they ventured to the edges of their territory, and how long it was between the patrols that reached its farthest points. And how they never left the banks to wander into the trees for anything more than to relieve their bladders. He had learned this, and so had the northerners.
That
was how they had gotten across to mount the attack the day Adrien had been injured.
That
was how they had gotten across now. The Defenders thought the trees protected them, and had underestimated the northerners’ ease in the water.
Gods above
. They had simply walked across when the Defenders weren’t watching and then hid in the trees where they knew the Defenders didn’t go.

The taverns of the city would lose a lot of business, starting now, Kherin vowed silently and viciously, not for an instant believing they had crossed all at once, not that many, not without drawing the scattered attention of at least some of the Defenders in this camp. The thought of how long they had been gathering on Llarien soil was terrifying, and chancing that some remained hidden in the trees was a risk he wouldn’t take. Gresham was responsible for the security of this camp, and through it the security of Llarien, but he had failed at both, and Kherin would wrest the control from the Leader’s fingers if necessary. This battle had been given to them, and he would not let anyone make the mistake of thinking it had been won. With another sigh of disgust, he turned to face the battlefield.

None of the northerners remained in the camp, though several Defenders were injured—those that had managed to arrive in time to join the battle, anyway. But no Defenders had died, a miracle from Kherin’s vantage point. The injured would be taken to the healer in the city, and Willum’s hospice would be busy for the near future.

Kherin continued to scan the field—and then he stopped breathing as his eyes found a lone figure set precariously on his knees, closer to the barracks than the river, ignoring the rain as he struggled to find his feet. He was injured, his blood mixing with the mud and water, his mouth twisted in a snarl as Defenders formed a wide circle around him.

Kherin felt his heart beating against his ribs. He was wrong. Not all of the northerners had escaped. His anger drained as something resembling hope crept over him, and he stood frozen as he watched the northerner snarl and spit at the surrounding Defenders.

He had planned to cross the river and bring a northerner back. Instead, one had come to him.

K
HERIN
knew the instant the northerner saw him. In the moment their eyes met, the northerner became so still, so motionless, he could have been carved from stone, the blood streaking his body forgotten, the Defenders circling around him irrelevant. Crouched on his knees, he stared through the matted tangle of his hair and beard, unblinking, barely breathing.

As the moment stretched, Kherin stepped forward, slowly and cautiously, lifting his sword from the mud but not raising the blade in attack. He was aware of the uncertain glances the Defenders cast toward him, but he didn’t look to meet them, passing through the crowd until he stood at the forefront of the circle. The northerner watched him, but when Kherin spoke, it was to the Defenders.

“Get them to the hospice. There’s enough of us here to keep him from going anywhere.”

The wounded. This single, very-much-alive northerner they had trapped in their midst had taken their attention from the Defenders who had been injured during the brief battle, and several heads turned to the ones aiding those still struggling. None were so badly hurt they had to be carried, but more than a few leaned heavily on their comrades, letting themselves be shuffled forward, ever closer to the cobbled streets of Gravlorn. As the progression out of the camp lengthened, the whole and unburdened began to swell the ranks around their captive, closing off his escape but never crowding the northerner or the prince.

Gresham appeared at Kherin’s elbow, his head uncovered and the stands of his hair hanging limply from his balding crown. Jarak joined him a moment later, flanking Kherin’s opposite side, a bow held easily in one hand, a blue and black fletched arrow dangling from the other. The blacksmith didn’t show the discomfort Gresham did, didn’t shift nervously in place like the Leader, but merely waited for orders.

None came immediately, and the northerner rose slowly to his feet when it seemed the Defenders would draw no closer, his focus never wavering from the second Prince of Llarien. He was taller than Kherin, and bulkier, even without the padding of armor. His hair was thick and darkened by the rain, and hung in sodden ropes down his back, almost hiding the strip of leather that had pulled most of it from his face. The bloody animal skins appeared to be made from reedbuck, a more rugged version of the deer that roamed the countryside of Llarien. The boots he wore were simple but effective, and made from the same skins. But for all his animalistic appearance, the intelligence in his eyes was clear. They were dark but fully aware, and holding something more than mere hostility. Standing this close, Kherin would have called it surprise.

“What is your name?” he asked sharply, breaking the silence that had fallen around them.

The northerner didn’t react, didn’t attempt to speak, and never took his eyes from the prince. The continuing rain beat dully against the earth, splattering the mud in thousands of tiny eruptions. The circle had grown so still, not even the sound of breathing interrupted its steady patter.

“Do you speak our language?” Kherin tried again. He doubted the northerner did, or would admit to it when surrounded by hostile strangers, but he couldn’t help the sliver of hope that just maybe he could be understood. He needed that sliver, if this northerner was going to be any use at all.

But the northerner didn’t so much as blink.

Kherin’s lips tightened at the complete lack of reaction. “Take him to the cells in the city,” he said at last, speaking again to the Defenders without averting his gaze. “Get him dry and fed. We need to keep him alive.”

“There are no cells, my lord,” Gresham answered hesitantly.

The words snapped Kherin’s gaze sharply away from the stranger, and the Leader forced himself to stand straighter under his glare.

“We have no cells in Gravlorn, my lord,” Gresham repeated, louder this time. “We haven’t had need of them before now.”

Kherin’s head spun to Jarak, and the blacksmith nodded.

“Cells were built when Gravlorn was raised, but they have since been turned into shops and taverns,” Jarak explained evenly. “With so little activity from the northerners during recent years, the people began to think them wasted space, and so put them to other uses.”

Kherin barely kept the reply he wanted to make from reaching his lips, but had to grudgingly admit the choice may not have been pure folly. Before this season, the prison cells would most likely have been nothing more than rat-infested hovels. Add to that the fact that the Defenders here, in addition to being the mostly likely cause of any trouble in the city, were also in charge of protecting it, and it was extremely doubtful they would arrest one of their own, or risk their welcome in the city by arresting its citizens. Even the Delfore Defenders would have been outnumbered and overruled had they tried to enforce something resembling laws. Kherin nearly spit in disgust.

“Then take him to an inn in the city and keep him under guard,” he ground out instead. He looked directly at Gresham. “Schedule the rotation to make sure he is never left alone. Not when he eats, not when he sleeps, not when he takes a piss.”

Gresham looked about to argue, but Kherin stepped forward. “He may be more likely to kill himself than try any of you. Make sure he never gets the chance.”

He saw Gresham swallow, but the Leader nodded in reluctant obedience, and Kherin turned back to the center of the circle. The northerner hadn’t moved and gave no sign he understood the conversation, though he never took his eyes from Kherin until he was forced to, when he was turned away by the Defenders taking charge of him. The blood on his skins said he was wounded, but his steps didn’t falter as he was led from the camp. Kherin said nothing when Gresham accompanied them.

Jarak stayed but kept his silence while the remaining Defenders disbanded, both prince and blacksmith watching impassively while the men scattered. The hum of their voices began nearly as soon as their backs were turned, yet Kherin waited until they had moved farther away, until he was sure they were out of earshot, and he and Jarak were all but alone in the middle of the camp. Jarak waited patiently until the prince at last turned to face him.

“All right, what happened, Jarak? How did we not know they were gathering on our side? How long have they been here? Why did they attack, what were they after, and why did they leave when they could have won?”

Even as he asked the questions, Kherin was aware of how deeply grateful he was that Jarak was from Delfore, and was therefore someone who knew better than to flounder with justifications and excuses and wouldn’t waste time with conjecture and guesses.

“They crossed the river to the east, my lord,” Jarak answered calmly. “Most likely in the heaviest growth between here and Lorn. It seems unlikely they crossed as a whole, but not entirely impossible they crossed unseen if spread over a short period of time. We have not seen fires or smoke to indicate a camp, but patrols stick to the riverbank, and a camp without a fire is possible even in this season if they are acclimated to the elements. We weren’t expecting their attack, and so we weren’t prepared for it, and we do not know if it was planned, spurred into being, or because they were bored. Overall, I would say we were lucky, my lord.”

“Lucky” described exactly what they were right now, though Kherin wondered bitterly just how many Defenders truly realized that.

“Why here?” he asked, glancing idly around the camp. “Why here instead of Lorn?”

Jarak didn’t answer immediately, and Kherin went on without waiting.

“Because maybe they already know what is—or isn’t—in Lorn,” he answered himself, and scowled at the implications. The northerner who had taken his life had done so in Lorn, as had the Defender who had been in league with him. Because Lorn had been tried and discarded was a legitimate possibility.