Landmoor Page 4

  The harsh yellow glare of torch fire washed over Thealos’ face as he climbed the shoal docks from the barge and entered the city of Dos-Aralon. He dropped a few Aralonian pieces into the grubby hand of the ferry-keeper and joined the ranks milling about the crowded pier. He had chosen the southern trading docks deliberately, knowing well in advance that they would be crowded for hours yet to come. Darkness had already fallen over the jammed city, but with torches and lanterns to play the sun’s part, there would still be many willing to deal. Even with a Shae.

  Thealos passed beneath the high bastions and ramparts facing the river. He knew the trading streets better than most in Avisahn and quickly marked the barters his father traded with – the clothweaver and draper guilds. Avoiding those, he ducked down side alleys where he could avoid curious stares. The night was warm, but he wore the green cowl up over his head to hide the tell-tale features that branded him a Shae – the straw-blond hair, light eyes, and pale skin. There were other traits that distinguished him from the humans of the valley. He could feel the tremor of the Earth magic and discern whether it was Light or Forbidden. He could smell color, and he could see in the dark like a cat born to walk the rails at night. He knew the humans were afraid to see the eyes of a Shae glowing in the dark. He smirked. Let them fear.

  Thealos walked quickly and confidently, one hand on the sharp dagger in his belt. He used the Shae step-walking pattern of the woods to keep his soft boots from clipping loudly on the stone. More than anything else, he wanted to get out of Dos-Aralon and into the open plains before the gates were shut. Nordain would send sentries for him in the morning. Once Nordain was certain Thealos had abandoned Avisahn, he would ask the Council Elder of Keasorn to summon the Crimson Wolfsmen. They were the defenders of the Shae kingdom, more highly trained than the regimental knights of Owen Draw, but Thealos doubted they knew Dos-Aralon as well as he did.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a subtle movement behind him. Whirling, Thealos drew his dagger and stared down the empty alley. He gripped the hilt, ready in a defensive crouch for a thief or robber. He could see the light from the street at the other side of the alley. There was nothing, not even the scuttling of a rat on the cobblestones. He stared for several long moments, letting his breath out evenly. He usually trusted his instincts and his reflexes. Lowering the cowl, he listened, trying to catch any clues from the wind. Laughter glided past him from one of the many taverns on Highwater Street. He smelled the raw rich flavor of ale and honeyed mead – both Forbidden to the Shae. He tried to sense the Earth magic, but it was crowded down and stamped beneath the layers of street and filth. The sense of the magic was almost inaudible in Dos-Aralon. It had been so since the humans had settled there, or that was what he remembered from his studies.

  Keeping his guard up, Thealos raised his hood and continued south, frequently checking the mouth of the alley behind him for any sign of pursuit. As he entered the next street, he kept with the flow of wagons and guild carts. Along the city wall, the stalls and booths were corded down with tarps. Paid sentries walked down the ways, protecting the wares during the night. Theft was common, Thealos knew, but only on the human side of the river. Painted signs and crooked flat boards spoke of the linens and trinkets for sale. He’d seen them so many times. He hoped he would never have to cheat a man for another bolt of cloth again.

  The south ports of Dos-Aralon wedged down against the furthest walls and gates. The walls were easy enough to follow, but sometimes the gatehouses were nearly indistinguishable from the high watch towers and cobbled steps rising to the bastions. He’d never negotiated through Dos-Aralon at night, but he found his instincts were still true and quickly approached the South-Bannik porter door leading out to the valley plains. Something tickled the back of his neck again, an awareness, a whisper of doubt. He paused at the street edge and turned around, looking back once more. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see, for there were plenty of shopkeepers and journeymen about him, even a cluster of hired guards. It was a nagging feeling, like an itch between his shoulder-blades he just couldn’t quench.

  Something was following him.

  Dos-Aralon was a dangerous city. He knew that well enough, and recognized that safety would only be found out in the hills and hollows of the valley. His instincts were better attuned than those of the human neighbors. He sheathed the dagger in his belt and hurried to the porter door. There were five sentries posted at South-Bannik wearing the army uniform of Dos-Aralon. This was typical.

  “The moon greet you,” Thealos said in the common language of the high kingdom. “I need passage tonight.”

  “Leaving?” the porter captain asked. “What for?”

  “I have business elsewhere,” Thealos replied. He looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing to mark his premonition. He still felt it.

  “The gates are closed for the night. Come back in the morning.”

  Thealos tensed. “I can see the gates are closed, captain. But this is the quickest way. By the time I reached Kimberton Gate, it would be curfew. I need to…”

  “Not tonight, lad. They’re going to ring the bells soon, anyway. Pack up for the night. You can leave in the morning.” He folded his arms, immune to Thealos’ pleas.

  Thealos scrutinized the porter guards. “This is a delicate matter,” he said, unslinging the travel pack from across his shoulders. It was obvious they were expecting a bribe. In quick motions, he untied the mouth and reached inside. “My father is expecting a wagon shipment from the Radstill vineyards. If it arrives early,” he continued, withdrawing a sealed bottle of Silvan wine, “we stand to make quite a profit from the sale.”

  “Sweet Achrolese,” one of the guards gasped, staring at the bottle. “Is that…?”

  “Yes, it is,” Thealos answered with a greedy smile. “See these symbols? It’s a dark red from the Silverborne kegs. As I said, gentlemen, this is an important meeting I must attend to. If you let me out tonight, I’ll let you share this one. Even though it will cost me,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “Do we have a deal?”

  The porter captain stared hungrily at the bottle and nodded. Fetching the gate keys from an iron ring around his belt, he unlocked the doors. Thealos nodded approvingly to the captain and handed him the bottle. He listened with smug confidence as the porter doors were closed and sealed behind him. He wondered whether any of them knew the bottle cost barely thirty silver pence in Avisahn. It was a modest table wine that even Arielle drank mixed with water – though still good by human standards. It did come from the Silverborne kegs. Of course, that’s what the label declared on nearly every bottle of wine from Thealos’ home.

  * * *

  When dawn broke like a foamy wave over the woodlands, Thealos shook his head wearily. It didn’t feel like that much time had passed. The purple sky brightened until it shone a lustrous blue, hiding the stars in the light. Woven blankets of gray clouds floated along the channels of wind, bringing the smells of wildberries and decaying bark. The city of Dos-Aralon was well behind him, and he walked at an even pace, keeping away from the river. His plan was simple, and still a little unformed. Thealos wanted to walk the whole valley, to get a feeling and friendship with the people of the land. He wanted to meet farmers and soldiers and spinners – even members of the Bandit Rebellion – and learn from them. He knew he should be cautious. There were stories of what men did to the Shae away from the homeland. Of course, the stories were meant to discourage exactly what Thealos intended to do. But if he could find a small group to travel with – a group of humans he could trust – it would increase his chances of surviving. With that in mind, he continued south, following the Trident River because he thought Nordain would look to the western lands for him first and Correl would search the city. Besides, Thealos knew the eastern ridge of the valley from the trading routes that Correl used, and he thought it wise to stay near familiar ground until he reached the Shoreland. Once he was down there, he could catch a ship to anywhere in the world
and his trail would be impossible to pick up. Bluejays squawked from the branches of tall poplars, fluttering from tree to tree, chasing flying beetles. By midday, a rim of sweat had formed on Thealos’ brow. Lowering the hood so he could feel the wind on his neck, he swept his long blond hair back and kept it loose. He was tall for a Shae, but still recognizably one even at a distance.

  By mid-afternoon, Thealos could see the inland valley for miles. He stopped to eat on a low rangy hill crowned with trees. It overlooked a rich land with pastures dotted with stands of oak, ash, and maple trees. A hawk circled in the sky before dipping down to snatch a jackrabbit. He saw a few riders in the valley coming up from one of the many farms and towns scattered throughout the Inland. He knew his green cloak would conceal him in the tree line. Biting into a ripe wrepfruit, he felt its juice trickle down his chin and mopped it with his sleeve. The strangest part of being in the valley was the nakedness he felt without the thick woods around him. Avisahn was an intricate forest-kingdom that stretched nearly the entire western slope of the Ravenstone Mountains. But its borders ended abruptly at the Trident River. He was used to spending the day in shade, not under the hungry burn of the sun. Growing up, he had stared down at Dos-Aralon’s valleys as if they were the low countries, not a land that had once been a mighty forest. He wanted to laugh. A mighty forest. That was long before the Purge Wars. It was during the time of King Silvermere, the first Shae king to settle the valley.

  When nightfall finally came, Thealos hid himself in a small grove of birch and nestled with his cloak in a patch of broad-leaf brush. He dared not build a fire, even though the air was cool. His vision was sharper in the darkness without a fire glaring in his eyes, and he had no intention of being caught off-guard. Cradling his short bow in his arms, he set out three arrows where he could easily reach them and fell into a light sleep. He awakened with a start each time an owl hooted. It was an exposed, unprotected feeling, not as comfortable as hunting in the woodlands of Avisahn.

  When Thealos awoke the next morning, he was covered with chilly dew. A heavy white mist hung all around him, so thick he couldn’t see farther than he could toss a stone. The trees looked skeletal outside the grove. Thealos had seen the fog from a distance before – the docks at Avisahn and Dos-Aralon were always thick with it in the morning – but it had never claimed the highlands of the forest. Not being able to see was frightening, but exciting as well. Walking in the soft wet kisses of mist, Thealos discovered it had a taste – a little like tart apples dabbled with salt. Without the help of the sun, it was difficult to determine which way to go. He tried to keep heading south, but he caught himself straying further inland.

  About midmorning, the fog dissipated and he could see the valley again. Long diagonal rows of wheat and corn grew in farms surrounded by stone fences. Fruit orchards running for miles deeper inland flaunted a rich harvest, and Thealos stopped at midday to have a snack of plums at the southern edge of a farm. He left a few Aralonian pieces at the foot of the tree to pay the farmer for the fruit he took. The farther south he went, the more the land became rugged with hills and riverbeds. Just before nightfall, he saw an old man sitting on the porch of a small home smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He lit a lamp and sat back on the crafted porch and watched, scanning the horizon. Thealos saw the old man raise his hand and wave, and he felt awkward that he had been seen. He waved back, but chose not to stop his journey. He wanted to be at least three days out of Dos-Aralon before making contacts with the humans. That would make him even harder to find. Cutting east, he went to find the river and shelter for the night.

  The prairie grass whisked at his boots, and he kept his stride long. As he came down the slope leading towards the majestic Trident, he spotted a campfire in a tight cluster of vine maple near the riverbank. It was a large fire, and he could smell smoke and stew as the wind shifted towards him. The stew smelled like wild onions and rabbit meat, but it was laced thickly with bay leaves. The campfire flickered as something passed in front of it. It was nearer the Trident than he expected for a human camp. But the stew smelled good, not scorched. Curiosity leading, he stepped carefully down the slope and dodged between trees as he approached. About forty paces or so from the fire, he could hear them.

  “Fetch the lantern,” a gruff voice said. “Can’t you get that fire any hotter, Tomn? It might frost tonight.”

  “Any hotter, and you’ll be cutting your stew with a dagger. It’s bubbling like Pitan – you want me to burn it?”

  “Aaahh, quit moaning. Jurrow, get over here with that thing. You two, don’t stand there...”

  “Eat trope,” another voice snapped. “I’m almost through.”

  There was a jangle of pots and metal spoons and then a hiss and a curse. “Sweet hate, this is hot! Get me that glove so I don’t burn my hand.”

  “Get it yourself. Here’s the lantern, Tannon.”

  Thealos saw a wink of flint and steel and then a steady glow appeared. It lit the eastern side of the camp, and he could see the man holding it. He had a stubby beard and a shock of gray-streaked hair. He wore the leather tunic and buckles of a field soldier, but he didn’t wear any livery. A wide brown belt wrapped around his thick waist with short flat daggers shoved in the band. Wrinkling his eyebrows at the glare of the lantern, the man stood and held it away from him.

  “You’re crazy holding that thing. Now every Wolfsman on the other shore can aim for your throat.” They all had similar armor, each missing a badge or rank.

  Tannon held up one of his hands. “I’m not asking you to do this. I’m not asking none of you. You do what I say, the quicker we make some pieces and get back north.”

  There was a chuckle from one of the other men. “You just want to get back to Holly’s. Admit it. If you’re so banned impatient, why didn’t you just bring her along...”

  The man stuttered when a knife landed between his legs. Thealos blinked, having barely seen Tannon’s reflexes. He was a heavy man, but he threw a knife like a whip-snap. Tannon frowned and planted his fist on his hip. “That’s enough, Beck.” They were quiet for a few moments. “You know why we’re out here. We looked through that banned snag of maple for a week. Now, let’s see what we’ve got to show for it. Open up the sack again. Show us the sash.”

  Thealos craned his neck, staring closer. He saw one of the muddied soldiers withdraw a Crimson Wolfsmen sash. Thealos started, blinking with surprise. Surely these men couldn’t have taken down one of the Shae defenders. It was impossible! Slipping from behind the tree, he started creeping closer. He could see the others around the crackling fire, each offering something to the stash, something they had found during their search. Thealos wanted to get closer to get a feel for what they had found. Whose side were these men on? He’d heard the Bandit Rebellion wore black and gold – well, at least the officers did. Were these men from Dos-Aralon? He didn’t know, but he wanted to find out, especially if they were baiting Shae and killing them. Drawing closer, Thealos crouched and waited, studying each individually. One held up a smooth battle dagger, the hilt tarnished, but Thealos recognized the slant of the blade. It belonged to a Crimson Wolfsman. He scowled at the humans for the irreverent way they touched such an elegant weapon.

  The one tending the fire had reddish brown hair and a long nose. He bent over a small cauldron of stew and he tasted it eagerly and then fanned his mouth. Slipping a bodkin arrow out of his quiver, Thealos fit it to the tight bowstring. He wanted to be ready just in case…

  “In the trees!” someone shouted from his right side. “Over there! He’s got a bow!”

  Ban! Thealos cursed silently. He needed a diversion now. Dropping to one knee, he raised the bow and firmly pulled the arrow back to his ear. Thealos let it fly. The arrow hissed into the mass of burning logs. Sparks and cinders exploded in a spray, knocking the cook back with a howl of fright. He brushed the glowing embers off his leather tunic and stumbled back from the flames.

  “There!” Hoth pointed, drawing his weapon – a notched polear
m with a jagged cleaver. The soldiers spread out, rushing from the fire’s perimeter as if live ants were biting their ankles. Before Thealos could rise and back away, he heard a shutter click and then a beacon of light fell on his face and chest. Tannon held up the lantern and scanned Thealos warily. It was time to run. These weren’t just soldiers, they were thieves.

  “The eyes!”

  Behind him, Thealos heard the quiet crunch of leaves before a knobbed mace struck the back of his head.

  V

  Pain and nausea soaked through Thealos in waves. He struggled to open his eyes. How long he’d been unconscious, he didn’t know. As his sight came into focus, it took a moment to realize that he was laying on his side, looking at the blazing white tongues of the campfire. He tried to sit up, but found he had nothing to prop himself up with. His arms were bound behind him, the ropes digging into his wrists. Dirt and bark shavings painfully cushioned the side of his face. Blinking, he struggled to move and found himself helpless. His ankles were also tied.

  “He’s awake.”

  A fit of panic nearly overwhelmed him, but he forced it down. He had never been in bonds before. Rolling onto his back, he tried to sit up. His head swam with dizziness and he thought he might throw up.

  “You hit him pretty hard, Cropper,” the one they called Tannon said with a half-smile. “Thought we’d have another dead Shaden on our hands.”

  “He wasn’t very good,” came the reply. Cropper was a thin, spidery man with sack-wheat colored hair and livid eyes. “No Wolfsman anyway.”

  “Could have been,” Tannon said. “Could have been a Sleepwalker too. Good work.”

  The others were asleep around the fire, their faces filthy and haggard. They smelled like Silvan wine. His mouth went dry. Thealos’ clothes were rumpled, his pockets empty. His travel sack lay in a heap, the supplies he had thoughtfully packed were already spilled out and shared. A cold, growing fury started to ball up in his chest.