Chapter Twenty-Four - Hunted

‘Anything?’

The hunter, Uma, poked her head over the top of the ridge, frowning.

‘Nothing.’

Goran ground his teeth, shrugging himself deeper into his cloak. Uma hopped up onto the ledge beside him, dropping her bow into the bone-hard grass.

‘Any word from the others?’

The innkeep shook his head, looking out over the darkened trees. He’d been up on that blasted ridge since daybreak, staring glumly out at the pines as if they were about to start talking. Waiting for the wind to tell the villagers where to look next. He was cold, hungry, and he hadn’t slept. Must have been getting on towards dawn, by now, and it had been two days since Lokk and the boys had gone missing. Uma wasn’t the only one out there looking, but none of the others had come back since the sun had gone. Not like they were going to have much luck without it, either, but he wasn’t going to stop them trying.

‘He moved, yet?’

Goran looked down the slope to where the blacksmith was sat. By the light of the moon he could see the big man’s broad shoulders, still turned to them, dark cloak streaming in the wind.

‘Not an inch.’

Uma grunted, sitting down beside him and rubbing at her weary legs. The dark knot of hair at the back of her head had been pulled loose into stray, windswept strands, and her pale skin was marked with mud. She blinked sleepily, looking out over the woods. ‘Not sure if that makes me feel better, or worse.’

‘Worse.’ Goran replied, shivering. He was used to the man’s silences. When he’d appeared in the village ten years back, he’d barely said a word for weeks. Turned up, all dark, bald, and bearded, scar like tallow wax on his cheek, eyes like coal and heavy as storm-clouds. Took the boy off his and his wife’s hands, got the old smithy burning again, and pretty much kept to himself from then on. Goran didn’t blame him, either. Foothills were a hard place. A hard place for hard men. Words didn’t come easy, for anyone mad enough to make their home so close to the edge of the world. Even Godry kept his own company, when he wasn’t telling stories. Or drinking.

So Goran had been just as surprised as everyone else when the strange man with his heavy eyes had shown up at the Nest in front of the whole village and started giving orders. Even more surprised when he’d listened to them. Something about the way the blacksmith had looked at him made Goran’s gut twist up into cold knots, and it hadn’t unknotted since. Still, anything was better than the silence. Never could trust a man who liked it this much.

‘Maybe one of the others has found something.’ Uma said quietly, catching his eye.

‘In this?’ Goran replied, looking up at the veiled moon. ‘Not likely. Besides, they’d have been back, if they had.’

‘Maybe.’ Uma admitted, checking the fletchings on her arrows idly. The innkeep didn’t like their chances. Even in daylight. Little more than a score of them, in all. The hill folk were hardy. Tough as ice, when it came time to be. But what did a miner know about tracking in woods like these? How could a butcher see jack shit in dark like this? And what help could an innkeep be in any of it? Their chances of finding the boys were dwindling with every breath, and that was if they were even still in the hills, at all. Black Hand were lowlanders. Everyone knew that. The cities were where that madness bred. If they’d come up east, they’d not linger long, once they got what they came for.

‘We’ll have to call it a night, soon.’ Uma told him quietly. ‘Know these woods like my own mound, and I can’t see shit, anymore. We need to rest. Eat. The others, too.’

Goran shrugged. He hadn’t been all that hungry the last couple of days. ‘Think I’ll stay out. Carel’ll have a bowl for you, if you want it.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Uma got slowly to her feet, slinging her bow over her shoulder. Goran looked back out over the trees. The forest shifted in the wind, rustling over the tops of the pines in silvery waves. Down below, the blacksmith stiffened.

‘Look!’ Uma told him, pointing.

He looked. There was something out there, in the dark. Something peeking through the trees. A blink, at first, then swelling like the dawn. Flickering. Building. Too far up to be one of the villagers.

‘Fire.’ Goran breathed.

‘I think that counts as finding something.’ Uma grinned.

‘I think you’re right.’ the innkeep agreed, not quite ready to smile back.

The blacksmith appeared out of the gloom beside them, staring out over the trees, and Goran almost flinched. Something gleamed darkly at his waist, beneath his cloak, and his face was in the shadow of his hood.

‘Looks like it’s up by the mine.’ Uma said quietly. ‘Not far, if we take the right paths. Don’t reckon the others will have seen it, either. Trees are thick, down there.’

Goran nodded. ‘We should get moving.’ The little smudge of light was growing, setting the black trees flickering. ‘Looks like it’s spreading.’

Beside them, the blacksmith shook his head. ‘Wait here.’

‘What do you mean, wait here?’ Goran stared at him. ‘We’ve been twiddling our thumbs since dawn, and now that we’ve finally seen something, you want us to wait for the others?’

The blacksmith looked at him, dark eyes gleaming, and Goran’s twisted gut twisted a little tighter. ‘No time to wait. Could be gone by daybreak.’ He paused, looking back out over the trees. ‘I’ll go alone.’

Uma stared at him incredulously. ‘You planning on fighting a troupe of Brothers all by yourself?’

‘Not if I don’t have to.’ the blacksmith told her, deep voice rumbling. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back.’

‘Now, you listen!’ Goran told him, face suddenly hot. ‘You ain’t the only one with skin in this game. Got my boy out there, same as yours, so you got no right to tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m coming, and that’s that.’

The blacksmith’s hood turned to look at him. He could feel those black eyes weighing on him again, and he instantly regretted speaking. The cold weight in his gut twisted uncomfortably. For a long moment, no one spoke.

‘You’re right.’ the blacksmith said at last, nodding. ‘But if I give the word, you stay out of the way. Understand?’

Goran swallowed, nodding. Uma sighed.

‘Guess I’ll be waiting here for the others to come back then. Someone’s got to tell them where you went.’

The blacksmith didn’t say another word. He set off down the slope, long legs eating up the shale, and the innkeep hurried after him, squinting in the dark. Goran caught one last look at the flickering light spilling over the trees. Then the pines swallowed them up, and the darkness came in around them like an old blanket, thick as wool.

*

It was slow going, in the woods. Even on the paths, winding like fraying string through the shale and narrow trunks, any misstep could send you sprawling. Goran’s legs burned with effort, knees creaking, and his eyes ached from peering at the gloom. Wasn’t as young as he used to be. The blacksmith, for his part, didn’t seem to tire at all. Goran gritted his teeth, watching the man’s back as his broad shadow flitted on ahead of him, and tried not to scowl. It was like trying to keep pace with a wolf the size of a small barn. He was wishing for a nice warm chair by the fire and a drag on his pipe by the time the flickering firelight began to bleed again between the boughs ahead of them.

‘Stop.’ The blacksmith told them, holding up a hand. Goran did, staring down a wooded slope towards the orange glow. The entrance to the mine was dark and still, but Solen’s barn was aflame. Sparks belched out of the open doorway into the night, swirling between the trees, and flames had begun to lick like shadows across the thatching. There was a strange quiet on the air, despite the blaze, and the flames whispered softly, untended. The smell of them was thick on the air, filling Goran’s lungs with acrid smoke. Godry had been right after all. Bandits had swords. Brothers had fire. He watched the flames with wide eyes, swallowing.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

‘Wait here.’ the blacksmith told him quietly.

‘But-’

‘Wait here.’ he said again, cutting Goran short. He took off into the trees, heavy boots making barely a sound, and Goran stared after him, blinking. He paused for a moment, where the firelight brushed the edge of the trees. Then he swept forward into the flaming barn, out of sight, cloak dark as a shadow.

‘Think I preferred the silence.’ Goran grunted to himself, looking down at the glowing doorway, eyes straining through the smoke. He craned his ears, but there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of the flames, louder now, hissing as they crept out over the roof. Where was Solen? His workers? The moments drew by slowly, agonisingly. Goran chewed his lip, waiting, fingered the length of blunt iron at his belt. A poor weapon, if it came to it, he realised. But no one spared steel for swords, in the hills. Smoke was pouring out of the barn's roof, black smoke that tasted like bile. The flames were getting stronger, more urgent, and the sound of them filled his ears. The open door was pulsing orange, and the broken wood about its edges gleamed like fangs. The silence filled Goran’s ears, prickling.

Then something screamed. Sharp and short, cut through the night like a blade. Goran felt his blood go cold. What was that?

Another scream, louder than the last, cut off short again. Lokk?

Goran was on his feet before he even realised what he was doing. Stumbling down the slope, heart pounding in his ears. His feet skidded in the shale, and he staggered against a tree, somehow keeping his feet. He stopped for a moment at the edge of the tree line, panting, heart beating against his ears like a drum. What was he doing?

Another scream. Closer this time. A man’s scream. A boy’s scream. Goran gritted his teeth, and stepped into the flaming barn, iron in hand.

The heat hit him like a wall, knocking the air from his lungs. Smoke poured over him, filling his eyes with water, and he choked on his breath, trying to cover his mouth. He squinted into the smoke, half-blind, staggering. He could barely see his own hands. Orange flames licked across the floor, the walls, the roof. The roar of the blaze filled his ears, deafening him. Smoke reeled on the hazy air, buffeting his cheeks, swirling shadows in every direction. He stumbled forward, holding out a hand in front of him, tripped, fell, hands scraping the steaming ground, almost dropped his club. Then he was up again, lurching, staggering, somehow still upright. A gout of flame spat out of the wall at his side, pushing him back. There was something on the floor, ahead of him. Something dark. It wasn’t moving. He stumbled towards it, blinking, eyes on fire, vision blurring. The smoke reeled and spun around him. Then, suddenly, it parted.

A man, all in black, face down in the soot. Blood bubbled like hot wax around its shoulders. Goran gagged, choking on spit, and fell to his knees. He reached out, grabbing it by the shoulder, and turned it over. The man fell limply onto his back, head cut half off, masked face leering back at him, frozen, flame-scorched, black as midnight.

Goran staggered back to his feet, retching. Black Hand. The smoke spun, cracked, whirled. There were other shapes, he saw now. Other bodies in the flames. Limp, broken, bleeding. Everywhere. All around him. Masked, all of them, staring at nothing. He gasped for air, and smoke filled his chest, choking him. The flames roared. Overhead, a section of the roof collapsed, sending a shower of broken wood and sparks across the floor. Goran jumped back, reeling, coughing up smoke.

Another scream. He started, spinning towards it. Something was coming towards him through the haze. He stumbled back, throwing up the iron desperately, and the shadow lurched at him out of the flames. Steel flashed.

Then the smoke parted, and the blacksmith was there. Bald head gleaming. His dark cloak was singed at the edges, and there was a sword in his hand. A long, smooth length of grey metal, flashing orange in the firelight. Dripping with blood. With his other hand he was dragging someone across the floor, someone round and spluttering. Solen was covered in blood and soot, clawing weakly at the blacksmith’s hand around his arm. The blacksmith stared at Goran for a moment, eyes black as coals, untouched by the smoke.

Then he strode off into the haze, dragging the whimpering Solen behind him as though he weighed nothing more than a child. Goran staggered after him blindly, choking, staggering through piles of smoking timber, spears of flame. Dead men. The barn was groaning like a dying animal, and chunks of beams tumbled down all around him, splashing him with embers. He could just about see the blacksmith ahead of him, a black shadow drawing away into the smoke, and tottered after him blindly. The iron bar was hot against his palm, but he clung to it stubbornly, waving it vainly at the smoke. The fire roared in his ears, and heat seared across his back. The timbers groaned again, cracking, and the roof sagged. He could no longer see the blacksmith ahead of him, now. He couldn’t see anything at all. He ran, tripped, stumbled, blind. The fire was almost on him. He could feel it licking at his feet, roaring as it chased him.

Then he was clear. He half-ran, half-fell out into the night air, lurching through the jagged doorway. Not a moment too soon. Behind him, the roof of the barn suddenly gave way, crashing down into the flames below. A great tongue of flame spat out into the dark, and a wave of sparks showered into the trees. Goran staggered clear, then fell to his knees, gasping. He tore his cloak from his shoulders, flinging it burning into the dirt, then crumpled onto his hands, coughing up smoke, throat scorched raw. His eyes burned, and tears streamed down his soot-covered cheeks.

‘I... you saved me... Wait! What are you doing?’

Goran blinked. Solen was scrambling weakly backward across the shale on his hands and knees, the blacksmith bearing down on him, dark sword in hand. The merchant’s colourful shirt was soaked red over his rounded belly, thin hair plastered flat over one side of his large head, and his jowled cheeks wobbled, covered with soot and streaked with blood. As Goran watched, the blacksmith flicked out his sword, brushing the point against the merchant’s throat, pinning him against a tree trunk. Solen squealed, staring wide-eyed at the gleaming blade.

‘I don’t understand... You saved me... I...’

“What are you doing?’ Goran managed to gasp, trying to get to his feet.

The blacksmith ignored him.

‘It was you.’ he told Solen, dark eyes flashing. ‘You let them in.’

‘Please! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!’ Solen protested. Then he groaned, putting both hands to his bloody belly.

‘What did you do?’ the blacksmith demanded, looming over the wounded merchant like a shadow. Solen groaned, gasping.

‘What are you doing?’ Goran coughed, slouched against a tree for support. ‘Look at him. They almost killed him!’

‘What did you do?’ the blacksmith repeated, ignoring him again. The fire behind them rumbled, hissed, and firelight caught the edge of his strange sword, setting it aflame. There was a jagged mark near the hilt, a line of silver on the grey-gleam blade. As Goran watched, he pressed the tip of it into the merchant’s soft neck, and Solen squealed.

‘They... they just wanted work. I didn’t... I didn’t know.’

‘Make a habit of hiring Brothers to do mine work, do you?’

‘What? No... I… I didn’t know.’ Solen stammered, eyes wide. ‘I didn’t know they were...’

Goran stared at the merchant, wide-eyed.

‘They paid you.’ the blacksmith said.

‘No... not at first. I needed the help. Gods know... there aren’t many more hands to find in these fucking hills.’ He winced again, pressing his hands to his belly with a groan. ‘They started coming and going... strange hours... I was going to get rid of them... then...’

‘How much gold does your silence cost?’ There was a terrible weight to the blacksmith’s voice, and each word landed like a hammer blow. The fire hissed at his back, and orange light filled his black eyes.

‘It wasn’t like that... I swear.’ Solen pleaded, staring up at him. ‘I... I needed the money. I didn’t know what... what they were…’

‘You fucking snake!’ Goran pushed himself away from the tree, his seared throat burning. ‘You let them in. It’s your fault they took them!’

‘I didn’t know they would... You have to believe me...’

‘What did you expect?’ Goran shouted, rasping. He grabbed the merchant’s shirt, dragging him up against the tree trunk. ‘They have my son! You as good as sold him to them!’

‘Please... They were just asking questions. I tried to stop them!’ Solen wailed, clutching at his hands weakly. ‘Tried to warn you... but they came for me... Gods! This place was all I had...’

‘What about what I had? What about my son!’ Goran snarled at him. ‘Should finish the job for them!’

‘Goran.’

Goran blinked, looking over his shoulder. The blacksmith was watching him, dark eyes boring into his. Goran looked back at Solen, at his hands, closing around the merchant’s pale neck. His eyes widened, and he slumped back, letting go of him. Solen slid back down the tree trunk into a whimpering heap, and Goran stared at his hands, blinking.

‘Where did they take the boys?’ the blacksmith asked quietly.

Solen groaned, his hands clutched to his gut. ‘Further up the hills! That’s where they always went... East!’

‘They’re still here?’ Goran’s eyes widened.

‘They... They’re looking for something...’ Solen sobbed, his bloody jowls wobbling. ‘Something past the village... In the foothills.’

‘What did you tell them?’ the blacksmith asked suddenly, his face dark.

‘Nothing... I... I didn’t know...’

‘Enough.’ the blacksmith cut him off. He looked at Goran. ‘We need to move.’

‘So you... you believe me?’ Solen gasped, wincing. His face was pale. ‘You won’t kill me?’

‘You’re already dead.’ the blacksmith told him, slipping his sword back into his belt. Solen groaned, eyes wide, and sagged back against the tree trunk, breathing broken breaths through bloody teeth.

‘Where are we going?’ Goran asked the blacksmith.

‘You heard him. East.’ he replied, turning away from the merchant, towards the slopes.

‘We can’t just leave him here!’ Goran protested. ‘He should hang for this!’

‘Even King’s Men don’t hang the dead.’

Goran looked back at Solen. The merchant was lying limply against the tree, eyes wide, staring blankly up at the flaming sky. His chest wasn’t moving. Goran gagged, retching into the dirt. But there was nothing left to cough up. Nothing but smoke.

‘We have to move.’

Goran looked down at Solen’s body. Blood was seeping into the shale around his shirt, running down his chins. Behind them, the fire whispered, and sparks drifted on the air.

‘Goran.’

He turned to find the blacksmith watching him, cloak streaming about his broad shoulders, fierce, dark beard flashing with silver. Embers swirled about his feet, gleaming on the grey hilt at his waist. The innkeep swallowed, and his gut knotted.

‘The Brothers… you…’

‘On your feet. We have to move.’

Goran did. He took one last look at Solen, at the burning barn. Then he followed the blacksmith away into the trees, and the fire rumbled on, licking at the merchant’s indifferent toes.