By the light of day it was a far swifter journey back to the oak where the legionnaire had treed Sylas. Charlot kept a careful eye on the possessed dog. At first, Emymu could not even walk. The dog only trembled when she tried to follow them. Charlot was worried he would have to extinguish the beast and carry the cursed mask himself. But after a few minutes, the war dog loped forward, and soon, it was keeping pace. As horrific as her injuries looked, Charlot knew she would swiftly recover in the shadowplane.
They reached the base of the oak tree. As Korak thundered forward, a flock of ravens exploded from the remains of the dead legionnaire. Some wolves had already been at him, but they’d been unable to break apart the heavy armor. The clever beaks of the ravens were more adept at picking apart straps and buckles.
The dead man’s skull had been picked clean already. A fat black raven was perched atop it, wings spread in challenge. The haughty bird even cawed at them! Siyabros rushed him, so swift he was only a gray bolt. The fat raven beat a hasty retreat, and when Siyabros’ jaws snapped shut, there was a long black tail feather caught in his fangs.
“Hah! Take that, you contumelious corvid!” Charlot crowed at the fleeing bird. Siyabros’ eyes rose high as he tracked the raven, and he wore an expression of disbelief that he’d been eluded. With a word, Charlot could have brought the bird down, if only he were close enough to see it! But the clarity of the morning had faded with the dream. Better not to squander his energy punishing a raven’s rodomontade. The day was early yet.
“Now, where has our would-be apprentice escaped to?” Charlot asked, checking his finger to make sure the strand of hair was still tied around it. By will alone, he made the hair rise and point in the direction of the head it had once called home. Charlot expected the augury to lead them west, across the river. Instead, the hair veered due south, and then a bit eastward.
“Stars above, he’s taken the river. If he’s stolen another canoe, we shall never catch him,” Charlot said aloud.
Standing on the banks of the Reyane, he realized they were at a turning point. If he wanted, he could abandon the hunt for Sylas and return to his tower with the Asyndagrim and set Lak to work calculating how to strike Urth’Wyrth with the comet. He could resume his labors, keep trying to find a means to restore his sight.
His silver wolves and falcons would all be back by now, awaiting new instructions. Hadn’t this whole thing been a bit of a fool’s errand? He’d been shot, crushed by a shadowcat, struck with a sword, and twice he’d nearly been taken by a demon. Just how much luck was left in his old bones?
Yet, two children were alive who would have surely perished without him. Just the same, he reminded himself, several men had died, too. But then again, surely the villagers of Fraughten were going to revolt eventually. It was certainly possible he’d prevented more bloodshed than he caused, and besides, it was Korak who’d slain the shants.
Surely it was wiser to return than to continue this mad errand. All the comforts of home were waiting for him at his Citadel, a comfortable bed, his laboratory, a good book, and a roaring fire. But as he looked from the path to the river, he knew he wanted to go on.
Much of the goddess’ dream had faded, but the image of the golden pear clung to him still. If he persisted in this mad quest, it was nearly certain he would fail, and likely he would die. But for such a prize, for a second chance, would he dare it all?
“To the river, Korak! I hope you dogs can swim!” Charlot guided the bear into the cold water of the Reyane.
As it turned out, the war dog could not swim very well at all. Lak was too exhausted from her suffering, and the war dog was top heavy. She struggled to stay afloat. Siyabros, too, was swiftly tired by the effort of trying to keep up with the bear, who was a better swimmer than Charlot had expected. The broad, flat rise of the bear’s back was high enough that if Charlot kept his balance as he sat cross-legged, he did not even get wet.
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That soon changed as the war dog first swam up to Korak’s side and set her paws on his side to rest, her black tongue lolling heavily from her mouth. Korak did not seem to mind and, after a few moments, the dog scrambled up onto his back. Once she had her footing, she shook back water off until Charlot was soaked and regretting his decision not to destroy the demon utterly.
He was about to utter the drying cantrip, but he paused. As he suspected, the performance was repeated a moment later when Siyabros leapt up and shook himself off as well, which made Lak shake again. Korak grumbled with protest, but he seemed quite capable of swimming with all three of them on his back. What a bear!
They settled into the rhythm of it, the three of them sitting on the bear’s back as he paddled down the Reyane River toward town, swept along by the current. Always, Charlot kept his eyes peeled for any sign of the dead legionnaire who’d been swept into the river, but they never found a body.
When the river grew shallow, Korak simply climbed over the rocks, and Charlot would grip with his knees to steady the war dog while Siyabros managed to keep his balance standing on all fours. They were not so swift as a canoe but they were no sluggards, and Charlot wondered if they might indeed catch Sylas after all this time.
As they rounded a bend in the river, they came across a man with long blond hair spilling from under a straw hat with a little tow-headed boy at his side. They held rods as they fished in a deep pool by the riverbank, and the bear passed close enough for Charlot to clearly see them both. Their mouths fell open at the sight of the man with the gleaming staff, the dog, and the wolf riding on the back of the silverpaw bear.
“Good day!” Charlot called, waving at the pair.
For a moment, they were both dumbstruck, but then the little boy called out “Good day!” in reply. The little voice piping beside him shook the man from his daze, and he tipped his hat at them. His mouth hung open the whole time, and he never blinked. Charlot could not help but grin as they floated down the river. That was how it used to be! Walking about with all his fine robes and regalia proudly displayed, the locals gaping with awe.
And, of course, all that came with it. Assassins forever vying to have that fame for their own. Envious rivals, scheming to bring him down. Greedy thieves lusting for his treasure. And always, someone else paid the price for his ostentation. Crops ruined, villages burned, bystanders slain. His allies forever endangered. All for a bit of childish display.
The sour thought sat ill with him, and he resolved to work a glamor over the whole entourage before they reached Billibee, but again he recalled the young boy calling out to them and waving. It was a good morning, after all.
The bear swam on and, at last, he could see Billibee bridge, a simple three-arch stone bridge with a guardhouse on the western side. The first thing he noticed was that there was no one on it. The guardhouse stood empty, and there were fishing poles left unattended all along the span. He felt a sinking feeling at once. Something had happened.
“Walk now. Something is wrong,” Charlot said, urging the dogs off the bear’s back and into the river. He guided Korak up onto the bank, and soon, the war dog and the wolf were shaking off on the side of the river.
As they climbed up onto the road, Charlot strained his eyes for some sign of what had gone wrong. He thought of having his pack of allies stay put while he entered the town, but it had gone poorly the last time. The wolf didn’t even know the command.
Could the last legionnaire have attacked the town? If he’d survived and marched all night, perhaps. There was no telling what a legionnaire might do. He steeled himself to walk into a slaughter and urged the bear forward toward the center of town.
Billibee was a small town of perhaps three hundred, with cottages built at the base of a stronghold just like Fraughten. If raiders or the legion came to plunder, the townsfolk would retreat to the stronghold. The streets here were sucking trenches of mud, and the houses had been built ramshackle and uneven. Even at a glance, they set Charlot on edge with their crooked planes and uneven timbers. How shoddy!
Yet, he knew why. What was the use of building true if it could all be burned to the ground without warning? He could hear a commotion now from the town square, many voices crying out, and though he could not make them out yet, he was certain there was an argument going on.
Then, he heard a single voice cry out for help, and it set his hair on end.
“Help!” the voice cried again, and he could hear it above the clamor because it was in a different language. Not Norta but Terhaljatani.
They had Sylas!
“Go, Korak! Charge!” Charlot cried, and the bear roared loud enough to split the day and thundered forward through the muddy street, ready for battle.