Chapter 16

Lance was standing in the doorway to the farmhouse, in his socks, when he spotted the soldiers marching up the road. He grimaced, remembering the mess Tythos had made on the porch. He stuck his head out and looked to see how bad it was. Someone had moved the body. The sword was still stuck into the log wall, and if anything, there was more blood than there had been before.

“Yes,” Lance said to himself, “That’s no less incriminating than when the body was there. What’d you do, wring it out like a rag before dragging it off?”

Lance looked over at the stable, but Peony still had not reappeared with his saddlebags.

“I hate being found at the scene of a crime in my socks.”

Lance stepped back inside and loosened his rapier in its scabbard. He was still mad, and killing someone would feel good, but killing soldiers was messy. Even the ones who were no better than dressed up commons would require an accounting. They were, after all, still king’s men.

Lance had to give an account and report for every king’s man he killed personally. If he killed commons, how many and where would suffice. If he knew of a killing of king’s men, he was to record and report his observations. The people Lance reported to, frightened him. They could make even a noble, like him, disappear, and both ensure he was never found, and that he did not die until they were ready for him to. Lance shuddered. After his recent experience, he avoided looking at the corner, thinking about what the shadow men could do to people was putting him in a bad state of mind. He would rather jump back in that impossible lake than find out if the rumors he heard were true.

He heard the soldiers pause as they made their way across the porch. They began muttering as they took in the graphic scene there. A sharp word from their commander silenced them. Five soldiers entered the room, two already had drawn swords, one had a crossbow leveled. The fifth was the commander, who stepped in and took a long look around. He looked Lance up and down before addressing him,

“My name is commander Longmire, Thrd’Citt. I’m here looking for some king’s men out of Pallbrook that went missing. I’m also looking for a unit under commander Wellbourn Thrd’Citt.” The sharp eyed man glanced down at Lance’s besocked feet, then back at his face. “You wouldn’t know anything you’d like to volunteer, would you?” He smiled in an unfriendly way.

Lance wanted to groan. The man in front of him was a citizen and was letting him know he was. Anyone suspicious of something political going on, did well to declare themselves a citizen, if they were one. Impersonating a citizen would get a soldier demoted and a common killed. Killing a citizen required an accounting, no matter your station, and the man in front of him knew it.

Lance technically outranked even the local statesman, the self titled “lord” Endelmyer. He could, by rights, take command of any local field unit and give them orders. However, the order Lance was involved with hadn’t become known as “the Shadow Hand” for their open maneuvering. It was more than Lance’s life was worth to reveal his true name, rank and station. For any interaction that didn’t involve leaving no witnesses, the man in front of him outranked Lance. He was merely a fourth class citizen and member of Sigrun’s unit.

Lance stiffened, snapping a salute, “Lineman Devereux, Frth’Citt reporting. I’m part of commander Wellbourn’s unit.”

Commander Longmire had sharp features on a wide set face. He spoke with a rolling, easy tone— a sharp contrast to the bright intensity of his eyes.

“Why are you out of uniform, lineman Devereux?”

‘So the more intelligent will have a clue about my actual station and leave me be, you artless, weather-bitten clot-pile,’ Lance thought. He took a deep breath then answered,

“Commander Wellbourn ordered me out of uniform after I fell in the river.”

“How careless of you. And where is your commander, lineman Devereux?”

‘None of your concern, you pugnacious whoreson,’ Lance thought. He counted to two, then answered,

“Commander Wellbourn departed with most of the unit to investigate suspected dissenter activity.”

Something from the doorway caught Lance’s attention. There was a pair of eyes, low to the ground, staring at him. Human eyes. It looked like they were trying to catch his eye. Lance glanced at the man talking to him then back. The eyes were gone. He completely missed what commander Longmire said. He looked back at the man expectantly, hoping he would continue talking. He did not. Instead, his unpleasant smile widened, emphasizing the wideness of his face.

“Nothing to say, lineman Devereux?”

‘Anything I had to say would be lost on the likes of you, you lack-witted scullery-whelp,’ Lance thought. Maybe it wouldn’t be too much trouble to do the paperwork for killing this man. He counted to five before answering,

“Sorry Commander, please repeat the question. I must still have water in my ears.”

The pair of eyes re-appeared. Whatever this curiosity was, it had the worst timing. Commander Longmire caught Lance’s glance, and turned to look. The eyes were gone again. Lance had managed to miss what the man had said once more. He tried to replay it in his mind and caught the words, “mess” and “outside”. Lance wanted to roll his eyes, his repeated glances at the porch and hesitation made him look guilty.

“When we sought shelter here,” Lance said, “We discovered evidence of dissenter activity.”

“I see…” Commander Longmire paused and looked back at the porch. “And if I were to use the mind of truth, would I find that you had discovered that evidence outside?”

‘Mind of truth indeed, you puffed up, self-appointed cod-piece,’ Lance thought.

Mind of truth, a misnomer that cropped up amongst the ignorant, referred to ‘truth dowsing’ used by the king’s shadow. This was a technique Lance was familiar with, where magic could be used to view a day or so of memories from a mind. It had a nasty habit of damaging the minds it was used on. The broken lack-wits this produced were left as reminder. One to be forthcoming and truthful with the king’s shadow. Lance could tell at a glance the man in front of him was no more magical than a toad.

Lance decided to make one more attempt to salvage the situation. If the two soldiers who weren’t here were pressuring Peony, there was about to be a fire in the stable. Lance really wanted to get his horse and saddlebags out before there was a fire in the stable.

“Please… no,” Lance stammered, trying to play into expectations. “I mean, yes… We found the porch covered with blood when we got here. I was half froze, so got left in the care of lineman Delmont.” Lance thought he was a pretty good actor, and sold that he believed the man in front of him could use the “mind of truth.”

Commander Longmire took a step toward Lance,

“It sounds to me, like you’ve got a guilty conscience.”

Lance opened his mouth reply, but was distracted by the eyes reappearing in the doorway. This time they appeared higher up and he could see it was a short figure wearing a dark mask. The figure held up a hand, three fingers raised, and proceeded to count down. Lance was mesmerized by this oddity. The man in front of him continued to threaten, but all lance could focus on was this dark-clad figure, and their count-down.

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The finger count reached one, and the figure drew a pair and knives and spun into the room, slashing at the soldiers. Lance stared, slack jawed, as the six people in front of him got into a tangled, bloody scrum.

The man holding the crossbow was cut and fired the weapon into the roof. The dark figure lunged at the left hand solder, knife flashing for his throat. The soldier stepped forward and body-checked the smaller person to the floor. The other soldiers pounced and pinned the figure down, before roughly disarming them, kicking the knives away. They got in a few more kicks, to settle things down, and hauled the masked figure to their feet.

The soldiers held the short, dark-clad figure to the wall and commander Longmire stepped over and pulled the mask off the figure’s head. Lance blinked in surprise. It was Regina. She was dressed up like a contract assassin. He’d had occasion to hire them several times and recognized the outfit and fighting style. Regina glared past the men holding her, at Lance.

“Why didn’t you go on my signal?” She said.

Commander Longmire hit Gina in the stomach. She doubled over, coughing. The soldiers stood her back up.

“You will be silent until asked a question,” Longmire said.

He maintained the smooth rolling tone. He turned to Lance,

“Strange company you keep, lineman Devereux.”

This seemed to be some sort of signal, as the swordsman not holding Gina began to advance on Lance. The crossbow-man was tugging at his pant leg, then hissed and held up his hand. It came away bloody.

“Bitch cut me!” The man said.

The man holding one of Gina’s arms shot him a look, “That’s just a scratch Pauly, she cut me too, but you don’t hear me whining.”

The crossbow-man opened his mouth to reply, but the commander shot both men a look and they blanched, shutting their mouths. The man with the crossbow bent over the weapon and began to reload it.

“We’ll talk about this later,” commander Longmire said.

He turned back to Lance,

“Lay down your weapon and—“

He was interrupted as the man with the crossbow lost control of the bowstring and fell forward. He began making a choking, gurgling sound, then he fell over, convulsing and foaming at the mouth.

“Poison!” Longmire shouted.

He drew his sword and turned toward Gina. He drew back to cut her down.

Lance raised his hand and uttered a low sonorous note. He jerked his hand to the side. The commander flew across the room to smash into a wall with a crunch. He stayed there a moment, stuck like a swatted bug, then fell into a lifeless heap. While everyone in the room was looking at this development, one of the soldiers holding Regina began foaming at the mouth and crumpled. She produced another knife and stuck it in the throat of the man still holding her.

“This is going to be so much paperwork,” Lance said, drawing his rapier and advancing on the remaining swordsman.

***

Bird sat underneath a tree, focusing his senses, his eyes closed, cloak draped around him. He listened. The snowfall left the air clear and the forest quiet. It was late in the season for a snow and many of the animals had taken shelter and fallen quiet. Bird could hear little noises of animals around him. Mice and other rodents nearby, working on their tunnels under the forest litter. He tuned them out. A breeze whispered through the trees. It rushed and twisted like a pair of playful squirrels, then paused, before rushing on. Bird tuned out the wind. The forest settled under the weight of the snow. Gentle creaks and pops of the trees shifting under the white blanket. Bird tuned out the trees. He could hear men in the valley. Their noises carried. Shouts, laughter, someone crying out. Bird tuned out the human noises. The sound of footsteps and heavy breathing. Tythos moving up the bluff. Bird tuned him out. The snow emitted a soft resonance. A noise that enveloped other noises. Too high to register, but Bird felt it. It felt like a cold, gentle glow. It took more work than the others, but after a minute, Bird tuned this out too. Then he listened.

He heard a noise, high up and far away. The sound of a god’s hand sweeping over his drum— Thrum… Thrum… Thrum. Followed by a rumbling, guttural growl; a sound he’d heard from the crocodiles further south. This sound was bigger. It rolled out so deep, Bird could hear snow falling from trees in its wake. Bird counted five, tracking the sounds. It was headed this way.

Bird let go of the focus one layer at a time. Letting go all at once would be disorienting. Letting go of this much would make him pass out. This was why he’d hidden himself. Bird could become part of the forest. He left no sign and no scent once he got under the trees. His survival depended on stealth.

Bird closed out the last layer and heard the breathing of an animal nearby. It sounded like a bear. If one of the bears had woken early in this snowfall, it could cause trouble. Bird opened his eyes. A pair of dark eyes glittered in the darkness an arm-span away. Above and behind them, a larger pair of eyes reflected moonlight with a deep luminescence. Something big, with fangs.

Bird scrambled back, rolling out from underneath the tree and drawing his dagger. The last layer fell and his night vision adjusted to the world around him. He blinked a couple of times. Tythos sat cross legged in the snow, staring at him. He’d been watching Bird. Bird looked around, but didn’t see any sign of the larger creature. Not a shadow. The snow around unmarked.

“What’d you find?” Tythos asked.

He said it like he had a right to an answer. Bird looked at him. The man was still in thin linens, the kind a man would wear on a hot day. His toes were sticking up from his cross legged position in the snow. Tythos stretched and rubbed his feet, pulling on a pair of boots. How long had he been there?

“How’d you track me?” Bird asked.

He wouldn’t have credited Tythos with any kind of woodsman-ship. If the man was this skilled, then he followed Bird on purpose. Bird thought he was after the soldiers.

“I didn’t,” Tythos said. “I couldn’t track a cloud on a sunny day. It was this guy,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the empty air. “He’s better than a bloodhound.”

Bird looked at the empty air and unmarked snow behind Tythos. He remembered the glimpse of the lambent eyes and sharp teeth. Tythos looked over his shoulder.

“What?” Tythos said to the empty air. “What the hell are you talking about?” Tythos paused, then shook his head. “Your gender? No. I don’t really give a fuck if you’re a great black bastard or a great black bitch. I’m also not asking. You can be a frog for all I care.”

Bird almost opened his mouth to point out that some frogs could change their gender, then realized the conversation he was a bout to be drawn into and changed the subject.

“Dragon,” Bird said, his voice unsteady.

Tythos yanked on the boots and jumped to his feet.

“How big; how far; what kind?”

Bird swallowed, “Big enough. Maybe quarter of an hour away and I could only hear it. What kind, is awake and hungry.”

Tythos looked behind himself, “See if you can get eyes on it.” He then tracked the progress of something up one of the fir trees.

Bird watched closely. He didn’t detect any movement. After a moment, one of the branches near the top bent and dropped its snow on the one below. Bird didn’t know what the creature he’d glimpsed was, and that bothered him. A concern for tomorrow. If he was alive to be concerned about it.

“We should go,” Bird said. “If we leave now, we might be able to get far enough away. Then you and I can settle our unfinished business.”

Tythos looked at him, “You’d walk away from the people who hired you?”

Bird set his mouth in a hard line, “Don’t act like you can say anything about my honor. The people who hired me are as good as dead. If I had all night, I don’t know I could gather them. Sigrun rode off to the bigger camp. Regina ran off somewhere, Lance and Peony will already be captured by the soldiers who descended on the farm.”

Tythos nodded. There was a soft sound behind Bird and he whirled. The space behind him was empty, but his hair stood on end.

“It’s a white,” Tythos said.

Bird looked at him and shook his head. It felt like cold water had been dumped on his head. Dragons were a force of nature. Like a hurricane, or a tornado. There was nothing you could do, except get out of their way. The whites were the worst of them. They craved human blood and bones. They hunted men in the winters, preferring the cold. Lore handed down by the hunters said they slept after eating their fill. After the war they should all be asleep. Men should have at least ninety years before they woke.

“No,” Bird shook his head again. “They’re all asleep. That… that can’t be right.”

Tythos glanced behind Bird, then back at him.

“It is,” he said.

“Then we’re all dead,” said Bird. “Nothing you can do but make your peace.”

“I’ve lived through a white before,” said Tythos. “There is one thing we can do.”

Bird scoffed, “And what’s that?”

“If we feed it enough, it’ll fly off and go back to sleep.”

Bird laughed, “Oh yeah? You just happen to have a hundred fresh corpses and the bones of a thousand men in your back pocket? You know what a white eats. And if it can’t find bones and corpses, it will make them.”

Tythos grinned, it was unsettling.

“Actually, I thought I’d go ask the soldiers to help me with that.” His grin faded and he extended a hand. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to settle our business. Go get your party and get as far away as you can. I should be able to draw its attention long enough that you have a chance. If I’m lucky, it’ll eat its fill and leave before hunting the farmers.”

Bird eyed him, then took the hand and shook. Tythos turned and began running. As he left, Bird thought he heard him say,

“I know it’s your collection, if we live I’ll get you more.”

Bird shook his head, then turned and took off at a run toward the valley. Having something to do made him feel like there was hope. All he had to do was get his party away from the soldiers without anyone being killed. If Tythos began creating corpses, they might have a chance.

***