Sorrow's Peak (Serpent of Time Book 2) (60 page)

“I didn’t expect this!” she called over her shoulder. “The sun’s going down. We should camp here tonight.”

She was avoiding the bridge in the only way she knew how. It wouldn’t take long to cross it, if it held up, and they could make their way into the mountain to spend their night there, but if she could put off scaling that treacherous bit of rope and rotted wood a little longer, she’d do it without a thought. The suggestion made him nervous, the energy of that place so stifling and uncomfortable he didn’t understand how they couldn’t feel it, but she was not to be deterred. Yanking off her boots as she hopped across the grass, she didn’t pause to tug up her pant legs before she ran splashing into the water, squealing and shrieking and filling that place with a sound it hadn’t heard in so long: laughter.

Finn followed her lead, tromping into the pool and bellowing between dismay and delight at how cold it was as it seeped in and soaked the leather of his breeches. Crossing his arms over his chest, Brendolowyn lingered on the ledge, watching them and unable to shake the nauseating feeling their brief moment of respite was only an illusion. The ghosts of the past would never let them rest comfortably there, and they would more than likely be forced across that bridge in the dark.

Still, despite the discomfort that came with it, it was peaceful. Stiffening his shoulders, he headed toward the place where they’d dropped their packs and watched the two of them play like children, realizing, not for the first time, that was exactly what they were. Both of them were still just kids, on the cusp of adulthood. They would be breeching that ridge before they knew it, and they’d come out of the mountain without an ounce of innocence left in their souls.

It made him sad, and so he said nothing while they splashed and played in that once sacred pool. He knelt and made a fire, listened to the sound of their voices mingling with the constant rush of water falling into the small canyon that had once been sacred space to people who no longer existed in the world beyond the lingering memories in places like Sorrow’s Peak and the stories others told about them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

There were many things Vilnjar had never done before, things he’d added to a mental list in the back of his mind and hoped to one day check off as he achieved them one by one. The realist in him never believed he would get to do even half of those things, but in the last few weeks he’d undertaken far more of them than he ever imagined possible.

Most of those goals were mere puffs of smoke in the mind of someone who secretly longed for adventure, but was too scared to take risks. Yet, there he was on the open seas. Wind streaming through his hair and beard, the salted spray gleaming on Frigga’s face beside him. The dizzying movement of the rocking boat made him feel so violently ill, it was a small test of his manhood to keep from retching his guts into the water, but he was the only one among them who’d held onto his breakfast.

A small matter, but one he was proud of nonetheless.

One week earlier, the small band of wolves crossed the border into Leithe without issue. There were breaks in the border guard that stretched for miles. No one appeared to stop them from passing, no king’s men tackled them to the ground and chained them in silver. In fact, the tenuous border between Leithe and the narrow strip of once-green land the U’lfer had been confined to since the War of Silence ended was indistinguishable from the rest of the land. They weren’t even sure they left the Edgelands until they began to smell the northern sea.

It was a strange thing, considering how confining their prison seemed all their life. At any given time they could have left and no one would probably have ever been the wiser.

Six days walking, they happened upon a small fishing village called Dorn’s Rest. Filled with only a handful of people, there were thirteen cottages and less than fifty residents, the majority of them children. They met the outsiders with trepidation and distrust, a small group of children edging toward them with large, curious eyes. Inching their way toward the visitors as if on a dare, when Vilnjar called out greeting to them, they turned tail and ran away. The U’lfer followed until a gnarled, hunchbacked human hobbled out to the meet them.

Viln expected his sister to take charge, but as the old man neared Ruwena shoved him forward, muttering, “You’re the closest thing we have to a diplomat, oh last remaining member of the Council of the Nine.”

“Ho there,” the man lifted a sagging arm in greeting. “Come no further strangers. We paid our taxes once already, and we won’t be paying them again until next year. I have papers.”

“We aren’t here to collect taxes, good man. Please, can you tell me? What is this place?”

“What is this place?” Regarding Vilnjar with suspicion, he opened his mouth and then closed it again several times, revealing stained and broken teeth. “If you’re not with the taxmaster, who are you?”

“We’re just travelers, sir.”

“Travelers, you say? Going where? There ain’t nothing north of here but the Sea of Aynar, and from the looks of you, you have no boat so I highly doubt you’ll be going much further north.”

“We are vassals of Queen Felisande on a trade expedition from the western kingdom of Harondol.” The lie came all too easily. “We were bound for Port Jaresii when a storm, gods it must have been four days past…”

“‘Twas five, Brother,” Ruwena chimed in. “A wicked storm the likes of which I’ve never seen shattered us against your rocky shores like so much glass. We’ve been combing the coastline for days looking for other survivors, but I’m afraid we’re all that’s left, good sir. Could you tell us where we are? How near to Port Jaresii?”

“Dorn’s Rest, my lady,” the old man said. “You’re in Dorn’s Rest.”

“Is that… near Port Jaresii?” Vilnjar interjected.

“Afraid not near enough. It’s about five day’s journey on foot, two by ship.”

“Damn it,” Viln cursed under his breath and lowered his head as if in defeat.

“Don’t panic brother. Five days is not so long.”

“It may as well be a hundred, as it stands. Thank you for your time, sir, but I suppose we should be on our way. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

“Now just you wait, young man. You must be hungry.” They were starving, actually. Was it so obvious from the looks of them? He supposed even if it was, it probably lent credence to their story, maybe even bought them a bit of sympathy. “I imagine after an ordeal the likes of which you’ve been through, you could probably do with a bit of rest, maybe some food.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t wish to trouble you, my good man.” Vilnjar felt the sharp jab of Ruwena’s elbow in his ribs.

“Nonsense. We’re nothing, if not hospitable here in Dorn’s Rest, unless you’re the taxmaster’s men a’course. You’re welcome to rest by our fire, and we may even be able to rustle you up something to eat.”

“We have… nothing to offer you for your hospitality, I’m afraid, and we wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Do you know any good stories?”

“My good husband knows plenty of stories,” Frigga spoke up.

“Wonderful. Come with me. It’s nearly time for supper and I’ll need to let the wife know we have guests. Name’s Brok, by the way.”

“I am Castenne,” Vilnjar lied. “And this is my wife Lena, my sister Giselle and her husband Darres.” It seemed Knut liked the idea of being married to Rue, even if only in spirit, but judging from the scowl his sister shot at him as they fell into step behind Brok, she was going to make sure he paid for that bit of encouragement later.

The people of Dorn’s Rest didn’t get a lot of visitors, which grew obvious as they crowded in around the newcomers and eagerly began asking questions. They were simple enough folk, sheltered, it seemed, from the rest of the world, but no fools.

By the time the sun settled into the wave-crested west, their bellies were full and their course plotted. Brok’s son-in-law, Clege, ran barrels of fish to trade in Port Jaresii once a month, and as luck would have it, it was nearing his time to make the journey. Vilnjar later guessed they’d simply gone out of their way to help the strangers. Tucked away in the north, they didn’t see many outsiders. They were easy enough to convince, enraptured by stories of distant gods and traditions—half of which Vilnjar made up on the fly.

That night, when the group of them settled in to camp around the fire, Frigga leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder after thoughtfully looping her arm through his. “I thought it was my place in this world to wake your warrior’s heart, Vilnjar, but you are no warrior.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that since we met,” he laughed.

“You are a born skald,” she declared. “A storyteller the likes of which I’ve never seen. You awed these people with your tales.”

“A gift from our mother. She used to tuck us into bed when we were children and take us away from the terrible things that troubled us with stories of dragons and monsters. After our father…” Ruwena paused, staring down at the hands nestled in her lap for a long time before continuing. “After we lost Deken it was a rare thing for her to tell us tales. Vilnjar took her place.”

“Finn used to refuse to go to sleep without at least one story,” Viln recalled fondly. “Sometimes it was the only thing that settled him.”

“Your stories may have been the only thing he ever listened to, but he listened.” She grew silent, distant and melancholy as she continued to gaze at her own hands, her dirty fingernail poking at a blister on her thumb as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, but Vilnjar knew better.

“He will be all right, Rue.”

“I hope so.”

It was Knut who finally broke the silence again, asking, “Why are we going to Port Jaresii?”

“We’re like to be chained in silver the minute we step off this Clege’s boat,” Melitta added. “The fact they want nothing in return but the promise of future kindness makes me uneasy.”

“Maybe they’ve already sent someone ahead to warn them we are coming,” Beyorn fretted.

They were all so much like frightened pups, Vilnjar felt sorry for them. None of them had ever been outside the Edgelands. Their lives were carefully constructed lies, not unlike the lie he himself lived. Accepting change would not be easy for any of them, but they had no choice. Their home was gone. Their people were lost. If they wanted to survive, they had to trust the path they were on. They needed to put their faith in their creator.

That was a new thought. Had someone told him a year earlier he would put his stock in the gods he would have laughed in their face and called them an idiot. But Llorveth led him out of Drekne, out of the Edgelands before it burned to ash. Llorveth led him to Frigga.

He felt her eyes on him, could feel the swell of his own acceptance lightening her spirit. Her hand drifted over and came down to rest atop his.

“For whatever reason, these people have offered to help us. Maybe he believes it is what his god wants him to do. I can’t guess the reason, but I do know we can’t stay here and we can’t go back home. We have no home to return to.”

Beyorn snorted derisively and tilted his head away, staring out at the dark sea glittering beneath the light of the moons.

“And perhaps one day, we will repay the kindness of these people,” Frigga added. “The world is changing, I know you don’t believe me…”

Ruwena stiffened a little, then answered Knut’s original question. “Port Jaresii will take us closest to my little brother.”

“We should be trying to find the rest of our people,” Knut argued. “Looking for other survivors.”

Ruwena stiffened, daring the warrior to challenge her authority, but all it took was a look from her to completely emasculate him. She was his huntress, his leader. He’d followed her without question since she was old enough to sway her hips, but the chaos carved doubt into them all.

“Our people are gone, Knut.”

“You don’t know that…” Melitta interjected. “There could be others, Rue.”

“Don’t be a fool, Mel. All that is left of us is right here. We are all that remains.”

“There were a handful of others who made it to Great Sontok,” Vilnjar pointed out. “But beyond that, the Edgelands were barren. There were only corpses picked clean by the vultures.”

“We are all that remains now,” Ruwena reiterated. “After everything we’ve lost, I am not going to lose my little brother too. We will track down Finn.”

The others exchanged doubtful glances, but again, no one dared challenge Ruwena. They would follow her, even if they didn’t like where she was taking them.

That night they kept to old habits. Distrust forced Knut and Luken to lose sleep and keep watch, but none disturbed their tiny camp along the beach until the angry red sun rose over the calm sea the next morning. Clege and his crew descended from the strip of old and weathered huts lining the shore, joined by Murda and Brok, who brought them dried fish and fresh water to carry with them when they reached dry land again.

Vilnjar felt oddly lucky as they joined Clege and his small crew aboard an old ship he called The Lady Finger, and though it became apparent by mid-morning they were not skilled sailors, Clege did not question them or their story. He simply grinned as he watched Knut, the mighty warrior, spill the contents of his stomach overboard to feed the dark creatures that dwelt beneath the rising and falling waves rocking their vessel and carrying them onward toward Port Jaresii.

Out on the open sea, not a hint of land in sight, Vilnjar couldn’t help the tingling twinge of excitement in his belly. The salted wind rushed through his hair, dampened the cloak he drew tight and clutched one-handed at his chest.

As boys, he and Logren often shared the dream of sailing the seas, visiting distant lands and staking claim to them the way their fathers and grandfathers had once done. The daydream died with their people, with their fathers, and for years Viln resigned himself to a simple life in the Edgelands his father died to procure for his family and people.