The Dread Hammer (9 page)

~

T
he Bidden are the guardians of the Puzzle Lands, but the Koráyos people rule themselves and follow the justice of the Dread Hammer. They are stern, but fair. Enslavement and long imprisonment are forbidden, but the mercy of an execution is allowed for those who can’t or won’t reform. The cruelest punishment is exile. Then the Bidden are called on for a spell to fence the criminal forever from the Puzzle Lands.

Nedgalvin was fairly sure he’d forgotten a lot, and probably for the better. He could put together only bits and pieces of things that had happened since Helvero cracked his skull, there in the yard of Fort Veshitan. He remembered being sick to his stomach for a very long time. There was a ride in the back of a wagon. He didn’t truly remember the wagon, only the bumpiness of the road. He remembered waking to darkness, and also to the sun blinding his eyes. Water being poured into his mouth, and porridge forced past his lips.

Now he was awake again. Definitely, fully awake. He knew it by the hellish pounding in his skull, and by the brittle desert of his throat, which was so dry he didn’t think he would ever be able to swallow again, but at least he was awake.

He gathered his strength—there wasn’t much to collect—and sat up. It was one of the more challenging feats he’d ever managed in his life.

He discovered he was sitting on a cot, with a little bamboo table beside it. On the table was a tin cup and pitcher. Nedgalvin smelled the water. Seizing the pitcher, he drank straight from it, three swallows, until discipline kicked in and he forced himself to stop . . . or at least to slow down. He filled the cup and strove to sip slowly, thinking,
Why am I not dead?

Every Lutawan recruit learned not to expect mercy from the Koráyos. They were a savage people. They never took prisoners. All of Nedgalvin’s battlefield experience confirmed this. So it was truly a puzzle—inexplicable—that he should find himself alive.

The room he was in was tiny, only as wide as the length of the cot but it was stone tiled, dry, and clean swept. A muted sunlight came in through window slits above his head. He was glad it was muted. Given his pounding headache, he might have passed out if it were brighter.

The light glinted on the polished reed weave of his cot. It looked freshly scrubbed or freshly woven. There was a blanket that smelled of nothing but his own scent, which itself wasn’t too bad, implying someone had bathed him, though he didn’t remember
that
at all. There was a bucket in the corner which also didn’t smell too bad.

In truth, Nedgalvin couldn’t remember being in an inn as clean as this room.

Still, there was no handle on the closed door, just a tiny slit of a window some five feet above the ground, which led him to believe he was in a prison cell. He forced himself up. He walked to the door. He pushed on it. It didn’t yield. He grabbed the slit and pulled on it, but it wouldn’t open, so he felt validated in his belief that this was a cell.

It was only natural he was confused. He’d seen the inside of a prison once. That was in the Lutawan Kingdom of course and he’d been plagued by nightmares for days afterward. Thanks be to God he wasn’t in a place like that.

He sat down again and drank more water.

A sharp
snick
brought Nedgalvin awake again. He’d nodded off sitting up. His headache had eased, which was good since the sunlight from the window slits had brightened. Someone was taking advantage of the light to study him through the little spy hole in the door.

An old man’s voice spoke, sounding muffled. “Ah, so you’re finally coming around. I had my doubts. Well? Can you talk? Or was your head cracked so hard that Tayval’s silence has infected you?”

Nedgalvin scowled at the old man’s mocking tone. He stood up to his full height. “Where am I? What is this place?”

“It’s true,” the old man said, sounding impressed. “You even have the accent.”

“What accent?”

“A southerner’s accent! Do you remember any of it?”

“Of what?”

“The drinking, the fighting, the woman you hurt. Helvero sent you here. He said your head got cracked, though why you’d want to imagine you were something as odious as a Lutawan officer, I don’t know. Must be you feel guilty about that woman you—”

Nedgalvin leaned down to peer through the spy hole. The old man drew back in surprise. He was short, or shrunken with years, but his shoulders were broad and his hands looked strong. Ominously, he carried both a cudgel and a coiled whip on a stiff belt at his waist.

He was standing in a narrow hallway, and though it was dimly lit, it looked to be as clean as the cell. Behind the old man was the door of another cell.

“Is Helvero here?” Nedgalvin asked.

The old man snorted. “He sent his orders, which is all we need.” The old man reached into a shirt pocket, pulled out a paper, unfolded it, and read, “Don’t kill him.” He looked up again at Nedgalvin. “That was the first part of it.” He returned his attention to the paper and took up reading again, pronouncing each word with care. “He was a good soldier once, but his delusion is offensive. Beat him anytime he repeats the story that he is a Lutawan officer.”

“Did Helvero tell you my name?” Nedgalvin asked.

The old man refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket. “You’ve shamed your family and they don’t want your name known. We’re supposed to call you Ned.”

“It’s Nedgalvin,” Nedgalvin said. He’d fought a hundred teenage battles to force his peers to use his proper name and he wasn’t about to tolerate the nickname from the mouth of this old fool. “And the accent is real. I
am
a Lutawan officer. A general, in fact. And the only reason I can think of that I’m still alive is because that fatherless spawn Helvero wants to make a present of me to the Bidden whore at a time of his choosing. So why don’t you save both of us unwanted time and trouble and send the message yourself? Tell Takis I’m here and that despite her best efforts I’m still alive. Ask the Bidden whore if she wants to go another round.”

This tirade ignited a look of rage in the old man’s eyes, but he showed more self-control than Nedgalvin expected, answering in controlled syllables. “You’re demon-ridden, boy. No doubt of it. But we’ll have you seeing straight again soon.”

Half an hour before sunset four burly guards came into the cell armed with birch rods which they used with good skill to stun Nedgalvin’s wrists and arms, long enough to bind him. Then they forced him to drink a bitter syrup. “It’s called ‘mercy,’” one of the men explained, a half-smile on his face as he looked for fear in Nedgalvin’s eyes. “It enhances pain seven times over, so the flagellator doesn’t have to work so hard, and the orderlies aren’t bothered with patching up so much torn skin.”

They flogged him at sunset in an inner yard and though Nedgalvin resolved he would not cry out it was only three strokes before he broke his oath and nineteen before he fainted.

He woke in the dark of night, his back on fire, and every muscle in his body stiff and bruised. He touched his back, exploring the damage. His skin was hot, marred with raised welts and covered with a sticky substance that he took for blood until he tasted it, and then he decided it was salve.

Four guards came in at dawn; not the same four as the day before. Their spokesman told him if he consented to shackles, he could come to the mess hall to eat. When Nedgalvin didn’t answer, the guard shrugged and stepped to the door. “Be quick.”

A boy came in with bread, a small bowl of stew, and a fresh flagon of water. He glanced at the bucket, but it was hardly used, so he left it.

The door closed and the day passed. In the afternoon the old man came again to question him through the spy hole. Nedgalvin refused to deny his name or his past or the two hundred men he had led to their deaths, so at sunset they flogged him again after another bitter dose of mercy. This time he lasted until the count reached twenty-four.

Seök feared Smoke might find some reason to come back, so he waited a full five minutes before he arose. Yelena looked startled to see him. “Oh Seök, I forgot you were sleeping there or I would have wakened you. I had a visitor already, one of the Hauntén! None have ever come to my store before.”

Seök resolved not to speak to his sister of the stranger’s true name. The less she knew, the better for her. “I saw him, but I thought I dreamed it.”

“Oh, you must have been half-awake. The Hauntén are kind to us, sweetening the water, calming the livestock, luring maidens out after dark. Mostly they come at festival time, for they love the music and the colorful lanterns. It’s unusual that they come to buy goods, but it happens, especially if they are trying to seduce a stubborn girl.”

“So it
was
real.” Not that he harbored any doubt! “He said it was his role to deliver curses, not blessings. That doesn’t sound kindly to me.”

“
Tschaw!
Vain posturing, I’m sure, and nothing more. I remember a time when you thought it a fine thing to be feared.”

“That time is long past.”

“Sometimes I think only the vainest of the forest spirits come to see us, those that wish to gain our admiration. But this one behaved well enough. He paid in good coin and made no threat against me and I’m sure he meant no harm.”

“Did you ever see this one before, Yelena? Or hear of him?”

She frowned in concern. “Seök, what is the matter? I think your dream must have felt more like a nightmare!”

“I think you’re right.”

“I’ll cook you breakfast and you’ll feel better. But to answer your question, no. The Hauntén I’ve seen have been smaller and more lithe than this one. I might have taken him for a man, but for his eyes.”

Seök nodded, feeling haunted by the memory of the glittering light in Smoke’s eyes.

When breakfast was done, Seök took up his purse and set off into the rain, in search of a sturdy riding horse. He returned to his sister’s mercantile at midmorning, the horse saddled and ready. Yelena was certain that madness had taken him. “What do mean you’re leaving? What about your wagon? Your oxen? How could you have paid so much for this horse?”

“I paid what I needed to, and I must go now. I can’t tell you the reason. Not until I return. Yelena, you must keep the wagon and the oxen for me.”

“Of course, of course! But what has happened? Seök, you’re frightening me.”

“No, please don’t be afraid. Nothing is changed from yesterday. It’s only the business of the Trenchant I must attend to.”

The Puzzle Lands were well named. They were a maze of sheer-sided, fog-wreathed mountains covered in dense evergreen forests, linked by narrow roads and winding footpaths that were known to vanish from one season to the next. The Eastway even went underground for a time, passing through a lightless cavern beneath the East Tangle where ghostly echoes tempted travelers to go astray. Waterfalls plunged into narrow valleys, sending white-water rivers racing past terraced farmland.

In the Puzzle Lands it was easy to get lost.

Seök, though, had been eleven years in the army. He’d patrolled every border and knew many of the mountain trails. He returned by Eastway, but after passing through the Whispering Cavern he turned his horse north, riding swiftly along the mountain trails of the East Tangle, to arrive late each night at a roadside inn.

Four days after leaving Nefión, he turned his horse onto a rarely used path that ambled to the top of Everwatch Ridge, and in the early afternoon he came to the summit, and the forest’s edge.

The forest on the west side of Everwatch Ridge had been cut down long ago and converted to pasture, eliminating cover that might have benefitted an enemy. Sheep grazed the steep green slope. Below was a wide farming valley, with the city of Samerhen grown up along the river and around the foot of a low plateau. Atop the plateau was the fortress, its high stone walls surrounding a complex of barracks, stables, and workshops, along with the family hall of the Bidden.

As the hawk flies it was two miles from Everwatch Ridge to the fortress, but the air was so clear Seök could count the twelve sentries stationed on the fortress walls. He pitied them. To be a sentry at Samerhen was the dullest duty in the army. No blood had been spilled in this valley since the days of Koráy, but the vigilance of the Koráyos people did not slacken.

Sheep scattered from his path as Seök descended through the pasture. He passed a green wheat field and came next to the outskirts of the city. Samerhen was a maze of well-kept homes, stores, and warehouses. The streets were clean and shaded with trees, and dogs and chickens were kept behind fences.

But that was typical in the Puzzle Lands, where even the tiniest village or mountain holding was assiduously cared for.

By contrast, in the course of the war, Seök had seen countless grubby southern villages and one filthy, stinking city that looked as if it was kept by uncaring slaves. It astonished him that people could live like that—but of course the men of the south were lazy and arrogant, good only for soldiering, while their women bided in contempt until a chance came to flee north. If not for their numbers, such a pathetic people would be no threat at all.

Seök had not loved war, but he knew the Koráyos were a free people only because of the strength of the army and the protection of the Bidden. He’d ridden in the Trenchant’s personal company for a year and he knew Dehan as a cold man who showed little love to those around him—but what did that matter? Like every generation of the Bidden before him, Dehan had fiercely defended the Puzzle Lands and the freedoms of the Koráyos people, and he would allow no one to enslave another, as the Lutawans were so fond of doing. Seök loved him for it, and he would fight again, without hesitation, if the Trenchant required him, and he would do as the Trenchant commanded, whether those orders were distasteful to him or not, for he well knew that all that was sweet in the Puzzle Lands would be lost if the Koráyos ever again fell under the curse of the south.

He urged his horse to a trot, and before long he came to the cliff road that climbed in three switchbacks to the fortress gate. He explained himself to the guard. Then his horse was taken away to be cared for in the stable, while he was led through a long hall and up a wide stairway to Dehan’s library.

The double doors stood open. Light came in through clerestory windows, falling across leather-bound books collected on long shelves. A fire burned on a wide hearth. Narrow tables set along the walls were covered in maps and notepaper, while at the room’s center was a large oval table surrounded by a flock of arm chairs. Ten or more men and women were busy at their tasks, updating maps, reports, or records. Seök hardly glanced at them. His gaze went at once to the corner farthest from the door, where Dehan the Trenchant sat by himself in a large cushioned chair placed beside a window that overlooked an enclosed garden. Despite the daylight streaming in from outside, an oil lamp burned above him, its yellow light illuminating the pages of a large book open in his lap.

Seök was startled to see how the Trenchant had aged these past few years. He’d heard it said that the Bidden aged swiftly, but it disturbed him to think that it might be true. Dehan’s brindled hair was still long and heavy, but the gray now dominated the black. His face had always been the dark brown of smoke-stained wood but now it was more weathered than ever, the lines deeper. His eyebrows were thick and grayer than his hair.

Dehan looked up. His habitual scowl fixed on Seök. It was no pleasant thing to be pinned under that gaze, but Seök endured it, hurrying across the wide room and outpacing his timid guide.

He dropped to one knee before the Trenchant, but he didn’t bow his head. The Trenchant didn’t require a man to grovel as the Lutawan elite were said to do. Instead, Seök looked up into Dehan’s dark eyes—so black it was almost impossible to make out a pupil—and still somehow so bright Seök was sure they could see into his soul.

“I know you,” Dehan said. “Seök. Eleven years in and now retired.”

“Yours still to command, sir.” And then he blurted out his news: “Sir, I have seen your son! And by the grace of Koráy and the Dread Hammer I’m still alive to bring you the news.”

Dehan closed the book in his lap and set it aside. He leaned forward. “Say on.”

Seök glanced up as the Trenchant’s eldest daughter, Takis, came in from the garden. She was tall and strongly built, her black hair bound tight in a knot behind her neck. She wore a lavender silk tunic and loose gray trousers. Her eyes were almost as green as Smoke’s, but they were human eyes, bright only with reflected light as they fixed on him in sharp suspicion. Seök bowed his head in greeting. Takis, too, looked older than he remembered, though at twenty-six she was still young and lovely.

She went to stand beside her father, placing a possessive hand on his chair’s high back.

Seök returned his gaze to the Trenchant. “I saw Smoke in Nefión four days ago, when he came into my sister’s store. It was just past dawn, on a morning of torrential rain.” Seök told of how he’d feigned sleep among the trade goods, while Smoke paid in coin for the lengths of fabric he selected. He recounted the words Smoke had spoken. He told of the door that was still barred on the inside when Smoke went to leave. He told of Smoke’s green glittering eyes and his sister’s belief that she’d been visited by one of the Hauntén.

All the time he spoke the Trenchant said nothing, and his expression didn’t change, but Seök didn’t doubt he took in every word. For her part, Takis looked increasingly uneasy; she kept glancing at her father as if expecting some dreadful reaction. Finally she interrupted Seök. “The Hauntén are known to visit Nefión. Couldn’t it be that your sister was right, and this was just a forest spirit? His words were innocent enough, and you never saw his face.”

Seök recalled Smoke’s talk of curses and didn’t think it innocent, but he wasn’t going to argue the point with Takis. “The shadow of his hood couldn’t hide the sound of his laugh, ma’am, or the timbre of his voice, and I’ve heard both before.”

The Trenchant stirred at last. Leaning back, he scowled up at his daughter. “Takis, you raised him to be a vain rooster. What a fool, to reveal himself just for the chance to buy a few yards of fancy cloth.”

Seök said, “Sir, there is another thing.”

“Say on.”

“I didn’t see him again after that, but as I was leaving Nefión an errand boy came running into town. His eyes were wild. He shouted about a murder he had found—though I don’t know if it has anything to do with Smoke.”

“Say on.”

“The boy had been sent to fetch an herbal remedy from Nefión’s wise woman, who lives some way into the forest. He found the door of her cottage ajar, so he went in. And there she was, stabbed through the heart and laid out before a kindled fire. The boy had been to her cottage many times and he reported that all else was undisturbed, save that three books were gone from their place on the table. I didn’t stay to hear more, but rode out with all haste.”

“Do you know what books these were?” Takis asked.

“No, ma’am. The boy didn’t say.”