Anatoly is going to die.
Yorrin felt worse about it than he might’ve expected. He’d seen many of his fellows die over the years, during his previous life as a guttersnipe in Nasarat. The lucky ones were knifed in an alley when they got too drunk after a big score, and died in a happy stupor. Less lucky were the ones that met the hangman, and worse still were the folk that starved to death on the street.
Such was the nature of things. The life of a thief in Nasarat was rough on the best of days, and one learned not to get too close to people.
You learned to look out for yourself. You made friends, but… Yorrin frowned at the thought. But in those days “friend” meant something else.
What does it mean now? Anatoly had tried to kill them that first night they met him. And yet even so, somehow, he’d become a closer companion than most of the friends Yorrin had known in his old life. Anatoly was Steelshod, and somehow that had meaning that Yorrin did not yet fully understand.
But now Anatoly was unconscious, covered in blood, and Orson was struggling to keep him alive. It didn’t look promising. That Wncari axe bit deep into his skull.
The Wncars were all dead or fled, and their Svardic allies were slain to a man. Aleksandr had made sure of that. Even so, Aleksandr was still in the saddle, blood-stained sword in hand. His eyes scanned the treeline, watching for any sign of the Wncar returning.
Yorrin winced suddenly. “Careful, Rotten,” he snapped. “That’s not a cloak you’re sewing up.”
Robin shrugged, and resumed his piss-poor performance sewing shut the laceration in Yorrin’s arm. The needle puncturing in and out of his flesh was bad enough, but Robin’s awkward tugging when he tightened the thread was much worse.
“You can wait for the midwife if you prefer, boss,” Robin said.
“Orson is busy,” Yorrin said through gritted teeth. “Just get it done.”
Yorrin had taken several hits in the fight, but his armored jack had done its job. An arrow and two knives were still stuck in thick layers of cloth and leather, stopped by the iron plates within. Only one unlucky strike had opened a wide, painful gash along his left forearm.
That Wncari knife-thrower was no slouch, Yorrin had to admit, if only in his own head. He looked down at one of the blades protruding from his armored chest. The light reflected on the metal, and Yorrin grabbed it with his right hand and yanked it out.
“Hey!” Robin said. “Quit jostling! Or don’t whine at me when the stitches look like shit.”
Yorrin ignored him. He examined the knife more closely.
It was a simple thing, obviously designed for throwing. Almost all blade, with no crossguard at all. The grip was small, and wrapped in soft leather. But the iron was what had caught Yorrin’s eye. It had an odd pattern to it. It almost looked like…
“Aleksandr!” Yorrin called. Then, as an afterthought, “Giancarlo! You too.”
“Going to show them my handiwork?” Robin asked. He leaned down and bit off the end of the thread. “Looks pretty good actually. Say, could I get a pay increase if I get designated the company chirurgeon?”
Yorrin looked down at his arm. The stitches were haphazardly spaced along an uneven line. He glanced back at Rotten, who was giving him a hopeful look.
“No.” Yorrin waved at him with the hand that held the dagger. “Go.”
Robin scurried off, and Yorrin sat quietly for a moment, trying to ignore the hot pain radiating from his arm. You’re a merc, now, he told himself. Better get used to it.
Aleksandr arrived first, still astride Dascha. “Yorrin? Are you alright?”
“Fine. Check this out.” Yorrin held the dagger up for Alekandr to look.
Aleksandr accepted it, examined it, then his eyes widened. “This almost looks like… these Wncari, can they work steel?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you,” Yorrin said. “You’re the blacksmith.”
Aleksandr frowned. “I am not,” he said. “Not really. Piotr could tell us, for certain. But it looks like it, da. I—”
“What is it?” Giancarlo asked as he reached them.
He still looked pale, unsettled from the fight. He didn’t even lift a finger. Maybe he’s just queasy from all the blood spilled, and how many of us are still getting patched up, Yorrin thought. Or from Orson’s quiet panic as he fails to save Anatoly’s life.
Aleksandr handed Giancarlo the blade. Giancarlo studied it for a few moments, then whistled. “Oh!” he said, suddenly delighted. “Barbarian pattern welding, si, si! Very nice!”
“Say again?” said Yorrin. “So is it steel, or not?”
“Ah,” Giancarlo raised a hand and wiggled it in the air. “Perhaps? Something like it, but not as pure or true as the steel that comes out of the Empire. The northern barbarians, they have had some secrets of steelmaking for centuries. Kings of Svarden and Rusk have boasted of pattern-welded metalwork for at least that long.”
Aleksandr’s frown deepened. Probably because Rossi just lumped his homeland in with Svardic barbarians.
“So it is steel, then,” Yorrin said. “In a way.”
Giancarlo shrugged. “If it is so, then it is old and poor for steel. Pattern welds are little more than several rods of iron, twisted upon each other and forged into one piece. True steel, it is more than that, I think. But… si, it is at least a nicer piece than a simple blade of hard iron. The ripples, they are pretty to look at, no? Many pattern welds hold a good edge, too. I bet I could fetch a fine price for this on the right market.”
Yorrin held out his hand. “You won’t,” he said. “Think I’ll hold onto it.”
Giancarlo shrugged, and passed the weapon back. “That is all, then?”
Yorrin nodded. While the merchant made his way back to the wagon, Yorrin looked at Aleksandr. “You alright, sir?” he asked quietly.
Aleksandr nodded. “Da,” he said. “Just… is worse than I expected, I suppose.”
He was looking down the road, at the folk hunkered down around the wagon. Yorrin wasn’t the only one to sustain an injury, and with Orson occupied they were all doing whatever they could to patch themselves up without his help.
“Thanks for taking out those Svards,” Yorrin said. “That heathen chanting grated on the nerves.”
“Da, and to you, for the archers. Could have been much worse.”
Yorrin nodded, and that was all that needed to be said. Aleksandr trotted his horse down the road to check on the rest of the company. Yorrin yanked the arrow out of his armor, and then the second blade. It looked much like the first, a matching throwing knife with a faded rippled pattern in the iron.
He walked into the underbrush, where the dead Wncar were sprawled about in pools of blood. The archers were dressed differently than the ones that had charged the wagon—they’re dressed at all, for one thing—in leathers and rough woodland garb. It only took Yorrin a few moments to find the one that had thrown the knives at him.
His garb might have been nicer than the rest, though the bloodstained rents left by Yorrin’s blades spoiled that somewhat. Yorrin hunkered down to examine him more closely. The dead man wore hardened leather vambraces on his forearms that bore intricate decorations—a complex pattern along the edge that looked like some sort of patterned knots, and a rearing white stallion embroidered across each bracer in white thread. They looked to be fine craftsmanship, but those decorations were decidedly Wncari, so Yorrin let them be. That wasn’t what he was looking for anyway.
The dead man wore a baldrick strapped across his chest. It was a leather belt, also bordered in Wncari knots, but without the more ostentatious white horse. Evenly spaced along the belt were six simple sheathes. They were lined up in such a way as to allow an easy draw off the chest for the wearer. Four more knives—just like the two in his hands—were still sheathed on the belt. He slid the knives back into their sheathes on the baldrick and unfastened it from the dead man.
He’d half-expected he would need to add a new notch, but the Wncari knife-thrower had been of fairly small stature. Taller than Yorrin, but not by enough to matter. He slung the baldrick across his chest and fastened it snugly. He reached up and experimentally drew one of the knives.
Easy enough, he thought. Still, I should practice if I want to be able to snap them out as fast as he was.
He left the corpse where it had fallen, and made his way back through the foliage.
Ransacking the dead had occupied Yorrin’s attention nicely. Now he returned to reality. Steelshod had finished regrouping, and they were all formed up around the wagons. Some of them were sitting, resting their bruised and bloodied limbs.
Aleksandr was still astride Dascha, watching the trees. Levin and Conrad were too. He spotted Prudence hunkered down near the rear of the caravan. She had her crossbow loaded and ready.
Gunnar was standing ready, sword and shield in hand. The Svard had cleaned the blood off his blade, but his shield and mail were still spattered with it. He probably considers it a heathen sacrament.
Dylan was sitting. Resting, most likely—Yorrin wasn’t sure how badly he’d injured his leg when his horse collapsed on him, but it surely hurt. He was, somewhat morbidly, sitting beside the corpse of his horse. He looked miserable. He loved that horse, Yorrin recalled. Not as much as Aleksandr and Dascha, maybe, but… more than any of the rest of us.
Then there was Anatoly. Yorrin grew closer to the wagons, and he saw where Anatoly still lay. Orson was kneeling beside him, an array of tools laid out on a leather pad. He still moved quickly, with focus. Either Anatoly has a better chance than I thought, or Orson doesn’t know when to give up. Good man either way.
Yorrin didn’t miss Bear’s presence either. The barbarian loomed over Orson as he worked. He stared at them with a deep frown etched across his face. While Yorrin was in the bushes, it appeared that Bear had picked up the dead Wncar’s axe. It was stupidly large, and its twin bearded heads had to make it heavy as sin. Bear didn’t seem perturbed. He clutched it in two tight fists as he stared at Orson and Anatoly.
Once Yorrin grew close to the wagons he stopped next to Perrin. The Taraamite looked a bit battered and bloody, but he seemed to be in alright shape.
“How is he?” Yorrin asked in a low voice. He nodded towards Anatoly.
“Not good,” Perrin said back, just as quiet. “But… well, he’s still alive. So there’s a chance, right?”
Probably not. “Right,” Yorrin said. “Hope Orson picks up his pace, though. We ought to move on.”
Perrin nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “Though… we acquitted ourselves a hell of a lot better than they’ll have expected. I expect it’ll take some time before they come at us again.”
“Optimistic,” Yorrin said. “Might be you’re right. We shouldn’t press our luck just to find out, though.”
Despite Yorrin’s concern, there was little to do but wait. Minutes passed in slow, tense silence. Yorrin had walked a circuit up and down the caravan three times, with no particular purpose, before something finally changed.
Orson packed up his medical bag and rose to his feet. “He’s alive,” he said to no one in particular. Every member of the company heard him. “For now, anyway. I need to stay close to him. I may need to… nevermind, I just need to stay close. Bear, help me carry him? We need to get him into one of the wagons.”
Bear glowered, but he dropped his new axe and went to grab Anatoly by the legs. Before Orson could grab the top half, Cam nudged him out of the way. “Aye, alright then Bear. On three.”
It didn’t take long after that for them to get underway. Turned out the Whip’s leg must have been feeling better than Yorrin expected; he didn’t opt to ride in a wagon, and instead mounted up on Anatoly’s horse.
Yorrin rounded up a few of the company—his only requirements were capable scouts and not too injured—and divided them into forward scouts and rearguard. Visibility was poor, but they still needed some warning if another ambush was waiting for them.
“These barbarians could strike from anywhere,” Yorrin cautioned them. “Keep your eyes and ears open. You notice anything out of place and you let us know immediately. Take no chances.”
For the first few hours, Yorrin took point. When things stayed quiet, he traded with Levin for the rearmost position. If the Wncars and Svards they’d already faced had more numbers, most likely they would end up approaching from the rear.
He kept his bow strung and an arrow clenched in the same fist. His eyes roamed the trees and hills that rolled along to the north and south of their road.
We’ll have to camp here sooner or later, he realized. It’s more than a day through these hills.
He could only trust that his eyes, and those of his companions, would not fail them.
“I’ve spotted something, sir,” Yorrin said quietly.
Aleksandr’s expression didn’t change. “Barbarians?” he asked, his voice similarly low. He kept his horse trotting forward at a leisurely pace.
“Maybe,” Yorrin said. “Movement back there a ways. In the trees. Just one though, I’m almost certain. Maybe a scout.”
“We should capture them, then,” said Aleksandr. “Prevent them from reporting back to their master.”
“Could probably put an arrow throu—”
“Capture, Yorrin. If you can. Da?” Aleksandr did not raise his voice, but Yorrin could still hear the conviction in his voice.
“Understood. I’ll break away, see if I can get the drop on them up close.”
Aleksandr gave a single nod.
Yorrin rode ahead a few paces, then nudged his horse off the road. Once the undergrowth grew too thick he dismounted and looped the animal’s reins over a branch. He wandered deeper into the woods, fumbling with his belt and breeches as if he had to take a shit.
Once he was confident he had broken any possible sightlines with the scout, he ducked down behind a large broken tree. Then he waited.
He let the caravan pass him by. He could hear the horses and the low voices of the company as they went past. And then he heard it.
Crack.
A twig break in the woods. Gentle footfalls, muffled but not silent, as someone crept through the foliage. Yorrin waited until he could hear them beginning to pass as well. He nocked an arrow in his bow, pulled the string back, and emerged from behind the tree.
“Stop, or I’ll put an arrow through your back,” he called out.
The figure stopped. Even only seeing them from behind at twenty paces out, Yorrin could tell something was wrong. They were wearing simple roughspun clothes, dirty from travel. They carried no weapons, not even a knife. Their hair was a wild tangle of curly red that went a long way down their back.
That’s a woman, Yorrin realized. Not a warrior.
“Turn around,” he said.
She did so, carefully. Yorrin’s guess was right. She was definitely a woman. Her pale skin was dirty from mud and marked with scratches. She held her hands out, palms open, and Yorrin saw they were caked with dirt and blood. She looked at Yorrin with intense green eyes, expression stiff and difficult to read.
“Why are you following us? Who are you?” Yorrin asked. As an afterthought, he added “do you speak Middish?”
The woman swallowed, obviously nervous. “Please…” she murmured. “Help me.”
Shit, Yorrin lowered his bow and relaxed his grip on the string. He left the arrow nocked, however. “Oh,” he said. He nodded towards the road. “Go. That way. You need to talk to Aleksandr.”
She nodded. “Aye,” she said. “Alright. Thank you.”
Her accent sounded odd to Yorrin. She rolled the R a little, and the way she said ‘you’ sounded halfway to the ‘ye’ of Cam’s brogue. Maybe more of a ‘yah.’ Wncari accent, must be, he decided. Guess it has something in common with whatever place it is Cam is from. High Hurst? I think that was it.
Yorrin stayed behind her, gesturing to get her moving on towards the caravan. When they reached his horse he unwound the reins but let the beast follow behind them. He didn’t quite expect the woman to bolt or attack him, but neither was he about to just start trusting a strange Wncar. He kept his bow ready.
She didn’t try to talk to him. That was a relief, at least. She kept her hands tucked in close to her body, and she moved carefully. Yorrin noticed she was barefoot, but the soles of her feet must’ve been as hard as stones, because she didn’t seem bothered by the rough undergrowth.
They were spotted by the rear scouts well before they reached the caravan. Conrad rode up to them, weapon ready, a quizzical look on her face.
“Just her?” he asked once he grew close.
“Yes. And she asked for help,” Yorrin said. To the Wncar, he added “keep moving.”
Conrad nodded. “Want me to follow you?”
“No,” said Yorrin. “Might be a ruse to draw our attention. Hang back. Watch the trees carefully before you catch up.”
Conrad nodded again. “Understood. Uh… sir?”
“Yes?”
Yorrin paused, and the Wncari woman stopped as well.
“She looks… poorly.”
“She’s a savage, Conrad. Don’t expect her to look like a noblewoman. Or even a streetwalker fresh off her monthly bath.”
Conrad frowned. “But—”
“Keep watch,” Yorrin reminded him. He nodded at the woman. “I said keep moving.”
She gave Yorrin a dark look, but she kept moving.
Good enough, Yorrin thought. With any luck we’ll be rid of her soon enough.
“Hello,” Aleksandr said. His voice was calm and quiet. Nonthreatening. “Who are you?”
He’s being too soft on her. She may be a woman, but she’s still a barbarian. Yorrin kept his disagreements confined to his own head. It wouldn’t do to disagree with Aleksandr. Especially not on matters such as this. Perhaps Alaina would say he’s showing her proper Torathi charity.
Aleksandr had dismounted. He and the Wncari woman were standing off to the side of the road, facing one another. As many Steelshod as could get away with it were nearby, listening in, but Yorrin had ensured that several of them were keeping a close watch for any ambushes.
“Help me, will you?” the woman asked. Her plea was desperate, in its own way, but she scarcely sounded desperate. She was almost toneless, aside from that odd Wncari inflection to her words.
“That depends,” Aleksandr said carefully. “First of all… I am Aleksandr. Who are you?”
“Cara Cos Crann,” she said. She frowned. “Or—nay, just Cara. Forget the rest.”
Hm, what does that mean? Abandoning her kin, maybe? Makes a sort of sense, if she’s asking us for help.
“Alright,” Aleksandr said. “And what sort of help do you need?”
“Sa—sanctuary,” she said. Sank-churry. “That’s what you Middish call it? Please.”
“You wish for our protection?” Aleksandr asked.
She nodded. “Aye,” she said. “What you did to them all… I saw.”
She even said ‘I’ strangely, it almost sounded more like ‘oi’ to Yorrin’s ear.
“What we did to who?” Aleksandr asked. “Your kin? The Wncar?”
Her expression, which had grown more frightened as she spoke to Aleksandr, hardened suddenly. She spat in the dirt. “Not my kin,” she snarled. “You fought the Cúig Dhorn, mostly. A few of the Bán Capall. And the outlanders.”
Aleksandr’s brow furrowed. “I am not sure I understand these words…”
Cam suddenly spoke up, from where he stood at the edge of the conversation. “Clans, sir. I dinnae ken the Wncari clans too well personally, but I know a clan name when I hear it.”
Cara snapped her eyes towards Cam. She blinked in surprise, then seemed to settle her nerves. “Highlander?” she asked.
Cam smiled at her. “Aye, lass, that I am.”
She nodded, obviously placated. She looked back to Aleksandr. “Aye, the Highlander’s right. Clans, they are. Cúig Dorn, they go into battle clad in naught but woad and courage. Five Fists, because they mark their bodies five times.”
No idea what woad is, but she has to mean those mad naked blue warriors, Yorrin decided. Which I suppose tells me already what woad is. Blue paint, must be.
“And the Bán Capall were what, the ones in the woods?” Yorrin piped up. “Led by the fellow with the horses on his arms?”
“White horses, aye,” Cara said. “You killed them both, and the outlanders too.”
“And these clans, they are not yours? Yours is…” Aleksandr considered the words, and spoke carefully. “Cos Crann, da? Is that it?”
Cara nodded. “Aye,” she said. Then she seemed to hesitate. “Nay. Not—not anymore.”
Aleksandr sighed. “Perhaps it would be easier if you start at beginning, Cara,” he said.
Cara closed her eyes. She took a few quiet breaths. When she opened them, her expression was hard again. “Aye,” she said. “You’ll listen? To all of it?”
Aleksandr met her gaze with just as much intensity. “Da.”
“I was of the Cos Crann,” she said. “My father, Cailan, he’s the clan chief. We’ve never much gotten on with the other clans, on naught but killing Middish that stray into our hils.”
Charming.
“But then the northmen came. Warriors. Not Middish, they had a funny accent.”
“Svards,” Aleksandr supplied.
She nodded. “Aye, that’s it. Svards. They fought like devils. And one of them, the leader, the priest, he spoke strange words and made the men flee. Then he met with my father. When he spoke to him, my father listened. He shouldn’t have. We don’t listen to outlanders.”
Hm, Yorrin pondered. Is that just savages charming savages, or something else? Hakon seemed awfully good at charming folk, too, for a northern barbarian.
“But he listened. The Cúig Dorn listened. The Bán Capall listened. They all listened, and they came together. First time in…” she hesitated. “Years. More’n my lifetime, for certain. They came together to fight with the outlanders, the Svards, against the Middish. The Svard said that his master would crush the Midlands, and they believed him.”
That’s not good.
“You did not agree with this?” Aleksandr asked.
Cara frowned. “Listen,” she said.
“Da,” Aleksandr said, bowing his head in deference. “I am sorry.”
For God’s sake, don’t apologize to her, Aleksandr! Yorrin bit his tongue.
“We hosted them in our home,” Cara said. “The Cos Crann did, hosted all the outlanders. They were big and loud and ugly and they took what they wanted. No better than Middish, but instead of hangin’ them by their guts from the trees, we let them. My father let them.”
Cara’s expression grew harder. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened. “They took me. I tried to fight them, but there were too many. Called to my father for help, but… the outlander priest spoke to him, and he did nothing.”
Yorrin frowned. The crowd around them was utterly silent. Aleksandr held Cara’s gaze, and said nothing. He was obviously waiting for her to finish.
Cara swallowed. “I left that night. Ran with naught but the clothes on my back. Been livin’ off the land since then, these past few days. They’ve been looking for me. Not just the outlanders, nor father. All of ‘em. Cúig Dorn, Bán Capall, Cos Crann. The ones you fought, they were closest to finding me.”
“I see,” Aleksandr said. “They were not waiting for us, then?”
“Nay. Not really. Expect they just figured it were their lucky day, comin’ across you lot like they did.”
“It was not,” Aleksandr said.
For the first time, Cara smiled. “It wasn’t,” she agreed. “You killed near all of them. You killed Gobán, champion of the Cúig Dorn. And Lochlann, son of the chief of the Bán Capall.”
That’d be the giant one and the knife-thrower, Yorrin decided. They were the most notable of them, anyway.
“You killed what few Cos Crann there were in the lot of them. And you killed the outlanders. You killed their priest, the one that poisoned my father’s ear and started all of this.”
Right. Aleksandr slew the Svard doing that war chant.
“I did,” Aleksandr agreed. “And… I am sorry for what happened to you. You will have sanctuary. You may travel with us as long as you need.”
Cara nodded. “You’ll have my thanks, then,” she said. She reached up and tugged at her tangled red mane. “Only… it’s not really sanctuary I want, if I’m honest.”
Aleksandr frowned. “Oh?”
“You’re soldiers, aye?” Cara asked.
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “We are.”
“These outlanders—Svards—they said they’re killing folk all across Caedia.”
“They are,” Aleksandr confirmed.
“Good,” Cara said. She straightened her back, and clasped her hands in front of her. “Because I want to go with you, and I want to kill every one of the bastards that we come across.”