He had said as much several times in the days since Captain Treon had led the twenty-man company from the gates of Hilan into the Gyntors, mountains of grim granite and deep vales choked in evergreens. It took little imagination to understand why the mountains had such dire repute. More than once, Rathe had been sure he spied creatures flitting amongst the deep shadows, as though stalking.
“It’s not working so well as you think,” Rathe answered, tugging forward the coarse black hood of his woolen cloak. A soaking rain had changed over to wet snow around midday, frosting the dark woods around them. To his mind, a land that could feel winter’s bite no matter the true season in hospitable realms, was a land cursed.
Loro arched a dubious eyebrow. “One day you are a whipped dog, the next you are a lieutenant. From where I sit, that is no small feat.”
“Until I prove otherwise,” Rathe said, “I am still the dog to these men. You notice that I do not ride with Captain Treon, nor does he confide in me. Instead, he positions me behind the prisoner wagons, back amongst the rabble-present company excluded, of course,” he finished with a wry grin.
“Of course,” Loro grouched good-naturedly. “Still, I believe you are well on your way to succeeding.”
“Perhaps,” Rathe allowed, eyeing the forbidding wall of trees bracing the road. Beyond a few paces, he could only make out a few details for the tangled undergrowth. A rocky stream, high from recent rains, whipped itself to a dirty froth to one side of the road, and in some places murky eddies submerged the unforgiving path.
“I am looking forward to Valdar,” Loro said loudly, scowling up at the damp gray sky. “All this wet is like to make me sprout fins.”
“After three days,” Rathe said, “a proper roof, a blaze, and a cup of mulled wine would lift my spirits.”
“Mulled wine?” Loro scoffed. “I have a taste for strong ale, and a longing for pair of plump women to warm my bones.”
“You will find naught but piss and hags in Valdar,” one of the two wagon drivers muttered sourly. Wizened by an abundance of years and toil, he had been so quiet up to that moment that Rathe had not noticed him. Of that last, he could say the same for Carul, the other driver farther back, who slouched on his plank seat beneath a pea-green cloak, his face hidden under the wide brim of a floppy leather hat.
Loro eyed the driver who had spoken. “Breyon, is it, from the village?”
“ ‘Tis the name my mother saw fit to give me,” the man grunted, tucking a hank of gray hair behind his ear. “And, aye, I was born in Hilan. I serve as Lord Sanouk’s woodsman.” Unlike the others in the company, the long-faced fellow endured the weather without a hood or a hat, and his oft-patched brown cloak looked to have more holes than a sieve.
“To hear it from my brothers,” Loro said, “Valdar is full to brimming with lusty wenches who serve the finest ales in all of Cerrikoth.”
“Fools all,” Breyon disagreed, peering at the two riders from his high perch, the reins held loosely in big, knotted hands made for swinging an axe. The wagon, more a rolling iron cage, creaked and groaned over the uneven roadway.
“They say Valdar is so rich with gold dust,” Loro persisted, “the gutters glitter, even in the night.”
“Aye, there’s gold in the mountains, but it’s for the king’s coffers. For the likes of you, it’s piss and hags,” Breyon said once more, cracking a smile to show each of his four remaining teeth. The smile became a leer. “O’ course, after a few days bunked in with those scoundrels in Lord Sanouk’s barracks, I will grant even a one-legged trull with a set of leathery dugs might seem a rare find-mayhap you will even find one to pinch a lump of gold for you.”
Loro’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot be serious-”
“Piss and hags,” Breyon cackled. He withdrew a leathern flask from his cloak, pulled the cork, and took a long, grimacing swallow. Hooting gleefully at Loro’s disappointed frown, he added, “Better off findin’ a knothole to dip into-or mayhap a lively sheep!”
“Have your knotholes and sheep, you toothless, uncouth wretch,” Loro growled, absently hiking a leg to scratch his backside. “You’d not recognize a fine woman if she fell in your lap.”
Rathe burst out laughing, only to be stilled by the call to halt. He heeled his mount past bedraggled soldiers, thinking it early to make camp. Still put out by Breyon’s estimation of what they would find in Valdar, Loro trailed after, casting rude aspersions on their cohorts. Sullen glares met his ridicule, which only served to encourage him.
At the head of the company, Rathe found Captain Treon conferring with two riders. Behind them, the stream curved, its breadth spanned by a rutted stone bridge just wide enough to accommodate the wagons. On the far side, the road cut through a soggy glade with a broad muddy knob dotted with rock fire rings. Firs and pines leaned over the clearing, their boughs hung with moss and dripping icicles.
Treon turned at the sound of approaching hooves, his cheeks rosy for the cold, his stare emotionless. An unexpected grin turned his lips, alerting Rathe to trouble.
“Lieutenant,” he said, managing to twist the title into an insult, “Aeden and Eled found something upsetting.” His gaze shifted to Loro. “They will lead you and that slovenly dung heap at your side to their find.”
Loro hawked and spat, then passed wind, not once looking away from Treon’s snaky glare.
Rathe glanced at Aeden and Eled, paying particular attention to the latter, a wan fellow with stringy black hair and an unfortunate potato nose. Fingers of steam rose from their cloaked shoulders, and both peered between Rathe and Treon with affrighted stares.
“What did you find, Eled?” Rathe asked.
“There’s … it … it’s,” he mumbled, before doubling over and spewing his last meal.
“By all the gods,” Loro growled in disgust. “Did a witch harvest your stones for potions, or are you that much the craven?”
Rathe looked to Aeden. “Can you tell me?” he invited.
The soldier blanched. “Best see for yourself, lieutenant. It’s not far.”
“Have a care,” Treon said lightly. “Wolves, lions, and bears make their homes in the Gyntors. Also, there are creatures beyond the ken of man, the progeny of demons and sorcery, evil given life and flesh. And brigands are as common in these parts as rocks and trees.”
Rathe bristled. “Then I would request a larger party.”
“No,” Treon said. “Four are enough.”
Rathe’s sword flashed from its scabbard. Treon flinched back, belatedly groping for his own blade. By then, Aeden had spun his mount and clattered across the bridge, followed by Rathe and a chuckling Loro. Eled hung well to the rear, his tight features tinged an unpleasant shade of green.
The foursome rode through the glade, crested a rise, then left the road and plunged into the forest, following an overgrown game trail. After a few hundred paces scrambling their mounts over downed trees, crossing muddy brooks and bogs, the way opened on a grassy meadow. A stag bounded away when they came into the clearing, its antlers crashing through the brush. After a moment, silence fell.
“Over there,” Aeden said, pointing at a distinct silhouette hovering amongst a stand of white-skinned birch.
Rathe gradually detected the contours of a wagon hidden within the murky greenery.
“What’s that stench?” Loro asked, raising an arm to his nose.
Rathe had smelled the same many times over, on countless fields of battle. “Death,” he muttered, a finger of unease coiling through his insides.
Loro cast a baleful look at Aeden. “Has a dead huntsman’s camp so unmanned you?”
Aeden dismounted. “See for yourself.”
Rathe climbed down, tied the reins to a bush, and followed Aeden, their boots sinking ankle-deep in the miry ground. Cursing the damp under his breath, Loro came along as well. Eled stayed put, glancing nervously from shadow to shadow.
The wagon stood empty and missing one wheel. A pillar of rock stacked under the bed kept it upright. The spare wheel leaned against the bole of a nearby tree. Rathe squatted, studying the wagon’s route that led to its final resting place. The driver had wended his way between the trees, following a path that might have been a road long before, but was now choked with low bracken and grass. For the most part, the grass had sprung back, but faint ruts remained. “Hasn’t been here long.”