The wind's icy fingers infiltrated Caim's jacket as he pulled his mount to a stop, but the shiver perched at the nape of his neck had nothing to do with the cold. The foothills of the Drakstag Mountains rolled out before him, tumbling down onto the hard plains of the northern wastes. It was barely a candlemark past midday, but the sky was a gray-black sheet of iron. Behind him, the mountain peaks glowed fiery orange like the world's last sunset.
“Un-fucking-natural,” Dray said as he reined up beside him.
“Is it always like this?” Malig asked, staring out over the dusky plains.
“Day and night,” Teromich said as his wagon pulled up. A lantern swung on a pole beside his seat, creating an island of light within the gloom. “It's always dark as a witch's twat up here. Been that way for as long as I've been coming over these mountains. My da spoke of it being light at least some of the time, but that was years and years back. Myself, I try not to stay any longer in this country than I need to.”
The merchant eyed them as if saying they'd do well to do the same. Caim scanned the far horizon, which was vague and nebulous even to his enhanced night vision. His comrades probably couldn't see much at all. To him, the plains were broken and gray with few defining features. No trees, a few scattered stones with bare faces. Even the grass was stunted and colorless, peeking up through the dirt. According to Teromich the wastes extended for hundreds of leagues without break, perhaps all the way to the edge of the world. And there was something else about the landscape that bothered him. The shadows. Without a light in the sky, there shouldn't have been any, but they pooled around every imperfection in the ground as if cast by an invisible sun.
There were a few buildings situated at the foot of the hills. Points of light shone between them, perhaps torches, but it was hard to say from this distance.
“Where's Aemon?” he asked.
As Dray shouted for his brother, Teromich beckoned to Caim. “So you're intent then, I take it?”
Since the ambush, the merchant had hounded Caim about his plans. Their agreement was to provide protection on the trip to the wastes, but it ended there. Now, with his other guards dead, he wanted Caim and the Eregoths to make the return trip with him, even offering double wages.
“We're moving on,” Caim said.
He clucked to his mount and preceded the caravan down to the cluster of buildings at the bottom of the pass. The trading center wasn't much of a town, even by northern standards. The outer shacks were little better than hovels. Inside them was a ring of slightly larger, more permanent-looking structures built with a resinous black wood. The shaggy sod roofs made them look like a herd of bison. Wooden beams carved with animal likenesses protruded from the eaves of the larger buildings. The lights he had seen came from flaming lamps suspended on chains from the mouths of these wooden beasts. There were no real streets within the trading post, just snow-packed lanes of varying widths, crisscrossed by wheel ruts and frozen excrement.
Teromich directed them to a wide paddock on the western edge of the settlement. While the wagons rolled in, Caim spotted a pair of men walking parallel to the fenced enclosure. By their size and pale, milk-white skin, he took them for Northmen, but both wore rust-red robes. Their hair was long and wild, giving them a feral appearance. Black medallions hung on their chests.
When his wagons were parked and unhitched, the merchant came over carrying a lantern. He paid out their wages, even adding a generous bonus before putting away his money purse. When Caim indicated the robed men, Teromich shook his head. “Northern priests. You'll stay clear of them iffen you have any sense. They're worse than the holy men we got down south.”
He looked long at Caim. “I don't know what you're looking to find in this forsaken land, but I'll be here at least a sennight before I head back.”
They shook hands. Then the merchant took up his lantern and started off toward the center of town with a few of his drovers, leaving the rest behind to guard his wares.
Dray leaned backward, stretching his back. “So what's next, Caim? All this time you've been dragging us farther and farther north. Well, this is about as far fucking north as you can get.”
The men watched him, waiting for answers, but they would have to keep waiting. “We'll find a place to stay for the next couple days,” he said. “And look for a guide to take us upcountry.”
“Hell's balls, Caim.” Malig waved his hand back and forth. “I can barely see my nose in front of my face! Let's head back south with the caravan. There's got to be a war brewing somewhere in the marches. We could check out Uthenor.”
Caim urged his tired horse down the dirt street. “You do what you want.”
Dray and Malig looked at each other, but kept any further demands to themselves as they followed. Heavily bundled men tromped past, their torches throwing shadows against the weather-beaten walls. Teromich had told him about a hostel where he might find what he needed. Caim located the place without much trouble. He hitched his steed to a post in front and went down a short flight of wooden steps to the front door below street level. Pulling on the iron handle, he unleashed a flood of light and noise.
Square timber pillars supported the low ceiling. The walls were paneled in wooden planks, same as the floor. The wind whistled from around the sheets of rawhide battening the small windows. Men sat shoulder to shoulder around the underground room. About half of them looked to be southerners. Dressed in hides and raw wool, the crowd didn't sport much color save for a group of Illmynish swordsmen in vermilion dueling jackets on the other side of the room. Two women stood behind the long bar, pulling drafts from a row of barrels and shuttling them to a small army of servers.
As the rest of his crew entered, shaking the cold from their cloaks, and went to find a table, Caim headed to the bar. He held up a silver penny to get the attention of a tap-puller.
“Enka barush?” she asked as she plucked the coin from his fingers.
“We need rooms,” Caim said, hoping she spoke Nimean.
But the woman stared at him with a blank expression. Caim pointed to the ceiling and moved his fingers to mimic walking up stairs. The woman shouted something over her shoulder. A few moments later, an enormous man shambled out of a doorway behind the bar. Red-faced and stomach jiggling, he came over while the barmaid nodded to Caim.
“What you have?” the fat man said. “Eat? Drink?”
“Are you the owner?”
“Yes. What you want?”
“I need four rooms,” Caim said. “And a hot bath.”
The owner said something to a passing server, who babbled a response before plunging back into the crowd. While he waited, Caim gestured for a drink. As he was paying, a voice erupted next to him.
“Slavka!”
Caim turned to see a man gulping from a large horn. He was short for a Northman, standing almost even with Caim, and rather well-groomed in a brown wool suit under a rabbit-fur coat. He had a broad, fleshy nose and plump cheeks covered with scraggly black hair. He appeared to be alone.
“I drink to your health,” the Northman said with a brusque accent. “You are Hvek-lund?”
“No,” Caim answered. “From Eregoth.”
That's the story they had agreed upon on the road. They were all clansmen from Eregoth. Caim didn't really look the part, but the clans were diverse enough that the story should pass.
The man smacked his wet lips. “I am Svart.” When Caim gave his name, adding the surname of a minor clan, he asked, “You buy? Sell?”
“We're looking for a guide.” When Svart frowned as if he didn't understand, Caim added, “To go north.”
“Ah!” Svart tapped his chest. “Guide. Yes, I can do this.”
Caim reevaluated the man. Although Svart appeared to be in decent health, he didn't look like an outdoorsman. Caim started to leave the bar, but Svart hurried to step in front of him. “No, no. I introduce guide. For a price. You understand?”
Caim paused, now understanding. Svart was a sharper, a middleman with connections in this little hamlet. Precisely the sort of man he needed. “You know someone who can take us north?”
“Of course. I know everyone. I have right men for you.”
A serving woman came over with a foaming mug of ale. Caim accepted it and paid her. “Not men,” he said. “Just one guide. Someone who knows the land.” He took a sip. The malt ale was red and frothy, but better than he assumed it would be, considering the rustic atmosphere. “And he has to speak Nimean.”
Svart made a big smile that showed his ivory-yellow teeth and pitted gums. “He speak very good. You give me ten gold.”
Caim almost spit out his ale. “Did you say ten gold?”
“Yes! You give me. Guide come to you, take you anywhere.”
Caim considered punching the man in the face and calling it a day. If they were anyplace else, he might have. But he didn't want to get lynched his first day here. Svart was oblivious, smiling as if he were doing Caim a favor.
“I'll give you five,” Caim said. And when Svart's smile widened, he added, “In silver.”
Svart's face collapsed. “No! This will not do. This guide is the best! You won't find a better man in all Scyalla.”
“Five for you to introduce us. If that's not enough, I'll find someone on my own.”
Caim made as if to leave with his drink, but Svart's smile returned. “No, five is good. Yes! Five silver is good. You give to me, and I bring guide here to you.”
“I'll pay you when I meet this guide of yours.”
Svart gave him a sideways look. “You are very cautious, my friend. For you, I will do this. But don't cheat me, eh? That would be very bad.”
“When can you have him here? We want to leave as soon as possible.”
“Early I will bring him.”
As Svart slipped away through the crowd, Caim wondered how he would know the time when there was no sunrise. The serving man reappeared and beckoned. Caim put down his cup and followed him through the crowd to a decrepit wooden staircase at the back of the room. The man showed Caim a room on the upper floor. It was small and dusty, with the sod roof only inches above his head, but after more than a month on the road, it looked like paradise. It had actual beds with sturdy wooden frames.
Caim tossed his pack in a corner and began peeling off numerous layers of clothing. His cloak and jacket were battered and worn. His shirts were stiff with sweat, food stains, and grime. Two men entered with a large, sloshing tub. Caim found his belt pouch and flipped them each a copper halfpenny before he eased into the steaming water. He sighed as the heat seeped into his bones. The journey had been more arduous than he had expected. Eregoth seemed like years ago.
Caim closed his eyes and let the tension drift out of his muscles. Now if I just had a thick steak and something cold to wash it down….
Electric tingles across his left nipple made Caim open his eyes. Kit kissed his nose and sighed. She was straddling him, tracing the tattoo of interlocking circles over his heart with her fingertips. Caim sat up straight as some part of her lower body brushed against his lap. His mouth went dry as he looked her up and down. She wasn't wearing anything.
“Kit!”
She planted a kiss on his lips, and the feathery touch shut him up. It was like kissing the breeze, a very amorous breeze, but he couldn't deny that his body was responding. A warm flush flowed through him and pooled between his legs.
“I've been waiting until we could be alone.” She ran her fingers down his chest. “It's been agony.”
Caim reached out to stop her, but his hands passed right through her. He opened his mouth, and received a tiny shock as his tongue touched her glowing lips. For a moment, she almost seemed real, like an armful of water before it sluiced out of your grip. His heart beat faster.
Caim jerked his head back. “Whoa, Kit. Slow down.”
She kissed his neck and down to his collarbone. Her hands were wandering again. “Can you feel me, Caim? Am I real enough for you?”
“Kit, I'm not sure this is the best-”
She chuckled. “I'm sure. I want to.”
There wasn't much he could do to stop her. He was on the verge of just lying back and seeing where she took things when the door banged open. Candlelight and singing poured into the room ahead of three very drunk Eregoths.
“Slavka!” Malig shouted.
Beer dripped from Dray's beard. “What are you doing up here, Caim? You're missing all the fun.”
Kit giggled and tickled Caim's stomach. With a wink, she ran her hands lower.
Caim drew up his legs in the water. “I needed to wash off the road.”
Dray knocked back the rest of his cup and belched. “There's these girls downstairs. You won't believe the size of their-”
Aemon staggered against his brother, nearly knocking them both onto a bed. As he struggled to get loose from Dray's one-armed hug, he lifted his candle higher. “Quiet down, you two. Can't you see Caim's tired? Don't worry, Caim. We'll let you bathe in peace.”
“Fuck peace.” Dray turned his empty mug upside down. “I need a woman.”
Malig laughed. “Fuck sheep? I always knew there was something odd about you, Dray. Aemon, you brother says-”
“Shhh!” Aemon hissed as he tried to shoo the others out the door. “Sorry, Caim. You want…you want us to get you some food?”
Caim ran a wet hand through his hair. “I'm fine. I'll be down.”
As the men stumbled out, and Aemon tried three times to shut the door before it latched, Caim leaned back and sighed. Kit was gone. It was just like her to get him all worked up and then vanish. What did you expect? It was never going anywhere in the first place.
What was he going to do about her? He'd asked himself that every day since they left Liovard, but now it was weeks later and he was no closer to an answer. How could they have a relationship if he couldn't touch her, couldn't even kiss her properly? It was impossible, maybe even more impossible than his brief liaison with Josey. Two women in his life, each unattainable in her own way.
Caim sat there until the bathwater got cold. Then he got out, scrounged something half-clean from his pack, and started to dress. He was bending down for his boots when he decided to skip the meal. He crawled into a bed instead, not even minding the scratchy straw poking through the thin mattress cover as he laid down his head. He drooped one arm over the side, fingers within easy reach of his knives.
Caim was eating a bowl of bean soup in the inn's common room when Svart walked in. The room was otherwise empty except for an old woman in a gray smock wiping down tables.
“Ah, my friend!” the Northman said as he stamped his boots by the door and came across the room.
“You're here.” Caim put down his spoon. “I wasn't sure you were going to show up.”
“Me? No, no. I am good for my word. You are ready?”
“Where's the guide?”
“I take you to him. Not far from here.”
Caim hooked a thumb in his belt. “That wasn't the deal. You were supposed to bring him here.”
“Is not far. Come, my friend. A short walk. You will see.”
“All right. Let me go up and wake my friends.”
Svart held out his hands. “Better to go now. Guide is very busy. Won't take long.”
Caim turned away as he swung his cloak around his shoulders and pulled on his gloves. The shadows whispered in the corners, watching it all. Svart just smiled and nodded several times as they walked to the door.
Outside, it was dark even though the time was about a candlemark past what should have been dawn. Not completely dark. The sky was more gray-black than midnight dark, but still it felt strange not to see the sun coming up. The streets were deserted except for a few people slugging through the muddy snow. Svart lit a torch from a firepot by the door and started down the lane.
“How you like our northern weather?” the Northman asked with a chuckle. His breath filled the air with jets of steam.
Caim pulled up his collar. “Does it ever get warm up here?”
“This is very warm for us. Two moon ago, a man froze to death in these street.” He shrugged. “South man like you. Not used to the cold.”
Caim stepped around an ice puddle in the middle of the street. “Is it true the sun never comes out in this land?”
The Northman shook his head and made his short beard wiggle back and forth. “No. No sun. Always dark.”
“But it wasn't always like that, huh?”
Svart's voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “Best not to talk of such things, my friend. We have a saying here: ‘The Dark has eyes.’”
Caim scanned the buildings lining the street. He hadn't expected a real answer, but the Northman's hushed admonition surprised him. Perhaps it shouldn't have. The Eregoths lived in fear, too, and they weren't living under a constant reminder of the Shadow's influence.
At first, Caim thought Svart was taking him to the one of the larger buildings at the village center, but the Northman led him around a collection of fenced pastures filled with livestock and carts, into an area of narrower streets. Caim could tell they'd entered the lower section of the settlement by the condition of the shacks they passed and the general atmosphere. Every town and city had a slum, even if they didn't call it such, a place where the dregs could eke out their lives away from the palaces of the mighty.
Svart turned down a narrow alley between two long, low buildings that looked like storehouses. There weren't many people around this far from the trading paddocks. Caim caught up with the Northman beside a closed door.
“Hell of a place for a meeting,” Caim said.
“He does not like crowds.” Svart lifted the handle. “This is more quiet. You understand?”
I think I do. Caim resisted the urge to reach for his knives as Svart opened the door. This whole escapade had seemed too convenient from the start. He'd been through similar situations before. All the predators came sniffing around when you're new in town. He wasn't eager to go through it again, but the impatient look on Svart's face convinced him to play his part for a little longer.
Caim got a glimpse of a long, empty interior before Svart extinguished his torch into a snowbank, plunging them into near-absolute darkness. Or so the Northman must have assumed as he muttered for Caim to watch his step, but Caim's night vision adjusted quick enough. The building was some kind of storage house, mostly vacant now except for a few wooden crates. A musty odor rose from the scuffed floorboards. Caim discerned a figure standing near the center of the floor. He was a “proper” Northman, as tall as Dray or Aemon, wearing a hide jerkin over a thick woolen shirt. Caim couldn't tell if the man was armed. He waited to see how they were going to run the game. Would they play their roles for a little longer, or go right to making threats?
“Granmar,” Svart called out. “Cuvo der skipa?”
“Ja.” The stranger lifted his arm and opened the shutter of a lantern. Caim blinked as a shaft of bright light struck his eyes.
“Ah. There you are.” Svart turned to Caim. “This is guide. Very good.”
The man nodded, but didn't come any closer. “I am Granmar.”
His accent was so thick Caim barely understood even those simple words. And it was hard to get a good look at him with the lantern shining in his eyes. Caim handed Svart his fee, and caught a hint of movement on the far side of the room near a stack of crates. “Can you take me north?”
“North. East. West,” the man replied. “I can take.”
Kit appeared beside Caim and wrapped her immaterial hands around his upper arm. “So you know there's eight of them. Right, love?”
Caim swallowed the smile that had been threatening to play across his lips. He'd only counted four. He was losing his touch. “Care to point them out?” he whispered under his breath.
She didn't have to bother as seven lanky shapes emerged from their hiding places. All big men, two of them bigger than Malig. That was a concern. He told his muscles to relax. With the light shining in his eyes, they had to assume he couldn't see them yet. He didn't do anything to disabuse them of that notion.
Kit floated around to his other side. “The second one from the right has a bad knee.”
Caim looked, but didn't move his head. “Which one?”
“The second from the-”
“Which knee?”
Granmar held the lantern a little higher. “You bring silver?”
Caim looked over his shoulder as the door creaked behind him. Svart was gone. He sighed. Enough games. He had two options, fight or capitulate. He untied his purse and held it up. “Right here.”
Granmar approached with lumbering strides. Caim waited in a casual stance, feet spread shoulder-width apart, right arm down by his side, head tilted slightly to the left as if bored. He was almost convinced the Northman meant to deal honestly, but then he spotted a gleam of metal in the guide's off-hand. A knife held against his thigh. At least an eight-inch blade, probably single-edged with a triangular point. Caim shifted his weight a little more onto his left foot. When Granmar started to raise the hidden knife, Caim twisted at the hips while drawing his seax and slashing upward in the same movement. Granmar stepped back, his eyes wide under scraggly brows. The lantern dropped as he pressed his hand to the deep cut slicing him open from navel to collarbone. Glass shattered, but Caim was already moving as darkness smothered the room. The Northman with the bad knee was the next to fall, kicked so he would topple sideways, and then cut across his abdomen.
Another Northman swung a long club that looked like a sheared-off fence post. Caim dipped in behind the swing and stabbed the Northman in the thigh before he could bring the cudgel back around. Instead of falling back, the man stepped up closer. It would have been a simple thing for Caim to plunge both knives into the northerner's unprotected belly and rip him open, but he hesitated. Big hands grabbed him around the neck from behind. The wooden post crashed into his stomach, and Caim gasped as the breath rushed from his lungs. A sharp point dug into the back of his shoulder. Caim dipped his chin and spun out of the grasp of the rough fingers gouging his throat. His knives lashed out, and the Northman behind him fell to his knees, his slippery entrails spilling to the floor.
Caim crouched under another swing of a club. The Northmen could see better in the dark than he anticipated, but just like the fight against the Suete, he moved too fast for them to catch. A vicious, rusty shank stabbed at him. Caim knocked the thrust aside and ran the tip of his suete knife up the Northman's arm, splitting the sleeve of his wooly coat and tearing a deep gouge in the skin underneath. As his enemy retreated, making room for the others, Caim maneuvered back toward the exit.
He was almost to the door when a burst of light exploded behind his eyes, accompanied by a blinding headache. Caim put out his left hand as his balance wavered. It felt like he'd taken a blow to the head, but he didn't recall the impact.
Caim reversed his grip on both knives as his vision cleared. Pushing away from the wall, he moved like black quicksilver through the warehouse. Blood dripped from his blades, coated his gloves. Twice he evaded blows that he had been certain would connect. The Northmen fell back from his onslaught. He felt the shadows creeping along the ceiling, huddled in the eaves, hungry to get into the action. Finally he gave in. Come on, you little bastards. Get a taste.
An ice-cold pain ripped through Caim's chest. His breath froze in his lungs. Unable to move, Caim watched the advancing Northmen. Their weapons rose up. Just another couple steps would bring them within range. Caim fought to break through the sudden paralysis. Answer me, damn you! Come and-
Caim gasped as the pain drained out of him as quick as it had come. Suddenly he could move again, and almost tripped over his own feet backing away. But he needn't have bothered. The shadows rained down from the rafters. His ambushers batted at them, their efforts becoming frantic as the shadows covered them in growing numbers. Grunts and curses turned to yells, and then to hoarse screams. Wood crackled as one man tried to dive through a boarded window and became stuck in the half-broken boards, driving the splintered edges deeper as he thrashed. His cries became choked, gasping, and then he fell silent.
Two men made for the exit. The door crashed open, and three men appeared. Malig's familiar bellow filled the frigid air as he entered in front of Aemon and Dray. Caim reined in the shadows. It was harder than ever before. His arms and legs shook, and a sharp throbbing took up residence over his eyes, but they slowly retreated to the room's dim corners.
As Caim took a deep breath and wiped his brow with the back of a sleeve, he saw his crew had matters well in hand. The last Northmen were dead. Malig shook the blood from his axe while Dray peered about the room. Aemon stood back, breathing hard, his weapon clean. They gathered as Caim approached.
“Looks like you were right,” Dray said. “You figure them for thieves?”
Caim looked down at the gore-streaked faces. “What else? We don't know anyone here.”
He hoped that was true. They'd taken pains to appear like caravan guards, beneath anyone's notice.
Malig hiked a thumb toward the door. “We got your friend outside trussed up like a Yuletide goat. You want to gut him and see what spills out?”
“No.” Caim put his knives away and left his hands behind his back to hide their trembling. “Let's get back to the hostel. We're leaving.”
“What about finding a guide?” Aemon asked.
The shadows waited. Caim felt them watching from the edges of the room, felt their hunger. “We'll get directions to the next town and pick up someone there.”
Malig exchanged a look with Dray, but it was Aemon who spoke up. “Where are we headed, Caim? You haven't said nothing since we crossed the mountains.”
Caim started toward the door, ignoring the gazes of his crew and the newly dead alike. “North.”