David Farland - Sons of the Oak

Myrrima glanced back at Iome, worry on her brow.

There are other Powers at work here, Iome realized. Perhaps Asgaroth is sending the wind to blow the mist off the river. Or perhaps he has other purposes in mind.

For a long while, the storm built, layer after layer adding to the clouds, and the night grew bleaker. Then lightning began to sizzle across the sky, green as an old bruise, and a drear rain simmered over the water and pooled in the hull of the boat.

As Iome poled at the rudder, her robes turning into a sopping weight, she heard the first of the warhorns blow, soft and distant, like the braying of a donkey. They were too deep of timbre to be horns of Mystarria.

Asgaroth.

Upstream behind them.

Someone had found the dead strengi-saats in the shallows, and now they called to other hunters.

For the next long hour, the horns continued to draw nearer. Ten miles back. Six miles. Three.

The steep banks and thick growth along the river seemed not to slow their pursuers. The hunters had to be on foot, but they were men with endowments of brawn and metabolism and stamina, so that they could run faster than a normal man, faster even than the swift current that bore the little boat along at perhaps eight miles per hour here in the hills.

But the longboat would soon be heading into deep valleys where the water grew sluggish and the pursuers’ path would grow easy.

Iome looked down to Myrrima and Hadissa. Both of them had endowments of hearing. They too had heard the pursuers and thus held worry on their brows.

“Pull close to shore,” Hadissa whispered at last as he reached into a rucksack and drew out his weapons. He held a strange assortment-throwing darts like small daggers, their blades green with poison from the malefactor bush; a garrote woven of golden threads; a curved steel club; a horn bow that would quickly lose its strength in the damp woods. He attached the darts to his belt, looped the garrote around his waist, and otherwise armed himself for stealthy battle.

He hesitated at the horn bow. He dared not remove such a fine weapon from its oilskin case, let it be ruined. The glue that bound the layers of ox-horn in it would turn to mush in a matter of hours.

But he was in great need. At last, he took it, still in its oilskin, along with two quivers of arrows.

Iome steered the boat close to a rock.

“Want help?” she asked.

She feared that Hadissa was on a suicide mission. He might be the most dangerous man alive, but even he could not hope to defeat Asgaroth’s army.

He smiled, a show of bravery. “It is time to repay an old debt.”

Iome nodded. Years ago, assassins from Indhopal had killed her husband’s mother, brother, and two sisters. It was only by luck that Gaborn had escaped that night, for he’d sneaked down to the garden to play with the wild ferrins.

Thus, Hadissa had missed killing the child who would grow up to become the Earth King.

When Gaborn met Hadissa again, years later, he’d looked into Hadissa’s heart and seen what he had done.

It was devastating. Yet in the world of the Runelords, an assassin’s trade was considered necessary. Some even thought it honorable. So Gaborn forgave Hadissa and Chose him under one condition: that from henceforth Hadissa would guard the family he had once tried to wipe out.

Now, Hadissa would seek to redeem himself.

“The fog will hide you, so long as the wind doesn’t pick up too much more,” Myrrima whispered. She knelt and reached into the water, brought up a handful, and sprinkled it upon him. “Blessed be your blades. May they strike true against Asgaroth and all enemies of Water.”

Hadissa bowed in token of his thanks for the blessing. Then with the grace of a deer he leapt from the boat and landed upon a rock. He squatted for a moment, perfectly still, like a dark cat, listening.

Then he leapt under the shadows of a pine bough, and Iome could see or hear him no more.

He will take a mighty toll, Iome assured herself as the boat flowed inexorably on.

The boat rounded a corner, and spanning above the river ahead was a land bridge, a huge natural arch of stone, with pine trees growing atop it, green ferns clinging to its side, and vines hanging toward the water. There were huge stones in the river beneath it, and the river split. There was a dark V of water, and the roaring of rapids beyond. This bridge was called Eiderstoffen, and not far below it, the river came out of the mountains and dumped into a broad plain. There the river slowed, flowed into the warmer waters of the River Dwindell, and meandered; once they reached that junction, though they were but fifty miles from the seacoast and the castle at the Courts of Tide, it would take many hours for their little boat to reach safe harbor.

Our enemies will be upon us well before then, Iome knew, and mentally she prepared herself for her death, for she suspected that she would not be able to buy her son safe passage with anything less.

The boat raced toward the archway under the stones, and Iome suspected that Myrrima would turn and ask if they should beach the boat, carry it around the rapids, but Myrrima did not turn. She aimed the prow into the darkest V of water, and the boat rushed through it, then suddenly dropped and lofted again as they hit white water.

Overhead, as they passed under the land bridge, hundreds of swallows’ nests could be seen, smears of white mud and twigs against the darker stone.

Then they rode through, and Iome saw a bit of snow in the branches of trees. But as the boat drew near them, the snow suddenly lifted, and white birds flew in a miraculous cloud that took her breath away. Snow doves, they were called. They must have come down from the mountains, where they fed on pine nuts and other seeds at the snow line.

For a long minute, she watched their white wings against the deep gray clouds as the flock veered this way and that. It seemed to Iome to be the most beautiful sight that she had ever seen.

The river twisted ahead, and white water roared and foamed over rocks everywhere. For several long moments the boat rocked, and some of the children cried out as it bucked.

Plumes of water surged over the gunwales.

The boat hit a submerged rock; boards cracked under the impact.

Then it slewed through swift water, around a second bend, and they rushed out of the hills and could see only plains ahead.

The boat hit the slow waters, and Iome spotted a small cottage high up on the banks, its stone walls and heavy thatch roof hidden behind a screen of cattails. A child’s rope swing hung beneath an elm that leaned out over the river, and a small fishing boat was perched on the shore.

But the sight of a peasant’s cottage offered no comfort. With a cottage near, Iome knew, a road will run beside the river. Our pursuers will make even better time.

The sounds of rapids faded.

For twenty minutes they rode the slow river. Around every bend she feared that Asgaroth’s troops would meet them. But she saw nothing, and she realized that Hadissa, brave Hadissa, was indeed holding back an army.

For twenty minutes more they traveled. She heard a horn again, not more than two miles back, high and clear-a horn of Mystarria.

Fierce braying answered from deeper horns.

“The battle is joined,” Sir Borenson said, grasping his warhammer and staring back longingly. “Waggit’s men have finally arrived.”

“One can hope,” Iome said.

In the slow water, they rode along, fully exposed.

Iome watched behind. The cottage faded away, but before they rounded a wide corner, Iome saw dark figures running along the riverbank, flashing through trees.

The boat rounded the corner. For a few seconds their pursuers would be hidden.

My turn, Iome thought as she quietly took her long sword and leapt from the boat. The water was shallow, no more than three feet deep, and numbingly cold. Iome landed a dozen yards from shore, then waded in among some cattails and crept up on a bank thick with moss.