Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“You can’t spend the rest of your life sleeping in hogroot patches,” Thamos said.

Briar tilted his head. “Why not?”

Thamos opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked to Gared for help.

“Gonna get cold, come winter,” Gared said.

Briar shrugged. “Can build a fire.”

“As you wish,” Thamos said. “How long will it take to get to Shepherd Alin’s monastery?”

“Ten days,” Briar said.

“So long?” Sament said.

“Can’t take roads,” Briar said. “Watchers everywhere. Goin’ through the bogs.”

“Don’t like the sound of that,” Gared said. “Horses break ankles in wetland, not to mention their riders’ necks.”

“Ways twist,” Briar said, “but I can find dry ground most of the way.”

“Can you draw a map?” Thamos asked.

Briar shook his head. “Can’t read, but I know the way.”

“We’ll bring a cartographer,” Thamos said.

“Got food?” Briar asked.

Thamos smiled. “Still hungry? Ask cook for another loaf.”

Briar shook his head. “For the monastery. Crowded. Lots of hungry.”

Thamos nodded. “I imagine so. We don’t have time for a proper baggage train, but five hundred mounted Wooden Soldiers can carry considerable supply if there is grazing for the horses.”

Briar nodded. “Take longer, that many.”

“Thought the duke said to take fifty,” Gared said.

“Do you think?” Thamos said. He reached into his jacket, producing a folded parchment with the royal seal. He pointed to a dark stain on the paper. “Hard to read with this stain on the paper. It could say fifty, I suppose, but that would be madness, of course.”

“Course,” Gared agreed.

“Only a fool would command you send so few,” Sament agreed. “Indeed, it must say five hundred.”

“Why not five thousand?” Gared asked.

Thamos shook his head. “We cannot do that without stripping the Cutters from the defense of the Hollow. I will not leave it unguarded. My cavalry will have to do until we know more. I want to be fast and mobile.”

Briar nodded eagerly. The Laktonians had no cavalry. With five hundred Wooden Soldiers, they could defend the monastery from most anything, and the supply would feed a great many hungry mouths.

“Lookin’ forward to seein’ the lake,” Gared said. “Heard it’s so big ya can’t see the far side.”

Thamos nodded. “I saw it once before, and it was a sight to behold. But you won’t be coming, Baron. Someone needs to see to the Hollow when I’m gone.”

“Make it sound like ya ent comin’ back,” Gared said.

“I mean to,” Thamos said, “but there’s no guarantee with the enemy so close. You must be prepared to lead.”

“Folk listen to me, ay,” Gared said, “but I ent made for papers and policies.”

“We do what we’re needed to do, not what we want,” Thamos said.

“Deliverer told me the same thing, once,” Gared said.

“I don’t know if Arlen Bales is the Deliverer or not,” Thamos said. “But if you should see him …”

Gared smiled. “Ay. I’ll send him your way.”

They were three days in the Hollow while Thamos gathered his men. Briar spent the time exploring, finding others living in the Gatherers’ Wood. Some were his father’s people, Krasian, but others were Thesans who had taken to painting wards on their bare skin. They wore only loose robes in the day, and loincloths at night when they killed cories with their bare hands.

Briar kept hidden as he watched them, but he was fascinated. He didn’t understand their ways, but thought in time perhaps he could.

They made good time the first few days out of the Hollow, but it was slower going when they entered the vast wetlands surrounding the lake. The cold kept the worst of the mosquitoes at bay, but the men still slapped at them, complaining.

Briar pointed to some tracks. “Bog demons.”

“I’ve never seen one,” Sament said.

“Nor I,” Thamos said.

“Short,” Briar said, putting his arms out in front of him. “Long arms. Bogspit sticks to anything. Burns and eats through, you don’t wash it off.”

“How do you kill them?” Thamos asked.

“Step to the side. Boggies can’t put their arms sideways. Have to turn.” He lifted his own arm, pointing to the hollow beneath his rib cage. “Put your spear right here. No armor.”

“You seem to know a lot about them,” Thamos said.

Briar smiled. He didn’t know much about maps, but he knew cories. “Make camp. Can’t walk horses through the bog at night. Show you how to make boggie traps.”

Briar twisted to conform with the gnarled trunk of the stooped swamp tree, watching unseen as the Krasian scout made his way though the wetland. The kha’Sharum carried a heavy rucksack of supply, noting landmarks on oiled paper.

He was alone. Briar had made sure of it. He wasn’t attached to a hunting party, or otherwise likely to be missed. Just a lone scout sent to map the wetlands.

But he was heading right into the path of Thamos and his men. In an hour, he would hear them, or see sign of their passing. Soon after, he would be running to tell his superiors.

Briar clutched his spear. He hated this. Hated killing people. The Krasians looked so much like him that it felt like killing himself each time.

But there was nothing for it. When the scout passed under the tree, Briar fell upon him, spear punching down through his shoulder into heart and lungs. He was dead before they hit the ground.

Briar took his rucksack and papers, leaving the body to sink beneath the murky swamp water.

It was fifteen days before they reached the monastery, as Briar guided Thamos and his men past enemy scouts and dry land with grazing for the horses. Nine Wooden Soldiers were lost to boggies, and seven horses suffered broken ankles and had to be put down. One of the Mountain Spears took a slimy wad of bogspit in the face. Briar packed it with mud and poultices, but it looked like a melted candle when he finally took the bandage off.

The Monastery of New Dawn stood on a high bluff stretching out over the lake. Water on three sides, it was accessible only by a narrow road with a moat that cut clear across to link the waters of the lake. The wooden walls were thick and high, with a drawbridge to allow entry and egress. The docks to the north and south were low on the rocky bluffs—goods and livestock coming by ship had to be taken up a narrow stair cut zigzag into the rock face.

The drawbridge was lowered for them, and they rode inside.

“Creator,” Thamos said, seeing the refugee tent camps inside the walls. The folk were filthy and thin, used now to missing meals.

“I had no idea it was this bad,” Sament said. “The refugees in the Hollow …”

“Have the benefit of being safe in allied territory,” Thamos said. “These poor souls …”

He turned to one of his captains. “Find the quartermaster and deliver our supply. Learn if there is anything else we can do to provide comfort for these people.”

The man saluted and was off as Briar led Thamos and Sament to the monastery doors.

Tender Heath was waiting for them. The fat old Tender hugged Briar tightly. “Creator bless you, boy.”

He looked to the count, bowing deeply. “It is an honor, Your Highness. Welcome to the Monastery of New Dawn. I am Tender Heath. I will take you to the Shepherd.”

It wasn’t often Briar was allowed into Shepherd Alin’s private offices. The Shepherd wore plain brown robes like Tender Heath, but his inner chambers were richer than anything Briar had ever imagined. The carpeting was thick, soft, and colorful, woven with powerful church warding. Acolytes followed him with ready brooms, lest any mud slip from his sandals.