The Lost Reavers 2 Read online

  Contents

  The Lost Reavers 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Book 3 Mailing List

  The Lost Reavers 2

  Book 2

  of the Lost Reavers Series

  By Mike Truk

  Chapter One

  Hugh sighed contentedly and leaned back in the driver’s seat as the cart rumbled on down the forest road; as far as journeys destined to end in certain death went, this one was remarkably pleasant. The hardwood canopy stretched overhead, so that he rolled down a luminous green tunnel deep into the heart of Ternfalls Woods. Ancient trees rose like sentinels on either side, the depths between their huge trunks fading away into a gloomy green, the air rich with the scent of loam and rotting wood. The road he was on would eventually take him clear through to the distant hamlet of Muleheart, but Hugh knew he’d never reach it.

  They’d been tracking him now for half an hour. They were skilled, too; he’d barely noticed the shadows slipping from tree trunk to tree trunk, quick and elusive as minnows in a fast-flowing stream. Good, but not impossibly so; they were still only human, after all.

  Any moment now they’d work up the courage to challenge him. They’d have done so already if he hadn’t been so clearly intent on provoking them.

  Hugh took a generous sip from another of Branka’s whisky flasks. The liquid burned his throat pleasantly, so he kept drinking till the flask was tilted vertically above him and the delicious flow of amber fire reduced to miserly drips.

  He frowned, considered the dun leather bottle, then tossed it over his shoulder to join its empty brothers. One flask left. He considered it dolefully. Floriana’s boys had better hurry it up. If they didn’t make a move by the time he finished that one, he’d be forced to take matters into his own hands.

  Bullnip, the large plow horse they’d procured back in the capital of Stasiek, came to a stop and whickered. A woman had stepped out onto the road, a solitary figure with a bow slung over her shoulder, her manner wary as she studied him, hands on her hips.

  “Hello,” called out Hugh. “You ambushing me at last?”

  The woman was young but her expression was hard; her clothing was worn and much mended, her face tanned and weathered by a life lived in the elements. Lips pursed in thought, she studied him, studied Bullnip, studied the open cart behind them both with obvious displeasure.

  “Well?” asked Hugh, still lounging on the driver’s bench, reins draped loosely over one thigh. “Isn’t this where you tell me how many arrows are aimed at my foolish heart?”

  The woman frowned and shook her head in annoyance. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Me?” Hugh sat up in mock surprise. “Just riding to Muleheart with five large bags of gold, obviously.” And he gestured behind him at the open sacks that prominently displayed more wealth than a good-sized town would earn in a year.

  “Because onions are so expensive in Muleheart,” said the woman with withering scorn. “You got a death wish, then?”

  “I’m a merchant,” said Hugh, taking up the last flask of whisky and leaning back once more. “My first venture. I admit I don’t quite understand the ins and outs of trade, and how it’s all supposed to work, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out in time.”

  “No escort. No guards. Nobody following you for at least three miles. And here you are, riding with open sacks of gold into the heart of Black Floriana’s territory.” The woman bit her lip and shook her head. “Nobody is that stupid. So I’ll ask you again: what the fuck are you doing?”

  Hugh took a deep swig from the whisky. “Maybe I thought the strangeness of my approach would confuse you so badly you’d simply let me ride through.”

  The woman sneered. “Unlikely. Looks like Fortuna just hiked up her skirts to squat and shit the best luck I’ve ever had all over us.”

  “I… question your taste in metaphors,” said Hugh.

  The woman laughed. “You’ll be questioning a lot more things soon enough. Come on. Off the cart. If you won’t talk straight with me, you’ll open up soon enough to Floriana herself.”

  “Sounds good,” said Hugh, and hoped down onto the road. Figures melted out from the shadows, closing in on him from all sides, arrows indeed aimed at his foolish heart. A dozen men and women in green and brown leathers, their faces seamed with dirt, their cheeks hollow, their gear having clearly seen better days.

  Thinking it appropriate, Hugh lifted both hands in surrender and stepped to the side of the road, where the woman approached and quickly searched his person, hands moving aggressively over his hips, down his legs, patting his ankles, then up his back and down his arms.

  Hugh had a lot of muscle under his tunic and cloak. The woman discovered as much as she searched him, and when she stepped back she looked even more confused. “You’re no merchant. Touched in the head, maybe, but I’ll be damned if I play your game. Pyeter, bind him good.”

  A heavily bearded man with a ratty wolf cloak draped over his shoulders seized his wrists roughly and bound him with a greasy cord, which he then wound up around Hugh’s elbows so that he’d be unable to slip his arms under his feet and bring them round his front.

  “This is a trap, Yelena,” said Pyeter when he was done, his voice more the grumble of a bear than the voice of a human. “He’s tricking us somehow.”

  “Yeah?” The edge of Yelena’s sarcasm could have cut a tree in twain. “That’s some sharp thinking. Glad I brought you along. Graham! Sanassa! Check those bags of gold. Make sure there’s no surprises in ‘em.”

  “Just gold,” said Hugh. “About four thousand coins all told, though I think some might have fallen out over the rougher parts of the road. You should really think of fixing those potholes -”

  Pyeter growled and slammed his elbow into Hugh’s stomach, clearly intending to bend him over and leave him gagging.

  Hugh took the blow without flinching. Pyeter might as well have elbowed a stone wall. The bear-like man blinked in confusion and rounded on Hugh, puffing up as his hand dropped to a hand ax at his side.

  “Easy,” said Yelena. “We’ll let Floriana figure this one out, yes? Think on your share of those four thousand coins and simmer down.”

  “I’m watching you,” said Pyeter, face now but inches from Hugh’s own. Large as Pyeter was, Hugh was larger; the bear-like man had to look up to meet his eyes.

  Hugh glared at the man and resisted the urge to break the ropes. He’d never be able to do so alone, but he could feel the Reavers gathering invisibly about him, Dragoslav’s fell presence especially prominent, the monstrous man’s anger like a bonfire behind Hugh’s back.

  But Hugh fought the urge down and simply waited till Pyeter stalked away. More than one bandit had stopped their activity to watch the exchange. Great. So much for posing as a harmless merchant. Ah well. It had been a poor fit to begin with.

  Yelena was studying him, eyes narrowed. “That elbow from Pyeter should have had you puking your breakfast all over me. But you’re not wearing armor. You a disciplus, then?” A thought occurred to her, and her tanned face paled. “You Jack o’ the Green?”

  “I’m no disciplus,” said Hugh, voice grave. The amusement he’d derived from aggravating the bandits had faded along with whatever buzz he’d managed to build from all the whisky. “And I don’t know who this Jack is. My name’s Hugh. I’d appreci
ate your taking me to Floriana now.”

  “Hugh,” she said, as if testing the name on her tongue. “The duke’s younger brother’s called Hugh. And he’d have access to this much gold, I’d wager.”

  “Hmm. That so?”

  She furrowed her brow again, her whole frame tensing as her hand dropped once more to her dagger. “Shit.” Still staring right at him, she raised her voice to a shout. “All right, let’s get moving! Gold with us; Graham, you’ve the cart. I want us back in camp within the hour. Let’s go!”

  Hugh strode along in the group’s center. They did a good job of escorting him; nobody came close enough to be grabbed, but the cordon was kept tight enough that he wouldn’t be tempted to make a break for it. Yelena brought up the rear, and he could feel her gaze boring into the nape of his neck the whole way.

  Had he revealed his cards too soon? Hugh deliberated the question for most of the trek into the depths of the wood, wondering if he should have tried harder to pass himself off as a harmless fool.

  But no.

  There was no disguising what he really was. You could drape a sheepskin over a wolf, but that deception only worked in children’s tales.

  No matter. They were bringing him in. His plan had worked.

  Curious, he looked back at Yelena. “No blindfold?”

  “No need. It’d take a trained woodsman to retrace this path. Whatever you are, you’re no woodsman.”

  Just then Hugh tripped on something - a rock, or root, or whatever - and stumbled before catching his balance. He laughed, rueful. “That I’m not. Fair enough.”

  They marched the rest of the way in silence. Some of the band had wanted to celebrate at the start, boast about what they’d spend their gold on, but one by one they’d caught on to Yelena’s tension and grown silent. Confused, sure, but ever more wary of their prisoner as they drew closer to camp.

  Which they entered suddenly and without warning. One moment Hugh was considering his plan, and then he was amongst dirty canvas tents and small, smokeless fires. Nothing distinguished the camp location from the general forest he’d spent the past hour walking through; it looked so temporary that a strong wind could scatter it and remove all trace.

  It was hard to get a sense of the camp’s true size, however; what at first had seemed little more than an agglomeration of a dozen tents soon revealed itself to be a sprawling shanty town of hundreds. They were erected without rhyme or reason, so that Hugh was led through their ranks as if through a maze, with no discernible path or trail cutting through. Children paused at their games to crowd around and stare, eyes wide in their dirty faces, while men and women paused at their tasks to study him in turn.

  They all seemed hungry. Gaunt. Everyone was armed, even the children, and the atmosphere was so brittle and tense that Hugh thought a loud shout would send them fleeing.

  On they went, into what he thought might have been the camp’s center, to stop at last before a tent that was only marginally larger than the others. Its significance was made clear by the large, stone-ringed fireplace set before it, a huge cauldron hanging from an iron tripod taller than he was over the ashen coals and smoldering branches, a ring of tree stumps giving the small clearing in the sea of tents the feel of a crude council or gathering place.

  A handful of men and women stood about, bowls of soup in hand, but Hugh’s gaze was drawn to a woman who was busy whittling a branch to a point, the knife in her hand large enough to have served as a short sword.

  Black Floriana.

  There could be no doubt.

  Her presence was that of a lioness amongst wolves. She sat in a crude chair whose frame had been draped in furs, and had pushed back onto the rear two legs so that she lounged at her ease. Yet despite her nonchalant pose there was no mistaking her capacity for violence. It sang in every line of her body, pooled in her dark eyes, was evident in the firm whisk her blade slicing easily through the wood.

  The only other woman he’d ever met who radiated such casual lethality was Morwyn, yet where the captain of Annaro’s guard was lithe and slender, Floriana was a vision of strength. She wore a leather halter top that revealed muscle-corded shoulders and arms; and her breeches strained around the swell of her thighs.

  Floriana glanced up at him as he was brought before the fire, and Hugh’s gaze was held by the intensity of her stare; by the gods she wasn’t just a panther reborn as a human woman, but a strikingly beautiful one, too - a high brow, raised cheekbones, lips which seemed to pull naturally into a frown. Her black hair was swept back into a top knot which then spilled down her back, and she looked like a feral queen seated upon her throne, the dark heart of this ramshackle court.

  She was the rare exception that actually lived up to a fearsome reputation. Gazing upon her, Hugh understood at last why her name was whispered in such fear across the north of the duchy.

  “What have you brought me?” asked Floriana, who had been studying Hugh in turn.

  Yelena drew herself up, squaring her shoulders. “Four thousand in gold.”

  Those gathered around broke out into disbelieving whispers, but fell quiet as Floriana spoke once more.

  “You look displeased with our fortune, Yelena.”

  “Well might you be when you learn who this is.”

  Floriana turned her dark gaze upon Hugh once more. “Not one of Aleksandr’s. We’ve told him no often enough. Which means he must belong to Annaro. You from Stasiek, stranger? You come to bribe me into laying down arms?”

  “A fair guess,” said Hugh. “But no. I’ve come instead to recruit you and your best into serving me.”

  Silence but for the bubbling of the soup in the cauldron and the call of voices deeper in the camp, and then those gathered around Hugh broke out into laughter.

  Not Floriana, though. She sliced a curl of wood from the stake, never looking away.

  “He said his name’s Hugh,” said Yelena. “Which I figure means he’s Annaro’s younger brother, right?”

  “Grew bored in Erro?” asked Floriana, tone light, but Hugh sensed the gathering danger. Saw anger coiling within the depths of her eyes.

  “The opposite. Things are about to get very interesting over there. It’s why I was hoping you and yours would come join in the fun.”

  “Join in the fun.” Muscle tightened in her arm, her triceps flaring into sharp relief, and she cut the spiked head clear off the top of the stake. Tossing the wood aside she stood, and though she was a head shorter than him, she did so with such presence that she seemed to loom over the clearing.

  “Aleksandr is dead,” said Hugh. “I killed him a week ago. We’ve destroyed his organization, but in doing so have made enemies of the fae court he was treating with. I need skilled fighters if we’re to crush her forces before she sweeps down from the crags to paint the mountainsides red with innocent blood.”

  That checked Floriana’s mounting fury. “Aleksandr is dead?”

  Hugh nodded.

  Silence as everyone absorbed this news. For a moment Hugh hoped he’d impressed her enough to create an opening, but then her eyes narrowed once more.

  “And in killing him you’ve stirred up a nest of fae. Putting in danger all these ‘innocents’ you suddenly care so much about.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Floriana raised her chin, eyes smoldering with deep emotion. “And so now you’ve come crawling to us with your fortune of gold. Hoping to bribe us into forgetting how Stasiek betrayed us after the Six Month War. Failed us. Left us to rot these five long years.”

  The air between them fairly vibrated with tension as she glared at him, and only then did Hugh see the depths of her rage and hatred. The sheer, roiling madness of it.

  Fuck.

  He’d miscalculated, and badly.

  “Nothing can compensate you for how you were treated by my brother -” he began, but she cut him off with a slash of her knife, as if cutting through his actual words.

  “You’re wrong. But until I kill Annaro and destroy his bar
ony, I’ll settle for killing you. His losing one brother won’t equal my having lost three to his damned war, but it’s a start.”

  “You haven’t heard my offer,” said Hugh.

  “Nor do I want to,” she hissed. “Gag him.”

  Somebody - probably Pyeter, Hugh guessed - roped a cloth around his face, pulling it hard into his mouth, and set to tying it tight.

  Floriana prowled around the fire till she stood before him, the tip of her dagger against his side. “I’d gut you now but your death doesn’t belong to me alone.” Her words seethed with fury. “Your death belongs to all of us. Tonight we’ll gather, and before everyone I’ll execute you. Come tomorrow, we’ll send parts of you across the barony, with your head going to your brother. Let’s see if that will finally force the coward out of his castle to face us.”

  Hugh didn’t try to speak. Didn’t resist as rough hands grabbed his arm and dragged him away.

  Yelena and Pyeter dragged him through the camp, their passage drawing curious stares, until they reached an oak tree around whose trunk was wrapped a thick chain. Yelena took up an iron collar, snapped it closed around Hugh’s neck, then locked it with a key that she then pocketed.

  The collar was rusted and barely fit around Hugh’s neck. He considered the thick links that bound him to the tree, and then swept them aside so that he could sit and cross his arms as he rested his back to the trunk.

  Pyeter grinned down at him, revealing a mouth filled with yellowed teeth, then spat in the dirt and walked away.

  Yelena, however, moved to sit across from Hugh, far enough away that he couldn’t reach her yet close enough that he couldn’t hide any movements.

  “Looks like you got the short end of the stick,” said Hugh as the young woman sat on a tree stump.

  “I gather this isn’t what you were expecting when you rode into Ternfalls,” she said, drawing a knife from her pocket along with a summer sausage.

  “No, we’re still roughly on course.”

  She cut a slice off but paused, meat but an inch from her lips. “How do you figure?”