The Lost Reavers Page 15

  “It’s nothing. I’m sorry for speaking to you that way. I’ve got a lot on my mind. We’d best return to the others.”

  Zarja pursed her lips. “Right.”

  Despair washed over Hugh as he led the way back to the river. Should he kill himself? Kill Zarja? What manner of man was he? A traitor? A pervert? Could he keep it together long enough to deal with Erro? Was their any salvation from his cursed state?

  He didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. But he’d be damned if he allowed himself to break. He wouldn’t be weak. He wouldn’t give up.

  Listen to me, Fortuna. I swear in your name that I’ll answer those questions or take my own life before leaving Erro.

  Chapter Seven

  A fair crowd had gathered at the bridge’s far side by the time Hugh and Zarja - once more in her Elena-guise - stepped out of the forest. Morwyn and Anastasia were standing in the center of the bridge, clearly waiting for his return, and their relief as he crossed the old timbers to stride past them and up to the people of Erro was obvious.

  No snarky comment from Morwyn as he passed her; Hugh had expected something, but she simply stood there, arms crossed, expression inscrutable.

  The crowd was perhaps thirty strong, and the weathered faces bore a near uniform look of nervousness and fear. Nobody was obviously injured, however; clearly Istlav’s occupation hadn’t been physically brutal.

  An old man stood at the front, his mighty frame diminished by age, his great nose protruding over his luxurious white mustache that fair hid his mouth. But as Hugh drew close, he saw a hesitancy in the man’s porcelain blue eyes that belied the impression of strength that his stature imparted.

  “Greetings,” said the old man, voice reedy despite his barrel chest. “I am Ivanov, former mayor of Erro, and… I…” Ivanov trailed off, blinking in confusion as he smacked his lips under his mustache. “Who… who are you?”

  A young woman stepped out of the crowd, placing a hand on Ivanov’s shoulder. She was slender, clad in a bright yellow tunic and baggy striped blue pants, her blonde hair long, her nose pert, her gaze sharp, mouth expressive. A fierce defiance shone in her dark eyes as she stared up at Hugh. “Easy, Master Ivanov. It’s all right.”

  The old man rubbed at his mustache and shook his head, blinking again, only to turn and step back into the crowd. “My son,” he said beseechingly. “Where’s Little Ivan? Has someone seen him?”

  The blonde woman placed her fists on her hips. “If you are who I think you are, then you took your blessed time getting here.”

  Hugh couldn’t help it. Despite his mood, his fractured thoughts, he found himself smiling. “And who might that be, miss?”

  She flicked her gaze past where he stood to his companions on the bridge and the cart beyond. “Your entourage is too small for you to be Duke Annaro himself. But your face has that family resemblance. So, I’m guessing you’re his younger brother, Lord Hugh.”

  “You guess correctly,” said Hugh, inclining his head, amused further by her defiant tone. “I didn’t realize our features were so well known.”

  “No?” Her thin upper lip curled derisively. “It’s on every blasted gold, silver, and copper coin the Stasiek mint churns out.”

  “Fair enough,” said Hugh, rubbing at his chin. “I am indeed Lord Hugh of Stasiek. Your name?”

  “Branka.”

  “Tell me what happened here, Branka.”

  Her gaze slid past him to linger on the dead. “Istlav arrived a week ago. Marched out of the woods claiming to be brigands who’d wandered over the mountain looking for easy pickings. Nobody believed him. His men were too disciplined. No looting, no raping, no setting buildings on fire. He told us Erro was under his control for the nonce but refused to elaborate on what that meant.”

  “I see,” said Hugh. “Nobody opposed his decree?”

  “Our mayor Little Ivan spoke up, as did Bozidara the smith, Dragutin the forester, and old Dusan. Istlav had them strung up. They’re still hanging outside my tavern.” Though her smile grew sharp, her eyes gleamed as they filmed with tears. “They could have used your impressive sword skills a week ago, my lord.”

  “Watch your tongue,” said Hugh mildly. “It’s a crime to speak to me in such manner. Moreover, we didn’t know about this occupation until we arrived, so enough with your accusations. We’re here now. Who speaks for Erro?”

  Branka hesitated, turning to glance back at the crowd. They were hardy folk, the men bearded and lean, the women handsome and reserved.

  “You might as well, Branka,” said a man, stepping forward. His hair was a mess of brown thatch, his chin cleft, his hands and clothing dusted with flour. “You’ve been near running things since Istlav showed up. I’ll second whatever you say.”

  “Very well, Mirco.” Branka turned back and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I run the tavern, the Mountain Laurel. It’s as close to a city hall as we have this high up in the mountains.”

  “Very well.” Hugh cast around, looking for somewhere more elevated from which to address the crowd, and stepped up onto the low stone retaining wall that edged the road where it hugged the Mandroga’s banks.

  “People of Erro. I am Lord Hugh of Stasiek, sent here by my brother the duke to restore order and see to it that your village remains part of his duchy. I am sorry for the violence that has been visited upon you. Banditry is an ever-growing problem in the north. This shall not happen again. My brother has seen fit to post me here through the coming winter, and I shall be working with you all to improve your defenses, restore the local fort, and root out whatever evil may lurk in the woods.”

  No applause, little more than exchanged glances. Fair enough. Hugh didn’t feel particularly inspiring, and the fact that the corpse of the former mayor still hung in the town square didn’t help.

  “My companions are Captain Morwyn of the duke’s personal guard and Disciplus Anastasia. Obey them as you would me. I will soon hold court. You may then approach me with questions or concerns. Until then, I appreciate your hospitality.”

  Again he stopped, feeling awkward. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be alone, mulling over his thoughts, trying to decide whether to live or die. Didn’t want to take care of these strangers, to learn their names and woes, the rhythms of their boring little lives.

  But he had no choice. He nodded gravely to the crowd and hopped down. “Let’s take care of Little Ivan and the others,” he said to Branka. “We will then discuss matters further in your tavern.”

  “Aye,” said Branka, turning to lead him on. “My thinking exactly.”

  Elena guided the cart over the bridge, Bullnip traversing the worn planks with some trepidation, while Morwyn jogged back to fetch Blue. Anastasia walked alongside him, through the murmuring crowd and along the road that hugged the Mandroga all the way through the village.

  Which was, as Hugh had guessed, almost shockingly small. Attractive homes had been built up along the other side of the road, most of them two stories tall and painted in russet or vivid blue; their roofs made with slate tiles and so closely were they built together that Hugh imagined one could run from the first building all the way to the last across their sloping roofs, never once having to come down to the street.

  It was, he grudgingly allowed, a surprisingly attractive place; the stone retaining wall along the riverbank was in good repair, with bunches of flowers sporadically along its base. The buildings didn’t lack for rustic charm, and even the road itself was well maintained and without potholes. The Mandroga rushed by below, providing a constant susurrus, with only one large building erected on its actual bank: a small mill, its water wheel slowly turning. Trees and colorful bushes abounded, making it a verdant road and occasionally hiding the river, though always the road swung back to the bank and brought it into view.

  Hogs, geese, and chickens meandered along the street’s length. Unlit spear-length torches were embedded every ten paces along the river’s side of the street. Up close, Hugh saw that the p
aint on the building was often faded and worn through to reveal the bricks beneath; the effect was somehow more picturesque. Up ahead, the Mandroga widened into a large pool into which its upper portion poured in the form of a broad waterfall; a second bridge was built just beyond, connecting the river street to a rambling estate built into the far side into the forested hill.

  “It’s delightful,” said Anastasia, turning to him with a smile. “If one forgets for but a moment the horrific bloodshed we just caused by the first bridge, you can almost be swept away by Erro’s bucolic charm.”

  Branka snorted and shook her head.

  Hugh couldn’t help but agree. Better than he’d expected, and with an actual tavern? Perhaps it wasn’t the end of the world and the terminus of his dreams and hopes.

  The road widened into a small square, the mill on the riverside across from the tavern, a covered well rising in the center, beside which a gallows had been crudely erected, beams still raw and half-covered in peeling bark. From the crossbar hung four men, their faces darkened near to purple, their eyes pecked out, black blood darkened over their lower jaws, their swaying forms surrounded by clouds of flies.

  Crows lined the upper bar of the gallows, eyeing the stoic-faced children who stood across the square, pebbles in hand.

  They came to a stop. Nobody spoke. Folk watched from between barely opened shutters, from dark doorways. The sun was now dipping behind the far mountains, shadows thickening like dark wood smoke all about them.

  Hugh drew his blade. He knew he shouldn’t be the one to cut down the dead. Knew that he should command Morwyn to do the deed, or even let the villagers take care of it. But he wanted to be the one to let them down. Felt some basic compulsion to undertake the task himself.

  “Ladder,” shouted Branka.

  Hugh strode up to the gallows. Even in death he could tell which was Little Ivan; he had the same massive frame as his father, but his mustache was a lustrous brown, and the ruins of his face spoke of the authority his father must have once held.

  “I’m sorry I was unable to help you,” said Hugh. He was no priest of the Fate Maker in sumptuous robes of gray and purple. He was just a man, a cursed one, and poorly spoken for all that.

  Still.

  “I thank you for your service. For doing what was right. For standing up to Istlav and his men. If you can hear me now from the Ashen Garden, know that you have my thanks and my regards.”

  Two men approached, tall ladder in hand. They set it up against the gallows, then stepped back, faces impassive.

  Waiting to see what he’d do.

  Hugh climbed up. It was springy enough to bend under his weight. Up he went, beside the first man. An elder, his neck stretched unnaturally long. Reached up and took the rope.

  “Be ready below,” he said.

  The two men moved into place.

  One cut. He held onto the severed end of the rope with his free hand and lowered the elder to the waiting hands.

  Descended. Moved the ladder over a pace. Climbed.

  One by one he cut down the dead. They were taken by waiting hands and carried away.

  When he was done, Hugh descended. “Fetch axes,” he said to nobody in particular. “Cut down these gallows and burn them.”

  A murmur of assent, and a handful of men turned to walk hurriedly away.

  “Now,” said Hugh, turning to where Branka still stood, Mirco the miller by her side. “Shall we speak?”

  Some of the defiance had gone from her dark eyes. She hugged herself, gave a curt nod, and led the way into the tavern.

  It was a handsome building. Two-storied like the others, but with greater presence, its facade covered in dark ivy, a wooden sign hanging above the recessed doorway portraying a wreath of pale leaves around a tankard. Inside, the air was close and scented with the rosemary that hung in dried bushels from the rafters; the wooden walls were painted in fading red, the floor covered in rushes, and two fires crackled in facing fireplaces, sending the shadows to dancing across the ceiling.

  Branka led them to one of the three trestle tables in the small common room and there sat, leaning back and signaling to the young boy who stood behind the bar.

  “Six ales, Wlad.”

  “Better make it twenty,” muttered Morwyn, opting to lean against the wall, arms crossed.

  Everyone remained quiet, agreeing tacitly to await the ales, which were brought out by the youth on a circular tray, hearty tankards filled to the brim. These he set down nervously, casting shy glances at Morwyn all the while till she rolled her eyes and glared at him.

  Wlad blushed and practically ran away.

  Hugh raised his tankard and then hesitated. Bad form to drain it dry before Branka and Mirco. He decided to limit himself to three hearty gulps, but once he got going he couldn’t stop. When he was done he set the tankard down with a contented sigh, and reached for Elena’s.

  Branka quirked a brow but made no comment. Instead, she frowned down at the tabletop. “Listen, Lord Hugh. I… I didn’t see what happened down by the bridge. It happened too fast. But from what I heard…”

  Mirco frowned. “I saw some of it. It… I can’t…”

  Hugh sighed.

  Everybody had their fucking questions, it seemed.

  “Can’t you be satisfied with being freed?” he asked.

  “Subrogation Day is fast upon us,” said Branka, sitting up straight and staring right at him. “Father Jarmoc will soon be here, and he’ll learn of what happened. In detail. And if he decides we weren’t assiduous in our questioning, we’ll pay the price.”

  “The way you moved,” said Mirco, eyes gleaming. “Only thing I can reckon in my limited experience is that you must be an exemplar, my lord. And no offense meant, but I have to ask, for fear of my own mortal soul. You wouldn’t be an Exemplar of the Hanged God?”

  Morwyn seized Mirco by his shirt and hauled him off the bench. Turned and slammed him against the wall. “I should slit your throat right here and now,” she hissed. “How dare you insult your lord in such fashion?”

  Hugh rose to his feet. “Captain.”

  Mirco’s voice shook with terror. “No offense meant! But it weren’t natural, the way he moved, you know it weren’t! What else he supposed to be?”

  “What business is it of yours?” she asked, forearm shoved into his throat, other hand at the pommel of her dagger. “You fucking peasant miller. To insult my lord in such manner, to accuse him of being one of the Thrice-Cursed’s chosen –”

  “Peace, Captain.” Hugh stepped forward and touched her shoulder. “Put him down.”

  Her face was bone white, her eyes wide with fury, and for a moment it seemed she didn’t hear his command. Then, with a jerk, she stepped back, releasing Mirco so that he crumpled down into a crouch.

  “I won’t warn you again,” she hissed. “Insult Lord Hugh in such manner a second time, and I’ll execute you myself.”

  “I cry your pardon,” croaked Mirco, falling over to bow low, forehead touching the worn boards. “Never! I’ll not even think it!”

  Morwyn gave a stiff nod and stepped back, a band of muscle flaring into view over the joint of her jaw. Gave Hugh a strange look – embarrassment? And moved back to the wall.

  Elena moved to Mirco’s side and slid an arm under his own, helping him rise. “Please excuse me. It’s not my place to say, but I know my lord is reluctant to discuss this matter. But… he is the last surviving member of the Lost Reavers. Surely you’ve heard of them?”

  “Yes,” said Branka, posture tense, spine stiff. “But I never heard anything but that they were people, and the way Lord Hugh killed those men -”

  “He is the last surviving member,” said Elena, a touch of iron in her voice as she helped Mirco back onto the bench. “Ask yourself: what does it say about his skill with the blade that only he survived where those other legendary figures failed? Are you really surprised that Istlav’s men fell before him?”

  A confused, reluctant silence befell the table
. Branka scowled down at her ale. Mirco massaged his neck and avoided all eyes. Hugh met Elena’s gaze and gave her a thankful nod. She stepped back against the wall.

  “I think it best if we begin at the beginning,” he said, taking charge. “Tell me everything that happened from when Istlav arrived. What he said, wanted, all of it.”

  Branka took up her ale. Visibly set her questions aside as she sipped, then set it aside. “They came from the mountains, walking down River Street from the north. There was no question of opposing them - Istlav had seventeen men with him. You saw how well armed they were. He summoned everyone to the square and declared that Erro was now his, and that we’d do as we were told. Little Ivan defied him and the others defied him. They were taken, beaten, and the gallows built. An hour later they were hung. That broke what little hopes of resistance we had.”

  Morwyn stirred. “He declared Erro his? To what end? Didn’t he know Duke Annaro would respond?”

  “That’s what Little Ivan argued. That it was madness to think he could take Erro and hold it with only seventeen men. Istlav was deliberately vague and very pleased with himself. He moved into the old imperial estate across the river. But they didn’t spend their days lazing about. Instead, they scouted the woods and sent scouts down to Vuk and Miro. He was expecting trouble. We saw him send a messenger north into the mountains, and they returned yesterday. I don’t know what the message was or with whom he was corresponding.”

  “Should be obvious,” said Morwyn. “Baron Niestor.”

  Branka licked her lower lip. “You’ll pardon my saying so, but that doesn’t make any sense, either. We’ve spoken of little else, but nobody can come up with a reason why the baron would have Istlav take Erro under a brigand’s guise.”

  “Simple,” said Hugh, lifting Elena’s tankard to his lips. “Istlav was probably commanded to destroy whatever force was meant to recapture Erro, using that neat ambush he’d set up by the bridge to massacre the enemy. Then Niestor would send his own men in to drive Istlav away, which they’d do easily, giving him claim to the town by saying Annaro couldn’t hold it.”