“I’ll be fine,” the ferryman rasps out between coughs. “I’m RelandWyle. Thank her for me, and thank Artemisen, may she be restored.”
Kaelen, hand on the hilt of his sword, continually scans our surroundings but spares a glance for the rapidly recovering man. “Did they say anything? Were they on their way to Pallanhold?”
Wyle shakes his head and groans, putting a hand to his chest. “They were on their way to the Spires.”
The Spires is a mountain range that forms the border between Pyrrh and the Sorcerers’ Guild Deeded Territory to the east. What can they hope to accomplish there? The sorcerers’ magical shields will fry them in their boots before they can step one foot onto the territory.
“They were fighting among themselves, in between taking turns to torture me,” Wyle says grimly. “I guess they didn’t mind that I overheard, since I was meant to die where I lay bleeding.”
“Fighting about what?” Kaelen demands.
“Fighting about which direction to go to find the ones carrying the … something. I thought one of them said ‘the pain,’ but I don’t know how that would make sense.”
Andras makes a hissing sound. “Was it the Bane? Could they have said the Bane?”
Wyle’s forehead furrows, and then he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that was it. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, ferryman,” Andras says, leaping back onto his horse. “It means we must leave. Now. Do you have kin nearby?”
The man nods, and Sergeant Neville and Bern help him to the wagon. I catch up with Kaelen, who’s leading River toward the road.
“Why were the Zhagarn traveling with no Fell?”
“I don’t know. It makes no sense.”
“What does that mean, the Bane?”
Kaelen shakes his head. “I don’t know that, either. But it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s related to the amulet.”
When we reach the wagon, Kaelen confronts the Sylvan. “What is the Bane?”
“It’s the amulet, of course.” Andras’s face is so hard, it could be carved from obsidian. “The Zhagarn called it the Bane one hundred years ago, when I carried it away from Artemisen’s crystal prison.”
Journeys across Altarra are chiefly described in terms of the natural beauty of the countryside, the kindness of the people, and the value of travel to one’s mind. Nobody ever mentions the snakes, the insects, or the overall discomfort of sleeping on hard ground.
Recommendation: Only travel when rich.
—A Poor Man’s Guide to Travel in Altarra,Mily Kinson
CHAPTER TWELVE
We transported the ferryman a few miles downriver to his family, who were all luckily unharmed. They promised to go back and burn the bodies. Luckily, the Zhagarn seem to be torturing only those people directly in their path, so the little village was undisturbed. After that, we crossed the Brazen, warning the ferrywoman at the crossing about what happened to Wyle.
Now, we’re on our way to northern Pyrrh, traveling on paths too small to be called roads, while keeping a sharp eye out for any other bands of Zhagarn or, worse, Zhagarn and Fell. Elianna says we’ll be in almost as much trouble if we run across any gangs of human bandits. They don’t necessarily seek to torture, she says, but also don’t bother overmuch with trying to keep the people they rob alive.
My mind is a whirlwind of competing thoughts: death and torture on one side, and the beauty of the countryside on the other. I have blood on my clothes from helping Elianna with Wyle, and I’m driving a wagon through lands filled with glorious fruit orchards, sparkling ponds, and lush fields.
All of it will be destroyed if we don’t succeed.
Andras, after hitting us with his shocking revelation, keeps to himself and rides far ahead on point, scouting for danger. Neville and Bern ride together at the back of our small procession, with Trick accompanying them. Chitai and Kaelen range far and wide between the vanguard and the two soldiers, often crossing paths as they checkout the terrain and look for enemies to our east and west.
I’m driving the wagon because Elianna curled up in a ball in the back as soon as we started off. When I asked how I could help, she gave me a bleak look, shook her head, and closed her eyes.
“I wish I could sing,” I tell the horses after a couple of hours of driving in silence, since Elianna is asleep now and nobody else is around to hear me. “The Sisters heard me singing while I worked once, and one of them was honest enough to tell me that my voice is worse than the sound of Sylvan tree toads during mating season.”
One horse makes a chuffing sound, almost like he’s weighing in.
“Yes, I agree that’s probably a horrible sound, but how would she have ever heard it? She’s a born-and-raised Pyrrhan who never traveled outside the city, as she was proud to remind me on every possible occasion, no matter that I never asked. And let’s be fair, the sound of a Sylvan tree toad is probably quite musical to another tree toad,especiallyduring mating season.”
