Randur leaned on his sword as they sheltered from the constant snow under the porch of an old farmhouse. The building hadn't been lived in for years, but it was somewhere. Psychologically, points like this were essential havens on their map. Thirty days now, and most of them spent icy wet. Thirty days on the run from Villjamur.
They were fugitives, no less; he'd stolen these girls from certain death and angered an entire empire in the process, and to say he was now feeling paranoid was an understatement. On a rickety boat that lurched and lunged amid choppy waters, they'd skimmed north along the coast of Jokull, under nothing but empty skies and sea spray. They avoided ice sheets near Kullrun, then travelled south with mordantly cold winds chasing behind them, before landing with more luck than skill on the east coast of Folke the previous night.
Yet they were barely at the halfway point of their route. Villiren, a city located at the end of the next island north, was their target destination – though it seemed a world away.
Still, at least we're out of the fucking freezing water.
Folke: Randur's homeland. He knew it well, so was aware of the dangers to be encountered anywhere away from the major towns. Looking out across a snow-blasted landscape, with nothing ahead but biting wind, with only a few provisions and having not seen another person in days, the success of their journey seemed improbable at best. Patches of exposed land near the coast were so inhospitable that only moss and lichen could survive, but the territory itself was familiar enough to provide him with reassurance on a deep level that he wasn't really aware of.
Denlin briefed their companions, now that they were further inland. The old man's age and experience were useful out here, but Denlin now seemed to have an opinion on everything. 'Girls from a fancy background who have lost everything – money, family and whatever. You two are nobodies, now, right? What are you?'
'Nobodies,' they mumbled, sounding as if they had been berated for some petty misdemeanour, not fighting for survival in a deleterious landscape. Both were garbed in featureless brown furs, hoods flipped up for protection, travelling bags at their feet. Rika's once-elegant hair was now lank and dishevelled, leaving black tendrils clinging to her face. Unlike Randur's partner Eir – her hair was shorter, scruffier, her face more gently rounded than Rika's, but otherwise almost identical in appearance. This similarity gave Randur some concern – that he might make some inappropriate suggestion to the wrong sister, maybe slap the wrong behind. And get his face slapped back. Two times he had come close, two times he caught a fine detail at the last moment in time to make him stop.
'Because if you're somebody, you get your arse kicked,' Denlin declared. 'No, you get the crap thieved from your arse.'
'Does he have to be so crude?' Eir asked.
'It grows on you,' Randur grunted.
'Seen a lot, lad. I'm a man of the world, me.' Denlin faced him with this new-found authority, and this sense of command added a little dignity to his age-sagged face. His forest-green cloak, ex-military, was annoyingly clean, probably an old soldier's habit. When Randur had first met the old man, he could barely keep himself clean, could barely gather together enough money to buy himself a meal in the rancid taverns of Villjamur. Randur no longer hated being the best dressed, even out in the middle of nowhere, under these big island skies.
'This ain't the time to be nice and kind,' Denlin said. 'You got to speak the language of the wild.'
A movement in the distance.
'Well, using that same language,' Randur interrupted him, 'how do you say 'There's a caravan of militants over there, and they're heading our way'?'
The old man turned to observe the approaching group. 'Good point, lad. Bugger.'
A horse-drawn caravan crested the hill, with a red symbol painted on its side: a crude image of an eagle on fire. Randur knew it to signify one of the rebel groups that cropped up now and then across the Empire, a crew of rascals that he'd encountered once before on Folke. They called for freedom from Jamur power, and refused to pay their taxes, but still managed to defile the good name of anarchism. You would hear about them cruising from town to town, seducing girls who were impressed with their half-baked philosophies stolen from others, more thrilled at outraging their elders' feelings than engaging in revolutionary activities. These young men liked to challenge others to fights, but it was only machismo, nothing more than posturing in taverns.
'Two horses at the front, one at the back, one to the side of the caravan and, more importantly, four armed men in ragged cloaks, all carrying big, fuck-off swords,' Randur observed. 'Reckon they're selling flowers?'
'You think we can take them, Rand?' Eir fingered a gold necklace, one of the few trinkets he'd rescued from the city. She had certainly grown in confidence since he had tutored her in swordsmanship back in Villjamur. Randur liked her new attitude – he longed to get a moment alone with her so they could explore their developing feelings. Truth be told he was gagging for it, but with her god-blighted sister and Denlin always hanging around, that wasn't possible.
'Wouldn't recommend it,' Denlin suggested. 'You two fancy yourselves something rotten since Villjamur. Think you're heroes after that display on the walls. Well, things is different, out here.'
'I would hope we can stay away from more violence,' Rika interrupted. 'Astrid, I've seen enough of it.' She lowered her head, as some kind of Jorsalir prayer began to form on her lips. The girl had spent years on Southfjords studying the Jorsalir religion under the guidance of a priestess of the goddess Astrid. It annoyed Randur, the way she'd turn to religion at times like this, when they needed no divine-intervention shit.
'Lass speaks some sense,' Denlin agreed. 'No violence is needed, no cause for alarm. Better let me handle this.'
Denlin sauntered gingerly over to meet the approaching crew, a right bunch of Neanderthals judging by the look of them. When he was fifty paces away, after Denlin's initial greeting, Randur couldn't hear a word. The old man began to make all manner of gestures, pointing this way and that, laughing appropriately, hand on hips, and it was reassuring to see some of the other men lighten up and begin to smile themselves.
The momentum of the day changed in an exchange of glances.
One of them aimed a crossbow and shot Denlin through the eye and blood flamed across the snow. The old man crumpled backwards, while the gang looked on nonchalantly.
Rika gasped.
'Get inside the farmhouse now,' Randur urged. 'Eir, if I fail, look after your sister. I don't think this lot will be kind to her.'
Indignation contorted Eir's face – she wanted to stay here to prove herself, he well knew, and she might yet have her chance, but he suspected she wasn't up to killing again, not yet, despite her best intentions of being a hero. Eir opened the farmhouse door and, with a final glance back, ushered Rika inside.
Fucking hell, Randur thought. Denlin…
Saying prayers didn't seem like such a bad idea any more.
Tuning out all his emotions, he focused on the task at hand, tugged aside his black cloak and gripped his sword handle with an edge of anticipation. Randur approached them with slow, measured strides, hoping not to be shot to pieces before he even reached them. He was aching to get away from here, trying desperately not to look at the dead corpse of his friend. Snow compacted underfoot, and the wind calmed, leaving an eerie ambience that protracted the walk towards them indefinitely.
'A little unnecessary that, wasn't it?' Randur called out to the man sitting at the front of the caravan, an obese and swarthy figure in a brown cloak. Crumbs and stains were spattered down his front, and in one hand he held a bladder of wine. Probably pissed.
'Military,' the man grunted casually. He shrugged and held up his free arm. 'Wore the cloak, so he had to go, didn't he?'
Two other men manoeuvred their horses. Once the man at the rear was in place, they were surrounding Randur entirely. He just glared at the leader, suppressing his emotions. 'He wasn't in the army, not any more. He was retired for years and had only the other day fought against Jamur troops.'
'We don't like them Jamur soldiers, new or old, plain and simple. Far too many on this island at the moment. Basically, you gotta badge of the Empire, you int no friend of ours. We kill anything to do with the Empire. You got anything to do with them?'
'Have I fuck,' Randur lied. 'Anyway, he wasn't a real soldier. He stole that cloak to keep warm. Just trying to show off.'
'Not what he told us,' the fat man replied, sitting up with difficulty, 'when we asked him.'
At least Randur couldn't yet hear the click of a bolt being loaded. 'He was merely an old man who liked to impress.'
