The soldier made a parting salute and galloped away. The order to halt was passed down the line as swift as wildfire on an open plain, and everywhere soldiers fell out of ranks. They laughed as they sat down in the mud, some managing to find a bit of grass to stretch out on. She couldn't appreciate their good humor. It wasn't even midday yet.
She glanced to the north. Something inside told her she needed to get to Caim or she would lose him forever. It was a foolish thought, she knew, but it burrowed into the back of her mind as she climbed down from the saddle.
CHAPTER FOUR
The wind's icy fingers infiltrated Caim's jacket as he pulled his mount to a stop, but the shiver perched at the nape of his neck had nothing to do with the cold. The foothills of the Drakstag Mountains rolled out before him, tumbling down onto the hard plains of the northern wastes. It was barely a candlemark past midday, but the sky was a gray-black sheet of iron. Behind him, the mountain peaks glowed fiery orange like the world's last sunset.
“Un-fucking-natural,” Dray said as he reined up beside him.
“Is it always like this?” Malig asked, staring out over the dusky plains.
“Day and night,” Teromich said as his wagon pulled up. A lantern swung on a pole beside his seat, creating an island of light within the gloom. “It's always dark as a witch's twat up here. Been that way for as long as I've been coming over these mountains. My da spoke of it being light at least some of the time, but that was years and years back. Myself, I try not to stay any longer in this country than I need to.”
The merchant eyed them as if saying they'd do well to do the same. Caim scanned the far horizon, which was vague and nebulous even to his enhanced night vision. His comrades probably couldn't see much at all. To him, the plains were broken and gray with few defining features. No trees, a few scattered stones with bare faces. Even the grass was stunted and colorless, peeking up through the dirt. According to Teromich the wastes extended for hundreds of leagues without break, perhaps all the way to the edge of the world. And there was something else about the landscape that bothered him. The shadows. Without a light in the sky, there shouldn't have been any, but they pooled around every imperfection in the ground as if cast by an invisible sun.
There were a few buildings situated at the foot of the hills. Points of light shone between them, perhaps torches, but it was hard to say from this distance.
“Where's Aemon?” he asked.
As Dray shouted for his brother, Teromich beckoned to Caim. “So you're intent then, I take it?”
Since the ambush, the merchant had hounded Caim about his plans. Their agreement was to provide protection on the trip to the wastes, but it ended there. Now, with his other guards dead, he wanted Caim and the Eregoths to make the return trip with him, even offering double wages.
“We're moving on,” Caim said.
He clucked to his mount and preceded the caravan down to the cluster of buildings at the bottom of the pass. The trading center wasn't much of a town, even by northern standards. The outer shacks were little better than hovels. Inside them was a ring of slightly larger, more permanent-looking structures built with a resinous black wood. The shaggy sod roofs made them look like a herd of bison. Wooden beams carved with animal likenesses protruded from the eaves of the larger buildings. The lights he had seen came from flaming lamps suspended on chains from the mouths of these wooden beasts. There were no real streets within the trading post, just snow- packed lanes of varying widths, crisscrossed by wheel ruts and frozen excrement.
Teromich directed them to a wide paddock on the western edge of the settlement. While the wagons rolled in, Caim spotted a pair of men walking parallel to the fenced enclosure. By their size and pale, milk-white skin, he took them for Northmen, but both wore rust-red robes. Their hair was long and wild, giving them a feral appearance. Black medallions hung on their chests.
When his wagons were parked and unhitched, the merchant came over carrying a lantern. He paid out their wages, even adding a generous bonus before putting away his money purse. When Caim indicated the robed men, Teromich shook his head. “Northern priests. You'll stay clear of them iffen you have any sense. They're worse than the holy men we got down south.”
He looked long at Caim. “I don't know what you're looking to find in this forsaken land, but I'll be here at least a sennight before I head back.”
They shook hands. Then the merchant took up his lantern and started off toward the center of town with a few of his drovers, leaving the rest behind to guard his wares.
Dray leaned backward, stretching his back. “So what's next, Caim? All this time you've been dragging us farther and farther north. Well, this is about as far fucking north as you can get.”
The men watched him, waiting for answers, but they would have to keep waiting. “We'll find a place to stay for the next couple days,” he said. “And look for a guide to take us upcountry.”
“Hell's balls, Caim.” Malig waved his hand back and forth. “I can barely see my nose in front of my face! Let's head back south with the caravan. There's got to be a war brewing somewhere in the marches. We could check out Uthenor.”
Caim urged his tired horse down the dirt street. “You do what you want.”
Dray and Malig looked at each other, but kept any further demands to themselves as they followed. Heavily bundled men tromped past, their torches throwing shadows against the weather-beaten walls. Teromich had told him about a hostel where he might find what he needed. Caim located the place without much trouble. He hitched his steed to a post in front and went down a short flight of wooden steps to the front door below street level. Pulling on the iron handle, he unleashed a flood of light and noise.
Square timber pillars supported the low ceiling. The walls were paneled in wooden planks, same as the floor. The wind whistled from around the sheets of rawhide battening the small windows. Men sat shoulder to shoulder around the underground room. About half of them looked to be southerners. Dressed in hides and raw wool, the crowd didn't sport much color save for a group of Illmynish swordsmen in vermilion dueling jackets on the other side of the room. Two women stood behind the long bar, pulling drafts from a row of barrels and shuttling them to a small army of servers.
As the rest of his crew entered, shaking the cold from their cloaks, and went to find a table, Caim headed to the bar. He held up a silver penny to get the attention of a tap-puller.
“We need rooms,” Caim said, hoping she spoke Nimean.
But the woman stared at him with a blank expression. Caim pointed to the ceiling and moved his fingers to mimic walking up stairs. The woman shouted something over her shoulder. A few moments later, an enormous man shambled out of a doorway behind the bar. Red-faced and stomach jiggling, he came over while the barmaid nodded to Caim.
“What you have?” the fat man said. “Eat? Drink?”
“Are you the owner?”
“Yes. What you want?”
“I need four rooms,” Caim said. “And a hot bath.”
The owner said something to a passing server, who babbled a response before plunging back into the crowd. While he waited, Caim gestured for a drink. As he was paying, a voice erupted next to him.
Caim turned to see a man gulping from a large horn. He was short for a Northman, standing almost even with Caim, and rather well-groomed in a brown wool suit under a rabbit-fur coat. He had a broad, fleshy nose and plump cheeks covered with scraggly black hair. He appeared to be alone.
“I drink to your health,” the Northman said with a brusque accent. “You are Hvek-lund?”
“No,” Caim answered. “From Eregoth.”
That's the story they had agreed upon on the road. They were all clansmen from Eregoth. Caim didn't really look the part, but the clans were diverse enough that the story should pass.
The man smacked his wet lips. “I am Svart.” When Caim gave his name, adding the surname of a minor clan,
