                
Hungerblade
Part Three: Into the Iron Wood
Hemwold the troll and his fellow bandit
Berchtold stood hesitantly at the lip of the gangway. Their new employer,
Wigandus, beckoned them on.
Wigandus clapped impatiently. “Come now,
come now, let’s all get loaded. The sooner we’re all aboard, the sooner we’ll be
through all this.” He glanced to the south, where lay the fearsome Iron Wood.
“Don’t tell me I’ve hired bodyguards who are afraid of boats.”
Jacques Gardien, standing at Wigandus’
side, thrust his hands behind his back and idly whistled. He attempted to
reproduce an air he had heard the lutists play back at the Solar Palace, but its
complex counterpoint eluded him.
Wigandus’ jowls quivered. “Honestly!
Explain yourselves!”
Hemwold shoved Berchtold forward. Once on
the gangplank, he moved swiftly, keeping a close watch on Jacques, and
especially his sword. He leapt down onto the deck of the Geistschritter,
maneuvering himself to keep Wigandus between himself and the imperial messenger.
The troll’s face set in determination; he bounded across the gangplank. It
sagged and bounced under each step.
“Where do you want us, sir?” Berchtold
asked.
The merchant made an indistinct gesture,
which took in the entire length of the barge’s deck. “Situate yourself in a
defensive position. You are the bodyguards. Demonstrate your expertise.”
Berchtold waited for Hemwold, whose bulk
tipped the barge slightly as he stepped off the gangplank. The two of them
scattered to opposite ends of the boat.
“I swear,” complained Wigandus. “I knew the
troll was thick, but last I spoke to his companion, he seemed to have a brain in
his head.”
Jacques said nothing; in his short
acquaintance with Wigandus, he had already learned that there was no need to
respond. Others would not have agreed, but Gardien appreciated the trader’s
willingness to keep up both sides of a conversation.
Wigandus went on. “I suppose it is the
price we must pay. For the Emperor’s expansive military efforts. Of which I
approve, I must add. But they drastically dry up the pool of skilled, smart,
loyal fighters. Where the rest of us are concerned, a man who refuses to hire
idiots gets nothing done at all.”
The barge’s captain, identifiable by the
loops of silver braid on his half-cloak and the golden pendant around his neck,
approached, bowing in turn to Jacques, and then Wigandus. The merchant prince
cleared this throat in annoyance and stepped between the other two men.
“Jacques Gardien, of the Seven,” he said,
looking at neither of them, “this is Captain Dietfried of the Geistchritter.
What haste can we make, Captain? I am anxious to reach my destination. And what
of the näcken? They have been restive of late, or so I’ve been told. Separate
fact from fiction for me, Captain. I am a practical man with little cause to
truck with spirits and their ilk.”
Dietfried took care to shake Gardien’s hand
and to exchange pleasantries with him before answering his client’s queries. The
captain was a surprisingly young man boasting a full head of wavy chestnut hair
and a thick, downturned mustache. The latter lent him a permanent frown. “Wish I
could say that the river spirits have been quiet. Last week they swarmed from
the woods and water alike to board the Herzbrund. Three men slain,
another four maimed. A month past, the Henasunda set out from this very
pier; neither it nor any aboard have since been seen.”
Wigandus tapped his fingers against the
metal rail, as if tousling the hair of one of the bronze cherubs molded to it.
“Perhaps then we should go overland, if the monsters are attacking on the
river.”
Dietfried shook his head. “The näcken are
even thicker in the woods than in the water. Even if its worst inhabitants were
only wolves and bears, which is not the case, I’d not attempt it; the forest
itself’s near impassable.”
Wigandus huffed. “If the North Coast League
held sway here, we’d commission crews to raze the forest to the ground. Turn the
entire Iron Wood into field and pasture.”
Dietfried smiled slightly and shrugged his
shoulders slightly. “Such was tried, in Emperor Theofract’s time. The wood took
its vengeance.”
“The wood takes its vengeance still,”
Jacques added. “Even Emperor Guntram for all of his, ah, resolve has not
attempted to clear the area of its, um, inhabitants.”
Wigandus looked at Gardien strangely. Just
when he thought the merchant would press him regarding the emperor, he turned to
the captain. “So these näcken, what do they look like? Your men have fought them
before, but what should my bodyguards prepare for?”
The captain pulled a handkerchief from his
sleeve to dab at the points of sweat welling on his forehead. “No two are quite
alike. I’ve seen antlers, tusks, claws . . . Some are furred, others finned. The
one that came closest to sinking us had the head of a horse mounted on a snake’s
body.”
“You jest, surely,” countered Wigandus,
perhaps a bit too quickly.
“From my lips to the Emperor’s
ear,” Dietfried said solemnly. He even swirled the life-symbol over his heart
with the middle finger of his left hand. Wigandus frowned, but did not appear
completely convinced.
“So what you said is right,
Gardien,” Wigandus mused. “They’re not so much ghosts as creatures of solid
flesh.”
Dietfried squinted in apparent agreement.
“All too solid. My brother lost an arm and leg to them, and he’d attest to
that.” He gazed at the horizon, where dark clouds gathered with unnatural speed.
“Weather magic,” he said with a nod of his head to the darkening skies, “or I’m
a Thulean. I’d like to beat that storm. Are all your party aboard?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll away.” The captain turned to
shout commands to his crewmen.
Turning to Jacques, Wigandus abruptly
altered his manner, laughing and wringing his hands eagerly together. “Ho, then.
If we can’t minimize the danger, we can at least hope to enjoy it. A grand
adventure, let’s say.”
“Tell me, Wigandus, how did you happen to
employ those two bodyguards of yours?”
“Well it is as I said. The difficulty of
hiring suitable men. I lost several guards to injury after a skirmish outside
Kronheim. I found these two on the road; I gather they’d had a dispute of some
kind with their previous master. Then at Arnhelm Lake someone fired upon us with
a carabine, and that scared off the remainder of my entourage.”
“A carabine? Only the army has those or the
ammunition.”
“Some go missing from time to
time,” the merchant replied. Wigandus appeared ready to say more when, with a
bucking jolt, the barge’s engines kicked into motion, sending rhythmic
vibrations throughout the craft. Jacques felt them juddering up from the soles
of his boots. Wigandus lurched for the rail.
A white spray churned in the barge’s wake,
as if the bronze gargoyles encasing its engines were kicking furiously in the
water.
The barge’s crew wandered the deck. Some
gathered to share a meal of cold sausage and bread; others checked the state of
their crossbows. The vessel itself required only a helmsman to operate it and
the ritualists to keep the engines alive. The crewmen were present to load and
unload, and to defend the ship against attackers. They carried themselves with
the bored confidence of experienced professionals.
“You have reason to doubt Hemwold and
Berchtold?” Wigandus asked him.
“We had an unfortunate encounter on the
road to Lichtstadt, not so long ago. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding.”
“You’re saying they had not left a
reputable employer, but were instead acting as bandits before I met them? If you
say so, I’ll discharge them, as soon as we make safe landing.”
“They’ve done nothing to arouse your
suspicions, then.”
The barge made good speed past the docks
and warehouses of Hreiburg, and now navigated the bend that would take them into
the northern fringes of the Iron Wood. The cries of gulls and songbirds dropped
off, and then fell silent. Civilization slipped away. The crewmen took active
watch positions. Some kept vigilant eyes on the banks, while others peered down
into the river itself.
“You messengers,” said Wigandus, “have the
luxury of high standards. If I disqualified from my service every guardsman
who’s ever contemplated a bit of brigandage, I’d never be able to travel, would
I?”
“Yes, one must be realistic.”
Wigandus became fretful. “As it is, with
only two men, I feel lightly guarded.” He smiled, as if forcing himself into
better cheer. “Though I reckon the troll counts the same as four ordinary men.
And of course no one sensible will dare threaten us, with you as part of our
party.”
“I wouldn’t count too heavily on that.”
Time passed. They passed under a scattered
canopy of trees—oaks, beeches and firs, mostly—which reached graspingly over the
river from both shores, to intertwine their leafy fingers. A loud splash on the
port side attracted the jumpy attention of the crewmen, who readied their
crossbows or fumbled for spyglasses. Berchtold pulled a long knife from a sheath
on his belt and craned his neck to see what the crewmen had spotted. Hemwold,
who had perched himself atop a low stack of crates, picked his teeth
disinterestedly.
The alarm passed, and the crewmen moderated
their state of alert. There were more spyglasses out, and everyone armed with a
crossbow now had it cranked and ready.
Wigandus paced. Then, evidently realizing
that Jacques was observing him, made an effort to stop, finally sliding into a
chair next to the calm messenger. “Perhaps you wonder why a man in my position
would undertake such a risky journey.”
“Wealth goes to the bold,” Jacques blandly
noted without looking up.
“Ah, but there are also countless ways to
multiply a fortune by sitting in a comfortable chair at home. It is duty to the
Empire that prompts my sacrifice. And—please do not take offense—there are
certain negotiations so fraught that they cannot be performed by go-betweens.”
Jacques struggled to calm his disordered
mop of hair, as a cold wind wreaked further havoc on it. The storm was gaining
on them despite the speed of the barge. “If I took offense easily, I’d be a very
poor go-between.”
“Ah, ho. Yes. What I mean to say is that,
I, as a high counselor of the North Coast League, buttressed by you, as emissary
of the Emperor himself, mean to accomplish a service to the Doturi to eclipse
the actions of any general.” Wigandus lowered his voice and looked cautiously
around. “I will persuade the Roma to sell us their bridge-building secrets.”
Jacques could not help but smile. “You
can’t be faulted for lack of ambition, can you?”
The reaching archway of trees over the
river had thickened, so it was now as if they traveled through a tunnel of
vegetation. Dapples of light, marking holes in the canopy above, played across
the darkening waters of the river. The wind picked up, heralding the imminent
arrival of the storm the captain had hoped to avoid. Weather magic was tricky
and as often as not it caused more problems than it solved. Of course, those
problems were often confronted by more magic.
Wigandus shouted to be heard above the
susurrus of wind-lashed leaves. “Bridge-making rituals may only be the start. I
hear that they have a new conveyance, powered by some force called magnotrism.”
“Magnetism, I think it’s called. Well, I
always hate to go on easy assignments.”
Wigandus leaned forward in his chair. “You
think it impossible that they will agree?”
“If you’re asking bluntly, yes. They have
the ritual magic to build bridges, and we do not. Empires must preserve their
arcane monopolies. In fact, they are often built on them. Would we sell them the
secret of the carabine, or cranes, or the cannons on the Emperor’s war
carriage?”
Wigandus dismissed his argument with a wave
of his hand. “It is not like I seek the cooperation of the Castilians or Onogur.
The Roma are a practical people. Almost as practical as we. It is a matter of
finding the conditions that render the transaction imperative.”
“Näcken!” cried a crewman, up near the
prow.
The water came suddenly alive
with dark shapes, moving toward the barge. Crossbow bolts pelted down into the
river, one magically flaring into a fireball before sizzling beneath the water.
Berchtold rushed to Wigandus’ side; Hemwold strode ponderously over to join him.
An enormous form half-sprang from the water
a few yards from the barge’s starboard side. It was a creature of flesh and
blood, but of an anatomy so bizarre that Jacques found it difficult to take in
all at once. At least fifteen feet of it protruded above the water level. The
being’s tiny, crested head mixed human and amphibian traits. It was suspended on
a long, scaly neck, above a wide torso from which protruded a series of long,
fleshy tendrils. Thick, brushy quills sprouted from its shoulders; behind these
flapped a wide sail of flapping skin reminiscent of a bat’s wings.
Its fleshy tendrils darted out, wrapping
themselves around the barge’s railings, rocking it. Another seized a crewman,
entangling his neck and arms and pulling him over the side. A second guard was
captured as he tried to reload his crossbow.
Jacques bolted to the side of the ship,
springing onto the shaking railing in stride, and launched himself off the side
at the monstrous näcken, drawing his blade as he fell toward it.
To be continued...
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