The Tierans: Book Two -- The Rogues

By Randy Ellena

The War of Houses has come to an end as sudden as a flash of summer lightning. The whole of the resurgent Tieran Empire holds its collective breath. In the east Tier's ancient enemy, the Roi, marshal for war. To the west, King Dardan of Syrdis has launched a series of border skirmishes. Whatever the future portends, it seems certain to be writte

• Language: English
• Publisher: Forest of Grativy Publications
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985442212

Randy Ellena

Randy Ellena, a retired communications system engineer, lives in Fresno, California with his wife, Rebecca. He continues writing The Trasceran Chronicles, a fantasy anthology comprised of two distinct but related series of novels-The Kylgahran and The Tierans-both set in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera.

Book preview

Preface

The Trasceran Chronicles is an anthology comprised of two distinct but related series of novels. Like the novels in its sister series, The Kylgahran, this offering, book two of The Tierans, is set in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera. Magic, the mystic power of the Yir, stirs on Trascera wondrous and ominous in equal measure.

Decades in duration, the Tieran civil war, known as the War of Houses, has come to an unexpected end. But the peace so long sought feels illusory; already Syrdisian incursions flare along the River Wyst, the empire’s western frontier, and in the east whispered rumors say Tier’s ancient foe, the mighty Roi, are stirring. How long before enmities old and new plunge the Tieran Empire once more into open war?

Condemned and desperate to escape, a young thief named Qwyk discovers he has lethal tendencies. He effects a bloody-handed getaway from a prison train and befriends a halfling whose mother was a circus performer and whose sire was a seafaring elf. Qwyk’s efforts to put his criminal past behind him are abetted and sometimes complicated by the appearance of a ghost, the shade of his first murder victim.

In the sprawling Tieran provincial city of Tyne, Alyira Solys, a teenage Sorcerer Elect, grapples with the mystery of the Yir while fighting to overcome the tragedy of her past and the entangling schemes of her mentor, Elyas Warron, a mage as cold-hearted as he is powerful.

Alyira’s and Qwyk’s paths converge. Caught up in a web of Elyas’s weaving, the pair—sorcerer and thief alike—embark upon a mission that could cost both their lives. The first leg of their journey takes them to the town of Henfyrd at the edge of a war zone, where peril and intrigue writhe like twin vipers. Will they survive to continue the quest, let alone complete it?

Mysterious forces move amid the shadows that presage an ever-widening conflict between the Kingdom of Syrdis and the Tieran Empire. While their true motives and objectives remain hidden behind a shroud of secrecy, the danger these shadowy figures represent appears as real as the rising tide.

The lives of innocents and rogues alike continue to reflect watershed events shaping a narrow window of time in a world where the winds of change are rising. Choices matter amid the tumult, more than in less turbulent days, and some have hard edges, casting those courageous enough to make them headlong into the most daunting of consequences.

Author’s Note

Timewise, events depicted in The Tierans: Book Two—The Rogues are overlapped by those of the first book in the series. The Rogues introduces a new cast of characters featuring a knacky thief, a half-elf with an array of hidden talents, and an ambitious young sorcerer with a tragic past, all while setting the stage for what will become the third book in The Tierans. The Rogues touches briefly upon the lives of some familiar faces, including Quintus Glabrio Jens, Princess Lydia, and others. For those wondering what will happen to Mat and Bode and Jaryd and the remaining principals from book one of The Tierans, rest assured, all will be revealed in the third installment of the series: The Tierans: Book Three—The Soldiers.

About the Trasceran Chronicles

The Trasceran Chronicles is an anthology, a collection of stories all pertaining to a tumultuous period occurring in lands surrounding the Middle Sea on a two-mooned world called Trascera. The anthology is presented in the form of two distinct but related series of novels: The Kylgahran and The Tierans. Each series is intended to stand alone and may be read in either order. From an author’s perspective, however, for those seeking the fullest Trasceran Chronicles experience, I would recommend reading the books in the order in which they are released, regardless of where they fit in the series referenced. A summary of release order is as follows:

The Kylgahran: Book One—The Kinsmen

The Tierans: Book One—The Citizens

The Kylgahran: Book Two—The Initiates

The Tierans: Book Two—The Rogues

The Tierans: Book Three—The Soldiers (in progress)

The Kylgahran: Book Three—The Avengers (to follow)

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1

Thief

Winter 1358

Quistyn del Aurus, Tieran Empire

Dawn came softly to the countryside north of Tyne city, as if the light of day waxed reluctant to intrude upon night’s inky presence. The twin Trasceran moons had long since set when the first stir of waking rippled through a land still steeped in darkness. The night wind shifted and then faded as stillness descended. Furtively, the first tendrils of sunlight crept into the waiting silence. Having begun as a pale crescent low along the eastern horizon, the gathering light surged like a slowly rising tide, gradually drowning out the stars until the deep velvety black of the nighttime sky gave way to the soft purple hue of early morning.

Symon Fletcher, otherwise known as Qwyk the Thief, really did not want to suck the watch-warden’s cock. He would if he had to, he was that desperate, and this looked like the best chance of escape open to him. After all, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done such before. He’d had to come down on Big Myk a few times while growing up before, as the burly outlaw said, Qwyk became too old and too ordinary.

Even though more than a week had passed since, Qwyk still couldn’t accept that Jobbo Yorick was dead. The Cat Eyes had burst into their room on the second floor of an inn called the Jolly Cockerel so suddenly that Jobbo must have lost his head. Jobbo the Thief had pulled a knife, and the burly constable first into the room proved to be quicker than he looked. He smashed Jobbo over the noggin with an iron-bound truncheon hard enough to crack his skull. That was that. Jobbo had met his maker right in front of Qwyk, thrashing and twitching like a fish out of water, blood spurting all over the place.

It did not seem fair, not so soon after successfully completing their biggest score ever. Jobbo rated as a Righteous Thief, a burglar of impeccable skill. Jobbo had taught young Qwyk everything he knew, about thieving anyway. Jobbo and Qwyk had just robbed a spice merchant’s counting house of two muskmelon-sized bags of silver coins and a third much smaller bag of gold crowyns. Enough money so that he could retire on his share, Jobbo said. Jobbo had grown old for a thief, nigh on to forty. They’d stashed their take, most of it anyway, in the usual place and had stopped off at the Red Lion Inn just long enough for one drink and a wink at Mylie before heading back to the Jolly Cockerel.

Like Jobbo, Qwyk came across nondescript in appearance. Nineteen years of age or thereabouts, he stood to medium height with light brown hair and hazel eyes. A younger version of Jobbo, although the two were not related, Qwyk’s features were regular, more pleasant faced than handsome. He had good teeth, unusual for someone who had grown up in the Yard, the rugged slum located in the heart of Old City at the foot of the Guernell Hill in Tyne. Lithely muscled with well-defined arms and legs—a burglar had to have good arms—Qwyk moved easily. When not stealing things, he and Jobbo worked as chimney sweeps. Everybody called him Qwyk. Aside from Jobbo, no one who knew him used his given name of Symon except for Mylie.

A young whore, Mylie Hicks, endowed with a wealth of blond hair and cornflower blue eyes, pretty enough to pick and choose some among her clientele. Sweet on him, she said she was, the lying cunt. He’d told no one else about him and Jobbo’s last score, the night before they made the attempt. The wink was to have been his signal to her that they had been successful. Except that she wasn’t there.

She wasn’t with a mark, he’d checked. Mylie had left the inn. Nobody seemed to know where she’d gone. Out turning rat on them, he reckoned. What he hadn’t been able to figure was how she knew where Jobbo and he had stashed the stuff. Then he remembered. She’d been doing Jobbo, too. Jobbo drank a little there toward the end, and when he drank, he talked too much.

The constables searched the room and their belongings, finding enough coin and a sheathed dagger with the bloody merchant’s initials on it that Jobbo had lifted for some damn reason, a keepsake maybe, so that there existed scant doubt as to their guilt. Faced with a life sentence in the salt mines northwest of Tyne city if he did not cooperate, Qwyk told the Cat Eyes where the stash was located. Despite going directly there, with Qwyk to guide them, the loot turned up gone when the Watch arrived. That result did not exactly endear him to the authorities. They beat him some thereafter, but without really putting their backs into it, the constable in charge having correctly gauged Qwyk’s stunned reaction to the missing money.

He had been certain the coin would be there. After the robbery, he and Jobbo had gone directly to their stash in a loft on the second floor of an abandoned warehouse. Adhering to their usual routine, Qwyk kept watch while Jobbo stored the take in their hiding place, beneath a loose floorboard in the loft. Qwyk had not actually seen Jobbo place the coin bags in the hidden compartment, but they used no other hiding place. Someone had to have lifted the money after he and Jobbo left the warehouse. Mylie it must have been, maybe with someone to help her, but Mylie for sure.

His stay in Tyne prison prior to trial had been brief, less than a week. Big Myk sent over a nice dinner the day before his trial, fresh ham with pickles and mustard and a change of clothes. Proceedings the next day did not take long, and the judge wound up sentencing him to life in the salt mines near the town of Tygus in the hills about three days’ walk north and west of the city. Qwyk did not think his crime warranted the sentence. No one asked his opinion though, and just like that, he found himself a condemned man. Qwyk thought he caught sight of Mylie in the crowd standing round the forum where trials were conducted and judgments rendered, but that was probably just his imagination.

A few days later, the prison train started for Tygus. The train was actually only a gaggle of prisoners shackled together in groups of twenty. A key-locked steel collar encircled each convict’s neck, fitted to a chain threaded through an iron fastening connected in turn to a wrist-thick hawser that accommodated up to twenty prisoners at a time. The prisoners’ legs were unfettered to facilitate walking, but their wrists were bound behind them by a set of keyed handcuffs. This particular train contained about two hundred prisoners. The guards assigned to the train also served at the mines and were called watch-wardens. The prisoners referred to them as buzzards. Qwyk counted seventeen of them.

In deference to the winter weather, the prisoners were allowed to wear whatever civilian clothes they had with them. A prison-issued tunic of oatmeal-colored wool was worn over the top as an outer layer. The prison tunic had a large letter P stenciled in front and on back using black paint. Qwyk was grateful for Big Myk’s gift of a new heavyweight woolen tunic and a pair of sturdy woolen socks. Each convict sentenced to the salt mines would wear the steel collar key-locked around his neck for the rest of his life. The collar had a designation number stamped into it that would uniquely identify every individual.

A pair of supply wagons serviced the train. The head buzzard, a tall, skinny get with gray in his beard, rode a horse up front. Everybody else walked. If you were a prisoner and couldn’t walk, you got stabbed to death on the spot. The fellows shackled to you then had the privilege of digging your grave alongside the road. That happened twice on the first day out of Tyne. The rising sun marked the start of their second day on the road. They were supposed to reach the salt mines before the end of the third day, which meant Qwyk was about out of time. Nobody got out of the salt mines. If he didn’t free himself tonight, by sundown tomorrow he’d be a walking corpse.

The last man shackled in his group of twenty, Qwyk knew none of the men chained together with him. That was by design. The buzzards made a point of shackling strangers together to avoid the complications that might stem either from friendship or animosity among men known to one another.

The man next to him was about his age and size, blond with pale blue eyes. A rapist, the fellow stood condemned for abducting, sexually abusing, and then strangling an eleven-year-old girl. To pass the time, Qwyk supposed, the man had described his crime in some detail during the day, speaking always in a sibilant whisper. The girl had been pretty with long red-gold hair and only the barest hint of peach fuzz between her legs. A snug fit she’d been, he said. She struggled at first, wriggling and bucking even with him inside her. At the end, she wept and begged. Pale Eyes seemed most fond of that recollection, licking his lips as he spoke of it. The rapist waxed confident he would escape from the salt mines somehow. The almost absolute certainty no one ever had seemed not to deter him in the least.

At noon yesterday, one of the watch-wardens, a young man also about Qwyk’s size and age, had given a hidden hand signal. Homosexuality was outlawed in the Tieran province of Quistyn del Aurus as it was throughout the empire, and so those of the Odd Persuasion had developed a code of sorts to communicate with one another. Big Myk turned out fluent in the language of the hidden hand, the hand talk of the Odds. He had taught Qwyk the essentials.

A few moments ago, after the prisoners had been roused for breakfast, Qwyk once again noticed the young guard’s signal flashed furtively toward him. Qwyk had responded in the affirmative. Hand signs employed by the Odds were by design subtle, but Qwyk remained reasonably certain of what he’d seen.

Qwyk knew he was taking a chance. The guard might simply be trying to lure an Odd out into the open. Qwyk doubted that, Odds were damned careful about who they shared knowledge of the hand talk with. The greater risk was that the guard might simply wait until they reached the salt mines before making contact.

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The day wore on, a long trudge over wintry ground, with a chill wind blowing steadily out of the northeast. At the final stop, just before sunset, the young buzzard stepped up and dropped a pair of leather water buckets at Qwyk’s feet.

The guard stood clad in a gray woolen tunic worn under a light boiled-leather cuirass. A broad leather belt encircled his waist. He had a short sword in a scabbard attached to the belt over his left hip and a large knife sheathed on his right side. A small leather satchel strapped across his shoulders and dangled just below the hilt of his knife. A gray woolen cloak he wore as an outer garment and a matching cap with a short leather bill in front clapped atop his head. In his right hand, the buzzard carried a long-handled iron-bound truncheon of the type that had done for Jobbo.

You just volunteered to carry some water, the guard said to Qwyk, pointing at the buckets. Slipping a hand into the satchel, he pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the collar about Qwyk’s neck long enough to slide the hawser chain free. With a soft click, the guard snapped the collar back into place and relocked it with a twist of the key. Head that way, he ordered, pointing off to the side of the road.

Turning about, Qwyk glanced over his shoulder and crouched picking up the buckets a little awkwardly, as his hands were cuffed behind his back, and moved out in the direction indicated by the guard. The buzzard was no older than his own age, Qwyk guessed, handsome, with regular features, medium blond hair and blue eyes.

There is a creek straight ahead, the watch-warden directed him. Find us a spot in the bushes at the water’s edge.

Qwyk complied, selecting a location with a short but relatively steep bank and good cover right near the water’s edge. No one standing back by the road would be able to see them, and they were far enough away only a shout could be heard.

My name is Harper, the guard said. Just what, I’m wondering, would be your pleasure?

I’m called Qwyk, Symon replied. I expect it is only fair to mention, I got a pretty fair dose of the drizzles, Your Honor. Qwyk knelt alongside the creek, looking up at young Harper. I don’t mind so much, but it’s catching. A sexually transmitted disease affecting both men and women, the drizzles caused an itchy, burning sensation in the infected region and a pus-filled discharge from which its name was derived.

Why in bloody be damn did you bring me down here then? Harper sounded peeved.

I’ll suck your cock, Qwyk offered. I’m good at it. Qwyk had never contracted the drizzles, but if this were to work, he and the young watch-warden would need to wind up face to face.

Are you the now? Harper inquired, sounding a little less peeved.

I want something in return, Qwyk stated quietly.

I’ll bet, Harper smiled. What would that be exactly?

I’d like to be assigned to light duty when we get to the mines, Qwyk replied. Not right away, mind, but as soon as can be once we’re settled in there.

For a blow job? Harper laughed in genuine amusement. You’ll need to be better than a two-talent whore, and you’ll have to do more than me for that.

I’ll sing for you too. Qwyk sweetened the deal.

Try playing informant, and you’ll be dead in a week, Harper warned.

You’ll need to be a little patient, Qwyk bargained. Give me a couple of months to get squared away, and you won’t regret it.

I don’t know, Harper intoned, reaching out to run his fingers through Qwyk’s hair. You’re not that pretty.

I am enthusiastic though, Qwyk said, smiling. Doffing his cloak, the young guard laid it at the base of a small pine a pace or so away. He then removed the leather satchel, lifting it by the strap from his shoulders and placing it atop the cloak. He did the same with his sword belt, and the truncheon he leaned against the tree.

When he turned back toward Qwyk, the young thief implored softly, Will you kiss me first?

Harper hesitated. Qwyk was on his knees, his hands cuffed behind him. After a moment, the guard knelt closely in front of Qwyk and leaned forward, kissing him gently on the mouth, grasping the folds of Qwyk’s tunic with both hands. Harper’s lips were warm and moist and just a little salty. Qwyk responded, and he could feel the young buzzard’s mouth open slightly in unfeigned passion.

Big Myk had instructed Qwyk that a head butt properly delivered could be a devastating blow. The trick, as usual in a fight, was to commit fully and strike hard without hesitation, aiming at a point near the crown of the nose slightly above the eyeline. Qwyk ended the kiss, pulling his head gently away. Harper’s eyes were closed. He was half smiling. Qwyk slammed his head forward, striking the bridge of the guard’s nose with the brow of his forehead. The upper part of his forehead crunched into young Harper’s face, sounding in Qwyk’s ears like a melon dropped onto a cobblestoned street.

Leaping to his feet, Qwyk threw his right leg over Harper’s left shoulder. Clamping tight, Qwyk twisted to his left, flinging them both into the creek. Squeezing with desperate strength, Qwyk tightened the grip of his legs about Harper’s neck and shoulders, using his body weight to hold the guard’s head and upper torso underwater. The slope of the creek bank helped. Harper’s body thrashed and strained, but he could gain no purchase. Stunned and hurt by the massive blow to his face, the young guard quickly ran out of time. His struggles diminished and then ceased all together.

Even then, Qwyk forced himself through a slow count to fifty. The water in the creek flowed over them bloody cold; Qwyk felt the ache seeping into his bones by the time he finally eased his leg grip on the guard. Scrambling up the bank, the young thief crouched beside the satchel and reached inside to grasp the keys. Fumbling a little in the growing dark, Qwyk managed to unlock his handcuffs and then the steel collar that encircled his neck. Qwyk was about to throw the collar into the creek when he thought better of it.

Qwyk then drug Harper’s body out of the creek and stripped him. The cuirass and cloak were constabulary issue. He could not wear them without drawing undesired attention, and by any road he’d feel like a fool wearing a cuirass. The guard’s under tunic, wool socks, and sturdy leather sandals were of good quality though, with nothing to distinguish them as anything other than civilian attire. The tunic was soaked, so Qwyk laid it on top of a nearby bush. He doubted it would dry much in the time he had, but it was worth a try. He pulled the guard’s socks on over the top of his and exchanged the shoddy, well-worn sandals he wore for Harper’s much superior ones. Without his clothes the guard’s body looked smaller than when alive, pale, and very young.

Kneeling, Qwyk placed his hand on Harper’s shoulder, No hard feelings, Qwyk told the corpse, it was either you here the now or me later in the mines.

Pulling off his prisoner’s tunic, Qwyk fastened Harper’s belt about his waist, feeling the weight of sword and knife. He knew next to nothing about wielding a sword. Qwyk grasped the knife hilt with his right hand. Well-oiled, the sheath appeared finely, if simply, wrought. He tugged and the blade slid free easily. Single edged, longer than his forearm and about three fingers wide at the base, a Three Rivers Hawken it was. Big Myk owned such a knife. Qwyk tested the blade with his thumb and winced slightly, finding the edge razor sharp. Old Harper might have been careless about some things, but it was evident he took good care of his knife. Looping the satchel strap about his shoulders, the young thief donned the dead guard’s cloak and cap.

He could have fled into the night at that point, but Qwyk figured it wouldn’t be long before the other buzzards with the prison train noticed either his or Harper’s absence. A search would follow and he, Qwyk, would soon become its sole object, especially once Harper’s body was found. He thought he had a better idea, but one that involved some risk. Tucking his prison collar into his belt, Qwyk picked up Harper’s truncheon from where it rested against the tree trunk and headed back toward the train.

Full dark it was by the time he drew close enough to make out the coffles of prisoners shackled to their hawsers. The moons were both out though, and he caught sight of a guard easily recognizable in his distinct cap and cloak wandering away from where the convicts sat huddled together, headed in Qwyk’s direction. The guard didn’t seem to be looking for anything or anyone. Qwyk froze, knowing that if he stayed still, the buzzard would have a hard time seeing him in the tall grass. The guard turned away from Qwyk while still about ten paces off, and pushing aside the folds of his cloak, he lifted the front of his tunic and began to urinate.

Qwyk made a simple brutal decision. He had never tried to knock a man unconscious. If he didn’t hit him hard enough, he risked an alarm being raised. If he struck too hard, the man was dead anyway, and if he died as noisily as Jobbo had, he might still give Qwyk away in the process. Slipping the Hawken from its sheath, he approached the guard as stealthily as he could from behind. Qwyk could move very quietly when he chose, another burglar’s skill Jobbo had insisted he master.

The guard stood tall with long dark hair worn in a leather-bound queue down the back of his neck. Qwyk remembered him from two days of walking and thought he might be a Relwyn. He knew Relwyns were each a member of some tribe or another. The most numerous were the Megyars. Laying the truncheon silently in the grass, he extended his left hand to grasp the Relwyn’s queue. Yanking the tall man’s head back, Qwyk dragged the edge of the Hawken hard across his windpipe. Big Myk had explained that cutting a man’s throat was both quick and quiet but messy. As usual Qwyk found the big man’s observations were accurate. Blood spouted from the guard’s throat, looking black and steamy in the wintry gloom. The watch-warden’s knees buckled immediately, and he crumpled to the ground. His body twitched a little and then lay still.

Qwyk relieved the dead Relwyn of his weapons and his keys, looping the leather strap of the satchel about his shoulders. Leaving the guard’s body where it lay, Qwyk made his way back toward the coffle of prisoners nearest him. Those in Qwyk’s group lay or sat just to his left; he’d been positioned at the rear of the coffle, the last man in line. At the head of the next coffle, slightly to his right, knelt a big, hard-eyed man with a chest and arms that would have done credit to a blacksmith.

Crouching beside the big man, Qwyk whispered softly, Our best chance is to free as many prisoners as we can before the guards take notice.

The big fellow nodded but said nothing. Qwyk unlocked the man’s handcuffs using the Relwyn’s keys.

Wait, Qwyk instructed. Handing the man Harper’s truncheon, Qwyk moved on to the second prisoner in line, unlocking his cuffs and handing him Harper’s sword. The third man got the Relwyn’s dagger. Returning to the large convict at the head of the coffle, Qwyk unlocked his collar, freeing him from the hawser, and handed over the Relwyn’s keys.

Free as many as you can, Qwyk whispered once again. Good luck.

The prisoners in his coffle were looking at him expectantly as he approached. The first he encountered, next to last in line, the youthful rapist, eyed Qwyk intently. With a brief nod, Qwyk scuttled passed the pale-eyed blond to the man beyond him in line, a tall, balding Ayle, judging by his accent. Qwyk unlocked his cuffs and gave him the Relwyn’s truncheon.

Bide a moment, will you? Qwyk murmured, turning away. I’ll be back directly.

Hullo, he said softly as he sidled up to the rapist, turn away so I can get at your cuffs. Pale Eyes complied, twisting to present the full of his back to Qwyk. Qwyk unlocked the rapist’s handcuffs. His wrists freed, the blond’s arms slid forward, out of the way. Drawing his Hawken, Qwyk encircled the rapist’s neck tightly with his left arm and plunged the hunting knife into his back. Big Myk had been quite specific about the technique. The blade had to go in just above the top fold of the hip at an upward angle to slide beneath the ribs into the mark’s vitals. Driving the Hawken in to its hilt, he twisted the blade per Big Myk’s instructions. He could feel blood on his hand, hot and sticky.

The method proved not as quick or as quiet as slitting a throat but resulted in much less mess. The bugger heaved and thrashed some, but not for long, and with Qwyk’s arm effectively cutting off his air, there was very little noise. When he was sure the blond convict’s body slumped dead, Qwyk pulled the knife free and wiped it on the rapist’s tunic. He unlocked and removed the pale-eyed bastard’s collar and replaced it with his own. Slipping the rapist’s collar into his belt, he freed the bald man. The tall Ayle looked Qwyk in the eye, and they exchanged nods. Qwyk then moved on to the next in line, an even younger thief than himself with a thatch of fiery red hair. He removed the thief’s cuffs and collar and handed him the Relwyn’s sword.

I don’t know how to use a sword, the young redheaded thief whispered.

Wait until they’re close, Qwyk told him quietly, and then stick the pointy bit into some buzzard’s throat or groin, no armor there. Passing Harper’s keys on to the youthful thief, Qwyk instructed him to free as many prisoners as he could. Nodding, the redhead spoke softly his thanks.

Luck to you, Qwyk whispered in parting. He crawled then through the grass back in the direction of the creek where Harper’s body lay. When he was well into the bushes adjoining the roadside, he rose to his feet and walked away, crouching low.

Upon reaching Harper’s body, Qwyk collected the guard’s still sodden tunic. Harper had a good woolen scarf and a pair of mittens in an inner pocket of his cloak. Qwyk wrapped the scarf about his neck and pulled on the mittens.

Wish me luck? he asked of the dead man. Raising his eyes to the heavens, he offered a quick prayer for Harper’s soul and headed downstream, walking along the creek bed.

After a few paces only, he heard a shout, and then another, and then many, the sounds men make while openly fighting for their lives. Qwyk traveled a couple hundred paces further before stopping at a place where the creek seemed reasonably deep and tossed the rapist’s collar into the stream. The steel collar made a soft thunking sound as it stuck the water and then slipped silently into its depths.

Qwyk continued on his way, resisting the urge to run. The creek angled in the general direction of Tyne. The Hawken knife felt heavy and reassuring resting in the sheath at his belt. Tyne was his objective. There he had a few questions that wanted answering and a whore what needed killing.

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Qwyk crossed the creek at dawn at a shallow point where it ran babbling over some large rocks. He stopped in a stand of trees about a hundred paces on the far side of the stream. The day broke gray tinged and cold but with no sign of rain or snow. He saw no indications of pursuit. Even if things had gone very badly for the prisoners and those who witnessed what he’d done talked, he doubted any search for him would get underway until after sunrise.

Only open country lay in the direction he needed to travel, and he didn’t want to try crossing it in daylight. Besides, he was tired. Harper, bless him, had some bread and cheese in his satchel and a coin purse. Not much money, but enough for a meal or two along the way. The Relwyn had some sausage and a handful of walnuts in his satchel. No money, damn him, but a careful search revealed a small velvet bag in which Qwyk found a pair of gold earrings, the type suited for pierced ears. Qwyk was experienced enough to know that the earrings were genuine gold. He could buy a good set of clothes with them, maybe a bit more.

The trees loomed overhead, enormous and winter bare, with only a few straggling leaves remaining. Born and raised in Tyne city, he had no notion what kind of trees they were. To get so large, he reasoned they must have stood here a long while. Qwyk found that comforting somehow.

Slipping the Hawken from its sheath, he dropped to his knees and dug a hole at the base of the nearest tree. In it he buried the Relwyn’s satchel and Harper’s cap and cloak. Qwyk parted with the cloak only reluctantly, as the garment was sturdy and warm, but he could not afford to be caught wearing it. Removing his outer tunic, he slid Harper’s inner tunic, mostly dry the now, over his own and then wriggled back into his outer garment. Fashioned of thick, tightly woven wool, his outer tunic served well at warding off the cold.

Qwyk’s association with Big Myk had proven to be useful in a number of ways of late. One of these days he hoped to be able to thank the tall highwayman turned loan shark. He piled dry leaves over the burial site. Qwyk didn’t know if doing so would fool anyone, but to his eyes anyway, the location of the freshly dug hole appeared hidden from view.

Qwyk wandered on a while and selected a truly massive tree at the edge of the grove. He clambered into its lower branches and climbed a bit, settling finally into a fork well off the ground with his back resting against the trunk. The tree reached skyward, huge and impassive, its branches thickly intertwined. Even though the tree Qwyk chose stood largely bereft of leaves, he would not be easy to see from the ground. If they came for him while he slept, he didn’t want to be taken that way, lying on the ground.

His mind wandered back over the past few hours. He’d never killed anyone before last night. He was the now a thief and a murderer. Funny, but when condemned to the mines, he did not feel his crimes warranted the sentence he’d received. If caught, he’d be tried again. Even if they took him later that day, his efforts to escape would wind up buying him a few more days free of the mines. They might hang him, but he suspected that instead they would once again send him off to dig salt until he dropped.

If that happens, Qwyk thought, this next time round I’ll deserve it. He closed his eyes, and Harper’s face came unbidden into his mind. Harper had been good-looking. Kissing him was not unpleasant. Qwyk didn’t have many friends. He’d sensed the same kind of loneliness in Harper. Big Myk said you would meet again the shades of those you killed in this life during the next once you yourself passed over. If that was true, when he ran into Harper’s ghost, Qwyk reckoned he’d have some explaining to do.

2

Harper’s Ghost

Winter 1358

in the vicinity of Tyne city

As far as Qwyk could tell, the farm stood abandoned. The roof of the farmhouse sagged, almost completely caved in, and what remained of an adjacent garden lay in a tangled sprawl, overgrown with weeds. A barn standing across the yard from the house looked sound, but there were no farm animals in sight and no sign of anyone living on the place. With the sun going down, Qwyk didn’t fancy the notion of sleeping out again. Deciding on the barn, he pushed open a side door. A good-sized structure, with stables and what appeared to be a blacksmith’s workshop in a ground-floor corner and a second-story loft on the far end, the interior gloomed in empty silence. Straw was strewn about in the stalls, but the dust-covered forge on the first floor looked as if it had not been used in some time. Double doors were located at each end of the barn, and a second, single side door graced the wall opposite from the one through which he’d entered.

A battered wooden ladder leaned on its side against the far wall, for climbing into the loft, he imagined. The barn rafters arched overhead. The ceiling peak rose, Qwyk guessed, to a height of around twenty-five span. A Tieran standard of measure, a span equaled roughly the distance between the creases in an average sized man’s elbow to the base of his middle finger. The average Tieran male adult stood to about five-and-two-thirds span.

Timbers bare, the wood unfinished, but the building looked solid enough with no sign of rot or decay. A coil of rope hung suspended from a peg in one of the vertical roof supports rising from the dirt floor of the barn. Taking up the rope, he noticed it was woven of good oiled hemp. Instead of using the ladder, he tossed the rope over a rafter and pulled the thrown end down, so the rope lay evenly distributed over the wooden beam. Grasping the double strands of the rope, Qwyk climbed easily hand over hand into the loft.

The setting sun marked the close of the second day following his escape from the prison train. He’d tried going cross country, both to avoid contact with others and to reduce the distance he’d have to cover on his return to Tyne. Qwyk’s efforts resulted in his getting lost. City bred, he’d proven to be no woods runner. Late this afternoon he finally got his bearings. A road sign indicated Qwyk stood about half a day’s walk south of the city. Apparently he’d walked by the bloody thing entirely, passing some distance to the west—his view of the city’s walls obscured by intervening low, tree-lined hills.

Qwyk had finished the last of his food earlier in the day. While this wouldn’t be the first time he’d go to bed hungry, he discovered the prospect of doing so hadn’t brightened any with the passage of time. He’d drunk his fill from a brook nearby, so thirst was not a problem. Qwyk took note of a well near the farmhouse but hadn’t checked it. If he couldn’t draw water from the well in the morning, he’d head back to the stream before leaving for Tyne.

Peering about he saw a blanket neatly rolled in the corner of the loft. A quick examination revealed it to be a little threadbare but otherwise serviceable, and it looked and smelled clean enough. Since his escape he’d so far seen no sign of pursuit. Once he reached the city gates, he’d be well-nigh safe. Normally