The Road North

Deacon had learned a long time ago that roads lied. A good road promised civilization. Wheel ruts. Hoofprints. Milestones. Drainage ditches cut by people who intended to use the same stretch of earth next year and the year after that. It told travelers they were safe because other people had come this way before them. Deacon knew better. Roads told anyone with bad intentions exactly where their victims would be.

He walked on the left side of this one, far enough from the others that his crossbow had room to come up cleanly, close enough that he could reach them before a bad situation became permanent. Ahead, Zook wandered from one edge of the road to the other—not aimlessly. Deacon had already figured that out. The gnome watched everything. Tracks. Grass. Mud. Bent stems. Bird movement. Places where insects had gone quiet. Jandar watched everything too, but in a different way.

He watched people. Even when there were no people around. His eyes went to every rise, every tree line, every curve in the road where someone might be waiting. Interesting. Behind them came Vegon and Xil. The elf had spent much of the first hour asking questions about the map. The drow had spent much of the first hour answering none that were directed at him unless there was a reason. Also interesting. Deacon adjusted the strap of his crossbow.

The weapon sat comfortably against his body. It had taken him years to find a balance he liked. Weight mattered. So did the pull. A weapon that fought its owner was worthless no matter how impressive it looked over a tavern hearth. Jandar glanced sideways.

“You always look this cheerful when traveling?” Jandar asked.

Deacon kept walking.

“Yes,” Deacon said.

“I thought perhaps the Order had assigned someone to make sure I didn’t enjoy myself.”

“They’d need more than one.”

“That’s encouraging.”

Deacon looked at him. Jandar smiled. There was something irritatingly easy about the man. He moved like someone accustomed to decks, uneven footing and crowds that might turn violent without notice. Even on a straight road, he never seemed to place his feet exactly where anyone expected. Deacon had known men like that. Most of them were thieves. Some had been soldiers. A few had managed to be both.

“How long were you with the Order before today?” Jandar asked.

“Long enough,” Deacon said.

“That’s not a number.”

“No.”

“You’ll find I value precision.”

Deacon looked pointedly at the road ahead.

“You spent the last hour telling Zook his horse track was probably a cow.”

“It could have been.”

“It had a shoe.”

“Cows can dream.”

From farther ahead, Zook called, “I can hear you.” Jandar lifted his voice. “Then settle the argument.”

“It was a horse,” Zook called back.

“Biased,” Jandar said.

Zook shook his head and kept walking. Deacon almost smiled. Almost. Windmarch had disappeared behind the low hills sometime before noon. That was when the five of them had really begun to look like what they were—not silver crown recruits. Not men standing in a stone room while someone explained duty. Travelers. Weapons visible. Packs on shoulders. Dust already collecting on boots. Out here, the mark on Deacon’s arm meant very little. Maybe another member of the Order would recognize it.

Maybe a farmer would trust it. A gnoll would not care. A blade would not care. Deacon preferred things that were honest about that. Zook stopped. The others nearly walked into him. Jandar said, “Have the wagons confessed to something new?” Zook raised one hand. The humor vanished from Jandar’s face. Good. Deacon’s crossbow came free. Vegon stopped behind him. Xil shifted slightly toward the ditch where the road widened. Zook pointed to the trees.

“Birds stopped,” Zook said.

Jandar looked up. Deacon already had. The trees on the right side of the road were thin, mostly young pine and scrub oak, dense enough near the ground to hide a crouching man. No birds. No insects. Nothing moving. Deacon scanned the opposite side. Low slope. Rock. Brush. A good place to watch someone watching the trees.

“How long?” Deacon asked.

Zook shrugged.

“Just now,” Zook said.

Jandar lowered his voice.

“Could be us.”

“Could be,” Zook said.

Deacon did not believe it. They had been making enough noise to silence half the countryside for the last mile. Vegon said, “What are we looking for?”

“Nothing yet,” Deacon replied.

“That’s comforting.”

“Stay behind me,” Deacon said.

Vegon’s eyebrows rose.

“I am capable of defending myself,” Vegon said.

“I know,” Deacon replied.

That seemed to satisfy him less than Deacon had hoped. Xil looked toward the trees.

“Someone is there,” Xil said.

Deacon turned.

“You see them?” Deacon asked.

“No,” Xil said.

“Then how—”

A bowstring snapped. Deacon moved before the arrow reached them. He caught Vegon by the shoulder and shoved him sideways. The arrow passed through the space where the elf’s throat had been and buried itself in the road. Jandar was already moving.

“That,” he said, drawing steel, “felt unfriendly.”

Three men came out of the trees. Two more rose from the slope opposite them—not soldiers. Wrong stance. Wrong spacing. Mixed weapons. One man had a rusted sword, another an axe, two bows between them, one spear. Road thieves. Hungry ones, judging by the clothes. Dangerous enough. The bowman on the slope drew again. Deacon shot him. The crossbow kicked against his shoulder. The bolt caught the man high in the chest and spun him backward out of sight.

Everyone moved at once. Jandar went forward. Of course he did. He slipped past the spearman’s first thrust with such casual ease that Deacon almost mistook it for luck. It was not. Jandar’s rapier flicked once. The spearman screamed and dropped his weapon. Zook went right. Fast. Faster than Deacon expected from someone with legs that short. The man with the axe swung down at him. Zook wasn’t there anymore.

He moved inside the strike, drove his shoulder into the man’s knee, and sent both of them tumbling into the ditch. Vegon spoke behind Deacon. A word in a language Deacon did not know. The air changed. Deacon hated that part. It always happened just before magic. A pressure built, thin and sharp, as though the world had pulled something tight. Light gathered around Vegon’s hand. It should have been clean. It wasn’t.

For half a heartbeat the pale glow turned the color of a bruise. Vegon flinched. Then a burst of force struck the second bowman. The man flew backward into a tree. The sound of impact was ugly. So was the smell that followed the spell. Hot metal. Rain on old stone. Something bitter at the back of Deacon’s tongue. Vegon stared at his own hand. Deacon saw his fingers tremble. Then the swordsman reached Jandar. Deacon stopped watching the wizard.

The road narrowed. Jandar moved between two attackers, one blade sliding past his coat, another forcing him toward the ditch. Deacon raised the crossbow. No shot. Jandar was in the way.

“Move,” Deacon said.

Jandar did not hear him. Or ignored him. Likely the second. One bandit lunged. Jandar twisted sideways. There. Deacon fired. The bolt passed close enough to Jandar’s shoulder that it stirred his coat. It struck the bandit behind him. The man dropped. Jandar glanced back.

“Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” Deacon said.

“You missed me by inches.”

“More than enough.”

“Your confidence in me is touching,” Jandar said.

“Wasn’t confidence,” Deacon replied.

Jandar grinned and turned back into the fight. Deacon began reloading. The man Zook had knocked into the ditch recovered first. He kicked the gnome away and scrambled up with his axe. Xil stepped forward. The cleric lifted one hand. Deacon had seen divine magic before. It did not feel like Vegon’s—not exactly. There was still wrongness in it. Everything magical in Istram carried some trace of the old wound. But Xil’s power arrived with weight rather than tension.

A brief dark shimmer crossed his fingers. Then pale radiance struck the axeman. The man collapsed as though something had hit him from inside. Xil’s face did not change.

“That’s five,” Jandar said.

“No,” Zook replied.

Deacon turned.

Six.

The last man had been lying flat beyond the road. Smart. He came up behind Vegon with a knife. Deacon did not have the crossbow loaded. Too far. Jandar was engaged. Zook was climbing out of the ditch. Xil was turned the wrong way. Deacon dropped the crossbow. He drew the shorter hand weapon at his side and moved. The bandit grabbed Vegon from behind. The knife rose. Vegon reacted on instinct. Magic flashed.

Wrong.

Very wrong. The light around him folded inward instead of out. Vegon gasped. The bandit shouted and let go. For an instant both men staggered as if struck by the same invisible blow. Deacon reached them. He hit the attacker once. Hard. The man went down. Vegon nearly followed. Xil caught his arm.

“Sit,” Xil said.

Vegon pulled away.

“I’m fine,” Vegon said.

“You are bleeding,” Xil replied.

That surprised everyone. Vegon looked down. Blood ran from his nose. Only a little. Still. Jandar wiped his blade on a bandit’s coat.

“Does that happen often?” Jandar asked.

Vegon touched the blood with two fingers.

“No.”

Xil looked at him. Vegon amended, “Not that often.”

“Very reassuring,” Jandar said.

Deacon picked up his crossbow. He checked the limbs first, then the string. Fine. He looked around. Six attackers. Two alive. Possibly three if the first bowman had only been badly hit, but Deacon doubted it. Zook crouched beside one of the surviving men.

“He’s breathing,” Zook said.

“Good,” Jandar said. “He can explain why he thought robbing five armed travelers was sensible.”

The man groaned. Zook looked up.

“Probably because he thought he could,” Zook said.

“An excellent explanation,” Jandar replied.

Deacon scanned the trees again. No movement. Still no birds. He hated that.

“Keep it quick,” he said.

Jandar turned.

“Who put you in charge?”

“No one,” Deacon said.

“Good. I’d hate to have missed the ceremony.”

Deacon pointed toward the trees.

“They might have friends,” Deacon said.

Jandar’s expression sharpened. There it was again. The jokes stopped when they needed to. Useful. They searched the dead and wounded. Little of value. A few coins. Dry bread. A flask that smelled bad enough to be either very cheap liquor or medicine. No badges. No uniforms. No sign of any larger group. The surviving spearman woke while Xil was tying a strip of cloth around his arm. He jerked away at the sight of the drow. Xil did not react.

“Easy,” Zook said.

The man stared at all five of them. Then at the Silver Crown mark visible beneath Deacon’s rolled sleeve. His face changed.

“Didn’t know.”

Jandar crouched in front of him.

“Didn’t know what?”

“Order.”

“Would that have changed your career planning?”

The man swallowed.

“Maybe.”

“Honest. I appreciate that,” Jandar said.

Deacon stood behind Jandar. The bandit noticed him. People often did.

“You been on this road long?” Deacon asked.

The man nodded.

“Few weeks.”

“Seen anything moving north?”

The bandit looked confused.

“Travelers.”

“Not travelers.”

Deacon watched his eyes.

“Creatures. Raiders. Gnolls.”

The man’s face changed. Tiny. But enough. Deacon felt something inside him go still.

“You’ve seen them,” Deacon said.

The bandit looked away.

“Not close.”

“Where?”

“East of the road.”

“How many?”

“Don’t know.”

“How many?”

“Ten. Maybe fifteen. More.”

Jandar glanced toward Deacon. Deacon ignored him.

“When?” Deacon asked.

“Four nights.”

“What were they doing?”

“Moving north.”

“Armed?”

The man laughed nervously.

“They’re gnolls.”

Deacon’s hand tightened on the crossbow. For a moment the road was somewhere else—not another road—not really. Just the same sound inside his head. Howling. Too many voices. He shut it down. The way he always did.

“What else?” Deacon asked.

The bandit shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“Think.”

“They weren’t hunting.”

That brought Deacon back.

“What?”

“They didn’t chase us.”

“Why would that matter?”

The man looked embarrassed.

“Because we ran.”

Jandar said, “A sound policy.”

“They saw us. Had to. We were close enough. They just kept going,” the bandit said.

Deacon looked north. Gnolls that ignored easy prey. That was wrong. Zook had come closer.

“Pack moving somewhere specific,” Zook said.

“Looks like it,” Deacon said.

Vegon wiped the last blood from beneath his nose.

“Arrowdale?” Vegon asked.

“Maybe,” Deacon said.

No one said anything for a moment. Deacon looked at the prisoner.

“How far east?” Deacon asked.

The man pointed.

“Old game trail. Half mile maybe,” the bandit said.

Zook nodded.

“I can look,” Zook said.

“No,” Deacon said.

Zook stared at him.

“We have a mission,” Deacon said.

“It might be connected,” Zook replied.

“It might be nothing.”

“The missing team went north.”

Deacon knew that. He also knew what happened when men started chasing every sign of a hated enemy into the hills. He knew better. Had learned better. Eventually.

“We get to Arrowdale first,” he said.

Zook considered. Then nodded. Jandar stood.

“Look at that. Leadership.”

Deacon gave him a flat stare.

“You keep saying that word.”

“I enjoy watching how much you dislike it.”

They left the surviving bandits tied near the road with enough water to last until the next travelers found them. Jandar objected to leaving the cheap liquor. Zook objected to Jandar objecting. Vegon said very little. That concerned Deacon more. They resumed north. For perhaps half an hour, nobody mentioned the fight. Then Jandar said, “That bolt.” Deacon kept walking.

“What about it?” Deacon asked.

“The one that nearly removed my ear,” Jandar said.

“It wasn’t near your ear.”

“I felt it.”

“You felt wind.”

“Created by a deadly projectile.”

“You’re welcome,” Deacon said.

Jandar stared at him. Zook laughed. Even Xil made that almost-smile again. Vegon did not. Deacon looked back. The elf flexed his hand. Slowly. As if testing whether it still belonged to him.

“You all right?” Deacon asked.

Vegon looked up.

“Yes,” Vegon said.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It was exactly what you asked.”

Deacon stopped. So did everyone else. Vegon sighed.

“The spell recoiled,” Vegon said.

“Why?”

“If I knew, it would be less concerning.”

Jandar said, “Can your magic always decide to attack you?” Vegon looked annoyed.

“Magic does not decide anything,” Vegon said.

“That’s precisely what a thing planning rebellion would want us to believe.”

Vegon ignored him. Xil said, “The corruption.” Vegon looked at him. Xil continued.

“It felt stronger around the second spell.”

“Yes,” Vegon replied.

Deacon frowned.

“You could feel it?”

“Everyone can feel it.”

“Not like that.”

Xil’s gaze moved to Deacon.

“No,” Xil replied.

Vegon rubbed his fingers together.

“The structure broke.”

Jandar blinked.

“The what?”

“The spell.”

“I understood that part.”

Vegon looked down the road as if arranging the explanation.

“Magic has form. Patterns. Rules. You construct what you want it to do, feed power into the shape, and release it.”

Deacon said, “And?”

“And sometimes the taint interferes.”

“Sometimes?”

Vegon looked at the dried blood on his glove.

“Sometimes more than others.”

Zook said, “Can it kill you?” No one joked. Vegon hesitated.

“Yes,” Vegon said.

Deacon did not like the answer. He liked even less how calmly the elf gave it.

“Then don’t use it unless you need to,” Deacon said.

Vegon looked offended.

“That is not how wizardry works,” Vegon replied.

“Seems exactly how staying alive works,” Deacon said.

Jandar turned toward Xil.

“Does yours do the same?”

“Not the same.”

“Comforting.”

“It can still go wrong.”

“Less comforting.”

Xil looked at him.

“Would you prefer I stop healing you?”

Jandar considered.

“I withdraw the question.”

That broke the tension. A little. They kept walking. The afternoon warmed. The road ran through open farmland, then entered long stretches of low woodland. Farms became less frequent. Fences sagged. Once they passed a burned wagon abandoned in a drainage ditch, but it looked old enough that no one stopped. Zook continued reading the road. Deacon found himself reading the people. Jandar got restless when nothing happened. Vegon grew more talkative as the pain from the spell faded.

Xil seemed perfectly comfortable with silence. Zook whistled when he thought no one was listening. By late afternoon, their formation had settled without discussion. Zook ranged ahead. Jandar drifted between him and Deacon. Vegon and Xil stayed nearer the center. Deacon watched the rear whenever the road narrowed. They were not good yet—not as a group. Jandar moved too far forward. Vegon stopped walking when he read. Xil sometimes disappeared behind everyone because he made so little noise.

Zook followed tracks farther from the road than Deacon liked. But nobody had frozen when the arrows came. Nobody had run. Nobody had made the fight worse trying to prove something. That was more than Deacon expected from a first day. Near sundown, Zook found a good campsite on a low rise away from the road. Dry ground. Water nearby. Clear enough sightlines. Deacon approved. He did not say so. Jandar looked at the trees.

“No inn?”

“There’s one in Windmarch,” Zook said.

“Excellent. Let’s go back.”

“No,” Zook said.

“I appreciate your decisiveness.”

They ate cold food from the Order packs. Jandar complained about it. Deacon suspected he would have complained if the Order had packed roasted pheasant and wine. Vegon sat near the fire examining the map. Xil checked the bandage on his own hand where one blade had grazed him. Zook cleaned dirt from his boots. Deacon restrung the crossbow. Again. Jandar noticed.

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes.”

“You checked it after the fight.”

“Yes.”

“And before the fight.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it forgets how to be a crossbow?”

Deacon looked at him.

“You clean your sword?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Jandar opened his mouth. Closed it. Zook laughed into his cup.

“That’s one,” Deacon said.

Jandar pointed at him.

“I’ll remember this.”

“Do that,” Deacon said.

They set watches. Nobody argued about it. That surprised Deacon. He took the second. The night was cool. Quiet. Too quiet at times. He stood near the edge of camp with the crossbow resting against his shoulder and looked north. Somewhere ahead was Arrowdale. Somewhere beyond that, five Silver Crown members had vanished. And somewhere east of the road, gnolls had moved north in enough numbers to frighten men who made their living robbing armed travelers. Deacon stared into the dark.

He could still hear the bandit. They weren’t hunting. That bothered him. Gnolls hunted. Gnolls killed because killing was there to be done. They did not ignore prey. Not unless something else mattered more. A branch shifted behind him. Deacon turned. Jandar approached quietly. Quieter than he had any right to.

“Your watch isn’t over,” Deacon said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you awake?”

“Your personality.”

Deacon looked back at the trees. Jandar stopped beside him. For once, he did not fill the silence immediately. After a while he said, “You knew something when he mentioned gnolls.” Deacon’s shoulders tightened.

“No.”

“That was a poor lie.”

“Wasn’t a lie.”

“Then it was a terrible truth.”

Deacon looked at him. Jandar raised both hands.

“Not asking.”

“Good.”

“Just telling you I noticed.”

“Why?”

“Because if you decide to murder every gnoll between here and Arrowdale, I would prefer warning.”

Deacon stared at him. Then, against his better judgment, he laughed. Quietly. Once. Jandar smiled.

“There. Knew you could.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll treasure the moment.”

“Go.”

Jandar started back toward the fire. He stopped.

“Deacon.”

“What?”

“When we were fighting.”

Deacon waited.

“The shot past my shoulder.”

“What about it?”

Jandar grinned in the dark.

“Next time, give me an inch more.”

“No.”

“Thought I’d ask.”

He walked away. Deacon watched him settle near the fire. Then he looked north again. The old anger was still there. It always would be. But it was not the only thing there anymore. That surprised him. At dawn, they broke camp. By midmorning the farms appeared again. Smaller than those near Windmarch. More isolated. A few people watched from fields as the five passed. No one waved. Zook moved slower.

He had started noticing abandoned paths and tracks leading away from the road. Deacon saw shuttered windows. A gate hanging open. A field partly harvested and then left unfinished. Jandar noticed too. He stopped joking. Near noon, the road climbed a shallow rise. Zook reached the top first. Then stood still. The others joined him. Arrowdale lay below. A cluster of timber houses. Barns. A smithy. Fields running outward toward low hills. Smoke rose from only a few chimneys.

No children ran between the buildings. No wagons moved. No dogs barked. Deacon looked north beyond the settlement. The hills waited. Dark lines of stone and trees. Somewhere in them, five members of the Order had disappeared. Jandar exhaled.

“Cheerful place.”

Zook’s eyes were on the ground.

“What?” Deacon asked.

The gnome pointed toward the road descending into town. Tracks. Old ones. New ones. People. Carts. Livestock. And other marks farther off the road. Too distant to read from here. Zook’s face had changed.

“I want a closer look,” Zook said.

Deacon nodded. This time he did not tell him no. The five started down toward Arrowdale. No one had to discuss their formation. Zook took the front. Deacon moved left. Jandar moved right. Vegon and Xil stayed between them. It had happened again. Deacon noticed. He said nothing.