Rai Half-head lay very still in the cold mud covering the edge of the river, ignoring his shivering hand, achingly empty stomach, and lack of any idea which direction the nearest settlement was. He really wished he had paid more attention to One-eye’s lessons on geography. He held his one trembling hand very firmly over the mouth of Fool, like a strap holding a chest filled with death closed. He was very pointedly not moving, aware as he was of the rough cloth and leather boots tracking along the riverbank not twenty feet from where he and the duke’s son lay.

If there’s one thing I be knowing from me time as a message-boy, it’s that ye act like yer dead when a foe-man be lookin’ fer ye, else-wise, yer liable tae wind up that way. That means lie flat as a flap-jack on a poor man’s grill, still as the face of a dodgy ol’ gambler, and quiet as a drugged mouse..

Rai felt Fool start to inhale slowly, winding up for a sneeze, and quickly stuffed two of his fingers up the man’s nostrils. There was nothing to cut off a sneeze like having something suddenly invade the personal space of your sinuses. The Fool stiffened beside him, and Rai could almost see the reproach on the man’s face. He shrugged internally at that. It wasn’t the politest way of doing things, but Rai would be damned if he was going to get caught out just because the Fool couldn’t handle a little chilly water.

The had been laying, covered in cold, wet mud, on the side of the Dupandover for roughly four hours, by Rai’s count. The first two had been the worst, as it had still been light out, and the risk of being spotted by the scouts sent back to look for them had been much higher. Once sun had set they were safer, and they had more time to work with. The strategy had been to wait out whoever was looking for them, then hightail it into the woods, and it had appeared a good one.

So, Rai had set in to wait, patiently biding his time and trying to avoid the uncomfortable smooshed position he found himself in. If someone had told him two years before that he would be spooning in the moonlight with a member of the high nobility on the banks of the Dupandover, he’d have laughed in their presumably drunken face. However, he did wonder if it was too much to ask that said member of the nobility was of a more feminine persuasion. Chaff, even Big-man would’ve been better; at least his backside wasn’t so blasted bony. Fool’s left hip-bone had been digging into Rai’s stomach rather uncomfortably, and he had had just about enough of that. Regardless, however, it was a temporary discomfort. Ultimately, it should last for no more than a few hours until they could make their escape into the woods.

Unfortunately, however, the foe-man that was so close to them had decided that this particular portion of beach was more deserving of attention than the rest, and had spent the past half-an-hour scouring it like a priest looking for converts in a brothel. In other words, with the utmost stupidity. Admittedly, the people the man was looking for were closer at hand than he probably even realized, but Rai was relatively confident that the man hadn’t the slightest idea that there was anyone on the beach, seeing as he had been looking in the same spot for upwards of five minutes.

Beside Rai, Fool stirred slightly. Rai clamped down on the man’s face hard, pulling his index and middle fingers from the man’s nose to latch onto his cheekbone, and positioning his hook over Fool’s throat, screaming Rai’s message loud and clear.

Get me caught out, ye thrice threshed, pig-loving, fiddle-footed, poxy-ridden bastard, and ye’ll be dyin’ first-like, I can promise ye that.

Rai would do it too. He didn’t have any reason not to really, as not even three days ago, this very man had the gall to backhand his little sister. Rai, however, was the generous sort, and was willing to overlook the man’s transgressions, both for the fact that Big-man saw to his punishment, and the apology that was issued directly to Mute, Natalia, and Sword-woman. Aye, he was the generous sort, so long as it didn’t get his arse killed.

Fool froze, no doubt getting the message as loud and clear as if a deaf clergyman was laying down the fire and brimstone not two feet from his ears. He nodded once, very slowly and deliberately, and stayed still. Then, the thrice threshed, pig-loving, fiddle-footed, poxy-ridden bastard… sneezed. Oh, and what a sneeze it was. A sneeze to wake the Reaper himself.

The watcher whipped around towards them, dagger in hand, and Rai began to press his iron hook into the hollow of Fool’s throat, lamenting the fact that he didn’t have longer to beat the value of silence into the man’s idiotic arse. Just as the hook was about to draw blood, however, there was another sound. Another sneeze. This one from an otter, in line with the two young men on the beach, but towards the water by another five feet. Then, there was another, and another. One right after the other. Rai dared to hope, releasing some pressure on the throat of the Fool. The watcher let out what Rai wagered was a curse, though he didn’t speak the Vencheng tongue. He lost his temper then, reflexive throwing both his knife and his curses at the poor animal on the banks of the river. Rai almost shook his head at the action, but contained his expression of contempt to a twisted smirk.

Oh aye, ye great, blithering, dung-bungler, he thought to himself, Throw something at the animal. Aye, that’d be a right mighty help tae ye wouldn’t it.

The watcher was obviously frustrated, out searching late into the night as he was. If Rai had to take a guess, he’d say that it was probably a punishment duty rather than a standard one. That would reinforce the idea that the man was an idiot, which was fine by Rai. He liked being proven right.

As he watched, the otter bent over and picked up the knife, which had predictably missed, in its handlike paws, chattering away at its new shiny treasure as moon reflected off the metal. The watcher cursed again as he realized what was happening, and he darted for the little beast, passing within feet of where Rai and Fool lay covered in heaps of mud and bark, pretending with all their might to be nothing but a mud-covered log. Fortunately, the mud was very wet, so the two had sunk quite a bit in the hours since they were first forced to hide here by the tightly spaced patrols. They had sunk just enough, that their shapes didn’t quite look human enough to be noticed.

The otter, predictably, darted away from the giant creature chasing it, letting out a hiss. As the man chased the otter down the beach and around a bend that led into an inlet, Rai made an oath to himself. If ever he obtained enough money to purchase himself a title in the nobility, his sigil would be a sneezing otter, no matter what in the name of the blazing chaff anybody else thought about that. Rai sat up, scanning the surroundings anxiously. The patrols had drifted apart after dark, probably as more and more people turned in for the night, and there were no more scouts in sight. He dragged Fool to his feet, and scrambled up the embankment as fast as his mud slogged feet would take him.

“Move it!” he hissed at the nobleman, “Or I might be deciding tae stick me hook through yer air-pipe anyhow!”

Fool gave him an insulted look then, and looked on the verge of hissing something back. But then the nobleman took a breath, and nodded once, increasing the pace of his trudging. And with that, the two of them slipped unnoticed into the foliage, firmly excavating themselves from the clutches of the cutthroats who had the rest of their travelling party.

***

Valerna dragged herself onto the rocky shingle beach on the southern shore of the Dupandover, working hard to ignore the gash in her shoulder, her sprained left wrist, and the knot on her head that seemed to be the central location for the pounding drums of a concussion to take up their beat. She did not, she decided, under any circumstances, suggest white-water rafting without a raft as a viable sport. It seemed in poor taste to do something so foolish when there might be a perfectly good raft just sitting there.

She grimaced, holding back a yelp of pain as she mistakenly put pressure on her left hand, and collapsed face-first into the gravely dirt. She rolled over and looked at her hands, holding back a wince as she did so. She’d manage to get her wrists free of the rope before she hit the rapids, though she had to dislocate her left thumb, and accept some hefty rope burns to manage it. Her thumb was now back in socket, but the throbbing dissonance of pain from that injury had been joined by the piercing notes of her wrist now sprained, and the dull, thudding percussion of the back of her head, which had bounced off the rocks one too many times. The gash she had earned in her shoulder was something she could hardly feel through the fuzziness in her mind, she was too focused on the moment, for once, to notice anything else. Oddly enough, the pain seemed to help her ability to concentrate, usually so elusive, rather than hurt it. She had a concussion, she dully realized.

“I’m concussed…” she giggled slightly, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t concentrating quite so well after all. What were you supposed to do when you experienced head trauma again? What was it she needed? She heard a weary sigh, then Natalia’s ever-irritated voice.

Food, Val. Water. You know, things that are basically intrinsic to your survival. Reaper threshing scythe and sickle, I swear you’ll be the death of me. Then sleep. Reaper knows you have to be the only person on the face of the earth who had to be told that sleep is necessary for continued function.

“Oh. Yeah. That’d be nice.” Valerna murmured.

She looked around, taking in her surrounding for the first time. She saw a man then, washed up on the shore, with a familiar-looking longsword lodged deep in his shoulder. She knew if she looked closer at the pommel, she would see three cresting waves delicately engraved into it. By all rights a trip through the rapids should have dented and pitted the blade, much in the same way it had the man to whom it was attached. This sword, however, was of masterful quality, and had survived the trip, if not unscathed, then none the worse for wear.

Valerna stumbled up to the man, intending to ask if he knew where she might find some food and water. She realized, somewhat dully, that this might not be the best idea. She remembered being attacked on the boat, by men who looked much like this. Asking for directions might not be the best of ideas. It was at that point that she realized that it was unlikely to be a problem, as she noticed the large, bloody dent in the side of the man’s head, probably caused by a river rock. She giggled again.

“He’s concussed too…” Then she looked at the sword sticking out of him, and the notable lack of movement from his lungs, and her face stilled. “Oh.” She said, sounding not unlike a very serious child. “Not concussed then.”

She grabbed the sword and pulled it out with a squelch, wincing slightly at the noise, which aggravated her pounding head, encouraging the drummers to pick up tempo. She put the sword to the side and rummaged through the man’s pockets, and the pouched strapped to his belt. She didn’t like looting corpses, but it would hardly be the first time she had dug through a dead man’s pockets. Although before, she had been admittedly looking for anything the family of the deceased might value as a memento, rather than something for her own gain. She was rewarded for her efforts when she found a canteen and some once-dry jerky, now soaked by the Dupandover’s clear waters. She looked at the sword then, and realized that she didn’t have a scabbard for it. She frowned. That wouldn’t do. Father would be upset with her if she did not properly care for the blade. So, she of course did the only sensible thing she could, she took the scabbard from the dead man.

It would hardly be a perfect fit, Valerna knew. The shape was all wrong, curved as it was, but it was the length of a great sword’s blade, and broader then most Whoid Strian swords, made to hold what looked more like a giant curved cleaver than a sword. However, the length and width of the scabbard meant that it should be able to accommodate Caj’s longsword well enough, until she could find a better one.

So, she got to work rolling the body over. It was at this point that she registered that the man was Vencheng, primarily because the lighter, thinner builds typical to their race made it easier for her to roll him over. As she heaved him upright, then onto his front, his body let out a great gout of flatulence, and Valerna wrinkled her nose, glad she didn’t have a match with her, otherwise she might’ve unintentionally started a forest fire.

Once the man was one his back, she wrestled the baldric off of him, and stowed the longsword in it, after cleaning the blade on the dead man’s shirt. At the base of his belt there was a sealed leather tube. It was dangerously close to the lace that had so recently blasted pungent wind to the world, but she took it anyways, counting her blessings. Opening it, she saw a map. That was a good thing, she was sure, although her mind was still a little too fuzzy to piece together why. Just then, she hear rustling in the bushes up the way from her, and voices that sounded like they were speaking a different tongue. Laughter, followed by silence and a protracted hiss. They were relieving themselves she realized. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she was reasonably certain that she didn’t need to be staying here any longer. She carefully rolled the dead man back over, then stole into the trees, quiet as the dreams of trees. Did trees dream? Valerna didn’t know, but she supposed if they did, it would have to be very quiet indeed, as in her experience, most trees were always silent, even if they were awake.

***

Braxton Bolindear, Command Sergeant Major of the third brigade of his majesty’s intelligence division, was sitting by a fire, wishing by the name of his dearly departed mother that he had just elected to retire rather than take a vacation to Goldstern. Yes, he’d have missed the opportunity to bond with Captain O’Donnell. Aye, he might never have seen the lad he was certain was the blood of Dougal Donovan. Indeed, he might not even have been able to read some of what were now his favorite books, but damn if it wouldn’t be worth all of that to just not have bloody soggy boots. They were a pain in the arse at the best of times, and now was certainly not that.

Braxton rubbed his weary face, fingers tracing the scar that arced down from right eye to jaw, and let out a sigh. He wished he had some blasted brandy. Chaff, even a tankard of weak ale would do. He normally wasn’t one for alcohol, but after some days, after days like today, a man needed a bloody drink.

Braxton had dived over the side of the boat as soon as he’d seen the two ships awaiting them, knowing it wasn’t worth the trouble of staying. Better to get out and report the presence of banditry on the river, than to die along with the rest of the crew. Fortunately, it seemed that the pirates had been after prisoners of the political sort, as all the individuals they took into custody were of seeming political importance. They had taken the horses and the barge too, which boded well in his mind. The level of strategic planning seemed to be most likely military in nature rather than banditry. Combining that with the Vencheng look of the attackers, and he could be reasonably assured in the well-being of his companions. They might be marked as slaves, or prisoners, but little harm should come to them as long as they stayed in line. Even the women would be safe, as the Vencheng had a strangely twisted belief regarding the sanctity of their bodies while in service to the empire. They believed themselves to be one with the will of the emperor, and thusly, anything they did with their body, they did to the emperors. This cultic mindset, while morally disputable at best, worked wonders for soldier’s discipline. Soldiers in the Vencheng army did not drink, have sex, or even swear, as that would be to dishonor the holy name of the emperor.

Braxton paused his thought process to squeeze a little more liquid out of his shirt, which was still somehow damp. It was chilly out and he could really use the cover that the shirt would provide. His back and chest were hairy, as any man’s should be in his opinion, but they weren’t that hairy. He hung the shirt up on a makeshift line over the fire, then leaned forward to warm himself a little more. Not too close, though, he wouldn’t want his aforementioned hair to catch fire.

Braxton pulled his thoughts away from the fire, planning his next move. As he reckoned matters, he was on the northern bank of the Dupandover, somewhere about halfway between Swallow’s Rest and Ingot. Ingot was a critical mining city up the Tinted River, a regular sized river that served as a Tributary for the massive Dupandover Run. There would be smaller towns between here and there, but no settlement of any real size. No settlement with a garrison large enough to give necessary responsive action to a force the size of the one he had seen. That meant it was either Ingot or the Swallows Rest. Swallows rest was on the southern bank of the Dupandover, which meant it would require him to fjord the river. Not an impossible task perhaps, but daunting nonetheless. The Dupandover was so wide at some points that you couldn’t actually see the northern bank from the southern, or vice versa. Admittedly, those sections tended to be closer to Great-River, and out this way the banks narrowed out.

The difference was, that it was much, much deeper here. Braxton would rather not try to fjord the river here, not so close to the rapids, and where the water was known to flow so fast. That meant he was headed for Ingot. Somewhere between 75 and 150 miles of rough terrain, 20 to 30 of that mountainous, as the King’s highway was scheduled to begin work on these parts until the next year. Braxton Let out a mighty sigh, and massaged his knees. This was not going to be very fun. His knees simply weren’t built for this anymore. He looked at the heavy emergency pack he had thrown over the side then dove after and let out another resigned whoosh of air. Hells, his back wasn’t built for this anymore. Why hadn’t he just retired. A voice snapped him out of his stupor.

“That be a mighty big sigh fer a man with a warm fire and a full belly, don’t it be, Sergeant-man?”

Braxton turned around to see two figures traipsing out of the wood, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky, with only one hand. The tall thin one was limping something awful, and on closer examination, his left ankle appeared to be severely sprained. As they came into the firelight, Braxton noticed two things primarily as he looked at the short stocky one.

Strong knees? Check. He paused, then looked at his heavy pack. Strong Back? Check. He smiled then.

“Say, Rai Half-head, boyo.” He help up a piece of the deer he had found and killed earlier. “What say you and I make a deal?”