The Hag's Contract

Nine

Over the next few days, Parniel Bowspear led his men southeast across gently rolling farmlands and through patches of dense forest. Settlements became fewer and farther between, though there were numerous signs that people had once dwelt here—an abandoned logging camp, tracks and trails, a few deserted farmsteads.

The company made good time, and at noon on the third day, they came to the Drachenlok, the wide, rough river spilling down from the Drachenaur Mountains into Wolfgaard Bay.

Bowspear stood on the bank, gazing across the river for a few moments. Though lower than in the summer months, when melting snow sent it flooding over its banks, the channel was still vast and imposing, easily five hundred yards across. And, at this time of year, it would be cold as ice. He didn’t look forward to swimming. How would Evann plan on crossing? Probably at a ford. Bowspear thought he’d once heard of one just into the mountains to their left.

“This way,” he said, turning and heading upriver. They had to be at least half a day ahead of Evann, and Bowspear didn’t want to lose his lead.

Once they were across, there would be two ways into the Hag’s Domain. One lay through the pass at Gletscherel Felsen, where another small river fell from the mountains in a dazzling series of waterfalls. The other way lay through the Warde Pass.

Bowspear decided to use Warde Pass. Evann would be interested in speed, and the pass lay half a day’s journey closer.

And, it was an excellent place for an ambush….

In Alber, Haltengabben checked the pigeon coop on the roof of the Temple of Ela. While sunning herself in the courtyard behind the temple, she had heard a brief flutter of wings, and sure enough, a familiar-looking gray carrier pigeon had arrived. He now sat perched just outside the coop, cooing softly.

Making a soft crooning sound in reply, Haltengabben reached out, plucked him off the wooden peg, and turned him over to look at his legs.

He wore a message band. She untied it, stuck the pigeon in the coop with the rest of the birds, and quickly headed for her office. This, she knew, was the reply she had been expecting from her sister temple in Grevesmühl.

Once she had locked her door, she sat at her desk and carefully unfolded the tiny piece of parchment. The crablike script held three simple words:

Haltengabben felt a brief burst of elation. They had agreed to the terms she’d offered. Crumpling the parchment, she tossed it into the fire, where it was quickly consumed.

Loran was the assassin’s name. He would arrive secretly, by night, coming up the coast in a small black boat. One of her people would meet him, and she would house him in the temple, but the two of them would never meet. That was how these things worked: should anything unfortunate happen, nobody would be able to connect her to him. He would just be a fallen member of the Temple of Ela.

The message would have been sent yesterday, she thought. It would be a two-day trip by boat.

She nodded. That would be soon enough to kill the wizard, she thought.

Captain Evann paused atop the bank of the Drachenlok, then quickly dropped back, motioning for his men to take cover. They flattened themselves on the ground around him.

“Fishermen,” he said. “From Wolfgaard, I think.”

In his brief glimpse of the river, he’d seen a small sailing boat moored not far from shore. Two men and a boy had been on board, pulling in nets. They must have set them the night before, and now they were hauling in a day’s catch of fish.

Slowly, on his elbows, he eased forward until he could just peer over the top of the riverbank. Sure enough, they hadn’t noticed him. They seemed completely caught up in their work. It wouldn’t take them long to finish. He’d need a plan quickly.

Harrach crawled up beside him. “We’re taking it, aren’t we, sir?” he whispered, a broad knowing grin on his face.

“Aye, that’s the plan,” Evann said. The fishermen’s boat would save them quite a bit of walking … and it would carry them to Gletscherel Felsen, which would save even more time. The pass through the mountains there was shorter than the one at Warde Pass, where he’d planned to lead his men.

He crawled backward. “Uwe,” he said, turning to the lad, “take off your armor. Your fair hair makes you look enough like a Wolfgaarder to pass for one at this distance. You signal them, and when they come ashore to help, we’ll take their boat….”

Taggart grinned and peeled off his leather armor. In his gray tunic, without his sword or helm, he looked even more like a boy … slight of stature, surely of no danger to two grown men.

Standing, he jogged down to the edge of the river, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Hulloo!” as loud as he could, imitating the nasal accent of the Wolfgaarders.

From his hidden vantage point, Evann winced a bit. The kid was overdoing it, he thought. Luckily the wind would hide most of what he said.

One of the men from the skiff “Hullooed” back.

Taggart shouted, “I need help! My boat hit a rock and sank!”

“We’ll come ashore and pick you up soon’s we’re done!” one of the men called. “Wait there!”

Taggart turned, found a rock, and sat patiently. When he tucked his face down in his arms, Evann smiled. He looked cold, beaten, and unhappy … exactly like someone who’d just lost a boat.

The fishermen finished pulling in their nets. They seemed to have taken the bait. They raised their sail, turned their boat to the wind, and tacked toward shore.

“Weapons ready,” Evann said softly to his men. He eased his long sword from its scabbard. Everyone around him did likewise. “On my command, we charge.”

He waited patiently. The boat grew closer. The second he heard its bottom scrape on sand, he leapt to his feet, screamed a war cry, and raced down the bank.

The three people on board looked shocked. Frantically they tried to turn the sail to catch the wind, but by then it was too late. Evann splashed out knee deep in the icy water and threw himself onto the boat’s deck.

One man rushed him with a harpoon, but he knocked it aside with his sword and punched the man in the side of the face. He reeled back, dazed, dropping the weapon. Evann put his blade to the man’s throat as the rest of his company climbed aboard.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” he said loudly to the other two, the second man and the boy, who had climbed as far back in the stem as they could. They had terrified expressions on their faces.

“What do you want, our fish?” the first man demanded. He was trying for bravado, but his limp body and pasty white skin told of his true fear. “Take as much as you want. There’s plenty.”

“I want the boat,” Evann growled. “Ashore with you! We’ll leave it at Gletscherel Felsen. You can get it there next week.”

“But why—”

“None of your concern!” Evann pricked his neck with the sword blade. “Do you agree?”

The man gave a slight nod.

Evann released him. Calling to his companions, the fisherman sullenly picked up his cap, stuck it on his head, and leapt from the prow of the boat to the riverbank. The other two followed him.

Everyone gave a long cheer, like they’d just won a major battle instead of stolen a boat from barely armed fishermen. Well, let them, Evann thought. It would keep their spirits up.

He headed aft to take the rudder, calling orders. In seconds Harrach and Wolfgar had the sails set, and they glided out smoothly across the river.

Evann steered south, following the river downstream. Rather than cross to the Warde Pass, they would head out to Wolfgaard Bay, across to the Gletscherel River, and then up the river to the falls … and the pass they offered.