The Great Rift

  Edward W. Robertson

  © 2011

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Special thanks to Eileen, Geoff, Chris, Scott, and my family. Without them, this book would have been typo-riddled, discontinuity-addled, and altogether at least 15% less awesome.

  DEDICATION

  To Caitlin, for letting me get lost in other worlds

  GASK, MALLON, & SURROUNDING TERRITORIES

  A larger version of this map may be found at http://www.edwardwrobertson.com/p/map.html

  1

  They would know his treason in two hundred feet.

  The wagon jolted over a snow-covered hole, shaking the swords in its belly. Down the path through the pines, six soldiers waited, laughter drifting on the icy air. Dante's blood ran as cold as the snows. The soldiers stood across the road astride their horses, red shirts glaring from their chests, straight swords hanging from their hips. Their mounts were lean and travel-worn and snorted gouts of steam that mingled with the mist. The wagon rattled again. One of the men pointed down the path. Dante swore. It was too late to turn back.

  Blays leaned in to the driver. "Stop the cart."

  "What are you doing?" Dante said.

  "Stopping the cart."

  "Should I stop the cart?" the driver said.

  "Only if you don't want to get punched," Blays said.

  The cart's wheels skidded in the snow-mucked dirt. Dante pitched forward, grabbing his wooden seat before he spilled into the road. Down the way, the riders stared.

  "Well, that ought to throw them off our trail." Dante twisted in his seat to gaze at the muddy wagon. "What do we tell them? That we're taking these arms to Narashtovik?"

  Blays rubbed his mouth. "Those swords are seven feet long. They weigh twelve pounds. What are we going to tell them, they're bound for the race of giants it isn't treasonous to arm?"

  "Well, then think of something."

  "I'm trying."

  "Because treason, as it turns out, isn't one of those look-the-other-way crimes. Except for people who attend the execution of the traitors, because you really don't want blood splashing into your eyes or—"

  "I know!" Blays said. The redshirted soldiers kneed their horses, starting down the rutted road. Blays lowered his voice to a hiss. "I've got a solution: a whole lot of murder."

  Dante shook his head hard. "If a troop of the king's soldiers turns up dead in norren lands, do you think that makes the norren less likely to be invaded and massacred by the king?"

  The soldiers' hooves clopped closer. "Well, think fast."

  Dante's mind spun in circles. Forty feet away, the soldiers slowed their mounts to a walk. Their gazes lingered on Blays' swords. Dante gritted his teeth. "I can try to disguise them."

  "The swords?" Blays whispered. "What are you going to do, put wigs on them?"

  The riders were too close to respond. Dante extended his mind to the nether, the shadowy substance that lurked within all things. Few could even see the nether. Those who commanded its power could change the shape of the world, mending the wounded or killing the firm. As a last resort, Dante would turn it on the king's soldiers pulling to a stop in front of the halted wagon. If they hid the bodies well enough—and the cold pine forest was bleak enough to conceal an entire city of the dead—there was the chance, however fleeting, the soldiers' deaths would be blamed on the snows or the bears instead of the norren Dante was trying to free from the king's yoke.

  For now, though, he had a better idea.

  The lead rider had a permanent squint; winter lingered on its deathbed, but his face was tanned and chapped. It was the face of a man who'd spent most of his forty-odd years in the wilds confronting strange men. He jerked his bristly chin at the wagon. "What are you carrying down the king's roads?"

  "It's a surprise," Blays said.

  "Surprises are meant to be opened." The man gestured two of his men around the back of the wagon. "Rip it apart."

  "There's no need for that." Dante hopped down from his seat. Two of the mounted men drew swords with the whisper of steel on leather. Dante held up his hands. "I'll open it for you. It's just a little wheat. Nothing wrong with a little wheat, is there?"

  "That depends on what's under the wheat. More wheat? Or something shiny and silver?"

  "Who would bake bread out of silver?" Blays leapt down from the wagon to join the others at the back. "You'd break a new chamber pot every morning."

  The man didn't look his way. "Some like to hide their coin beneath their grain. To muffle the annoying clink, no doubt. Not to avoid King Moddegan's taxes."

  "No doubt," Dante muttered. He focused his mind and sent the nether winging to the wagon, coating its contents in a thin layer of illusion. A soldier pulled aside the oiled canvas, revealing long boxes stacked high. He lifted one of the lids with a squeak of wood. Instead of revealing the long killing steel of swords, the soldier stared at a box piled high with dusty brown wheat.

  Dante held his breath. The soldier gazed blankly at the grain. He nodded. Dante willed him to turn away, to drop back the canvas and go on his way.

  Instead, he plunged his hand into the fake grain.

  Steel clanked. The man screamed and yanked back his hand. Blood flowed from a gash across three of his fingers. In a panic, Dante let the nethereal illusion fall away. The shucked wheat disappeared, replaced by the reality of the seven-foot swords filling the box.

  The commander's mouth fell open. "Weeping wounds, what is happening here? Where did the wheat go? What are you doing with a cartload of norren swords?"

  Dante flung up his hands. "Well, you see—"

  From beside the road, a voice rumbled like falling stones. "We're taking them away from norren clans who would put them to no possible good use."

  Dante whirled. A lean and shaggy bear stepped from the pines, seven feet tall and dressed in travel-worn deerskin. He jerked back from the monster, drawing the nether to him in a dark rush. The bear smiled. Dante cursed silently. The man was a norren, of course: impossibly tall, with thick shoulders and an even thicker beard that rose to just below his eyes. Coin-sized ears poked from his thicket of hair. No matter how many days Dante spent among them, their sheer inhuman size could still catch him off guard.

  "I am sorry I was gone for so long, my lords," the strange norren said. "Is everything all right?"

  "Where have you been?" Dante improvised.

  "I thought I heard the call of the Clan of the Whipping Reed," the norren said. "They hunt these woods. I didn't want them to hunt us as well."

  The commander squinted up at the norren. His hand moved to his sword. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Mourn," the norren said. "But I doubt that is what you mean. What I am is the slave of these fine men. I am sorry if I startled you."

  "Got your papers?"

  "I'm sorry, we left our office in our other wagon," Blays said. "He's registered in Yallen. That's where we're taking these swords."

  The commander stared at the blades gleaming in the winter sun. He shook his head hard enough to dislodge his own squint. "You said you were hauling wheat. I saw wheat."

  "I am a hedge wizard," Dante lied. "You see?" He snapped his fingers; the wheat materialized atop the swords. Another snap, and it disappeared. One of the soldiers swore. "The primitives in the clans look at me as a god. Much easier to convince them to turn over their arms when you've got divine right on your side."

  "And you think you can trick us as easily as the savages? What are you trying to hide?"

  "In the Norren Territories, steel is worth more than gold." Mourn leaned forward as if disclosing a secret. "The king's own soldiers have been known to sell swords back to the same clans they confiscated them from. It's a sad thing. Except for the soldiers, I suppose, who now hav
e the money to finally make themselves happy."

  "I've heard of that," one of the redshirted soldiers nodded. "There's no law out here except what we enforce."

  "That's right," said the commander. "So who authorized this?"

  "Lord Wallimore of Yallen," Dante lied smoothly. He patted his pockets. "I have his writ right here." Paper crinkled from his doublet. He removed the sheet. It was a purchase order for raw iron from a border-town, but before he unfolded it, he overwrite it with a flick of nether. The illusory note was brief, to the point, and concluded with the signature of the nonexistent Lord Wallimore.

  The weathered commander read the note, nodded, and passed it back to Dante. He jerked his head at the soldier's bleeding hand. "Your deceit hurt one of my men."

  "I'm sorry about that. Keeping our country safe carries constant risk." Dante frowned and drew on the nether again. This time, he sent it flocking to the wounded man's hand. The wave of shadows washed away the gash like a trench dug below the tideline. "Better?"

  The man yanked back his hand, shaking it. "Tickles!"

  Dante turned back to the commander. "Does this square us?"

  He squinted between Dante, Mourn, and the wagon. "You're doing the king's will. Now get these arms out of here before a clan cuts your throat and carves your bones into spears."

  "You got it," Blays said. He leapt back into his seat behind the driver, who'd watched the exchange without a word.

  Dante gestured to the norren. "Come along, Mourn."

  As Dante slung himself in beside Blays, Mourn climbed up on the running boards, tilting the carriage under his weight. The driver flicked his reins. The horses leaned forward, yanking the carriage behind them. Dante unclasped his cloak and shucked it off his shoulders. Despite the freezing air, his skin was as hot as a stovetop.

  He didn't look back at the disappearing soldiers. "What just happened?"

  "Our quick-thinking slave just saved the day," Blays said. "Hey, that reminds me. When did we get a slave?"

  "I'll ask him the moment I stop shitting my pants. Do you have any idea how close that was?"

  "They couldn't prove we're bringing this stuff to the norren."

  Dante snorted. "Which wouldn't have stopped them from arresting us for treason and torturing us until we revealed Narashtovik's spent the last five years funding armed norren rebellion."

  "Maybe not." Blays patted his swords. "But these would have stopped them from living, which would have put a bit of a damper on any arresting and torturing."

  "And left us with a pile of corpses to deal with instead."

  The wagon bounced between the pines. Dante glanced over his shoulder. Given that norren men's beards grew like spring grass, it was tough to gauge their age, but Mourn looked no younger than himself—early twenties, perhaps. Mourn caught him staring and nodded back.

  They spoke little over the next couple miles. Sunlight trickled through the pine needles, pale and bitter. Soon enough, the light dried up like morning rain.

  "What do you think?" Blays pointed into the twilit woods. A couple hundred yards off the road, a log shack stood beneath the trees. "Won't do any better than that tonight."

  Dante nodded and directed the driver to turn off the road. The shack's roof was half collapsed, but it was empty of humans and animals. Half-melted snow lay across half the floor. Dante helped towel off the horses, gazing steadily at Mourn.

  "What happened back there?"

  Mourn looked up and shrugged. "You were stopped by kingsmen. They questioned you about smuggling, then let you go on your way."

  "Yeah, I remember that. Along with when a total stranger leapt out of the woods and lied to save our asses."

  "I didn't leap."

  "All right. You strode from the woods, without warning, to assist three total strangers."

  "You're not strangers."

  Dante threw up his hands. "I've never seen you before in my life!"

  "I've seen you," Mourn said. "You've been down here for months. Bringing us things. Things that could get you in trouble. I know what you're trying to do for my people."

  "Wrong," Blays said. "We've been down here for years."

  Mourn stiffened, face going slack with horror. "You're right. I've only seen you here for months. I'm so sorry."

  "I was just fooling with you," Blays frowned. "Don't take it so seriously."

  The young norren drew back his head in reproach. "Speech is a dangerously imprecise form of communication even when we try to be as exact as we can be. If we're sloppy on purpose, who knows what disasters might come of it? Nobody, that's who. Nobody mortal. Unless there is a soothsayer somewhere I don't know about."

  "Well, talking's the best system I've come up with so far," Blays said.

  "If you've watched us that long, you must live around here," Dante said.

  Mourn nodded. "Sometimes. My clan ranges more widely than most. That I know of. You would think it's nice, but you can only see so many hills before they all become the same hillish blur."

  "Which clan is that?"

  "I belong to the Clan of the Nine Pines."

  "Oh no," Blays said.

  Mourn cocked his head. "Do you know of us unfavorably? You must. Otherwise, a groan must mean something different to you than it does to me."

  "It's not your clan that's the problem. It's what you've got."

  "We don't know they have it," Dante said. "We don't even know if it's real."

  "You're right, I'm being sloppy," Blays said. "It's not about what the Nine Pines may or may not have. It's about Dante's monomaniacal desire to have it for himself."

  "If the Quivering Bow is real, we could use it to threaten the king into leaving the norren alone forever and destroy the whole capital if he doesn't. What's so monomaniacal about that?"

  "Ah," Mourn said. "The Quivering Bow."

  "Well?" Dante said.

  "Well what?"

  "What else could I mean? Do you have it or not?"

  "I'm not going to just assume that's what you meant," Mourn said peevishly. "Anyway, if we have the Quivering Bow, I am not aware of it."

  Dante's face fell. "Oh."

  "But there is much about my clan that I am not aware of, because I am young, and they don't tell me things because young people can't be trusted with wisdom. Which makes no sense to me. How can young, foolish people become not-young, not-foolish people if you never expose them to wisdom?"

  "By hitting them?" Blays said. He smacked his horse's freshly-toweled flank. The smell of animal sweat competed with the frosted pines. "Anyway, in a few minutes it'll be too dark to tell what's kindling and what's a snake. I don't know how much you guys know about building fires, but those aren't ideal working conditions."

  He wandered off to gather small branches for the night's fire. Small birds settled into the darkening trees, silhouettes on skeletal branches. Dante rummaged through their catch-all pack for the spade, but the ground was half-frozen. No matter how hard he leaned into the undersized shovel, he could only scrape away a handful of dirt at a time.

  "You are trying to dig a pit?" Mourn asked after a futile minute.

  "I'm trying to dig a hill so we can build a fort on it and be safe and never leave." Dante scowled up at him. Although it was cold enough to see his own breath, he was sweating under his doublet. He flung down the spade. "Forget it. It'll be morning before I'm finished with this."

  "Perhaps I can help." Mourn knelt and picked up the small shovel. His thick shoulders bunched as he drove it into the ground, dislodging a healthy load of black earth. He glanced up. "How large would you like your pit?"

  "Fire-sized," Dante muttered.

  He dug steadily and contentedly, dislodging a half-frozen mix of dirt, leaves, old needles, and dormant grass roots. The smell was earthy and gently rotten. Once, the iron wedge of the spade bent on a rock; Mourn gripped the point and the handle in his heavy hands, bore down, and straightened the bend right out.

  "You've already saved our lives," Dante said, "o
r at least from a load of trouble. So I'm loath to ask you another favor."

  Mourn flung another scoop of dirt. "But you would like me to ask my chieftain if we possess the Quivering Bow."

  "Would you?"

  "Would I? That is a good question. The asking costs me nothing in a physical sense. On the other hand, if we don't have it because it is imaginary, I could be mocked by my entire clan." He sat back and pierced Dante with his gaze. "What would you do with the bow?"

  Dante froze. Could he really just say it out loud? To a total stranger? On the one hand, Mourn was a norren himself. He would make for a very unlikely traitor or spy. On the other hand—what if he was?

  The truth would be a risk, then. But if there was any chance they had the Quivering Bow, it was a risk worth taking.

  "We'll use it to free the norren from slavery," he said. "To gain your independence. And that of my homeland of Narashtovik as well."

  Mourn stared at him beneath the blackening pines. "I will ask them."

  "Ask who what?" Blays said, returning with an armload of branches, twigs, and yellow grass.

  "What took you so damn long with the firewood," Dante said.

  "Well, it's not like this stuff just falls off of trees."

  Blays knelt over the firepit and arranged the kindling. He groaned as Dante and Mourn struck out the details of when the two humans would meet the Clan of the Nine Pines. Owls hooted through the barrens. Night stole over the woods, as gentle and cold as ancient ghosts.

  "You two are a couple of chowderbuckets," Blays said as they layered their blankets inside the half-ruined shack. "There's no such thing as a bow that can shoot down walls."

  "You should be in favor of this," Dante said. "If the Quivering Bow is real, and we get ahold of it, it'll save us years of work. No more camping out in gods-forsaken woods delivering swords to some clan that might turn them on their clan-enemy as soon as we turn our backs. Not when we can say, 'Hey, King Moddegan. Release the norren—and us too, while you're at it—or we'll bury you under a thousand tons of your own palace.'"