Chương 64: Impossible Roads

On the second day under the sky, Zayn understood that open air could also be a prison. Its walls were simply farther away. He had been walking since dawn, or what he assumed was dawn. The sun stayed hidden behind a gray blanket, and all the hills looked enough alike to give the impression that the world had been built by someone who hated landmarks. The land sometimes dropped into dry ravines. Then rose again.

Then broke into shale slopes, rocky hollows, and lines of sparse brush where the wind whistled like a blade drawn between teeth. To the east, the land grew darker. To the west, the human roads multiplied. So naturally, Zayn was trapped between two highly organized ways of dying. He stopped behind a flat rock and pulled on the cord around his splint. The scavenger tendon had dried during the night, hardening around the boards. It was more stable than before, but every step still sent a dull pain through his ankle.

He tightened it further. The pain rose. He waited until it dropped enough to become information again instead of an order. Then he studied the valley ahead. Lower down, a road crossed the hills. Not a main road. Too narrow. Too poorly kept. But it was still in use. Fresh wheel tracks marked the dust. Hoofprints too. Several recent passings, in both directions. Humans. He did not need to see them to know they were there. The human kingdom stood between him and the west. Not symbolically. Physically. Fortresses.

Relays. Villages. Patrols. Supply roads. Toll posts. Watchtowers. Fields. Refugees. Soldiers. Priests. Merchants. Mages. Tracking dogs. Idiots with forms. Idiots with spears. Idiots with both, which apparently represented the local administrative summit. And somewhere beyond all that, far too far away, the beastmen border river. Zayn inhaled slowly. He was not going to cross through it. He was going to go around it. That was different. Longer. More dangerous. More honest too.

Crossing meant believing he could still pass for a normal human. Going around meant admitting he no longer truly smelled like one. His hand dropped toward his satchel. He felt the wrapped shapes inside. He pulled his hand back at once. Not now. First, he needed a direction. He had enough water for half a day if he drank like a disciplined animal. Less if he drank like a person with needs, which had become a theoretical luxury.

He still had one piece of black ration and the scavenger meat, which he had still not decided to recognize as official food. His body, however, had already filed a request. Zayn ignored it. He descended halfway down the slope, low enough to see the road, not low enough to be visible from it. He moved from bush to bush, slowly, almost flush to the stones. His side pulled. His injured fingers throbbed. The mark on his tongue sometimes warmed for no clear reason, especially when he was hungry. It was unpleasant.

Which meant normal. A bell rang in the distance. Not Halbrèche's. Smaller. A convoy bell. Zayn slipped behind a split stone and waited. The convoy appeared ten minutes later. Two horses. One covered wagon. Four soldiers. A man in a travel robe, probably a scribe or an official. A woman sitting beside the driver, heavy cloak around her shoulders. No royal banner, but a road plate attached to the front of the wagon. Zayn narrowed his eyes. A symbol: three crossing lines around a circle. Circle of Roads.

Not a military house. Trade, relays, circulation of information, travel authorizations. Which meant maps. Or at least routes. He stayed still. Values, approximate at that distance: 18 21 24 27 The soldiers. The driver: 9. The man in robes: 13. The woman: 11. Not impossible. But not clean. Nothing was clean. Zayn watched the wagon until it stopped near an old stone marker. One of the soldiers dismounted. The scribe took out a scroll, checked something, then walked toward the marker with a wax tablet. Zayn froze.

A road marker. He did not need to attack the convoy. He only needed to wait for them to leave. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Sometimes intelligence meant not stabbing the people who might simply forget information on a rock. It was less spectacular. Very profitable. The convoy stayed there almost half an hour. Too long. Zayn felt his leg stiffen, his stomach twist, his mood degrade with admirable efficiency. He stayed hidden anyway.

One soldier pissed against a tree less than twenty meters from his position, which gave Zayn a perfect chance to kill an isolated man. He did not move. Not out of kindness. The body would be found too quickly. The convoy would stop. Patrols would be warned. And killing someone for a waterskin and an extra bad smell was a mediocre investment. The soldier buckled his belt and went back. Zayn watched him rejoin the others. One low thought still passed through him: Later. Not a promise. A possibility.

The convoy left toward the southwest. Zayn waited longer. Until he could no longer hear the wheels. Until he could no longer smell the horses. Then he went down to the marker. It was old, but maintained. Several metal plates had been fastened to the stone, each indicating a major direction. He could read some names now. Not all. But enough. HALBRÈCHE — northeast So he was indeed moving away. AURELIS — west / central road The human capital. Far away. Too watched. ASHEN MARCHES — east No need.

LORVAIN PASS — southwest A pass? Zayn stepped closer. Below the name, a secondary mark: bypass route, light convoys only, intermittent posts. Interesting. Lower still, engraved more anciently: OLD CLIFF ROAD — not recommended He smiled. Not recommended. The finest phrase ever written by a civilization that still believed people had a choice. He touched the Lorvain Pass plate. Southwest. It did not lead directly to the beastmen.

But it might let him bypass part of the main roads, avoid the large military posts, then turn west later. Long. Very long. But possible. Maybe. The word was enough. He looked for more information on the marker. The scribe had left fresh wax notes on a small hanging tablet nearby. Zayn detached it. Not a full map. A passage record. Short lines: Patrol 3C moved toward East Gorge. Reinforced control on Aurelis Road. Report: possible contaminated scent in the heights of Rhel-Fosse. Order: secondary relays under watch.

Lorvain passable, but increased risk near the dead zones. Zayn read it twice. So the central road was already bad. The secondary relays would soon be watched. Lorvain was dangerous. Perfect. Dangerous was better than watched. He tore off the wax tablet, partially smeared his trace with his sleeve, then put it away. Information. Always take information. Food runs out. Water empties. Weapons break. Information could kill someone days after it was stolen. A stone rolled behind him.

Zayn spun at once, short blade in hand. A man stood near the road. Not one of the convoy soldiers. A straggler? No. Brown clothes, short cloak, hunting bow, light pack. Gray beard. Hollow face. Value: 16 A local tracker. Or a hunter. His gaze passed from the marker to Zayn, then to his leg, his clothes, the satchel, the blade in his hand. He did not shout. Intelligent. Zayn did not move. The man slowly raised one empty hand.

"I don't want trouble." Zayn almost laughed. The sentence was magnificent. Nobody wanted trouble. Trouble rarely had the same modesty.

"Then keep walking," said Zayn. His voice was rough. The man kept watching him. Too long.

"You came out of Rhel-Fosse." Zayn felt his face empty. Not a question. The hunter swallowed.

"I know that dust. And that smell." Bad. Zayn took one step toward him. The man stepped back at once.

"I said I don't want trouble."

"You talk a lot for someone who doesn't want any."

"Because if I run, you might stick me. If I shout, you'll probably definitely stick me. So I talk. Bad choice, maybe, but my knees prefer it." Zayn stopped. The man was afraid. Not enough to be stupid. Even more annoying.

"You alone?" asked Zayn.

"Yes."

"Lie better." The hunter shut his mouth. Another value appeared farther away, behind a cluster of trees. 8 A child? No. Too big for that. Maybe a young apprentice. Or someone weak. Zayn lifted the blade slightly. The hunter went pale.

"My son." Zayn looked toward the trees. The value trembled. 8 It was motionless. Hidden. Terrified. There. An unnecessarily complicated variable. The hunter spoke quickly:"He didn't see anything."

"False."

"He won't say anything."

"False again."

"I can give you water." Zayn did not answer. More useful. The hunter understood and slowly set his pack down.

"One waterskin. A piece of bread. Dried meat. Not much." Zayn looked at the pack. Then at the man.

"You offer that to every stranger with a blade?"

"Only the ones who smell bad enough that I'd rather not check whether they bite." Silence. Zayn stared at him. The hunter swallowed hard.

"That was a bad sentence."

"No." Zayn lowered his eyes to the pack.

"That was honest." He could have killed him. The hunter was 16. Not strong. Tired. Older. With a son at 8 hiding behind him. Two witnesses. Two risks. Two mouths. But he had set down a pack. A payment. Not an act of kindness. A transaction of fear. Zayn understood that. He advanced, without taking his eyes off the man, and pulled the pack toward himself with his foot.

"You're going to walk north," he said.

"Slowly. Without turning around. Your son stays where he is until you're fifty steps away. Then he joins you. If either of you shouts, I find you." The hunter nodded. Too quickly.

"Understood." He backed away. One step. Then two. His gaze slid toward the trees despite himself. Father. Predictably useless. Zayn followed his gaze. The 8 trembled harder. He could throw the blade. Not accurate enough to kill. Accurate enough to wound. Force the father back. Get more. Part of him calculated the angle. Another judged the cost. Too much noise. Too much time. Not enough gain. He let the hunter go. When the man reached fifty steps, a skinny figure came out of the trees and ran to him. A boy, indeed.

Not very young, maybe twelve or thirteen, with a bow too big for his arms. He looked once toward Zayn. Zayn looked back. The boy lowered his eyes at once and followed his father. Good. Fear sometimes had an excellent memory. Zayn picked up the pack and went the opposite way. He did not eat at once. First, distance. Then, concealment. Only then, inventory. He found a rocky hollow halfway up the slope, invisible from the road, and opened the pack. The waterskin held clear water.

He could almost feel his hands shake in gratitude. Not toward the hunter. Toward the object. Clear water was currently the most respectable thing he had encountered since leaving the mine. He drank. Too much. Stopped in time. Almost. The bread was hard, but not moldy. The dried meat smelled of salt and smoke. Normal. Normal. He took a bite. His stomach hesitated, surprised by food that did not immediately try to kill him. Then accepted. Zayn closed his eyes. For a few seconds, he did not move. Bread. Water.

Dried meat. Absurd things. Simple things. Things he could almost have cried to recover, if he had not already decided his body wasted enough liquid with blood. He carefully packed the rest away. Only then did he take out the stolen road tablet and set it in front of him. The world drew itself in impossible lines. Northeast: Halbrèche. East: demonic frontier. Direct west: human roads, checkpoints, capital in the long term. North: lands closer to the elven routes, but closed, watched, complicated.

Southwest: Lorvain, secondary passage, dead zones, possibility of skirting around. Then, farther still, something to imagine rather than read: the real west. The beastmen lands. Not near. Not welcoming. Not safe. But not human. That was enough to make it the best bad option. Zayn stayed a long while over the tablet. His mind tried to organize. First step: Lorvain. Second: go far enough south to avoid the central posts. Third: skirt the dead zones without entering demon lands. Fourth: steal or recover a broader map.

Fifth: reach the roads toward the great river. Sixth: do not die first. He looked at the sixth step.

"Ambitious," he murmured. Then he scratched a small mark on the tablet, marking an approximate direction. Southwest first. Not out of comfort. Out of necessity. He folded the pack, made sure nothing shone, then started walking again. The sun was already declining. The road toward Lorvain descended into drier land. The hills were lower there, but the ravines deeper. Farther off, a strip of dark forest cut the horizon, like a vegetative scar between two stretches of stone.

Zayn kept moving until his legs threatened not to accept orders anymore. He found shelter in the ruins of an old signal post, half collapsed. A low tower, three walls still standing, no roof. The kind of place too open to be safe, but high enough to see danger coming. He checked it. No nearby values. No recent trace. He climbed with difficulty to the broken second level and settled behind a standing section of wall. From there, he could see the road in the distance. And the east.

The demonic frontier was still there, dark, like a mouth that had not yet noticed that something interesting was moving away from it. Zayn ate a little bread. Not much. He drank properly. Not too much. Then he looked at the wrapped flesh in his satchel. He did not need it tonight. Good news. He put it away without opening it. Bad news: he did not throw it away. The wind moved through the broken tower. He thought of the hunter and his son. They would speak. Probably. But to whom? And with what details?

A gaunt, wounded man stinking of mine and frontier. Armed. Threatening. Direction opposite theirs. One more rumor. He could live with a rumor. He would have to learn to live by becoming several things at once. A rumor to humans. A scent to the dogs. A track to the hunters. An anomaly to Maelor. A problem to the Ashes. Maybe prey to the demons. And one day, if he reached the west, something else to the beastmen. He did not know what yet. He lay down against the wall. The road tablet under his hand.

The blade against his chest. The satchel tied to his wrist. Before closing his eyes, he looked once more toward the invisible west. No hope. Not really. Only a direction. For now, that was enough. And in a world that had closed every clean exit to him, a dirty direction was already almost a promise.