by Alex Janaway
CHAPTER SEVEN – MICHAEL
‘We are heading home.’
Father Michael looked up from his bowl of stew. ‘Home, Your Grace?’
‘Yes, I believe it is time,’ said the Emperor, thoughtfully stroking his beard. It had grown thicker in the course of their mission and gave him a nobler visage.
‘Home to Tissan?’
The Emperor laughed and shook his head.
‘Not quite yet, Father Michael, though I am pleased you are so keen to return. No, we are heading back to New Tissan. We have been gone far too long and I wish to speak to my Council in person. There is only so much progress to be made via missives carried by Riders. No offence, Leader Cadarn,’ said the Emperor quickly.
‘None taken, Your Grace’ said Cadarn, placing his bowl down and warming his hands over the fire in the Emperor’s tent where the three men were taking their evening meal.
‘We have so much to do and I wish to be on hand to inspect the ongoing construction of the fleet.’
‘That is good news, sire,’ agreed Father Michael.
‘And what of the Nidhal?’ asked Cadarn.
‘I have consulted with Nutaaq. Most of the tribes have been contacted and are sending representatives to the gathering. We already have an accord with several of the largest tribes and Nutaaq believes the others will agree to put aside any differences for the greater good. I will speak to them two days from now. If all goes well then I propose we leave the day after that.’
‘All of us?’ asked Cadarn.
The Emperor paused a moment. ‘I was of a mind to take us all back, but now you ask the question, do you believe there is value in retaining a presence here?’ he asked.
‘It would make sense, Your Grace. This fledgling alliance needs to be nurtured. But who would we keep?’
‘What do you think, Father?’
Father Michael rubbed his chin. It appeared to him a simple answer. ‘There really is only one person who can do that. The Speaker, Ellen.’
Cadarn nodded his agreement.
‘You are right, of course,’ said the Emperor. ‘I must admit that even after all these months, much of their language escapes me. I have little aptitude for it.’
‘Whereas Speaker Ellen has proven to be most adept,’ said Father Michael. He had learned a little Nidhal in his time among them. His years in the arena had exposed him to all the cultures of the Empire and their mother tongues so he was used to picking up the basics quickly, but Ellen was a natural linguist.
‘Yes, she has proven to be a valuable member of our expedition. Father Michael, would you be so kind as to find the Speaker and bring her to me?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
Father Michael pushed himself up and exited the tent, his mind full of thoughts about returning to New Tissan civilisation. He considered how simply they had lived on the expedition west, the thick, animal-hide shelters provided by the Nidhal had made the Tissans far more comfortable than they had expected to be when they set out, but nothing compared to an actual roof, or a soft bed. He walked through their small camp where the main cookfire blazed merrily. Young Uther trotted past, heading for the pot.
‘Shall I get you another bowl, Father?’ he asked. ‘The Emperor asked me to fetch more so it’s no trouble.’
‘Thank you,’ said Father Michael. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
He nodded to Bryce, who sat outside his tent making repairs to a leather harness. Behind him, Father Michael could make out the crude wooden shelter that had been erected to house their two eagles. One appeared to be asleep while the other was preening its wings. On the far side of the camp, the Gifted had two larger tents erected. Several of them were sitting outside, gathered around their own smaller fire.
‘Father Michael,’ called Eilion.
Father Michael approached them and placing his hands into the wide arms of his robes, he nodded politely. It was the best he could muster. Six months with this man had done nothing to modify Father Michael’s low opinion of him.
‘I am looking for Speaker Ellen.’
‘She is not here, I am afraid. Have you seen her, Mercer?’
The big Gifted, another Shaper, shrugged.
‘She does have a habit of wandering off,’ sighed Eilion, shaking his head. ‘I would suggest you head over to our Nidhal hosts, you might find her there.’
Father Michael bowed his head again and turned to leave, but something about Eilion’s tone stopped him.
‘You don’t approve?’ he asked.
Eilion raised an eyebrow.
‘She would be better served spending time with her fellow Gifted, developing her skills, learning how to fight. Instead she spends it mixing with the Nidhal.’
‘She is obeying the Emperor’s wishes,’ said Father Michael, forbiddingly. What more needed to be said?
Eilion tilted his head in acknowledgment. ‘You are right, of course, Father. I am over-protective of our young sister; she has so much to learn.’
Father Michael bowed his head and left the group. Not for the first time he wondered at the Gifted and their ways. Such arrogance was unseemly. But, for a time, in his own way, he had been just as arrogant, believing he was better than everyone else. And, in his own small world, fighting in the arena, he had been.
He left the camp and made his way across to the larger settlement of Nidhal. It was growing even bigger now, as more and more arrived in preparation for the gathering. Dozens of fires blazed against the dusk light, and the hubbub of hundreds of voices drifted across to him. He spied a figure walking towards him, its dark form framed against the firelight. As he drew closer, he saw the figure wore a robe, the hood down, and was shorter and slenderer than he. The figure stopped and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Father Michael, I knew it was you,’ said Ellen. ‘Have you come to speak with the Nidhal?’
‘The Emperor sent me to find you.’
She reached him and slipped her arm through his, turning them around. If it had been anyone else but her he would have flinched away, but he had grown quite fond of her and tolerated the physical contact.
They walked back to the camp in silence for a few moments.
‘So why does the Emperor want to see me?’ asked Ellen.
‘Ah, it is not my place to–’
‘Let me guess. He is going to ask me to stay here when you all leave?’
Father Michael looked down on her in surprise. ‘How did you know?’
‘Oh, it’s not hard, Father. I know the Emperor has been planning to return home and it makes perfect sense to leave someone behind to maintain our relationship with the Nidhal. And who else can speak their language so well?’
‘Your Gift is your burden,’ he acknowledged.
‘It’s no burden,’ she said, tapping his arm. ‘Just as yours is not.’
‘My gift?’
‘Don’t think I haven’t been watching your bouts. I’m no expert but you are proving a match for your formidable opponents.’
‘It’s just a way of keeping sharp,’ he muttered. In truth he had started to look forward to his time training with the Nidhal. The braves who came to see him spar appeared to enjoy watching him fight and some had even started to place bets on him to win. Old memories were re-emerging of his time before his conversion, when he had been at his most brutal, most savage best. He believed the Nidhal could see that in him. That was good. He had grown soft since their departure from Tissan. ‘I need to be ready if the Emperor needs me.’
‘And it sends a message to the Nidhal. They can see they are dealing with people who know how to handle them. They’ll think twice before trying anything.’
Father Michael stopped. So she had the same concerns as him? Ellen was looking up and smiling at him, that twinkle in her eye. He shook his head. My but she was a smart one. What on earth did she see in him?
‘Also, and don’t you dare tell anyone this,’ she said, her face serious, ‘I’ve been getting Corporal Fenner to put bets on you
for me. Most of the other Gifted are either sitting out or betting against you. So I’m having to keep it quiet.’
Let me guess, Eilion.
‘You shouldn’t be betting at all,’ he chided her. ‘You are Gifted and I am a member of the Imperial Church. It is beneath our dignity.’
‘Yes, Father, of course.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘And this isn’t the arena.’
It was not. That time had passed. They arrived at the Emperor’s tent and Father Michael stood to one side to allow Ellen in.
‘Just keep winning,’ she whispered, before she entered the cool interior.
Keep Winning? He had never lost.
CHAPTER EIGHT – OWEN
The cityport of Aberpool. Owen circled high above it, looking down on the remains of the last city to fall in the war. He hadn’t been back since the day of that final rout and had not known what to expect: perhaps nothing more than bleak, lifeless rubble. Yet from up here he could see that the walls still stood. Within, he could still easily trace the routes of the main streets marked by the structures that helped define the layout of the city. He bid Arno make a slow circling descent. The wind was blowing in from the sea and with it came the sound of crashing waves. The call of birds, hunting and diving among the waves, added to the ambient noise, their circling and wheeling echoing that of Arno. Life. And yet directly below him, he expected none. Owen kept his eyes scanning the horizon, mindful that an attack could come from any direction. He remembered their terrifying escape over the city, hunted by gryphons. And the rescue of that burly priest they’d found on a roof. Did he make it to the ships? Did they get away? Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. Who knew what was beyond the far oceans?
As they spiralled lazily, Owen recognised familiar landmarks: the Council Hall, the Roosting Tower next to it, the main square, the prison. All of them built of solid, thick stone, though they were surrounded by angular spaces where adjoining wooden structures had been destroyed in the firestorm. He could pick out the districts that could afford that more robust construction. The wealthier merchants’ quarter appeared the most intact, and a number of the harbour properties. Of the rest of the city, there were whole swathes of empty ground punctuated by surviving buildings. Nothing remained of the Rookery, not even ash. He pulsed to Arno to take a wide turn out to sea, the wind now buffeting his face and ears so it drowned out all other sounds. Then another turn and a long run back toward the city, giving them the best chance of spotting and reacting to any enemy presence.
Arno took them in on a slow, low glide, the sun sparkling off the sea as they sped past. Owen watched a shoal of fish zigzag under the water, light glinting off their scales. Behind them a group of dolphins chased, their fins rising and dropping, slicing through the water. As they cruised over the harbour, the spaces enclosed within the moles were empty. Once across the wharf, they were into the city proper. Owen tensed, alert and ready for a fight, but with so few buildings left standing, Arno had plenty of room to manoeuvre and there were no signs of any potential dangers. They swept past the Roosting Tower – or what was left. It had been reduced to perhaps a half of its size; the top taken off by some kind of blast or missile, a pile of rubble surrounding its base.
On reaching the square, Arno extended his claws and flared his wings, touching down in a field of green. Owen unwound his face scarf and looked around in surprise. Everywhere the ground was covered in plant life: weeds, flowers and tall grass pushed their way up through the gaps in the cobbles and amidst the piles of detritus. Elsewhere vines and creepers were establishing themselves in the shells of the standing buildings. Owen shook his head. Life goes on. Even in this silent tomb.
Owen took his feet out of the long stirrups and swung down on to the ground. Collecting his crossbow, he took a moment to load it. A rustling noise from the undergrowth made him stand to, his weapon raised. Arno swept his head round, keen eyes centring on the source of the sound. A large striped cat bounded out of some nearby bushes, startling him. It had a mouse clamped in its jaws and stared at him warily for a moment before stalking off to enjoy its prize. Owen exhaled through his nostrils and eyed Arno, shaking his head. You can let that one go.
Keeping his finger on the trigger, he walked over to the central structure, a large stone platform, which like everything else was draped in green. Yet amidst the growth was a huge pile of bones, yellowed, pitted and in many cases broken. It was only on the top of the platform that he could see whole or partial skeletons, with arms, heads, ribcages still held roughly together. Yet more bones spread around the platform and beyond. Not far from his feet what looked like an arm bone lay by itself on a bed of weeds. He walked over and knelt. The bone was chipped and marked with irregular indentations. It had been gnawed upon. Owen stood up straight.
‘We’re still here!’ Owen shouted. ‘You bastards. We’re still here!’
His voice echoed across the square. A small flock of birds burst from hiding, taking to the sky, the sounds of their flapping carrying clearly to him. And then silence returned. Owen waited. Willing something to emerge.
Nothing did.
He returned to Arno.
He took them north, tracing the route they had followed on that last night, over a year and a half ago. They flew over the beaches where thousands had tried to reach the ships lying out at sea, where small craft, almost capsizing, saved who they could; and where those thousands remaining had been driven by the advancing dwarf warriors into the water to drown. Then he was among the sandy bluffs and hillocks overlooking the beach, and from there he and Arno turned northwest, heading into the wilds beyond, hoping to recall the landmarks before him, trying to pinpoint the valley where Gerat and his people had been holed up. Yet it had been so long ago that none of it looked familiar. Owen chewed his lip. What had he been expecting? This was never going to be easy. Alright, Arno. Time for you to hunt.
That night they made camp in a cavern in the side of a hill. Though it was summer, it was still damp and cool within, so they kept to just under the lip of the cavern where it was dry and allowed them a decent launch position if need be. The night was warm and they needed no campfire. Arno was happy with his freshly caught rabbits and Owen had his trail rations. Chewing on a piece of dry-smoked meat, he walked outside and looked up at the cloud-streaked, darkening sky. He picked up a stick and used his foot to clear a bare patch of earth. Hunkering down he scratched out a crude map of the coastline and country. Once done, he drew a series of parallel lines running west to east and then another set running north to south. He had to get more precise in his search method so he had to apply some common sense. Using the grid, he situated his own approximate position in relation to the key landmarks and started to reason out the route he had taken. Finally he was satisfied that he had put together a sensible search plan. The sky was growing darker, it was time to bed down. He patted Arno on his flank before he settled. You get first watch. The eagle cocked his head and blinked. Knowing Arno would keep him safe, he was soon out like a light.
On the second day of his search he found what he had been looking for, the old steading and barn, the place he had first met Gerat and his people. Flying low, heading west to east, he cut across the valley, covering the ground in seconds, barely registering the building to his left before he was beyond it. Arno banked to the right and Owen took them on a slow run up the valley, landing next to the large barn. If anyone was here, he wanted to announce his presence without any preamble. He was willing to take the risk that a non-human had taken up residence. He leaned back in his saddle and took his time to look around. The steading looked even more worse for wear than last time, which was understandable, but the barn was in a better state. He studied the trees that flanked it closely on either side, waiting for any hostiles to emerge, knowing Arno would likely spot something before he did. After a minute, it was clear that nothing or no one was coming. He dismounted, loaded his crossbow and made his way cautiously to the barn. The door was closed but unbarred. He opened it and stood just outs
ide the threshold peering around, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. A low wall of hay bales faced him. He waited a moment. Nothing. He stepped inside and made his way past the hay barricade. Above his head cobwebs obscured the roof, a few lacklustre beams of light coming through holes in the planks. He hunkered down and played a hand over the bare ground. There were tracks of footprints all over, but there was no way of knowing how long ago they were made. On the left-hand side of the barn was the cattle pen and some stalls for horses. Owen walked over to look inside them. Rusty hooks lined the wall beside him and he absently raised a hand to run his fingers over the metal. Flakes came off at the touch.
‘Never thought we’d see you again.’
Owen jerked back and raised his bow as a man emerged from the far stall and faced him, his appearance obscured in the shadows.
‘Likewise,’ replied Owen.
‘You can drop that bow, unless you intend to shoot me,’ the man offered.
Owen did so and the man, dressed all in furs, stepped forward out of the shadows. Owen saw changes in him; the wild hair was familiar but the beard was now streaked with grey. A vague smile played on the man’s lips. Owen also noted the long hunting knife at his belt, the expected hand axe to his side. He carried a spear, but leant on it as a prop.
‘Good to see you again, Gerat,’ said Owen.
‘We spotted you two days ago, to the north of here. You were too far away for me to be sure, but being as we don’t see many eagles round here anymore, I figured I’d come here, just in case.’
‘I was hoping you might,’ acknowledged Owen.
‘You know the next question.’
‘Why am I here?’
Gerat nodded.
‘I made it back to the Highlands. And I found survivors. We are rebuilding. Now we are looking for other groups. I hoped that you and your people would have made a go of it.’
‘Yeah, we have, I suppose. After you left though things got rough. More of those bastards came through, a whole pack of gnomes, more than we could handle so we got out of here and went north. That’s when a bunch of wood elves hit us.’