The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  “The world was made worse when you learned to read,” he huffed, before straightening and turning to march away, casting a curt reply over his shoulder. “North, Scribe. We’re marching north. Twenty miles before dusk. Laggards will not be tolerated.”

  When we marched out, within the hour as commanded, the company passed by the copse where the Sack Witch had built her shelter. It was just a tumble of disordered sticks now and, though I tried to deny it, it pained my heart greatly to find her gone.

  PART III

  “You ask how many died for my ambitions. Why do you assume my ambition was for me alone?”

  From The Testament of the Pretender Magnis Lochlain,as recorded by Sir Alwyn Scribe

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “It’s fucking freezing!” Toria’s narrow face was a picture of red-nosed misery. She had muffled her ears with rags and wrapped her slim form in several layers of cloth, none of which appeared to afford any relief from the icy, seaborn winds that assailed us.

  I was more preoccupied with containing the contents of my stomach than the cold. The helmsman seemed to possess an unerring gift for finding every gut-churning swell in these benighted grey waters. To my non-maritime eye our ship appeared no more than a tub of age-darkened timbers held together with fraying rope and old nails. She creaked, groaned and shuddered her way through the upper reaches of the Cronsheldt Sea. Worst of all, she heaved and bucked more than a horse with a brain full of maggots.

  Boats I knew, having traversed many a river in my time with Deckin’s band, some narrow, some wide with treacherous currents that could drown a man in seconds. But the sea, I had quickly discovered, was not a river. Three days out from the port of Farinsahl and my nausea had barely abated for more than a minute or two. Meals were forced down only to be forced up again in short order and sleep came in brief fits in between rolling around the stinking confines of the hold. There were forty of us crammed into this cog, which bore the entirely unfitting name of Gracious Maid, the rest of the company following in the seven other ships forming what had apparently been named the Northern Crown Fleet.

  The object of our northwards march had not been explained until the Supplicants arrayed us in ranks along the Farinsahl quayside some six days after setting out from the Traitors’ Field. Our ranks had been filled to a surprising degree while marching north, so much so that we numbered almost half again the strength we possessed during the march from Callintor. Some were villains scraped from various ducal gaols along the way, but most were willing recruits, all compelled to forsake their hamlets and towns by the growing legend of the Anointed Lady.

  They were a curious mix of callow youth and older churl, all fired by the same zealous Covenant belief that made them trying company for us more jaded souls. As Evadine had reined her grey charger to a halt on the quayside, hooves clattering on the cobbles, these newcomers had stared at her as if she had just ridden from betwixt the Divine Portals. I could tell the pitch of awe on display among these new recruits sat uneasily on her shoulders. Although word had reached us that the Council of Luminants had elevated her in clerical rank from Communicant to Aspirant, she continued to mostly eschew any title beyond captain.

  “The Covenant council and the king have seen fit to award us a singular honour,” she proclaimed to the company without a trace of irony. “For it falls to us to extinguish the last remnant of the unholy Pretender’s Revolt. To the north lies the Fjord Geld and the port of Olversahl, until recently a bastion of the usurper’s vile cause, given over to him by the faithless Duke Huelvic, who now lies justly slain beneath the Traitors’ Field. Word has reached us that the loyal townsfolk of Olversahl have overthrown their treacherous lords and restated their allegiance to King Tomas. They have petitioned the Crown for protection against the gangs of villains who linger in the wilds plotting to seize back their stolen spoils. We are the king’s answer.”

  A cheer rose at this, although Evadine’s tone hadn’t possessed any particular exhortation. Such spontaneous acclaim had become typical during her night-time sermons, shouts of affirmation and occasionally unabashed adoration rising from the enraptured crowd in response to her lessons. I found it strange since, to my ears at least, her sermons sounded less fiery and more reflective in the aftermath of battle.

  That day at the docks I had seen a weary annoyance pass across her brow before she’d put a placid smile on her lips and raised a hand for quiet. “The Fjord Geld is not your home,” she said. “Many of the customs you will find there will seem strange to you. Remember that open displays of the Ascarlian gods are tradition in Olversahl and not an expression of heresy; therefore enforcement of the strictures in that regard is not required. However, it is true that those who swore themselves to the Pretender’s cause did so in the hope of supplanting the Covenant with ancient and vile heresies. It is for this reason that our company was chosen for this task. We will secure King Tomas’s rights over his property and restore the Covenant wherever it has been broken.”

  More cheers, another troubled crease to Evadine’s brow before she turned and nodded to Swain. “Fall out by troop!” he shouted. “Stand ready to board when ordered. And watch your feet on the gangways, you clumsy sots! No one’s fishing you out of the harbour if you fall.”

  “Try this,” Wilhum said now, moving to Toria’s side to proffer a small flask. We had positioned ourselves at the stern where the heaving seemed less acute, although that was surely just a comforting delusion. Like Toria, Wilhum appeared unaffected by seasickness. Although, whereas her immunity was the result of considerable prior acquaintance with seafaring, I suspected his had more to do with the copious amount of liquor he poured down his throat whenever opportunity arose.

  “What’s in it?” Toria asked, removing the flask’s stopper to sniff the contents.

  “Brandy, rum and…” Wilhum shrugged “… something else that tastes foul but has a nice warming effect. Traded one of the sailors a dagger for a quarter barrel of the stuff. Sadly, this is all I have left. But feel at liberty to sup away, my dear. I’ll not have it said that I’m a miserly drinker.”

  Toria took a sip, smacking her lips before taking several more. “Had a lot worse,” she said, offering the flask to me. Sadly, one whiff of the acrid contents was enough to double me over the rail once again.

  “So,” I gasped a moment or two later, wiping my sleeve across my mouth and turning a bleary eye on the noble, “care to enlighten us as to the truth behind this expedition, my lord?”

  Wilhum favoured me with a tired grimace. “Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

  “Disinherited and shorn of titles or not—” I gave him a wan smile “—your nobility continues to shine through.”

  It was true that, in the eyes of the Crown, he was no longer a lord. During the march word had reached us that the king had rescinded the edict that saw so many captives slain on the Traitors’ Field. The slaughter hadn’t been confined to the battlefield and had in fact continued for several days afterwards as vengeful knights roved far in search of fleeing rebels. I assumed the king’s mercy to be the result of petitioning by noble fathers either keen to save the necks of foolish sons or halt the culling of churls needed to till untended fields. In any case, Wilhum’s life was no longer automatically forfeit though his status as a turncoat required loss of title and punishment via service in Crown Company. He no longer spoke of his cherished True King or expressed any reservations regarding his recently sworn oath to fight him if the need arose. If he was truly resigned to his fate, it was a morose, drunken resignation, one I had no confidence would continue should it be tested.

  “You talk to her more than anyone,” I added, grimacing as I swallowed bile. “And your insight benefits from a noble’s perspective.”

  My desire for information was heightened by the dearth of it to be gleaned from the Supplicants or Evadine herself. As company scribe, I spent a short time with her every few days. However, although she set me to work copying the scroll given to her
by Sir Althus, the document revealed little beyond what she had told the company in Farinsahl. Also, I detected a coolness in her regard for me now, a frosty reticence that, frankly, left me somewhat aggrieved. Hadn’t I saved her anointed arse?

  Wilhum rolled his eyes as Toria returned the flask, then proceeded to drain it in a few short gulps. “You recall the king’s emissary, I assume?”

  “Sir Althus Levalle,” I said, which caused Wilhum to raise a curious eyebrow.

  “You know him?”

  “Only by repute. He brought the missive that set us on this course. I also recall he said something that got our beloved Supplicant sergeant mightily riled up.”

  “That he did. You see, this mission of ours is more an exile than a royal errand. Our captain’s fame blossomed like a shooting star after the Traitors’ Field, eclipsing even the king’s renown, although it’s said he pitched in bravely enough when the time came. Still, I suspect any man will find courage if he fights in the shadow of Sir Ehlbert Bauldry. But, fair is fair, and by rights it was the king’s victory, not that you’d know it listening to the common folk. Tomas is, by all accounts, an affable fellow undaunted by injury to his pride, but his family and counsellors are a different matter.

  “It’s important to remember that King Tomas was the second son of his much-lamented father, Mathis the Fourth, strong of arm and wise of mind. It was his firstborn son who, everyone assumed, would one day ascend to become Arthin the Fifth. Sadly, the prince’s horse had other ideas and Arthin the Fifth was destined to become Arthin the Broken-necked, leaving Albermaine with an heir who had barely tottered free of his wet nurse’s tit. King Mathis sired him late in life, the son of his second, far younger queen. To be fair, Tomas rose well to the challenge, thanks, it’s said, to the mentorship of his champion Sir Ehlbert Bauldry and the sage guidance of his elder sister Princess Leannor. But his reign has ever been dogged by the knowledge that he was the lesser son of a far mightier sire.

  “Hence, the Algathinet family and their many sycophants remain watchful for any threat to Tomas’s authority. Growing regard for the celebrant of the Traitors’ Field, a warrior said to be anointed by the Seraphile’s grace no less, was certain to rouse their fears. And who’s to say they’re wrong. Power is a fragile thing, after all.”

  “They sent Covenant Company to the Fjord Geld to get her out of the way,” I said.

  “Smart,” Toria commented in a nasal sniffle. “Look at all those devout fools who threw themselves at her feet on the march north. A few more months and we’d have had an army, never mind a company.”

  “But that’s not all, is it?” I asked Wilhum. “What tweaked the sergeant so that set him reaching for his sword?”

  “Rumours,” Wilhum said. He paused to upend the flask over his open mouth, letting the dregs drop onto his tongue. “She fought the Pretender and yet he lives, or at least no one’s found his body. There are whispers at court that perhaps his escape was not accidental.”

  “That’s absurd.” I shook my head in amused disgust. “A clumsy attempt to impugn her reputation.”

  “Clumsy? Certainly, but even a poorly fashioned arrow can find the bullseye. Our Anointed Captain is not just being exiled; she is being tested. Olversahl is notorious as a nest of endlessly feuding merchant families and Ascarlian sympathisers, as is much of the Fjord Geld. They call Duke Huelvic a traitor, but in truth he was but one of five claimants to the duchy, all of whom are still drawing breath and you can wager they’ll be even more keen to press their cause now he’s dead. Olversahl is the largest port in the Geld and long considered the lynchpin upon which the whole duchy either topples or stands. Ensuring it doesn’t fall into chaos will be no mean feat. Holding it for the king will be a triumph. But, if the Anointed Captain manages it, who then could gainsay her loyalty?”

  “So’s Olversahl’s a bit of a shithole then?” Toria enquired. “Was hoping it’d be rich, at least in taverns and decent drink, I mean.”

  In pockets and merchants’ locks worth picking, you mean, I surmised but didn’t say, even though I doubted Wilhum gave a fart for our criminal inclinations.

  “Actually, my dear,” Wilhum said, “it’s often referred to as the Jewel of the Geld. It’s very old, you see, having changed hands between various kings and lords many times. The Sister Queens of Ascarlia held it for three centuries before King Tomas’s great-grandfather wrested it from their grasp. There’s a lot of old architecture to see, if you’re so inclined. Some of it’s said to even date back before the Scourge. The library is particularly interesting. The volume of books under its roof is quite remarkable, I must say. As are the statues of the Ascarlian gods hewn into the base of Mount Halthir, though perhaps don’t let the Supplicants see you admiring them overmuch.”

  “There’s a library there?” I asked.

  “Yes, and fairly crammed with all manner of ancient tomes it is too. Fjord Gelders are a strange lot. They’ll whip a man for murder but spare him the noose if he pays a blood tithe to his victim’s family. But, should that man desecrate a book, they’ll tie him to a tree and open his guts to provide carrion for the crows, and no amount of tithing will save him.”

  He upended the flask once again, a frustrated grimace marring his brow when no more drops consented to fall onto his tongue. His gaze took on the preoccupied, constantly roving cast that indicated his thirst had returned. I found I didn’t like Wilhum sober; it made him far less talkative.

  Grinning, I put an arm across his shoulder, guiding him away from the stern. “Why don’t we go and find that sailor? I’ve got a few sheks to spare. Then you can tell me more about the contents of this library.”

  The port of Olversahl lay on the northern bank of an inlet known as Aeric’s Fjord, positioned where the channel narrowed but remained deep enough to accommodate the draught of a ship. The port itself consisted of a dense mass of construction fringing the base of a huge mountainous slab of granite, the famed Mount Halthir Wilhum had spoken of. It ascended in grey, sheer-sided majesty to a height of at least a thousand feet. A single narrow road snaked around the mountain’s southern flank, providing the only landward approach to the port. It also explained why the town itself lacked a protective wall, since only the most suicidal commander would attack along such a constricted avenue of approach and the harbour was too small to allow for a seaborne invasion.

  “Really taken a liking to this soldiering shit, haven’t you?” Toria commented after I pointed out this military reality.

  “A man should educate himself in his profession,” I replied. “Chosen or not.”

  Surveying the approaching town, I was struck by the novelty of a place so different from anything in the Shavine Marches. A parade of windmills, standing higher than any I had seen in the southern lands, lined a tall dyke that curved from the harbour all the way around to the northern flank of the mountain. Thanks to Wilhum’s inebriated tutelage, I knew these and the harbour to be the twinned sources of the port’s wealth. The Fjord Geld had plentiful fisheries and grazing land for goats and sheep, but little facility for growing crops, especially wheat. Grain was shipped in to be milled and then carted off to villages and towns who would pay for it with wool. This cargo would in turn fill the holds of ships ferrying it off to feed the looms of the southern duchies. It was a fruitful arrangement that had ensured Olversahl’s unusual longevity, but also its status as a prize to be endlessly fought over.

  However, it was not the mills that captured my attention, but the jumble of rooftops and towers beyond, particularly the large rectangular structure with a sloping roof. The Library of King Aeric, apparently some long-dead hero of Gelder legend, was the second-largest building in the port besides the much more recent and considerably taller spire that marked the Shrine to Martyr Athil.

  “You think you’ll find it there?” Toria asked, voice low and careful to avoid mention of the words “treasure” or “Lachlan”. “The lore we’ll need to find it, I mean?”

  And a good deal more besides, I
thought, feeling the weight of the Sack Witch’s tome beneath my jerkin. I had concealed it in a leather pouch and bound it tight against my skin, away from the disapproving eyes of the Supplicants and safe from the depredations of rain and wind. In truth, though it shamed me, I guarded the Caerith book with even greater care than Sihlda’s testament.

  “Wilhum says it’s better stocked than even the Covenant library at Athiltor,” I murmured back. We crowded with the rest of our troop on the foredeck, Supplicant Ofihla among them, and it would be best if any important conversation didn’t reach her oversharp ears.

  “And once you’ve found it?” Toria’s voice, though quiet, was loaded with meaning.

  I gave her a reassuring smile. “Then it will be time for us to go in search of our just reward.”

  “Regardless of any other obligation?” She turned her weighty gaze towards Evadine. The captain stood at the prow of the ship, clad in her fine, unadorned armour, I assumed with the intent of making the appropriate impression when we landed. Watching the wind whip her hair into a dark flame, face serene and impassive despite the gusts of salt water the wind scraped from the sea, I felt certain this moment would be the one future illuminators and artists would choose when it came time to immortalise the Anointed Captain. I knew I was witnessing history today, the dawn of a new chapter in her story, for here she would find either triumph and glory, or defeat and disgrace. Perhaps even death. Despite her recent coolness towards me, the desire to keep witnessing her epic was strong, a compulsion to be part of something larger, something of inarguable importance. But it was her story, not mine.

  “Regardless of everything,” I said, shifting my gaze from the captain, although I found it difficult.