The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  Wilhum and I had arrived beneath the Gate Wall barely an hour before, bedraggled and hollow-eyed from a forced march across rough country. Cowardly Karnic failed to make a reappearance until we were within sight of the port, even then he trotted on ahead without deigning to come close enough to be mounted. We maintained a cold silence for much of the journey, Wilhum walking with a sullen but determined cast to his face while my thoughts were equally distracted. The sight of the Ascarlian fleet loomed large but mostly it was the pulse of heat from the silver token beneath my jerkin that set my mind to worried pondering. Merely a product of fear, I told myself. Or some heathen trick, an illusion. Still, I dwelt on it with reluctant obsession, stirred by similarly baffling memories of the Sack Witch and the chainsman.

  The only meaningful words to pass between us came during a brief pause for rest in the forest. By unspoken agreement we made no effort to encamp for the night and struggled on despite the darkness. Margnus Gruinskard might have called us friends and let us go, but he remained a heathen savage with a grudge to settle and who was to say his mercy wasn’t some sadistic jape?

  “You could still have died back there,” I said, propping myself against a tree and resisting the urge to slump to the ground. If I sat down, I knew I would sleep. “Charged the Tielwald or his fellows. A final act of valour. They might even have let me live to carry the tale back to Olversahl. So why didn’t you? Death was your object, was it not?”

  Wilhum had sunk to his haunches by a stream, dipping his hands in the current to wash away the dried blood. “You saw their fleet,” he said. “She’ll need every sword now.”

  “Here, you say?” Evadine asked him now, pointing to a cove on the northern coast of the long tongue of land that lay between Aeric’s Fjord and the open sea.

  “As best as I can judge,” Wilhum confirmed. “It’s a good choice. High ground to cover the approaches and plenty of timber for firewood and repairs to their longships.”

  “Was two hundred the full count?” Sergeant Swain asked, looking to me.

  “Just the most I counted before we were sent off,” I said, shaking my head. “I’d guess this Margnus of the Stoneaxe didn’t want us to see the full size of their fleet.”

  I darted a glance at Fohlvast as I spoke the Tielwald’s name, enjoying again the same spasm of fear as when I first described an Ascarlian of such impressive stature. It was plain that the elderman had heard the name before and didn’t relish the chance of meeting him in person.

  “Ascarlian longships vary greatly in size,” Wilhum said. “But even the smallest can carry at least twenty warriors. We should reckon on a force five thousand strong.”

  “There will be more,” Fohlvast said, speaking with a forcefulness that didn’t quite smother the quaver in his tone. “Margnus Gruinskard is no mere Tielwald. He is the First Sworn to the Sister Queens, their greatest living warrior and their most respected priest. At his call, all the warriors in Ascarlia will muster. His presence in the Fjord Geld means open war. At long last, they have come to seize this land.”

  Seize it back, you mean, I thought, recalling the Tielwald’s tale of the stolen piglet.

  “How many warriors can he bring against us?” Evadine asked Fohlvast.

  “A full count of the populace in the lands of the Sister Queens has never been made.” The elderman folded his arms and stroked his chin in what I assumed to be an effort to convey calm reflection. I doubt the captain found it any more convincing than I did. “They are a people that despise formality and restrict writing to the recording of their heretic sagas and battle deeds. However, King Aeric’s Library holds an account of their last invasion of the Fjord Geld a hundred years ago. It puts the size of their army at twenty thousand. Given the passage of time we may be facing a force of even greater size.”

  “Historical accounts tend to exaggerate numbers,” I said, my interjection drawing a sharp glance from Fohlvast. Evidently, he was a fellow who expected a common soldier to keep his place in fine company. I displayed my lack of shits to give by meeting his gaze squarely, drawing forth another blossom of fear by adding, “Besides, I don’t think the Tielwald intends to rely on numbers alone. He said the Ascarlians had been invited into the Fjord Geld.”

  Fohlvast’s face flushed and I allowed myself a small grin as he floundered for a swift reply. However, it was Evadine who spoke. “Your meaning?”

  “I’ve known schemers all my life,” I said. “Gruinskard is a schemer, not just a mindless brute with a big axe. He has a plan and, I suspect, friends within these walls to help carry it out.”

  The elderman’s discomfort boiled into anger as he swung his gaze to Evadine. “Must you allow this churl to cast calumny on my people so, Captain?”

  “Your people,” I returned, broadening my grin, “love you so much you have to patrol the streets at night to stop them conspiring to stick a knife in your back—”

  “Enough, Scribe!” Evadine snapped. She fixed me with a warning glare, holding it until I consented to knuckle my forehead and step back from the table. “You have both done well,” she said, voice softening as she shifted her gaze between Wilhum and me. “Go now and rest.”

  We bowed and made our exit, I contriving to linger at the door long enough to hear Swain’s observation before it swung closed. “Even with twenty thousand men, getting over that wall is impossible. And there’s no landing place for a fleet save the harbour, which is easily blocked…”

  I slept for a time but it was short and troubled despite my fatigue. The rest of the company was at drill and Wilhum had taken himself off somewhere, I assumed in search of drink. For the most part I lay awake in my bunk, working the silver knot between thumb and forefinger, still pondering its mysteries. The trinket was just cold metal now, still ordinary save for its craftsmanship, and yet I knew it contained a meaning that eluded me.

  Finally, still tired from the trek but unable to resume slumber, I rose and made my way to the statues at the base of the mountain. Walking the streets, I sensed a new tension among the townsfolk, their glances yet more guarded and windows shuttered even in daytime. Mothers herded children indoors and shops that had been open for business only days before were now firmly shut. Although Wilhum and I had been sworn to strictest secrecy, I couldn’t help but connect this shift in mood to our return. Gossip and rumour move at remarkable speed, especially in towns. The arrival of two men on foot who had left mounted days before would surely have been remarked upon. It was also possible that the taut atmosphere had more to do with the increase in local soldiery on the streets. They were mostly Fohlvast’s men, town militia rather than ducal men-at-arms, and their demeanour was far from cheerful, faces hard and eyes busy beneath their helms. My general impression was that Olversahl was a place poised in expectation, but of what?

  Thanks to the pervasive grimness of mood, there were few people about when I reached the statues, allowing me to enjoy an uninterrupted tour of the impressive spectacle they represented. They all stood close to fifty feet high, carved in a manner that recalled the angular, near caricature style of the many wooden figures chiselled into doors and posts throughout the city. There was none of the fine, if weathered, anatomical precision found in the usually incomplete examples of pre-Scourge statuary I had encountered over the years. However, the sheer size and majesty of these stone gods overcame any sense that they were born of a lesser culture. This parade of divine beings was the product of decades of labour by skilled hands, hands that had somehow crafted the illusion they had been grown from the very substance of the mountain rather than brought forth through the tireless pounding of countless chisels.

  I couldn’t name them save for the tallest, a bearded warrior of grave aspect clutching a sword in one hand and a hammer in the other. This, I knew, must be Ulthnir, Father of the Altvar. As for the names of the two female figures that flanked him, I had no notion, but Berrine, of course, knew them well.

  “Aerldun and Nerlfeya,” she said, appearing at my side. “Lovers to U
lthnir the Worldsmith, the mothers of the lesser gods.”

  I turned to find her regarding me with a smile that seemed to hold a measure of actual relief, if not a creditable facsimile of such. I wondered if it reflected poorly on me to nurse such suspicion for a woman who I had coupled with so enthusiastically only days before, but the old outlaw’s nose for duplicity was not to be ignored. Nor was the silver knot about my neck.

  “You’re not dead,” she observed, arching an impressed eyebrow. “Well done.”

  “You don’t sound so surprised as you might,” I replied, keeping my tone light but neutral.

  “A man such as you has a knack for survival.” She came closer, darting her head forward to peck a kiss to my nose and laughing as she drew back. “Perhaps that’s why I like you so much.”

  Pleased as she appeared to be by my return, I sensed an additional guardedness to her, a business to her eyes and stiffness to her bearing that I recognised as controlled fear.

  “Were you followed?” I asked, surveying the mostly empty streets nearby. “I know your elderman is ever a suspicious fellow.”

  “No one followed me. If I appear… disconcerted it’s for another reason.” She reached into the satchel she carried on her shoulder, extracting the Caerith book I had given her.

  “You’re finished already?” I asked in surprise.

  “No.” I saw how her throat worked and the small tremble to her hand as she held the book out to me. “Nor will I be, Alwyn. I want no part of this.”

  “Part of what?”

  She didn’t answer right away, instead continuing to hold the book out until I consented to take it. “I marked the page I reached before I . . decided to abandon my studies.”

  I thumbed my way to the relevant scrap of parchment, finding a small sheet of scribbled notes between two pages. “My translation,” Berrine said. “Read it.”

  Frowning, I extracted the sheet and held it up to the light, reading the untidy script aloud. “‘I’ll take some more information as payment. If you’re offering.’” I gave a faint sigh of bemusement as I looked again at Berrine. “What is this?”

  “Keep reading,” she said, her face completely serious now.

  Shrugging, I returned my gaze to the words on the sheet. “‘Ascarlian blood runs in my veins,’” I read, “‘as it does in all true Fjord Gelders, regardless of the southern kings we are forced to bow to’…” My voice dwindled to silence as the memory rose from the recesses of my mind.

  “It’s us,” Berrine said in a soft, fearful murmur. “You and me that night in the forest. There are five pages and they record every word exchanged between us, words I scarce remember speaking.” She laughed, a short shrill gasp devoid of amusement. “I thought at first you had played some grand jape on me, until I realised the impossibility of it. But what is written in that book is no more possible. There they are, clear as day, our words set down in Caerith script in a book that must be centuries old.”

  I closed the book, my hand suddenly just as unsteady as hers. Thoughts of the Sack Witch raced through my head as I searched for meaning, finding only more mystery. So, you came to me on a field of blood after all, she had said. It was clear to me now that our meeting on the Traitors’ Field had been foretold. If so, had she read it in this book? Was all her talk of lost knowledge just mummery so she could place this in my hands? Why?

  “Is it all like this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Berrine gave a smile that was more of a wince. “The first few pages are all fragmentary conversations between a young outlaw and a man who appears to be his mentor. Once I realised I was translating my own words, I stopped. I fancy myself a woman not lacking for courage, but…” A thin sigh escaped her lips. “Some knowledge is best left unlocked, at least by me.”

  Her hand dipped into her satchel once more, emerging with another book. I judged it as newly made from the cleanliness of the binding. When I opened it, I found clean pages filled by Berrine’s untidy but readable hand.

  “A Guide to Translating Ancient Caerith, by Berrine Jurest,” she said. “My first authored work, just for you. With this, you should be able to complete your own translation. Though, and it pains my librarian’s heart to say it, I suggest you throw that thing in the nearest fire.”

  I found it hard to argue that she was wrong; the book was unnatural, the product of vile heathen practices. However, I knew I could no more cast it into a fire than I could myself.

  “And the treasure?” I asked, keen to shift the conversation to less worrisome matters. “Did you find the Sea Hound’s lair?”

  She straightened, a measure of her previous surety returning as she nodded at the new book I held. “The last page.”

  Opening her text once again I found a map rendered with a clarity that confirmed to me her hand was better suited to drawing than writing. I recognised it as a more refined and detailed depiction of the islets in the midst of the Cronsheldt Sea from the chronicle of piracy describing the Sea Hound’s exploits. “The Iron Maze,” I said, my eye alighting upon a small circle surrounding one of the smaller islets. “It’s here?”

  “I unearthed an account from a sailor who served aboard a merchantman captured by the Sea Hound,” Berrine said. “He described being taken to a vast cave beneath the smallest islet in the chain. There was no mention of the fabled treasure, but what better hiding place could the Hound wish for?”

  I looked up to find her smiling warmly once again. “Part of me wishes I could go with you,” she said with a note of regret.

  “Then do.” I meant the offer. For all her evident duplicity, she was an interesting companion and the prospect of renewing our carnal adventures held considerable appeal.

  “I can’t leave the library.” She sighed and hunched her shoulders in resignation. “With so much trouble brewing, she’ll need a true guardian in days to come.”

  “Trouble is indeed brewing,” I repeated. “In truth, I’m not sure how much longer it’ll be safe for me and my comrades to remain in this port. An early departure would be very welcome.”

  “There’s a sea captain of my acquaintance, a man open to secluding an extra passenger aboard his ship, for the right price.”

  “Two extra passengers. I have a partner.”

  “As you wish. Captain Din Faud is the man you want, skipper of the Morning Star. It’s an old cog, but fast. And he’s an old rogue but trustworthy once hands are shook on a deal. Mention my name when you seek him out; otherwise he’s likely to get tetchy. I happen to know the Morning Star is due back in six days.”

  “I begin to suspect there is little that occurs in this port that you don’t know.” I held up the books before consigning them to the folds of my tunic. “We haven’t discussed your price for this.”

  “Oh,” Berrine said, turning to go, “I think you already paid me in full, Alwyn Scribe.”

  “You didn’t ask why,” I said, causing her to pause.

  She turned back with an arched eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Why it’s not going to be safe here. Nor did you ask about my recent adventure. Aren’t you curious as to what I found out there in the wilds?”

  She said nothing, continuing to regard me with only mild curiosity as I gestured to the mighty statue looming above. “As it happens,” I said, “I met a man out there who reminded me a great deal of Ulthnir here, except he carried an axe. A great stone axe.”

  “And yet you seem to have suffered no injury.” Berrine angled her head, smiling. “Not all southerners who meet an Ascarlian can count themselves so fortunate.”

  “I didn’t say he was Ascarlian.”

  This brought a faintly sheepish twitch to her mouth, but no sign of particular concern.

  “We came upon him shortly after he tortured a man to death,” I went on, which at least had the effect of shifting her expression into something far more serious. “The Crimson Hawk. Have you heard of it? Inflicted upon a man who had committed the apparently grievous crime of carting wool for sale in t
his town so he could feed his family.”

  “An act to be greatly regretted,” Berrine returned. “But then, so are many in war.”

  I moved closer, tugging the cord about my neck to reveal her gift. “He also had one of these.” I dangled the silver knot in front of her eyes. “Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

  Berrine’s gaze lingered on the trinket for a brief second before she stepped away, raising her face to regard Ulthnir’s impassive stone visage far above. “The Altvar-Rendi,” she said, “tells of how Ulthnir, Overlord of the Far Realms, fought a great battle against the Heltvar, vile beasts of the Anguished Pit. Having vanquished them, and keen to cleanse his domain of their corpses, he wove them all into a new realm, this earth upon which we stand. Hence, when the world was born the very soil was seeded with evil. It was from this evil that all the wrongs of man and nature arose. Shamed by his error, Ulthnir vowed to protect his creation and the mortal beings that dwelt upon it, swearing all his children and grandchildren to this task. He made himself the guardian of the Halls of Aevnir, so that even beyond the veil of death, the most worthy would receive just reward. Such is Ulthnir’s devotion to his creation and such is the debt we mortals owe him. What are you devoted to, Alwyn?”

  I doubted she expected an answer, so I gave none. Berrine’s eyes tracked from Ulthnir’s grimly resolute features to the base of his statue, a square plinth richly inscribed in runes. To this day I don’t know if she deliberately allowed her gaze to linger on one particular set of characters or if it was simply an unconscious reflex born of years of study. Out of sentiment, I choose to believe the former.

  “It was good to see you again,” she said before walking away, her stride brisk.

  I waited until she had disappeared into the maze of streets before approaching the plinth. The runic characters that had attracted her focus were at the very end of the inscription and, naturally, meant nothing to me. Taking a charcoal stub and parchment from my pocket I very carefully copied them down. Somewhere in this soon-to-be-besieged port there was bound to be at least one soul who knew their meaning.