Hall of Smoke

by H. M. Long

  And I thought of Nisien. Thoughts of him were insidious, rising and diverting even my most focused of contemplations. His blood-drunk laughter after the attack worried me. I felt responsible for dragging him away from Euweth, for opening the door that brought him back to this life. There was no romance in that connection; I had no interest in men beyond Eidr and his loss, but Nisien unnerved me, concerned me and consoled me in the same breath. I was an Eangi without a Hall, a young woman without a family, and Nisien’s friendship was all the camaraderie I had left in the world.

  Still, I knew I’d likely need to leave him soon. Once we reached the mountains, the Arpa would go on their way and I’d go mine, searching for the white lake. Given the choice, I wasn’t sure if Nisien would come with me – or if I would even allow him to. My quest was an Eangen matter, and Nisien, despite his friendship, was an outsider.

  But for now, I permitted myself to cherish the simple truth that I wasn’t alone.

  We rode until near dusk, fed on trail rations and lit no fire. As we settled in, I glanced from my bedroll to the tents, at a loss. In the Hall, all the Eangi slept in close quarters. Privacy between the sexes was a luxury that no one could afford, even if it had meant much to us. During raiding seasons, matters were even more practical: Eangi and Eangen warriors slept wherever we could.

  But the Arpa were not Eangen. I did not trust the legionaries.

  I turned my eyes to the sky. I doubted it would rain that night – the moon had a warm red glow and the sky was almost clear, so I went to the base of a pine and pressed my foot into the bed of moss and needles around it. It sunk in but didn’t meet hidden moisture.

  I rolled out my bed of sheepskin and wool, slipped my pack under the head as a pillow and tucked my sword beneath the edge. I had just set my shield up against the pine when Nisien dropped into a crouch a pace away and unfurled his bedroll.

  I stared at him. “What are you doing?”

  Nisien set his pack between us. “Sleeping here.”

  My heart swelled uncomfortably. When I didn’t protest, he shrugged off his shield, unfastened his armor and laid it atop the pack within easy reach. Then he sat down and jerked off his boots before arranging them at the end of his bed.

  There was a familiarity to the routine that spoke volumes about the portion of his life he had lived on the road. As sun vanished over the horizon, he dug around in his pack for an oily wax to rub into the leather parts of his armor and his boots, and settled in.

  The rest of the men finished up their own evening routines. They had not bothered to close the tents completely, and the sun-bleached canvas breathed in the wind. I could see the rows of men lying inside, keeping to themselves or murmuring, but there were no jests or laughter. One lit incense on a folding wooden altar. Another set a bronze idol out at the head of his bed, kissing it once, and I wondered if it represented Lathian.

  Darkness settled in, drawing the shadows closer and thinning the last twilight colors into blacks and greys. Nisien finished his work and returned wax and cloth to the pack. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his face turn my way. “Goodnight, Eangi.”

  “Goodnight,” I returned.

  He turned his back and lay down, forming a wall between the Arpa and I, and I curled up on my bed. Mutely, I watched his side rise and fall, recalling hundreds of nights spent this way with other Eangi, with Yske. With Eidr.

  The darker it became, the easier it was to imagine that Nisien actually was my husband, alive and breathing, close and familiar. The thought of Eidr, the dusky scent of his hair and the warmth of his skin, became so vivid I could not push it away again.

  I rolled onto my back and forced my eyes closed, but the movement only reminded me of how empty my bed was, how cold the place was where Eidr should have been. Nisien’s presence ceased to be a comfort.

  What if Eidr could have lain here with me? What if I could have felt his chest against my back right now, his arm draped across my waist? What if I could have felt his lips press into my ear, warm and soft, as he bade me good night?

  What if we could have endured these past weeks together?

  What if, back in that field of poppies, I had simply asked him and Yske to stay?

  * * *

  The land changed over the next week and, slowly, we began to climb. Forest and farmland gave way to the lakes and windblown pines of the true Eangen north. Huge swaths of exposed, smooth rock rose out of vibrant mosses that alternatively deadened and accented our horses’ hooves. Wetlands gathered between old-wood groves, thick with clouds of blackbirds and towering reeds.

  We saw signs of other humans but encountered no one. We found fire pits with ashes solidified from rain. Though the rocks concealed most signs of passage, the occasional stretch of sheared grass and churned earth showed where herds had passed. But by the time we saw them, they were already returning to a natural state.

  The next village on the road north was called Gilda. Resting next to a broad, glistening lake that eventually emptied into the Pasidon, the cluster of forty houses sat abandoned. Its temple was intact but sat out on a rocky island some hundred paces into the lake, inaccessible without a boat or very long swim. And there were no boats to be found, nor were there signs that any Eangen had been present when the Algatt came through.

  “There’s a good chance they escaped.” I stood on the lakeshore, a great shelf of pinkish rock, laced with quartz. Racks for drying fish sat nearby, as did a few piles of netting and a long jetty of rough-cut timber. The sun was partially clouded, but frequent bursts of light speckled the lake and heated the rock under our feet. “No burned houses, no fresh graves.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Nisien unstopped his flask and considered the water.

  Inspired, I tugged off my boots and stockings and tied my trousers up above the knee. My bare feet eased onto the warm stone as I held out my hand. “Let me. It’s colder further out.”

  He gave me the flask and I waded into the lake, placing each step with care. The lake remained shallow until over a dozen paces out, where I noted the sudden drop in temperature and halted. On the edge of an unseen rock shelf, I pushed the flask a full arm’s length under before I let it fill with blissfully cool water.

  I straightened as Nisien splashed up and handed him the flask, which he accepted.

  “I don’t think it’s too much to hope that many of your people escaped, here and in other places,” he offered, resuming our conversation. “They’re just in hiding.”

  I nodded, recalling the refugees the Algatt had told me of, heading west, and suppressed an ache in my heart. I accepted the skin back from him and drank, letting my eyes roam out towards the temple on the island.

  Though the architecture of Gilda itself differed little from other Eangen settlements – weathered wooden houses and low thatch rooves – the shrine was unique. It was a one-storied octagon with a strong timbered frame and a vaulted roof that rose into a high gable, all layered with cedar shingles and accessed by a narrow door. Even at this distance, I could see wooden carvings, bones and feathers dangling from the birches around it.

  I wasn’t aware that a silence had fallen until Nisien broke it. “Did you often travel this far north?”

  I emptied the skin and reached to fill it up again. Water lapped up over my knees, but I wasn’t concerned. The day was warm enough that my trousers would dry quickly.

  “Every raiding season,” I said, capping the flask. I handed it back to him again and wiped my hands on my face, enjoying the cool water. “They usually only come in spring and autumn, but I spent whole summers up here. We’d keep watch, stopping them from ranging too far south. Sometimes they’d slip by, but usually not.”

  Nisien pulled the strap of the flask over his head. “How many years have you fought?”

  “Three,” I replied.

  “So how old were you when you began?”

  “Fifteen. We still come north when we’re younger, but we don’t participate until Svala permits. There’s no specif
ic age when we start; it’s based on ability.”

  A teasing glint entered his eye. “So were you older or younger than the average?”

  “Older,” I admitted. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

  “Even with your…” He pointed at my mouth, lacking the right terminology.

  “The Fire,” I supplied. I nodded to the right and we started wading back to shore. “Yes. Even so. But my cousin, they let her fight at thirteen.”

  Nisien kept his eyes ahead. “Is she gone?”

  “Yes,” I replied hollowly. I stepped out of the water and bent to squeeze out the bottom of my trousers and legwraps. I planned on saying more, but the words congealed in my throat. I focused on clenching the wet fabric and watched trails of water pool around my feet on the warm rock.

  Nisien lingered in the shallows. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” I didn’t look up.

  “Tell me what happened. Tell me the feel and the smell of it. Tell me what your cousin looked like.”

  I straightened to gape at him. “You’re sick,” I accused.

  He strode out of the water, leaving a trail of splashes and wet footprints. “It will help.”

  “No.” I flinched away. “I— No.”

  “What did it smell like? The village?”

  I continued to gawk at him, too shocked to be angry. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because a month ago your entire village was slaughtered, your home burned, and you were enslaved.” Nisien sat down on a hip-high boulder and slicked the water off his legs with a hand. “I can see in your face that you haven’t talked about it. It’s scabbed over and festering.”

  I clamped my jaw shut and snatched up my boots. I hadn’t forgotten Euweth’s words, that it had taken almost an entire year for Nisien’s night terrors to stop after he came home. Perhaps he knew what he was saying. Or perhaps not.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you,” I said, exasperated. “What about that zealot commander of yours, Telios? You won’t talk about him, but I haven’t interrogated you.”

  “Fine.” He lifted his head. “Do you really want to know?”

  I did, but I snapped, “You keep your pain to yourself and I’ll keep mine.”

  Nisien rested his forearms on his knees and shrugged.

  Something in me hated that he’d given up so easily. But perhaps I should have been more concerned for him than myself.

  “You had the blood-hunger the other night,” I pointed out.

  “And you didn’t?” He let his eyes fall into mine, open and deliberate.

  “That doesn’t mean I wanted to,” I said. “That’s Eang. You chose to put that armor back on. But I was five years old when I went to Albor and I killed two Algatt to get there. I’ve never had a choice. I’ve never known anything else.”

  It was only as I spoke the words that I realized what I was saying. I had never had a choice. I’d been bound to Eang, to her wars and violence, since childhood – and until now I’d been content with that, secure in the knowledge that my service had value, that I shed blood for a goddess who would always protect me and my people in turn.

  But she hadn’t protected us, had she? She was in hiding. Her bindings were breaking and her land – our land – was full of unchecked enemies. So why did I kill for her? Why did I risk my life for her?

  The thought unsettled me so much that I took a step back. I couldn’t truly think these things, could I? I couldn’t feel this way?

  The wind picked up. Clouds passed over the sun and the day’s heat faded. Nisien inspected me as we were thrown into shadow, the sunlight passing off his grim face in a clean line. But his eyes, they were transparent and filled with… what? Melancholy? Understanding?

  I didn’t flee, but I left. I turned and half-ran through the streets of the village, barefooted over rock and sunbaked earth and wooden bridges. I passed a score of startled legionaries, riffling through homes, and stopped on the far side of the village in a stand of trees.

  I thought of myself, fifteen years old, facing Svala in the firelight while the warriors sang around us. There, still raw from my first intentional kill, she had handed me the charge to slaughter Omaskat. Then, when I had fallen for the kindness in his eyes and failed to fulfill that charge, I had been stripped and outcast. I had returned, desperate to serve, and instead suffered the rage of Eang – the goddess who had, until now, preserved my people for centuries, yet left her infant son to die, helpless and screaming, on a mountaintop.

  I leant back against the smooth bark of a tree and stared out across the rock and sparse fields of Gilda. My carefully trained mind balked at the thoughts that I entertained now, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  So much violence. So much danger and loss. What would happen on the day when I couldn’t fight my attackers off? It would come. Eangi Fire or no, my life was destined to be violent and short.

  I fingered the Eangi collar at my belt, vacillating between disillusionment and hard, unwavering dogma. Finally, unable to reconcile the two, I pushed them both down and went to apologize to Nisien.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Five days after I joined the Arpa, we came to Iskir. We were in Eangen’s far north now, and the Algatt Mountains swept across the horizon in a great, brooding wall of stone and snowy peaks and tattered cloud. This was the home of the Iskiri, a land of rock, dense mossy forests and waving, reedy marshes. This was where I’d spent months of every year, first watching for, then eventually hunting Algatt raiders. I knew the road we traversed as well as I knew Albor. I knew the waystones that marked our way and the bends of the rivers, the glisten of the lakes. I knew where the fog bellied in the ravines, where the marshes could be traversed, the best places to camp, to hide, to ambush.

  And I was alone in that familiarity. However close to me Nisien rode, he had no memory of this place, no sense of its importance and history. He couldn’t understand what it was to be an Eangi, side by side with Eidr and Yske and Vist, running these forests and scouting from these ridgelines – all in service of the goddess who had let them die.

  I lost myself in remembrances until we reached a well-trodden road alongside a marsh.

  “Iskir is in a hidden valley up ahead,” I warned Polinus.

  The commander called a halt and sent scouts, combing the countryside for any sign of life while we rested in the warmth of the evening sun and the rustling of marsh grasses. As we waited I battled a rebellious, desperate optimism: the Iskiri were the wildest, most violent of the Eangen. If anyone could have held out against the Algatt, surely it would be them.

  But what little hope I’d conjured faded upon the scouts’ return. They spoke to Polinus in Arpa, but from the calm and dismissive language of their bodies, it was clear that the village was uninhabited.

  My stomach lurched. I fought to keep my emotions down, my face impassive. It made sense, after all. If there were any Eangi alive in Iskir, Eang would have been wrong and Ogam would have found them. Iskir was gone, just like every other settlement in the Algatt’s path.

  That night we camped on a wooded rise near the town. Nisien was on watch so I rolled out my bed in a more secluded location than usual, behind a large boulder and a cluster of pines so low and gnarled that they draped like a curtain. The wind whispered through their boughs as I rested my shield against the tree, cleaned my boots and drank a little from my water skin.

  The presence of Iskir tugged my eyes west, down the hill. I had not been able to see the black scar of the town during our ascent, but I knew where she was. I knew the hill we camped on. I even knew the rock I sheltered under. I’d sat atop it as a child on sentry duty, bickering with Yske and braiding her hair.

  The night settled in. I sat with my back against the boulder, inhaling the scents of pine, warm stone and distant lakes. The Arpa risked no fire tonight and kept conversation low, but when the wind turned, I caught threads of their voices.

  They were calmer, now. The shock of losing companions in sudden
violence had ebbed into a bruised, wary resignation. None of them were strangers to battle.

  Nisien was the exception. Since our conversation by the lake in Gilda and the memories it had stirred, he had slipped into such a dark and shuttered mood that nothing could rouse him. Yesterday he had nearly come to blows with a legionary over some matter in Arpa and Polinus had put him on constant watch duty ever since.

  I considered pressing him but knew that he would only dig into my troubles in return. So I left him be.

  The moon slipped free of a heavy bank of cloud, three-quarters full and brimming with light. It fell across the landscape like the passing of a divine hand, elongating the shadows of the pines and outcroppings until it found Iskir.

  The town had inhabited a grassy section in the valley, guarded by high walls and centred around their own Hall of Vision, a lesser version of the Hall of Smoke. Rock was plentiful here, meaning that many of the buildings, including the Hall, had been more than half stone. Thus, the charred remnants of Iskir were still layered with the organized outlines of homes.

  When I slung my weapons and shield back on and headed downhill, I wasn’t conscious of what I did. All I could think of was the bleakness of the town under the moonlight. I glanced back more than once, but either Nisien and the lookouts were slack tonight, or they decided to let me do whatever I intended to do.

  I found the first body within ten minutes, though I smelled it long before. He or she – the half that remained was ambiguous – lay strewn alongside a field of rustling barley, torn and putrid and riddled with beetles. I covered my face with a sleeve and murmured the final prayers with overflowing eyes.

  The next body – or the parts of it that remained – had clearly been there longer. They were nearly skeletal, as was the next, and the next. I stopped to pray for each, the tourniquet around my stomach twisting tighter and tighter.