Beyond the Bulwarks

by K. J. Coble

  Varya stiffened, hand shooting to Anzo’s sleeve and gripping tight.

  “Speak his name, Theregond!” Ardegant’s voice had gone shaky, yet still mocking. “Tell them all His true name—”

  Anzo barely saw Theregond’s blade leave its sheath, caught only the steely shimmer before it lashed Ardegant from unhurt shoulder to opposite hip. The Arriaks holding the traitor flinched back, shocked, left Ardegant wobbling with innards spilling through cleaved ribs in a steaming torrent. The Gevruum’s wide eyes fell to the mess that had been his organs, his life, piling wetly now at his feet. Still, he remained erect, a throttled sound beginning in his throat.

  Theregond’s second blow took him at the neck. His head flew free, was still rolling across the clearing as the rest of him crumpled before the King of the Erevulans.

  “Blasphemous, lying coward...” Theregond spat on the corpse and looked up at the other Gevruum. The younger of them, resemblance to the slain chieftain picking them out as kin, began to shiver. One of the older warriors grinned through broken teeth. The blaze in Theregond’s eyes intensified and he pointed his dripping blade at the prisoners. “Nails and trees are too good for these worms.”

  “No...” Varya pawed at Anzo’s sleeve. “Don’t...”

  Anzo clutched her fingers in his own. “Varya stop.”

  “Don’t let them...”

  Anzo crushed her hand to him. “Not this time, Varya.”

  Theregond set the point of his blade to the ground, blood running its length to form a stain on the snow, and grinned at his Erevulans. “Butcher them.”

  Vhurrs and Arriaks crowded forth with flashing steel. Pleas began, went shrill as metal plunged home, screeching against meat and bone. Even the grinning elder broke at the last, howling as blades entered him.

  Theregond hung back, laughing over the screams.

  Varya buried her face in the crook of Anzo’s arm and shook.

  ***

  The army of the Free Cantons waited above the Icing Creek a few more days, licking its wounds, waiting vainly as the Codir and the Arriaks scoured the countryside for some hint of the beaten Grondomagnus. The dying continued, though the battle was done, cold and wounds bidding war’s old consort, Disease, make its debut. Hasty funeral pyres lit frigid nights. Mornings found gaps in the ranks; Thrungi, mostly, counting their obligations to the alliance met and melting away into the hills.

  Theregond took the hint—and word that there would be, indeed, no further progress made against the Faces—and ordered the Cantons disperse.

  With the march home, an unseasonable warmth out of the south turned snow into a damp, bone-numbing sleet. Trudging columns of Vhurrs stirred what passed as roads through the wilderness into a pasty muck that coated all, turned the ranks that had crushed eastern barbarism into a sad, sodden parade of filth-coated phantoms. The going could not even be called slow, was that of a sleep-walker infused in frost-bitten nightmare.

  Five days from the battlefield, Anzo, who’d kept close to Varya and Heathen for the most part, found himself called to an improvised council. Theregond and Durrim waited atop a rocky knoll, watching the column limp by. Zulen and a handful of his Arriaks hovered near, seen around Theregond often now. Closer still, but more expected, a trio of Vaethinian priests sat silently atop ponies, eyes burrowing out from white hoods. Their failure to have any effect on the battle had apparently carried no repercussions for them.

  “Weasel,” Theregond called down from his mount as Anzo staggered to the top of the knoll. “The men can’t take this long. We make for Caerigoth.”

  Anzo blinked in surprise. “All of them?”

  “Yes.” Theregond glanced at Durrim. “I sense from your tone you have the same concerns as our young chieftain.

  Anzo shared a look with Durrim. “The Hamrak were straining to support your court and household warriors, as it was, lord.”

  “There will be enough.” Theregond’s voice made the words final.

  “Until the spring, perhaps,” Anzo replied, “but after that...?”

  “After that, we’ll be back to the campaign.”

  Anzo nodded. “As you say. But that’s hardly the concern of one single man, especially one as lowly as I.”

  Theregond chuckled warmly. That warmth was shared by neither the icy-eyed Arriaks nor the Vaethin priests, whose hoods wagged together in a suddenly whispering flurry. “Ah, Weasel. As always, you’d have us believe you are so much less.”

  An odd prickle played at the base of Anzo’s scalp and he found his hand resting at the grip of his sword without recalling he’d put it there.

  “Politics,” Durrim said with a bitter twist of his lip. “I have word Endus is gathering my father’s old cronies about him, fomenting trouble. He’s already ridden on to Caerigoth. He will no doubt use this added burden on my people to turn them against me.” The young chieftain smote the horn of his saddle. “Would the bastard have died in the fight and not Straedus!”

  “What would my lords have of me?” Anzo’s grasp on his weapon tightened.

  “I cannot insert myself into this,” Theregond said. “But with you at Durrim’s councils, Weasel, all will be reminded of...” the King smiled at some inner reverie “...of the reality of the situation.”

  Anzo shifted on his feet, but some of the tension left and his hand fell from his sword belt. He bowed. “I’ll be happy to help in whatever way I can.”

  “Good, Weasel. Good.”

  Anzo tried to meet Durrim’s gaze again but the young chieftain’s eyes returned to the king, obviously awaiting the other’s lead.

  “How is your woman?”

  Anzo looked at Theregond in surprise. “She’s weary, Lord.”

  “Fatigued no doubt by her remarkable exertions on the field?”

  Theregond’s smile had acquired a steely light and Anzo found the prickling of before had spread to his scalp. “Though I don’t understand them, I know that her powers act nearly as harshly upon her as they do upon the object of her intent.”

  “I should hope not, seeing how destructive her influence was.” He nodded dismissively. “Go to her, then, my friend.”

  Tromping down the hillside, Anzo found himself glancing over his shoulder. Zulen had drifted close to Theregond, words passing between them unheard, a familiarity in their postures that belied the newness of their association. One of the priests drew near, as well, and Anzo quickened his gait to no longer have the white-clad man’s gaze on his back.

  Returned to the column, Anzo found Varya atop a pony taken from the routed Face cavalry. She swayed in the saddle, heavily bundled while Heathen led the mount by the rein on foot. As Anzo neared he spied a knot of men crouched about something along the roadside. Passing them, Anzo realized they were looting the corpse of a Vhurr who might’ve been a comrade an hour before.

  “Monstrous,” Varya hissed as Anzo took up a place on the other side of her mount. “Was he even dead yet?”

  Anzo looked away when he caught the flash of a dagger sawing to get a ring off a finger. “It’s the Vhurr way.”

  “Homicidal children.” Varya shivered and pulled her cloaks about her.

  Heathen spat, narrowly missing the scavengers. One of them looked up at the huge youth with murder in his eyes.

  “Here,” Anzo said, reaching to take the reins from the younger man. “See if you can scare us up a drink?”

  The giant glanced at Varya and Anzo found himself again grinding his teeth at the lad’s over-protectiveness. With a shrug, Heathen released the mount to him and wandered ahead along the column.

  “How he frets.” Anzo could hear the smile in Varya’s voice.

  “I thought you didn’t need fretting over.” He looked up at her and had to suppress a gasp. Deep within her hood, her face was a sickening smear of yellowy-white, and veins showed in dark webs about her eyes. “Varya...do I need to check your bindings?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  She didn’t an
swer. Her gaze had been drawn to the thin woods to their left. Tree branches shook, snow dusted free. Anzo caught a flicker of white robes and his knuckles were again tightening about his sword grip.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Varya whispered. “They’ve been watching me for a long time.”

  “But doing nobody else any damned good!” Anzo snarled

  “It’ll be all right.” She put her hand on Anzo’s shoulder. “I’m just gathering my strength.” She broke the contact with a light pat. “Now, what did Theregond want?”

  They were nearing the knoll now. Theregond and his coterie still gathered at its crown. “The Erevulans will finish the winter in Caerigoth,” Anzo said.

  “They can’t be serious. All will starve.”

  Anzo shook his head. “Spring’s hardly a month away now. With the plunder of the battle, there’ll be enough.”

  “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

  He shrugged. “After that, I assume it’ll be eastward, following Grondomagnus’ trail. We’ll live off the land.”

  “We?”

  “The job’s not done yet, Varya.”

  She let silence drag. “Are you sure?”

  Anzo looked up at her, anger warming his face. “Grondomagnus is still out there.”

  “And his power is broken.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Does it matter?” She winced, the last word cut off by clenching teeth. She folded over in the saddle, started to sag towards him.

  “Varya, this is ridiculous...maybe I should get you down from there.” He glanced about, spied a thick clump of trees. “I could set you—” A flicker of motion and a flutter of white cloak chilled the words from his throat.

  “No...no...” Varya steadied herself by putting her hand back on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. Listen, instead. We were to find out the source of the disturbance, Anzo, and, if possible, neutralize it.” She switched to Aurridian. “If not, we were to return to Aurid with the intelligence.”

  “I know why we’re here,” he grated under his breath so that the Vhurrs beginning to lap around them as they slowed wouldn’t hear. Ahead, he caught another glimpse of white darting amongst warriors who hardly seemed to note its passing.

  “Are you sure?” Varya’s hand drifted from Anzo’s shoulder to touch his face, the fingertips shockingly clammy and cold. She leaned over him, breathed down. “Are you certain your mind is quite clear on things?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Are you Anzo Severnus of the Imperial Courier Service?” She grimaced, from the pain of whatever ailed her or from something more. “Or are you the Weasel of the Vhurrs?”

  Anzo looked away as if slapped. “You’re...you’re not well, Varya.”

  Atop the knoll, the Vaethin priests had sidled away from the rest, cloaks stirred like hunting birds shaking out their wings in the wind. Their eyes seemed to focus on Varya. And on him.

  Anzo felt pressure on his shoulder. Varya was listing again. “I’m well enough to see what’s happening.”

  “I should get you down.”

  “He draws you in, Anzo,” she whispered hoarsely. “Theregond. You’d follow him anywhere. Anywhere.”

  Anzo looked up into her face. Her weight was fully on him now, her mount drawn to a halt as grumbling Vhurrs shouldered by. Sweat beaded across her waxy features, fiery hint of purple playing at the fringes of her irises.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “It’s just the job.”

  Her fingers tightened, pinching into the flesh between his leather collar and the base of his neck. “Then let’s get out of here, Anzo, before he draws us too much further!”

  “No.” He shook his head. “It’s not done. If you...look, if you and Heathen decide you want to...” He shrugged. “I’d...I’d understand, is all.”

  “You understand...nothing...”

  With a shiver, her body went limp and collapsed from the saddle into his arms. The weight of her took Anzo by surprise, dragged him to his knees as he struggled to keep her lolling head from striking the ground. “Varya? Varya, hear me!” Her form went fluid in his grasp, limbs draping to the muck. He clenched her tight, put his ear to her chest, found...a heartbeat, faintly pattering against loosened ribs. He cast about in a panic. “Help. Help us!”

  The pack of Vhurrs who’d picked over the dead man jostling by, laughing callously, one or two eyeing Varya for opportunity. One’s boot kicked her nerveless hand out of the way.

  “Varya...Varya, don’t.” Anzo’s innards liquefied as he pawed at her slackened face, chill and yet hot, like a fever blazed just under the surface. Panic like he’d known only once, clutching at the cooling corpse of his mother in a rain-swept hollow at seventeen, howled through his chest. The job, the risks, the Empire and Perrenius and all that was Anzo Severnus, all swept away.

  “Heathen!”

  At the crest of the knoll, someone chuckled. For an instant, Anzo thought it might have Theregond.

  ***

  Anzo hardly remember the rest of the return trip, recalled only a blur of anxiety as he and Heathen took turns obsessing over Varya’s condition. They’d gotten her semi-comatose form over the saddle again and led the reticent pony at as fast a gait as the little brute would manage. Still, they fell behind, most of the Vhurrs acquiring a lighter step as they neared the stronghold of the Hamrak.

  The tail of the column was a place of walking wounded and worse, men left to breathe their last sprawled in the snow and mud. Occasional whimpers for help or mercy ground at Anzo’s nerves. Arriaks prowled the countryside, pausing occasionally to pick any leavings from the abandoned dead. More fearsome, Anzo saw flashes of white cloak everywhere he looked.

  He tried to tell himself it was fatigue.

  He forced himself to put it from his mind, to keep going. For Varya.

  They reached Caerigoth to find it transformed. Its surrounding fields smoked with hundreds of campfires, darkened with ramshackle huts and clots of shivering men. The stink of feces, urine, unwashed bodies packed together, and disease weighted the damp air. Above it all, Caerigoth seemed diminished, the damage to Durrim’s fire hall still unresolved, gaps having appeared in the palisades where Erevulans had apparently been given leave to strip beams for the construction of shelters. The Hamrak, themselves, wandered their settlement as shadows, shrunken, shaken by encroaching famine, eyeing the warriors crowding their walls with sunken-eyed fear. What had been alliance before must now seem an occupation.

  With Varya, as before, the ladies of Durrim’s household offered little help or attention. Durrim, to his credit, appeared embarrassed and had made certain Varya’s lodgings were prepared in advance. Anzo let Heathen carry her up to the room while he saw to her mount. Inquiries after food scared up a pitiful broth speckled with tags of meat and gristle. Inquiries after Theregond turned up nothing. The King, it seemed, was indisposed.

  Anzo reached Varya’s chamber just as Heathen was settling her onto her bed while Durrim watched. With almost paternal care, the huge Vhurr drew sheets up over the withered form and checked her pallid brow.

  “It’s the same.” Heathen pulled his hand away and accepted the bowl of soup when Anzo offered it. Grimacing from the soreness of the long journey, he knelt and tried to give her a spoonful. Lips twitched as Heathen forced the broth in. Most of it drooled down the side of her face. He cursed and wiped it up with a furious motion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither, kid.” Anzo wiped dried mud from his whiskers, was tired almost beyond the point of worry for her. Almost.

  “Will she live?” Durrim asked.

  Anzo glanced at the man, frowning. The young chieftain’s tone had been odd, almost expectant. “It’s some kind of a fever, it seems. But I...I don’t think—”

  “She’s going to be fine!” Heathen spun to them, eyes fiery, some of the broth splashing from the bowl across his forearm.

  Anzo stepped to the giant’s side, put a hand on his
shoulder. The younger man had the look of a dog he’d once seen in a sacked village, prowling about the corpse of its master. “No one’s saying she isn’t.” He glared at Durrim.

  “Was she injured in the fight?” Durrim scratched at the bandage about his bicep.

  “Bruised ribs, I thought.” Anzo knelt beside her, took the broth from Heathen as the youth got up, quivering with frustration. “A fracture could have caused internal injuries and infection. But it didn’t seem to be that serious.” He filled a spoonful and held it up to Varya.

  She moaned. A shudder passed through yellowed features, tightened about her eyelids. Lips began to move, dried skin cracking to ooze blood. Faint words reached Anzo’s ears.

  “What’s she saying?” Heathen crowded in close.

  Durrim shook his head. “Nothing I understand.”

  Anzo set the spoon back in the bowl as his fingers began to shake. Coolness spread across his brow as he recognized—even if he did not understand—the words. It was the otherworldly tongue she sometimes used to call upon her powers.

  The creak of floorboards presaged a tapping at the door to the room. Banded hinges groaned as Durrim drew it open. A tight gasp escaped, followed by an expression that Anzo almost took as fear. Durrim stepped aside with a deep bow and admitted Aehemir, Concubine of Theregond and Lady of the Erevulans.

  “My Lady.” Anzo stood and joined Heathen in a bow. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  The Erevulan queen pointed at the bowl in Anzo’s hand. “That is no good.” She waved and a trio of her ladies-in-waiting came through the door with a plate of steaming food, a jug of water, and fresh linens. “Men,” she said in a chiding note, “you know nothing.”

  “We’re happy for any help.” Anzo watched the white-blonde woman pull up Varya’s knitting chair and seat herself beside the bed. “You have skill at healing?”

  “I have many skills.” Aehemir didn’t look at him. “She will be in good care.”

  Anzo blinked, realized the words were a dismissal. “Again, thank you.” He glanced at Heathen. “But we’d like to stay.”