by Anthony Ryan
“Nisha ulniss ne Serantim!” the boy screamed at Vaelin, his bruised face rigid with hate. “Herin! Garnin!”
“Oh shut up,” Vaelin said tiredly, pushing a rag into the boy’s mouth.
He left him writhing in his bonds and led Spit onwards, careful of his footing in the dark although the half-moon was bright enough to make his way without misstep. He kept going until the boy’s muffled cries were no longer audible and found shelter next to a large boulder, laying down to let sleep claim him.
The next day brought his first glimpse of sunlight, intermittent rays breaking through the clouds to play across the frozen rock of the Anvil, drawing huge shadows from the tors, their weathered surfaces seeming to shimmer. Beautiful, he thought, wishing he had come here on a different mission. His heavy heart seemed to forbid enjoyment of simple things.
The Anvil stretched on for another five miles, eventually giving way to a series of low hills dotted with the stunted pine which seemed to proliferate in the north. Spit spurred into an unbidden gallop as soon as his hooves touched the grass, snorting his relief at leaving the unyielding rock of the Anvil. Vaelin gave him his head and let him run. Spit was ever a mean spirited animal and it was a novelty to feel the joy in him as he raced up and down the hills, churning sod in their wake. By nightfall they were in sight of the broad plateau where the fallen city waited. Vaelin found a campsite atop the last of the hills, affording a good view of the approaches and cover from a cluster of pine near the summit.
He tethered Spit to a low hanging branch and gathered wood, arranging it within a circle of rocks, adding pine shavings for kindling. He struck his flint and blew softly on the flames until the fire built, sitting cross-legged, his sword still on his back and his bow within reach, an arrow already notched, waiting. He had become aware of being followed in the early evening so there seemed little point in observing Artin’s stricture against lighting a fire.
Night came on quickly, the clouded sky making the darkness deep and impenetrable beyond the firelight. It was another hour before the soft scrape of hooves on sod told of a visitor. The man who walked into the camp stood at least six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms, his chest confined within a bearskin vest which reached to his waist where a war club and a steel-bladed hatchet hung on his belt. He wore deerskin trews and leather boots. Like the boy who had attacked Vaelin earlier his head was shaved and tattooed, an intricate maze-like design which circled his head from temple to temple. More tattoos covered his arms, strange whirls and barb-like shapes stretching from shoulder to wrist. His face was lean and angular, making him difficult to age, but his eyes, dark and hostile beneath a heavy frown, spoke of many years and, if Vaelin was any judge, many battles. He was leading a sturdy pony which bore something slung across its back, something bound in rope which writhed and moaned.
The Lonak pulled the hatchet and war club from his belt in a quick and skilful movement Vaelin almost didn’t catch. He watched the man whirl the weapons expertly for a second or two, feeling the rush of displaced air and resisting the impulse to reach for his sword. The man’s eyes never left his, studying, calculating. After a moment he grunted in apparent satisfaction and laid both weapons on the ground near the fire. Taking a step backwards, hands raised, his expression no less hostile.
Vaelin unbuckled his sword from his back and placed it before him, also raising his hands. The Lonak grunted again and went to the pony, pulling the bound boy from its back and dumping him unceremoniously next to the fire.
“This is yours,” he told Vaelin, his words thickly accented but clearly spoken.
Vaelin glanced at the boy, his mouth securely gagged with a leather strap, eyes dim with exhaustion. “I don’t want it,” he told the Lonak.
The big man regarded him in silence for a moment then moved to the opposite side of the fire, spreading his hands to the warmth. “Among my people, when a man comes to your fire in peace it is custom to offer him meat and something to slake his thirst.”
Vaelin reached for his saddle bags and extracted some dried beef and a water skin, tossing them to the Lonak across the fire. He took a small knife from his boot and cut a strip from the beef, chewing and swallowing quickly. Drinking from the water skin however made him grimace and spit on the ground. “Where is the wine you Merim Her love so much?” he demanded.
“I rarely drink wine.” Vaelin glanced again at the boy. “Aren’t you going to let him eat too?”
“Whether he eats is your choice. He belongs to you.”
“Because I defeated him?”
“If you defeat a man and don’t deign to kill him, he is yours.”
“And if I don’t take him?”
“He will lay here until he starves or the beasts come to claim him.”
“I could just cut his bonds, set him free.”
The Lonak barked a harsh laugh. “There is no freedom for him. He is varnish, defeated, destroyed, worth no more than dog shit to my people.” The man’s gaze was fixed on the boy now, a fierce implacable glower. “A fitting punishment for one who disobeys Her word, who allows his misplaced pride to blind him to his obeisance. Cut his bonds and he will wander here, weaponless, friendless, my people will shun him and he will find no shelter.”
His gaze swung back to Vaelin and he saw something more than anger there, a faint flicker of something hidden, told in the tension of his jaw and the set of his lips. Concern. He fears for the boy.
“If he’s mine,” Vaelin said, “then I may do with him as I wish?”
The Lonak’s eyes flicked back to the boy for an instant. He nodded.
“Then I give him to you. A gift of thanks for allowing me to cross your lands.”
The Lonak’s face remained impassive but Vaelin could read the relief in his eyes. “You Merim Her are soft,” he sneered. “Weak and craven. Only your numbers give you strength, and that will not last forever. One day we will sweep you back to the sea and the waves will turn red with your blood.” He rose and went to the boy, using the boot knife to sever his bonds. “I’ll take your worthless gift, since it’s all you have to offer.”
“You’re welcome.”
Free of the ropes the boy was listless, sagging as the Lonak dragged him to his feet, whimpering as the big man slapped him awake with a chorus of curses in his own language. Once roused the boy’s gaze swung to Vaelin, the same hatred and bloodlust colouring his features once again. He bridled, tensing himself for another attack. The big Lonak struck him, a hard back-handed cuff across the face, drawing blood from his lip, then pushed him roughly to the waiting pony, hoisting him onto its back and pointing sternly back down the hill. The boy favoured Vaelin with a last glare of naked animosity before spurring away into the darkness.
The Lonak returned to the fire and reached for the dried beef once more, his face sombre as he ate.
“A good father suffers much for his son,” Vaelin observed.
The Lonak’s eyes flashed at him, the hostility shining once again. “Do not think there is a debt between us. Do not think you have bought passage through our lands with my son’s life. You live because She wishes it.”
“She?”
The Lonak shook his head in disgust. “You have fought us for centuries and you know so little of us. She is our guide and our protection. She is our wisdom and our soul. She rules us and serves us.”
Vaelin recalled his dream-meeting with Nersus Sil Nin in the Martishe. What had she said about the Lonak? I should have known the High Priestess would find a way. “The High Priestess. She leads you?”
“High Priestess,” the Lonak spoke the words as if tasting unfamiliar fare. “As good a name as any. Your bastard tongue does not fit easily with our ways.”
“You speak my bastard tongue very well. Where did you learn it?”
The Lonak shrugged. “When we raid we take captives, although they have little uses. The men are too weak to work the seams for more than a season without perishing and the women bear sickly ch
ildren. But once we took a man in a grey robe. Called himself Brother Kellin. He could heal and he could learn. Came to speak our tongue like his own in time, so I made him teach me his.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sickened last winter. He was old, we left him out in the snow.”
Vaelin was starting to understand why the Lonak were so widely despised. “So your High Priestess told you to let me pass?”
“Word came from the Mountain. One of the Merim Her would come alone into our lands, their greatest warrior seeking the blood of his brother. No harm will come to him.”
The blood of his brother…The High Priestess sees much it seems. “Why?”
“She does not explain. Words from the Mountain are not to be questioned.”
“And yet your son tried to kill me.”
“Boys seek renown in forbidden deeds. He had visions of defeating you and winning glory, the keenest sword of the Merim Her taken by his knife. How could I have angered the gods so that they visit me with a fool for a son?” He hawked and spat into the fire, glancing up at Vaelin. “Why did you spare him?”
“There was no need to kill him. Killing without need is against the Faith.”
“Brother Kellin spoke often of your faith, endless lies. How can a man have a creed but no god to punish him if he breaks it?”
“A god is a lie, and a man cannot be punished by a lie.”
The Lonak chewed some more beef and shook his head, he seemed almost sorrowful. “I have heard the voice of the fire god, Nishak, deep in the dark places under the smoking mountain. There was no lie in it.”
Fire god? Obviously the man had confused an echoing cavern for the voice of one of his gods. “What did he tell you?”
“Many things. None of them for your ears, Merim Her.” He tossed the beef and water skin back to Vaelin. “It’s ill luck for a man to seek the death of his brother. Why do you do it?”
Vaelin was tempted to ignore the question and sit in silence until the Lonak left, there seemed little left to talk about and he certainly didn’t cherish the man’s company, but something made him voice the feelings that pained him so much. Easier to unburden yourself to a stranger. “He’s not my brother in blood, but in the Faith. We are of the same Order and he has committed a great offence.”
“And so you will kill him?”
“I will have to. He will not let me take him back to face judgement. Did the High Priestess tell you to let him pass also?”
The Lonak nodded. “The yellow hair rode through seven days ago, making for the Maars Nir-Uhlin Sol. You intend to follow him there?”
“I have to.”
“Then you’ll most likely find a yellow haired corpse waiting for you. There is only death in those ruins.”
“I’ve heard. Do you know what it is that deals death in the fallen city?”
The Lonak's face twitched in annoyance. Fear was clearly a touchy subject. “Our people do not go there, haven’t for more than five winters, even before then we didn’t like the place, there’s a weight to the air that bears down on a man’s soul. Then the bodies started appearing. Seasoned hunters and warriors torn and rent by something unseen, their faces frozen in fear. A shameful end to be taken by a beast, even a beast of magic.” He glanced up at Vaelin. “You go there you’ll soon be as dead as your brother.”
“My brother isn’t dead.” He knew it, felt it in the constant note of the blood-song. Nortah was still alive. Waiting.
Abruptly the Lonak reached for his weapons and rose to his feet, fixing Vaelin with a hostile glare. “We’ve talked long enough, Merim Her. I’ll soil myself no longer with your company.”
“Vaelin Al Sorna,” Vaelin said.
The Lonak squinted at him suspiciously. “What?”
“My name. Do you have one?”
The Lonak regarded him in silence for a long time, the hostility fading from his gaze. Eventually he shook his head. “That is not your name.”
Then he was gone, into the blackness beyond the fire without a sound.
The tower must have stood over two hundred feet high and Vaelin could only imagine how impressive it once looked; an arrow of red marble and grey granite pointing straight to the heavens. Now it was a broken and cracked road of weed dotted rock leading him to the heart of the fallen city. Looking closer he noticed the rubble was adorned with fine relief carvings showing a myriad collection of beasts and frolicking naked humans. The stone friezes which decorated the older buildings of the capital were all martial in character, warriors fighting forgotten battles with archaic weaponry. But there were no battles here, the carvings seemed joyous, often carnal, but never violent.
The morning sun had dawned behind a thick layer of cloud bringing flurries of snow driven by a stiff wind he knew would only gain in strength as the day wore on. He closed his cloak against the chill and urged Spit onwards. Although less fractious than usual there was a tension in the animal he hadn’t sensed before, his eyes were wide and he nickered nervously at the slightest sound. It was the city, he knew. The Lonak and Brother Artin hadn’t exaggerated the oppression in the air. It thickened as he drew closer to the jagged outline of the ruins ahead, a dull ache building at the base of his skull. The blood-song was different too, less constant in its tone, more urgent in its warning.
He began to guide Spit towards a central archway near to where the fallen tower appeared to have had its base. They had only gone a few paces when Spit began to tremble, his eyes widening further, rearing and casting his head about in alarm.
“Easy!” Vaelin tried to calm him with a soft stroke to the neck but the horse was uncontrollable with fear, giving a shrill whinny and tipping Vaelin from his back with a sudden lurch then thundering away before Vaelin could grab at the reins.
“Come back you bloody nag!” he raged. The only answer was the distant drum of hooves. “Should’ve cut his throat years ago,” Vaelin muttered.
“Don’t move, brother.”
Nortah stood beneath the part collapsed archway. His blonde hair was longer, reaching nearly to his shoulders, and the beginnings of a youthful beard showed on his chin. Instead of his brother’s garb he wore a set of buckskin trews and a leather jerkin. Apart from the hunting knife in his belt he was unarmed. Vaelin had expected defiance, plus a modicum of the usual scorn and mockery, so was surprised that Nortah’s expression was one of grave concern.
“Brother,” he addressed Nortah formally, “Aspect Arlyn commands your immediate return…”
Nortah barely seemed to hear him, edging closer with his hands raised, and Vaelin noticed how his eyes kept flicking to the side, focusing on something to the rear…
Vealin whirled, his sword coming free from the scabbard in a blur.
“DON’T!” Nortah’s shout coming too late as something large and immensely strong slammed into Vaelin’s side, the force of the charge jarring his sword from his grip and sending him into the air to land a good ten feet away, his breath forced from his lungs by the impact.
He scrabbled for the dagger in his boot, dragging air into his lungs and trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest which told of at least one broken rib. He pushed himself upright, shouting with pain, and promptly fell again as a wave of nausea blurred his vision and tipped the ground beneath his feet. More than just a broken rib. He struggled, waving his dagger wildly, trying to rise and finding Nortah standing over him. Vaelin drew back expecting an attack, reversing his hold on the dagger to parry a thrust…
Nortah had his back to him, standing with his hands raised above his head, waving frantically. “NO! No! Leave him!”
There was a sound, like a snarl mixed with a growl. But it was not a sound any dog would ever make.
Vaelin had seen wild cats in the Urlish and the Martishe but the beast that confronted him now was so different in size and shape he almost concluded it was from another species altogether. It stood over four feet tall at the shoulder, its lean, powerful frame covered in snow white fur shot through with dark
black stripes. Massive paws scraped at the ground with claws more than two inches long, and its eyes, bright green and shining out from the complex striped mask of its face, seemed to glow with malevolent intent. Meeting his gaze it hissed, bearing fangs like ivory daggers.
“NO!” Nortah yelled, placing himself between the cat and Vaelin. “No!”
The cat snarled again, raising a paw to slash the air in annoyance then shifted to the left, seeking to edge past Nortah. Vaelin was amazed. Does it fear him?
A hand clap sounded, loud and sharp in the chilled mountain air. Vaelin tore his gaze from the snarling cat and saw a young woman standing a short distance away, a slender young woman with auburn hair and a familiar and very pretty oval face.
“Sella?” he said, wincing as a fresh wave of pain swept through him, his vision swimming. When it cleared he found her standing over him, smiling warmly, the cat was at her side now, nuzzling her leg as she played a hand through its fur. Behind her he could see other figures emerging from the ruins, dozens of people, young and old, men and women.
“Brother?” Nortah was kneeling next to him, his face pale with concern. “Are you hurt?”
“I…” Meeting Nortah’s gaze and seeing the worry in his eyes he felt a great swell of shame in his breast. I came here to kill you, my friend. What kind of man am I? “I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself upright and promptly passing out from the savage flare of agony in his chest.
Chapter 8
He was woken by voices, softly spoken but tense with conflict.
“…a danger to us all,” a man was whispering heatedly.
“No more than I,” answered a familiar voice.
“You are us much a fugitive as we are, brother. He is a member of an order that kills our kind.”
“This man is under my protection. No harm will come to him.”
“I’m not talking about harming him. There are other ways, we can keep him sleeping…”