Deep Water

by Pamela Freeman

It were a long winter, shut up in the house, me and Flax practicing the new act, him getting stronger every day. Da spent more time with us, less with the fancy-woman, but he didn’t seem too upset, apart from that. Before we left he asked us how we’d feel if he married the fancy-woman. Maude, he called her. We shrugged and gave our blessing. It were no skin off our noses.

  Leof

  LEOF WOKE WITH his mother’s voice in his ears. “Go home, child,” it said. “Leave this place in peace and go back to one who will love you.”

  He struggled up, murmuring, “Mam?,” half-expecting to find himself in his bedroom at home, half-expecting to hear his brother’s snoring and the well pulley clanking in the yard outside as the stableboys filled the horses’ buckets.

  He didn’t expect to find himself in the top branches of a pine tree, precariously wedged between a limb and the trunk, his head aching so badly that it felt like it would blow apart. The dawn light was not golden, but gray, and it was a long, long way to the ground.

  Shivering with cold, he took stock. He was wet but not sopping, as though his clothes had been dripping for some time; they were clammy against his skin. He smelt of lake weeds.

  Struggling to a more comfortable position, he sat himself in the fork of the tree and looked out. The wave had carried him a long way inland; he could only just glimpse the Lake through the trees, and then only because so many of them were broken in half, or their branches had been ripped away. Below, the forest floor was a mess of broken limbs and fallen trees. And bodies. Oh, gods of wind and storm, the bodies of his men. He could see three, four, at least five. They lay with the abandonment of death, limbs crooked, some buried under trees, some splayed on top.

  He had had six horses and fifteen archers under his command; perhaps the others had been lucky too. Leof paused at the thought, remembering the voice which had spoken to him as he had woken. Perhaps luck had nothing to do with it. Perhaps the Lake had preserved those she wished to preserve. In which case, why him? Why him and not, as he could see as he climbed down toward the nearest body, why not Broc?

  Broc lay on top of a smashed tree trunk, his back as broken as the tree. He looked older than he had the night before, as though he had tasted pain and despair before he died. Leof remembered his father, taking him to see what the Ice King had done to the villages he pillaged. Twenty-two years ago, when he was eight. The bodies had lain everywhere, cut down mercilessly, and for what? A few trinkets and some goats. Barely anything had been stolen. His father made him look at each body — children, women, men, granfers and grammers — all slaughtered and left in their blood. The flies had swarmed over the face of a little girl about the same age as he was, and he had vomited. He had been ashamed, but his father had understood.

  “You will lose men in battle,” his father had said. “It will be hard. But it is not so hard as seeing the bodies of the innocent folk who you have failed to protect.”

  That had been the moment when Leof had sworn himself to be a soldier, to protect the people of his land from the raiders who had left not a single person alive in two whole villages. He had known then, and in the years since, when he had defended the Domain against the Ice King’s raids, that he was doing the right work. No matter how hard killing was, it had to be done, to protect the innocent.

  Now, he stared down at Broc, who was both a man he had lost in battle and an innocent he had failed to protect. Tears scalded Leof’s eyes and he let them fall onto the boy’s body. It was the only blessing he could give him, and a plea for forgiveness. He should have told Broc to run as soon as the ground began to shake. He should have run himself, as Thistle and the other horses, wiser than men, had done. He should have known the horses would not be affected by illusion. Lord Thegan had been wrong. This was his fault.

  Leof banished the thought immediately. Commanders based their decisions on the information they had at the time. Thegan had not had the right information. The Lake was much more powerful than they had known. They would have to regroup and make new plans.

  On that thought, his tears dried and he began to think again like an officer. He checked the other bodies, without trying to disentangle them from the branches and debris which lay over and under them like macabre winding sheets. Two archers, two horsemen. He would have to search further afield for the others. He sent out a halloo but heard no response, so he began the gruesome task of searching for more bodies, in case there was anyone left alive.

  He found three more men dead and a horse he didn’t recognize before the cold and dizziness made him stop. Although he didn’t have any obvious injuries apart from bruising, his head was pounding and he was shivering in fits and starts. He needed to find help before nightfall, or he would become another of the Lake’s victims.

  Reluctantly, he turned toward the Lake shore. There would be searchers out, he was sure. Sooner or later, Lord Thegan would organize the remnants of his army. He would expect a report from his officers. There had been twenty of them, each with a troop stationed at intervals around the Lake, so they could attack it from all sides.

  Leof approached the shoreline cautiously, wondering if he should call out to reassure the Lake that he meant no harm. Then he remembered the voice he had heard. It had not seemed violent or maddened, just sad. Somewhat reassured, he threaded through broken branches and climbed over fallen trees.

  The Lake stretched before him, impossibly peaceful. The water was still and serene, reflecting a perfect blue sky — so still that even the reed beds were silent, their eternal whispering paused. This was how the Lake should be, not riven by war and death. Leof was overwhelmed by remorse. It came unexpectedly, so quickly that he was taken by surprise. We should not have come here, he thought. We have no right to invade these people. Then he wondered whose thought it was, his or the Lake’s, and was frightened, truly frightened, for the first time since he was a boy, at the idea that the Lake could put a thought in his head.

  To his relief, he heard a shout from his left and turned to find a search party of four men making their cautious way around the shoreline. Hodge led them, his grim face lightening as he saw Leof.

  “My Lord Leof!” he called, raising his hand in greeting. “Thank the gods!”

  Leof went to meet them and clasped forearms with Hodge, although that was a gesture used between equals, not between officers and sergeants.

  “I’m glad to see you alive, sergeant,” Leof said. Hodge nodded.

  “Same with us, sir. You’re the first we’ve found in this stretch.”

  “How far did it go?”

  Hodge stared at him, surprised. “All the way around, sir. Wherever we had men, wherever the arrows caught the reeds. We’ve lost — I don’t know how many, maybe a quarter of the men, a third of the horses.”

  “My Lord Thegan?”

  “Thank the gods, he’s safe. He was ordering the attack from a lookout point and it was almost higher than the wave. He just got a wetting.”

  Leof exhaled in relief. “He’ll be angry.”

  “Cold angry, sir, and dangerous with it.” Hodge cleared his throat, aware suddenly that sergeants don’t make comments like that about their lords. At least, not to officers. “He wants all survivors to gather toward Baluchston.”

  “Baluchston?”

  “Aye.” Hodge spat to one side. “The wave didn’t touch the town. So my lord reckons they’ve turned coat there, gone native, like. He’s going to raze the town, he says, to teach them a lesson.”

  Leof went so still that he heard his heart thumping clearly, heard the blood thrum in his ears. He had to get to Thegan. Try to turn his anger away from the town. It was the Lake who had sent the wave, not the people of Baluchston. He knew that in his bones.

  “Do you have horses, sergeant?”

  “Aye,” Hodge nodded. “We’ve been gathering up the strays. Most of the horses made it out. About ten minute’s walk back that way, sir. We found your Thistle.”

  Thistle safe. Leof smiled and clapped Hodge on the back. “A sil
ver piece to every man in your group, sergeant, when we get back to Sendat. That’s the best news I could have had.”

  He started off toward the horses with a light step, but turned back somberly as he remembered. “You’ll find eight men and a horse that way,” he said, pointing back to the forest. “I couldn’t find anyone alive.”

  “Aye, sir,” Hodge said, nodding to his men to continue their search. “I think this section had the worst of it, by the numbers dead.”

  “The wind was at our backs,” Leof said. “The Lake had only one chance to stop us.”

  “She only needed one chance, sir,” Hodge said. Leof noticed that “she.” He wondered if Hodge, too, had heard his mother’s voice telling him to go home. He wished, with all his heart, that he could follow that advice. Instead, he kept walking around the shoreline, trying to think of arguments which would convince Thegan that no good would come of massacre.

  Saker

  SAKER FLUSHED EVERY time he remembered throwing up after the battle at Spritford. If he was to take back this land for its rightful inhabitants, he had to get over his squeamishness. So he followed his ghosts, his little army, down into Carlion determined to be detached; to be strong.

  What he saw tried his resolution. The people of Carlion were mostly asleep, although a few late drinkers were on the streets, making their way home. They died first, Owl and his followers smashing into them before they realized what was happening. They didn’t even have time to raise the alarm.

  Owl gave the first blow: a backhanded sweep with a sword which cut open a man’s neck to the bone. There was no scream, just a gargling sound as the blood spurted on the street, covering Owl. He grinned and spun to strike at a woman. But he stopped in mid-stroke and pushed her aside, moving on swiftly to another target.

  Ah, Saker thought, noting her dark hair as she ran, sobbing with fear, into an alleyway. The spell is working. It protects those of Traveler blood. He concentrated on the feeling of satisfaction that gave him, so he didn’t feel sick at the terrible noises coming from the battle around him; so he didn’t feel at all for the man who had just died. That man was an invader, he reminded himself. Living off the profits of murderers. Deserving of death.

  Then the ghosts went to the houses. Carlion was a peaceful town. It had its share of robbers and tricksters, but they tended to concentrate on the country visitors and traders who passed through. The residents left their doors on the latch, except during the big Winterfair. That was why Saker had chosen it as the first city, instead of Turvite, where crime flourished and householders put good stout bars across their doors before they went to bed.

  The ghosts simply walked in for their slaughter. They disappeared from the silent, moonlit street into houses all along the main street and a few moments later the screams started.

  Saker began to tremble, but he breathed deeply and admonished himself, imagining what his father would say if he could see him. Just standing still wasn’t enough. He had to be part of it, to see it.

  So he followed Owl into the next house.

  It was a brick house, well-to-do. The front room was used as a carpentry workshop but there was a big standing loom there, too. Stairs led up to the sleeping chambers. As the door crashed back and Owl rushed in, a voice was raised in question from upstairs. A young auburn-haired man ran down, staring blankly at Owl and Saker. He was tying his trousers as he came; he had no weapon. Behind him was a red-headed woman in a nightshirt: tall, with a strong, attractive face.

  Owl raised his sword and the man, quicker than he looked, jumped the last few steps and caught up a long piece of wood which lay on the workbench. He brought it up in time to block Owl’s stroke, but the wood shattered.

  “Merrick!” the woman screamed. She grabbed Owl and pulled him back, giving the man time to recover and find another weapon. All he could find was a chisel with a long point. Sharp enough, but no use against a sword. As the woman grabbed him Owl turned and raised his sword to strike at her, then stopped as he had done with the woman in the street. He pushed the red-headed woman away. Saker couldn’t believe it. This red-head was one of the old blood? No, surely not!

  “Maryrose!” the man cried, and slid around Owl to her side, helping her up.

  Owl grinned, satisfaction on his face as he prepared to strike the man. As the sword came down, knocking aside the chisel, the woman threw herself in front of the man. The sword almost cut her shoulder off and she dropped straight down, dead already. Merrick screamed in anguish and launched himself at Owl, but two more strokes stopped him. He fell beside her, but he wasn’t quite dead. His blood flowed out across the woman’s hair, turning it dark, like a Traveler’s. He tried to turn himself toward her, but only managed to slide his hand along the floor to touch her face. Her eyes stared blindly, green as grass. The man’s fingers slid, shaking, along her cheek and fell.

  “Maryrose,” he whispered. “Wait for me.” Then he died.

  Owl smiled and turned to the door. Saker was shaking, but he reminded himself that this was necessary. This was no more than the invaders had done to his people.

  He followed Owl outside.

  There were people on the street now, rushing out to see why their neighbors were screaming, some men already armed, as though they had been expecting trouble. There was confusion, shouting, men trying to form groups to fight, women collecting children who had wandered out in their nightclothes, yawning.

  Many died. Mostly it was quick. But sometimes it wasn’t. Even the men who had come ready for fighting were soon overcome. Those with swords didn’t know how to use them. They did better with the tools of their trades: knives, hoes, scythes, axes. They fought with desperation but could not do well enough to save themselves. Not when a ghost could take a stab to the heart and still keep fighting.

  Yet Saker was astonished to see how many the ghosts passed over. Traveler blood must account for it, because there was no visible difference — the ghosts slashed down at one man but merely shoved another aside; they ripped a scythe across a woman’s throat and leapt over her almost identical neighbor.

  No matter what the people of Carlion did, they could not defend themselves against his army.

  The only house untouched was a stonecaster’s house with a big red pouch hanging outside, which Saker’s Sight could tell had a spell on the door against ghosts. So. Something to think about.

  He had seen enough. He walked through the dying and the dead, past people cowering behind carts and children bleeding over the bricks of the street. Dawn would come soon and he suspected that the ghosts would fade, then. He had to be ready to leave as soon as they faded.

  When he stood by the burial site and looked at the bones laid out before him, he had a revelation. He had raised Owl’s ghost by simply using his skull. He didn’t need to go from place to place, raising the local dead against the living. He could take them with him. A bone, just one bone from each, was enough. If he used fingerbones instead of skulls, he could carry an army in a sack!

  Frantically he began to collect fingerbones, laying them on the sack he had wrapped Owl’s skull in. He sent out his Sight so that he could feel the spirit of the person who had owned the bone — when he felt the tingle that said the ghost was walking, he put the bone on the pile. In the end, he had a pile of bones which would fit into his smallest coffer. He pulled out the scrolls he kept there and put them in the sack. They weren’t as precious, now, as the bones.

  By the time the sun edged above the blood-red horizon, Saker was ready, horse harnessed, reins in hand. As he felt the spell dissolve and the ghosts fade, he started off, leaving behind a carpet of bones cast across the disturbed earth.

  Ash

  SAFRED POURED OUT another round of cha while Cael lit a lamp, making the shadows sharper and the dark outside the windows seem more threatening. She looked at Ash.

  “There is more needed. Once we have the bones,” Safred said, “we have to raise Acton’s ghost. The gods say you must sing him up.”

  Ash fe
lt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He stared down at the table, his hands hidden but his shoulders hunched tight. Was this why he sang with the voice of the dead? To sing spells of resurrection? It had a nasty logic about it. But he couldn’t sing up a ghost.

  “I don’t know how,” he said.

  “You’d better find someone to teach you,” Bramble said. He looked at her sharply and then nodded, once, abruptly. Many things made sense to him, all of a sudden. If such songs existed, he knew where to find them. It was even the right time of year — and, of course, that was why the gods had told them to stay in Hidden Valley until the spring. So he would be able to go straight to the Deep and demand answers.

  Unexpected anger swept over him. This was a matter of singing. Of songs. He was supposed to know all the songs. His father had said he had taught Ash all the songs there were. Then he paused, his anger faltering. That was not exactly what his father had said. He’d said, “That’s the last song I can teach you, son.” Ash had just assumed that meant his father didn’t know any others. Because he had also said to Ash, “You must remember all the songs.” He had remembered them all, but apparently he had not been trusted with every one. He felt sick, and angry enough to take on even the demons of the Deep.

  “Yes,” he said to Bramble. “I should. I should be able to… can I take a horse?”

  Bramble nodded. “Yes, but you don’t know how —” she started to say.

  “Do you want me to come?” Martine asked.

  Ash hesitated, and then shook his head reluctantly.

  Safred chimed in at the same moment. “Martine comes with us.”

  “Really?” Martine’s voice was dangerously calm. She clearly didn’t like it. Her mouth was tight.

  Safred put up her palms in the traditional mime of good faith. “Not my idea,” she said hastily. They were all silent. It took some getting used to, this idea that the gods were organizing their lives. “Your destiny is here,” Safred said in a small voice.