by Rj Barker
“Dead gods,” said Aydor, “for an old man he was fierce.”
“For any man he was fierce.”
“Aye,” said Aydor, and he shifted Cassadea in his arms, looked over his shoulder into the smoky tunnel that led back to the sepulchre.
“We could just go, you know, Girton.”
“Go?”
He looked around the room, at the dead, before answering.
“This is what awaits us with Rufra, maybe not today, but it does.”
“You mean it? That we should run?”
He seemed to shake himself, to get slightly taller.
“No.” He grinned at me. “Not really. I think maybe I have been too close to death today. It makes me wonder if I want to go out there and face it again so soon.” It surprised me, to hear him talk so candidly of fear. Few warriors did. I had never thought that fear may be part of Aydor’s psyche. “Do you ever think of the future, Girton?” He looked down at Gonan’s body. “I never used to, but I grow older. I want to laugh with Hessally and my grandchildren. But all I see in my future is this.” He nudged Gonan with the toe of his boot. “He deserved better.”
“He died so we could get her,” I said, pointing at the woman in Aydor’s hands.
“No,” said Aydor, and he shifted her again, started walking toward the tunnel, “he died so we could get Darsese, but she will have to do.”
I scouted ahead of Aydor, through the tunnels of Ceadoc, but there was nothing there to worry us. The castle was hollow, emptied of whatever life it had held. Somewhere far away I could feel the mass of men and women fighting at the Low Tower. I had vague senses of others too, those sitting out the battle. I wondered what they thought and hoped.
As we neared the Low Tower it was as if the castle started to moan. The din of battle was funnelled by the tunnels and it sounded as if Ceadoc itself was in pain. Cassadea started to groan in Aydor’s arms, tossing and turning as if she wanted to be free, her bound hands penduluming from side to side.
I stopped Aydor when we came near to the door that would let us into the courtyard of the Low Tower.
“Let me see how the battle goes,” I said.
“Or if anyone lives,” Aydor replied glumly.
“I think they do,” I said, “unless that sound is Landsmen fighting themselves.”
“We can always hope.”
The door to the Low Tower courtyard was a small one. I opened it slowly, poking my head around the bottom in case an archer was waiting for someone to appear. No one was. I crept out of the doorway, beckoning Aydor to follow, and from there I moved to a low wall. Here we were in the shadow of the huge battlements of Ceadoc Castle, though we were slightly elevated above the courtyard, which allowed us to look down on where Rufra and his troops fought desperately for their lives.
Large armies were seldom found in the Tired Lands. But Rufra hardly had an army at all. His forces were outnumbered by their enemies, at least five to one, though Rufra had not wasted the time he had. He must have gutted the Low Tower for materials and had built a redoubt, even managing to place a makeshift roof over the front of the tower to protect his lines—though many still had to rely on shields. Arrows were strewn across the courtyard but within Rufra’s redoubt the floor had been picked clean of them. In the centre Rufra and Marrel ap Marrel stood together, Rufra in a blood-drenched white cloak and Marrel in armour of bright orange. To Rufra’s right I could make out Celot, his sword rising and falling, his flank protected by Dinay, but it did not take much knowledge of strategy to know they fought a losing battle. Rufra’s lines were thin and the Landsmen still had plenty of fresh men behind theirs. They had also raised the portcullis to allow the Children of Arnst in, but they were currently busy, having to fend off attacks from brightly coloured Festival cavalry. Rufra must have been forced to commit them far earlier than he wanted to. The Children fought differently too, no longer the rabble they had once been. Meredari warriors had brought their discipline and they fought as a unit, a line of black bristling with spears. Festival’s cavalry charged in, but their mounts would not run into the spears: mounts were fierce, not suicidal. All the Children had to do was hold the portcullis and stop Festival’s cavalry and the Landsmen would eventually crush Rufra.
“Dead gods,” said Aydor, “if Festival had twenty mount archers they could break the Children.”
“If we had wings we could fly home,” I said.
“How do we get this woman to Rufra?” he said. “They will hardly cease killing each other to let us through.”
“I do not know, not yet.” I lowered myself behind the wall so I was not seen. The noise and the stink of battle filled the air and, though the day was still young, the heat of yearslife was as fierce as the fighting. I looked over the wall again, letting my eyes play across the troops as they hacked at each other. I looked up the front of the tower, finding Rufra’s archers in the loopholes. My master sat in a high window, far back enough to cover her from the occasional arrows from Landsmen on Ceadoc’s walls even further above. She had a hornbow and was picking her targets carefully, drawing the bow and loosing arrows in a smooth and fluid motion. Each arrow killed. Seeing her gave me an idea.
“We need to get to the stables, Aydor.”
“I know we are mighty, Girton,” said Aydor, “but even on Xus and Dorlay I’m not sure we’re up to taking on an entire army.”
“I hope we won’t need to fight an army, Aydor. I have a plan. Just get me to the stables with Cassadea and hope that Xus the unseen is still with us.”
Aydor peered over the wall.
“Well, he’s definitely here but I reckon he’s busy, so let’s hope he’s paying attention.”
We set off, keeping down and working our way around the back of the Low Tower. The gap between the rear of the tower and the huge walls of Ceadoc was a small one. Aydor had to put Cassadea over his shoulder to fit. As he threw her over I grabbed her hands by the wrists, just in time to stop the bag falling off and her hand, the killing one, touching Aydor’s back where his armour had been ripped open.
“Close,” I said, tying the cord more tightly around her wrists. Then we squeezed through the small gap. All it would take would be for one of the Landsmen on the wall to look down and we would be finished. If they dropped something heavy on us there was little way they could miss. Each step took an age as we inched forward. At one point, Aydor became stuck, swearing and hissing under his breath. He named and cursed every hedging lord and every scrap of food he’d ever eaten or drunk until he finally squeezed through. Once through the gap, nerves jangling with tension, the stables were in sight and it was only a short run. Aydor looked around the curve of the building.
“Clear,” he said. “If we hurry we will make it with ease. Come, now.” We ran across the small gap and into the stable building, the comfortable smell of mounts, straw and dung, enfolding us. “Dark Ungar’s breath,” said Aydor as a group of Landsmen who had been lounging in the tables reacted to our sudden appearance. Aydor dropped Cassadea on the stone floor, unhooking his warhammer as the four rushed him. I drew my blades. Three of the Landsmen engaged us. The fourth ran for the door. I turned, a throwing blade falling into my hand, but before I could loose it a sword was coming down and I had to use the throwing blade to save myself, sending it spinning into the throat of the man attacking me. Aydor killed the first man on him with a whirling strike to the head from his warhammer; the second jumped out of the way of the weapon and into my blade.
“Mount’s piss! One got away,” I said. “He will bring more.”
“We are getting old,” said Aydor. “How long do you need for your plan?”
“Not long, I hope.”
Aydor rolled over one of the Landsmen, picking up the man’s shield. He hefted it, testing its weight and how it sat on his arm, then he smiled at me.
“I will find you your time, Girton,” he said and walked toward the door.
“Aydor,” I shouted after him, and he turned. “There will be many. You
cannot fight them all on your own.”
He shrugged.
“Then be quick,” he said, and he smiled again. “It would be a pity to die twice in one day, eh? But if you cannot be quick then know I have enjoyed being your friend.” He took one step forward and grasped my arm with his. “Who would have thought it all those years ago, eh? That the Fat Bear and the Farm Boy would end up so close.”
“Aydor, I …”
“You are my friend. And that is all I need from you.” He let go of my arm. “Now do what you must, and so will I.” With that he turned and walked out of the stables, rolling his shoulders and shifting the haft of his warhammer in his hand to find a point of balance that suited him. I tore my eyes away from his back and set to work. The quicker I could do what I needed, the more likely it was Aydor would survive.
I ran to Xus’s stall. The mount hissed at me and let out a low growl.
“It is all right, Xus,” I said. I took a moment to talk softly to him. I needed him calm as I knew what I wished him to do would unsettle him. At the back of his stall was my master’s bag and seeing her in the window had reminded me of it. We kept it here as there was no safer place for it, Xus would let no other near it apart from me and the stablehand. I dug in the bag; she kept all manner of objects in here but there were particular things I needed: a black robe, one of the masks the priests of Xus wore and the white pigment I used to colour my face.
I used the pigment first, talking calmly to Xus as I painted the brown patches of his coat white. He hated the smell and I knew it—the stuff was distilled from animal fat—but I spoke calmly to him and he let me paint him. Outside I heard Aydor shouting insults, a voice replying then the clash of arms and someone screaming. It felt like it took for ever to paint Xus and at each moment I expected to see the Landsmen running in, Aydor’s blood on their swords. But I continued to paint and Aydor continued to shout insults, though he sounded more tired with every shout. I heard his voice booming out, “More of you? More blood for my thirsty hammer!” I tried not to worry, concentrated on calming and painting Xus until he was as near to pure white as he would ever be.
Next I fought Cassadea’s limp body into the saddle, all the time watching her bagged hands and making sure they came nowhere near me or the mount, even covered. Once she was in the saddle I roped her in place so she would sit in front of me. When that was done, and while the sounds of battle rang from outside, I began to pull myself up into the saddle, stopping when I saw the bags of chalk dust, used to discourage parasites from the mount’s skin, and an idea came into my head. It took only moments to don the mask and cowl of a priest of Xus and then I scattered chalk dust over myself and rubbed it into Xus—he sneezed theatrically and hissed at me. I tied more chalk bags over his neck, piercing them with the tip of my knife.
“Calm, Xus,” I said. “Calm.” And I lifted myself into his saddle. He bent his neck backwards, the branches of his antlers brushing the head of Cassadea. One brown eye studied me and he blew air noisily through his nose. “You are about to make the ride of your life, Xus,” I said, and he huffed, looking back to the front. “Or maybe we die,” I added under my breath, but the mount did not dignify that with a reply.
What I planned was desperate. If it did not work we would live for only seconds, but if it did work it could end the battle with the Landsmen just as quickly. In many of the stories of Xus the unseen he rode a pure white mount, and because it seemed everyone here was so eager to claim Xus the unseen as their own, I intended to give him to them.
I could only hope they would believe what they saw.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
I heard a cry from outside, unmistakably Aydor. A shout of “Die!” from a voice I did not recognise.
No time for fear.
“Ha!” I shouted. “Ha, Xus! Ha! Ride!”
No room for fear.
We rode.
I am the weapon.
Xus burst through the double stable doors, letting out a shrill battle scream. Before us was a violent tableau. Dead Landsmen were strewn about the small yard and in the centre of them lay Aydor’s warhammer. His hand still clasped the weapon but it was no longer attached to his arm. Aydor was held on his knees, his arms spread out and his head pushed down by two Landsmen. A third Landsman was lifting a heavy sword, ready to bring it down on his neck. Aydor was still struggling, despite that he had lost a hand, and it took all the strength the two Landsmen had to hold him. The swordsman froze open-mouthed as Xus and I clattered out of the stables in a cloud of chalk dust. It must have looked like I rode the breath of the gods into the courtyard. Before the Landsmen could move I drew the longsword from the side of the saddle and urged Xus on with my knees. He sprang forward, bloodthirsty—antlers down, a furious scream in his mouth—and he rammed his antler points into one of the men holding Aydor, tossing him away as if he were made of parchment. Galloping past I delivered a killing swipe with my longsword across the face of the second man. The third, the swordsman, tried to turn and run but Xus simply ran over him. I felt the mount’s change of gait as he used his claws to slash the body beneath him. I glanced over my shoulder, Aydor was already standing, cradling his arm in his remaining hand, his face drawn with pain.
“Ride!” he shouted, stumbling forward. He bent and scooped up a sword. I slowed Xus, wanting to help, but Aydor shook his head and raised the sword, shouting, “Ride, Girton Club-Foot, Chosen of Xus! Ride for King Rufra!”
And I rode.
I gave Xus his head and as it was in his nature to be fierce he headed for battle with all the speed he could muster. We found a group of Landsmen loitering in reserve. They turned, hearing his feet on the cobbles, and he scattered them like straw dolls, throwing bodies left and right with great sweeps of his antlers. The battle came into view and I aimed Xus at the rear lines of the Landsmen. A mounted Landsman came out of nowhere. He rode for my left and Xus checked his speed, skidding to a stop. The rider passed us to the front, futilely trying to bring his lance round to hit me. As his mount passed Xus, I felt the power of the animal below me, the bunching of the huge muscles that drove his back legs, and Xus leapt forward, antlers skewering the creature in front of us and knocking the animal forwards and sideways in a tangle of breaking legs and furious screams. The gored mount and stricken rider crashed into the rear lines of the Landsmen as they pushed against Rufra’s lines, men screamed as they were crushed or gored by the creature. Mad with pain it struck out with feet, teeth and antlers at anything within reach.
All eyes were on me now. I took Xus’s rein, letting him run around the south side of the courtyard, and any who came close fell to either my sword or Xus’s antlers. At any moment I expected an arrow, and though I heard them whistle through the air none touched me. It was as if we really were invulnerable. When we had done two rounds of the courtyard, chalk dust still billowing from us, I brought Xus to a stop, pulling on his rein so he screamed out his fury and struck out at the air as he reared. An arrow reached for me, hitting the ground near Xus’s feet. Then there was a scream and a body fell from the wall above. I glimpsed my master’s shadow in the window of the Low Tower.
I spoke then. As my mount reared and I held my longsword aloft, I used one of the simple tricks my master had taught me as a child so my voice boomed out through the courtyard of the Low Tower and all could hear it.
“I am Xus the unseen! God of death! I have been called here by those who say they follow me!” The words rebounded from the high walls of Ceadoc and bounced off the curved walls of the Low Tower until they become something else, something unearthly. In the dry heat of the day the sounds of battle slowly died as the filthy work was halted and all attention turned to me.
Xus returned to four feet. A thick silence fell on the courtyard, punctuated only by the harsh call of one of the black birds of Xus as it landed on the sill of the window where my master sat, watching.
“I have seen things done in my name,” I said, letting Xus slowly walk in a circl
e and Cassadea’s limp body slump forward. “I have heard things done in my name.” I raised my voice. “And I do not countenance them! My dark palace fills with those whose time has not yet come. You!” I pointed my blade at a Landsman near me. Another black bird joined the one in my master’s window. The Landsman I pointed at took a step back. I could almost feel his terror. “You have been misled. And you!” I pointed my blade at the massed Children of Arnst. The air filled with the whirling of wings as more black birds appeared in the sky, a great flock that, for a second only, cast a cold shadow over the courtyard. “You too have been misled.”
“You are just a man!” I could not tell where the shout came from. “You are just a man dressed up!” A murmur went around the courtyard. Was I just a man? No one was sure. Maybe if the birds had not come they would have rushed me, but the birds unsettled them.
“A man?” My words echoed around the courtyard, were echoed in the harsh calls of the massing black birds. “I am a god!” I roared it. “I am neither man nor woman. I am neither flesh nor famine! I am death and I come when I am needed. And I am needed now. I am needed as my name is taken in vain and foul deeds are done with it. And to prove I am not man …” I raised my sword again, and with my other hand I grabbed Cassadea’s hair and pulled her head back so all could see her face “… I bring back one of your own from my dark palace! Cassadea, sister of Darsese!”
There were groans from the crowd: fear. I heard her name said, it hissed around the yard like wind moving through a cornfield, a sibilant repetition: “Cassadea, Cassadea, Cassadea …”