Winter's King

by Bryce O'Connor

  Syrah didn’t know what scared her more, in that moment: the fact that the mountain man could have killed her a half dozen times already, or that he hadn’t with obvious intent…

  Their fight was a long, drawn out ordeal, with Syrah taking every opportunity she could to free a hand for a spell or sneak her staff in to deal her own counterblows. Each time she attempted either of these things, though, she was forced to take the defense once more as Grahst’s strikes increased in speed and strength. Despite her training, her will, and what magic she’d managed to passively pull into her failing limbs, eventually Syrah felt fatigue set in. At first the burning pain in her shoulders and hands was slow to build, but before long she felt her reactions slowing, her blocks weakening. Eventually, the only thing left to happen did.

  One slashing downswing, driven as hard as Grahst could manage, ripped the staff from Syrah’s weak, numb hands to send it spinning and pinging down the stone stairs.

  Quick paired blows to the shoulder and outside of her left thigh with the flat of the Sigûrth’s blade took Syrah to the ground, sending her sprawling to her side in the snow. From there, she struggled to get up, her gasps billowing out like plumes of smoke as she fought to catch her breath, but another hit to her arm sent her down again with a cry.

  Twice more she tried to rise, and twice more Grahst put her back on the ground.

  It was only after she’d laid there for a time, her breast heaving and the exposed skin beneath her slashed robes burning against the wind and wetness of the snow, that Grahst bent down. Syrah screamed as his thick fingers entwined themselves in her white hair, pulling her forcefully up onto her knees. She clawed at the hand that held her up, feeling her scalp stretch to the point of tearing under the excruciating tension, and she screamed louder.

  “SILENCE, WITCH!”

  Syrah was thrown forward violently, Grahst shoving her back down the stairs he’d forced her up. She barely managed to get her hands out in front of her before she hit the stone, though she still felt her lip split and some jagged edge beneath the snow catch the flesh above her right eye, ripping through her brow. When she stopped tumbling, spilling out before the first of the steps, Syrah curled up, shivering and struggling with all that was left of her strength not to sob in pain, exhaustion, and fright.

  There was the crunch of approaching feet over the ice, and Grahst’s big hand took her by the already-tearing neckline of her white robes, half-lifting her from the ground.

  “See for yourself,” the Sigûrth breathed into her face, still grinning maniacally and sheathing his sword at his side as he squatted beside her, “what your false god has given leave to. See for yourself what he has deemed a worthy end for his oh-so-noble warriors.” He grabbed her by the jaw, pinching the lower half of her face between thumb and fingers, and forced her head around.

  Syrah’s wretched shriek came out in an agonized moan through the man’s hand.

  There, at the base of the stairs, what was left of the Priests and Priestesses Jofrey had entrusted with guarding the mountain pass lay like a red stain on the whiteness of the world. Nothing moved among the remains except the vulturish Goatmen, darting from corpse to corpse in search of anything of value or interest. The sheer strength of the mountain men was evidenced by the scattered limbs, hands, and heads that lay around and within the area of the bodies, the trampled battlefield dyed with pooling and splattered blood. Few of the corpses were left intact, and even those were savaged and disfigured by great slashes and the ugly crush of bones that left faces unrecognizable. It looked rather like one of the Stone Gods themselves had reached out and struck the place where the Laorin had stood with some great hammer, smashing the bodies of the faithful beyond all recognition.

  And then, as though in an effort to completely wipe their memory from the world, Syrah watched the falling snows rapidly begin to hide what was left of her companions from all mortal eyes.

  “Take their heads up the pass and throw them at the keep’s gates!” Grahst roared, releasing Syrah’s face roughly and letting her slim, beaten form hang from one hand at his side as he pushed himself to his feet. “Let them see what they can come to expect!”

  There was a unanimous roar of approval from the rest of the vanguard, even those hundreds not of the Sigûrth tribe, and the closest to the Laorin’s corpses set about their orders with enthusiasm. Syrah found herself utterly numb, her head and arms hanging limply, her legs curled beneath her, refusing to follow her desperate desire for them to leap into action, to tear her away from Grahst’s hold and fly her up the stairs, back to the safety of the Citadel.

  Instead, she managed only to shed a single tear from her right eye, which stung as it trailed downward along her cheekbone, pulled sideways by the lopsided tilt of her head.

  She felt Grahst’s gaze fall once more upon her.

  “Now, White Witch,” the man said, and she could hear his smile in his voice, “let’s see how long it takes us to strip you of that defiant pride of yours.”

  Then, raising his free hand, he dealt her a massive blow with the hard leather back of his gauntlet, and Syrah plummeted into darkness.

  X

  “I admit—with no small amount of shame—the cruel delight I experienced when I realized Raz i’Syul Arro’s purpose among us. Our trust in the Lifegiver comes with the sacrifice of never—or at least never again—claiming another’s life. To most this seems a small, trivial part of the vows, an afterthought of amusement associated with the absurdity of the notion. To most, Laor might as well have demanded that they never fly, or never breathe beneath the water, or never craft mountains with their bare hands. To a few, though, that sacrifice was larger. In Talo’s case it was the ending of a chapter in his life, a final farewell to the Lifetaker and all his vicious glory. To others, it was a welcome abandonment, a forgoing of the ugliest—if fortunately only occasional—necessity of a hard life. For me, though… For me the vow to leave my hands unbloodied has been a much, much larger offering. It was a talent for murder, after all, that lent itself to the excitement of my youth. A gift for killing. The haggling over price, the hunt, the act… I lived for every moment of it. It was difficult, therefore, to give up that greatest part of myself when I discovered that with age sometimes came a conscience, and with a conscience came a burning, brutal desire for absolution.

  And so, again, I admit my delight—and my shame—when I realized Raz i’Syul Arro’s purpose among us.”

  —FROM THE JOURNALS OF JOFREY AL’SEN

  JOFREY SAT for a long time in the semi-darkness of the High Priest’s rooms, his head in his hands, his elbows leaning against the marbled pine surface of the L-shaped desk he sat behind. The council, gathered before him, stood in complete silence, having just heard his grave news and witnessed the bloody wicker baskets and their contents, provided as proof.

  The reddish stains, black streaks in the dim light of the candles, still blemished the stone floor between the desk and the grouped Priests and Priestesses.

  “What are we going to do?”

  It was Aster Re’het, the youngest of the remaining council, who gathered the courage to ask the question, and it came out in an all too terrified whisper.

  Jofrey gave her the only answer he could.

  “Laor only knows.”

  For once, no one spoke a word in support or anger. Even Valaria Petrük and her lapdog, the deceptively bitter Behn Argo, had nothing to add to Jofrey’s response, no scathing retorts to follow up with in quick succession. The contents of the baskets had banished all feuds from the chamber, sucked all grudges and bad blood away, at least for a time.

  And all it took was the imminent threat on all our lives, Jofrey thought ironically, not looking up from the desk.

  “You’re certain Syrah wasn’t among them?” Cullen Brern, the Citadel’s master-at-arms, ventured to ask.

  “I am,” Jofrey said with a nod, finally lifting his head to meet their gazes. “Even those I couldn’t identify lacked white hair. Whether that m
eans she’s been captured, or simply that there wasn’t enough left of her to throw in a basket, I couldn’t say.”

  “That’s awfully callous, Jofrey,” Kallet Brern said quietly from beside his brother. “Shouldn’t we do something? Shouldn’t we—?”

  “Shouldn’t we what, Brern?” Priest Argo cut in bitingly, finally seeming to find his voice. “Gather a search party? Send someone looking? You’ll have about as much of a chance of success as you would suing the savages for peace! Brahnt is dead, and if she’s not, we should all pray to the Lifegiver she isn’t long for this world.”

  Ordinarily Jofrey would have silenced the man, but he had neither the energy nor the desire to do so. It so happened that he agreed with the angry old Priest—almost too enthusiastically, if truth be told—and it pained him deeply.

  Among the mountain clans, the Sigûrth in particular were not known for treating their prisoners and slaves with anything close to what a civil soul would call dignity…

  “Still…” old Benala Forn in turn spoke up from between the Brern brothers and Aster. “Is there nothing to be done? Send word to the valley towns, perhaps?”

  “Syrah saw to that some time ago, and again more recently,” Jofrey said with a sigh, reclining to rest against the back of his chair, finally looking up at the dark ceiling in thought. “Her first letters warned of the burning of Harond, and of Baoill’s eastward march into the Arocklen. The next birds were sent no more than two weeks past, when word came from Ystréd’s advanced scouts that the Kayle’s armies hadn’t pushed south through the tree line as we expected, but rather seemed to have continued deeper into the Woods…”

  “Making for the pass…” Priest Elber finished, standing beside the chair that had been dragged back for Jerrom Eyr, the oldest of their party.

  “Exactly,” Jofrey said with a nod.

  “Then there’s nothing to be done.” Petrük had, at last, recovered some of her coldness. “We have our reserves, and we can ward the gates. We’ll outlast them. If they’re committed to laying siege to the Citadel, it won’t be long before their supplies run short, and they’ll be forced to make a move. By then the towns will have gathered in force, and the whole ugly matter will be put to an end.”

  “Possible,” Jofrey admitted with a shrug. “But unlikely. The tribes are accustomed to life in the ranges, where there is only ever little in the way of food. If provisions can be found in the Woods, the Kayle’s men will find them, and make them last.”

  “Or they’ll just start eating each other, as is undoubtedly their custom,” Argo muttered quietly.

  “As for the valley towns,” Jofrey continued, ignoring the man, “I find I have little faith in the prospect of a rapid coalition of forces. Drangstek and Stullen’s march north in the hopes of assisting Harond was one thing. The first two have close geographical and economic ties, the latter of which they shared with Harond and Metcaf, before their sackings. But Azbar’s trade is mostly self-sufficient, and Ystréd is too far removed to have more than minimal interaction with the western towns. While the Kayle persists to show no deliberate interest in the continued razing of the North’s remaining municipalities, I find it hard to believe any of the valley towns will be keen on doing anything more than hunkering down and taking advantage of the freeze to fortify their own defenses…”

  There was a long silence as Jofrey’s words rang true.

  “Laor have mercy,” Jerrom managed in a frail, breathy voice. “Laor have mercy on us all…”

  “So then what is the plan?” Kallet asked, his voice tinged with frustration and the very beginnings of anger. “Are we meant to sit here, stuffed away in our halls and just—?”

  BANG!

  To a one, every member of the council jumped as the door to the chambers slammed open and a broad youth stumbled in, heaving and gasping. He’d clearly sprinted to reach them, and as Jofrey recognized the shoulder-length blond hair of his former acolyte, he instantly understood why.

  “Reyn!” Cullen—the young Priest’s superior in the practice chambers—exclaimed, fuming. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing? This is a meeting of council! Remove yourself, before—!”

  Reyn Hartlet cut across his master without so much as sparing him a glance. “Is it true?” he demanded, his eyes only on Jofrey, shoulders shivering from the strain of the run and whatever emotions were crashing down on him. “Is it? Is she…? Is Syrah…?”

  He left the question unfinished, unable to say the words. The Citadel’s master-at-arms was about to berate him again, but Jofrey stopped him with a shake of his head.

  “Leave him, Cullen,” he said sadly. “Syrah is… important to him.”

  Cullen Brern fell silent, and Jofrey pushed himself to his feet.

  “Reyn,” he said quietly. “To answer you… We don’t know. I don’t want to offer you false hope, but I won’t hide from you that Syrah wasn’t among the dead left at the Citadel gates.”

  “So she could be alive!” Reyn exclaimed fiercely. “Syrah could be alive out there. She could need help. What’s being done? Do you need volunteers? I’ll go! I’ll take anyone willing and—!”

  “You’ll go nowhere, boy,” Petrük interrupted him haughtily. “And nothing is being done because there is nothing to bloody well do. Were you a member of this council then you would have been privy to that debate, which has already occurred. However, as you are not, then there is no reason for us to—”

  “I said leave him,” Jofrey snarled, slamming a fist down on the desk and nearly upturning the inkwell sitting in the top right corner.

  The woman shut up at once, eyes wide at the surprising outburst of anger. Jofrey didn’t care. Jofrey didn’t give a shit. In the mood he was in, the bitch could choke on her own tongue and he didn’t feel he’d be able to convince himself to help her.

  “Reyn,” he said, speaking firmly and meeting his former student’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m loath to ask you to leave, but it’s true that there are things to be discussed in which your involvement cannot be permitted at this time. I swear to you that if news of Syrah reaches us, or if we vote that something is to be done, I will personally make sure you—”

  “If you vote?” Reyn howled, grief and rage spilling into the words. “IF you vote? How can you—? How could you—? It’s SYRAH, dammit! How can you even CONSIDER leaving her to those men?”

  “Right now, as much as it pains me to admit it, we have no choice. We don’t know if she’s alive, but we do know that the enemy at the bottom of that pass numbered enough to slaughter ten of our own, all experienced and well trained in the use of their gifts. We cannot afford—”

  “You cannot afford,” Reyn howled, face contorting in disgusted fury. “You cannot afford the lives, Jofrey. And I wonder why? Is it perhaps because you know it’s on your head that those lives rest? That the blood is on your hands?”

  “Reyn! Enough, I say!” Cullen tried to cut in again, but the young Priest didn’t seem to hear the master-at-arms’ outcry.

  “Sending a handful of our own to guard the stairs,” he spat, his livid blue eyes almost bulging as he stared at Jofrey. “Sending them into the Woods in the middle of the freeze, to watch the pass, like dogs. How did you think it was going to end, hm? How did you think that would turn out? Or did you think at all? Maybe you believed word wouldn’t get out, that people wouldn’t discover that you’d sent the men and women under your care to die. But people know. Families were told. Friends were told. And now people know, Jofrey. If Talo were here—”

  “TALO. ISN’T. HERE!”

  Jofrey punctuated ever word with purpose, finishing the last with a slam of his open hand on the desk, so hard he did, this time, upturn the inkwell. To a one every Priest and Priestesses in the room jumped again, taken aback by the atypical outburst. Jofrey, though, had reached the end of his line.

  “Look around!” he bellowed at Reyn, waving a hand about the room. “Look around, before you choose to continue down this path, before you choose to conti
nue playing the insolent brat! Talo Brahnt is not here! Were he here, then yes, perhaps those men and women wouldn’t have died on the pass! Yes, perhaps Syrah wouldn’t have fooled him into thinking this was an opportunity to weaken the enemy’s offense! But he’s not here, and instead of Talo you have an old man who can do only what he believes is best and who has faith in those around him, as I did in Syrah.”

  He leaned against the desk with one hand, bringing his other up to rub his eyes. “Furthermore, Reyn Hartlet, you not only insult me but EMBARRASS YOURSELF with your childish screeching and casting of blame! You imply that I don’t care for the men and women of this Citadel. You imply that I didn’t—don’t!—care for Syrah! I’ll allow your grief, longing, and adolescent lust some leeway, but I draw the line at your insinuations of callousness, at your suggestion that I lack compassion. I do not lack compassion. I do not lack in any form the emotions that have taken control of your tongue, Reyn, nor do I believe I feel in any way less for Syrah’s loss than you do. I simply do not have the LUXURY OF ALLOWING IT TO SWAY MY ABILITY TO PROTECT THE PEOPLE UNDER MY CARE!”

  He dropped his hand and met Reyn’s eyes again. The young man had gone stiff, though the anger had not yet left the handsome frame of his face.

  “So,” Jofrey continued, “if you’re quite done with your infantile tantrum, you will leave us. You will return to your work, and allow the council to stop wasting its time on this pointless discussion. I said I would keep you informed, and I will. You have my word.”

  At last, Reyn’s composure seemed to collapse in on itself. He sagged, his eyes never leaving Jofrey’s, but the wrathful fire that had shone so brightly was extinguished. Instead, he looked nothing short of desolate, a sad outline of the strong youth that had stood in his place not a minute before.