“And fire is also going to make it easy enough not to kill our horses.” Brahnt smirked. “Even you won’t be able to see much once we lose what little sunlight we have left.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating the fading daylight.
Raz hesitated, but eventually reached out to take the torch.
“Thanks,” he said, turning about to raise the white flames high, examining his surroundings in detail now even as al’Dor broke off from them in search of more fallen branches.
The trees rose around and above them like a thousand twisted pillars holding up a ceiling of glimmering ice and shadows high above their heads. The trunks curved and bent around themselves, as though refusing to grow according to nature’s dictation. A few scattered saplings and younger trees were spread between the older evergreens that made up the majority of the Woods, but these slimmer specimens stood sad, dwarfed compared to the thickness of the elders that rose up about them like angry parents over small children. The narrowest of the great trees Raz saw might have taken two men to reach completely around, fingers barely touching.
The widest would have taken ten.
Raz was also taken aback to notice life among the stillness. Snow foxes darted across their path more than once, little more than a blur of white fur that made the mares nicker and shy when it happened. Big, furry variations of what Raz had learned were squirrels scampered regularly up and down the trees, black eyes glinting in the light of the three torches they now carried. Once or twice Raz even saw the white upturned tail and slim legs of another creature, catching a glimpse of them darting off further into the Woods, frightened by the light and horses.
He fought off the welling sadness as he remembered a night some months ago now, just as the freeze began to fall across the land, where a boy had taught him the name “deer” as his little sister fell asleep, head in his lap…
Despite this, Raz was pleased to see the animals. It gave the otherwise still Woods a soul-like quality, speaking to something hidden deeper within the stillness of the gnarled pines. He could imagine, to some extent, the verdure of which al’Dor had spoken, during the warmer months of summer. He tried to take his memories of his first week in Northern land, lost among the thinner woods along the border of the North and South, and apply them to his current surroundings. He found himself imagining a world of light and color and life, the brown of the moss replaced with vibrant rust and green, with flowers growing in lines and patches along where the Sun managed to peek through during the day. At night, he crafted himself a quiet world of singing insects and cool, soft grass, upon which one could lay to study Her Stars through the branches. In comparison, looking at the cold world about him, Raz thought suddenly of tombstones, cold and hard and angry in winter.
The idea made him shiver, and he was unable to stop himself swinging the torch around to glance behind their little party, peering into the dark. The Sun was gone completely now, and Raz realized he was less comfortable with the prospect than he’d expected. It wasn’t the claustrophobia, that discomfort and anxiety that had sometimes plagued him in the market streets of the fringe cities. Rather, it was the base feeling that no one was watching over him now. Not the Sun, not the Moon, not Her Stars, and not even the Arros.
He was alone.
Well… not completely.
Raz brought his attention back around to face the trail. He’d fallen behind the Priests a little, Gale slowing down when Raz had turned, as though sensing his rider’s hesitation. The Priests were having another one of their amusing tiffs, apparently arguing about what their first meal would be when they finally reached the High Citadel.
“Lamb?” al’Dor was demanding shrilly, as though genuinely offended by the prospect. “Three weeks we’ll have been on this damn road, up to our end in snow, and all you can come up with is lamb?”
“With spiced apple slices, thickened garlic broth, and cranberry and nut bread.” Brahnt sniffed indignantly at his lover as they dipped down along a steep embankment, making to cross a frozen stream that twisted its way through the trees. “Give me some credit.”
al’Dor only muttered something in reply, making Raz smile from behind the pair.
Losing the Koyts had ripped a hole in him, one that was far come from healing. The children had once more given Raz things he had long assumed he would forever be without. Kindness, love, family. They had broken his conceived notion that his path in the world was one best walked alone, best kept in the shadows.
And then they’d been torn away, and the hatred and rage that had bloomed in Raz from that act had ripped great gauges in the delicate fabric of the new reality he had started to discover for himself.
Now, though, Raz could feel those holes slowly stitching themselves back together. He had friends in the world, he knew now. Watching the broad backs of Talo Brahnt and Carro al’Dor, Raz couldn’t help but thank the Sun for sending the men to him, carrying with them the strength he had needed to quite literally get back on his feet.
Heeling Gale forward, Raz made to catch up to the pair, joining in the conversation.
XIV
“To this day the Stone Gods hold a place in the culture of the world. Though their faith has largely faded in the last centuries—as the customs of the valley towns and mountain tribes became steadily integrated over time—it is not uncommon to see traces of the old deities in modern spiritual arts. Wood and bone carvings often adorn hearths and tables, believed to bring strength and protection to a household. Murals and motifs can be seen as bas-relief and friezes on walls, columns, and in the accents of a home. It is my understanding that many of these depictions are, in fact, misinterpreted representations of the Lifegiver, a generally faceless ideal until the end of the first century b.S., over which period this bastardization seems to have taken place. Only in the far north, past the Saragrias and Vietalis ranges, do the old ways of the Stone Gods still hold sway. There, in the Tundra, it is said there still exists a civilization of men as brutal and savage as the Kayles of old, as wicked as the god-kings who’d ruled the mountain tribes with a bloody, iron fist. It is a small wonder we, of the modern era, have not pushed beyond the mountains, nor that those who try so rarely return…”
—THE NORTH: ANCIENT TRADITION AND CULTURE, BY AGOR KEHN
THEY CHARGED Gûlraht in pairs, as instructed. The blades and axes they hefted were of dulled wood and leather—because Gûlraht was no fool—but the men wielded them expertly, as they had wielded steel and iron from birth. They did not give their Kayle respite between attacks, did not offer him a moment to catch his breath between groups. They fought viciously, as though their life depended on it.
The Kayle was not known to look favorably upon weakness.
Gûlraht himself had no weapons. His massive two-handed great-ax, handed down to him by his father as he died, lay propped against the creaking trunk of a tree nearby, surrounded by mountain men and looking as though it meant to join them in spectating the fights. He had only his fists to defend himself with, clenched before his weathered face in a defensive stance. He watched as the first two men rushed him, howling their battle cries as they came.
They didn’t last long.
The first went down in an instant as Gûlraht dodged nimbly towards the swing of his wooden ax, bringing himself into the space between blade and body in which a weapon becomes almost useless. A strike to the gut doubled the man over, his nose breaking with a crunch as it found the Kayle’s knee, brought up swiftly to meet his face.
Gûlraht made sure to temper the blow. There was no use in killing able-bodied men just for his pleasure.
As the man tumbled to the ground, groaning in pain and clutching at his nose, Gûlraht spun in time to throw himself clear of a swinging blade, the blunted tip missing his bulk by a hair’s breadth. For several seconds he was put on the defensive again, kept at bay by the combined strength and skill of his opponent, the sword whooshing through the air in complicated patterns.
He would have to find a use for th
is one…
But Gûlraht was of an altogether different breed of warrior. He had been taught to kill as every young man of the mountain clans was taught. He had been taught to bathe in the blood and glory of his enemy, to draw out their weaknesses, to exploit all things about a man that can be exploited. He was of the mountains, as hard and unyielding as stone itself.
Gûlraht, though, had learned other lessons too, as he grew. He’d learned long ago that he did not see as other men saw, did not think as other men thought. His mind was faster, sharper. His mind was steeled, keen to the world.
His mind was crueler.
And his mind had led him to understand that survival, above all else, was key. Survival by strength, by sacrifice, or by any other means necessary.
In this situation, survival by the icy dirt he managed to shovel onto the edge of his foot, kicking it up into the face of the sword-wielding soldier as a cross-swing went up and wide, barely missing Gûlraht’s thigh.
The man cried out, blinded by the spray of earth and snow, one hand leaving the sword hilt and flying to his eyes. It was an instinctive move, an ingrained response to which humans had no defense or override.
And it was all Gûlraht needed.
He closed the space between them in a blink. He did not lean on theatrics, did not flourish his strength and skills for those that watched from the trees. He was there to keep his body strong and limber, there for his evening ritual of breaking the monotony of the march that pressed them ever deeper into the dark of the Arocklen, following Grahst and the vanguard.
And he was there to prove that challenging him—as he had challenged Emreht Grahst, and as any man of mountain blood had the right to do—was a fool’s move.
Gûlraht downed his opponent in one blow, his right fist catching him in the side of the head and laying him out flat, slamming him down into the hard, cold earth.
He didn’t get up again.
Once more, Gûlraht spun around, though, not relishing in his victory just yet. Two more were already charging him, rushing him together. Both swung swords this time, and one bore a light hide shield on his left arm. They pressed him side by side, yelling their taunts, blades thrust out before them.
Amusingly, they didn’t even last half as long.
Gûlraht saw the opening, and took it. The men were too close together, the fear of their Kayle leading them to fight pressed practically up against the other, shoulder to shoulder. It was a technique that worked well for shield walls, or for spearmen and pike wielders.
It did not work so well here.
Gûlraht took the simple path. Letting the pair come to him, he waited until the last possible moment, allowing the swords within a foot, wooden edges glowing in the light of the torches held by many of the observers among the trees. When he judged the timing to be right, he twisted his bulk and ducked, sliding barely under the points that had been aimed at his body, the largest target available. The obvious attack suddenly robbed from them, neither man reacted quickly enough, too concerned with striking the other as their momentum carried them forward, right into the Kayle.
Powerful legs propelled Gûlraht’s mass upward, both hands reaching up to either side. There were twin “urks” of choked breath as the two men found themselves each caught by the throat, their legs failing and tripping up beneath them as their charge was cut short.
With a roar and the ripple of straining muscle, Gûlraht lifted both men a foot into the air behind the impetus of his lunge, swords and the shield tumbling from desperate hands to grasp and claw at his arms.
Then he brought the men down to slam them, too, back into the ground.
One laid there, coughing and hacking as he strained to gain back the breath that had been knocked out from him. The other was out cold. Yet again Gûlraht sprang up and spun about, ready for the third pair. These two wielded the mock replacements for a long hammer and spear, hefting them up as they shouted and rushed forward. Gûlraht was about to spring forward to meet them, looking to down the hammer-wielder with a quick blow before he managed to get his heavier weapon into a defensive position, when a voice cut through the fight.
“MY KAYLE!”
At once the two men froze in their tracks. Gûlraht for his part, halted his lunge, taking a few loping steps before he could stop. He turned around slowly, feeling the anger boil up inside of him at the intrusion.
“Agor,” he breathed, his voice a menacing rumble as he looked upon the man who had shouted over the fight, “it’s a special sort of fool who interrupts me without—”
But then Gûlraht stopped.
Agor Vareks was not the oldest of his generals but, among men who often lived short lives, he was old enough. Black, dreaded hair framed a wind-beaten face, streaks of grey and silver twisting through it. Gold and wooden beads were thick among the braids, and the narrow bones of some wildcat plated his beard to hang just past his chest. He stood tall despite his fifty or so years, maybe half-a-head more than most of the men lingering around the trampled ring.
Still, even Agor looked up to Gûlraht, who stood two-head taller than him.
But Gûlraht was not looking down at the general, now. His dark eyes had skipped right over the man, darting from him to the smaller, slighter figure standing to his left. Dirt and filth lined the man’s cheeks and hair, light leather armor streaked with red and green paints over black fur. He was slim, built for speed and silence, and his pale eyes darted about nervously from beneath a wolf-skull helm, taking in the Kayle, the men being helped up behind him, and the hundred shadows of the warriors among the trees.
Gûlraht had thousands of the Gähs among his forces. He had ensured the submission of their tribes before pushing east through the valley towns of Metcaf and Harond, along the tip of the Saragrias Ranges, and into the Arocklen Woods. The Goatmen were agile, adapting well to the forest and its hills, and had provided the backbone of his scouting forces, managing the terrain better than the heavier, bulkier men of the other tribes. Hundreds came and went from the front line every day, providing reports, identifying shelter and water sources, and directing the hunters and foragers into the trees to gather food and supplies when possible. Gûlraht didn’t know them all. He barely knew any of them, truth be told, and wasn’t bothered by the fact.
But this one, he did know…
“Elrös,” he said by way of greeting, hiding his surprise. “I hope for your sake Kareth knows you’ve left the vanguard…”
Elrös of the Grasses bobbed his head skittishly, apparently finding it hard to meet Gûlraht’s eyes.
“He does, my Kayle,” the man said, wringing thin hands over each other. “Grahst sent me himself, in fact. I come bearing news, you see…”
That caught Gûlraht’s attention, and he looked down upon the man with narrowed eyes. Originally one of a dozen chieftains of the Gähs’ individual clans, Elrös had been quickest to bend the knee when the new Kayle came over the mountains with an army some fifteen thousand strong. As a reward, he had been allowed to keep his life.
Most of the others, Gûlraht had executed himself.
Elrös had proven himself a useful ally in the end, demonstrating keen wit and intuition when it came to managing the Woods, even through the freeze. When Kareth Grahst had taken the advanced guard—some five hundred lightly supplied warriors—Gûlraht had given him the Goatman and his score of troops to command, hoping it would lend well to Grahst’s speed.
Now, though, Elrös of the Grasses had returned, and Gûlraht admitted to himself he couldn’t begin to guess why.
“Report,” he said shortly, crossing muscled arms over one another and glowering down at the Goatman.
Elrös, in turn, seemed to shrink down into himself.
“My Kayle,” he practically squeaked when he spoke now, “the information I bring is best to be heard in private.” His eyes darted to Agor. “Grahst made it clear, my Kayle. I’m to deliver my news to you, and only you.”
Impatience pinched at Gûlraht, but he brushed i
t aside, frowning. His cousin was a vicious, quick-tempered man, but he wasn’t stupid. If Kareth thought the particulars of Elrös’ report were best revealed behind closed doors, then he would have cause.
Something has happened, Gûlraht thought, still looking down on the Goatman imperiously. Something Kareth believes I will need to consider before acting.
“Agor,” Gûlraht said without taking his eyes off of Elrös. The elder general looked up. “Take him to my tent. I’ll be there shortly. Let no one speak to him until I arrive.” He shot the old man a glaring look. “That includes you.”
If Agor Vareks was offended by the suggestion, he didn’t show it. He nodded briefly, then took Elrös of the Grasses by the shoulder and spun him around. Gûlraht watched them go.
What could have happened?
A quarter-hour later Gûlraht had dismissed the spectators, following their torchlight back towards the camp. In one hand he carried his great ax, allowing the familiar weight of the weapon to settle his mind. His thoughts—as thoughts are wont to do given any opportunity—flit about to every worst possible scenario. Had the valley towns mustered their forces already? Had the Laorin proved more vicious than anticipated? Had some disaster befallen the front line?
As he arrived among the first row of tents, Gûlraht brushed the concerns aside. He ignored the frightened glances cast his way by the camp slaves as they scurried from his path, just as he ignored the monotonous lip service and bows of the men about him. He was Kayle. He was a god among lessers.
And he had neither the time nor the patience for the weaker rabble, the fodder with which he would feed his battles and please Them of Stone.
Still, as he hiked his way up to the lip of the cliff ledge that overlooked the east camp, even the Kayle took pause to bask in the magnificence of the sight.
Before him the Woods opened up like some vast, endless chamber. Crooked trunks reached up to support a glittering ceiling of ice, branches twisting through the packed snow like black veins. From his place along the ridge, looking down into the great space beneath the canopy created by the massive trees, Gûlraht felt almost as though he were peering from atop a staircase into an immense, columned room.
Winter's King Page 18