Winter's King

by Bryce O'Connor

  A room filled with noise, smoke, and the burning orange glow of thousands upon thousands of cooking fires.

  Tents of leather and cloth and fur pelts extended for as far as the eye could see, disappearing and reappearing as the land dipped and cut away into itself. Dotted spots of light marked groupings of companions, shield-brothers and clanmates, and shapes shifted about and between them like ants. The camp hummed with the low mélange of hundreds of conversations and arguments, and beneath the buzz Gûlraht could make out the sharp shouts of orders being given to the evening’s watch and the departing night patrols. The heavy hammering of metal reached his ears, and looking off to his left he made out the deeper shine of the forge fires as the dozen smiths they had brought with them began their nightly duties of repairing gear damaged in the march. The thick wafting of hot food floated up to him as Gûlraht stood over his army, mixing with the stench of a thousand unwashed bodies and the mess of human waste that was an unavoidable byproduct of so many men grouped together in one place.

  Gûlraht didn’t mind.

  To him, it was the same as the smell of oil and steel and blood that meant battle was on the horizon.

  Turning north, Gûlraht walked until he found a narrow trail that led down the cliff wall, descending some twenty feet until he reached the lower ground. Starting to pick his way through the camp, he again ignored the looks and shouts he received from his soldiers and their slaves, moving past them, a hulking giant among weaker, undeserving men.

  It was another ten minutes or so before Gûlraht managed to make his way through the camp. His own tent stood erect at the eastern-most edge of the army, the frontline of the march. It was a plain thing, no different than the thousands of others he had just left behind, though it was somewhat larger. He’d done away with the extravagant, chambered pavilion of cotton and silk that had been Emreht’s home during times of war and raiding. It had made Gûlraht feel pampered, and the pointless lavishness seemed little more than a good reason for his men to see him as unable to bear the difficulties of the world.

  A man weathered the elements and laughed in their faces, just as he laughed in the face of death when it tried again and again to claim him. A man did not turn his back to the wind and curl up pitifully until the storm was at an end.

  And so Gûlraht had burned the damn thing, and kept his old tent instead.

  A group of slaves, all women of the valley towns, were scurrying about when he arrived, most tending to a large fire and the skewers of meat and roots suspended over it. Two were lugging heavy buckets of water they would use later for baths, dumping them into a wide barrel brought close to the flames so its contents could heat while Gûlraht ate.

  The bath was for the women. Gûlraht couldn’t care less what sort of filth and stench he accumulated on the march, but even he couldn’t deny the preferred appeal of a clean, well-scrubbed girl to entertain him before he slept…

  The Kayle didn’t do more than glance at any one of the women now, though. He would pick one later, if he was in the mood. For the moment, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

  Moving past the fire, Gûlraht pulled open the sown bear hides used as a door and stepped into the relative warmth of the tent.

  Agor and Elrös of the Grasses were there, as expected, waiting for him. Two other men accompanied the pair, standing opposite them on the other side of a shallow iron brazier filled with a carefully tended bed of smokeless, glowing embers. Gûlraht did not nod to the newcomers, having suspected they might make themselves known. Erek Rathst and Rako the Calm—or Rako the Soft, as most of the army was more like to call him when his back was turned—were the last of his generals. Erek was a younger man, around the same age as Kareth, and he shared Gûlraht’s cousin’s penchant for battle, though not so much of his wild temperament. Rako, on the other hand, was Gûlraht’s uncle, and the oldest of his advisors. He was a thinning, whining shadow of a once powerful warrior who spent most of their meetings seeking to pacify the younger men, trying to convince them to temper their bloodlust with kind words and contemplation. Gûlraht had taken him into his fold purely to satisfy the older generations of the Sigûrth, many of whom had stood by and cheered—or at the very least done nothing to stop it—as Emreht Grahst had signed away their traditions and lifestyle with nothing more than a flourish of ink.

  Erek, Gûlraht would have summoned himself. Rako, on the other hand…

  “They were here when we arrived,” Agor said with an apologizing shrug as Gûlraht shot him a pointed glare. “I didn’t send for anyone.”

  “We received word that there was a runner from the front line,” Erek said at once, light blue eyes taking in every inch of Elrös with a fiery interest.

  “Out,” Gûlraht said by way of response. “All of you.”

  Rako, standing slightly behind Erek, cleared his throat.

  “My Kayle,” he started, his monotonous, placating tone grating immediately on Gûlraht’s already faltering patience, “we are aware of the Gähs’ hesitancy to speak with anyone but yourself, but might not it be more prudent to—?”

  “I did not ask for your opinion, Rako.” Gûlraht met the man’s watery eyes with cold intensity. “I merely commanded you to get out. Now.”

  Rako the Calm blinked indignantly but, before he could open his mouth to argue further, Erek had put a hand on his shoulder and started pressing him towards the entrance. The younger general nodded to his Kayle as they moved around him.

  “We’ll wait outside,” he said simply before pulling aside the bear hides and guiding Rako through with a firm hand.

  Gûlraht didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the Goatman as Agor followed the other two, stepping back out into the night.

  The moment the tent flap was closed, Gûlraht leaned forward, towering over the man.

  “Now…” he said, his tone venomously calm. “Speak.”

  “My Kayle,” Elrös started at once with a nervous nod, “Grahst first wishes me to inform you that the vanguard has encamped along the base of the great stair leading to the false faith’s great hall, a place they call the ‘Citadel.’” He made a poor pronunciation of the Common word. “My Goatmen are searching the mountains as we speak, but when I left, five nights past, no evidence of a second path or escape had been found. We believe we have them locked within their walls.”

  He paused here, as though wanting to give his Kayle an opportunity to respond, but Gûlraht said nothing. He just watched and waited for the Goatman to continue with dark, unblinking eyes.

  “They were expecting us,” Elrös eventually continued, taking the hint. “One of their priests came upon a scouting party. When he ran, they were able to follow him to the stairs. Several days later, upon the arrival of the main advance, we found a small group of the false-god’s preachers waiting for us, carrying their white standard of peace.”

  Gûlraht almost snorted at that, but refrained. Another one of their inexplicable habits, he thought to himself. At both Metcaf and Harond, great men of the town had ridden out to meet him, bearing a white “flag of truce,” as they called it. They’d come right up to the front line of his army, shouting nonsense in their foul language, attempting to settle terms and sue for peace.

  Both times, Gûlraht had Gähs archers shoot down the men and their horses.

  “They attempted to break morale and alienate the clans from your Sigûrth. My Kayle was wise to leave many of his own men back in the villages of the conquered clans. Very wise.”

  Gûlraht frowned at the reminder. It was a tasteless act, a cruel measure to put to his own people, but it was necessary for the time being.

  “What did Kareth do?” he asked, speaking for the first time since Elrös had started talking. The Gähs, in turn, smiled with surprising cruelty.

  “He mirrors well your strength, my Kayle. He broke the false-prophets’ spell by executing one of his own slaves before them. It broke them, in their weakness, to witness the man’s death. Before that, though, Grahst had me take my men
into the cliffs, slipping behind the priests.”

  All nervousness vanished momentarily from the man now, his eyes gleaming with violent excitement.

  “We fell on them like a howling storm, and the Stone Gods will be long pleased with the swiftness of the battle that followed.”

  In the ensuing silence Gûlraht continued to stare down at the man, unmoving. Slowly Elrös’ fearful timidity returned to him, and he began to shrink into himself once more, as though cowering in place beneath the Kayle’s presence.

  “Is that all?”

  Gûlraht felt his temper spiking once more as he asked the question. If Grahst had sent the Goatman away just to revel in the glory of this miniscule victory, then Gûlraht would have words for his cousin when they met in two weeks.

  In the meantime, he would have more than words for the unfortunate messenger.

  “Is that all?” he asked again, his rumbling voice rising. “Is that everything you have brought me, Goatman? If so, consider me unimpressed. You’ve interrupted my evening rituals and forced me to dismiss my generals, all to give Kareth his moment of—!”

  “There is more, my King!” Elrös practically squealed, cringing in truth now as he recoiled from Gûlraht’s titanic presence. “There is more! One of the false-prophets was kept alive, my King. She was kept alive for you! She is—!”

  “I’ve more slaves than I know what to do with AS IS, GOATMAN!” Gûlraht roared, letting the fury loose as he took a step towards the trembling Gähs. “WHAT AM I TO DO WITH SOME WHORE PRIESTESS OF A LYING GOD?”

  “SHE IS THE WITCH!” Elrös howled in terror, scrambling away from his Kayle. “GRAHST SAYS THE WOMAN IS THE WHITE WITCH!”

  For one of the few times in his life, Gûlraht’s wrath vanished in an instant.

  He stood frozen, hands at his sides, clenched into fists that had been more than ready to pummel the offending Gähs into a painful death. He looked down at the man, now, stunned.

  “What did you say?” he hissed.

  “The White Witch, my Kayle!” Elrös practically sobbed, crouched on the floor of the tent now, open hands held above his head as though to shield himself from the coming blow. “Grahst swears by the Gods that he has captured the Witch! He says the false-prophets wanted to send a delegate who spoke our language, who knew our culture. He says they must have thought it the best chance they had to fracture our front line.”

  “And so they sent the Witch,” Gûlraht murmured in disbelief.

  It only took a few moments for his mind to make sense of the logic. From the outside, it seemed like a foolish play. The Laorin had practically fed the woman right to them, given the Sigûrth exactly what they wanted. After some consideration, however, to the followers of the false-god, it must have seemed like exactly the right move to make. The woman—Brahnt, he thought with a private snarl, recalling her name—had a reputation among many of the mountain clans, and not by the “Witch” moniker he and his Sigûrth knew her as. She was better known for the help she’d given the sick, and for the food she had brought for the starving. She’d shown them how to tend to the injured, improve their halls and homes, and even shown them how to farm some meager bounty from what little fertile earth could be found among the mountains. To those clans, those weaker, pathetic tribes who had been unable to gain the favor of the Stone Gods and had instead turned to the Priestess for help, Syrah Brahnt had been a grain of light in a hard life.

  Suddenly, Gûlraht was no longer so aggrieved that he had kept so many of his Sigûrth among the villages of the conquered clans. He wondered suddenly what would have happened if he hadn’t, if he had not left the threat of danger over the homes and families of his soldiers. He wondered what sort of damage the passionate words of the Witch could have done to his front line.

  Yes, the Laorin had not been fools. They had done what they thought best, given all the information they had.

  And it had blown up in their faces.

  Abruptly, suddenly, Gûlraht smiled. It was a monstrous, hard grimace, ecstatic with cruel energy as the Kayle realized what this meant. He thought suddenly of the Witch in iron shackles, beaten and bloody, held captive by his men in the vanguard.

  Gûlraht could only hope Kareth wasn’t fool enough to kill her before he could get his hands on her himself…

  Reaching down quickly, Gûlraht heaved Elrös of the Grasses up by the sides of his leather cuirass. The man looked practically petrified, twitching in his Kayle’s massive hands as though terrified to move, and yet desperately wanting to run away.

  “This, Goatman,” Gûlraht breathed into his face, still smiling maniacally, “is great, great news.”

  He set the man down on his feet, and Elrös was left standing, wolf-skull helm askew, looking very confused.

  “M-my Kayle?” he asked tentatively, as though suspecting some ploy at his expense.

  Gûlraht, though, wasn’t paying much attention to him anymore. He had turned, stepping away from the Gähs to stare, transfixed, into the swirling red and orange of the embers in the brazier.

  “Fetch my generals,” he said to the air, though Elrös knew it was he who was being addressed. The man waited tentatively for further instruction, but when none came he nodded, gave a shaking bow, and made for the tent’s entrance.

  “Elrös.”

  The Goatman nearly jumped out of his armor as Gûlraht, still looking into the coals, called after him.

  “Y-yes, my Kayle?” he asked, trying to control his voice as his heart pounded fearfully in his chest.

  “Take a girl for your bed tonight. You’ve done well.”

  At that, Elrös brightened significantly.

  “Yes, my Kayle!” he said gleefully, and Gûlraht could hear the wicked smile return. “Thank you!”

  And then he was gone, sweeping between the pelts back out into the Woods, going about the Kayle’s orders. Soon after, Agor, Erek, and Rako reentered the tent. For a time they stood silent, and Gûlraht ignored the feeling of their eyes on his broad back. He was too filled with murderous, palpable fire, too preoccupied with the shufflings of his own thoughts. For almost a full minute he stood not facing them, both parties silent.

  Then he spoke.

  “Kareth has the Witch.”

  The generals, like he, stood in stunned speechlessness for a time.

  “What?” Agor finally demanded, as though he hadn’t heard properly. To his left, Erek said nothing, fierce gaze riveted. To his right, though, Rako shook himself free of the shock, pulling himself up to stand with a dignified air Gûlraht had never liked.

  “She’ll be of great use to you in the coming battle, my King,” he said quickly. “We should dispatch the Goatman back to your cousin at once, and ensure she is being treated well. She could prove a valuable hostage, which we could exchange for—”

  “We will exchange her for NOTHING,” Gûlraht snarled, whirling on the older man. “And I don’t give a shit what Kareth does to her in the meantime, so long as she’s still alive by the time we reach the siege line. The Witch is MINE!”

  He spoke with such ferocity that even the old general didn’t raise his voice to question him.

  “I’ll tear the bitch limb from limb,” he continued in a growl, his fingers twitching unconsciously at his sides. “I’ll rip her apart with my own hands, and I’ll make her beg me to do it. She tried to take everything from us. She tried to take our culture, our traditions. She tried to bend our will to hers, tried to draw us away from the Stone Gods.” He glowered at Rako with dark, hungry eyes. “I hold no place for such blasphemy in my heart, and I recommend you seek to quench yours.”

  He turned to Argo.

  “Tell the men to enjoy their last night of leisure,” he commanded. “Come first light, we march at double pace. I want my hands around the bitch’s throat within the fortnight.”

  Argo smiled in anticipation, bowing briefly.

  “As you command, my King,” he said at once, then turned and hurried out the tent’s entrance.

  “
Erek,” Gûlraht turned to the younger of the remaining generals, “have a unit of our remaining Gähs ready to leave ahead of us with Elrös, come morning. They’re to bolster Kareth’s troops, and to relay a message to my cousin.”

  Erek smirked.

  “The Witch is to live?” he guessed.

  Gûlraht nodded. “Kareth can do as he pleases with her, but if she dies before I arrive, I’ll treat him to whatever abuses he had her suffer, and then kill him myself.”

  “It will be done,” Erek said, and he followed Agor out of the tent.

  “And I, my King?” Rako asked after he’d gone. “How might I serve your will, in this victory?”

  In response, Gûlraht sneered down at the man.

  “You, Rako? Why you have the most important task of them all…” He pointed to the light of the fire that outlined the bearskin flaps of the entrance. “When you leave, send my girls to me. There will be no lesson in tongues, tonight, and it turns out I may just be in the mood for two or three of them after all…”

  XV

  “I’ve come to understand that the North is a place of lies, of wicked dangerous secrets. Masked by the presumed safety of timber and granite walls, corruption and greed strangle the valley towns. Hidden behind the beauty of the land, creatures of the dark prowl the shadows. In the South, at least, the risks we face were in open knowledge, if not brought up in polite conversation. Here in this cold realm, however, I have rapidly grown frightened of discovering what wonders may or may not exist in the world around me. For, with each new stone I turn over, it seems a dozen venomous things crawl out into the open.”

  —EVALYN ZALL, THE CARVER OF YSTRÉD

  FOR OVER a week Raz and the Priests wound their way east then north through the Arocklen Woods, following a twisting trail that snaked between the trees, a barely distinct path of worn earth cutting through limp and frozen undergrowth. Several times a day all three were forced to dismount, leading the horses by hand up and down steep inclines of unstable earth and roots, or along treacherous ledges of ground and stone slickened with ice where trickles of water seeped along their surfaces during the summer. They only stopped briefly at midday—or what they best guessed to be midday—for a rest and a meal, and once or twice when the opportunity to hunt presented itself. Raz had been impressed when the Priests had deftly set a trap for a large antlered animal they’d told him was an “elk”—similar to a deer, but bigger and darker-haired—instructing him to get behind the creature and chase it towards them. It had been difficult to move quietly through the woods guided by little more than glints of light through the branches above, but he’d managed, darting out at the animal from the left. The elk had screamed and turn to careen eastward through the trees.