by Anthony Ryan
“Perhaps,” Vaelin said, “the governor would be better placed to formulate his orders if he were given a fuller picture of the current situation.” He knew such an intervention was probably a severe breach of etiquette but every hour spent in this city meant Sherin would be slipping further beyond his reach. That morning Ahm Lin had advised his song had taken on a subtle but discernible note of warning.
“She continues to journey north, brother,” the mason said. “But the danger she faces grows by the day.”
A flicker of annoyance passed across Sho Tsai’s brow before he sighed and turned to the other man in the room, a blunt-featured figure wearing the unadorned iron-grey armour of the local soldiery. “Subcommander Deshai,” Sho Tsai said, providing the required bow of an officer greeting a superior. “As I understand it, command of the city’s defences now rests with you. Perhaps you have a report for the governor?”
Deshai gave a stiff nod, Vaelin discerning a degree of understanding in him that greatly surpassed his newly ascended superior. A subcommander outranked a captain, but this captain had the favour of the Merchant King.
“We lost over a hundred men last night,” Deshai told the governor. “More than half were officers and senior sergeants. The rest were mostly skilled archers and engineers. Damage was also done to the main lock where the canal meets the Black Vein, meaning we’ll have trouble moving cargo at a decent rate until it’s repaired.”
“Which will take longer than usual because we lost so many engineers,” Sho Tsai mused, rubbing the faint stubble on his chin. This was the first morning since their journey began that Vaelin had seen him unshaven. “Officers, sergeants, engineers, the garrison commander and the most able administrators in the city. Clearly, this was a blow long in the planning.”
“And delivered early,” Vaelin reminded him. “Meaning there may well be sufficient time for these capable gentlemen to put it right whilst we continue our most vital mission.”
Sho Tsai frowned at his pointed tone but it was plain the need to delay here chafed on him also. “What messages have been sent?” he asked Neshim, who blanched at the question.
“Messages?” he said, the handkerchief finally slipping from between his teeth.
“Yes, Governor, messages,” Sho Tsai repeated. “Messages warning the other strongholds in the region. Messages to the bordering Prefectures. Messages to the Merchant King.”
Neshim spent some time gaping at the captain before summoning a modicum of inner resolve. “I, ah—” He coughed. “I shall see to it immediately. Though I may need some small assistance with the formal phrasing. Hushan always took care of that sort of thing . . .” Neshim’s voice faded, as if the mere mention of the traitor’s name might herald some form of censure. Sho Tsai paid it no mind, however.
“I shall be glad to help,” he said. “But our honoured guest”—he inclined his head at Vaelin—“is correct in reminding me of the urgency of our mission. I shall take my company north before the day is out and return as soon as possible. When I do, I hope to write to the Merchant King informing him of your fulsome preparations to meet the coming assault. Subcommander Deshai, I suggest you ignore the former governor’s stricture against forming a militia and start recruitment and training without further delay.”
The subcommander’s blunt features betrayed a wariness that evidently overcame any resentment at the clear instruction in Sho Tsai’s tone. “A suggestion happily accepted, Captain,” he said.
“Excellent.” Sho Tsai moved to Vaelin, speaking in Realm Tongue. “I won’t tarry with these fools any longer than I have to. Get your people ready to ride and tell the Dai Lo to muster the Red Scouts. Any wounded will have to be left here. The stonemason will be at the head of the column from now until we find them.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Sho Tsai ordered the company to proceed north in battle formation. Outriders scouted the flanks and the rear whilst the main body rode in a broad column four abreast. At Ahm Lin’s instruction they followed a loose gravel track along the eastern bank of the Black Vein. The river was rich in boats crowded with people in much the same beggared and dishevelled state as those they had encountered on the road to Keshin-Kho. Despite their evident hunger they worked their long-bladed oars with a determined energy, gazes fixed on the promise of refuge that lay over the southern horizon. Vaelin saw many wounded amongst them nursing bandaged heads and limbs, some with raw and recent burns. Whatever the delusions of the late Governor Hushan, Vaelin doubted the Stahlhast’s newly risen god had come to the borderlands as a liberator.
They rode until dusk and camped for the night within a tight perimeter with the Red Scouts standing double watch in two-hour relays. The soldiers slept fully clothed with their weapons close at hand and horses remained saddled. Vaelin found sleep beyond him and lay for a time on his bedroll, listening to Erlin’s snores, which soon found a muted accompaniment in youthful voices engaged in muted conversation.
“Never seen a sky so big,” he heard Sehmon say. “Stars are much the same, though.”
“‘We walk beneath a shared sky on a shared earth,’” Ellese murmured in response. “‘And so, should share our hearts as we share this world.’” A quote Vaelin recognised from the Tenth Book of the Cumbraelin god, the Book of Wisdom, her mother’s favourite.
“What’s that?” Sehmon asked.
“Never mind,” she told him in a half-irritated mutter, grunting as she turned on her side. “Best sleep. There’ll probably be fighting tomorrow.”
There was a short pause and a sigh before Sehmon said, “So, you’re doing this again.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending this, us, doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not pretending. It doesn’t matter.” A brief but potent silence followed before she spoke again, voice softer. “I know you want something from me, something I can’t give. It’s just not in me . . .”
Beset by a sudden sense of intrusion, Vaelin rose, gathering up his sword and walking away until their voices faded. He wandered the outskirts of the camp for a time, eventually coming to the riverbank, where he found Alum crouched, using the butt of his spear to scrape symbols in the dry earth.
“A message for the Protectors?” Vaelin asked him.
“For the children,” the Moreska replied. “When a hunter’s trek takes him far from the tribe, he will mark the earth with his True Name to let them know he still lives. The Lord of Sand and Sky will carry the message home so his kin will not worry.”
“True Name?” Vaelin crouched at Alum’s side to survey the symbols he had drawn. They were more complex than the marks he had seen him make in the ash back at the outlaws’ mine, three swirling pictograms bisected by various lines, some straight, others curved.
“The name by which the Protectors know me,” the hunter explained. “The name I craft with every step on the journey of life. This”—he pointed to the leftmost symbol—“the stars under which I was born. This”—his finger tracked to the next symbol—“the lives I have taken in the hunt or in war, and this,” he continued, his voice growing softer as he turned to the third, “what I hope to leave behind when the Protectors speak my True Name.”
“A story,” Vaelin realised with a smile. “Your True Name is a story.” He looked closer at the third symbol, the most complex yet, formed of interwoven spirals interspersed with small circles. “Your children,” he said.
“The children of the tribe.” Alum’s gaze dropped and his voice grew soft. “The children I made with my wives were very young when we set out for your Realm, and the journey was long. Hunger always takes the young first.”
“I’m sorry.”
Alum grunted, forcing a tight smile. “All children of the Moreska call each man Father and each woman Mother. Those that remain, somewhere in the world . . .” He splayed the long fingers of his hand over the third symbol. “They will ca
ll me Father when we find them.”
“Every step we take on this journey takes us further away from where they’re most likely to be. And I have a sense that tomorrow will bring battle, the first of many, for war is coming to these lands. It’s not too late for you to walk your own path. You should feel no obligation . . .”
“The path to the children lies with you.” Alum’s voice held no doubt, and the hard gaze he turned on Vaelin lacked any glimmer of uncertainty. “And I’ll fight any number of battles to see them again.”
Vaelin nodded, clapping the Moreska on the shoulder before rising and moving away, pausing when Alum added, “They will call you Father too. You walk under the Protectors’ gaze now, whether you believe it or not.”
He turned back to his symbols, hefting his spear to add more details, and Vaelin sensed it would be best to leave him to what was essentially a form of prayer. He moved to tour the picket line, exchanging clipped conversation with the Scouts. Their manner was markedly less hostile now, as he would expect from men he had fought alongside. But the tension of being on the enemy’s ground was palpable.
“Six years since I last rode the Iron Steppe,” Corporal Wei muttered in response to Vaelin’s greeting. Despite his well-expressed disdain for foreigners, Wei seemed more willing to talk than the other Scouts, which Vaelin suspected was due to an innate inability to still his tongue rather than any softening of prejudice. “Hoped I’d never set eyes on it again. Not a place for civilised folk to fight a war. A man can die of thirst or hunger out here just as easily as he can fall to a savage’s sabre.”
“You fought the Stahlhast?” Vaelin asked.
“Once.” A shadow passed over Wei’s battered visage before he grunted out a bitter laugh and traced his thumb over his mangled upper lip. “One of the fuckers gave me this. Stuck a lance through his neck by way of thanks; even then the bastard kept fighting. That’s the worst thing about them, see? Yes, they can ride better than most, fight better than most, and they got all manner of cunning tricks when it comes to battle. But what makes them near impossible to beat is that they just refuse to die when they should.”
The corporal fell silent as a sound came drifting across the featureless plain. It was faint and high pitched, somewhere between a howl and a yelp. The sky was clear tonight, and the light of a half-moon cast a dim glow, revealing much of the terrain to their front. However, Vaelin still failed to pick out whatever animal had produced such a cry.
“Wild dogs?” he asked Wei, who replied with a grim shake of his head.
“Stahlhast hunters,” he said. “They mimic the call of the wild dog when they find prey. We’ve been seen. Only a matter of time, I s’pose.”
“I’ll tell the captain,” Vaelin said, turning away.
“No point. He’s probably heard it already. Anyway, the Stahlhast will always find you when you ride their Steppe. A long-standing truth known to those who patrol the northern border.”
“Won’t they bring others?”
“Surely.” Wei shrugged. “Just a question of how many. I’m guessing we’ll find out tomorrow.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Come the morning Ahm Lin once again had them following the river for several hours until he drew his pony to an abrupt halt. “What is it?” Vaelin asked, seeing the mason’s features bunched in mingled fear and discomfort.
“They . . .” He winced and shook his head. “They’ve been found.”
Vaelin took a breath to still his racing heart, forcing calm into his voice as he asked, “Are they . . . ?”
“They’re alive.” A measure of fear slipped from Ahm Lin’s face. “Unharmed too, I believe. They . . .” He trailed off, lips forming a puzzled grimace. “They wanted to be found.”
“How far?” Sho Tsai demanded.
“I can’t say exactly but they’re close.” He turned his pony towards the north-east and spurred it into a fast trot. “This way.”
The company proceeded at the speed of the mason’s pony, which Vaelin found ever more frustratingly sluggish with each passing mile. His gaze was locked on the horizon, tracking back and forth for the smallest silhouette. They had covered another ten miles when Alum suddenly spurred his horse to the front of the column, arm raised and attention focused on the ground.
“Sign?” Vaelin asked him. The hunter nodded and slipped from the saddle, crouching to inspect a cluster of hoof-prints. After a moment he grunted and moved off, eyes roving the sparse turf until he came to a stop some twenty yards away.
“A half-dozen riders there,” he said, pointing to the first set of prints. “Joined by a dozen more here.” He nodded at the more disturbed sod beneath his feet before turning to face due north. “They’re moving fast,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Ahm Lin and his pony. The animal’s breath had become ragged and it tossed its head in fatigued annoyance.
“Can you track them?” Vaelin asked the Moreska.
“This land is like scripture,” he said, swiftly climbing back onto his mount. “So easy to read.”
“I’m not waiting,” Vaelin said, turning to address Sho Tsai. “Leave sufficient men to guard the mason. I’ve a sense we’ll need his talent again before long.”
He kicked his horse into a gallop without waiting for an answer, Alum and the others quickly following suit. The hunter spurred ahead to lead the way, eyes continually tracking the earth. After half a mile Vaelin glanced back to see Sho Tsai following with half his company. At least we won’t be outnumbered, he thought, suppressing uncomfortable notions of what the Stahlhast might do to their captives when it became clear they were about to be intercepted.
It took over an hour of hard riding before a plume of dust rose on the horizon. With no more need for Alum to read the signs, Vaelin spurred his horse to greater efforts, voicing thanks for having been provided with a beast bred for the hunt rather than battle. A warhorse would never have matched such a pace. He drew away from the others, ignoring Nortah’s shouted warning that they should stay together. Gradually the dark specks of men on horseback became visible at the base of the plume, resolving into a band of close to twenty riders. The dust rose thicker as they reined to a halt, wheeling their mounts around with the effortless swiftness of those born to the saddle. They spread out as Vaelin galloped closer, drawing sabres and unhooking lances to stand in readiness.
He knew the wisest course would be to halt, wait for the others, perhaps even try to talk to these people, but all such thought fled his mind at the sight of two smaller figures beyond the line of Stahlhast. They both rode sturdy ponies like Ahm Lin’s, both clad in dark cloaks although one wore a long white scarf that trailed in the wind. But it was the other that captured his gaze. Even though it was too far to make out her features, the rush of recognition was immediate, made fierce by the fear and concern that accompanied it.
The Stahlhast spurred forward to meet him as he closed in, drawing his sword and bringing it down on the lance point of the lead rider. The blade turned the weapon aside, sliding the length of the shaft to bite deep into the forearm of its owner. Vaelin angled the blade so that it slashed across the rider’s neck before his horse brought him clear. The swish of a sabre caused him to lean low in the saddle, feeling the rush of wind on his back as the blade cleaved the air.
He tugged on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt and then wheeling about, sword extended in a thrust. The sabre-wielding Stahlhast wore an iron helm decorated with what appeared to be metal thorns but lacking a face guard. The speed of his charge left no time to dodge and the star-silver-edged sword point sank deep into his cheek, Vaelin pushing it deeper still until he felt it meet the unyielding iron of the helmet.
He withdrew his sword, letting the corpse tumble from the saddle. The Stahlhast had encircled him now, faces dark with fury, every lance and sabre levelled at him. “They,” Vaelin said, pointing at the two figures beyond the circle, “
are all I want. Ride away and you can live.”
He spoke in Chu-Shin, assuming they must have some knowledge of the tongue, but if they did the words evidently had no effect. As one they let out a war cry and charged. The closest, a woman with striking red hair streaming from beneath the edges of her helm, bared her teeth in a snarl, sabre extended in a perfectly aimed thrust at his chest. She wore a breastplate that would have been proof against most arrows, but Nortah had always been expert at finding gaps in armour. The woman’s snarl turned into a shocked grimace as the arrow pierced the thin chain mail below her extended arm, driving into the flesh beneath. Vaelin had time to glimpse Nortah loosing another arrow as he galloped closer, sending another Stahlhast tumbling to the ground, and then the rest were on him.
He parried a lance thrust, then pulled hard on his reins, causing his horse to rear. The animal didn’t lash out with its hooves as a warhorse would, but by rearing it woke an instinctive reaction in the mounts of the Stahlhast. Several reared in response, whilst others let out shrill whinnies of challenge. The resultant interruption to their riders’ assault was only momentary, but it was enough.
Vaelin palmed a throwing knife and cast it at the nearest Stahlhast, aiming for his face. The man’s reflexes proved keen and he managed to jerk his head aside, the knife careening off his iron helm, but it distracted him long enough for Nortah to close and hack him down with two well-placed strokes of his sword. Alum was close behind, leaping from the saddle as he rode into the midst of the Stahlhast, whirling in midair and landing with blood trailing from his spear.
Then the Scouts arrived in a tight charging mass, cutting down the remaining Stahlhast in a frenzy of slashing swords and stamping hooves. They went about the subsequent slaughter with grim but evident relish. The few remaining Stahlhast, still vainly trying to fight despite hopeless odds, fell to a flurry of crossbow bolts after which the Scouts dismounted, drawing daggers to finish any wounded.