by Anthony Ryan
“It came for me, not snarling, but sniffing, tasting the scent of my terror and wonder. I could feel its hunger like a bottomless well, and when I dared to look into its eyes I saw understanding there. It knew what I was, it knew what I wanted. And it had no desire to give it to me, it just wanted to sate the emptiness inside it. Then . . .” A baffled tone crept into her voice, along with the faintest note of amusement. “It seemed to smell something it didn’t like. Snarling and rearing back. I felt hate along with its hunger then, and fear. Somehow, by impossible chance, I had actually made it afraid.”
Sherin opened her eyes, blinking tears that she quickly wiped away. “Then it was gone, the forest, the tiger all vanished in a heartbeat and I was back in the Sepulchre. Luralyn told me only a few seconds had passed. I—” She looked at her hands again. “I could feel it, the change in me. It was like a bright, burning flame, and I knew what I could do, what I had to do.”
“Did you bleed?” he asked, noting again the pallor of her skin.
“Some,” she replied with a note of irritation. “Enough to leave me in this irksome state. Don’t worry, the body will recover from loss of blood in time.”
“Your gift is dangerous. Not just in the price it exacts, but in the passions it stirs in others. You must be cautious in how you use it . . .”
“Thank you, my lord.” A measure of the familiar animus returned as she shot him a warning glare. “But this gift is mine, and I will decide how best to employ it.”
He quelled the compulsion to argue, but not without difficulty. Her compassion worried him. How could one such as her resist using this gift, regardless of what hazards it entailed?
“I offer only guidance,” he said, tone as gentle as he could make it. “For most of my life I bore a gift. I would not have you make my mistakes. Many and grievous as they were.”
She looked away, pulling the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “I need to sleep.”
Vaelin watched her settle onto her side, back turned to him, then rose and moved to Derka. He removed the bridle to allow the stallion to partake of the grass but left his saddle in place, suspecting they might need to ride on quickly. He felt only a faint fatigue after so many hours’ hard riding so stood guard whilst the others slept. He knew this invigorated state must be an effect of Sherin’s healing, making him wonder how long it would last. All the aches that had begun to beset him over the course of the past couple of years were gone now and, had he a mirror, he fancied he might see fewer lines around his eyes.
“Youth is not appreciated by the young,” he told Derka, scratching his nose as he munched a mouthful of grass. The stallion gave an indifferent nicker and lowered his head to the ground.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
They rode on come nightfall, Luralyn maintaining an unerringly westward course. “I assume you have some destination in mind?” he asked her as they cantered across the darkened plain.
“The Steppe turns to marsh on the southern shore of Materhein Lake,” she said. “Beyond the lake lies the foothills of the coastal mountains.”
“You intend to navigate a marsh?”
“There is a passage, known only to a select few of the Cova Skeld. Once clear of the marsh we’ll head south to Keshin-Kho. Hopefully, the high country will slow any pursuit. My people are masters of the Steppe, but not the hills.”
“This path through the marsh, your brother will surely know of it.”
“He will.” She slowed her horse to a trot and Vaelin followed suit. She waited until the others had ridden out of earshot before speaking again. “I have a notion of how to forestall further pursuit,” she said, speaking in the clipped tones of one imparting knowledge with great reluctance. “My family . . . these people we travel with, will resist it. When the time comes I shall need you to lead them on.”
“Meaning you will not be coming with us.”
“My brother doesn’t want you. It suits him to have his great enemy out of reach, a goal for his worshipful army. But not me. Me he will never let go.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
The marsh proved to be some of the worst ground Vaelin had ever seen. Flies swarmed in dark clouds above pools of stagnant, algae-covered water amid islets of tall rushes, all wreathed in a perennial mist. Even the supposedly safe path Luralyn led them along was a waterlogged sponge of moss and peat that forced them to dismount lest the horses become mired. Twice they were obliged to pull one of Luralyn’s companions from the water after a wayward step sent them stumbling into one of the pools.
“We expected to lose a rider or two whenever we used this path,” Luralyn explained. “Traversing it was a rite of passage of sorts. Any Cova who successfully made it through to raid the caravans bringing ore from the mountains had many years’ boasting to look forward to.”
“Did Kehlbrand make it through?” Vaelin asked.
“Eight times. Twice as many as any other, as you would expect. He never could resist outshining the achievements of others.”
They traversed the marsh for a full day, eventually stopping at a large islet formed of the firmest ground so far. A solitary tree grew in the centre of the islet, spindly branches reaching up into the misted sky as if in forlorn hope of grasping sunlight.
“Kihlen, I think we can risk a fire,” Luralyn said to one of the pretty-faced twins. “If you would be so kind.”
“Won’t that reveal us to the scouts, mistress?” he asked, exchanging a worried glance with his sister.
“Oh, I doubt it, and don’t call me that.”
They assembled the bundled sticks from their packs to fashion the fire, there being no dry timber to be had. Kihlen flicked his hand towards the piled wood, sending an egg-sized ball of flame into it. The blaze took hold immediately, birthing a warmth that banished the dank chill of the marsh air.
They ate a meal of dried venison as night descended to shroud their surroundings in an impenetrable black curtain. With the meal complete Luralyn reached into her jerkin to extract a small scroll, which she handed to Vaelin. Unfurling it he found a rudimentary map tracing a westward course through marshy ground into a series of hills.
“Two miles on you’ll come to another tree,” Luralyn said. “It’s important you take the path on the right. Keep to the route marked until you see a mountain rising above the mist. Head straight towards it and you’ll reach the hills before nightfall.”
Eresa, the diminutive woman seated next to Luralyn, frowned at her in utter confusion that slowly turned to fear as the meaning of her words sank home. “You mean for us to leave you?” she asked in a small choked voice.
Luralyn didn’t look at her, eyes steady on the flames of the campfire and tone flat. “I do.”
Varij, the sturdy young man on her right, got slowly to his feet, staring at Luralyn in frank disbelief. “You can’t mean that . . .”
“I can. I must.” She took a hard breath and shifted her gaze from the fire, looking at each of her companions in turn. “You have followed me for years now. I commanded and you followed. Now I have another command for you. Go with this man.” She nodded at Vaelin. “Follow his word as you would follow mine. It is my wish that you journey to Keshin-Kho and do everything in your power to resist my brother’s assault, for it is surely coming.”
“And you?” Varij asked.
“My brother will not harm me. You know that. I guided you here to secure your escape. I never deluded myself that there would be any escape for me. This is my final command to you. Come the morning you will go with this man and leave me here.”
“We never followed you because you commanded it,” Eresa said.
“No, you followed me because you were slaves, beaten and starved and grateful for the slightest kindness. You thought I freed you. I didn’t. Just because you couldn’t see the chains I bound you with doesn’t mean they weren’t real. It
was all farce, all lies. The Darkblade needed you for his army, needed you to counter the power of the priests. You were useful, that is all.”
“If that is all,” Varij said, “why are you letting us go?”
Vaelin saw her begin to speak, no doubt intending to voice some more caustic lies designed to force them to hate her, but the words died on her tongue. He could see as well as she could that there was nothing she could say that would sunder these people from her.
“When they come,” she said, “they will bring other Gifted with them, those who truly believe in my brother’s godhood.”
“Then we’ll fight them,” the twins said with unnerving uniformity of both voice and conviction.
“As we have fought before,” Eresa added. “We stood together against the Merchant King’s army, as you taught us to.”
“It’s hopeless!” Luralyn shouted, rising to her feet. “Can’t you see that? There will be too many, Stahlhast and Gifted. Too many to prevail against.” She turned to Vaelin, a desperate plea in her gaze. “Tell them,” she said. “You know war. You know if we stand here we’ll surely meet our end.”
Vaelin pursed his lips and glanced around. “If we stand here, yes,” he said. “This is a poor place to defend. The marsh will hamper our enemy to be sure, but it hampers us just as much. So many Gifted assailing each other on a narrow patch of ground will bring only disaster.” He raised the map she had given him, pointing to a spot amidst the hills to the west. “What is this?”
“Just a gloomy ruin,” she said, squinting at the map in bemusement. “My people call it the Ghost Shacks. It used to be home to people who worked a copper mine in the nearby hills. They all fell victim to some form of plague years ago. The bones still litter the houses.”
Vaelin’s gaze returned to the fire, brows knitting as his mind resumed the familiar practice of formulating a stratagem. “Wooden houses?” he asked, glancing at the twins.
“Yes,” Luralyn replied, voice cautious.
“Then that’s where we’ll stand.” Vaelin rose and hefted Derka’s saddle. “Can you guide us clear of the marsh in the dark?”
Luralyn remained still for a moment as she regarded the determination on the face of each of her companions. Sighing, she said, “If Kihlen and Jihla can light the way as we go, yes.”
“Then let’s not linger.” Vaelin hauled the saddle onto Derka’s back. “Leave it burning,” he said, seeing Varij prepare to throw water on the fire. “You can’t trap a fox if he won’t follow the scent.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
The marsh grew more perilous the further west they went, their feet sinking deeper into the waterlogged earth with each passing mile. The twins led the way with torches fashioned from their few remaining sticks, sometimes casting bursts of flame ahead to enable Luralyn to gauge their course. Despite the painful slowness with which they moved, and Luralyn’s careful navigation, it was inevitable that the marsh would attempt to claim at least one victim.
Juhkar strayed a few inches from the path and soon found himself flailing in water up to his chest. From the bubbles surrounding his struggling form and the rapidity with which he sank, it was clear he had contrived to discover a patch of quicksand.
“Ropes!” Vaelin said, quickly unhooking a length of cord from Derka’s saddle. It was too late, however, Juhkar’s head slipping beneath the oily blackness of the water whilst his long arms waved frantically.
A loud splash drew Vaelin’s gaze to the rear of the column, where he saw one of the horses leaping into the water. Shuhlan stood on the shore in utter stillness, staring at the animal with absolute concentration. The beast swam quickly to Juhkar, snaring his wrist with its teeth just before it could slip beneath the water. Turning about, the horse struck out for firm ground, dragging Juhkar with it. He emerged into the air, sputtering and clamping his arms around the horse’s neck as it bore him to safety. Once within arm’s reach of the shore, Vaelin and the others dragged both horse and man clear of the water.
“I think,” Vaelin said, seeing Shuhlan wipe a trickle of blood from her nose, “it would be of considerable assistance if I had a full understanding of the gifts of everyone in this company.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
They cleared the marsh come the dawn, straggling free of the sucking mire with all heads save Vaelin’s lowered in near exhaustion. He allowed a short rest on the gentle slope they had emerged onto, peering into the misty depths of the marsh for any sign of their pursuers. For all Luralyn’s certainty, he had yet to see any firm evidence that her brother had set hunters on their trail. Nor could he see any now, just grey-green murk unblemished by torchlight or the silhouettes of men.
“They’re coming,” Juhkar said, moving to Vaelin’s side. His features were dark with fatigue but his eyes remained bright and alert as he scanned the marsh. “I can feel it.”
“Your . . . song tells you so?” Vaelin ventured. Although he had been provided with a brief description of their abilities, the true nature of this man’s facility for tracking game and sensing danger had been described in the vaguest terms.
“Song?” Juhkar frowned. “No. I feel it. Like the wind on my skin or the heat of a fire. Sometimes it’s strong, sometimes weak. Today”—he met Vaelin’s gaze—“it’s very strong.”
“Do you know how many? How far off they are?”
“A half day’s ride over firm ground, so at least a day in that muck. As for how many . . .” The tall man shrugged. “More than a few, less than an army.”
Vaelin inclined his head at the strongbow lashed to the saddle of Juhkar’s horse. “How well can you use that?”
“As well as any slave who faced a whipping if he were caught practising. But I’ve got better since Luralyn raised me up.”
“If you can hit a mark from fifty paces, it’ll suit our purposes well enough.”
He harried them onto their horses after barely a half hour’s rest, following Luralyn as she traced a path into the hills that became steeper as the day wore on. Vaelin worried over Sherin’s condition, seeing her diminished strength in the sag of her head and the slump of her shoulders. He hoped it was due to the fetid air of the marsh rather than any lingering effects of her gift or, more worrying, some consequence of touching the stone.
The journey to the village Luralyn called the Ghost Shacks took a full day and a half of difficult riding through craggy, rock-strewn hill country. By the time it came into view, Juhkar advised that their pursuers were now clear of the marsh and rapidly closing the distance to their prey. The village consisted of a dozen houses of varying dimensions, clustered in the lee of a south-facing ridge. The buildings were aged and mostly roofless with long-vanished doors and empty windows. True to Luralyn’s description each house featured a collection of human skeletons, rotted of flesh and the bones jarringly white and clean in the drab ruin of their former homes.
“Old and young,” Sherin observed with a wince as she and Vaelin surveyed the largest house. It was the only two-storey construction in the village, presumably the home of the village leader or official from whichever Merchant Kingdom had established this place. Sherin stood regarding two entwined skeletons in what Vaelin assumed had been the kitchen, judging by the rusted iron stove in the corner. Both skulls, one large and one small, were bowed towards one another, the bones of their arms overlaid in a parody of an embrace.
Sherin crouched to peer at the upper spine of the larger figure, grimacing in recognition. “The Red Hand,” she said. “Or at least a highly pernicious variant of it. The infection leaves a honeycomb mark on the neck bones, but I’ve never seen them so pronounced.”
“Does it still pose a danger?” Vaelin asked, keeping a good distance from the bones as memories of Linesh sprang to mind.
“Bones don’t hold plague.” Sherin’s mouth curled a little in amusement at his trepidation. “Both fem
ale,” she mused, turning back to the embracing skeletons and running a hand over their brows. “A mother and daughter, perhaps? It must have swept through this place in a day or two. Pity there’s no time for me to study these.”
“That there isn’t,” Vaelin assured her. He took some comfort in the sudden absence of dullness from her eyes, now bright with a familiar and particular interest. It had always struck him as strange that a soul so rich in compassion should also be fascinated with death and its innumerable causes.
“Luralyn tells me the mine these people worked lies a few hundred paces further on,” he said. “You and she would be better off sheltering there until this is done.”
“No.” She rose, shaking her head firmly. “There may be need of me here.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
She returned his steady gaze with one of her own, placid but also unyielding. He was considering the distinctly unwise but also guiltily tempting notion of binding her hand and foot before depositing her in the mine, when a shout from outside made further discussion irrelevant.
“They’re coming!” Juhkar called. “No more than an hour away. And there are far more than I thought.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Vaelin navigated a somewhat dilapidated stairwell to climb to the building’s upper floor, scanning the eastern approaches to the village and swallowing a curse at what he saw. The Stahlhast approached in single file, making it a relatively easy matter to gauge their numbers as his experienced eye tracked over the column from end to end. Over a hundred warriors in armour, the Gifted adherents of the Darkblade riding at their head along with a muscular figure in a tall plumed helm. Vaelin might have mistaken him for Kehlbrand himself but for the eagerness with which the warrior spurred his horse up the incline, all the while casting ill-tempered exhortations to those following.