by Anthony Ryan
Babukir, Vaelin concluded. Still smarting over a broken nose.
“How many?” Luralyn called to him from the street below, her family clustered around her in a tight, protective circle.
“Too many.”
Vaelin climbed back down, drawing his sword as his eyes roved this village of the dead, marking each hiding place and shadowed alcove. “We can’t beat them,” he told the others in frank admission. “But we can delay them long enough to escape, also kill the Gifted amongst them, which will hopefully prevent further pursuit.”
“Or I could just go and surrender to them,” Luralyn pointed out. “I can bargain for your safe passage . . .”
“It’s your younger brother that comes,” Vaelin cut in. “Do you really think you can bargain with him?”
She let out a hard sigh and slowly shook her head.
“The map shows a narrow track along a mountainside some miles west,” Vaelin continued, turning to Varij. “Take your mistress and the healer there. If we fail to follow within the hour, bring as much stone down as you can to block the path.”
“I’m not . . .” Sherin began.
“Enough!” Vaelin barked. “There’s no healing to be done here today, only fighting. And I can’t fight and watch over you too.”
“He’s right,” Luralyn said, voice grating with reluctant acceptance. She took hold of Sherin’s arm and tugged her towards the horses. She resisted for a moment, regarding Vaelin with a mixture of anger and concern before allowing herself to be pulled away. She mounted her pony and rode off without a backward glance whilst Varij and Luralyn lingered for a moment, raising their hands to their fellow Gifted.
“Don’t linger a second longer than necessary,” Luralyn said before wheeling her horse about and riding away. Varij paused to exchange a stricken glance with Eresa, and for a moment it seemed he was about to dismount until she sternly shook her head and pointed at their mistress. He gave a pale-faced nod and turned his horse to gallop in Luralyn’s wake.
“Start at the rear of the village and work your way forward,” Vaelin told the twins. “Ride away as soon as the last house is alight. The wind comes down off the ridge so it’ll sweep the smoke into their eyes and cover your escape. Shuhlan, set every horse you see against its rider. Eresa, keep her alive whilst she does so. Juhkar, fetch your bow and come with me.”
“And what is our role?” the tall man asked, having retrieved his bow and a quiver of arrows.
“You were a tracker,” Vaelin said. “Today you’re a hunter, and we hunt the Gifted, assuming you can find them in the smoke.”
“I can find them.”
The roar of erupting flames drew Vaelin’s gaze to the upper portion of the village. Fire burned bright in the belly of the two-storey house, the flames soon licking up the walls to consume the upper floor, birthing a thick pall of grey smoke in the process.
“Hide there until they’re upon us,” Vaelin told Shuhlan and Eresa, pointing his sword at the well in the centre of the village. “When you see us run, it’s time for you to do the same.”
He led Juhkar to a rectangular enclosure constructed from loose stone, presumably once a pigsty or animal shelter of some kind. The walls had tumbled in places, creating small gaps that afforded him a view of the lower reaches of the village. He could see four riders through the gathering miasma, Babukir in the centre, unmistakable in his armour, flanked by three unarmoured companions. Using the Gifted as his vanguard, Vaelin surmised, letting out a small grunt of annoyance at the realisation that Kehlbrand’s brother was not altogether a fool.
Another upsurge of flames sent fresh gusts of smoke across the village, obscuring the riders from view. Vaelin waited until fully half the village was alight before turning to Juhkar with a raised eyebrow. The tall man drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking it to his bowstring with impressively steady hands. Shuffling forward in a low crouch, he paused at the edge of the wall, eyes lowered for a second then abruptly raising his head in a manner that put Vaelin in mind of a cat scenting a mouse. He moved to follow Juhkar’s line of sight as he slowly drew his bow, thankful for the continuing roar of the flames that smothered the creak of the stave. Vaelin could see no targets in the grey pall that now covered the village, but noted how Juhkar’s arrowhead tracked steadily from left to right, then stopped.
The tall man loosed his arrow and immediately sprinted from cover, Vaelin close on his heels. The smoke swirled around them then parted to reveal a stocky man lying on the ground, hands clutching at the arrow jutting from his shoulder. Seeing them he let out a furious snarl and Vaelin recognised the man who had bound him in Kehlbrand’s tent after the murder of the Jade Princess. Mouthing curses, the stocky man raised a bloody trembling hand towards them, then died as Juhkar stepped forward to put his second arrow through his throat.
“Down!” Vaelin said, shoving the Gifted aside as a large silhouette loomed out of the smoke, sabre raised for a killing stroke. The blade whistled close to Juhkar’s head as he ducked, then grated on Vaelin’s blade as he turned it aside and thrust at the Stahlhast warrior’s face. The man was swift, however, dancing back, sabre angled to parry another thrust. Vaelin feinted a swipe at the man’s arm, then whirled to the right in a crouch, the sword sweeping in a broad arc to bite deep into the Stahlhast’s leg.
Vaelin left the man yelling and bleeding, pulling Juhkar along as they fled into the smoke. He could hear shouted commands above the flames, accompanied by the dull thrum of bowstrings. Arrows snapped the air as they ran, finding refuge behind a tumble-down hut the flames hadn’t yet reached.
“Where?” Vaelin asked Juhkar in a whisper but the Gifted’s answer was swallowed by a rumbling crash of thunder. A second later Vaelin felt the damp kiss of moisture on his skin and looked up to see dark clouds roiling above the drifting smoke.
“That old Tuhla bastard!” Juhkar cursed, nocking another arrow to his bow. Rain began to fall in thick sheets, the smoke soon thinning to a wispy mist. Fortunately, the rain was so heavy it provided a measure of continued cover, Vaelin watching a trio of Stahlhast sprint heedlessly by their hiding spot. Even so, with the flames now diminishing to a dull orange glow, it was clear their time here was over.
“Make for the ridgetop,” Vaelin told Juhkar. “I’ll guard your back.” The tracker didn’t seem to hear, eyes lowered once more as his gift brought fresh prey.
“Leave it,” Vaelin hissed, reaching out to restrain him but it was too late. Juhkar’s head snapped up and he was gone, charging off to be swallowed by the shifting grey curtain of unceasing rain. Vaelin grunted in annoyance and ran in pursuit, hearing the snap of a bowstring some yards ahead. He rounded a corner to find Juhkar back-pedalling and frantically attempting to nock another arrow to his bow as a Stahlhast woman advanced on him, sabre moving in rapid arcs. Beyond them lay the body of an elderly man in patchy leather armour. Juhkar had made sure with his first arrow this time, spitting the fellow through the neck. As the old man coughed blood and shuddered to stillness the rain ebbed into a thin drizzle.
A shout of frustration again drew Vaelin’s gaze to Juhkar, finding him on his back, bow raised like a staff as he made ready to ward off the Stahlhast’s killing stroke. Vaelin snatched the hunting knife from his belt and sent it spinning towards the warrior, the blade finding the gap below the rear of her helm and sinking up to the hilt.
Vaelin hauled Juhkar to his feet, pushing him towards the upper end of the village. The rain had stopped altogether now, the unnatural clouds fading to bathe the scene in unwelcome sunlight. He glimpsed Stahlhast on all sides as they ran, arrows thrumming the air around them. Patches of smoke still drifted between the blackened houses, providing sufficient protection for them to make it to the well.
Eresa and Shuhlan stood back to back in the centre of the village, the muddy earth around them littered with half a dozen Stahlhast corpses. A lone horse stood nearby, shivering in distress a
s it nuzzled at the trampled body of its rider. As he and Juhkar neared the scene, Vaelin saw a Stahlhast charge towards Eresa, thrusting with a lance. She ducked under the weapon’s narrow-bladed point and clamped a hand to the wielder’s forearm. A bright plume of sparks brought tears to Vaelin’s eyes and when he blinked them clear he saw the Stahlhast lying dead, smoke leaking from a blackened steel arm guard.
“Go!” Vaelin shouted. “To the horses!”
Before either woman could respond the air was filled with a rushing shriek, the village disappearing in a welter of raised grit and swirling debris. Vaelin’s legs were swept from under him and he found himself cartwheeling across the ground, brought to a sudden and jarring halt as he collided with the well. The gale raged for several seconds more, Vaelin seeing Shuhlan’s body tumbling past, limbs slack and head lolling atop a snapped neck.
The whirlwind died as swiftly as it had been born, detritus showering down as the last of the smoke faded away. Vaelin saw Eresa propped against the wall of the well, but there was no sign of Juhkar.
“Where,” a youthful and enraged voice demanded, “is my fucking sister!”
Babukir guided his horse through the remnants of a ruined house, sabre in hand. Behind him rode an unarmed woman clad in the garb of the border country, gaze fixed on Eresa. Her face, streaked with blood from recent and extensive use of her gift, was set in the hateful mask all true believers reserved for the heretic. “Betrayer!” she called out in a near scream. “How could you offend our lord so?”
“Oh,” Eresa responded in a weary sigh, “go and rut with a goat, Drehka.”
“Shut your mouth, you traitorous whore,” Babukir snapped. He walked his horse forward, furious gaze shifting between Eresa and Vaelin. Stahlhast, mounted and on foot, were at his back, thronging the village. “Where is she?” he demanded, levelling his sabre at Vaelin. “I won’t ask again, Thief of Names.”
Vaelin rose, working his neck to banish the ache of connecting with the well. “Then don’t,” he said, raising his sword.
He saw bloodlust vie with fear on Babukir’s face. Having witnessed Obvar’s end, he seemed to possess enough wisdom to calculate the likely outcome of single combat, nor did his pride compel him to risk it. “Kill them,” he said, waving the Stahlhast forward. “Then scour this place . . .”
A blast of heat and displaced air drowned his words, Vaelin whirling to see a fireball erupt amongst a group of Stahlhast. They fell writhing amidst the flames, screams high and piteous. Another fireball streaked towards Babukir, although he dragged his horse aside in time to avoid it. The Stahlhast behind him took the full brunt, a dozen flame-wreathed figures performing a crazed dance.
Vaelin saw Kihlen and Jihla advancing from the upper end of the village, marching in perfect step as they cast fireballs into the ranks of the Stahlhast. Drehka, the Gifted believer, spurred her horse forward, arms raised and fresh blood leaking from her nose and eyes. A vicious invisible whip swept the twins off their feet, quickly enveloping them in a small whirlwind that sent them spinning. Something buzzed the air close to Vaelin’s ear and he jerked aside, lowering into a crouch, but the arrow hadn’t been meant for him. It took Drehka in the belly, doubling her over to collapse from the saddle, the whirlwind that embraced the twins dying along with her a heartbeat later.
“Pity,” Juhkar said, emerging from the tumbled stones of the pigsty with bow in hand. “I always had a sense she rather liked me.”
“Help me,” Vaelin said, rushing to help Eresa to her feet. Together, he and Juhkar bore her up the slope, making for the horses. Kihlen and Jihla were back on their feet now, keeping the Stahlhast at bay with their fiery projections. From the twins’ increasingly bleached pallor and the blood streaming down their faces, Vaelin doubted they had the strength to last much longer.
“Get to the horses,” he commanded. “You’ve done enough.”
They fled past the steaming remains of the two-storey house, making for the rope line where they had corralled the horses, then coming to a halt at the sight of mounted warriors atop the ridge. Knew enough to send a flanking force too, Vaelin thought, his grudging respect for Babukir’s tactical nous increasing further. He put the riders’ number at close to forty, too many to have a hope of fighting their way through, at least not without Gifted assistance, but one look at the twins told him they were close to collapse.
“We can try, at least,” Jihla said, reading the unspoken question in Vaelin’s gaze. She and her brother staggered a short way up the slope, holding on to each other for support as they raised their hands. The riders on the ridge seemed to take this as some form of signal for they spurred into an immediate charge, streaming down the slope in two companies, a narrow wedge at the fore. Vaelin was about to run to Derka, hoping to mount up in time to assail the charge from the flank, but halted as they drew nearer and he was able to discern the colour of their armour.
“Don’t!” he said, rushing to stand in front of the twins before they could unleash their fire. “These are friends.”
He pulled them aside as the first of the Red Scouts swept past. He recognised Corporal Wei and Tsai Lin amongst the vanguard, Sho Tsai, Alum and Nortah close behind. His brother grinned and lifted his sword in greeting as he rode past.
The leading contingent of Red Scouts met the pursuing Stahlhast head-on, riding down those on foot and disordering the ranks of the mounted warriors, cutting their already depleted and scalded force in two. As an ugly melee developed in the heart of the village, the following Scouts split into two wings, wheeling left and right to assail the Stahlhast with a flurry of crossbow bolts before driving home their charge.
“Did you miss me, Uncle?”
Ellese appeared beside him on foot, grunting out the last word as she loosed an arrow into the mass of thrashing riders. He might have rebuked her for recklessness if he hadn’t been certain the shaft would find its mark.
“We had companions,” he said. “Sherin . . .”
“Back there.” She jerked her head to the ridgetop. “Sehmon and Chien are watching over them. The stonemason led us to you. It’s been a hard ride, I must say.”
“Get these people clear of here,” he told her, climbing onto Derka’s back. He expected some argument, seeing her habitual keenness for combat. Instead, she gave a terse nod and began to usher the Gifted up the hill, hectoring them in her far from elegant Chu-Shin, which reflected many days spent in the company of soldiers.
“Run, lazy bastards! Run!”
The fighting was mostly over by the time Derka brought him into the midst of the melee. Perhaps twenty Stahlhast remained, fighting in three separate knots with a determined ferocity that told of an acceptance of imminent death. At least a dozen Scouts lay dead amongst the ruins, though Vaelin was relieved to see Alum and Nortah still fighting. Never a keen horseman, the Moreska had dismounted at some point, though it didn’t seem to have disadvantaged him greatly, judging by the slick of blood covering his spear. Vaelin felt a swell of pride as he watched Nortah deftly guide his horse clear of the path of a Stahlhast’s desperate charge, his sword delivering a precise and deadly cut to the neck as the warrior swept past.
Another Stahlhast, eyes wild and face blistered by fire, came staggering to hack at Vaelin with an iron mace. Unbidden, Derka reared and smashed the fellow’s skull with his forehooves before he had the chance to deliver the blow. Vaelin spurred the stallion on, searching for Babukir. Catching a flicker of shadow in the lower reaches of the village, Vaelin urged Derka to a faster gallop. They cleared the village quickly, but the loose footing forced Vaelin to rein the stallion to a halt. Babukir had no such qualms, Vaelin finding himself impressed with the man’s horsemanship as he drove his horse down the slope and into the valley below with barely a pause. Within seconds he was beyond hope of reaching, a lone figure galloping hard for the dubious safety of the marsh.
“What happened to your hair?”
> Vaelin turned to find Nortah reining in close by, brows furrowed as he looked Vaelin over.
“My hair?” Vaelin asked.
“There was grey in it when you left us. Not a great deal, but it was there.” He squinted, coming close to tease at Vaelin’s hair with his sword point. “Now there isn’t.”
“Haven’t washed in days, that’s all.” Vaelin batted the sword away and met Nortah’s grin with one of his own. “It’s good to see you, brother.”
“That makes a welcome change.” Nortah inclined his head at Babukir’s fast-diminishing form. “Friend of yours?”
“One I expect I’ll see again.” Vaelin tugged on Derka’s reins and together they started back up the slope. “Assuming his brother doesn’t flay him to death.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The journey to Keshin-Kho required ten days of hard riding. The hills fringing the coastal mountains were sparsely populated, but more settlements began to appear when they veered to the south-east, the hills becoming verdant downs of rich grass interspersed with numerous plantations of rice and wheat. According to Tsai Lin, the region was known as Keshin-Ghol, the Garden of the North, and served as the principal source of food for the Northern Prefecture. The people they encountered were well fed and cheerful for the most part, although their good humour would evaporate in the face of Sho Tsai’s warnings regarding the Stahlhast.
“But they have never raided here,” one village elder protested after the captain had gathered them together to hear his word. “The Tuhla will sometimes attack the caravans on the eastward road, but never the Stahlhast.”
“All is changed,” Sho Tsai told him. “They do not come to raid. They come to conquer. They will kill any who refuse to bow to their false god. And should they spare your life, they will surely not spare you the theft of your crops. An army must be fed, and they know they’ll find supplies in this province.”