by S J Hartland
“That’s poetic.” Kaell grinned. “Thought you hated poetry. But don’t discard your sword yet for a life of song, Arn. Poets are unappreciated.”
“I appreciate you—when you’re quiet. As I began to say, Heath’s not only a fire dancer but an enforcer, a warrior who serves his father, then his brother with his blade.”
“An odd word, that. Enforcer.”
Arn clapped Kaell’s shoulder. “Make up a poem about that, boy. Go on. I dare you to find a word that rhymes with enforcer.”
Kaell thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, I’m stumped.”
“First time for everything. From now on, all poems must have the word enforcer in them. Ha, that’ll shut you up.”
They pitched tents among the broken stones of Martenhold. Wind gnawed and whistled through crumbled, moss-stained towers. The starless sky blanketed with blackness.
Legend said the first Lord Marten haunted the ancient castle shell but Kaell slept deeply, undisturbed by ghosts, until rain pattered at dawn.
The rain drizzled all that day and the next as sloping hills crested to mountains. The trails narrowed, forests thinned and tall weeds bobbed and bowed in a stiffened wind. Making camp that night in a hollow, an archer wondered at buzzing flies and found a corpse.
“Not long dead.” Olier poked the man’s body with a stick, cursing at the gashed neck.
Kaell ordered stakes surround the perimeter that night and set extra sentries.
The rain departed the next day, but as they wound into the mountains a biting wind brawled with trees and grass and men—a goat wind, Olier declared, chuckling.
At dusk, they forded the Great Digger at Dal-Cross. The village rimmed the gorge with flickering torchlight. It was stone walled, gated, ringed by orchards and farms.
Kaell reined in his horse to stare across the ravine. Fading light silhouetted Vraymorg’s distant and forbidding towers against stark, hulked mountains.
Loneliness cut though him like the wind. The fortress was the only home he knew.
“I miss it, too.” Arn appeared at his elbow. “Though if I were you, I’d be reluctant to return given Vraymorg intends to summon Khir’s priests again.”
Kaell hunched his stiff shoulders. More mysterious rites. More knives, pain. Unfair. Not his fault the witch cast whatever spells over him.
And again, all thanks to Aric.
He recalled an old Mountains’ expression: if a man or woman sorely wounded you in this life; the gods bound you to them in the next.
What would Aric make of that? Fortunate, perhaps, their paths would not cross again.
At daybreak the windswept mountain passes surrendered to a forested plateau. Grassland and cloudless sky curved to the horizon, the sun impotent against a dry, chill squall that ruffled cloaks, lifted gooseflesh on bare skin.
Wilted saplings clawed the banks of an ice-blue crater lake, the scent of its dank weed pricking his nostrils. An empty, remote land. When a migrating bird screeched, Kaell jumped.
“Gods,” he said, when Arn laughed. “I’m as nervous as a cat in a yard full of dogs.”
“Turn that into a rhyme if you can, poet boy.”
“The dog barked, and the fool cried: I’m as nervous as that cat I spied. Hmm. Not so good.”
“The ban on singing remains, though,” Arn said.
A rider ahead shouted. Kaell shadowed his eyes with his hand. A man rode hard at them. At Olier’s challenge he slowed.
Kaell urged his horse forward. “Name yourself and your business.”
The blunt-faced, brown-haired stranger glared from beneath bushy eyebrows. A knife poked from his muddy breeches below a long-sleeved, woollen tunic.
“I seek Khir’s bonded warrior.” The rider clipped Telorian words like a Cahirean.
“I asked who you are.”
The man passed brown eyes over him scornfully. “I am Rendell of Thom. I seek the battle god’s bonded warrior.”
“You found him.”
“Do you mock me? I seek a man. A warrior. You’re a boy.”
“Friend.” Arn joined Kaell, his tone disarming. “Hunters are always young because—” He broke off.
Rendell scowled, as if still suspecting a senseless joke.
“You’re from Thom?” Kaell said. “The king sent us after a plea from two villagers.”
“Jocelyn and Lynden.” Rendell tore fingers through his untidy, mopped hair. “Not all of us favour seeking help. We always sort our own problems. But then more died.”
“Cursed ghouls,” Arn muttered.
“Eleven villagers missing, taken in the night.” Rendell frowned at Arn. “Here, do I know you?”
“Not unless you’ve travelled beyond these hills, friend. Did you find bodies?”
“None. But I’ll say no more. The elders will speak of our troubles.”
“Lead the way to Thom, Rendell,” Kaell said.
He and Arn fell in beside the villager.
“What’s the lake called?” Arn asked.
“The lake.”
“Poetic,” Arn said. “One for you, Kaell.”
The road veered through grass, its green and brown pelt broken by slanted, weathered rocks and pebbled riverbeds. Wind tormented land and riders alike. When Kaell pulled his cloak tight, Rendell sneered and muttered.
“Friendly, isn’t he?” Olier rode up. “What did he call you?”
Kaell shrugged. “A weak flatlander or something. Take no notice.”
Olier turned in the saddle to shake a fist at the villager. “Look here, you. Most of us are from Vraymorg. Vray-morg. See those peaks.” He pointed.
Rendell snorted his contempt.
“How far to Thom?” Kaell asked the villager.
“Not far.”
“I was right,” Arn said. “This one has the rich language of a poet.”
They splashed through mountain streams and waded muddy marshlands. As the sun dipped, wilderness softened. Sheep bleated in fenced meadows, farmers drove teams of oxen. Women bending in furrowed fields lifted their heads to stare dull-eyed at the riders.
Thom knotted beside a deep green river gurgling over mossy rocks. Kaell glimpsed a mill upstream and a square circled by houses, their walls stone from who knew where but surely not this empty downlands.
“Could be from an abandoned castle,” Arn said. “You know the stories about ancient ruins in the Waste Mountains. Lost cities of stone.”
“We’re not in the Waste Mountains.”
“Close enough.”
A stone bridge straddled the river to the cobbled square. Villagers waited, loosely bunched. A white-haired man leaning upon a stick stood at the fore.
“Well met,” he said as Kaell and Arn dismounted. His smile welcomed, a contrast to his companions’ suspicious glances.
“We’re grateful for your help.” He addressed Arn. “And honoured to have the battle god’s warrior with us.”
Arn gestured at Kaell. “He’s Khir’s weapon. And a poet. Fancies himself as a singer, too.”
“Shut up, Arn.”
A shadow crossed the old man’s face. “But you’re so very—”
“Young?” Arn finished for him. “He is all of twenty, but his heart is big. His voice is sweet—sometimes—and his friends are handsome and clever.”
“I’m Kaell.”
“Kaell.” The man studied him with dark-brown eyes. “My name is Eelidaran. Aemeon here,” he gestured to a beak-nosed man with lank brown hair, “and I are Thom’s elders.”
“It is a village to be proud of,” Kaell said.
“We are blessed,” Eelidaran said. “Until now. But before we speak of our troubles, let me show you our hall. It will shelter you all after your long journey.”
“We won’t trouble you. We can camp beyond the village.”
“No, we won’t hear of it,” Aemeon slapped Kaell’s shoulder. “The women cooked all day. The least we can do is show you hospitality.”
Arn cast Kaell a glance then shr
ugged. “And our horses?”
Aemeon puffed out his chest. “The stables hold fifty beasts.”
Unlike most of Thom, the hall was built of wood. It was long, narrow and set upon stumps with a ladder propped against a door. Smoke rose from the flat roof.
“Big hall,” Arn mouthed at Kaell, drawing a grin. Another sign of Thom’s blessings. The village was surprisingly wealthy given the Mountains’ infertile soils and sparse crops compared to the rich, wet plains and pastures near Dal-Kanu.
Kaell left Arn ordering men about and followed Eelidaran into the hall. A stove’s heat struck him at once. Most of its smoke escaped through an iron pipe in the roof.
“You’ll be glad of the warmth tonight when frosts set in,” Eelidaran said. “In winter, many villagers sleep here.”
“I can well imagine.” He fidgeted. “But this hall. It has just the one entrance?”
At his obvious unease, Eelidaran smiled. “A warrior’s first thought is always defence.” He hobbled to a panelled floor to lift a hatch.
“We built the hall as a refuge against Varee raiders. With one entrance it’s easy to defend, but another way out is wise.” He kicked the panel shut.
Kaell nodded. All the same, he’d double the sentries. A wooden hall easily blazed.
Trust very few, Vraymorg taught him, even those behaving like friends. Pity he forgot that when Aric challenged him.
“Cold enough to freeze your balls off.” Olier squeezed inside, straightened and stamped his feet. At the sight of the stove, his grin lifted. Other Vraymorg warriors followed him.
Kaell found Arn in the barn, scolding men unloading pack horses.
“I tended to your horse.” He whipped up a hand to silence a protest. “I don’t want to hear any nonsense about how you can look after your own horse.”
“You treat me like a child.”
“I treat you like a warrior who shouldn’t be in the saddle at all. No, don’t say a word. Your wounds trouble you. You’re pale at the end of each day. No better when you wake.” His dark eyes dwelled hard. “It’s that cursed dream isn’t it. I heard you yelling near dawn. And no wonder. Night’s Kiss. No one survives that.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’re not. But when we return to Vraymorg and the priests mutter their mumbo jumbo, you’ll be fine. We’ll clear out this nest of blood thieves quickly and be on our way.”
The wind died at dusk, but cold misted like a damp blanket.
Kaell gladly sank beside Olier on a bench inside the smoky hall. A sullen villager tended the stove. Others set platters of food before their guests; mostly fish but also roasted mutton, cheese and honey cakes. Unsmiling women offered ale.
“I sent food to the sentries,” Olier said.
Kaell nodded.
“Arn put young Jarlen on duty again. That’s two nights of four. Arn’s got it in for him.”
“Jarlen’s insolent.” Undisciplined. But one of Olier’s dice-playing companions.
“He’s spirited,” Olier grumbled. “What did you learn from Eelidaran? I tell you, Kaell, I don’t trust him. Any of them.”
Kaell threw him a warning look. The two elders approached, accompanied by a boy.
“Ah, Kaell.” Eelidaran rested his stick against his knee as he sat. “Is all to your satisfaction?”
“Indeed. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“We are in your debt. Is now a good time to tell what we know?”
“A moment.” Kaell gestured to Arn drinking with other warriors near the stove.
His captain wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rose and pulled up a stool.
“This is Brok. He has a story to tell.” Eelidaran touched the boy’s arm.
Brok trembled. He was about fifteen, with brown curls that tumbled wilfully across his eyes. Kaell wanted to muss his hair, reassure him with a smile.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Just tell me what you saw.”
Brok blinked. “I—”
“Just tell your story,” Eelidaran said firmly.
The boy fixed his gaze on Kaell. “My lord, sir.”
“A lord now,” Arn muttered. “Won’t hear the end of that, either.”
“It’s just Kaell.”
“Sir,” Brok said. “I was in the far, far fields, watching the sheep. I saw them.”
“Ghouls?”
Brok nodded furiously. “Eight of them. It was dusk. I knew I was out too late, that ghouls—” He bit his lip. “Took Jonathan and then Niall vanished, and all—all the rest.”
“Where did they go, lad?” Arn said.
“Into the caves, sir.”
Kaell raised an eyebrow at Eelidaran.
“There are caves a short ride from Thom,” he said. “Just beyond the pine forest.”
“How many nights ago was this?” Olier asked Brok.
“Three nights.”
“And you saw only eight. No more?”
“I saw eight,” Brok said. “Or it might have been seven.”
“And no one else has seen more? It’s only a handful?”
Eelidaran and Aemeon both shook their heads.
Kaell turned to Eelidaran. “Can you draw a map to these caves?”
“Gladly. It’s an easy distance from Thom. I’d send a guide, but the harvest is late and everyone tends the fields. What else can I tell you?”
“You’ve helped a lot. But I have one question.”
“Yes?”
Kaell smiled. “Would there be in these parts a young woman with a mark on her breast like a scar from a knife wound?”
Eelidaran tilted his brows.
“He asks everyone that,” Olier stared unhappily into his empty cup.
“Because he’s a poet,” Arn told Olier.
“Is that what he is? I wondered.”
Eelidaran considered Kaell solemnly. “I know no one with such a mark. Why?”
Olier grunted in disgust. “Some girl he dreams about. Pay no attention. We don’t.” He waved his cup at a woman carrying a jug.
“It seems straightforward,” said Arn, when Eelidaran and Aemeon left with the boy.
Olier scratched his chin. “Don’t know. It’s not right.”
“You don’t believe the boy?” Kaell asked.
“He seems a simple lad. No, it’s the rest. The way they look at us.”
“The women in the fields, the villagers,” Arn said. “They don’t like strangers.”
“It’s more than that. That man Aemeon stared oddly at you, Kaell, as though he pities you. And how did they know we drew near?”
“That’s easy enough,” Kaell said. “From the bridge you can see the track twisting through the mountains for miles and miles. I stood there earlier.”
“Something’s not right,” Olier insisted. “I tell you, I won’t sleep much tonight.”
The stove’s fire glowed. Opaque light chinked beneath the door. For a moment Kaell lay listening to Olier’s grumbling snores. Remembering his captain’s words, he laughed to himself.
He peeled off a blanket, gathered his cloak and crept outside. A sentry touched hand to brow.
“All quiet?”
The guardsman was a Dal-Kanu archer, Ricker or some name similar. The second sentry, Jarlen, blew on frozen fingers on the bridge.
“Like a tomb. Bitter cold, though.”
“A man will replace you at the second moon.”
Leaving Richer stamping his feet, Kaell crossed the square to the river. The first moon threaded silver streaks across gleaming water. Stars dusted the sky. An owl hooted. A scampering paw stirred dead leaves.
Tightly cloaked, spine bent against the cold, Kaell stood staring at this strange beauty.
At a footstep, he groped at his sword.
“You’re about late,” Eelidaran said.
Kaell’s fingers fell away. “Olier’s snoring is loud enough to disturb the dead and my leg aches—a recent wound.”
Eelidaran leaned on his stick to peer across the light
-streaked river to ragged peaks.
“It’s spectacular,” Kaell breathed.
“It is beautiful country. We have a good life here. A man must protect that.”
Kaell sensed an undercurrent of meaning. Should he try to uncover it? Likely it had nothing to do with him. “Do you often walk alone at night?”
Eelidaran shrugged. “The mountains say much in the hush of night. You’ll understand for you are a man of Vraymorg.” He looked across the valley. “I hear the castle is formidable.”
“Formidable is a good word. But as a child I always felt safe there.”
Eelidaran turned to look at him. “Yours is a strange life, I think. Forgive me, but I must say: you are surprisingly young.”
“I’m twenty. It’s old enough.” Older than some hunters lived. He mentally shrugged. His lord never sweetened the truth about his life. Except Kaell never really thought he could die. Not until Aric poisoned him.
“Only twenty.” Eelidaran’s eyebrows furrowed. “But with such a reputation. You’ve killed how many ghouls?”
An odd question. Uncomfortable, Kaell huddled in his cloak. “Hundreds, I suppose.”
“Very modest. You’ve hunted ghouls for five or six years? It must be close to 1000, surely. That makes you quite a killer. We should all fear you, I think, Kaell of Vraymorg.”
“That’s a grand title I have no right to.” Eelidaran’s gently mocking tone niggled. Olier might be right. Something felt amiss in Thom.
“Then we should fear Kaell ‘no name’? Not so terrifying.”
“You have nothing to fear from me.” Stung, Kaell answered truthfully. “Every bonded warrior vows never to take up the sword against his own kind. It’s so I don’t fight for kings or lords, turn the tide of battles.”
Eelidaran threw him a curious look. “I did not know.”
They stood in stillness. Eelidaran cast a final glance at the bubbling river. “Well, goodnight then.” He covered a yawn with his palm. “I hope you can rest before daylight.”
Kaell stripped off his sword belt and knelt. Head bowed, he listened for his gods in the quiet mystery of a Mountains night. Had they really abandoned him? What if Khir now judged him unworthy?