by Anthony Ryan
One of the tribesmen shook his head in confusion, saying something in his own language to his fellows, who replied with shrugs of bafflement.
“Unterah.” Dentos gave the word for trader, patting his chest, then gestured broadly at their makeshift caravan. “Onterish.” Spice.
The tribesman who had spoken stepped past Dentos, eyes scanning their company with careful scrutiny. He approached Vaelin, ignoring the affable nod he offered and giving Spit a long look of examination, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the many scars covering the warhorse’s legs and flanks.
A shout came from one of the other tribesmen and the man confronting Vaelin stepped back quickly, hands tight on his spear, crouching into a fighting stance. Vaelin held up his hands in placation, pointing to the west. The tribesman risked a glance over his shoulder, straightening in confusion at the sight of a large number of torches appearing out of the desert, about three hundred teardrops of light flickering in the gloom, accompanied by the growing telltale rumble of a cavalry charge in full tilt and the peel of multiple trumpets.
The tribesman turned to his fellows, mouth opening to voice a command, and died as Vaelin’s throwing knife sank into the base of his skull. The snap of bowstrings and the whistle of thrown blades filled the air as the scout troop freed their weapons to dispatch the remaining sentries.
“Douse the torches! Get to the engines!” Vaelin barked, tugging Spit into a run.
The cacophony of battle erupted as they entered the camp, the thunderclap crash of Baron Banders’s knights striking the hastily formed line of defending tribesmen soon replaced by the familiar din of shrieking horses and clashing metal. Everywhere, tribesmen were gathering weapons and rushing to join the battle, war cries and the harsh, grating peel of their own horns calling them forth. By the time Vaelin’s party were among the tents, most had gone to join the fray and the few who lingered to trouble them were quickly cut down.
They found the engines bare of defenders save for the artisans who tended them, mostly middle-aged men in leather smocks with few weapons save for carpentry tools. Vaelin was sorry they didn’t have the good sense to run, killing one who swung at him with a mallet and leaving another clutching a partly severed hand.
“Get out of here!” he commanded the man, sheathing his sword and unhitching the pack of clay pots from Spit’s back. The man just looked up at him in dumb shock before the loss of blood made him collapse limply into the sand. Vaelin cursed and left him there, opening the pack and heaving the pots at the nearest engine as fast as he could. They broke against the sturdy wooden frames and spilled their clear, viscous liquid over every surface. Vaelin quickly exhausted the contents of one pack and hauled another to a second engine, already partly doused by Frentis, who grinned wolfishly.
“Going to make quite a sight, brother.”
“That it will.” He emptied the second pack and surveyed the progress of the rest of the party, noting with satisfaction the shattered remains of numerous pots on all ten engines. “Right, that’s enough!” he shouted. “Get them lit!”
They retreated twenty yards or so, Vaelin dragging the wounded artisan behind him, unwilling to let him burn. Dentos and Frentis unlimbered their bows, lit fire arrows and sent them arching towards the engines, the flames catching the lamp oil instantly, and soon ten great fires were raging in the midst of the camp, flames engulfing the tall engines in a few moments, ropes and bindings disintegrating in the heat, the great arms of the engines tumbling like pine caught in a forest fire.
The flames were bright enough to illuminate the battle raging on the western perimeter, where Baron Banders was now rallying his men for the withdrawal, although the battle-maddened tribesmen were in no mood to let them go. Vaelin saw several knights pulled from their horses and speared to death in quick succession as they vainly sought to extricate themselves from the struggle.
Vaelin mounted Spit and drew his sword. “Ride for the city!” he called to the scout troop.
“And you, brother?” Frentis asked.
Vaelin nodded at the battle. “The baron needs some help. I’ll be along presently.”
“Let me—”
He fixed Frentis with a look that brooked no argument. “Take your men home, brother.”
Frentis bit down on no doubt bitter words and nodded. “If you’re not back in two days…”
“Then I’m not coming back and you will look to Brother Caenis for command.” Vaelin spurred Spit into a gallop and hurtled towards the battle, feeling the warhorse tense beneath him in anticipation of combat. He skirted the edge of the throng, lashing out to strike down unwary tribesmen, wheeling away as they swarmed at him, galloping on then repeating the process, seeking to divert their fury enough to allow the knights some relief. “Eruhin Makhtar!” he shouted repeatedly, hoping they knew what it meant. “I am the Eruhin Makhtar! Come and kill me!”
The words were clearly understood by at least some of the tribesmen, judging by the ferocity with which they pursued him, hurling spears and hatchets with sometimes unnerving accuracy. One showed a remarkable turn of speed, sprinting after Vaelin as he wheeled away from another pass, leaping onto Spit’s back with his war club raised then tumbling to the sand with an arrow speared through his torso.
“I don’t think we should linger much longer, brother!” Dentos called, notching and releasing another shaft as he galloped alongside, a tribesman spinning to the ground a short distance away.
“Thought I sent you back to the city,” Vaelin called.
“No, you sent Frentis.” Dentos loosed another arrow and ducked a spear. “We really need to go!”
Vaelin glanced at the main throng, seeing a broad figure in red-stained armour riding away from the fight, the baron choosing to be the last to leave. He pointed to the west and they turned away, spurring their mounts to even greater speed, the still-burning engines casting long shadows over the sands, fading as they were swallowed by the desert.
They rode on through the night, keeping a westward course until sunrise then turning to the north, only dismounting to walk the horses when the heat began to make them stagger. They stripped the mounts of all excess weight, throwing their mail away but keeping their weapons and the remaining canteens of water.
“No sign of ’em,” Dentos said, shielding his eyes as he scanned the southern horizon. “Not yet anyway.”
“They’ll be along,” Vaelin assured him. He held a canteen to Spit’s mouth, the animal snatching it between his teeth and tipping the contents down his throat in a few gulps. Vaelin wasn’t sure how much longer the stallion could last in the heat, the desert was a cruel environment for a north-born animal, evidenced by the foam that covered his flanks and the weary blink of his normally bright and suspicious eye.
“With any luck they’re following the baron’s trail,” Dentos went on. “More of ’em to follow after all.”
“I think we used up our share of luck last night, don’t you?” Vaelin waited until Spit had finished drinking then took hold of his reins. “We keep walking. If we can’t ride in this heat, neither can they.”
It was early evening when they saw it, small and faint in the distance, but undeniably real.
“Fifteen miles, maybe?” Dentos wondered, eyeing the dust cloud.
“Closer to ten.” Vaelin hauled himself into the saddle, wincing at Spit’s weary snort of annoyance. “Seems they can ride in the heat after all.”
They kept to a canter for most of the night, wary of pushing the horses to collapse, glancing continually to the south, seeing only the desert and the star-rich sky but knowing their pursuers were gaining with every mile.
The northern shore came into sight with the dawn, the desert sands giving way to scrub and, six miles to the east, the white walls of Linesh gleaming in the morning light.
“Brother,” Dentos said softly.
Vaelin turned his gaze southwards, the dust cloud was larger now, the riders raising it clearly visible. He leaned forward to pat Spit’s neck, whisp
ering in his ear. “Sorry.” Leaning back he kicked his heels against the horse’s flanks and they spurred into a gallop. He had expected Spit to have lost much of his speed, but if anything he seemed to find some kind of relief in the gallop, tossing his head and snorting either in pleasure or anger. His hooves churned the dusty ground and they quickly outdistanced Dentos and his struggling mount, so much so that Vaelin was forced to rein in after four miles. They had crested a small rise overlooking the plain before the city walls. The gates were open and a line of horsemen were making their way inside, sunlight gleaming on their armour.
“Seems the baron made it back,” Vaelin observed as Dentos reined in.
“Glad someone did.” Dentos upended a canteen and let the water bathe his face. Behind him Vaelin could see their pursuers were closing fast, barely a mile behind. He was right, they weren’t going to make it.
“Here,” he said, making to dismount. “I have the faster horse. It’s me they want.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, brother,” Dentos said wearily. He unhitched his bow from the saddle and notched an arrow, wheeling his horse around to face the oncoming horsemen. Vaelin knew there was no dissuading him.
“I’m sorry, brother,” he said, voice laden with guilt. “This fool’s war, I…”
Dentos wasn’t listening, looking off to the south, a puzzled frown on his brow. “Didn’t know they had them here. Big bugger too, isn’t he?”
Vaelin followed his gaze and felt the blood-song surge in a fiery tumult of recognition as his eyes picked out the form of a large grey wolf sitting a short distance away. It regarded him with the impassive, green-eyed stare he remembered so well from that first meeting in the Urlish. “You can see him?” he asked.
“Course, he’s hard to miss.”
The blood-song was raging now, a piercing cacophony of warning. “Dentos, ride for the city.”
“I’m not going anywhere…”
“Something’s going to happen! Please, just go!”
Dentos was going to argue further but his gaze was drawn by something else, a great dark cloud rising above the southern horizon, ascending from the desert to at least a mile into the sky, swallowing sunlight in its billowing fury as it swept towards the city, dunes disappearing as it gathered them to its hungry breast.
An arrow thumped into the ground a few feet away. Vaelin turned to see their pursuers now barely fifty yards distant, at least a hundred men, preceded by a swarm of arrows launched at the gallop, a desperate attempt to end the chase before the sandstorm bore down.
“RIDE!” Vaelin shouted, taking hold of Dentos’s reins and pulling him along as he kicked Spit into a gallop, arrows raining down as they descended the rise and rode for the city. The storm hit before they had covered a third of the distance, the sand blasting into face and eyes like a cloud of vicious needles. Dentos’s mount reared in the fury of it and Vaelin lost his grip on the reins, horse and rider disappearing in the whirling red mist. He tried to call for him but instantly choked on the sand, which sought to fill his mouth. He could only do his best to shield his face and cling on as Spit ran blindly through the storm.
In desperation he turned to the blood-song, trying to calm it, master it enough to guide its music, to sing. At first there was only the discordant shriek of wrongness and alarm that had erupted at the sight of the wolf, but as he exerted his will the confusion began to calm, a few clear notes forming amongst the storm raging in his mind. Dentos! he called, seeking to cast the song into the storm like a grapple. Find him!
The song changed again, more notes forming, the music becoming more melodious, almost serene but tinged with something more, a tone so strange as to be vastly unknowable. The realisation dawned like a blow. This is not my song! This is not the song of any man!
Who? he sang. Who are you?
The other song changed again, all music fading to be replaced by a single impatient growl.
Please! he begged. My brother…
The wolf’s growl became a shout in his mind, strong enough to make him reel in the saddle. Spit whinnied and reared in alarm as he heaved himself upright, feeling blood begin to pour from his nose. NO! he screamed back with every fibre of strength he could force into the song. I DO NOT WANT YOUR HELP!
Instantly the wind dropped, the harsh blast of grit on his face dissipating to a faint breeze, the wind-tossed sands slowly descending with a sound like a thousand whispering voices. Through the fading mist he saw the dark shape of a rider, no more than ten yards away, Dentos clearly recognisable from the sword on his back. Relief flooded Vaelin as he trotted over, reaching out to clasp his brother’s shoulder.
“Not a good time to linger, brother…”
Dentos pitched from the saddle and fell heavily to the ground. His eyes were open, face pale with a familiar pallor, the arrow that had killed him jutting from his chest, the steel barb wet with blood.
They told him later how he had sat there, still and frozen, like one of Ahm Lin’s creations appearing out of the ebbing sandstorm, raising shouts from the sentries on the walls and compelling Caenis to frantic efforts to reopen the gate. The Alpiran pursuers, scattered by the storm, were quick to recover their wits and close in on the immobile Hope Killer. One galloped to within twenty yards, leaning low over his stallion’s neck, bow drawn and shaft ready, teeth bared with hate and triumph. Bren Antesh leapt atop the gatehouse battlements, put an arrow clean through the rider’s chest then barked an order at his archers. A thousand arrows rose from the walls and descended on the Alpirans in a black hail. Near a hundred riders cut down by a single volley.
Vaelin had no knowledge of any of it. There was only Dentos, his slack, empty face, and the arrowhead, gleaming metal shining amongst the red gore. Voices called to him from the walls but he heard nothing. Caenis and Barkus sprinted through the reopened gate, stumbling to a halt in shock. Vaelin couldn’t hear their grief or their questions. Dentos and the arrow…
“Vaelin.”
It was the only voice he could have heard. Sherin was at his side, reaching up to clasp his wrist, his knuckles white as they gripped the reins. “Vaelin, please.”
He looked down at her, drinking in the sight of her compassion, the familiar ache dispelling his numbness with a desperate need and hopeless shame. “I am a murderer,” he said, forming each word with cold precision.
“No…”
“I am a murderer.” He gently pulled her hand away and kicked Spit into a walk, guiding him through the gate and into the city.
CHAPTER NINE
He stayed in his room for two days, slumped fully clothed on his bunk. Janril knocked and left food outside his door but he ignored it. Caenis, Barkus and Frentis each came in turn to call through the door but he barely heard them. He felt no need of sleep, no hunger, no thirst. There was only Dentos and the arrowhead, and the song, the great unknowable song of the wolf like a deafening echo in his mind. And the truth of course, the hateful truth. I am a murderer.
He remembered when he had gone to Dentos to ask for his presence on the mission. “You’re the best horse archer we have…” he had begun but Dentos was already packing his kit.
“Nortah was better,” he said, stringing his bow.
“Nortah’s dead.”
Dentos had simply smiled and for the first time Vaelin realised he had never believed his lie about Nortah’s fate. How much more had he known? What other secrets had he kept? All of his knowledge gone in an instant, stolen by an arrow loosed by a stranger who probably thought he had felled the Hope Killer himself. Vaelin wondered if the man had died happy under the hail of Cumbraelin arrows, perhaps expecting a hero’s welcome from the gods. It must have been a terrible disappointment.
Towards evening of the second day his attention was finally drawn by a scratching at the door, accompanied by a plaintive whine. He blinked, gazing at the dim room with blurred eyes, fingers scraping the stubble on his chin, smelling his own stink. “I need a bath,” he muttered, rising to open the door.
“Really?” Sherin was standing in the doorway, arms folded, her expression an echo of the severity he remembered from their first meeting. “Because you look terrible.”
She turned and descended the steps, returning a few minutes later with a cloth and a steaming bowl of water. She closed the door and sat on the bed as he stripped to the waist and washed, Scratch’s head in her lap as she rubbed the fur behind his ears. He could feel her gaze on his torso, knowing her eyes lingered on his scars, sensing her sorrow. “Nothing I didn’t earn, sister,” he told her, reaching for his razor. “All of it, and more besides.”
“So you hate yourself now?” There was an edge of anger to her tone. Clearly her bitterness at his beating of Brother Commander Iltis was taking a while to fade.
“The things I’ve done. This war…” He trailed off, closing his eyes briefly before lathering his face and lifting the razor to his skin.
“Here.” Sherin rose and moved to his side, taking the razor from him. “You haven’t slept, your hands are unsteady.” She pulled over a stool and made him sit. “Relax, I’ve done this more times than I can remember.” He had to admit many barbers would envy the skill with which she wielded the razor, sliding the blade over his skin with deft precision, her healer’s hands gentle and soothing. For a moment he was lost in the scent and the closeness of her, the grief and self-loathing vanished by this new intimacy. He knew he should tell her to stop, that this was inappropriate, but found himself too intoxicated to care.