“They were big crabs,” Jafari chuckled, as he took yet another swig from the bottle before handing it over to the Steppes man.
Naresh accepted the drink gratefully, the aching in his chest slowly beginning to subside. The silence and darkness of the cellar was comforting, a safe and sure cocoon that granted the two fugitives some respite from the horrors of the world outside. As they settled, they had time to think, each ruminating over the fates of their respective families.
“Your family,” began the Nomad. “They live in the city? Do you see them often?”
Naresh sighed.
“They live in the city, yes. But I don’t get to see them too often. Maybe once a month or so. They work us hard in the Pen and we have little time to ourselves. And we live deep beneath the Keep, in the servants’ quarters. It takes a long time to make our way up to the outside world and into the city.”
Jafari nodded in understanding, taking a bite out of a hunk of cheese they’d carved from a wheel. Rats, thought Naresh, with a smile.
“How about yourself?” he asked in turn. “When did you last see your family?”
The Nomad looked downcast at the question and Naresh guessed the answer before the other man had even spoken.
“Taken,” he replied, his heavily accented voice low, all levity gone now. “At the same time as I was. They dragged me off in a net and I was knocked out as I hit my head. The last I remember of my sisters is the looks of horror on their faces as the Savaran bore down on us.” He glanced down at the cheese in his hand, casting it aside, all appetite gone now. “I don’t suppose I’ll see them again. They could be miles away by now…”
Silence for a few moments, a war waging within Naresh as he recalled the slaughter above, only a short time ago. He thought of his family, far off in the weapons district of the city, working the forges; there was no chance they could make it all the way there. His own family would have to take care of themselves, he thought, with an inward sob. But Jafari’s sisters…
“Perhaps they’re not as far off as you might think…”
The other man looked up, frowning, a tiny glimmer of hope in his eyes, reflected by the dim light of the lamp that sat between them.
“How so?”
Naresh replied slowly as his mind raced, trying to remember the myriad routes he’d traced in the Warrens beneath the Pen.
“These tunnels we’re in; they don’t just go up and down from the docks to the kitchens – they go further beneath the Pen. Even as far as the prisons beneath the Arena and the Market…”
The Nomad leapt up, this new information lending fresh strength to weary limbs as he spoke, excitedly.
“You mean there’s a chance my sisters could be alive, here, in this city?”
The Steppes man nodded, slowly, not wanting to get his new companion’s hopes up too much, for he had seen the bloodshed above. And who knew how far the slaughter would continue?
“Perhaps. It can’t hurt to see, as long as we remain low, careful, keep ourselves safe.”
His heart hammered in his chest, terrified of this plan he was concocting, wishing he would stop talking, stop digging his own grave; yet at the same time he felt sorry for this dishevelled and filthy man who had been through so much. He knew what it was like to feel trapped and alone. He had felt it himself ever since he’d started working in the halls of the Barbarian King.
“How do we get there?”
“I know the way; I’ve had to take provisions there, once or twice.” The servant rose to his feet, unsteady thanks to the wine. “Follow me. We keep quiet and tread lightly; if we catch the attention of the Clansmen, we are as good as dead…”
***
The Plainsmen marched and Wrynn’s spirit soared. How long had it been? A century now, at least, since the Villages had gathered, mustering for war. A century, at least, since anything resembling pride had stirred in their hearts.
But the Plainsmen were on the march once more. War paints borne proudly on cheeks and chests. Noble jaws set in grim determination. Captured weapons hefted in strong arms that had long yearned to rise up against their subjugators.
The Clansmen on guard atop the walls of Pen Argyle hadn’t noticed the Raven that had flown overhead in the night sky. And why should they? ‘twas only a bird, nothing more.
Only a bird that would perch in the Keep that night, whispering into the minds of the once-proud slaves, fanning into fresh flame the old fires of honour and pride that had long since died down to ashes.
Only a bird that would transform into the looming figure of legend; Wrynn, Shaman of the Plains People. His eyes of fire burning guards to ashes; his healing hands restoring strength and hope to beaten slaves. But slaves no longer. They had risen up, at his command, overthrowing their keepers, the bulk of the Clans having been recalled to Merethia; for no-one could have expected this long-cowed and subjugated people to rise up without warning.
The Pen had been taken in an hour. The walls had rang out to victory chants not heard in a hundred years. The people had been free.
And Wrynn had given them a choice.
This world is lost, he had told them. A war is being fought, even now, in the South. Dark powers rise against the land, seeking to claim it. Time is short. You can march with us, to almost certain doom. Or you can remain here, free, content and enjoy your last days together in peace.
The choice is yours.
And this is why his heart sang. This is why, it was with a fierce pride that he marched, tall, head held high, at the head of a thousand Plainsmen, even as the small Shaman army crested the brow of the hill coming towards them.
As the vast tide of olive-skinned warriors hove into view, Gwenna turned to the awestruck Hofsted who stood, mouth agape, by her side.
“Tricks up our sleeves, my dear Lieutenant. Tricks up our sleeves…”
***
The hunger gnawed. Was this some kind of cruel punishment? Was it a way for their captors to get back at them for doing so well? For winning the favour of the crowd? The King himself?
Alann didn’t know. Either way, it had been over a day now since the last jailers had come to bring their rations. His stomach grumbled in protest, as he gazed out between the bars of the cold, dark cell, yearning for a glimpse of Clansmen bearing food.
“I think we’ve been forgotten about…”
The voice at his side belonged to Narlen. The tall Plainsman’s words had a levity to them, a sing-song nature that rendered even his most serious statements somewhat flippant. Alann liked that. It kept the men calm. He turned, gazing about at his fellow captives that lay sprawled on the floor or pacing about; Elerik, the Alatharian farmhand; rotund Jorgen, of the Hills; and the others. Nine all told, after the Barbarian had gone rogue in the arena. Nine men, captive, bound, each with their own story to tell, their own private tale of woe.
And Alann knew them all by heart.
He had made it his business to; for though he was no Prince, no King, he knew how to be a leader of men. He knew that orders were best followed if they weren’t perceived as orders at all; but rather the advice of someone known and trusted. Someone who had their best interests at heart. But it was no mere ploy to win their trust, but actual empathy that had caused him to sit and listen as the men had sat in the circle on the stone floor and learned about one another.
No, despite his thirst for revenge over the years, Alann had truly cared for the Foresters that had flocked to him, rallying about him as moths to a flame. The Foresters. His heart ached at the memory of the battle in the North. Where were they now? Was Iain leading them? Had they gone North, as he’d asked, to find aid? Had he, in fact, failed them himself by lusting after his revenge rather than leading them tactically, withdrawing with them as Iain had suggested? He shuddered, recalling the unnatural sight of Kurnos, rising, tossing aside the axe that had struck him like a man casually flicking aside a bug.
Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps one day I might get my revenge. One day happenstance might drop that chance in my lap.
But till that day, I shan’t allow my own grievances to blind me to the safety of those that put their trust in me.
I shall resolve to be a better man.
He shook himself from his melancholy, aware that Narlen was standing, patiently, watching him.
“Sorry, my friend. You’re right; it does seem like they’ve forgotten us. It’s quiet…”
“Too quiet…”
The cliché came from behind them, the Farmer, sat on a stool looking down at the ground, his hands clasped together. Elerik rarely spoke, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself most of the time. When he did speak, it was because he had something to say.
“What do you mean, farmer?” enquired the Plainsman.
“Well… you focus on the jailers who come with our food. Yet, what about the Slavers bringing fresh slaves? What about the Auctioneers coming to inspect us, to see if we’ve broken yet?” He rose, slowly, to his feet, looking over at them now. “No-one has come at all. No-one. It’s as though some great calamity has occurred above. It’s as though you’re right; we have been forgotten.”
The Woodsman nodded as he recognised the truth in Elerik’s words.
“You’re right; these prisons were a-bustle with feet only yesterday. Now, nothing.”
He turned, looking out between the bars once more.
“What’s going on up there…?”
***
The campfire was slowly burning down to a pile of ashen embers that glowed a steady orange, the leaders of the Shaman army sitting about it, staring in silence into its fading light. By all rights, they should have been slumbering, now, with the men and women that lay scattered about them for a hundred yards in each direction, dozing fitfully beneath thin sheets under the gaze of an uncaring night sky. But sleep wouldn’t come easily to the gathered commanders. For the burden of destiny weighed heavily on their shoulders, heavier still than the fatigue that dragged at their eyelids.
Only Gwenna and Wrynn, out of those that circled the fire, appeared unwearied; their bodies and minds kept fresher than most by a gentle trickle of nourishment from the earth.
“You lead them to their doom, Master Wrynn…”
Arbistrath’s voice was quiet, tired from long hours of marching, but there was no accusation in his tone, no menace. He was too tired for his usual outrage. This was merely statement of fact.
The Shaman blew out a steady tendril of smoke from the pipe at his lips, the sweet scent of the aromatic blend reaching out with soporific fingers across the circle. He withdrew the pipe, lowering it, before replying, his voice sombre, low.
“I know.”
The admission surprised the fallen Lord, his tired eyes widening as he listened on.
“But the doom of the Plains-People was sealed a long time ago, my young Lord Arbistrath. Long before any here, save I, were born.” He took another puff on his pipe, the bowl glowing with gentle heat, before continuing. “But I once told someone, very long ago, that the sacrifice of my people would be a worthy one. And it will.”
Hofsted now, looking up from his contemplation of the dying fire, smoothing his bristling, grey moustache before he spoke.
“They are fodder…” he remarked quietly, voicing that which they all were thinking. “The Plains-People are a screen, to hold off the hordes of the Clans as we strike for the Beacon…”
The Shaman let out a quiet sigh, nodding in solemn affirmation as Gwenna looked up at him with glistening green eyes.
“There is no other way, Lieutenant. Your Tulador Guards are trained and well-armed. Your Foresters,” he gestured to Iain who sat, ever uncomfortable in the presence of leaders, “are hardened and hungry. And our Shamans,” he turned now to the diminutive red-head beside him, “are powerful. But we are all few and our strength will be needed to strike at the head of our enemy. We cannot waste ourselves, crashing against the wall of Clansmen.”
“But how can a mere thousand Plains-People hold off our foes long enough for us to reach the Beacon?” enquired Arbistrath. “The Clansmen are almost without number; skilful, strong and armoured. The warriors, brave though they may be, will be cut down in short order…”
Wrynn smiled, sadly.
“You underestimate the value of honour to the Plains-People, my friend.” His eyes grew vacant as he gazed back through the mists of time. “I once rebuked some of my friends for placing too much emphasis on honour; for letting it blind them, causing them to be arrogant and headstrong. But it turns out now that those very qualities, that fire in the Plainsman’s blood, are what will carry this battle.”
He raised his free hand, gently, towards the fire, his fingers making a subtle and complicated dance in the air and the gathered leaders watched in amazement as the smoke from the dying flames twisted and wreathed in the air to form a picture. It was a Clansman; long, drooping moustache and high topknot, an example of the warrior they faced. But his eyes, such that should be fiery and hungering for glory, were dead. Hollow, sunken chasms of black wherein dwelt only suffering and unending cold.
“The men we face are not the Barbarian Clans; they are mere puppets now – their souls taken captive by the powers we fight. Their bodies will fight against us, have no doubt about that, but their hearts are not in it.” He took a puff of smoke, letting that which lingered above the campfire dissipate now, the image fading. “And therein lies the key to the Plainsmen’s prowess; they fight for lost honour. They will gladly attack, with a passion and a pride, rendering each warrior the equal of two of the soulless automatons we face.”
“They each face ten,” stated Hofsted. “Not two…”
The thought hung in the silence of the air for a moment, as each contemplated it, before the stillness was broken by a fresh voice. Iain.
“It’s not the Clansmen that worry me, Lieutenant…” he quietly said, thoughts playing across his mind’s eye, of bearded titans shrugging off mortal wounds.
Gwenna nodded in understanding, for her mind was similarly occupied, only with a hauntingly familiar pair of cold blue eyes.
“The Council…”
Arbistrath and Hofsted looked at each other, shivering at the word, remembering the lightning-blades of the Khrdas; the lethal nonchalance of Memphias; the unstoppable rampage of the Plated General.
“How do we do it?” the Lord asked the Shaman, no trace of condescension in his voice, only a hopeful curiosity, tinged with undertones of trembling fear. “How do we defeat the Immortal Few and whatever infernal allies they summon…?
Wrynn’s expression was hidden by the cloud of pipe smoke that wreathed his features. Only his eyes shone through, ageless, knowledgeable, yet at the same time uncertain.
“We cannot,” he admitted. “All we can do is try our hardest, pray for a little luck and trust that our own Immortal will return in time to tip the balance…”
***
The darkness seemed to go on forever, the lamps in this section having not been relit for a while by the looks of it, the only light that lit the way the tiny, orange semi-circle cast by the lamp held out before the duo. More than once they’d had to stop, pausing in mid-step, hearts hammering as the distinctive sounds of marching Clansmen passed by; above, to the sides.
But, by blessed luck, never in the same tunnel as they…
A faint light ahead, as though the tunnel opened up into a wider space. Closer, they came to the exit, crouched, feet moving silently. A store-room, like the one they’d been in before; crates, sacks, tools leant up against the walls. Within the storeroom, a metal cage, within which were locked all manner of gruesome weapons mounted on racks. No doubt the same weapons lent to the captives in the arena to bestow upon them some false hope. To make the drama more exciting. Another door, at the far wall. They made their way over to it, grasping the handle with tentative hands and opening it, achingly slowly on creaking hinges.
Naresh leant out, cautiously, into the corridor. He looked right; the corridor widened into a circle of doors, thick and sturdy, each bearing the symbol of a d
ifferent beast. He shivered at the thought of the ravenous animals penned within those cells. Looking left; the corridor stretched onwards, barred cells clearly visible on either side. He strained his ears, listening, as the cool air brought with it tiny whispers of sound.
Voices.
Prisoners, in a cell down the corridor. He smiled, for an instant, then froze, as the tell-tale sounds of marching began to echo from the entrance at the far end. Clansmen. He backed off, into the storeroom, nearly knocking Jafari over in his urgency.
“What’s up? What’s out there?”
“Clansmen…”
“Shit. What about prisoners, any out there?”
Naresh paused for a moment, half tempted to lie, to fly from the room and leave the threat of the Clansmen behind. His conscience won out.
“Aye. I heard some up ahead in the corridor. But I fear it’s too late for them.”
Jafari hissed.
“No. What if my sisters are there? And even if they’re not; an enemy of my enemy is my friend. We should do what we can to help them…”
He stuck his head out the doorway a fraction, gulping as he saw a troupe of ashen Clansmen making their way down towards the cells.
“What would you have us do?” snarled the Steppes man. “Grab a shovel or an axe and go charging into them? We’ll be cut down like children…”
Jafari looked right now, pausing for a moment before replying, eyes shining with the madness of whatever idea he’d thought up.
“No. Not that. Wait here. Keep this door closed until I knock on it three times.”
“Where are you going?”
The Nomad smiled the grin of a lunatic.
“To get help…”
With that, he stepped out into the corridor and fled.
Right.
***
The prisoners backed away from the bars as the Barbarians came into view, five of them, a Marzban and four Clansmen, armed with bow and scimitar. Only Alann held his ground, meeting the cold, lifeless gaze of the Marzban that regarded them through the bars.
From the Ashes Page 6