by Nathan Hawke
‘This many of them?’ Oribas shook his head. ‘It’ll be over in the first day. They’ll swarm over the walls in a hundred places at once.’
‘Then I’m glad I won’t be there to see it.’ He stood up. ‘If every Marroc kills a forkbeard before he dies then the valley will be free of them quickly enough. Cithjan is here. I mean to take him. Another spark struck at the waiting fire. Tell my sister I love her. Get her out of there if you can. Drag her if you have to. Farewell, Oribas. It was good to know a proper wizard.’
He walked away down the mountain towards the Lhosir and Oribas watched him go. He felt lost. Bereft. They’d have no chances to flee after this. He’d go back to the tomb, back to Witches’ Reach; he’d stand by Achista and they’d either die together or the miracle she hoped for would come and the Marroc would rise before the Reach fell, but Oribas didn’t believe in miracles.
Or he could walk away. Not like Addic, but the other way. Turn his back on Witches’ Reach and the Lhosir who surrounded it. It deserved a thought, at least, and yet if it did, he couldn’t come up with one. The idea of not going back was inconceivable. Perhaps that was the most frightening thing of all. He’d rather die under a storm of Lhosir swords even though those swords terrified him.
He reached into his satchel without really knowing why and pulled out a tiny leather pouch closed tight with twine and sealed with wax. He only understood when he stared at it. A soporific. He started to laugh. The most preposterous idea of them all, that he might slip a poison into Achista’s drink and put her to sleep and then carry her away past Marroc and Lhosir alike. Absurd, and even if he managed it then she’d hate him. Besides, he couldn’t possibly get her down the Aulian shaft. He shook his head, put the pouch back into his satchel and looked around for anything else that might magic away a thousand Lhosir soldiers. Nothing. Yes, he might poison a few of them, make a few dozen too ill to fight. He might conjure fire a few more times before his powders were gone, but to what end? He couldn’t save her, not this time.
He held his head in his hands. Addic had gone to his death in the Lhosir camp because he couldn’t bear to see his sister at the end. That was one thing Oribas could do. He could make a poison so that when the end did come the Lhosir wouldn’t have her. After a while he rose and left, traversing the mountainside. A part of him said he should go after Addic, as if that would somehow do some good, and he was too busy wondering about that to notice when he crossed tracks in the snow where two other men had come down the mountain a little earlier in the twilight.
Addic slunk down the mountain and stopped a hundred paces short of where the Lhosir sentries should be. He couldn’t see them though, which troubled him. He could see the forkbeards’ fires and the edge of their camp and knew their sentries should be out in the darkness beyond. So he ought to be able to see them.
He was in the middle of frowning about that when he saw a subtle movement on the slope ahead.
He wasn’t alone.
38
THE LHOSIR CAMP
‘She talked about you all the time.’ Tolvis Loudmouth knelt at the fringe of the Lhosir camp beside one of the sentries he’d killed and beckoned Gallow forward. Loudmouth was dressed in mail under his furs now, with a helm and a shield and a spear all stolen from the sentry. ‘Always, Gallow did this, Gallow did that.’ He put the other sentry’s helm on Gallow’s head and wrapped his furs around Gallow’s face.
‘Did she talk about Merethin?’
They looked each other over to be sure their faces were hidden. ‘Never.’ In the darkness no one would know them, but a beardless Lhosir wouldn’t pass unchallenged. Beardless nioingr had no place among real men.
Gallow stood up and walked brazenly towards the edge of the camp. ‘I heard about him all the time. Jelira’s father. You’d think he was both a prince and a priest from the way she’d talk about him. He was Nadric’s son, but Nadric told me once, when he was drunk, that she despised him. That’s just the way she is.’
Tolvis didn’t reply and Gallow supposed that was for the best. Better not to talk about Arda, not now. Was she pleased that he’d finally returned? He thought not. He’d been away too long. She’d given up on him and moved on. He was an inconvenience now, but however she really felt, she’d never let any of them see it – not him, not Tolvis, no one. She’d do what was best for her children, for her family.
They walked among the fires, heads bowed, moving quickly, two Lhosir soldiers on some irksome errand. They talked to one another about nothing very much: Gallow’s boys and little things they’d done and how they’d grown while he’d been away. Jelira, and how she was the one who’d never let Tolvis touch her, who never let go even though Gallow hadn’t been her real father either. Middislet and the tiny changes the village had seen. Things that didn’t matter. Things to keep their minds away from Arda and from the thousand Lhosir soldiers around them.
Tolvis stopped beside a fire where six men were passing around a keg of Marroc ale. He crouched down beside them, back a little, face kept in shadow. ‘What’s that Marroc woman doing here, brothers?’
The Lhosir stopped their talk to look round at him, and when Tolvis asked again, Gallow watched where their faces turned. They laughed and shrugged and offered to share their fire and their drink – Tolvis and Gallow were brothers from across the sea after all, and even if their faces were hidden by the furs they wore against the cold, it was in their voices, in their words, in the way they spoke and moved. They were Lhosir and so they were friends, and the world was that simple. Tolvis shook his head and thanked them. The two moved on, easing closer to the centre of the camp. ‘Your Fateguard friend has kept her close. We find him, we find her.’
Gallow hissed, ‘He’s drawing us to him. He knows we’re coming.’
‘He’s an ironskin, Truesword, not a witch.’ Tolvis clucked, shook his head and stopped another Lhosir to ask which way to the iron man. The Lhosir pointed and Tolvis thanked him. ‘Is it true the Fateguard never sleep?’ he asked. The Lhosir shook his head. To Gallow’s surprise he made the sign of Modris to ward away evil as they parted. Modris, the Marroc god.
‘How long did you wait?’ The question hung in the air between them. It wasn’t the sort of question that ever had a good answer.
‘Before I gave up hoping you were still alive? A few months. Before I did anything about it? A year. Does it matter, Truesword? I watched over your wife and your sons when I thought you were alive and I watched over them when I thought you were dead.’
‘You did more than watch over them.’ Couldn’t let it go. Here of all places, in the middle of the Lhosir camp.
Tolvis grabbed Gallow by his furs. ‘You were dead. What would you have preferred? That I abandon them?’
A soldier glanced their way. Tolvis let go. Gallow clenched his teeth. ‘I knew Beyard once. He’ll have her in one of the tents close to a fire to keep her warm. He’ll look after her as though she was a lady and he’ll watch her every second. And yes, it’s true that the Fateguard never sleep.’
‘They must get very bored at nights then.’ Tolvis stopped and nudged Gallow, pointing through the darkness to a larger fire in the middle of the camp and a big tent beside it where a banner flew. ‘Cithjan. What did the Marroc do to drag even him out of his hole?’
‘Beyard will be close.’
Tolvis changed course, skirting the Lhosir sentries around Cithjan’s tent. ‘Now there’s a Lhosir I could do without. I came to thinking for a bit that when the Maker-Devourer made Sixfingers he must have spilled a bit, and that when he scooped it up, something else got in. Maybe he picked up one of the old hungry spirits from the Marches that he’d turned away long ago – maybe that’s why Sixfingers has such a bitter streak inside him. Whatever he did with Medrin, he did it with Cithjan too. More and more of us from what I saw after you . . . after you left.’
‘It’s not the Maker-Devourer’s brew, Loudmouth. It’s a disease. A disease of the memory. We’re forgetting who we are.’ Gallow fell si
lent as Tolvis pulled him behind a tent.
‘Fateguard.’ Gallow peered past Tolvis’s shoulder. It took a while for his eyes to pick Beyard out, but there he was, sat still in the shadows. ‘Don’t they feel the cold either?’
‘Beyard said he always felt cold. That nothing made any difference.’
Tolvis shivered. ‘They’re not natural.’
‘No.’
They watched for a while but Beyard didn’t move. After a time Gallow took a deep breath and made to walk towards him. Tolvis caught him before he could take more than a step. ‘So.’ His voice was urgent, as though he’d guessed what Gallow meant to do. ‘I’ll create a distraction. You slip inside and bring her out while they’re all looking the other way. Right?’
Gallow laughed. He slapped Tolvis Loudmouth on the shoulder. ‘She’s yours now. I saw how she looked at me and I saw how she looked at you.’
Tolvis shook his head. ‘She will choose you, Gallow Truesword. Always.’
‘I’m going to challenge Beyard. I have to. If he wins, he has me and Arda goes free. If he loses, he lets us go, all of us. For ever.’
‘What makes you think he’ll agree.’
‘Because a part of him remembers that he was my friend once. Because of what happened in Middislet.’
Loudmouth shook his head but Gallow moved too quickly. Before Tolvis could stop him he was out in the open, lit up by the fire at the heart of the Lhosir camp. He threw back his hood. ‘Beyard of the Fateguard! I challenge you! Gallow Truesword is here. You have called me nioingr three times and I will take what I am owed from you for that. My life or hers, Beyard. Kill me if you can, ironskin!’
Tolvis slunk off into the shadows. It wasn’t the distraction he’d had in mind, but it was still a distraction.
Oribas circled half the camp before his legs finally agreed with what the rest of him had realised far sooner – that he could never poison Achista no matter now much it was the right thing to do and that he had to go back for Addic after all. They were shaking by then. All of him was shaking and it wasn’t only the cold. He’d had enough courage, barely, for the burning of the Lhosir in the shaft under Witches’ Reach and now, it seemed, he’d used it up. Or maybe the shaft had been different because it had been a trap laid with thought and care, a plan he could see even before he started, step by step from start to finish. Here . . . Here there was nothing but madness and the conjured thought of Achista’s face when she heard that her brother was dead. The light going out of her. The hardness coming down like an armour he’d never pierce.
He had no idea how to stop Addic when he turned towards the camp. All he knew was that if he didn’t turn now then he never would. He had no idea how he’d even find the Marroc, nor how to slip past the Lhosir pickets. The last, though, wasn’t a bother. He didn’t try. He walked straight at the camp until someone challenged him and then turned towards the Lhosir, hands held up to show he meant no harm.
‘I have knowledge of a secret entrance into Witches’ Reach.’
The Lhosir didn’t seem to hear. He grunted at Oribas, ‘What are you?’
‘I’m an Aulian.’ Oribas bowed. ‘I know the secrets of Witches’ Reach,’ he said again. He had to try two more times before the Lhosir understood what Oribas was telling him and that it wasn’t some trick or a joke. Once they got that far, Oribas didn’t have to worry about slipping through the rest of the camp. They walked together straight to the heart of it, Oribas in front, the Lhosir behind, poking with his spear.
‘Kill me if you can, iron man!’
The challenge came, welcome and wanted. Beyard looked up and then slowly, as though it pained him, he rose. Metal ground against metal as he stepped out of the shadows beside Cithjan’s tent. Gallow was on the other side of the fire, spear thrust into the air. A dozen Lhosir were staring at the Foxbeard, faces in the shadows of the night lit up by the dancing flames of the fire. Most of them looked bemused. Beyard looked past them, looking for Tolvis Loudmouth but seeing only darkness. But Loudmouth was there. Beyard knew it.
Cithjan stumbled out of his tent rubbing his eyes. Beyard moved quickly before anyone could say something stupid and insulting. He strode out into the open, drew Solace and raised the cursed sword into the air, slashing at the stars. He roared and felt the watching Lhosir flinch. The Fateguard rarely spoke, and when they did their voices were low grinding whispers. Not one of them had heard a Fateguard roar, but this was Gallow and Gallow deserved it. ‘Gallow Foxbeard! Here I am!’ And the Lhosir flinched at that too, not at Beyard’s voice this time but at his words. At the name, for there wasn’t a single Lhosir here who hadn’t heard of Gallow the Foxbeard.
An old anger swept through Beyard. Foxbeard? He lowered his sword and swept it across the watching men. ‘Called Truesword by the Screambreaker himself. Braver than any of you. Stronger than any of you. More a Lhosir than any of you. He chose the wrong side but did no worse than that.’ He roared again and strode around the fire watching Cithjan’s Lhosir step hurriedly back to give him space. The warriors he remembered from before the Eyes of Time took him would never have moved. Yurlak and the Screambreaker. Lanjis Halfborn and Jyrdas One-Eye. Thanni Thunderhammer and yes, even Farri Moontongue before he went stupid and tried to defy not only his king but the very will of the world. Especially Farri Moontongue. True Lhosir. Names and stories burned into his memory too deep for even the iron witch of the Ice Wraiths to wipe away.
‘Gallow Truesword!’ he cried again and saw him, the only Lhosir not to back away. Beyard saluted. No mercy this time. Quick and brutal. Solace would cut through wood and steel and flesh and bone and be done with it, and Beyard wouldn’t feel a jot of joy at what he’d done.
Gallow levelled his spear and crouched behind his shield. ‘If I beat you, I take the Marroc woman with me and I leave. If I don’t, I’ll be dead and you can let her go because you’ll have no use for her.’ The Foxbeard bared his teeth.
Beneath his mask Beyard grinned back. ‘Someone get the Marroc woman!’ He looked around, pointed his sword at a Lhosir who happened to be close and waved him on his way. His eyes flicked to Cithjan, who was starting to think. Beyard could see it happening and nothing good was going to come of it. He levelled Solace at Cithjan’s face. ‘This one belongs to the witch of the north. He’s belonged to her for seventeen years. Keep your mind on crushing the Marroc, Cithjan. Truesword is mine and I will do with him as I please and answer to Medrin when I’m done, not to you.’
Cithjan’s face darkened but he kept his mouth shut and that was all that mattered. Beyard turned back to Gallow and then knelt in the mud beside the fire. He was so close that the flames sometimes licked the iron of his armour but he felt as cold as ever. Always cold. ‘I called you nioingr, Gallow Truesword, but you are not. Let all here witness my words. I spoke falsely of you.’ Behind him they were dragging the Marroc woman out into the night.
‘Then you owe me a boon.’ Gallow still aimed his spear at the spot between Beyard’s eyes.
‘Speak it.’ Beyard stayed as he was. On his knees, head bowed.
‘Let her go.’
Beyard rose and turned and she was there, wrapped in furs, held between two Lhosir guards. To Beyard she seemed small and unremarkable. Nothing about her stood out at all. He walked to Arda, took her arm and, shooing the other Lhosir away, dragged her towards Gallow, Solace still in his other hand. He felt for the weave of her fate and even then found nothing. For a moment he pressed the point of the cursed sword up against her throat. Gallow didn’t flinch.
‘As you wish, old friend.’ Beyard let her go, lifted his hands away from her and turned to the watching Lhosir. ‘Let her walk free. Do not follow her. She is not to be touched by anyone here.’ When she didn’t move he pushed her, hard, away out of the space between him and Gallow. She stopped at the edge of the circle surrounded by uncertain Lhosir but they let her be, and Gallow and Beyard locked eyes at last. Gallow’s spear point twitched, a flicker of a hair’s breath.
‘I
thank you for that kindness, old friend.’
‘And you’re welcome to it.’ Beyard swept an arm around at the Lhosir crowded around them. ‘This time I will kill you, old friend, and you know it’s for the best. But you will be remembered.’
39
FIRE AND LIGHT
The Lhosir shoved Oribas towards the heart of the camp. The blaze of fire cast everything else into mercurial shadow. Outside its light he couldn’t see what was happening. Something, though. Over the crack and snap of burning wood he heard shouting. One voice and then another. A pause and then the second voice came again and Oribas’s heart jumped. The iron man. Beyard. Gallow’s friend. Was he too late, then?
He stumbled on, eyes glued to the ground for each footstep, stealing glances where he could but there was little to see. He heard another exchange of words and then a shout and a battle cry he knew well: Gallow!
Three more Lhosir stepped out from among the tents, faces taut, spears lowered, barring his way. They spoke in murmurs, all of them pressed close around Oribas as though he wasn’t there.
‘. . . claims he’s Gallow the Foxbeard.’
‘He’s called out the Fateguard.’
‘It can’t really be him.’
‘The ironskin thinks so.’ There was fear there, but disdain too when it came to the iron man.
‘Cithjan’s in a foul mood.’ The Lhosir sentry prodded Oribas with a spear. ‘I don’t fancy your chances, Aulian.’
Another shout and then a gasp came from among the watching crowd and a chorus of jeers. The Lhosir pushed Oribas on towards the central fire and then stopped, and at last Oribas could see what was happening. Gallow was on his hands and knees, struggling to get to his feet. His shield was split in two. The ironskin was waiting for him to rise while the Edge of Sorrows in his hand gleamed like fresh blood in the firelight. Oribas steeled himself. All this way to stop Addic from getting himself killed and now it was Gallow about to die instead. He held up his hands again, the universal gesture among Aulians, Marroc, Lhosir, Vathen and probably every other people under the sun. Showing he meant no harm, that he held no weapons. But although he held no steel, neither hand was empty and he still had the pouches at his belt.