by Stephen Deas
Except him.
He caught himself. Skjorl. He’d forgotten Skjorl. A man like Skjorl would make a difference here. For once he could actually do some good. ‘So where are you when we need you, eh?’
‘What was that?’
Jasaan shook his head. ‘Nothing. We’re on the right side of the river, rider. We’re on the side that matters.’ He jumped the last six feet down. His ankles gave a twinge and then he was at the bottom of the rocks at one end of the beach, all pain forgotten, with enemies ahead of him. The first outsiders were sitting on the riverbank, holding their heads in their hands only a hundred yards away. He started to run, slipping his sword out of its scabbard as he did, a small stabbing cutting weapon perfect for tight spaces. In an open place like the beach he might have chosen his axe, but Nezak had never fought beside an Adamantine Man. Sword was safer.
He ran faster. The first outsiders looked up. They stared, openmouthed and uncomprehending as he reached them and slashed one across the face, hacking his jaw off. A bad blow — he’d meant to open the man’s throat. He caught the next one as the outsider was starting to turn, caught him right across the top of the arm and down to the bone.
The third hurled himself out of the way. Jasaan missed him and kept running. He didn’t see if Nezak did any better. Didn’t matter. Keep going, that was the thing. Race through them like fire, slashing every one he passed. Didn’t dare stab at anyone in case his sword got stuck. The outsiders were mostly on the riverbank now, scattered, but the next group was the big one where the last canoe had beached. They’d seen him coming now. Blood ran down his sword, flecks of it spraying into the air. He felt it on his face, the iron of it in his mouth. There were a dozen men in front of him. They were staring and they didn’t know what to do. He screamed at them, a battle roar. Run away! Turn and run!
They had spears and sticks and rags. He had steel and dragon-scale. They broke and scattered and he howled with glee and chased after them. You have to hunt them! Cut them down! The more the better! Before they regroup and come back at you!
He caught one and brought his sword down, hacking into the man’s back, opening him from his shoulder to the base of his spine, not a killing blow but good enough. He’d bleed out, and even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be much use for anything.
Next!
They were faster than him though, once they really started to run. They didn’t have armour and they didn’t have swollen ankles, and most of them scattered into the forest. Jasaan didn’t follow into the gloom of the trees. That was their ground, not his.
A man lay on the bank in front of him, still. Drowned most likely. Jasaan ignored him. Charged on. Two more, still hauling themselves out of the river without the first idea what was going on. He slowed. He was running out of breath anyway. Shouldn’t have been, not an Adamantine Man, not so quickly, but that was what you got for gods knew how many days of traipsing through this cursed place with the shits, with its flies and its crawling things.
He splashed into the water and drove the sword into the first man’s belly. The outsider didn’t even see it coming. The second one tried to run, floundering in the shallows. Jasaan stumbled in the mud, hurled himself at the man and they went down together. Jasaan buried his sword in the man’s back.
‘Jasaan! Jasaan!’
He dragged himself back to his feet. Nezak was a little way behind. He was staggering. Something wasn’t right with him.
Flame! There was a man a few dozen yards behind Nezak with a bow, fumbling to string it. The drowned man he’d left for dead. Vishmir! He started to run again, back the way he’d come. Nezak was pointing into the forest. Between the trees Jasaan saw a group of men, running. Four of them, and they were looking at him. The tallest had a body slung over his shoulders. A woman. Not one of their own.
For a moment he didn’t know what to do. Nezak? The archer? The woman?
‘The alchemist!’ yelled Nezak. ‘The alchemist!’ He was still pointing.
‘Behind you!’ The archer had his bow strung now, had an arrow in his other hand too. Shit! They were all too far away and all Jasaan was doing was standing like a lemon tree, dithering. A true Adamantine Man would have gone straight for the alchemist. Let Nezak fall. One Guardsman against four outsiders. He could take those odds. The alchemist was why he was here. Nothing else mattered.
‘Move!’ The outsider with the bow was drawing it back. Jasaan bolted at Nezak, past him, pushing him sideways, then straight at the archer, screaming. He jinked sideways. The arrow flew past, missed him, and then he was on the man, chopping down with his sword, cutting the bow and the arm that held it and the man behind all at once. The outsider went down in a spray of red. Jasaan looked up into the trees. He couldn’t see the alchemist any more but she couldn’t have gone far. ‘Come on then!’
Nezak didn’t move. He was limping badly. ‘I can’t.’
‘Are you hurt?’ Jasaan stared, trying to see what was wrong with the rider, where he’d been cut. No blood, no wounds, nothing sticking out of him…
‘I tripped over a branch and twisted my ankle. Now for the love of Vishmir, get the alchemist!’
Downstream were seven or eight outsiders on the beach, bunched up, spears and bows out, moving cautiously closer. Back towards the rocks the beach was empty. ‘Can you move at all.’
Nezak limped towards him. A fast walk. Better than nothing.
‘Back to the path. As fast as you can. I’ll hold them here for a minute.’
‘The alchemist!’ Nezak shook his head.
‘We’ll catch her.’ No point giving the rider any chance to argue. Jasaan ran down the beach towards the advancing outsiders and then stopped, put away his sword, unslung Parris’ bow and nocked an arrow. He aimed carefully and fired as they scattered. The first arrow missed. He took another. A man went down screaming.
No, not a man, a woman. Jasaan froze. Men fought men, not women. That wasn’t right and made him think of Scarsdale, and by the time he shook himself out of it, the outsiders were in the forest and safe. He turned and ran back down the beach towards Nezak and the waterfall and the caves. There were outsiders between him and the falls now, close to the path up the cliffs, the ones he thought he’d chased off into the forest. No, it was worse than that. He could see the alchemist again, draped over a shoulder. These were the ones he’d chased off into the forest and those Nezak had pointed out.
He ran as fast as he could. Only Vishmir knew what would happen if they got the alchemist up to the Moonlight Garden. He was supposed to take her back to the Pinnacles, and that was that, but all of this was about something here.
There were outsiders on the beach behind him again now too, the ones he’d sent running, quickly back together, chasing after him. He thought about loosing another arrow or two into the ones ahead, but that risked hitting the alchemist. At least if they were bothering to carry her through the middle of a fight, that meant she was still alive. He caught up with Nezak. Half the outsiders barring the way to the falls turned to face them. The rest went on with the alchemist. Fifty yards or so of flat muddy beach stood between them.
Six men in his way. That was too many. Never mind the dozen or so coming up behind and the rest still scattered along the banks of the river.
‘Nezak?’ He looked the rider in the eye.
Nezak’s face said he knew this was the end. ‘What we should have done,’ he said, ‘was hold the path. In those rocks, with bows, we could have held them until we ran out of arrows.’
Jasaan nodded. He was probably right about that. But Jasaan had counted the arrows and Nezak hadn’t.
The outsiders on the beach downstream charged, shouting their heads off. The ones between Jasaan and the falls held their ground. They were shouting too now. Jasaan put away the bow and took out his axe. He felt something let go inside him, all the tension slipping away. For once he felt calm.
‘I’ll hold them as long as I can.’ Nezak’s voice was hoarse.
‘I will sing your na
me to my ancestors,’ said Jasaan, and he charged towards the cliffs, at the outsiders who stood ready to meet him.
60
Blackscar
The dragon circled high above the Raksheh. Above the caves and the strange thing that lay beneath them. A taste of the old sorcery. A lingering of something mighty. Tastes like those from the sky-home, but faded and pure, not mingled with the bitterness of the broken god and That Which Came First.
The Aardish Caves. The Moonlight Garden. This had been one of their places, long ago. Not one the dragon remembered, but it could feel the presence of its kind. Something waiting. Its time with its silver rider had been so brief yet so full of fire.
Little ones came. It felt their thoughts. And the water worm, blind, dumb and dull, a tiny creature, made at the beginning of the half-gods’ path towards their final creations.
Us.
It peered at the little ones. It was hungry. Always hungry.
And then, in among the mindless noise, it saw what it was searching for, faint, half-hidden, as if wrapped in a fading mist.
The one that had killed its mate. The little one had come at last.
It tucked in its wings and fell towards the earth and the tiny little sliver of silver that was the old forest river.
61
Skjorl
He followed the alchemist’s trail. When he lost it, he followed the river into the forest. If you knew where someone was going, tracking them wasn’t hard, and so he found her again, this time with a whole band of outsiders, walking to a handful of boats on the river. He watched for a while, wondering whether he should kill them all here and now or whether to wait until later. They were many, too many to be sure he’d win. He could see, as he watched, that the shit-eaters meant to take her where she wanted to go.
She’d be safer surrounded by so many. They’d do his work for him. Quicker and easier if he only had to fend for himself.
As the days of following them up the river passed, he began to realise he was following someone else as well. Little signs at first. A footprint in the mud. The freshly cut stump of a branch. Then a fire pit. When he saw the fire pit and saw how it was made, he knew he was following another Adamantine Man. Made him pay attention that, and he watched out for the signs more closely.
Three men. One Guardsman and two others. It was the Guardsman who interested him. He found each one of their camps, stopped and looked it over. There was something familiar about the way they were made. More than just another Adamantine Man. Someone he knew.
Jasaan?
Impossible. They’d gone their separate ways up on the moors, many months and a thousand miles away. Chances of either of them getting back somewhere safe hadn’t been good. He’d always assumed Jasaan was dead.
He kept pace with the boats on the river, letting them stay a mile or so ahead but never too far. In the mornings he woke early and ran until he caught sight of them. Then he let them pull away and caught them again in the afternoon. Never close enough to be seen, never so far away that he might lose them if they left the river.
He knew for sure when he caught up with the Adamantine Man and his companions. He watched them unseen. It was Jasaan. Of all people. With two riders who were just slowing him down. By the state of them, Jasaan should have abandoned them days ago.
Jasaan. He almost went up and asked him what in the name of Vishmir’s cock he was doing out here. But then he saw. When the alchemists had come to the Pinnacles, they’d had Adamantine Men with them. Jasaan must have been one of them. Sent with the alchemist, and now she’d gone missing and so he’d come looking for her. Sort of thing he’d do. The amazing thing was that Jasaan had got back to the Purple Spur in the first place.
Why he had riders with him, now that was another matter. And why were they still with him when they were in such a bad way? Skjorl crept close and watched and listened as they talked. The riders seemed to know something about these caves the alchemist wanted to find. They were close too. They’d seen the outsiders on the river and now they meant to get ahead and set an ambush. All well and good if you had half a dozen Adamantine Men armed with bows. A pair of half-dead riders, well, that would be a valiant effort but there were far too many shit-eaters. Jasaan ought to know better.
He kept himself hidden and followed their forced march to the waterfall. He let Jasaan go ahead with his riders, gone from half-dead to well past three quarters by now, and watched them climb. Jasaan would set his ambush along the path among the rocks. Two riders with bows. He’d put them high up to fire down at the shit-eaters as they reached the beach. Then Jasaan would be waiting. He’d take them down one by one as they tried to climb, keeping them from reaching his archers. It was a good place for an ambush and it might even work. A determined handful could hold back a lot of men at a place like this.
Would work even better, Skjorl thought, with a second Adamantine Man waiting to take the shit-eaters from behind.
When the boats finally came, he watched it all unfold. Waited for the arrows to start but they never did, and then Jasaan was running at six shit-eaters at once while the rider who could barely walk any more was standing to face a round dozen. The rider was going to die — most of the shit-eaters would just go right on past him — and then Jasaan would die too. A perfectly good place for an ambush and Jasaan had pissed it away. Bloody typical, but by then Skjorl was already on his feet, already running.
The shit-eaters weren’t in the hurry they ought to have been. Three stopped to take down the rider. The rest raced after Jasaan. Skjorl sprinted. He ran silently up behind one of the three facing the rider and swung Dragon-blooded, cutting his first man clean in two. Left the others for the rider. He screamed now, roared and yelled to make the others look round, to make them see him and quail and pause and run away, but the waterfall was so loud they didn’t even hear him. Either that or they thought he was one of their own.
The alchemist and the shit-eaters carrying her were scrambling up the path through the rocks. Jasaan hit the men barring his way like the whip of a dragon’s tail, smashing his way between them with sheer force, swinging his axe so that none of them dared go near. Straight through them, but that wasn’t enough. They’d cut him down from behind if he tried to climb the rocks. He had to make himself some space.
Or someone did.
Jasaan turned. He had a dozen shit-eaters fanned out around him now, watching the whirl of his axe, all too scared to get close. The first one to charge died, that was what Jasaan was telling them. Eventually they might realise that they didn’t have to, but Skjorl slammed into them before they’d even got over that first fear. Took a man’s head off with one swing, chopped another one in half and then sheared straight through a third man’s face before they knew he was there.
‘Hello, Jasaan!’ The look on his face was something he’d cherish. Bewilderment. Amazement. Joy. Fear. Hate. All thrown in together. He was quite sure he’d never get to see a look like that again. The shit-eaters backed away. He bared his teeth. Two Adamantine Men with axes, side by side, their backs to a wall. No one in their right mind would come close.
‘Skjorl?’ Jasaan made it sound like a question.
‘Been following you for days. Or more rightly I been following this lot.’
Across the beach the rider who could barely walk and the two shit-eaters trying to kill him were still circling each other. It was like watching cripples dance. Pathetic.
‘Go!’ he bellowed. ‘Go and get my alchemist! But you take care of her, Jasaan, or I’ll break your balls.’
He jumped away from the rocks, screaming his lungs out at the shit-eaters, scaring the life out of them. If the looks on their faces were anything to go by, he wouldn’t even have to touch them with his axe.
Yes. Leave the killing to me.
62
Kataros
She opened her eyes. The roaring that had been the sound of her drowning was still there. The waterfall. She was bobbing up and down, but not in the water any more. She was
hanging over some man’s shoulder. Looking down from among the rocks beneath the Moonlight Garden. ‘You two! Hold here. Stop him. Or at least slow him down.’ Siff. ‘You! Bring her! Follow me! Run, damn you!’
Siff and the man carrying her climbed higher, over the top of the waterfall, then started picking their way along a ledge overlooking the river. She lurched up and down. Her hands and her feet were still tied. She had no strength, no energy, and struggling seemed futile when all she could do was cough now and then and bring up another mouthful of river water, yet a strange excitement had her. They were here. She couldn’t see it, even when she turned her head and tried to look up, but the Moonlight Garden was somewhere above her. No one had ever understood what the Moonlight Garden was. Not the first idea.
Stupid thing to think, really, but it gave her a focus. Stopped her being too sick and helpless and terrified.
At the end of the ledge they were among rocks again, picking their way down a steep slope. She felt the man who was carrying her slip. He was cursing with almost every other step until they reached the bottom and were beside the river again, out in the open on a flat overgrown field. The cave mouths drew her eye.
‘They’re getting closer!’ The man was breathing hard. She was slowing him. And then everything fell into shadow and he screamed. She hit the ground like a sack of turnips, winded and too weak and bruised to move, and that might have been what saved her. A huge shape blotted out the sun and snatched the man who’d been carrying her into the sky; and then the sun was back, and with it a wind like a hurricane that picked her up and threw her across the ground as though she was a leaf.
Dragon. She couldn’t bring herself to move. Stay still. Don’t struggle and above all don’t run. Dragons can’t resist it if you run, and no one who runs ever gets away. Ever.