by B R Crichton
“That we have. But you once told me that ‘every victory has its cost’”
He looked around at the carnage. “Today we paid heavily.”
She looked down at Truman’s body. “Too heavily.”
There was a moment of silence as they both considered that price.
“I see we are of one mind,” he said eventually. “Perhaps in another life, we could have been friends.”
“I do not doubt it, Merat.”
“Good luck, Valia,” he said turning away, “whatever you do.”
Merat Fol’Ashar walked sombrely away, through the scattered bodies of men he had fought alongside. Valia felt the coin in her palm, and squeezed it harder.
Epilogue
More than a year had passed since the battle at Ara Dasari; it was almost like a dream now. Summer had followed spring, and summer turned to autumn. Autumn gave way to winter, and then spring began again. It was summer now in the lands to the south, but Alano had little notion of seasons passing where he was.
The historian had told him of a place that Alano could start a farm. At the time, Alano could not have guessed that Granger had meant Lythuria. There had been a fire a long time ago here. Tall tree stumps stood, scorched black and lifeless, and the ruins of houses were everywhere.
But, the grass was lush, springing forth with vigour from the ashes, and many trees showed signs of shooting anew. Birdsong had returned, even in the few months that he had been here.
The lake at the centre of Lythuria, Topaz, reflected the mountains to the north with mirror quality, hazed only slightly by the thin layer of humid mist that clung to its surface.
The massive tree beside the lake was showing signs of life. Green shoots were stark against the blackened trunk of the mighty tree. Granger had been quite insistent that they keep away from it. The historian had entered the hollow trunk through a crack in its great bole, and exited moments later with a grim expression. Granger had then asked that it be left well alone until his return. Alano respected that wish despite the nagging curiosity that goaded him every time he looked at it.
He walked past pens of lambs and calves. They were the only livestock small enough to carry up those stone steps, and it would be years before they could breed any decent number. But this was a beginning. Granger had told him as much, and Casilda had stoically stood with him in those first difficult months.
His wife was feeding the chickens beneath the remains of what had been a low, spreading tree. She waved at him as he walked along the cobbled road.
They had worked hard to rebuild what was left of one of the cottages. Alano had almost finished the roof now, and no doubt Casilda would be looking for furniture, less spartan than what they had made do with until now.
That could wait however. This was a beginning.
He saw Elan in the distance. The young man, last of his People, still did not speak. He toiled daily to rebuild a house. Alano guessed that it was where Elan had once lived, but the Lythurian had not accepted any offers of help. When Alano had taken up a tool to offer assistance, Elan had gently pushed his hands down. This was something the young man had to do himself.
Alano inspected the crops. The ground here was as fertile as any he had seen and the maize was high, and the wheat yellow. Soon he could begin the harvest. That would be hard work, but he quietly looked forward to the honest toil. Had his life taken the route he had planned, would he be here now? No doubt he would have lost his land, perhaps his life, when the Jendayans had come, and could he have reclaimed what he had lost?
There was no point in pondering what could have been, only what is.
He walked through what Granger had called the Groves. The grass had recovered, but the trees remained lifeless, like black tombstones. The rain had washed them to a charcoal sheen, giving them a certain grim splendour.
The strangest thing about this whole place was what grew between those great stumps. Small plants; saplings perhaps were springing up in various places among the Groves. They were short, stunted even, with thick stems and short stubby branches sprouting from the tapered top. He had asked Granger about those. The historian had winked in a conspiratorial manner, and simply said, “When the time comes, I will return to give you a hand. You will need it.” He had laughed then, and slapped Alano on the shoulder as though he were the victim of a joke he could not see. But he trusted Granger’s judgement, and so was willing to wait and see what had been so funny.
There was one of the stubby plants that was slightly different from the rest. The little leaves were subtly inconsistent with the others. It was near a place he found very restful. The leaves were stained on one side, every one of them, stained a dark orange against the natural green of the leaf. He wondered what made that one special as he sat on the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool.
She walked into the inn near West Gate in Moshet as the sun sank below the horizon. It had been a long time since she had been in this city, and it had not looked as fine as it did now when she had last left it. The gates had been rebuilt, and the city was beginning a slow recovery from the assault and occupation it had suffered a year past. She was stiff from the ride, and flexed her shoulders to free the knots that had formed in the muscles there.
She asked for two mugs of ale, and pushed the coins across the bar.
“I’ll not take your money, my Lady.” The innkeeper bowed his head as he pushed the mugs past the silver marks, and cast a glance over her shoulder to the man who joined her.
She nodded her thanks and took the coins back.
She pushed one of the mugs to her companion. He was tall enough, a little over six feet in height, yet was still shorter than she was, but his arms were thick with muscle, his chest broad and deep. He had lost an eye, and a patch covered the socket, but did not hide the angry scar that was still raw around it.
“What you do,” the innkeeper added, “is blessed work, my Lady. Blessed work.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
She felt older than she ought to, but perhaps the life she had chosen aged a body beyond its years. Her arm itched where a Shar had bitten her back in winter, north of Hillfoot. That scar, it seemed, would never heal properly. But the Shar that had fled the battlefield at Ara Dasari would need to be dealt with. One by one they must be hunted and killed. They had spent the last year tracking them down and taking their heads. Every leader in what had once been the Korathean Empire – and there were many new leaders, as nobles grabbed power in the vacuum left after the Jendayan invasion – was willing to pay a healthy bounty for every head taken on his or her soil. She would have done it for free, but everyone needed to make a living in this new world.
“I am looking for a man we are due to meet with this evening,” she said to the innkeeper.
“No messages have been left, my Lady,” he replied.
“His name is Olimar Bluntis,” she said. “He works for the merchant, Fieran.”
“Ah yes, the silk merchant?” the innkeeper said, recognising the name immediately.
She nodded.
“Fieran is in the city; not long arrived,” he continued. “I fear his tastes are for grander accommodation than I can provide at this humble inn, though his escort often stay here. They are seldom later than supper.”
She thanked him, and settled down to enjoy her ale.
The man with her walked over to a door to an adjoining room. He listened for a moment, and then a smile played across his lips.
“Valia,” he said softly to get the woman’s attention.
“What is it, Marlon?”
“Come and listen to this.” He gestured for her to join him.
“We have a storyteller in the next common-room,” the innkeeper announced keenly upon seeing their interest. “A good one.”
They listened for a moment, then Valia pushed the door open, to see. Granger was standing upon a table with a rapt audience watching his every move, and hanging off his ever
y word.
“Gather friends; you travellers from the dusty road; you seekers of the truth. Stay a while and hear my tales; rest yourselves and know the way the world has changed. Give me your heed, for but a short time, so that I may scatter the myths and lies and replace them instead with honest account. Listen as I tell you what I saw, for I was there among them.
“Listen, and I will tell you the story, of Kellan Aemoran…”
About The Author
B. R. Crichton is 38 years old, and lives in Perthshire with his wife, Lesley, and two children, Sandy and Laura. He was born in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, but moved to Scotland in 1992. His various jobs have included barman, youth-worker, and for the past six years, tree surgeon/arborist.
This is his first novel, but there is more to come.
Follow on Twitter: @BRCrichton
www.brcrichton.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue