Ember and Ash

by Pamela Freeman

  Below, on the path, voices rang out suddenly with words he didn’t know. A group of soldiers—bearded, long-haired, in furs and leathers, were shouting and pointing at him, drawing swords, raising their own bows. He whipped Thatch around and headed back, yelling, “Back! Back!” as he charged toward the others. The horses milled, confused.

  “Ice King’s men!” he shouted. Cedar already had his bow at the ready, and he let an arrow fly as the first man rounded the boulder. Ash left him to guard the rear and made straight for Ember, passing Curlew who sat in the saddle, looking confused.

  “Fight, man!” he yelled at Curlew, who hesitatingly took his sword out. Tern was fumbling for his quiver.

  Ember had turned Merry but she was resisting being taken away from the other horses. Ash swept up behind her, Thatch having to scramble up the slope to make it past her, his hooves sliding on the loose rocks. Ash grabbed Merry’s reins and pushed both horses to the fastest pace he dared on the narrow, winding track.

  Ember’s face was set with a mixture of fear and determination, but she made no stupid protests at being protected. She was the key to saving her people, and she knew it. She was braver than she realized, he thought, and his heart wrenched at the idea of her falling into the Ice King’s grasp.

  He urged the horses to go faster. The noise of fighting was unmistakable. The Ice King’s men were yelling their war cry, “Hárugur, Hárugur Konung!” He’d heard it before, when he had fought beside his father and brothers and friends to defend their domain. Someone always died.

  If they could make it out of the valley, it might not be Ember.

  Horses were gaining on them. He could hear the steps resounding from the sides of the defile. He let Ember’s bridle go and fell back, turning in his saddle, bow coming to his hand and arrow finding the string without thought.

  “Get clear!” he yelled to Ember, and shot, and shot again, back into the melee behind him. Although it went to his heart, he aimed at the horses. A better target, and all it would take was bringing one down to unhorse the other riders.

  But they saw as he brought the bow to bear and were ahead of him, shooting at Thatch. He loosed one arrow before he felt the shock go through Thatch, felt the stumble, heard the scream.

  “Don’t stop!” he shouted, kicking his feet free of the stirrups, jumping as Thatch slewed and dropped, blood spurting from his neck.

  At least Thatch’s body would block the track and give her a chance to get away.

  He landed on his shoulder and his head jerked back and hit the ground.

  Thatch screamed and Ash fell behind her. She had to stop. She had to stop. She couldn’t stop. One man wasn’t important. A quick look behind her showed ponies jumping Thatch’s body. Ash was lying on the ground, insensible. Further back, Curlew and Tern were using their swords. Cedar didn’t have one—even in the Last Domain, only warlord’s men had swords. But he had his knife out and was slashing wildly. One of the hairy men launched himself from the saddle and dragged Cedar down.

  Curlew fell at the same moment, a sword stroke from his opponent cutting into his neck. Ember let her hands drop and Merry’s pace faltered. Then she set her teeth and kicked Merry to go faster. But the ponies behind her were mountain bred, and they outpaced her on the shifting stones. Merry was tired, too, after the endless days of travel, and was laboring already. A few paces more and the ponies were on either side, their riders whooping and shouting at her. Hopeless. She would not be pulled down, she decided, reining Merry in.

  They overshot and spun around, the ponies seeming to turn on the spot, then surrounded her with much jostling and joking amongst themselves. She knew something of the Ice King’s language. Only a few words, and the ones they were using were, perhaps fortunately, unfamiliar. She could feel her cheeks reddening as they looked her over.

  Their leader was a surprisingly young man, not much older than she was, so young his blond beard was still sparse on his cheeks. He looked at her with surprise.

  “Husmothir?” he said. It was a polite term, she remembered from her father’s lessons. The title of an adult female. The man thought again, and said, pronouncing the word with care, “Mistress?”

  She hesitated. In their language, her proper title would be “konungsdottir.” Should she reveal herself? Political consequences tumbled through her mind. They’d keep her for ransom, they’d use her to put pressure on her father, they’d eviscerate her and send her body parts back to her father as a message of war.

  In any other year, despite the lascivious looks they were giving her, she would have concealed who she was. But she couldn’t take the risk. They wouldn’t let some chance-caught woman go. All the world knew that women captured by the Ice King were used as slaves. Thralls, they called them.

  She had to give them reason to respect her. And to help her men. “Never show fear,” her father had advised her. “Negotiations are just battle concealed.”

  “Konungsdottir,” she said in a tone of correction, tilting her head up and looking the leader right in the eyes.

  The young man blinked.

  He tapped himself on the chest.

  “Konungsen,” he said, and grinned.

  The Ice King’s own son! A wave of fear went through her, but she mustn’t show it.

  “Elgirsdottir?” he asked. She shook her head.

  “Arvidsdottir,” she replied. His face lit at that and he said something rapidly to the men with him. One of them, an older man with a ginger beard and deep-set gray eyes, pointed back to where Ash was struggling to his feet, watched by two hairy men. Tern was nursing an arm, and Cedar had the marks of a blow across his face. But Curlew lay still.

  The older man said something, wagging his hand in the air to show doubt. Reading their bodies and expressions as her father had taught her, it seemed to Ember that they regretted having killed one of her men. Which was ridiculous, unless… unless they wanted something from her father.

  She was thinking like a merchant, while her liege man lay dead.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she turned Merry back toward his body. Watching her carefully, the leader motioned to his men to let her go. Merry didn’t like the smell of blood, or the smell coming from the men—a mixture of smoke and old fat. Ember patted her soothingly, but kept her firmly under control, guiding her past Ash with only a look. Ash’s eyes looked dazed, but he met her gaze with reassurance, not dismay, and she was filled with thankfulness for his strength.

  As she swung down, Tern knelt next to Curlew, tears streaming down his cheeks. She wondered if the Ice King’s men would disdain this show of emotion, but the three men standing nearby seemed to watch with approval. For the first time, she realized that there was a long string of pack ponies behind them. Had they already raided, and were on their way home? Or were they greedily heading back into the Domains to raid again? Her mind swirled with possibilities, but then her attention narrowed to Curlew.

  She knelt beside Tern. Curlew’s eyes were closed. She took his hands and placed them by his side. They wouldn’t be allowed to bury him, but the farewells should be said. She looked around for what they needed.

  Ash, stumbling a little, staggered up the slope to a scrubby pine and grabbed some twigs. There was no rosemary, but there was, right next to Curlew’s head, the blue of speedwell gleaming in the dust. Forget-me-not, they called it in the south. She plucked it and Ash handed her the pine twigs.

  “Go before us to rebirth,” she said, her voice choked with tears, remembering years and years when Curlew had gone before her on the road, in the woods, making sure the path was safe for her. She placed the speedwell in his mouth. “May you not linger on the road, may you not linger in the fields. Time is, and time is gone.”

  “Time is, and time is gone,” Ash and Tern echoed her, Cedar’s voice chiming in a moment later.

  “May you find friends; may you find those you loved,” she said. “Time is, and time is gone.”

  “Time is, and time is gone,” they said


  “Under your tongue is forget-me-not. Remember us.”

  She placed the pine sprigs between Curlew’s fingers. “In your hands is evergreen: may our memories of you be evergreen. Time is, and time is gone.”

  “Time is, and time is gone.”

  To her astonishment, she heard the voice of the princeling joining in. How dare he! she thought, furious, and rose to blast him with a glare. But he was staring at the ground, hands joined on the hilt of his sword, and all of his men were in the same position. A sign of respect.

  She paused, astonished. Nothing in the stories of combat against the Ice King had prepared her for this. They were vicious enemies, who took no prisoners but the thrall women, who killed their wounded opponents as they lay on the battlefield and left them for the crows.

  The princeling said something quickly to his men and they began to collect rocks from the hillsides and pile them over Curlew. She noticed that off their ponies, they were still shorter than her men, although solidly built. Even Tern was taller.

  Ash, Cedar and Tern also began collecting rocks, but the princeling stayed where he was, so Ember did the same. She had to match her rank to his, or he would not believe her, and no one knew better than a warlord’s daughter how important servants were in establishing position.

  Now that she was standing still, she began to shake. Ash came to hold her elbow, his hand strong and reassuring. She wanted to just lean back against him and let him hold her. At least Fire had the decency not to send a stab of lust at this forlorn moment.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Merely tired.” She flicked a glance to where the princeling was watching them, and Ash understood. He took a step back and bowed slightly, before returning to the burial party.

  The princeling moved a little toward her and indicated Ash.

  “Konungsen?”

  She shook her head.

  “Husband?” he asked with care. His eyes were sharp, she thought, and clever.

  If only he were! Ember thought. None of this would have happened. But aloud she said, “Cousin.”

  The word was unfamiliar to him, and he frowned.

  “Family,” she explained. “Kin.”

  He nodded, then tapped his chest again.

  “Nyr,” he said. “Son of Hárugur Konung.”

  “Ember,” she said in return, pointing to herself, then to the others, one by one. “Ash, Cedar, Tern.”

  He repeated the words under his breath.

  “Kin all?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. Tern could be an honorary cousin. Perhaps it would keep him safe. Cedar looked up calmly and opened his mouth, but she shook her head. Claiming kinship with Elgir, which he had been about to do, just made the situation more complicated, and perhaps gave them a weapon to use against Elgir.

  Curlew was covered and the men came back, sweating slightly.

  The princeling, Nyr, turned away to consult with the older man. They spoke quietly for a few minutes, then Nyr stood in front of her and bowed, an unaccustomed movement by the look of it.

  “We will take you to your father,” he said, the western accent strong, so that it sounded like, “Ve vill take ya to ya vader.”

  “No!” Ember protested. Nyr and his adviser glanced at each other, faces alive with speculation. They probably thought she was running away, as girls sometimes did. She had to put that to rest straightaway. “My father,” she said slowly, “has sent me here.”

  “Why?” the older man interrupted, moving forward to stand next to Nyr. His accent wasn’t as thick.

  How much should she tell them? They would be delighted by anything which killed off most of a domain—or would they? Who would they raid then? And the pack ponies. If it were anyone else, she would say they were a trading party.

  “A task,” she said. “He has set me a task.”

  “Task,” Nyr repeated blankly.

  “I must go to the Fire Mountain,” she said.

  “Bren?” Nyr asked.

  Bren said, “Eldur Fjall.”

  Every hairy man there, including the princeling, made a complicated sign with their left thumb and then kissed the thumb. A sign of protection, for good luck, against evil—it was obvious.

  “Vondur,” one of them said, a big burly man who looked like he should be scared of nothing. But his eyes showed white.

  “Evil,” Nyr said. “Evil—” He turned in frustration to the adviser.

  “An evil place,” Bren explained.

  “Yes,” Ash said. “Evil fire.”

  The men were nodding, but Ember felt an odd flash of rebellion. Fire was hateful, yes, but evil? Her mother didn’t think so.

  “There’s a difference,” she said, steel in her voice, “between evil and uncontrollable.”

  “Not go Eldur Fjall,” Nyr said with finality. “Back to father.”

  Ember let her mouth tremble. She was in their power, no doubt, but officers’ women were always in men’s power, one way or another. There were ways to get what you wanted, although her mother despised them.

  “I must go,” she wailed, and let all her fear and helplessness and need out in her voice. Tears welled up, and instead of fighting them back, she let them fall. “It’s a woman’s task!”

  The men, Ash especially, stared at her with consternation. Except Cedar, who half-smiled, then turned away as if to hide it.

  “A woman’s task?” Nyr asked, his shrewd eyes momentarily confused.

  Bren muttered something. They stared at each other for a moment, considering.

  Ember wondered what she would say if they asked more questions. She couldn’t reveal how vulnerable her people were; that would invite a mass attack. An invasion.

  Nyr and Bren talked quietly, with Bren shrugging and glancing at her. She tried to look both piteous and determined. The two men were disagreeing, but finally Nyr firmed his mouth and pointed to the string of pack ponies.

  “Trade,” he said. “Father trade?”

  “Help me,” Ember said immediately. “Father trade then.”

  “Oath,” Nyr said.

  “I swear,” Ember said, and put her hand on her heart, to show truth. “I swear that if you help me, my father will trade with you in peace.”

  An easy promise to make. Even if they didn’t help her, Arvid would welcome trade with the Ice King. He was always talking about how the only future in the north was through trade. Trade instead of fighting; trade instead of starving. “It’s the center of civilization,” he said. “The thing that makes prosperity and peace.” Oh, yes, Arvid would trade.

  But she was only a woman, after all. Nyr looked at her for a moment, then turned to Ash, as the senior man there. Tern stood at his shoulder, as if for protection or reassurance.

  “Father trade?” Nyr asked.

  “Only if you help her,” Ash said. “Then, yes.” And that was true, too, because if they didn’t help then there’d be no one there to trade with.

  “Oath.”

  “I swear,” Ash said, as serious as she’d ever heard him, “that Arvid, warlord of the Last Domain, will trade with you if you help his daughter to reach Fire Mountain.”

  Again they made that sign with their thumbs.

  Tern pointed back to the mound of stones. “And Curlew?” he asked. “Do we just forget Curlew?”

  His voice was bitter and accusing. Ember flushed, but Ash glared at him.

  “We will never forget him,” Ash said.

  “Unmeant,” Nyr said to Cedar. He nodded to where one of his own men showed a long cut on his face, from Curlew’s sword.

  “A misunderstanding,” Ember said. “Terrible, but not intentional.” Her voice trembled as she looked at Curlew’s grave. “He will understand.”

  “Will we wait for the quickening?” Tern asked.

  “We can’t—” Ash began, but Ember cut across him.

  “He won’t quicken here, Tern,” she said. “We’re not in the Domains anymore. We are too far from
any altar, beyond the territory of the local gods.”

  “That’s why they’re called local, I suppose,” Cedar said, smiling sardonically. Ember could have hit him, but part of her was comforted by his familiar dark humor.

  “He has gone straight on to rebirth,” she said comfortingly to Tern. “As he deserves.”

  Tern was unconvinced. “He is a man of the Domains, and he will quicken,” he said, mouth stubborn. “I’ll stay here and wait for him.”

  What if he were right? But they couldn’t wait, and they couldn’t leave Tern here alone.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said. “Afterward, I’ll go back to Starkling and wait for you.”

  His face was no longer the face of a boy. It had aged as he’d knelt at Curlew’s grave.

  “Very well,” Ember said. “We will meet you there.”

  Nyr had not followed most of this, but Bren had.

  “Boy come with us,” he said flatly.

  “He wants to wait until—”

  “No ghosts here,” Bren said. “No evil. Spirit gone to feast with Swith.”

  That old story! They still believed it, then. She wondered if it were possible, if there was a different afterlife for the Ice King’s men. But the stories said that Acton, the First Warlord, had waited in the darkness beyond death for a thousand years before he was called back as a ghost by the Prowman, and Acton had expected to feast in Swith’s hall too.

  There was no point in challenging these people’s beliefs.

  Nyr, after a quick word with Bren, was firm.

  “Boy come,” he said. She was learning his tones, as her father recommended, and this one had no room for negotiation in it.

  “Leave Curlew a note somewhere he will see it,” she said to Tern. “They will not let you stay.”

  Tern looked at Nyr and Bren with pure hatred and their hands went to their swords in response, without thought.

  “Tern,” Ember said. “We are traveling in peace and friendship.”

  He ducked his head and went to their horses. Cedar was there before him, and handed him a stick of charcoal and a piece of vellum. Tern looked at it helplessly.

  “I’ll write it for you,” Cedar said gently. He wrote to Tern’s dictation and together they fixed it to the scrubby pine. But all the way, Tern’s shoulders were tense with resentment.