The Last Bastion

by Nathan Hawke

  She smiled. He was a big one, even for a forkbeard, but it made no difference. The rest of the ride could have him once she’d got what she wanted. She turned to Shrajal. ‘You hear that, Shrajal? Forkbeard says you’re scared of him.’

  ‘Forkbeard can come here and say that if he wants. I’m not going anywhere.’

  They both laughed. Mirrahj turned back. ‘They’re not scared of you. They’re waiting for me to tell them what to do with you. What are you doing here? There aren’t any forkbeards on this side of the Isset.’

  He seemed to forget she was there. He tipped back his head and howled. ‘Medrin? Medrin! Waiting for you. Here I am! Come and get me!’ His eyes dropped suddenly back to Mirrahj again. ‘I’m the one who took his hand.’

  ‘You took King Sixfingers’ hand? I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Believe what you like, Vathan.’

  ‘You were in Andhun when we stole it from you, then?’ She took a slow step closer. ‘I was there too.’ Another step. ‘How did you get across the Crackmarsh, forkbeard? Did you walk or did you ride? How did you get past the ghuldogs and the Marroc who live in there?’

  The forkbeard sat down with a heavy splat in the mud. ‘I didn’t. I came through the caves and down the mountains like everyone else.’ He rocked back and put a finger to his lips and a lazy smile moved over his face. ‘But don’t tell the other forkbeards.’

  So he does know! A surge of anticipation sparked through her. Behind the forkbeard another handful of men spilled into the mud from the big hall at the heart of the town. They were whooping and cheering. A moment later a curl of smoke followed them out through the door. Mirrahj laughed. Someone had finally got a fire going and Josper had missed it. She took another step closer. ‘Tell me about these caves and this path down the mountains.’ When he didn’t answer, she stifled a flash of irritation. ‘You were in Andhun, were you? Does that make you a soldier?’

  ‘Always a soldier.’ The forkbeard laughed. ‘Too much of one.’ He started to rise, slipped in the mud and fell flat on his back and then finally stood up again. ‘You look mighty fine for a Vathan.’

  ‘And you’re ugly even for a forkbeard. If you’re a soldier, how many came with you? Where are they?’ There were flames under the eaves of the burning hall now. A haze of smoke and steam hung over its thatched roof. More of her riders were coming, looking to light a brand and see if they could fire a few of the other houses too. They were watching her.

  The forkbeard rubbed his misshapen nose. ‘Soldier? I’m not anything. Nothing. Nioingr. That’s what they call me. You can say it three times if you like. Then I have to kill you.’

  Nioingr. A traitor and an outcast. In that case, maybe he’d tell her what she wanted freely. ‘What’s your name, outcast?’

  ‘Gallow Foxbeard.’ He grinned at her as though that was supposed to mean something.

  ‘You’re a long way from home, Gallow Foxbeard.’

  ‘Home?’ The forkbeard howled with bitter laughter. Mirrahj took another step closer. ‘Careful, Vathan. I’ve killed plenty of your kind.’

  ‘I’m unarmed, forkbeard.’

  ‘Lhosir don’t make war on women and children.’ He spat. ‘Didn’t used to, anyway.’

  ‘You’re a strange one.’ And not much use drunk. She’d have him alive and let him sober up in a cage and then she’d set about finding out whether he knew a way across the Isset or not. Or maybe Josper would find one for her after all, or one of the Marroc prisoners would know of one and the forkbeard wouldn’t matter any more. Either way her ride would take some pleasure from a forkbeard’s screams. Another scratch of vengeance for what they’d done outside Andhun.

  She walked towards him with purpose now. He cocked his head and his face screwed up, trying to make sense of it. He waved his axe at her. ‘Piss off, Vathan.’

  ‘I don’t think I will.’ She stopped right in front of him, so close he could have swung at her, but he didn’t. ‘Well, forkbeard, whatever you think, you’re going to fight a woman today. Look.’ She threw aside her shield. ‘I’ve made it easy for you. Fists. No steel.’

  ‘Girl, I’m twice your size.’

  But he was steaming drunk too. Mirrahj stood in front of him.

  ‘Leave me alone. Go away.’

  ‘Make me.’

  Down the street behind him there were about a dozen of her men watching them now. Even the ones who’d lit brands were waiting. ‘My men are watching us, forkbeard. I’m their bashar.’ Which made it a matter of pride and face. He had to understand that, didn’t he?

  He closed his eyes. For a long time he stood like that, head tipped back to the clouds, and Mirrahj reckoned she could have just walked up behind him, wrapped an arm around his neck and choked him and he wouldn’t even have noticed. But she waited. Eventually he looked at her again and groaned because she hadn’t vanished like she was supposed to. He sighed and threw down his axe and his shield. ‘Maker-Devourer, girl. Come on then. I’m going to pull those leathers down and spank your arse.’

  She crept closer, one shuffle at a time until he lunged and she ducked and darted behind him, and it was even easier than she’d hoped. She jumped onto his back and wrapped her legs around his waist and one arm around his neck, gripped it with the other and squeezed as tight as she could. He staggered, turning round and round as though he didn’t quite understand that she wasn’t simply behind him. Damned forkbeard was built like a bull, with a neck so strong that she had a moment of doubt. Shrajal was watching her though, and the others who weren’t out chasing Marroc. She’d staked her right to be their bashar on taking this forkbeard down, and that made it a bit late for doubts.

  ‘I had a daughter like you,’ slurred the forkbeard. ‘Like a bloody limpet. Could never shake her off.’ He didn’t do any of the obvious things, like run backwards and smash her into the wall of a hut or throw himself down on his back and try to drown her in the mud. If he did, she wasn’t sure she could hold on. Wasn’t sure her ribs wouldn’t snap, if it came to it, but then it had always been a gamble. He was stinking drunk and it made him stupid.

  One hand tried to get a grip on her arm. The other pawed over his shoulder, trying to grab her face. ‘I had brothers,’ she said. ‘Lots of brothers.’ She grunted at the effort. The muscles in her arms were burning at the pressure she was putting on the forkbeard’s neck, and he was still talking? She squeezed harder. ‘Lots of brothers. All bigger than I was.’

  ‘No brothers, me.’ The forkbeard was losing his strength. ‘Made my own. All brothers. Before . . .’ He stumbled and sank to his knees.

  ‘Well I had lots.’ Mirrahj forced herself to keep her arms tight. ‘I had a man as well, and he was big like you, and I always beat him even so.’

  ‘I had a wife.’ The forkbeard’s arms dropped to his sides. ‘So where is he, your man?’ Another few seconds and he finally went limp and toppled over into the mud.

  ‘He died,’ she said quietly. ‘Fighting forkbeards like you.’ She stayed on his back, squeezing until she’d counted to twenty in her head. Then, only then, she let go and stepped back. Her furs were covered in mud. It was oozing through the forkbeard’s fingers. He was face down and so heavy that she almost couldn’t roll him over onto his back to stop him from drowning. She did, though, and then put an ear to his chest. He was still breathing.

  ‘Shrajal! Bind him and get him out of here.’ She made a sharp gesture to the riders who’d stopped to watch. They turned and set about what they’d come to do: looting everything they could carry and burning whatever would burn in this godforsaken swamp. Mirrahj climbed back onto her horse and rode among them, watching, shouting encouragement here and there. Her arms were still burning.

  They dragged the last few Marroc out of their homes. There wasn’t much worth taking and only a little food this far towards the backside of winter. The sky was darkening, more rain on its way. As it started they rounded up the Marroc animals they’d taken. They’d slaughter themselves a feast before they moved on
, sleep in the houses they didn’t burn, warmed by the fires of the ones they had, and tomorrow they’d leave. Deeper into the mountains or further around the fringes of the Crackmarsh, one or the other, looking for the south passage across the Isset. They wouldn’t stray far though, not for another day or two. Josper deserved his chance with the Marroc.

  ‘Bashar!’ It was almost dark when Shrajal caught up with her again. As he reined in his horse he was brandishing something that looked like a sword but wasn’t. A scabbard.

  ‘Shrajal.’ Mirrahj let her face settle into an amused disdain. Shrajal was young and eager – a little too eager.

  He thrust the scabbard at her. ‘Look! Look!’

  She looked, and at first there was nothing to see. A scabbard for a Vathan sword. An ornate one, and she wondered for a moment if he meant it as a courting gift, which made him more stupid than she’d thought. But the scabbard was too long for a Vathan blade, and then the designs in the metal around the top of the sheath caught her eye, and she knew she was wrong and Shrajal was sharper than he looked. ‘Where did you get this?’

  He answered with a grin. ‘The forkbeard.’ He probably hadn’t ever even seen it before but he still knew what it was. Mirrahj, who had seen it, had no doubt at all. He was holding the scabbard they’d lost at Andhun. The Peacebringer’s scabbard, and if the forkbeard carried that then maybe he knew the fate of the red sword itself and Shrajal had every right to look pleased with himself because nothing mattered to the Vathen more than the Sword of the Weeping God.

  Mirrahj nudged her horse a step closer so her mount was almost touching his and leaned over. ‘Spread the word and then go after Josper and bring him back. After we’re done here we head straight back for the ardshan in Andhun.’ She smiled. ‘Have some fun with Josper. Tell him what you found.’

  6

  ARROWS AND SALT

  It was more than a week before Torvic returned, and when he did he came with three other grim-faced Crackmarsh men. Arda waved them into the house and they tied up their mules and came inside, pleased to be out of the gales blowing from the Storm Coast. While the other Marroc exchanged greetings with Nadric – because he was the man of the house – Torvic went back outside and Arda went with him. He had two enormous hams. ‘No flour,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got this.’ He passed her a bag of cured fish strips, tough and oily and salty and delicious. ‘Valaric thanks you for your kindness. We’ll take the arrowheads. After that . . .’ Torvic scratched his beard.

  Arda hoisted one of the hams over her shoulder and turned to go, keen to be out of the wind, but Torvic put a hand to her arm and caught her. He leaned in close. ‘There’s a band of Vathen about. They sacked Hrodicslet. About a week ago. They burned what would burn and took a few slaves and chased off everyone else. Seems like they’re looking for a way across the Crackmarsh. Could be they’ll come here before long.’ They were face to face now, close, Torvic looking at her intently. She felt her pulse quicken. Stupid really, but she hadn’t had anyone stand so close to her since Witches’ Reach and it made her think of Gallow in all the good ways she was trying to forget. She took a step back, giving herself a little space.

  Torvic raised his voice over the wind. ‘We followed them most of the way here. They were pushing a hundred. They turned north but that doesn’t mean they won’t be back.’

  Back in the house the stale air was a relief. Jelira was staring at a soldier who couldn’t have been much older than she was, and he was staring back, and they were both smiling and looking away and then looking back and smiling again, and Arda wasn’t having any of that, not with a man from the Crackmarsh who’d vanish at the drop of a hat and probably be dead before the year was out. She slid the ham off her shoulder and thrust it at Jelira. ‘You can take this out to the workshop and hang it round the back where the birds and the rats won’t get at it.’

  The young soldier began to get to his feet. Arda glared at him until he squatted down again.

  ‘The Vathen must have passed only a few miles from here.’ Torvic shook his head. ‘Heading for Fedderhun, and in a hurry.’ He was looking at Nadric now, a steady gaze full of some meaning that filled Arda with unease. ‘Haven’t seen the Vathen come so far south in a while. They’re looking for something. Only a matter of time before they come back.’

  Arda fixed Torvic with a hard stare. He was leading to something, if only he’d spit it out. Only he was gazing at Nadric, as though she didn’t count, and she wasn’t having that either. ‘Well, if they do then we’ll be sure to be nice to them.’

  Torvic reached into the bag he’d given Arda and helped himself to a fish strip. He cocked his head. ‘Valaric could make good use of anyone who knows their way around a forge. In Varyxhun.’

  ‘How interesting.’ Moving the forge then, that’s what he wanted, and when she looked at the three men he’d brought with him, she wondered if that was why they’d come. ‘Any travelling smiths come through, I’ll be sure to mention it.’ She glared at Torvic, trying to make sure he understood she wasn’t moving anywhere for anyone, not now, and he’d said his piece and now could he please have the sense to let it go?

  ‘We’ll be here a few days,’ he said. ‘Going to head north and have a look around between here and Fedderhun. Keep an eye in case there’s more Vathen on the move. You mind if we leave the mules here with you?’

  ‘You do that.’ Arda’s voice had a finality to it. ‘You’re welcome to stay under my roof as long as you’re here. Mules too.’

  Torvic smiled. He had an easy smile, not forced. ‘That’s kind of you, Arda Smithswife. When we’re back, we’ll talk a bit more about what we’ve seen.’ And the forge, she supposed. He’d talk about the forge and moving it and her and all of them up into the mountains again where Gallow had sent them three years back. She’d be buggered if she was going to let that happen a second time.

  She nodded. ‘You do that, Torvic. I’ll be made of ears.’

  Torvic took his Crackmarsh men and left the next morning, nice and early. The Vathen had had a beardless forkbeard among the slaves they’d taken but he hadn’t seen any need to mention that. Might have been Gallow, might not. Either way he reckoned Arda didn’t want to know and so he kept his peace and made sure the others did too. They all knew who Gallow was. They’d all followed the Wolf to Witches’ Reach and seen what happened there.

  He sent two of his men north-west, scouting the fringes of the marsh in case the Vathen were doing the same. He kept the young one, Reddic, close, with his eyes for Arda’s daughter, and trudged up the north road towards Fedderhun until they picked up the trail of the Vathen from Hrodicslet. The Vathen were travelling too fast to catch on foot but Torvic followed them anyway until he was sure he knew where they were heading: north and west to the coast road and Andhun. Then he turned north and for another day they followed the winding waters of the Fedder. The winds off the Storm Coast fell away and the air grew still. A bitter cold drifted out from the Ice Mountain Sea and settled over the land.

  By the time they slunk into Fedderhun, the ground was freezing at night and it was snowing again. They spoke to the Marroc there and kept their ears open but all they got was a name: Mirrahj Bashar, who’d taken her ride south to look for a passage around the far side of the Crackmarsh and had never come back. By the sound of things, no one had expected her to. Full of ghuldogs and Marroc bandits, the Crackmarsh. Torvic often wondered whether there might be some way to get the forkbeards and the Vathen into the Crackmarsh at the same time, have them kill each other in the swamps and water meadows and then let the ghuldogs finish them off while the Marroc just watched it all happen. Fat chance, but it was a nice dream.

  The Vathen around Fedderhun helped themselves to whatever took their fancy and largely left the Marroc fishermen of the town alone. They didn’t seem to be doing anything much except kicking their heels and as far as Torvic could tell most of them didn’t want to be there at all. They wanted to be in their home pastures for the winter, curled up in their tents
, not here in this godsforsaken outpost. They were here because someone had told them to be and so they were making the best of it until whoever that someone was allowed them home. Or so it seemed to Torvic.

  They learned as much as they could, which seemed like it wasn’t much at all, and left after a couple of days, and they were hardly out of the town when the snow started again. It fell steadily all through the day, thick and heavy, covering the land with white and then, as the light faded, the clouds cleared away to the south and Torvic was looking up at a deep blue sky. They’d need more than a fire and some warm furs out in the open tonight, but it wasn’t much of a worry. Nice thing about moving through this part of the world: the farms were scattered and easily missed but they were there if you looked for them, and the Marroc who lived here were happy to share their fires and their shelter and even a little food to hear a few travellers’ tales. And there weren’t any forkbeards, but there were old friends here and there.

  Torvic stopped at a house with a pair of small barns nestled beside it in a hollow, almost snow-bound already, and banged on the door. When a scar-faced Marroc opened it, Torvic grinned, and the scarred Marroc hugged him and dragged him inside.

  ‘Stannic. Long time.’

  ‘Torvic!’ Stannic let him go and looked Reddic up and down. ‘This lad yours?’

  Torvic shook his head, chuckled to himself – no daughters here for Reddic to make eyes at, thank Diaran! – and sent Reddic back outside to settle the mules and strip their saddles; and by the time he came back Stannic’s wife had fetched some cheese and milk and a few turnips, and Stannic had opened a jug of mead and his three young boys were peering from behind the curtain to the night room with eyes hungry for stories and the evening was looking very comfortable indeed.

  ‘He ever tell you about Lostring Hill?’ asked Stannic as soon as Reddic sat down, and then he told the story anyway, even though Reddic had heard it a dozen times by now, about how he and Torvic and Sarvic and the two Jonnics and a few others had fought the Vathen with Valaric the Wolf, and how they’d run away with a forkbeard who’d turned out to be Gallow Foxbeard. Reddic listened as though he’d never heard it before, which made Torvic smile even more. By the time he was done, the food was gone, the fire was dying and the eyes gazing out from the night room had long since closed.