The Barrow

by Mark Smylie

  Finally he knelt and set a candle at the central altar, and lit it. “Islik, Divine King of Earth and Heaven, a vassal of your great vassal beseeches your aid. Set me as a King amongst Kings! Bring me Victory! Set my sister as a Queen amongst Queens! Save her from Darkness! Reveal our Enemies to us, and let them perish in the light of your divine strength!”

  And for some reason, the face that popped into his head as he uttered the last line of that prayer was the image of his brother Harvald.

  Stjepan leaned into the doorway of the chamber he and Erim were going to share.

  “Come on,” he said. “While there’s still a bit of light out.”

  She stopped unpacking some fresh clothes and slipped her brace of sword and daggers back on before stepping out of the chamber and following him. He led her through a dark ironbound wood door, around a corner into a stone staircase that they took up into the Watchtower. Only a few twists, and then they stepped through a small antechamber and out a small wooden door onto a paved stone terrace.

  Gilgwyr and Godewyn and Leigh were already there, but they barely registered on Erim. The terrace had a crenellated parapet around it, and over that wall she could see in the light of dusk the broad western vista that spread out before the Watchtower on its rocky summit. To the south ran the Wall of Fortias; the terrace they were on appeared to be directly above its topmost portion where it finally ended in the Watchtower of Mizer, and a variety of stone battlements were stepped below them to provide a series of gates and firing platforms along the wall walk as it approached the tower. Hard-bitten men-at-arms manned each gate. The Wall itself disappeared off into the distance, and she could see a series of small tower platforms in the Wall as it stretched off toward the next great Watchtower, the keep at Derc Cynan, fifteen miles to the south. She could already see watch fires springing up at several of the platforms to mark where patrols were settling in for the night. To the north and northwest rose the rough and desolate hills of the Bale Mole, sienna and burnt red in the setting sun, and into which they were intending to march. And to the west . . .

  To the west and southwest stretched out before her the vast Wastes of Lost Uthedmael, a bleak and desolate land of ash and dust that filled the horizon as far as her eye could see under a sky of orange and red and purple.

  She blinked once, then twice, trying to take it all in. Great churning clouds of ash filled the horizon—though she could still make out the sun setting like a great burning ball of fire in the western haze—and dust and flecks of ash wafted up onto the terrace to swirl around her head like snowflakes in a storm. The rolling hills before them flattened out to the southwest into more even ground. The earth looked as though the color had been bleached out of it by wind and acid, leaving it gray and lifeless. She could see twisted, petrified trees sticking up in clumps from dead earth on nearby hilltops, or fallen to the ground as though ripped from their moorings. The wind that swept up out of the Wastes and buffeted the terrace was hot, as though bearing heat all the way from the Sea of Sands, but the heat didn’t reach her bones; instead it was the fierce, unrelenting grip of cold that settled over her insides. And the wind howled and moaned like it was a living thing, and she instantly thought of the voice of the Devil, calling out to poor Ravera in the guise of her lover.

  She didn’t think she could see anything moving, other than clouds of ash. She didn’t think she could see anything alive at all.

  “By the gods,” she whispered.

  “Not exactly,” said Gilgwyr. “By the Sun Court.” He leaned almost casually against a crenellation of the wall with Leigh, the two of them looking out over the Wastes.

  “Indeed. The great curse of the Sun Court of Illia, called down to punish the Mael lords that took sides with the last Worm King,” said Leigh quietly. “Over a hundred and fifty miles of what was once Uthed Dania—once green lands, once home to a hundred thousand Maelites and Danians, once ancient site of the great cities of Liadaine, Na Caila, Sanas Sill, and Av Lúin—blasted into dead ash. A burning sickness falls on those that enter it unprotected, and pox and death come calling quickly after. Nothing can live there for long that is not itself filled with poison: snakes, and giant scorpions, and spiders, and wyverns. It is a land of ghosts and ghouls.”

  “I do not mean to contradict you, Magister. But I’ve seen Daradj wolves and hyenas and jackals from the Red Wastes and the Sea of Sands in Uthedmael,” said Stjepan from behind her.

  “As have I,” said Godewyn. He was leaning against the wall by the door through which they’d exited onto the terrace. “And great mountain lions from the Bora Éduins, the mountains on the other sides of the Wastes.”

  “Passing through, perhaps, but they won’t stay,” said Leigh. “Even those rough beasts will eventually fall prey to the curse. Have you ever read De Secretis Wormis . . . the Book of Secrets of the Worm, supposedly written by the sorcerer-architect Pallan?”

  “No, Magister,” said Stjepan. “I’m afraid that book is forbidden.”

  “The small minds of the University at work again,” sighed Leigh. “Hurias of Truse referenced it in his book, On the Last Worm, and I was able to dig up a copy. Literally. It is Pallan’s journal of Fortias’ fight against Githwaine, and of the planning and construction of the Wall, and secret expeditions into the transformed lands of Uthedmael to search for Githwaine’s last resting place. He wrote that he saw the secret text of the Sun Court’s curse, and that they cursed ‘every living thing, down to the last blade of grass and the lowest insect.’ Poisonous creatures, being creatures of Hell, are only spared from the curse by the magics of their patrons Geteema Hamat, Irré the Black Goat, and Malkheb.”

  Godewyn, Gilgwyr, and Stjepan all spit to the side. “Bad names to be so bold with this close to the Wastes, old man,” said Godewyn.

  Leigh made a woooo sound, shaking his hands in the air as though they were the branches of an insane tree caught in the wind, before his voice broke and dissolved into a mix of cackles and coughs.

  “We’re . . . not actually going into the Wastes, though, right?” asked Erim, frowning as she watched the Magister double over in a fit of spasms. “We’re not actually going into that.”

  “No, with any luck the map will only lead us through the hills of the Bale Mole,” said Stjepan, indicating the heights to the north. “But the curse from Uthedmael sometimes drifts up into the hills as if carried by the wind, and seizes upon the unwary and unprotected, so we will have to be careful.”

  Erim took a step back from the wall. “Are we safe here?” she asked, feeling the wind of the Wastes on her face.

  “Yes, we should be,” said Leigh, finally recovered. He pounded appreciatively on the nearest merlon, and breathed in the ashen and sickly air blowing from the west as though he was standing on Baker Street as the morning’s wares were being freshly unveiled. “The Wall of Fortias was built and bound with magic, the stones mortared with a mixture that included powdered angelica leaves, and runes of protection are inscribed upon it. It is the greatest feat of engineering and magic performed in recent memory, planned by the hero-magician Pallan at the behest of Fortias the Brave: a wall that keeps at bay both our enemies from the west and the curse that was loosed upon Lost Uthedmael by the Sun Court! So long as the bronze gates in the Wall are sealed at each of the gateway Watchtowers, the curse is contained.”

  “Great job it’s done,” said Gilgwyr drily. “Indeed, we’ve just rolled through fifty miles of barren land that would seem to indicate otherwise.”

  “It’s only failed once in eight hundred years,” Leigh protested.

  Erim looked about her doubtfully. “Once is all it takes, yeah?” she said.

  “From a single mistake, a foolish woman’s error!” Leigh scoffed. “And besides, the curse didn’t have the chance to take root after Ravera’s Mistake in quite the same way. Things still grow there; the earth’s not totally dead. Same up in the hills. If her father King Lewyr Whitehair had not sealed the gates and restored the Wall, it’d be even w
orse!”

  “I’m not sure it’s just the one time, Magister; it’s not like the Wall hasn’t been breached,” Stjepan pointed out. “The Maelite warlock Madog led his warriors over the Wall on more than one occasion, and reached as far as Ogsden and Mossmor before Marshal Cotwin Orenge defeated him at the Battle of Schallis. And that’s less than a hundred years ago. And the brigands of the Cyr Faira Mal once rode its entire length to raid the city of Warwark, slaughtering Watchtower knights as they went.”

  “The Cyr Faira Mal are rumored to be immortal and ride with the Black Hunter when he comes calling, and are possessed of magics that would make most men piss their fucking pants,” spat Leigh. “Besides, technically they did not cross the wall from one side to the other, they entered it from here at Mizer and used the wall-walk as a road.”

  “And Madog?” asked Gilgwyr, one eyebrow raised.

  “All the available evidence suggests that Madog did not cross the Wall, but rather like Carghita and Illigdir before him, he cut through the Bale Mole into the Uthed Wold and turned south from there, and only cleverly made it look like he’d crossed the Wall. I shall not allow you to spoil my enjoyment of this Wonder of the Known World,” Leigh said icily, eyeing them both from under bristling brows.

  “Magister,” Stjepan and Gilgwyr said respectfully in unison, and bowed.

  “But don’t think the curse of Lost Uthedmael is the only thing to be worried about up in the Bale Mole,” said Leigh. “Those hills didn’t need the curse to be dangerous; they were dark and haunted long before the return of Githwaine to Uthed Dania, having been the gateway to the Vale of Barrows since the Golden Age. Every king and queen of the ancient Danias and Daradja is buried up there in the Vale, whole necropolises of the dead that were brought up the ancient sacred roads for burial.” He pointed just to their north, where a trail led off into the hills from the north front of the Watchtower. “In fact in those days the Mizer Road was one of the paths of the dead, along which corpses would be brought up to the Vale.”

  It did seem to Erim as though the hills were filled with a foreboding watchfulness that she did not remember from their experience in the Manon Mole. “So we’ve been walking a dead man’s trail,” said Erim, a shudder going down her spine.

  “Aye,” said Leigh. “A road carved to carry bodies to their graves.”

  “Our own little funeral procession,” said Gilgwyr lightly, with a wicked grin. “Marvelous.”

  They all stood silently on the terrace, taking in the vista.

  “Right!” Leigh said finally, rubbing his hands with enthusiasm. “Let’s get something to eat! A last meal for the condemned, before we start the most difficult leg of our journey.”

  The evening meal was simple but hearty. As the lands nearby were difficult to farm, the Watchtower relied on supplies brought in by merchants under contract to its king, from greener lands either south near Warwark and the foothills of the Pavas Mole or east from the Hinterlands and the Volbrae river valley. Breads, a bean soup with onions and root vegetables from cold storage, dried sausages and hard cheeses, and roasted chickens from the coops. All with a strong touch of spices and herbs to make sure the palate wasn’t bored, and perhaps to cover any staleness that had crept into the food.

  But Erim could find no delight in the serviceable meal, her thoughts still filled with the image of the Wastes, and the dark hills of the Bale Mole that awaited them. Finally she turned to Stjepan. “I thought that burial was considered all proper in the Old Religion,” said Erim. “So why are the hills and the Vale so dark, if everything was done according to ancient rite?”

  “Death may be the First Law: that all born of Geniché’s Earth must follow her into Death and the Underworld,” Stjepan said. “But the rites of the dead are still infused with the sadness and grief of the living, and mourning leaves a permanent mark in the world, where so many of the dead are interred. Particularly when they have been forgotten. Some say that’s what the dead hate more than anything. That’s why they come and visit us on the Day of the Dead, to remind us that they are waiting to greet us at the Hall of Judgment when our turn comes to obey the First Law.”

  They come and visit you, she thought glumly. But not me. Should I feel lucky?

  “I begin to understand why the Divine King brings his followers up into the Heavens,” she said. “Going to the Underworld’s too fucking gloomy.”

  “Fourteen centuries of religious quarrel explained in a nutshell,” laughed Stjepan. “Who wants to stand in judgment before the dead in the shadows of the dark, if worshipping the King of Heaven will lift you to a great reward in the brightness of His palace in the stars?”

  The main hall of the Watchtower could easily fit several hundred men, though with several patrols out along the wall and two shifts for the meal, there were only about seventy-five with them at the tables. The king’s table at the head of the hall was empty in his absence, with Sir Orace and his other chief vassals taking the head of a table on their right. Stjepan was a bit relieved that they were allowed to find their own tables, and so they filled two tables down at the far end of the hall, one with Arduin and most of his household knights, and the other with Godewyn’s crew. Gilgwyr and Leigh were at another table, mixing with some of the locals; the Watchtower employed several enchanters and alchemists to prepare magics and amulets for their patrols, which sometimes marched out into the Wastes, and Gilgwyr was intent on purchasing some for use in the hills.

  After some discussion, Annwyn and Malia had taken their meal in their rooms, brought to them by the squires and watched over by the Urwed brothers. Stjepan was relieved that there had not been any strenuous objections. Despite the absence of their liege lord, discipline did not seem to be lacking amongst the Watchtower guards, and the Watchtowers were old-fashioned in their courtesies, so Stjepan hadn’t necessarily expected there to be too much potential for trouble, despite his warning to Erim. Unless there’d been too much drinking going on.

  But still, better safe than sorry.

  After their meals were done, Arduin and his remaining knights left the hall for the guest chambers, and Stjepan finally relaxed a bit. He saw Sir Orace beckon to him and excused himself, leaving Erim to fend for herself with Godewyn and his men. He made his way over to the knight’s table and took a seat as several of the men-at-arms there got up and left, leaving him with Sir Orace. The gaunt man poured out a bit of harsh apple brandy for Stjepan before downing his own glass of the stuff.

  “Your employer is a man of rank,” said Sir Orace. “Though I am confused as to why he has brought his wife along; the Bale Mole is no place for a woman. I am beginning to think I didn’t charge you enough. They’re clearly Aurian nobility.”

  “My employer very much desires to remain anonymous,” Stjepan said with an apologetic smile. “Treasure-hunting is considered terribly passé amongst the Aurian nobility, they think it’s something that only poor people do. He’d be quite the laughingstock, particularly if the expedition comes up empty-handed.”

  “Did they hire you in Therapoli?”

  “Aye, they filled up their expedition back in Therapoli a couple of weeks ago,” said Stjepan. “Cartographer, scout, quartermaster, enchanter. Then we added Godewyn and his crew at Woat’s Inn a few days back for extra muscle.”

  “If you’ve been on the road then you missed the excitement,” said Sir Orace, and Stjepan froze the instant he heard the word excitement, and a part of his mind became focused on the dagger on his hip. “A bit of news arrived two days ago, buried in the mix with the patrol dispatches. The High Priest of the Public Temple of the Divine King was murdered on the 17th of Emperium by an Aurian lord, the future Baron of Araswell, after the High Priest implicated his sister in the witchcraft that killed their brother.” He fixed Stjepan with a flat, unblinking look. “Their brother, Harvald Orwain.”

  Stjepan held Sir Orace’s gaze for a moment, a relaxed smile on his lips and a faint crinkle of amusement in his eyes. Warwark is the last stop of the heralds on t
he West King’s Road, and that’s five days travel from Therapoli if the heralds hit their marks. Then the news would have slowly made its way up the Wall for several days, passed from patrol to patrol or by messenger, to likely arrive at the earliest . . . two days ago. He nonchalantly broke eye contact with Sir Orace and glanced out over the dining hall. He scanned the Watchtower men looking for tension or preparation, and saw none. He turned back to Sir Orace.

  “There’s terrible news if it’s true. I haven’t seen Harvald for a while. I will have to offer a prayer for him later. As I recall, Araswell is just west of Vesslos. A man from Araswell would most likely flee into the Hada Wold or the Manon Mole, don’t you think?” he asked. “He’d be looking to join up with the Rebel Earl. Like most other outlaws in that region.”

  “Could be as you say,” said Sir Orace with an easy smile. “Hard to think of why a man like that would come all the way over to our far corner of the Middle Kingdoms. But like I said, I’m beginning to think I didn’t charge you enough. A large reward was mentioned in the dispatch for the apprehension of this murderer and his witch sister, but you know, by my way of thinking, rewards always have to be shared when you’re part of a company. A share to your commanders, a share to your underlings, and pretty soon you haven’t got much left. A bribe, on the other hand, particularly a secret one that no one else needs to know about, doesn’t have to be shared, and so needn’t be quite as large.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Why don’t we take a look at this dispatch, then, and at the reward that is offered within it for the murderer? Then you can name your price, Sir Orace, and I’ll see what I can do,” said Stjepan. “Assuming that no one else will appear with hand outstretched, that is?”

  “Lucky for you I’m the only one that has read the dispatch,” said Sir Orace.