by Andy Remic
She climbed swiftly to the roof, strong fingers finding gaps in crumbling brickwork and stone lintels, and then she was running fast across ice-slick slates. Shouts echoed hollow behind her. Shock, awe, horror. She’d emptied Jahrell like a knife-cut sack of shit.
You were right, she thought, as she sprinted through the rain and icy hail.
There is an intimacy in death. An intimacy I do not care for.
THE PASS OF SPLINTERED BONES
The Pass of Splintered Bones cut like a knife wound through the vast, savage mountain range named the Mountains of Skarandos. Acting as a natural border between the lands of Vagandrak to the north, and the deserts and grasslands of Zakora to the south, the Mountains of Skarandos numbered perhaps a thousand peaks, many reaching three or four leagues up into the heavens, the lower slopes jet black, and dark grey granite and slate, angular, steep, unforgiving, sporting little life and many dark valleys into which an unwary explorer could tumble and die and rot and turn to dust. The upper flanks and towering peaks were permanently shrouded in snow, split by vast narrow crevasses like deep throats spiralling down into Hell or the Furnace. What few routes did exist through the mountains were few and far between, high and narrow and treacherous with ice. Wolves hunted throughout the Mountains of Skarandos, and there had even been sightings of snow lions. The mountains cut across the horizon like a toothed saw blade, separating sky from land, separating north from south, and this natural barrier was the main and only reason there had not been more wars between the lands of Vagandrak and Zakora; for they were bordered to the west by the vast impenetrable salt plains, and to the east by the Plague Ocean in which to swim, or even sail, was to die.
And so Vagandrak and Zakora were afforded a wall erected by Nature, albeit a wall with one implicit flaw: the Pass of Splintered Bones, a valley between the towering peaks, a chasm perhaps fifty feet wide in places, as much as a hundred feet in others, weaving like a contorted snake beneath sheer walls of gleaming slate and rock. Nobody knew the true history of the pass, but it was a road of bones: a pathway of splintered femurs; broken clavicles; cracked radius; crushed vertebrae; fractured fibulas; and split skulls, many in pieces, but some part-whole, their dead black eye sockets a sober warning to those who travelled the pass, that this particular place had a very dark and nasty history.
Scholars in Vagandrak had multiple theories, many involving slave labour, ritual sacrifice and even the magick of the Equiem; in truth, nobody could even begin to know the true story of how many tens of thousands of corpses had ended up paving this twisting roadway through the Mountains of Skarandos.
However, many hundreds of years ago, after centuries of sporadic battle, after centuries of Zenta tribesmen raiding the southern villages of Vagandrak in the name of honour and earning their manhood, and with increased rumours of a united tribe army, so King Esekra the Great had conceived and built a mighty fortress, named Desekra, four mighty walls with wide battlements and high crenellations, a narrow passage and gate that could be blocked in an instant. And thus Desekra Fortress rose from the splintered bones of thousands of fallen, its stones mined from the very mountains themselves and creating a vast network of underground tunnels deep into the heart of the mountains and out like a web under the plains beyond the walls.
The Walls: Sanderlek, Tranta-Kell, Kubosa and Jandallakla – leading to Zula, a huge stocky keep, black and grim and foreboding, more like a prison than the core of a fortress. Zula meant peace, in the old Equiem tongue; and it had been here, on his deathbed, that old King Esekra had indeed found peace, secure in the knowledge he had built not just a protective barrier to guard his people of the north. No. It also stood as a monument to the greatest Battle King ever to walk the lands of Vagandrak.
Now, as winter caressed the horizon and rain filled with sleet slammed down from the towering Skarandos peaks looming overhead, so two soldiers from the Vagandrak Army stood on Sanderlek, having drawn a six hour night watch, from ten till four. They were not happy about the situation.
Diagonal sheets slammed down at them, rain and sleet and knives, and they huddled beneath oiled leather cloaks, hands outstretched to a half-shielded brazier on which glowing coals crackled and spat.
Sanderlek stretched off into blackness in both directions, slick and wet and vast, but the two men were more occupied by attempting to bleach warmth from the brazier than standing watch searching for possible enemies in the wild storm beyond the fortress.
Jagan was a farmer who, thanks to consistent fallow fields over three years, had lost his land holdings to the King. Whilst bitter about the whole situation, and the fact his wife and child had to move back home with her parents in distant Rokroth, he was still young and strong, and knew a career in the army would at least put food in his child’s mouth until he could work out what other profession to invest his time in. Whilst not a massively intelligent man, he was intelligent enough to recognise he had few skills other than his strength and youth. His mother-in-law had suggested going to work in the tanneries or fish markets, but Jagan was a man of the land, open fields and fresh air. The thought of being enclosed made his head spin, as did the aromas from close gatherings of stench-ridden people. No. The army had seemed as good a place as any. That had been four long years ago, and Jagan had been lucky to keep his position when Yoon made vast and drastic cuts, sending tens of thousands of men back home and leaving the fortress feeling almost empty. Yes, it still had a garrison of ten thousand, but what the common man did not realise was that included staff, cooks and carpenters, builders, serving maids, ostlers and smiths. In terms of fighting force, they were perhaps seven thousand strong, and even those worked on rotation, with at least three thousand being out on training manoeuvres or on leave at any one time. Desekra was designed for a full complement of fifty thousand in times of war. Now, it seemed almost like a ghost town.
The second man was tall and slim, with a narrow, pointed face like a ferret. He looked dark and mean, and quite out of place in a soldier’s uniform. His face was constantly twisted into a cynical sneer, and his excessive love of liquor had ended with more than one night in military prison.
His name was Reegez. In a different world, in a different time, he would have had nothing to do with the likes of Jagan, and Jagan knew it. But here and now, forced together in the endurance of a soldier’s life, with hard physical training and long periods of boredom on various duties of watch, they had become good friends. Reegez had taught Jagan all he knew about cards and playing knuckle-dice; Jagan had bored Reegez with the thrills of crop-rotation and how to fix a broken plough.
On this harsh night as the storm accosted the fortress from the south, howling like demons over the plain, so their conversation was muted. They’d been on duty for three hours, and water had ingressed both leather cloaks making the men cold and uncomfortable.
“This is beyond a bad joke,” moaned Reegez, wriggling under the leather, shifting his shoulders in an attempt to block out some annoying draught. “Five times this month I caught a night-time watch, and five bloody times it’s rained like the Plague Ocean has been tipped over my head.”
“I know. I’ve been with you all five times,” said Jagan, shuffling a little closer to the brazier. “I think the rain will stop soon.”
“You said that two hours ago.”
“You’re in a foul mood tonight!”
“Well, it’s this horse shit weather, and this horse shit situation. Look out there! Go on, just bloody look!”
Pandering to his friend, Jagan leant sideways and made an effort to glance between the crennellations. Water slapped him in the face like an irate lover. He gasped, dribbling water, and retreated back to the brazier like an injured kitten.
“I can’t see anything,” he gasped.
“Exactly. What’s the bloody point us standing out here in this horse shit, when we couldn’t even see a warhost of ten thousand camped five bloody feet from the wall? It’s pointless! They should let us inside until after the storm has passed
. Get some warm tea and toasted bread down us. That would make more sense.”
“You’ll be asking for a warm bed on your watch, next.”
“Would that be so bad? A few hours’ kip. Why do they need two of us? It’s bureaucracy, is what it is. The bloody generals and captains don’t know what the hell they’re doing; they sit there in their ivory towers…”
“There are no ivory towers at Desekra.”
“…ivory towers so to speak, and drink coffee and smoke cigars and dream up ever more pointless ways for us to waste our time. You know yesterday? They had twenty of us scrubbing the cobbles in the east stables; scrubbing the cobbles! On our bloody hands and knees, we had to do it till the stone was gleaming. And what for? All so the cavalry can put their bloody horses back in there to stamp their hooves and shit on everything. It was a disgrace, it was.”
“So I see,” grinned Jagan, and patted his friend’s arm. “But come on, it’s not that bad. You have good company to while away the hours, and a good solid Vagan-built stone fortress between you and any possible enemy!”
“Pah! Enemy? What enemy? I don’t see no enemy, and I’m not just talking about the darkness of the storm. We’ve been hearing these rumours for months, mud-orc this, mud-orc that, as if they want another bloody War of Zakora. Lots of would-be heroes in the making, frothing at the mouth for a taste of warfare when in reality, they wouldn’t know what to do with a fucking mud-orc if it shoved a spear in their belly. I tell you, it’s all a lot of hot air and nonsense, and the King himself says it’s all good. If Yoon says it, then that’s good enough for me.”
“Those merchants who passed through last week seemed pretty twitched. Telling stories of being hunted by some kind of monster in the dark. It scared them bad.”
“Rubbish! Little girls frightened by their own shadows.”
Jagan shrugged, sending a cascade of water onto the coals, which hissed and spat. Lowering his voice, he leaned a little closer to Reegez. “Some say the King is the one who doesn’t know his backside from his elbow, and that downsizing the army was the wrong thing to do. And when, if, an enemy were to attack then we’d surely be overrun in a matter of hours. The walls are just too long.”
“Shh,” warned Reegez, his eyes narrowing. “That’s the sort of talk gets a man intimate with the noose.”
“Ah. Oh. I wasn’t thinking…”
“Who was it you heard?”
“Captain Torquata and Captain Elmagesh. I was fetching water from the Kubosa well, they were sheltering from the wind which blows down the pass. They didn’t see me.”
Reegez’s eyes went even narrower, so they were slits in the glow from the coals. A few wisps of smoke rose from the brazier, and for a moment he really did look to Jagan as if he were some terrible bleak demon escaped from the Furnace.
“I’m not a clever man,” said Reegez, slowly. He rubbed at his stubbled chin. “I never claimed to be and, if I’m brutally honest, I’m glad it’s that way. Politics are for those people who have a crazy love of themselves and a need to control other people. And teacherin, well that’s something I’ll never understand or want a part of. But what I do know is what’s right and what’s wrong, and what I do know is when somebody’s talking dangerous, talking dangerous to the extent of losing their life.” He met Jagan’s stare. “You keep away from people like that, Jagan. Keep away from them like your life depends on it, for surely it does. Now forget you ever heard the conversation and we’ll both forget we ever had this one. I don’t know whether the mud-orcs are coming or not, and I don’t rightly care at this moment in time. But whatever the outcome, I’d rather not dance a jig on the end of a bloody noose. I like my neck fine, just the way it is. You get me?”
“I understand,” said Jagan, quietly, hands out to the coals. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. If the mud-orcs are coming, I’d hate my last days on these walls in the storm to be filled with talk about hanging and an insane king.”
“Yeah,” grinned Reegez, and slapped his friend on the back. “Let’s talk about how I’m going to cream you at knuckle-dice at the tournament tomorrow!”
BORDERLANDS
The sun hung low in the sky, a bloated orange eye. The rolling grasslands hissed, grass dancing like a million tiny soldiers, as a cold wind skimmed the hills and howled mournfully through shallow valleys filled with large, angular boulders. These were the borderlands south of the deserts of Zakora, inhabited by the Kreell, tribes of hardened riders who lived wild in the vast, sweeping wilderness, camping in hide tents and warring often amongst themselves. The tribes were fluid, often exterminating other tribes, sometimes absorbing members into their own. None numbered more than several hundred, for often they fought, and could never forgive other tribes’ long past blood feuds and death pacts.
The Horsenail tribe were one of the largest groups of Kreell who hunted the borders of Zakora. They were feared as vicious warriors who took no prisoners, raped the women of opposing tribes and beheaded children.
Benkai Tal, their chief, was a large man, his long black beard braided, a horned brass warhelm atop his shaggy head; he wore a mixture of silks and leather, and sat astride his heavy charger as if he owned the world. He certainly had little to fear in these remote borderlands.
On this cold morning, the camp was in transit. A little over two hundred mounted tribesmen, riding a mixture of heavy war chargers and geldings, with a few scattered ponies. To the rear followed twelve carts, each pulled by six oxen. The carts contained women, children, supplies, tents, extra weapons and armour, and anything else the nomadic people might require.
Benkai Tal’s warriors rode in an inverted V formation, with Benkai proud at the head. He was not a leader who led from the back; but more a born warrior who beheaded his enemies and impaled their bodies on spears. He was a man of few words, and had four wives and fifteen children. His senior men joked that one of Benkai’s wives had cut out his tongue to stop the other women becoming jealous of his moans during loving; but they never said it within earshot.
They approached the Sudar Valley with care. They were in no rush, and Benkai sent scouts out across the surrounding low hills to check for signs of possible ambush. He was a wary man. One had to be, even within one’s own tribe.
They entered the valley, and distant horn blasts signalled safe passage. The wind howled mournfully between the hills, stirring the dusty trail which wound between huge boulders, many times bigger than the carts which carried their families and possessions.
Here, the wedge of mounted men was forced inwards, and the warriors shifted smoothly into a column formation. Horses snorted and stamped the dry earth, scattering rocks. Benkai Tal’s chief general, Tuboda, cantered forward to ride beside the chief.
“I have a bad feeling,” he said, through his thick beard. He was short and stocky, and wore a thick necklace of knuckle bones from the men and women he had killed.
“Hn,” grunted Benkai.
“Look. Ahead.” Tuboda gestured, and Benkai held his fist in the air, halting the mounted column. Distantly, the oxen snorted as cart wheels ground to a halt.
“A woman,” growled Benkai Tal.
Already Tuboda was searching the hilltops, and he lifted a horn to his lips and gave three short blasts. His scouts returned his call, confirming there were no enemy riders waiting in ambush. Tuboda frowned. Unless… unless the enemy had ambushed the scouts and tortured them into returning the call.
“What she doing here? A long way from home, it looks.”
“We find out,” said Benkai.
“Hey, you not need another wife?” grinned Tuboda suddenly, and Benkai gave him a narrow scowl and kicked his horse forward. Tuboda followed, and the two tribesmen cantered down the wide track between boulders, halting abruptly before the tall, white-skinned woman with short, spiked white hair. She wore black leather trews, a white shirt, a heavy jacket of wolfskin. Her head was high, eyes watching the two warriors without fear. She was appraising them. She had some courage. Some ba
lls. Benkai Tal liked that.
“You are in my way,” said Benkai. “These are Horsenail lands. No other person come here. Not unless they wish to join my tribe. Or die.”
The woman tilted her head. She smiled. But still, she showed no fear.
Benkai frowned and his temper began to slip. It did not take much. “You pale white-skins are forbidden from these valleys! You should know this! You will pay a toll. You will be whipped twenty times, then share my bed furs tonight. Then, if you are lucky, we will allow you to live.”
“Share your bed furs?” said the woman, and released a peal of laughter so confident, so full of genuine humour that Tuboda checked the hilltops once more with growing agitation and placed his hand on the hilt of his curved sword. He kicked his horse forward, but the beast lowered its head, snorted and refused to move.
The woman looked him in the eye and said, her voice low but carrying to the front of the column, “You talk big, for such a little man. Now, I have a deal for you. You will pay my toll if you wish to pass, Benkai Tal of the Horsenail tribe. These are no longer your lands. These are my lands. I am Orlana.”
“Ha! Never heard of you, bitch.” He kicked himself from the saddle, hitting the dirt, and strode forward, unsheathing his sword smoothly with eyes glittering. Still the smile did not falter from this woman’s haughty, arrogant, pale white face. Benkai glanced again for hidden archers, but could see nothing. He scowled. This woman’s confidence started to worm past Benkai’s guard, to chip away at his supreme assuredness. He stopped, and lifted his sword so the tip of the wide curved blade was only an inch from Orlana’s throat. “You not look so confident now, pale face.”
“Really?” said Orlana, and slapped away the blade.