by James Abbott
‘Havinir,’ Valderon grunted. ‘You know, I never liked that man when I was in the army. He was more interested in climbing the ranks at court than in organizing the ranks at war.’
‘Agreed,’ Xavir said. ‘So it is these people who I have business with. They must suffer for their crimes.’
‘Sounds good,’ Davlor said. ‘We don’t have anything better to do. Can we come with you?’
Landril wondered if Xavir realized he could not simply abandon these young men to their fates. Most had been in Hell’s Keep for years. The gang life was pretty much the only life they knew now. Even with their freedom, leaving the security of people they could depend upon would be hard.
‘I’ll certainly go with you,’ Davlor added. ‘I’ve bugger all else to do and, well, you’re still the boss, right?’
‘Why not?’ Valderon agreed. ‘It is not as if we have important affairs to return to. Our families have disowned us. Our former ranks will not be recognized. We will be hunted, together or apart, as escapees. There is safety in numbers so it makes sense for us to stay together.’
‘Someone has summoned me, and alone,’ Xavir replied. ‘I’m not sure she expected other visitors.’
‘Who was that, boss?’ Davlor asked.
‘The wolf queen,’ Xavir announced.
An awed silence fell upon the group. Landril chuckled to himself. Most of these men would only have heard about Xavir of the Solar Cohort or the wolf queen in back-tavern tales. Now they had met one of those famous warriors and were on the way to seeing the other.
‘What, the actual wolf queen?’ Davlor asked, stifling a belch.
‘Of course the actual queen,’ Landril replied. ‘We plan to travel towards Lupara, wolf queen, as soon as the sun rises.’
Xavir glanced towards Landril and narrowed his eyes.
‘You are all welcome to accompany me,’ Xavir said eventually, ‘though I cannot guarantee your safety. I could do with men I trust. I trust that man.’ He pointed to Valderon. ‘If he walks with me, then the rivalries of Hell’s Keep are no more. The world will hate us for our past. It will be us against the world and we are stronger together.’
Xavir swept up a strip of dried meat from the soldiers’ rations. ‘Sleep on it, whilst I take first watch.’
*
Away from the fire, the darkness of the forest was complete. Xavir could still hear his men comfortably in the distance.
A twig snapped and Valderon approached him through the shadows.
‘It’s quiet out here.’
‘Apart from the racket the men are making,’ Xavir replied. ‘Well, who can begrudge them enjoying their freedom?’
‘They’ll quieten down soon enough. Surprised it hasn’t been sooner, given how tired they are.’ Valderon leaned on a felled oak alongside Xavir. They both stared into the blackness beyond.
‘What was it like, in the Solar Cohort?’ Valderon asked quietly. ‘I had ambitions of joining their ranks one day myself. To be one of the Legion of Six. Until Hell’s Keep, of course.’
‘When I joined,’ Xavir began, ‘there was no greater honour for a clan warrior. The elite went into the King’s Legion, or at least they used to. The best rose to the top of that – yourself, included, no doubt. And then for a lucky few, when an opportunity came . . .’
‘They say you had to do something special on the field of battle, some selfless act to secure victory, in order to join the cohort.’
‘More or less,’ Xavir replied. ‘You had to prove you were prepared to die for others. Not only that you were good with weapons or shields, but that you did not seek your own personal glory and demonstrably put others before yourself. If Cedius was to thunder into the heart of enemy ranks, then he wanted to do so with the very best and most selfless soldiers around him. We sought no remarkable act on the battlefield. Simply something honest.’
‘But what was it like?’ Valderon asked. ‘When the black helms were taken off and the banners rolled up? When you accompanied Cedius back to his palace . . . ?’
Xavir smiled and told him stories of the camaraderie between him and his Solar Cohort brothers, the late-night briefings on the eve of battle, of the wisdom of King Cedius, of the black banners and how the fate of nations had been in the hands of a few good soldiers. ‘And so we ate in the king’s company. We enjoyed many of the leisures that a man of his standing enjoyed. We were like brothers. Good wine, and feasting . . . and friendship.’
‘And women as well?’ Valderon chuckled.
‘For those who wanted them,’ Xavir admitted.
‘Not you?’
‘No,’ Xavir replied. ‘Not me.’
It wasn’t for the lack of it, Xavir thought. There had been plenty of whores, women and men, at Cedius’s palace in Stravir City. Some warriors found it a pleasurable way to unburden themselves after the horrors of war, after seeing so much blood flow and so many lives fading to meet the Goddess. Perhaps it kept a great many soldiers sane, but Xavir had never been interested in whores. Whenever he closed his eyes and brushed his lips against another woman’s skin, he always recalled Lysha’s pale face . . .
Her seal will always be upon you.
‘You should get some sleep,’ Valderon said. ‘You can’t take the burden of the watch all night long.’
Xavir placed his hand on the warrior’s shoulder before walking back through the woodland.
*
Xavir was still awake by the fire, with the embers burning and the sounds of the horses stirring nearby. A couple of the men were snoring peacefully. An owl was hooting softly somewhere in the trees.
Whilst he had been in Hell’s Keep it had been simple to forget the past. No one knew each other and most wanted to keep hidden whatever lives they’d led previously. There was no point clinging onto past glories, or hopes of a future, in such a place as Hell’s Keep. Better to live each day as it came.
But now, Xavir was forced to remember what had gone before. He munched on another of the soldiers’ crude biscuits and cast his mind back to one of the more opulent feasts in the Argentum clan castle. It had been an evening of remembrance for the Brigallia Massacre, a dark moment in the Argentum family history. Every year the sons and daughters of those involved read poems under the banner of a golden dragon, while the extended family drank in honour of the fallen. Everyone was invited – even the witches, though they never usually attended.
One feast in particular, many years ago now, was held just a few weeks after Lysha had arrived at the castle. By that point, Xavir and Lysha had met each other on a few occasions, without Valerix’s knowledge. Lysha was curious about the ways of the clan, and Xavir was simply curious about her. It was forbidden to approach the witches outside formal channels, which naturally made a warrior of eighteen summers wish to investigate further.
Whether it was down to fate or Lysha’s own planning, Xavir could never be sure, but the two often encountered each other in some forgotten corridor of the castle. Their conversations moved from pleasantries to more personal topics. Lysha was frustrated by the progression of her learning, claiming Valerix was too timid, too conservative with her skills and would not allow Lysha to experiment further. The girl was ambitious, young and driven: she wanted to see something of the world and not rehearse boring, unimaginative magics in a forgotten tower. Xavir could empathize. He only truly felt happy with a sword in his hand on the battlefield – the politics involved in being the scion of a powerful family held little interest for him. He was all too happy to encourage Lysha to take more of the freedom she had been craving.
He invited her, boldly, to ride with him beyond the forests, telling her he knew about a stash of witchstones kept by Valerix’s predecessor. In truth, he only knew of it, not where it was. He simply wanted to speak with her in a place where only the creatures of the forest could listen in.
It was on the night of the remembrance feast that everything changed. Xavir asked her to sit with him at the table, as his guest and, to his astonishment, Lysh
a agreed.
A thousand candles were melting next to glimmering golden trays and silver goblets, each of which was emblazoned with the clan dragon. Tapestries, old family heirlooms, had been hung to rid the stone walls of their coldness.
The young witch followed him into the hall, her black cloak trailing behind. The five dozen guests fell into whispered conversation upon her arrival. Everyone stared in scorn at the two of them. Even Xavir’s father struggled to hide his disgust.
Xavir didn’t care. The two of them sat together on the bench, a row behind his father, pretending to listen to the poets, and dining on mussels from the estuary and slivers of venison from the ancient forest. Despite the inherent sadness of the occasion, Xavir – a man who had already trained in the arts of butchery and seen many close friends hacked apart – could feel little grief for the fallen brothers and sisters of the Brigallia Massacre, thinking only of the glory they could have achieved.
Towards the end of the night, Lysha softly gripped Xavir’s hand. He’d known the company of many women in his time, but none had held his attention for quite so long as Lysha. Beautiful was not quite the right word to describe her. There was something different about her. Not merely her striking blue witch eyes, but her powerful features, her intense gaze, a smile that could make him storm a citadel if she willed it. For someone who usually felt in control of everything – the precision stroke of a blade, the old Eighth Age postures he had learned from his clan warmasters, the ability to soothe a wild horse – she took all that control away from him. And he did not care in the slightest.
After the final poet had finished his mournful rhyme, Lysha rose to depart and strolled slowly towards the back of the hall. Xavir wondered, vaguely, if she had placed some sort of curse on him to make him think soft thoughts.
Looking back on it all, Xavir wondered how fate had taken him from such innocent pleasures to where he was tonight: an escaped prisoner deep in the old forest.
Although, not entirely alone. Surrounding him were men whom the world had deemed castaways. A clan of men the world had forgotten, who had been hidden away on the orders of those more powerful than themselves.
Xavir did not realize he had crushed the ration biscuit between his fingers. With his thoughts unfocused, he would be a danger to everyone – even himself. Xavir needed to let his rage become something more acute, to whittle it down like a sword-edge; only then could he wield it properly.
The Carcass
Elysia and Birgitta strolled through the forested hills, walking along one of the old hollow ways that led out from Jarratox. Old stones, discreetly marked with symbols and nestled in the nook of tree roots, indicated the hidden pathways used by the sisters.
Sunlight trickled through the canopy of oak, ash and birch. For the first part of the walk, they waded a green lane through bracken until they came upon the region where boars had recently strayed. Here the animals had mowed the bracken for their sustenance; there were now patches of bright flowers carpeting the forest floor, and the journey became not only more pleasant but a great deal easier.
Although Jarratox was only three miles away, Elysia felt as if it was days behind them. She was wearing more comfortable clothing today – brown trousers, grey overshirt and a green cloak, colours of stone and earth. Slung across her shoulder was an ornate bow, with golden details and into which, three years ago, Birgitta had set a chestnut-coloured stone. The two of them had left Jarratox shortly before dawn, passing no one along the hollow way. The green lane turned into a more well-worn muddy track, yet they had still met no other travellers on the route.
The only life they saw were the deer, which made their own paths. And that was precisely why the two women had come to the forest.
‘You’re getting too quick,’ Birgitta said, ‘for my old legs to keep up.’
‘You’re not old,’ Elysia said with a smile.
‘Compared to you, little sister, I feel it. You are at the prime of your life. You are an active young thing.’
‘It’s only because of you that I’m active,’ Elysia said. ‘Otherwise I’d rot like all the others in Jarratox.’
‘By the source, you are finally talking like me.’ Birgitta chuckled. ‘Jarratox is not everything. It has its downsides. The matriarch and her clique could do with spending more time out here. This is where the real magic lies, if you ask me.’
Birgitta was right. They came upon a clearing that still glistened with dew from the night. Milky sunlight filtered down onto two deer grazing on grass. There was a sense of stillness and serenity that Elysia had rarely felt, and she was transfixed by the colours of the light and flowers. The two animals looked up at the newcomers’ presence and wandered cautiously behind an old felled oak.
‘Two of the grain crops failed last year,’ Birgitta whispered, nodding at the deer.
‘I know,’ Elysia said with a sigh. ‘You say that each time. I understand what we have to do.’
‘It gets worse, because the villages beyond the hills have not eaten well in months,’ Birgitta added. ‘People are dying. This has added to the unrest that goes on in the world. Remember that fact. People need food, clothing and a peaceful bed to sleep in. Take any of those away and there is unrest. So we will take one of the deer for them today, and people will live a little longer.’
‘I still don’t understand why hunters never come here themselves.’
‘They’re too scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘They’re scared of us. Scared of the forest’s proximity to Jarratox.’
‘Us? Oh. Right.’
Birgitta rolled her eyes. ‘Now, let us get the food. Remember, you need to make your shot so that the deer knows nothing about it.’
Elysia nodded. The sisters chose a spot next to a tree and lay down in the long, damp grass. It did not matter that the deer had gone out of sight.
With her throat thick with emotion, Elysia drew the bow over her shoulder, shuffled across to the tree and lifted the weapon firmly. Birgitta passed across a simple arrow – no witchstones, nothing magical.
The rest was about reaching into Elysia’s mind.
Birgitta did not need to teach Elysia any more, merely tweaked any bad habits and reminded her not to think too much about what she was doing. Elysia had done this enough times to trust her instincts now. All she had to do was to tap the part of her mind that none of the other sisters bothered to acknowledge existed. It sat aside from where they drew traditional magic; it was something far more primitive, which could not be found in books. Not many sisters could find this place or even bother to look for it, so Birgitta always told her, which was why Elysia was so different.
Elysia nocked the arrow, closed her eyes and recalled the shape of the deer perfectly. She gauged the angle that would be required now it was around a corner. The stone in the bow began to glow fiercely orange.
She released the arrow and watched it fly – then curve to the degree she had willed – until it went out of sight.
A heartbeat later there came a thud, and the sound of an animal collapsing.
Elysia closed her eyes again, this time out of sadness and respect for the animal. It always hurt to do this, even though she knew that so much good would come of it.
‘Come on.’ Birgitta pushed herself up with a theatrical groan. ‘This is only half the job.’
The walk to the carcass was always slow. Elysia recalled the words that Birgitta had spoken to her dozens of times:
First of all you cut it, then you bring it back to the villagers and then you feed the people. There is no other reason to take from the land. The people will be grateful to you, especially in times of need, but you do not ask for money. The carcass is a gift, from people they call witches and usually fear. Other sisters are not so kind, but it will help people think well of the sisterhood. This is how the world works and you will need to know that if you are to live a smooth existence out here. People do not trust the sisterhood. I wonder at times if they have good reason.
‘A clean kill,’ Birgitta said, peering down at the carcass. ‘A good shot. You have almost fully mastered this art. You know, not many sisters have ever bothered with weaponizing magic to this extent. I understand why, and it pains me to say that you and I really know how to do it.’
‘Why does it pain you?’
‘I don’t like violence when there can be peaceful resolutions. It is one reason I was never assigned to a clan. I disagreed with all the petty politics they practise which result in innocent lives being lost.’
Birgitta produced a long hunting knife from the scabbard beneath her cloak and handed it to Elysia. With the older woman’s help the young sister eased the blade from the felled animal’s sternum to the base of its rear legs and commenced the process of removing the guts so that the meat would cool and not spoil. The very first time she had almost fainted at the sight but she was used to the blood now.
‘This is the real, earthly business of life and death,’ Birgitta said. ‘The other sisters will never get their hands dirty like this. We need to understand that, at times, like it or not, blood must be spilled for life to endure.’
Elysia’s arms began to ache with the task. Birgitta unfolded a large piece of cloth and a rope from her bag, with which to wrap and bind the carcass. She then tied an end of rope around where the head of the animal was and handed the other end to Elysia.
‘You can drag it first, this time,’ Birgitta said, and Elysia sighed. ‘Don’t moan – it will keep you strong and agile.’
*
For two hours they marched down the hill towards the nearest settlement, taking it in turns to pull the carcass. Thick copses of trees petered out into grassland, and eventually into barren farmland that had once held crops. Cloudless skies had allowed the temperature to rise and, although she had taken off her cloak, Elysia became covered in sweat. Despite Birgitta’s original claim about her not being as youthful, the older woman did not appear to suffer at all.
The settlement of Vasille, the largest within the nation of Brintassa, came within sight. At the core of the town were dozens of Eighth Age stone dwellings that had been reworked over the centuries to provide cramped housing. It was said a wealthy man from Stravimon owned these buildings and rented them out to the people in exchange for them working on his land, but now the people survived on his handouts, purchased from other nations.