by James Abbott
The wild noise they had made upon arrival was now dying down to such a quietness that they would hardly be heard. Behind her, across the grass, stood Valderon and Tylos, and she beckoned them over.
‘You know of the Voldiriks?’ she asked her old friend.
Katollon nodded sagely. He had a long face, with a broad nose. His eyes, surrounded by paint, were just as startling as they had always been. ‘They have been plaguing our borders for many months now. The Soul-Stealer and his kind did not confront them at first. No. We watched them, silently. They came to the border villages, where Dacianarans and the Stravir dwell together. There was no announcement of their arrival to the villagers. Instead, we watched them pick off those who walked the fields, as a wolf would a stray lamb. It was cowardly. This was no great heroic battle, but soldiers preying on helpless people. Though we could not save the first few, for it was too late, we began to hide ourselves amidst the settlements. The tribal council nominated the leaders take it in turns. Old Nalama, your uncle, has become a wise man in his later years and, in your absence, much respected. He sent the Soul-Stealer and my tribe first.
‘So we hid among the people, or in caves that overlooked the fields they worked. When the Voldirik warriors came to attack we were ready for them. They numbered in only the dozens, and came in small groups. They did not understand the nation fully, or where the elements and land can hide a man, so we waited until they grouped together in a valley. Our tribe streamed through trees, down steep hillsides, and our axes slammed into them. It was easy work at first. We left none alive. We burned their bodies so there was nothing left of them. We took their armour and it sits next to the great hall of your castle.’
‘How many attacks have there been?’ Lupara asked.
‘Of late, more than you would think. Jumaha of the Vrigantines has been making good progress with them, though he has lost many warriors to the wayseers. He has learned their weaknesses.’
‘Is he coming?’
Katollon shook his head. ‘He cannot be spared, but we have many more following us. Nine hundred warriors – it is all we can spare. We know the problem is now with Stravimon. The fool king is bringing these warriors from somewhere. Twenty attacks in the past thirty days, and they look to push into our domain. Each time with more warriors. All the tribes have formed an alliance and marched to the eastern borders – twenty thousand so far patrol the wilderness. This is when the Soul-Stealer got your message. Your wolf has the scent for me!’
Lupara grinned. At that moment Valderon and Tylos arrived by her side. She changed language to speak to them, recalling that Katollon did not speak Stravir too well.
‘This is Katollon,’ she announced in Stravir. ‘He is known as the Soul-Stealer and he has brought a great many warriors from my homeland.’
‘Greetings to you all,’ Valderon said, loudly enough for some of the others to hear. Then he added a similar greeting in crude Dacianaran.
Katollon laughed at that, though not in mockery. He seemed to appreciate it. In her native tongue Lupara announced Valderon and Tylos, men who were going to lead the Black Clan. Her old mentor listened to her words with great consideration, nodding here and there.
He reached out his hand and Valderon took it. Then he repeated the gesture with Tylos. He grinned, suddenly, and placed his arm around them both, then steered them through the forest as he continued to talk to them in his native tongue.
‘What’s he saying?’ Valderon asked Lupara.
‘He is saying,’ Lupara replied, ‘that he wants to drink with you.’
‘Drink?’
‘Drink,’ she repeated.
‘But it’s still morning.’
‘That matters not to him,’ she said with a grin.
*
It was an old Dacianaran custom. It speeded up the bonding process, so it was said, although Lupara was never entirely sure about that. Not only had Katollon brought along his Soul-Stealer tribe and two smaller tribes – the Broken Tears and Blood Bringers – but he had brought a case of Dacianaran wine – famed for its ability to bring a man to his knees as quickly as a Dacianaran blade.
The other men, Grauden’s force included, did not appear to object in the slightest to this gesture. Before long, what had been a well-organized encampment before General Havinir’s manse had transitioned into a typical Dacianaran celebration. An enormous campfire had been lit, drumbeats echoed throughout the forest, men and women warriors howled alongside wolves.
Only Valderon appeared to be disgruntled at what had happened, but even he began to lighten his spirits alongside the Soul-Stealer. Lupara had ended up being a translator between the two forces and, elsewhere, when words could not be understood, drunken gestures and laughter seemed to get people by.
The Soul-Stealer gave stories of the old days – tales that warmed Lupara every bit as much as the fire, and made her miss her nation more. He spoke of the hunting grounds in the distant mountains, and the old ritual sites hidden within the forests where her father had been buried.
Later she asked him about the fallout of Baradium Falls, where she had helped to slaughter the innocent people of an allied nation. In his usual, clear-headed manner, which was remarkable given how much he had drunk, Katollon neither persuaded her to return to Dacianara nor said otherwise. He said that no one these days remembered the incident at Baradium Falls. That no one really cared. If she came back to take the throne, then no one would say a word. They would welcome her, although traditions were changing. People accepted the council of elders as a way of making decisions rather than that of a single warrior royal leading a council. Any fighting so far had been decided for them – naturally, it was the Voldirik warriors who took up all of their attention these days, and on that the council was unanimously in favour of dedicating all tribal resources to attack them.
It was, he declared with a grin, a matter of moments from receiving her message before the Dacianaran forces were mustered.
Aftermath
His dreams these days were almost always impressions of the past. It was as if he was scouring his own mind for clues as to what was going on in the world. Xavir was, in his waking hours, glad of this, because he no longer woke up in a cold sweat. There were no daemons assaulting his mind, no images twisted in a manner as if to torment him. In the real world, on the road, away from Hell’s Keep: his dreams were better.
Tonight his vision was in the Court of Ascendency, the highest legal office in Stravimon. It was a large room, much like a church, but instead of a congregation it was filled with robed clerics and lawyers. Among them, nestled at the back – seated, Xavir now realized, alongside General Havinir – was Mardonius. The two remained impassive during proceedings, their faces cold and aloof.
On the elevated ornate bench at the north end, underneath a enormous arched window that overlooked the city, sat the three elder advocates. Two grey-haired men, and one grey-haired woman, in grey clothes, as far removed from Stravir society as possible, Xavir mused, but ultimately responsible for all civilian life. Behind them, on the golden observation throne, sat a miserable King Cedius the Wise. Cedius seldom took his always-open seat in this room, but he could hardly avoid this day.
Dressed in black silk robes, the six members of the Solar Cohort were seated in a row on an entrenched bench, a position whereby everyone else would look down upon them – particularly the elder advocates. On the streets below and outside the Court of Ascendency, Xavir could hear the braying crowds. At the time he had thought they were clamouring for their execution, but now – in his dreams – he was not so certain. They might have been calling for their release.
Each of the elder advocates gave an oratory performance. The first discussed the past of each of the individuals charged with treason at Baradium Falls. The second discussed the events themselves, calling for witnesses from the site – the watchman Jorund giving the most colourful yet true account of their dark deeds. The third elder advocate, the woman, discussed all the possible outcomes for t
he individuals, and the significance of each fate. Xavir’s only frustration was that what happened was obvious. None of the six members of the Solar Cohort denied this. Why all the rigmarole?
The members of the Solar Cohort were invited to speak last. Gatrok and Jovelian said nothing. Felyos merely apologized. Brendyos, normally the most humorous of the Legion of Six, gave humble, stoic apologies. Dimarius stood up and for some time gave an impassioned defence. He listed the honours, the deeds committed on behalf of the country. ‘We are your sons, my king,’ he concluded. ‘We have only ever acted to bring honour.’
‘Ah, but instead you have brought dishonour, yes?’ crowed one of the elder advocates.
‘If a hero’s deeds be judged ill by crookbacked desk-dwellers who have no experience beyond these cold walls,’ Dimarius fumed, ‘then so be it.’
‘That won’t help, Dimarius,’ Xavir whispered softly.
‘We are dead men,’ Dimarius replied, his voice echoing loudly. ‘Why not tell the world that these senseless individuals, these people whose only experience of life is to watch ink dry, should have no reason, no moral claim, to tell us how we –’ he thumped his chest – ‘we brothers have behaved?’
There was silence in the court. Dimarius, slowly and deliberately, sat back down.
‘And you, Xavir,’ Cedius rasped. ‘What do you say?’ It seemed more of a plea than a question.
‘What would you have me say, my king?’ Xavir replied, rising to his feet. He clenched his fists. Say that you do not trust the intelligence given to us. Say that they were your orders. Say what you feel, Cedius.
There was no dignity in that.
He released his fingers and spoke calmly. ‘What’s done is done. We are Stravir’s finest weapons, no more, no less. It is up to the nation to decide how we should be used.’
The elder advocates conferred among themselves in hushed tones; gods in drab clothing debating the fate of mere mortals. The sun was now setting across the city, and a heavenly light filled the room. The gathered throng in the courtroom remained still and impassive.
The woman elder leaned forwards, and spoke: ‘Under the watchful eye of the Goddess, we deem that the gathered members of the Solar Cohort, seated before us, are responsible for the crimes of treason of the highest order, bringing the king’s honour into disrepute, bringing the high station of the Solar Cohort into disrepute, four hundred and seventeen counts of murder and eighty-seven counts of grievous injuries to Stravir citizens.’
Collective gasps came from those watching on.
‘You are,’ she continued, ‘hereby sentenced to be hanged from the outer wall of the palace gardens.’
Dimarius rose from the bench and shouted, ‘After all we have done for you. After everything we have done in the name of the king.’ He pointed right at Cedius, shattering etiquette. ‘For you!’
The others in the Solar Cohort stared across at Xavir, but he could only stare at Cedius’s face. The man appeared to be shocked by what ought to have been avoidable. Dimarius turned to look behind – was there a glance at Mardonius? – then thrust himself back down on the bench, fuming. Xavir lay a hand on his shoulder and whispered, ‘Our fate is decided, brother.’
‘No,’ Cedius shouted. ‘No . . .’ Everyone fell silent. ‘There should be one of the cohort to remain alive – to suffer the burden, to be a warning to all.’
The elder advocates conferred, though they had no authority with the king. They bowed their heads and allowed Cedius to continue. Dimarius cast Xavir a worried glance. This time as the vision replayed, Xavir did not hear the people screaming in the courtroom, the rage shared between those who felt they had been wronged and those conservative clerics who abhorred the deeds. This time Xavir watched the old king’s gaze scan across the members of the Solar Cohort. The Legion of Six. His military sons.
‘Xavir Argentum, as the commander of the Solar Cohort, shall live with this burden,’ the king declared. ‘He shall be cast to the furthest gaol within our diplomatic reaches. And there he shall last, permanently, a reminder of the shame . . .’
Now Xavir saw the decision for what it was. Get away from here, the king was saying by this deed. I’m sending you far from this court, for a while, away from the political machinations that I do not understand. Things are happening. You must live. You will return, one day. Only you do I trust . . .
*
An hour later and the vision remained vivid, but now as he approached the manse he felt that he was beginning to put right what Cedius knew to be wrong.
Hazy dawn sunlight filtered through the oak leaves and across a scene of carnage. But all the bodies scattered throughout the long grass were still very much breathing. Some were rolling. Others were groaning. Had he limited knowledge of the world, Xavir would have believed the group of Dacianarans sitting up and talking at the far end of the clearing had come to massacre these soldiers, but he knew that was not the case.
Instead, here were two dozen warriors who could not hold their drink.
Xavir spotted Davlor, his former gaol mate, lying on his back, clutching a skin flask of some foul brew, and moaning something about his mother. Xavir dismounted from the white mare he had bought at Golax Hold, knelt down beside the young man’s head and bellowed: ‘Good morning!’ into his hear.
The man leaped up with a start, realized it was Xavir, stared wide-eyed for a moment before leaning to his left and vomiting in the grass.
Grinning, Xavir rose. A few of the others began to stir at his loud arrival. It looked as if Lupara and Valderon had done a half-decent job in adding more numbers to the Black Clan.
A figure came from the direction of the manse. It was Valderon.
‘Your men need stronger stomachs,’ Xavir announced.
Valderon smiled, holding up his arms. ‘Whatever those Dacianarans put in their flasks is lethal.’
‘Yet you still stand. What was your trick?’
‘I would like to brag about it, but my trick was simply that I did not drink as much as everyone else.’
‘That is still something to brag about,’ Xavir replied. ‘Who has come?’
‘A man who calls himself the Soul-Stealer has brought a united force.’
‘Katollon.’ Xavir nodded. ‘I know of him.’
‘I’m glad you’ve returned,’ Valderon said, and the two men shook at the wrists. ‘How did it go at Golax Hold? You were gone a long time.’
‘It was a success.’ Xavir briefly recounted his tale from the town, of the assault on the duchess’s residence, the slaughter of his two victims. ‘There’s more, too. Find your mare and ride with me.’
*
The pair of riders and horses cantered along the forest paths. The morning sunlight was already beginning to fade, in typical style for Stravimon. The vegetation was more pungent. Birds skittered through the stirring treetops. The ground sloped upwards past the ruin of an old tin mine, which was surrounded by different, low-lying vegetation entirely, before entering into oaks again.
Xavir shared, here and there, his observations about Golax Hold and on the state of relations with Stravir City, and he answered Valderon’s few questions.
‘Does it feel satisfying now?’ Valderon said, in reference to Xavir’s revenge.
‘It never does, does it?’ Xavir replied. ‘What makes this increasingly frustrating is the matter that my removal – and the removal of the Solar Cohort – was just one move in a political game. I would have liked, at least, there to have been great significance in what those people did. But there was none. They just wanted us out of the way to stop our influence with Cedius.’
‘What is the truth behind the matter?’
‘Very little,’ Xavir replied. ‘At some point in the past, Mardonius made a pact with someone from the Voldiriks. Somehow, they met up – this remains unclear. The Voldiriks may have encouraged such a persuadable mind that Mardonius could become king if he permitted them into Stravimon. Given the Voldiriks’ previous attempts at expanding their empire
, this is much more subtle and insidious a method of conquering a new territory. He then persuaded others to join in, promising them access to the Voldiriks’ clever ways with magic.
‘There are other concerns, too. We have learned that the witches have their own crisis, larger than what Birgitta had reported. There is talk of Dark Sisters, who also have aligned themselves with the Voldiriks in some way. Many have sailed from Port Phalamys back to the Voldiriks’ lands and a few have returned. There is concern that Mardonius has them tucked behind the walls of Stravir City, which could complicate matters.’
‘And the bond with your daughter?’ Valderon asked.
‘You care greatly about the matter.’
‘I have no family of my own,’ the veteran replied. ‘My time is passing. Even my mother and father died when I was in my infancy. A fund ensured a good education, but it meant the army was the only family I knew. The absence of such things makes it all the more noticeable in others.’
‘Professional soldiers make for good brethren,’ Xavir replied. ‘But in answer to your question, I do not know how to measure such matters. She is good in combat, very good. I will likely want her by my side. We have established a good fighting relationship.’
‘I think she will value that.’
‘Maybe so.’
‘It’s true. One can see the sisterhood offered her very little. Fighting with you must have given her a sense of purpose.’
‘We make these assumptions on her behalf.’
‘We do,’ Valderon replied, ‘but this is the process of measurement. What do you think of her?’
‘She is quiet, yet gets on with things without complaint.’
‘Mere descriptions.’ Valderon laughed. ‘What do you think of her? Do you have any affection?’
Xavir contemplated the matter for a short while, steering his horse around a few large boulders strewn across the forest path. ‘I have long since killed whatever part of me can feel affection,’ Xavir replied. ‘This is likely not the answer you seek.’