Iceblade
Zenka Wistram
[email protected]
Dedicated especially to Ty, Eldon, Greg, Indy, Josh, and Aaron.
And Mom, because you go to Hell if you don't dedicate your first book to your mom.
Better say Dad too. Hi Dad!
And Naomi and Sandy, because I love you.
To Cindy and her amazing Horsemen.
To Corrine Simmons, who helped me make a cover.
And the Bad Cats.
And most especially to Horace F Scheit, without whom there would be no second edition. Thank you, handsome.
Inhaltsverzeichnis
Chapter 1 / Berowalt
Chapter 2 / On the Move
Chapter 3 / The Wood-Witch
Chapter 4 / In Training
Chapter 5 / All Together
Chapter 6 / He Knows
Chapter 7 / Delirium
Chapter 8 / Reckonwood
Chapter 9 / The Priests
Chapter 10 / Malina
Chapter 11 / Run
Chapter 12 / Besieged
Chapter 13 / The River Entrance
Chapter 14 / Fevered
Chapter 15 / Dagar's Sign
Chapter 16 / Lalinth
Chapter 1
Berowalt
My name is Ada. I am a picker of lant-root. Lant is a tuber, a hardy and long-storing food that is a staple of the diets of the people of Dragon's Tooth, the isolated country I was born in and have never left. I work in Judge Tally's lant fields. The overman tells me I am the fastest harvester, but I don't need him to tell me what I already know. I do not mean to sound proud, I am only honest about my abilities. Not that harvesting lant-root is an exalted skill, but it gets me by.
The second best picker is Selas, the old man who lives in a cave in the hills north of Berowalt, our village. He's a mean old man, and the mothers in the village keep his shadow from falling on their children. No wife or bondmate calls him their own, and it seems likely he prefers his solitude, without the petty inconveniences and irritations of a shared life. No one in Berowalt knows of any family the old man has ever claimed or who has ever named him as their son, brother, father. It is speculated that he is so churlish any who would count him as one of theirs has long since been scared off. He pulls the roots from the ground with pure temper, his muscles bunched and tight. I pick the roots from the darkness with care and a spell.
No one knows about the spell, and I know no others. My mother knew spells and potions, she had the way of reading the past and some futures by holding the hand of another. She only taught me the one spell before she died giving birth too early to her second fatherless child. My brother I buried with her, he took only three good breaths in this world and was as small as the length of my arm from palm to elbow, and I was still a child myself. I wrapped him in the soft blankets Mama had made for him and placed him in my mother's arms as she lay in her grave in her last sleep. Though you are not supposed to name a child less than three days old, I named my brother, whispering his name into his ear as I cleaned him for burial. After all, I had felt the spirit in him as he dragged in those three short breaths. The elders say it takes three days for a spirit to reach an infant, but my brother held his spirit in him as he was born. I knew then what the elders said about a newborn's spirit was meant only to be a comfort to a new mother or father who lost an infant within days of birth.
Sometimes I can feel the movement of a spirit. When Ordan the Brute's small wife died of a beating he gave her, I felt her spirit leave, weary of its toil and the constant strife that took place in their home. They came for me to do their healing after my mother died, until they realized I knew little of her skills. I was only twelve, and some said kindly that perhaps my mother hadn't had time to teach me much. Some said less kindly it was obvious my spirit was as plain as my face, and my mother couldn't teach me her skills.
So I kept my spell to myself and made my way in the lant fields. My spell is a spell of loosening my mother used to untangle my hair. I used it to untangle the roots from the ground and they come easily to my hand.
Eleven years have passed since my mother and my brother left me. When I was still a child I had hoped, if not for a husband, at least a child of my own by now. Most of the children my age were married within four years of my mother's death. Now I play with their children and tell them my mother's stories of magic and gods and far places. Now I am an elder aunt, and I feel it enshroud me sometimes, wrinkling my face and stooping my back. Sometimes I want to shriek and spit and run into the hills and never come back. I am too sensible for that. The village needs me, to teach the children what little reading and figuring I know. Some of the children are dear to me. Also, I am needed in the lant fields. I am Judge Tally's best harvester, after all.
Berowalt is a small village, no more than one hundred fifty souls. Judge Tally is responsible for the health and prosperity of our small village, he answers to Lord Patrin, and Lord Patrin in turn answers to the low-king, Dwylan and his wife, Queen Maris. King Dwylan and his wife have seven children, no shortage of heirs. Their fertility is remarked upon with pride, as it is a sign of the blessing of the Goddess, and when the Goddess blesses our royal family, She surely blesses all of us who made up the soil and seed of their kingdom, Kenway. Our king answers to someone as well, the High King of the Seven Kingdoms of Dragon's Tooth, Guin.
High King Guin is a legendary figure. He descends directly from the first High King a thousand years ago, called by the name Gallas the Fierce, who had been named High King by Laren, the Chosen of the Goddess, the Good Queen Galiena. Our High King is known as an iron-willed knight of Galiena with a romantic soul. He had married young, a sweet youthful bride named Ostha, who in time turned out to be barren. Their marriage was sadly short, her mysterious death still a topic of conversation forty years later. Some blame her poor health, she was known to be delicate and frail. Others blame dark forces meaning to harm our High King and all of Dragon's Tooth, and others yet think the blame lay with betrayers among High King Guin's own most trusted advisors, who hoped the High King would remarry quickly, this time a fecund and nubile woman of impeccable lineage.
If the last were true, they were thwarted. The High King mourned his beloved wife for two and a half decades. Rumors spoke vaguely of this assignation or that, with hope that soon there would be a new High Queen. None materialized.
I was five years old when I heard the High King had remarried at long last – it meant little to me aside from the immediate celebration erupting in the village. We had sweets and dancing, a traveling troubadour graced us with the story set in song of the High King's courtship.
His bride was only seventeen, and from the far off country of Holden, so far away that any wild story of dragons or men made of ice can be attributed to it. Holden is cold year round, with snow on the ground no matter what season it is. The Princess Hyndla was lauded as a fresh and innocent beauty, of whom the very sight could strike a grown man deaf and mute with awe and love. Our High King had fought and defeated the terrible Wraith of the Broken Sun for her hand, to win the approval of her father, the King of Holden.
In a time so short as to be very nearly scandalous, the High Queen presented her husband with a fine, healthy baby son, High Prince Gymir, followed two years later by his brother, High Prince Gunnolf. Last of all came High Princess Adora, only six years past. The line of High Kings was assured.
With each birth, our village celebrated. Though we have no temple or priests of our own, we do have an ancient altar at the center of our village, and at these times it was lavishly bedecked with gifts and offerings of thanks for the Goddess. The High Kings are the center of unity for Dragon's Tooth, and our unity has been what protects us from outsiders since the time of Laren.
; This is all we have for government; the High King and Queen, the low Kings and Queens, then the Lords and Ladies, then the Judges and Dames. Our land is blessed and beloved of the Goddess, many are Called to Her service and take the mantle of priesthood. All of our larger towns and cities have temples with full priests and priestesses, there are enough of Her Own to supply Dragon's Tooth with wandering priests who can teach and provide for the very small places, like Berowalt. Lowest in rank yet most important of all,or so we are taught, are the simple peasantry, like myself. Without us, there could be no Judges, no Lords, and no Kings or High Kings.
Perhaps the whole of Dragon's Tooth has grown complacent in our usual state of peacefulness. There are few enough laws in all of Dragon's Tooth, people are expected to act as their conscience dictates in all things, an it harm none, and usually most of us do. Taxes are low as the royals and nobles are expected to create their own wealth, and peasants unduly taxed have the right to pick up and move someplace with lower taxes. We are fat and pleased with the nature of life and the way we have lived here in peaceful, productive, lovely Dragon's Tooth since the time of the Chosen.
The last war was more than two generations ago, the Inner Kingdom War between Laidley and Kenway. A trade dispute led to wrathful words, the terrible words led to bloodshed. High King Golvyn, the grandfather of Guin, had to step in and end the war before it spread, and a treaty is still in place between my home kingdom of Kenway and our rival Laidley, strictly regulating trade and diplomatic relationships. There had been no war for a hundred years before that, and none since. Occasionally raiders come from other countries, and are dealt with amply by our military. There are stories of monsters attacking villages, but no proof these are anything more than stories to while away a winter's eve. Of course, in the telling, our own soldiers and warriors triumph against these monsters, every time, just in time for the little ones to find their way to bed.
There are bands of thieves and rogues about, but there are the armies and the Trailfarers to deal with them. The Trailfarers are a relatively unseen and unknown group who have sworn themselves to the service of the Goddess and the High King, who take it upon themselves to keep the roads and trails safe for merchants and travelers. They report only to a Magnus, one of a counsel of Magnuses, high ranking soldiers who in turn report only to the High King. The army is made up of as few ranks as our nobility – The Magnuses, the generals, the captains, and the soldiers. Each low-kingdom maintains its own army, from generals down to soldiers, sworn in service to the High King first and the low Kings and Queens next.
Our deities too are simple in arrangement. The Good Queen Galiena, Goddess of Order and Life and her enemy The Dark God Dagar, God of Chaos and Destruction are the main deities, though thieves and some nomadic groups worship Fimm, the trickster Goddess. Every part of life falls under the domain of either the God or the Goddess, from the sea ruled by Dagar to the soil ruled by Galiena. Dragon's Tooth, our isolated peninsular kingdom, is especially blessed by the Goddess and favored by Her, and true worship of the God is rare and usually done in secret. There are those festivals in which offerings must be made to the God, mainly in appeasement or warding. The rest of the time His name is spoken in whispers.
In all things we treasure simplicity and generosity. Being a peaceful people, we believe others to be peaceful as well. Who could wish to harm us, the people of the Goddess, in Her favored land?
*************************
There were no rumors to warn us. That morning we saw a great column of black smoke in the sky to the southwest, far away, but no runners came with urgent cries for help or calls to arms, so Berowalt settled back into its work with no more than mild curiosity. Perhaps in a nearby village the forge had sparked a fire, but with no help called for, there seemed little to worry about aside from a slight concern that the fire could possibly spread to the fields around Berowalt. No word came from the manor, and surely Judge Tally would know of any danger.
At mid-day, darkness descended on the fields so quickly many of us were frozen, unable to raise a hand in our own defense. Darkness like the flapping of a thundercloud made of crows; black clad, black painted warriors on lean black steeds. Their leader, the only unpainted one, had a face thin and pale as an icicle, his eyes as empty and inhuman as a corpse's.
The screams seemed thin and flat, unreal. I couldn't grasp the actuality of the horde swooping across the fields laying death where only life had lain before. There was a flash as the darkness washed over me, a sharp pain, then the smell of earth and the far off thunder of the cloud of crows.
I awoke to a rough cloth scraping across my face. "Witch's daughter," a sharp voice asked. "You yet live?"
I pushed the cloth away and sat up, noting that Selas had only rolled me face up, instead of lifting my head out of the dirt. "Do any others?"
"You and I are all that remain. The manor doors are down and nothing stirs there, either."
"The village?" I caught his eye. He didn't look away, only sat beside me on the ground. "The children?"
"No one."
I passed my hand over my face. There was a searing pain in my head, sending sharp spears of agony around my skull and into my neck. Cautiously, I raised my hand to feel the tender spot on my forehead.
"You look to have been hit by a club," Selas said shortly.
"It was a sword. I saw it." I could not seem to feel any emotion at all. My throat ached, feeling so tight I could only speak in a cracked whisper.
"The flat of it then, or you'd be worse off." Selas stood. He did not offer a hand to help me up. He wiped his hands absently on his rough leather vest.
I looked up at him with narrow eyes. "It seems you have escaped any injury at all," I said. I noticed blood, not completely dried, in his short, neat white beard, but no sign of a wound.
"I hid beneath Fat Olif," he said, his mouth a thin line as he waited for my accusation. I glared at him, and realized that he'd been wise, having no defense against the crow army. My shoulders sagged as I stood.
"Fat Olif is dead," I said flatly.
"They are all dead!" he shouted suddenly, his face red. "Didn't you hear me, you stupid girl?"
I looked at him calmly, then noticed that water was dripping on to my neck. I angrily rubbed my cheeks to erase my useless tears. "It seems much worse to think of them one by one," I managed.
Selas turned and spat, the redness leaving his face. "Aye," he said stiffly, then jerkily set his hand on my shoulder. We stood alone in a field red with blood, scattered with the bodies of everyone I knew. I gave no untoward attention to his small, rusty act of comfort, but what little it may have been was the only reason I held my sanity.
I walked down to the village slowly, because my legs did not want to go in the same direction I did. They wanted to run for the hills for at least a few days, until my head healed and I could gather my courage to deal with what lay before us. The pain in my head caused the world to darken dangerously around me every now and then, and when it did my legs nearly gave out on me altogether. But I made it home, with the old man following reluctantly.
Home was burning. I had hoped to save some of my mother's things, but there was no way in. I looked up to my loft, and the small window that was Mama's gift to me, so I could see the stars as I drifted off to sleep. The window was broken and filled with flame, the smoke thick and acrid. It was hard to see anything with the smoke from all the other buildings filling the air as well. The heat pushed me back a step, and as I looked up again, a tiny motion caught my eye. It was a feather, floating down from my window, drifting like a snowflake for the ground. I quickly snatched it from the air to hold against my chest, then held it out to look at. It was from a corona of feathers my Mama made me when I was just six years old. The feathers had all splayed out from a central ring, indigo near the ring and bright yellow at the ends. This one feather was impossibly perfect, no missing pieces, no soot or ash. I felt water on my face again and placed the feather inside my shift, against my breast
.
There was nothing left. The forge was gone, the tiny Crafts Guild, all the homes, all burning. Galiena's altar on the village green had been torn apart and defaced, no human could have destroyed the stone altar so quickly or completely. From the broken altar I heard a mournful singing in a language I did not recognize, and I looked at Selas to see if he heard it as well. If he did, he showed no sign. The air was filled with the stench of blood and burning flesh, bodies littered our few lanes and the village green. Nowhere did we find any dead who were armed and painted black. None of them had fallen where they had struck us.
We found a survivor left for dead behind a burning, two room house. Her name was Dera, seven years of age, and one of the kindest children in Berowalt. She had been stabbed in the abdomen and her left leg looked to be crushed. Thankfully she was unconscious when we found her, alerted to her state by the agonized whimpers she gave as she breathed out. I reached down to touch her and gasped as the pain in my head increased. A flash of images rushed behind my eyes. My hand fell away, and I swooned. Selas caught me with a hard grip on my arm to prevent me from falling on the little girl.
"She'll live if we can get her to the manor," I forced out. "Dame Lorenn's healing supplies." The world spun as I straightened up. I registered Selas bending, scooping up the small body, and lifting her in his arms before I turned and stumbled all the way to Judge Tally's manor.
We had to amputate her leg. When I say we I mostly mean Selas, who seemed to have some brisk knowledge of what had to be done. I rummaged through baskets of healing supplies, giving Selas whatever it seemed he would need. It was as if my mother stood at my elbow, telling me what to take. Maybe I had some dim memory of what she would have used. In life she told me very little of healing, telling me instead she wished for a different life for me than what she called her "night voices".
Iceblade Page 1