Farlander hotw-1

by Col Buchanan

  'Your condition does the taking, not I. Ash, even if you survive tonight, how much longer do you think you have?'

  'I will not lie down and wait for the end, no purpose left to me.'

  'I do not ask you to. But you should be here, with the order, and your companions. You deserve some rest, and what peace you may find while you still can.'

  'No,' Ash responded hotly. He glanced away, staring far into the flames. 'My father went that way, when his condition worsened. He gave in to grief after the blindness struck him, and lay weeping in his bed waiting for the end. It made a ghost of him. No, I will not squander what little time I have that way. I will die on my feet, still striving forwards.'

  Osh swept that comment aside with a gesture of his hand. 'But you are in no shape for this. Your attacks are worsening. For days you can barely see due to them, let alone move. How can you expect to carry on in this way, to see a vendetta through to the end? No, I cannot allow it.'

  'You must!' roared Ash.

  Across the sloping confines of the tent, Osh, head of the Rshun order, blinked but said nothing.

  Ash hung his head, then breathed deeply, composing himself.

  Softly came the words, offered like a sacrifice on an altar: 'Osh, we have known each other for more than half a lifetime. We two are more than friends. We are closer even than father and son, or brothers. Listen to me now. I need this.'

  Their gazes locked: he and Osh, surrounded by canvas and winds and a thousand laqs of frozen waste; here in this imaginary cell of heat, so small in scale that they shared each other's breath.

  'Very well,' murmured Osh at last, causing Ash to rock back in surprise.

  He opened his mouth to thank him, but Osh held up a palm.

  'On one condition, and it is not open for debate.'

  'Go on.'

  'You will take an apprentice at last.'

  A gust pressed the canvas of the tent against his back. Ash stiffened. 'You would ask that of me?'

  'Yes,' snapped Osh. 'I would ask that of you – as you have asked of me. Ash, you are the best that we have, better than even I was. Yet for all these years, you have refused to train an apprentice, to pass on your skills, your insights.'

  'You know I have always had my own reasons for that.'

  'Of course I know! I know you better than any soul alive. I was there, you recall? But you were not the only one to lose a son in battle that day – or a brother, or a father.'

  Ash hung his head. 'No,' he admitted.

  'Then you will do so, if you make it safely out of this?'

  Still he could not look directly at Osh; instead his eyes were filled with the scattering brilliance of the oil stove's flames. The old man did know him well. He was like a mirror to Ash, a living breathing surface that reflected all that Ash might try to hide from himself.

  'Do you wish to die out here alone, in this forsaken wilderness?'

  Ash's silence was answer enough.

  'Then agree to my offer. I promise you that, if you do, you will make it out of this, you will see your home again – and there I will allow you to continue in your work, at least while you train another.'

  'Is that a bargain?'

  'Yes,' Osh told him with certainty.

  'But you are not real. I lost this same tent two days ago… and you were not journeying with me when I did. You are a dream. An echo. Your bargain means nothing.'

  'And yet still I speak the truth. Do you doubt it?'

  Ash gazed into the empty mug. The heat had faded from its metal curvature, leaching the warmth from his hands.

  Ash, long ago, had accepted his illness and its eventual, inevitable outcome. He had done so in much the same way as he accepted the taking of those lives he took in pursuit of his work; with a kind of fatalism. Perhaps a touch of melancholy was the result of such a vantage, that the essence of life was bittersweet, without meaning save for whatever you ascribed it: violence or peace, right or wrong, all the choices one made, though nothing more – certainly nothing fundamental to a universe itself purely neutral, seeking only equilibrium as it unfolded for ever and endlessly from the potentials of Dao. He was dying, and that was all there was to it.

  Still, he did not wish to end it here on this desolate plain. He would see the sun again if he could, with eyes and mouth open to savour its heat; he would inhale the pungent scents of life, feel the cool shoots of grass against his soles, listen to the flow of water over rocks, before that. And here, in his dream fantasy, Osh was a creation of that same desire: in that moment, Ash dared not hope that he could be anything more.

  He looked up, speaking the words as he did so. 'Of course I doubt it,' he replied to his master's question.

  But Osh was gone.

  *

  It was a slow, nauseous pain that now came upon him, sickness washing his vision. The headache tightened its vice-like grip against the sides of his skull.

  It drew him out of his delirium.

  Ash squinted through the darkness of the ice hut. His naked body shook, convulsed. Minute icicles hung from his eyelashes. He had almost fallen asleep.

  No sounds intruded through the hole in the roof. The storm had ceased at last. Ash cocked his head to one side, listening. A dog barked, followed by others.

  He blew the breath from his lungs.

  'One last effort,' he said.

  The old Rshun struggled to his feet. His muscles ached, and his head contracted with pain. He could do nothing about that, for now, since his pouch of dulce leaves had been taken from him, along with everything else. No matter, it was hardly a serious bout yet; not like the attacks he had experienced on the long voyage south, confining him in agony to his bunk for days on end.

  Ash stamped his feet and slapped his body until sensation returned. He breathed hard and fast, gathering strength with every inrush of breath, purging exhaustion and doubt as he exhaled.

  He panted into each palm, clapped twice, then leapt upwards. He slipped a hand through the ventilation hole so that he hung there with his legs dangling below him. With his other hand he began to stab at the ice around the hole, each strike delivered with a low 'Hu!' that was more a gasp than a word. Each impact sent a sickening shock along the bones of his arm.

  Nothing happened at first. Again he was reminded of futilely striking stone.

  No, he would get nowhere like this. Instead he thought of melting ice covering a pond, its crust thin enough to break through. As air whined through his nostrils, he became light-headed, making him focus that much harder.

  A sliver of ice at last broke free. He allowed this moment of triumph to wash over him, without pausing in his efforts. More chips of ice loosened, until shards of it were raining down against his face. He squeezed his eyes shut to clear them of sweat. But it was more than sweat: his hand was darkly bloody from the work. Drops of blood splashed on to his forehead, or fell to the ground, to freeze there before they could soak in.

  Ash was wheezing heavily by the time he had cleared a hole large enough to see a portion of night sky. For a moment he stopped and simply dangled there, to catch his breath.

  As the moment lengthened, it took another effort of will to rouse himself. With a grunt of exertion, he hauled himself through the opening, scraping naked flesh as he went.

  All seemed quiet throughout the settlement. The sky was a black field scattered with stars as small and lifeless as diamonds. Ash slid to the ground and crouched knee-deep in the snow, not looking back at the line of blood that now streaked the domed roof of the ice hut.

  Ash shook his head to clear it, then took his bearings. Ice houses lay all around him half buried in snowdrifts. Small mounds shifted where dogs lay sleeping for the night. In the distance, a group of men prepared a sled team for the morning hunt, unaware of the figure watching them calmly through the dimness.

  Keeping low, Ash took off towards the ice fortress, his bare soles crunching through a fresh crust of snow.

  The structure loomed against the stars as he approached
.

  He did not slow his pace, kept running to the tunnel entrance, snapped his way through the hangings into the passage within. He startled the two tribesmen standing guard there beside a burning brazier. The space was small, no room to move easily. Ash drove his forehead straight into one guard's face, cracking the man's nose and knocking him, stunned, to the floor. Pain flashed through his own head, at which point the other guard almost caught him with a lunge of his spear. Ash ducked in time, felt the carved bone tip slide across his shoulder. Muted grunts, then the slap of flesh against flesh, as he sent a knee into his opponent's groin, his pointed knuckles slamming into the man's throat.

  Ash stepped over the two prone bodies, narrowing his eyes as he ventured within.

  He stood in a constricted passageway. Ahead lay the main hall, its entrance covered in skins. Behind the hangings all seemed quiet. But, no, not entirely quiet. He could hear snoring beyond.

  My blade, Ash thought.

  He darted left through a different archway. It lead into a small space thick with smoke, lit only by a small brazier standing in one corner, a red glow emanating from the fatty embers it contained illuminating the room for a few feet of air all around, and then darkness.

  A pallet bed lay next to the brazier, where a man and a woman lay asleep, pressed against each other. Ash remained a dark shadow as he padded over to the far wall, where his equipment had been piled. It was all still there.

  He fumbled through his furs until his hands came upon the small leather pouch of dulce leaves. He took one out, then thought better of it and took out two more, stuffing the brown leaves into the side of his mouth, between teeth and cheek.

  For a moment he sagged against the wall, chewing and swallowing their bitter flavour. The pain in his head lightened.

  He ignored his furs. Steel glinted as he drew his blade from its sheath. The couple slept on regardless as he padded back towards the entrance to the main hall.

  Light spilled across his bare toes from the gap beneath the hangings. Ash sucked in a bellyful of air. Exhaling through his nostrils, he stepped through, still as naked as the blade held low in his grip.

  The king sat asleep on his throne at the far end of the hall. His men, some partnered with women, lay in heaps on the floor before him. To one side of the entrance a tribesman leaned on his spear, half dozing where he stood.

  Ash no longer trembled. He was in his element now, and the cold became something he wore like a cloak. He was not afraid, fear was a distant memory to him, as old as his sword. His senses heightened in that moment just before he struck. He noticed an icicle, high on the ceiling above a brazier, a soft hiss each time it loosed a drip into the flames below it; he scented the sharp odour of fish, sweat, burning fat, and something else, almost sweet, that made his stomach rumble. He felt his muscles sing in rising expectation.

  Movement had caught the guard's eye, stirring him to wakefulness where he stood. The tribesman looked up in time to see Ash sweeping down on him with bloodied face and bared teeth. The blade swung towards him. It cut an arc through the smoky air and met the brief resistance of the man's chest. He choked out a cry even as he fell.

  It was enough to wake the others.

  The tribesmen reached for their spears as they struggled to their feet. Without order, they rushed at Ash from all sides.

  He scattered them as though they were children. With single strokes of his blade, he butchered each tribesman who came across his path, no sense of self in what he did. He was silence in the midst of confusion, his motions propelled by their own trained instincts to advance, and only to advance, his slashes and thrusts and swerves timed in a natural rhythm with his steps.

  Before the last tribesman had fallen Ash was in front of the throne, a mist rising behind him from the floor of leaking corpses.

  The king sat there trembling with rage, his hands straining against the bone arms of his chair as though he was trying to stand. He was drunk, the stench of alcohol thick on his breath. His lungs heaved as though he needed more air, and a thin drool ran from his parted lips as he watched, with half-lidded eyes, the Rshun now standing before him.

  He looks like an angry child, thought Ash, before casting the notion aside.

  Ash flicked blood from his blade, settled its point beneath the chin of the king. The king's breathing grew visibly faster.

  'Hut!' snapped Ash, pressing the blade until it broke the skin, forcing the king to raise his head so that their gazes met more clearly.

  The king glanced down at the blade held to his throat. A rivulet of his own blood coursed down the groove in the steel without resistance, like water trickling over oiled canvas. He looked up at Ash and, beneath his left eye, a muscle twitched.

  'Akuzhka,' the king spat.

  The blade suddenly pierced up into his brain. One moment the gaze of hatred was there; in the next, all life had faded.

  Ash straightened up, gasping for breath. Steam billowed from around the throne, as the contents of the dead king's bladder suddenly splashed to the floor.

  Ash removed the seal from the king's neck, dropping it over his own head. As an afterthought, he closed the man's eyes.

  He moved next to the wooden chest by the wall and opened it, hauling out the Alhazii curled within.

  'Is it over?' the man croaked, gripping hold of Ash as though he would never let go of him.

  'Yes,' was all that Ash replied.

  And then they left.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Shield Bahn had climbed the Mount of Truth many times in his life. It was a green, broad-shouldered hill with gentle slopes, not overly high; yet that morning, hiking up the path that wound its way towards the flattened summit, it seemed steeper than it ever had before. He could not fathom why.

  'Bahn,' said Marlee by his side, her hand in his tugging him to a stop.

  He turned to find his wife was gazing back along the path, her other palm shielding her eyes from the sun. Juno, their ten-year-old son, struggled some way behind. He was small for his age, and the picnic basket he carried too bulky for his short arms. Still, he had insisted on carrying it on his own.

  Bahn wiped sweat from his brow. In the moment his hand drew clear, and cool air kissed his forehead, he thought: I do not wish him to see this today. And he knew then that it was not the hill itself that was steeper that morning. It was his own resistance to it.

  An apple toppled from the basket, red and shiny as lip paint, and began to roll down the foot-polished stones of the path. Both parents watched as the boy stopped its progress with his boot, then bent to pick it up.

  'Need a hand?' Bahn called back to his son, and tried not to dwell on the money it had cost him for that single apple, or the rest of their precious picnic.

  The boy replied with an angry glare. Dropping the apple back into the basket, he hefted the load before continuing.

  Thunder rumbled in the far distance, though there were no clouds in the sky. Bahn looked away from his son, tried to exhale the worry that seemed always to curdle in his stomach these days. He forced a smile on to his face, in a trick he had learned during his years of fighting in the Red Guard. If he stretched his lips just so, his burdens would seem to grow a touch lighter.

  'It's good to see you smile,' said Marlee, her own brown eyes creasing at the edges. On her back, in a canvas sling, their infant daughter hung open-mouthed and asleep.

  'It's good to have a day away from the walls, though I'd rather we spent it anywhere but here.'

  'If he's old enough to ask, he's old enough to see it. We can't shelter him from the truth forever, Bahn.'

  'No, but we can try.'

  She frowned at that, but squeezed his hand harder.

  Below them, the city of Bar-Khos roared like a distant river. Gulls soared and dipped above the nearby harbour, wheeling in their hundreds like a snowstorm in the far mountains. He watched them, a hand across his forehead to shade his eyes, as they took turns to speed low and fast across the mirror-flat water, their reflec
tions flying upside-down between the hulls of ships. Sunlight speared back from the surface, the dazzles painting it in burning gold. The rest of the city lay beneath a glamour of heat, the figures of people small and indistinct as they made their way through streets cast into deep shadow. Bells rang from above the domes of the White Temple, horns sounded from the Stadium of Arms. In air hazy with dust, mirrors flashed from the baskets of merchants' hot-air balloons tethered to slender towers. Beyond them all, beyond the northern walls, an airship rose from the pylons of the skyport, and began heading east on its hazardous run to Zanzahar.

  It seemed strange to Bahn, even now, that life could carry on seemingly as normal while the city teetered on the brink.

  'What are you waiting for?' Juno panted, as he caught up with them.

  Bahn's smile was now a genuine one. 'Nothing,' he replied to the boy.

  *

  On days like this one, a crisping hot Foolsday at the high point of summer, it was common for people to climb their way out of the baking streets of Bar-Khos to seek refuge on the top of the Mount of Truth. There a park rose in terraces around its flattened summit, and a breeze blew constantly fresh from the sea. The path levelled off as it reached the park itself. Young Juno, feeling more confident now with his load, took this opportunity to increase his pace, overtaking his parents before dodging past others who were strolling more sedately. Together, they skirted a narrow green where, amongst a group of children playing with a kite, a fight was breaking out over who should fly it next. Beyond them, on a bench overshadowed by a withered jupe tree, an old beggar monk sat with his bottle of wine while talking incessantly to his dog. The dog seemed not to be listening.

  Again, a peal of thunder rolled through the air, sounding more distinct now they were closer to the city's southern walls. Juno glanced back towards his parents. 'Hurry up,' he urged, unable to contain his excitement.

  'We should have brought his kite along for later,' said Marlee, as behind them the children ceased their squabbling long enough to send their box of paper and featherwood sailing into the wind.