by JW Webb
“Anchai?” Corin looked worried again.
“Our neighbours; they live hereabouts and don’t like strangers,” Olen replied. “Actually they don’t like anyone, but in particular strangers. Don’t worry,” he added seeing Corin’s concern. “Rogan’s blend is strong; that lad will be out till nightfall, and then we’ll away north back to camp.”
“What about these Anchai?”
Around midnight Corin received an unwelcome answer to that last question in the form of a red-fletched arrow buzzing an inch from his left ear and thudding into a lone ash tree. They had been riding for several hours at a steady trot. Both Olen and Rogan accompanied Corin, the men thundering behind, and Rogan sharing his mount with the slumped sleeping Tamersane—the Kelwynian not having surfaced from his fermented yak milk-induced slumber.
Before leaving, Olen had questioned Corin some more, and seeing no other option but to trust these Rorshai, Corin had recounted his wild capers down in Permio. Olen and his men had been captivated if a little bemused; Rorshai seldom left their own lands.
Then as they had ridden rough fields through darkness, Olen had told Corin of his own journey, the Ptarnian invaders heading west, and, more relevant to Corin, the Seeress’s announcement of his own pending arrival.
“You didn’t seem overly surprised that I knew your name,” Olen had said while admiring Thunderhoof with his horse-savvy eyes. His own beast, Loroshai, was smaller but sleek and smooth, whereas this great warhorse, Thunderhoof, like his rider, had a battered, ungainly gait. That said, he was a strong-looking beast. “He is a fine horse, by the way.”
“He’s an old friend.”
“Raleenian?”
“Yep, gift from my ex-boss.”
“Nice gift, but you evade my other question.” Olen glanced sideways at Corin with those unsettlingly shrewd eyes.
“Let’s just say that during the last few months things have been a touch weird, so nothing surprises me anymore. That said, I’m glad of your help, friend Olen.”
Olen hadn’t replied, his attention diverted by the knot of angry horseman piercing the gloom ahead, the lone red-fletched arrow announcing their approach.
“Anchai. This is unfortunate.” Olen leaned out from his saddle and whispered in Rogan’s ear, “Take this sickling to my sister, and tell everyone at camp we need gather the clan. I will deal with these Anchai.”
“They are treacherous bastards, Kaanson.” Rogan’s eyes narrowed, scanning the mustering horsemen ahead. He gauged they were outnumbered at least three to one, though there could be more Anchai riders hidden by the darkness.
“I’ll handle it. Just go!” Olen urged his beast forward and held his hands wide in parley; he was greeted by hisses and curses ahead. Rogan cursed, but eased his horse back as the other riders guided their own steeds forward.
Rogan, after making sure he was unobserved, urged his mount cut left and make for a shadow of woodland a half-mile away. Once there, he downed a huge gulp of yak juice and dug his heels in, prompting the horse make speed towards the looming shadow of The High Wall in the east. Rogan drove the horse hard, arriving at the Tcunkai camp just as dawn gilded the rime-clad fields and revealed the towering heights of The High Wall beyond. Teret was waiting, the concern clouding her neat features as she watched her old friend and his dormant passenger arrive. In her heart Teret knew her life would never be the same again.
***
Corin reached back to slide Clouter free from its harness. “You won’t be needing that,” Olen told him. “The way to get through this, stranger, is to keep your lips together and do nothing. These Anchai will want to kill you, but I will persuade them otherwise.”
“I hope so,” said Corin, not convinced. He didn’t like this sort of thing. His creed had always been: attack, holler, beat the fuck out of everything within reach, and then run or ride like heck. Simple but effective. That said, he had to admit that mantra didn’t appear an option at this moment. So he did as he was bid and waited until the shadowy hostile riders loomed into view. What followed was an exchange of pleasantries Corin could have done without.
It was hard to make out their faces in the dark, but he could tell they were Rorshai: they had the same short wiry build and hard, staring, pale eyes. But this lot were a touch gothic and dramatic to Corin’s mind. Most had their hair curled and twisted up, and then starched stiff into weird formations, whilst a few had fashioned theirs into greasy twisting spikes. They all had scars, but seemed to favour diamonds and circles on their cheeks rather than the Tcunkai’s precise chevrons.
Corin watched a lone rider approach through the gloom. This one had three red teardrops tattooed beneath his left eye, and a red scimitar tattoo framing his right. He wore chain mail, blood red in colour, and at his side a skinny scimitar showed hilt and scabbard studded with rubies. He didn’t look the friendly type.
“Greeting, Sulo,” Olen allowed his hands drop to his side. He was all smiles and confidence. It was wasted on the other rider.
This Sulo character loomed close and pinned Corin with his tattoo-marked eyes. “You, Olen, dare the anger of Borian by bringing this stranger into our country. I got word you were off on some foolish caper, crossing our lands without permission. An act of war, Tcunkai!”
“Not so, Sulo.” Olen matched the other’s hostile stare with measured calm. “Necessity. The Seeress bade me ride south to meet this man on the appointed hour. He is the one.”
Sulo laughed hearing that. “You are a child, Olen. He is the one? The Seeress told you that? I think you were dreaming, you Tcunkai were ever moon gazers. Soft and stupid.”
Olen refused to be goaded. “Let us pass, Sulo. We seek no provocation here.”
“And yet you trespass, and worse bring an outlander to our country. I’ll let you pass if you hand him over so we can roast him slowly over a spit and offer his foreign soul to Borian.”
That… is not going to happen, Sulo.”
“Can I say something?” Corin reached for Clouter again.
“No you can’t.” Olen bade him sit tight. “You had best let us through, Sulo.”
“And why would I do that?” The Anchai leader’s eyes narrowed. Despite his fierce hostility he was curious why Olen would chance riding through his country, a reckless and provocative act that was strange for the Yellow Clan.
“Because I intend to let this man speak at the Delve.” A gasp sounded from both groups of riders. Olen’s men knew nothing of this and were as surprised as the Anchai.
“Your mind has broken, Tcunkai. The Delve? They will tolerate no foreigner at council. As soon as you enter they will take him off your hands and gut him open, then they will skewer you for such heresy. The Delve is sacred, Olen. You ride to your death!”
“Maybe.” Olen watched as Sulo paced his horse back and forth. Beyond, a thin strip of light announced dawn’s approach. “But the news I bring, like this stranger, cannot wait. So let us pass or try to stop us, it matters not. Destiny rides with this stranger. We are part of his song now, and our homeland will soon be under attack.’
“I’ve heard enough.” Sulo wrenched the scimitar from his saddle and sliced it down toward Corin at lightning speed. Corin blinked; the blade passed an inch to his left, as Sulo swung around yelping, then pitched from his saddle, a red-fletched arrow stuck clean through his right wrist. Corin winced. Bleyne would have been proud of that shot.
The apparent archer urged his beast forward, a horn bow gripped in his right palm. This one was young and good-looking for an Anchai, even allowing for the red and black lightning tattoo splitting his face from left brow to right jowl.
“Greeting Arami,” Olen said. The new rider glared at him with scarce less loathing than Sulo had. The aforementioned was crouched close by squinting in pain as he gripped his wrist with his good hand. “Nice of you to intervene.”
“Sulo was over hasty,” the young rider said.
“I’ll kill you, Arami,” Sulo said. “You might be our mother’s favourite
but I’ll still kill you!”
“Shut up.” Arami was summing Corin up with his cool blue eyes. Corin saw a different sort of enemy before him. This one would still kill him, he’d just consider which way best and take his time.
“So what now?” Olen held Arami’s gaze, as behind them Sulo snapped the arrow shaft with a chop from his left hand. Without a word he tugged the broken shaft through the hole in his hand and then wadded the hole with his shirt. Corin couldn’t help but admire the bastard. That must have hurt.
“We accompany you to the Delve, friend Olen.” Arami’s smile was frosty. “You said there was no time to waste. And I for one will enjoy the reception you receive bringing this outlander along.”
“I ride by Morning Hills first to gather my people.”
“No, you ride alongside the Red Clan, Olen of the Tcunkai.”
The two men looked at each other, no give in either. But eventually Olen shrugged.
“So be it then, Arami. You shall be witness to my account.”
“Looking forward to it.” Arami motioned his men to file alongside the Tcunkai; neither clan would tail the other. Corin glanced down at the acid-eyed Sulo, who said nothing as he watched them leave. Moments later he’d vaulted back on his horse and galloped west at speed.
“He will kill you,” Olen said.
“Not if I kill him first,” grinned Arami. Riding between them, Corin decided that things could only get better. Two days later, they reached the Delve, and instead things got worse.
***
He woke to the sound of cows lowing and the pungent smell of fresh shit. He opened his eyes and gasped in horror, discovering the shit stink came from the evil-looking paste covering his right arm. In disgust Tamersane reached down with his good hand. A woman’s voice stopped him.
“Leave it!”
“But it stinks!” Tamersane complained. He tried to turn but discovered he was held fast in some sort of wicker cot chair.
“Small price for recovery,” the woman said. Whoever she was sounded waspish. “Sleep, stranger, and I return in two hours. I have chores and already have spent too much time with you. The cattle need tending.”
“Nice that you care,” Tamersane muttered. He didn’t get an answer. He glanced around as best he could. It appeared he was in some sort of barn, the sides open and the cold blast of winter air stinging his ears. Away off to the right were mountains. A grand view if you liked that sort of thing. At the moment Tamersane didn’t.
The woman must be some local cow wench, doubtless ugly as her stock and worse tempered. Still, his arm did actually feel a little better. Tamersane was weak though, and not a little confused. He thought about Corin for a minute and then nodded off again, the wind rattling his ears.
Next time he woke, the woman was staring at him with something sharp in her hand. “You look tolerable,” she said. Tamersane blinked water from his eyes and focused on the young woman leaning over him. She was actually quite attractive in a horsey, hard-eyed, shrewish kind of way. Short of body, dark tan, small breasts, long smoky black hair tied in a tight no-nonsense pigtail. Large, weirdly pale blue eyes dominated an oval face, dusted with light freckles arrayed around a sharp nose. No beauty, but definitely worth a quickie in Tamersane’s estimate. There was also a small bird tattoo on her left cheek, which for some reason Tamersane found rather appealing.
“What are you staring at?” The woman frowned down at him. “Are you simple in the head?”
“No, but I think I’m in love.” Tamersane flashed her his gorgeous smile. That always worked with these rustic wenches.
“I think you are soft in the head,” the woman replied and left him alone again. Tamersane blinked. Strange lass. He didn’t dwell on the matter as sleep claimed him again. When he woke next time it was dark and very chilly.
Close by, a crackle of flame showed orange as several shapes crouched over the fire. Two were playing what might generously be described as music by scraping a thin stick across strings tied to some bowl thing. The healing woman appeared again, appraised Tamersane’s condition and chewed her lower lip. “You hungry?”
“Yes, but I’d settle for a wet snog.” Tamersane tried his best grin again.
The woman’s bright blue gaze flashed with irritation as she wondered why Rogan had delivered this injured lunatic into her care. “If you can walk, come sit by the fire. I’ll bring you some broth. You can sit and be quiet and enjoy the music.”
“Oh, is that what that is? I was unsure.” The young woman turned and showed him her back. Tamersane took a deep breath and heaved his body up. He felt dizzy, slightly sick, and not a little wobbly in the legs. That said, he shuffled over to the bonfire easily enough and slunk into a surprisingly comfortable wicker chair. The three men already seated around the blaze ignored him. One of them Tamersane dimly recognised as Rogan, the old git that had given him the filthy yak juice.
“Hello,” Tamersane smiled at his new companions. “This is cosy.” They didn’t acknowledge him, just gazed despondent into the fire. “Has somebody died?” Tamersane added after a moment.
The young woman leaned over him and shoved a hot bowl of steaming something in his hands. “You talk over much,” she told him as her pigtail tickled his nose.
“Just trying to be friendly,” Tamersane replied and then sneezed into his broth. The healer chewed her lower lip again and rubbed that sharp nose.
“You are a strange man.”
“Well, at least tell me your name, sweet nursemaid.” Tamersane sneezed again.
“I am Teret and I am not your bloody nursemaid.” To his right Rogan chuckled, and the other men grinned like loons.
“You’ve a lot to learn about Tcunkai women, stranger.” Rogan winked at him. Tamersane shrugged. He decided to let the matter rest for the time being and instead changed tack.
“Thanks for bringing me here, old chap,” he smiled at Rogan who shrugged in reply. “But where is here, exactly? I’m a bit confused.”
“You are at Morning Hills, the winter camp of our people. Teret is Olen Kaanson’s only sister, and he is very fond of her. She is skilled at medicine, and you, stranger, owe her your skinny life. You might show some appreciation and stop fucking about.”
Tamersane felt a bit ashamed after that. “I think she’s lovely,” he told Rogan unaware that Teret was standing behind him. “Just a bit fierce.”
Teret felt a flutter of a smile soften her lips; she turned and walked back to her tent where more tasks waited.
Meanwhile, Tamersane quizzed Rogan about the Anchai and what would happen to his friend Corin. He decided he liked Rogan, who had a bluff honesty about him.
“That I do not know. Dangerous business; that Sulo’s a tosser. Unpredictable and violent, but Olen can handle his type.”
“He is your leader then, this Olen?”
“No, but he is the Kaan’s eldest son and he has the Dreaming.”
“The Dreaming?” Tamersane’s face stiffened. Gone was his easy smile as he thought about Queen Ariane and wondered how she fared in his own country. It had been so long since their departure at Vioyamis.
“Olen believes your friend to be the fulcrum—a hero long foretold that will arrive on the eve of the greatest war mankind will ever endure.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds like Corin.” Tamersane scooped the broth into his mouth. It was very good. “Always the centre of everything chaotic. Bloody good bloke, though, I must say.”
“Olen will take him to the Delve.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a cliff dwelling where we hold our secret war councils and matters of state. It’s also where the shamans and seers prance about naked in drug-induced trances.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It’s not.” Rogan glared into the fire. He alone had Olen told about his plans. He knew the risk the Kaanson was taking chancing the Delve, but he also believed in his leader enough to back him all the way. “He’ll come here once he’s dealt with those Anchai m
orons, then we’ll up camp and make north for the Delve.”
“Me too?”
“No, boy. One foreigner at the Delve is dangerous. Two would be madness. You will stay here with Teret and the cows.”
Tamersane felt sleep approaching as he carefully placed his empty bowl on the ground. “Do you think she’ll warm to me?”
“I doubt it,” replied Rogan and shuffled away to take a piss.
Later Teret took seat by the fire and thoughtfully sipped fermented milk from her wooden mug. As she sipped she studied the face of the stranger asleep in his wicker chair, whose name she’d learnt was Tamersane.
Upon a strange whim she stood, reached over him and placed a soft warm kiss on his lips. He didn’t stir. Teret grinned evilly and drained her mug. She returned minutes later, checked Tamersane’s wound, and satisfied, tossed a blanket over him. Then she wandered off and wrapped her lean small body in her cot and blankets. Within minutes Teret was asleep.
Chapter 7
Tigers and Hares
“It was a dragon. Now shut up and let me think.” Zallerak was seated on a cold flat rock overlooking a steep gorge lined with ancient beeches. Prince Tarin stood with arms folded staring at the rushing river far below, his eyes bleak and his lip set in moody obstinacy.
A few yards to the right, Bleyne the Archer gazed across at the southern rim of Beechborn Forest. The autumn leaves had gone now, and the trees stood stark and wuthering, like grim sentinels watching them from the north. Two days had passed since the horror on the Fallowheld. Nobody had spoken about it much until now.
But now Tarin wanted answers. He’d only just recovered from his argument with Corin an Fol. Then the terror and fury on the Fallowheld had rendered him silent for the last two days. Two days in which Zallerak—crowish and grim—had urged Tarin down from that bleak hill and onto the Great South Road, which they had kept to until reaching the forest today.
Bleyne had scanned Fallowheld’s flanks for signs of Corin and Tamersane. He’d also looked for the missing horses to scant avail; the beasts could be miles away by now. He had found boot tracks down at the northern base of the Fallowheld where clumps of pines led up to the first great mountain comprising The High Wall. One man—most likes Corin judging by the size of the feet.