by JW Webb
“What happened to you?” Shallan was struggling for breath in the cold. “It were though a huge bear had taken your place. Barin, who are you?”
“A victim of spell craft. I’d sooner not talk about it.” Shallan said nothing further as Barin gained his feet and shakily reclaimed Wyrmfang and stowed the mighty axe back in his belt loop.
“So,” he said. “A troll. Who’d have believed it?”
“Caswallon?” Shallan wrapped her blanket around her shivering body. She felt utterly exhausted.
Barin shrugged. “I don’t know. Trolls were rumoured to exist when I was a lad. Way up beyond the Forest of Enromer in Leeth. No one I knew had ever seen one, let alone this far south. But days grow darker, Shallan.”
They rested that morning, allowing the winter sun to warm their aching bones. Miraculously no one was badly injured. Taic had a sprained ankle, Sveyn a clicking jaw and cracked lower rib. Zukei sported a long nasty looking slice under her left eye, which she insisted was nothing despite it still bleeding. And Barin had his broken nose and a mournful expression.
“I can fix that,” Zukei grinned at him.
“Er, no…I’d rather you didn’t.” Zukei pounced on Barin before he could grumble further. She slapped her left palm against the crooked bridge of his nose whilst ramming a knuckle into the other side. There came a nasty crunch.
“Fuck!” Barin’s eyes crossed and ran water for a moment then cleared. “That hurt!”
“You will mend.” Zukei left him to look at Taic’s ankle.
“Hello gorgeous!” Taic winked at her.
“Oh shut up,” Zukei replied.
They rested until midmorning and then ventured back out onto the road. Glancing back, Shallan saw large birds circling the skies a mile away. Doubtless buzzards waiting to feast on her unfortunate countrymen below. Those birds left the troll corpse well alone. Some things were too foul even for carrion.
Their progress was slow. Taic limped and Sveyn was hurting, but by nightfall they reached a high place shouldering the mountains.
“I know this spot,” said Barin who had travelled this road in his youth. “We’re only a day from the city now. The road starts descending after this, before climbing and then immersing in a wood. Beyond that lies Car Carranis.”
The following morning, Shallan shrugged free of her blanket and gaped at the stunning panorama. Away north, the glint of water hinted at the Gulf of Leeth, and to the west patrolled the dark hills of northern Kelthaine and the faint glimmer of what must be the River Falahine threading north to Vangaris. Southward, the road was lost beneath stone and woods. Beyond these a single tower pierced the morning sky. Car Carranis. Their destination was in sight at last. They reached the rear gates at dusk. But it was morning before anyone came to open them.
Chapter 9
A Fork in the Road
“How far is it?” Corin leaned forward in his saddle and patted Thunderhoof’s neck; the big horse was sweating despite the chill. Ahead and to their left, the great slopes of The High Wall reared majestic. All about them a blue-sky day lit fields and woods to honey brown. Rorshai seemed a fair country, mostly comprising pastures, small woods and shallow valleys where tinkling rock-strewn streams hurried down from the mountains.
“We shall arrive ere nightfall if we keep up this pace.” Olen’s sharp eyes glanced at Corin. “How fares your horse?”
“He’s knackered like me, but we’ve been through worse.”
Olen grinned. “I dare say.” It was the second day since the stand-off with the Anchai. The Red Clan rode a mile west, the hard-faced Arami setting the pace. Now and then he steered close and glared at Olen and Corin, Olen would raise hand in greeting and Arami, frosty-eyed, would turn away.
Last night they had set up rudimentary camp by a stream, the Anchai keeping their distance, but staying close enough to eavesdrop. Olen had paid them scant heed. Instead he’d asked Corin about the days the Longswordsman had spent down in Permio—a country he’d heard much of but had never seen.
“We Rorshai are not travelers; we keep to ourselves. We are few in number and our country far ranging. That said, I myself have journeyed far.” Olen had told Corin about the Seeress and his discovery east across the plains.
“Ptarni?” Corin had heard the name somewhere before, and he was alarmed of Olen’s account of the warriors he’d seen. Just what they needed—more enemies. He’d slept fitfully that night, half expecting a recovered Sulo, or else the hostile Arami to emerge out the dark and stick a knife in his throat. Corin was happy to see the sun rise that morning.
They rode until noon, then stopped by a stream where the horses drank and the rival clansmen sat their beasts glaring at each other. A few dismounted and washed their faces in the stream. Corin shrugged off Thunder’s back and went scrambling for some dewy grass, up by a pasture where it grew long and lush.
He had a full armful and was about to turn back when a shadow crossed his path. Arami sat his horse with bow in hand and blue gaze hostile. “You are a confident bastard, straying from the camp.” Arami nocked an arrow to his bow. Corin watched him in silence. Arami grinned, then he leant back in the saddle and arced the bow skyward. He pulled back and released. Corin watched the arrow disappear into the sky.
“You might want to move,” Arami smiled at him.
Corin smiled back. He counted: one, two three, four, five and a half. He dropped the grass and slid Biter free from his belt in one fluid motion, at the same time stepping backwards, then slicing hard from left to right, splitting Arami’s arrow shaft in two.
Arami stared at Corin in amazement as the northerner slammed Biter back in its sheath and knelt to scoop up the grass. “You, laddie, are not in my league,” Corin told him. “Now if you don’t mind, my horse is hungry, so piss off.” Corin wandered back to where Thunderhoof waited with his hooves in the stream. “This is good shit,” Corin told him and Thunder snorted.
“That was rash.” Olen joined him. The Kaanson had been consulting with his closet men when Corin had slipped away. From a distance, he and his companions had seen what happened. Behind their leader the men gazed at Corin in awe and not a little admiration. There were looks coming from the Anchai too. Corin grinned; he liked making an impression.
“You have some skill with a blade,” Olen said. “But that could have gone wrong rather easily. Arami doesn’t fuck about.”
“Neither do I,” Corin told him. “And I’ve no time for tosspots trying to prove themselves to their men. If that young twit pulls another stunt I’ll slice him open like a sack of meal. I’ve a war to fight and a lady to find.” Corin hadn’t mentioned Shallan before, and Olen’s eyes widened with curiosity. “I’ll tell you later,” Corin said.
Olen was right. As the sun sank crimson behind The High Wall, the land levelled ahead and a wide open plain spread across to an outthrust of the mountains, running east for over seventy miles. “That’s The Long Fend,” Olen announced, pointing north at the dark slopes blocking the horizon. “A spur of The High Wall, it protects our country from what lies beyond.”
“And what is that?” Corin wondered, but Olen shook his head and would say no more on the matter. Instead he guided his horse left and followed the road toward a deep cleft where the spur met the mountain chain.
“The Delve lies ahead.” Corin saw that the Anchai had picked up their pace and were cantering forward away from the Tcunkai. “They want to get there first, spread the good news.”
“Hadn’t we better catch up?”
“No rush, the Council won’t receive us until tomorrow. So tonight we can get drunk and fuck around.”
“Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” Corin didn’t like the idea of getting drunk amongst a bunch of headhunting Anchai.
“Oh, it’s what we do at the Delve. And don’t worry, fighting is prohibited amongst the clans within the compound surrounding the Delve.”
“I suppose that’s good.” Corin urged Thunder pick up his pace as the other riders began trotti
ng towards the approaching wall of mountain ahead. “But what if some rash fellow like that Arami, or else another Soli decides to break the rules and stick a knife in you –or more likely me?”
“They won’t. And it’s Sulo, and yes, you will see him again. He’s not a quitter, that one. But we’re safe at the Delve, though not at the Council. The Council makes the rules, you see. They don’t like the clans scrapping, hence any such behaviour results in the felon being stripped, lashed to four horses, and then torn apart.”
Corin winced. “That’s a bit harsh.”
“Maybe so, but there aren’t any scraps. So, friend Corin, enjoy yourself this evening amongst the clans. Learn what you can about our people but keep your wits for the morning. The Council are tricky, and most won’t like you overmuch.”
“Nothing new there.” Corin patted Thunder’s neck. “Nearly grub time old chum.”
As light faded, they crossed the smooth flat plain, at last reaching the base of the mountains. Ahead Corin could see tents and what looked to be a big fence spanning across their path.
“The Horseshoe.” Olen told him that was the name of the fence, as it resembled a horseshoe in shape and curved out from the rock walls in a big half circle. “Everything within lies under the jurisdiction of the Delve.”
“So are we here?” Corin asked Olen as they thundered through the open gates, entering the stockade of tents and cluster beyond.
“No, this is the camp area for visitors, aides, and merchants. It’s where we’ll spend the night. The Delve itself lies ahead.”
“Where? All I see is rock?”
“Keep looking!”
And Corin did, and just as last light faded from the plain, he saw a huge flat ledge that appeared suspended in the sky two hundred feet above the camp they were now riding through. “The Delve.” Olen grinned at him. “That ledge leads to caverns where our sacred councils are held and the seers perform their rites.”
“How do we get up there—fly?”
“Don’t fret, there is a rope! Come Corin an Fol, these are the Tcunkai tents, reserved for my clan when at Delve. Here we will find sustenance and liquor. There are also wenches that might be interested in you, despite your appearance.”
“Just an ale and natter will do fine,” Corin said, staring at the ledge suspended off the mountain arm ahead. A rope to access that didn’t look promising. That night, Corin tried not to enjoy himself and also tried to stay away from the harsh white stuff which Olen told him was triple fermented yak milk of finest vintage. It tasted like venom. After his third glass Corin yawned, watching the wenches dance around the fire. Two months back he’d have been dancing with them. Not a pretty sight. But Corin an Fol had changed; he now knew his wenching days were over forever. He wasn’t sad, and it was still nice to look at the beautiful women for a while, at least until they all merged into one as his vision got muddy. Would that Tamersane were here though.
You are missing out, my friend.
***
Actually, as he currently viewed the situation, Tamersane wasn’t missing out at all. The young woman, Teret, though a tad grumpy and dour, was very attentive. Her looks were tolerable, Tamersane decided, and when she smiled (this did happen occasionally - in a fierce pole-cat kind of way), she actually looked quite pretty. She did possess a sharp tongue and had a slight odour of stale horse about her. She was some healer, though.
That first day, Teret had scraped Rogan’s vile ooze out of his wound. That had hurt but Tamersane hadn’t shown it. For some reason he wanted to impress this woman, though he had no notion why. She’d cleaned the wound up nicely and then applied some different stuff that had stung like shit. Again he hadn’t flinched—well, only a little bit. After that, she’d been checking his arm on the hour, pouring broth into his mouth, though he was perfectly capable of applying it himself, and chuntering in his ear.
Tamersane tried to remain affable, but his glib comments and witticisms were rewarded by grunts and shrugs and the occasional quizzical stare.
“You are an odd man,” Teret told him one time after she’d rubbed some fresh milky ooze into his wound.
“What is that stuff?”
“A mixture of yak urine, vinegar, and milk of magnesium.” Tamersane wished he hadn’t asked. “It will dry up your wound and enable swift recovery, as long as you let it rest and stop messing about like you always do.”
“I think you are very nice,” Tamersane had told her as Teret scratched her ear, glared at him, and stormed off to feed the cows.
Such was farm life. It didn’t do much for Tamersane. He’d watched folk (mostly women) passing to and fro, amid curt nods and brief comments. Behind him were tents, their canvas flapping in the breeze, whilst ahead the broad sweep of green fields melded into distant woods with The High Wall’s peaks parading beyond. It was a fine view, though chilly. Tamersane had asked to be put inside, but the healing woman had said the fresh air was good for him.
As he sat there and watched morning fade into afternoon, Tamersane let his mind wander. Off to the right, a group of boys were kicking some object back and forth and yelling. Now and then one of them would punch another in the face and a fight would follow. This would lead to intervention by one of the women and usually another beating to both fighters from said woman. The men strolling about seemed intent with purpose; most were middle-aged and wore stiff beards. All ignored Tamersane.
He gazed to his left where a stockade fence hemmed in yaks (ugly great hairy things), horses and cows, and the odd sheep bleating vacant. Chickens scurried and hopped about whilst sundry lazy dogs yawned in the sunshine.
Tamersane wondered what had happened to Corin; their parting and the ride here with Rogan was all a bit vague. Even dimmer was his recollection of what had occurred on the Fallowheld, before Corin had injured him.
A dragon, or something huge that looked like a dragon, had fallen upon them together with phantom Groil, one of whom had turned out to be Corin. After that, things were even more confusing: the fall and his pain, their wandering through those creepy woods. And then that grouchy weird old man—Feroda—Tamersane barely recalled the name. Following that, a race through a tunnel full of shadows and whispers. And now this lot. The Rorshai.
They seemed friendly enough in the main. Some of the children smiled at him and the odd young woman (and a few of the older ones) gave him sly appraisal. Tamersane just sat there, nodding off, waking up, grinning at everyone, then nodding off again. Evening saw Teret striding towards him with purpose and serious stare. She had been away much longer than usual.
“You awake?” Teret’s blue gaze appeared inches from Tamersane’s face.
“Yes, of course,” he blinked. “I was just going through things in my head. It’s been a busy few weeks. Nice to get a chance to sit and peruse.”
“Good.” Teret cast a critical eye at his arm. “That looks better. Now you need to sharpen up, stranger, for the Kaan has demanded your presence in his tent this evening.”
“The Kaan?”
“The leader of the Tcunkai Clan.” Teret looked at him as though he were stupid. “Olen’s father, my father too—though by a different mother.”
Tamersane wasn’t sure what to think about that. “What does he want with me?”
“To interview you, interrogate you—maybe torture you.” The slight twist of a smile hinted at a wicked sense of humour.
“That isn’t funny.”
“You need to shed those stinky clothes, ugh—you must have had them on for months. You can wash outside my tent. I’ll scrub you, make sure you’re respectable.” She beckoned him follow her to a small tent close by the cow shed.
“Toss those clothes outside the tent.” Teret pointed at the open flap. “You will find fresh ones inside. Go on…strip.” Tamersane just watched her in pensive silence.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s a bit exposed here,” he complained. “Can’t I go inside the tent to change?”
“I need to scr
ub you out here. Stop fussing and take off your clothes. I shall be back with hot water, soap, and bucket. I expect you to be naked when I return.” Teret stomped off toward the cowshed whilst, grumbling, Tamersane did as he was told.
She returned with another young woman. Both carried buckets, whilst Teret had some evil-looking brush in her left hand. They grinned at his nakedness. The other woman looked him up and down for way too long in Tamersane’s opinion. “Not bad, Teret—for a foreigner.”
“This is intolerable!” Tamersane felt his face redden despite the cold. And despite the cold he was aware of a bit of action below. Both women were grinning now.
“On your knees,” the other woman said. Tamersane closed his eyes and kneeled. He gasped as hot water engulfed his head and shoulders. Then the scrubbing began. To say it was ruthless was an understatement. Groil would have been gentler.
Tamersane was pink and sore when they left him to dry off and dress in the new clothes Teret had supplied. He was also acutely embarrassed, a new experience for him, and not one he’d want to repeat, particularly as not only Teret but her evil friend too had each spent several moments fumbling his privates in a most indecent way. These Rorshai women were shameless.
Teret appeared inside the tent. “Sorchei likes you,” Teret told him. “I wanted a second opinion, someone experienced, and Sorchei has been married over five years, whereas I am single.”
Tamersane blinked at her. Was he missing something? He was usually so smart around the fairer sex. “Oh, that’s good then,” he managed for want of anything better to say.
“She’s a second cousin,” Teret added as if that explained anything. “You ready?”
“Raring to go.”
Teret raised a brow. “Good. Then follow me!”
The woman led him through a maze of tents and corrals leading up to a rise where a larger tent, supported by four tree-thick poles paraded yellow in the breeze. It was the first time Tamersane had got a proper look at the camp called Morning Hills.