Then he left.
And she left, too, in the other direction, plunging into the warm water, splashing, wading a few more steps before her knees finally gave way. One hand splayed against the hardness of the rippled sand, the other fumbling with her belt. The furious desire surged through her, and it took only a few flicks of her finger to find release.
After, she sat in the deep pool of water for a long time, naked, the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet wrinkled—her soaked clothes lying in a heap on the shore. The waves pulled her gently to and fro, lapping against her shoulders. The impassive stars above, never judging, reflected in the blackness below. As close to peace as she could get.
“Guess you forgot to ask him about the location of the Blade.” Owen’s voice rang softly out behind her.
She didn’t turn around. “Guess I did.”
Owen snorted.
“You suck at seduction. Come on, get out. I brought you some dry clothes and saved you some dinner.”
“Is he there?”
Owen hesitated.
“No. He—he left. To meditate. Probably. He didn’t say.”
Nora rose from the warm water into the cold air. Owen held out a large cotton rag he had found in her belongings, looking down to give her some privacy. Her body was steaming in the chill, but she couldn’t feel it. As she pulled on the dry clothes, a kiss of ice landed on her lips and melted. She touched it and looked up once more into the dark skies above, as though up there was an answer.
“Nora?”
She turned to meet Owen’s gaze. Snowflakes crowned his dark hair.
“I think I know how to save Shade.” He swallowed.
She touched her fingers to her blade.
“Tell me.”
Chapter 9
The snow fell in large flakes, slow at first, then swirling as the wind picked up again. The dawn took hours to break, and around them in the half-light, all was white. Except the water. Through the heat from the innards of the earth, it remained warm and black. In some patches, the gray mud bubbled and belched noisily when they passed, the soft, lumpy wetness sucking at their naked feet.
“Feels like walking through shit,” Garreth rumbled.
“And how would you know?” Bashan replied. “Ever walked barefoot through warm shit?”
“My dad was a cattle herder. And a poor one. No shoes for us kids. Lots of warm shit, though.”
Bashan grunted.
“It’s cold,” was all he said.
He was right. It was cold. The wind tore at their bodies, tiring them all to exhaustion after only a few hours. They hadn’t made much progress, Diaz noticed, as he spotted the Three Fingers to the north. He had hoped to pass the three standing stones before noon. They marked the innermost ring of the wight territories. Their company had come deeper into these lands than any human in a generation of men. Diaz bunched up his shoulders, expecting an arrow shot from behind any moment. After last night’s disaster with Nora… He sighed.
It was nearing midday. The stones would give some shelter. He risked a look back to where Nora was floundering next to Owen. She had draped her extra furs from the Shrine of Hin about her shoulders, a scarf across half of her face and her hood pulled deep down over her head. Everything was speckled with white. If they each lay down on one of the snowcapped islands, they would be indistinguishable from the landscape. Steam rose from the water; snow blinded them from above. If the snowstorm kept intensifying, even Diaz might lose his way. Best halt at the stones. At least until the snow calmed down once more. It was as good a place as any to make a stand before a patrol, or two. However, Diaz had made out at least three patrols following at a distance. Each patrol consisted of three or four warriors. If the small company were lucky, they would be killed quickly, expertly, with a swish of an arrow, unseen until too late, or a swift blow with a blade, unstoppable. If they weren’t lucky, well…there were ways to inflict pain on a man and make it last for days.
Diaz led the way, the others trailing in his rippling wake. He made for the stones. The problem with an ambush by a patrol was that the others wouldn’t be able to react quickly. The wind made an agony of their exposed fingers within moments. He urged swiftness, wanting to feel the stones against his back before the sun set. The shallow water offered no cover.
Snow crunched under his foot as he finally stepped up onto the island’s shore. The cold numbed his feet in an instant. He pulled his boots on, waiting for the others to catch up, the wind keening through the gaps of the black stones. He turned, looking out for the others as they bumbled on, blundering through the water. The wind rose, throwing snow in their eyes like a child with a tantrum. In the corner of his vision, Diaz saw a black speck move. He whipped his head around, sword unsheathed and ready.
Bashan yelled as an arrow shaft buried itself in the ground just before his bare foot. He jerked his hand up, signaling the others to stop in the water. They crouched low instinctively, casting about for an attacker. In the snow flurry, Diaz could just make out a few figures surrounding them.
A black shape stepped out from between the stones, like a vengeful apparition born of the raging snowstorm.
“Sheath your sword, half man. You are outnumbered and outmatched.” The wight spoke muffled through the scarf across his mouth. Two more warriors appeared next to the first.
“We come in peace.” Diaz sheathed his sword to show he meant it.
“I know it, or else we would have killed you a week ago and drowned your corpses in the bog. Come closer, half man, and we will discuss how you may continue your journey.”
Diaz walked over to meet them, and the three warriors moved closer, too. They stopped about half a dozen paces from each other.
“Throw your sword down to the ground and any other weapon along with it.” The leader was a tall man even by wight standards. He pulled his scarf down to talk freely. A captain of the five patrols behind him—his tattoos told Diaz as much. Even in this snow, most of the warriors wore short-sleeved leather tunics lined with fur, hooded against the wind, and leather leggings. No shoes covered their feet. Only the black of their eyes showed in their shadowed faces.
“You may come here and take them,” Diaz said, not flinching.
The tall captain tossed his head back. Even his cheeks had been tattooed. His skin was a shade of olive, hairless head marked with blue runes in intricate swirls, flourishes of the sort Diaz had only ever seen on the Western Isles of the wight territories. This captain was far from home. His two companions, however, were directly from Gimmstanhol, now only three days’ travel away.
“Your name and business.”
“I am Telen Diaz, pilgrim master, Guardian of the North, son of the Seven Stones tribe, of Aellen by his human wife Neris. My business is simple: I wish to see my father.”
The captain cocked his head, regarding Diaz from head to toe once more. “Son of Aellen, eh?”
“Yes. What is your name?” Diaz asked.
“Can you not read the runes, half-breed?” the warrior on the left sneered.
“I can, Forid, son of the Harefield Clan by Ilkah, warrior of the Ice, but I was being courteous.”
The captain grinned as the wight named Forid scowled at Diaz.
“I need not introduce myself, then, when you can read us all so well. Call me Rakan, Master Telen. Why are the humans with you?”
“Why are so many patrols with you? We are a company of six. We pose no threat.”
“I asked you first, Master Telen.”
“These humans are my travel companions. One is the prince of the Kandarin Empire. He wishes to present his greetings to the High King. There was once an alliance between wights and men. He wishes for it to be remade.”
“Does he now?” Rakan gave him a dangerous smile.
“They carry weapons, these degenerate travel companions of yours,” Forid hissed. “Second-born upstarts, sons of slaves. Do you bring a new wife for your father?”
“Forid.” Rakan warned off
his man, who ground his teeth but fell silent. For now.
Diaz shrugged off the defamation. It was harder not to look at Nora behind him. He was glad she couldn’t understand what was being said. It was a tricky enough situation without her throwing punches.
“We live in dangerous times and travel through dangerous places,” he said. “If you speak Moran or Kandarin, perhaps we can switch into that language so that they may understand what is being said.”
“A pig’s language.” Forid spat at Diaz’s feet.
There was always one, Diaz sighed inwardly. So many Forids, of different name, perhaps, but with the same sense of self-assurance, of superiority. The elder race, the firstborn. They were always young, cocky, and headstrong. Once, three had held Diaz down and punched him bloody when he was but twelve years old. Half-breed. Second born. Later, when on patrol, he had to dodge two friendly spears and had by luck missed an arrow to the back. These same Forids who made it a point to fuck the human whores when they went down the Wightingerode into Moorfleet or Dernberia for trade. Diaz shared a knowing look with Rakan, who blinked solemnly. The wight captain chose to ignore his man, so Diaz did likewise. It was all a test, his father had told him. Always. See how far the half man can be pushed. Well, he would be on guard, and he would tell the small company to be on theirs, too. Especially Nora. Though, he thought wistfully, maybe he should not be the one to tell her.
“Master Telen, son of Aellen, to see your father, you must speak to the High King.” Captain Rakan came to a conclusion. “Call your companions closer, and we shall grant you safe passage through to Gimmstanhol, accompanying you. If they step out of line, we will kill you all. Understood?”
Diaz assented, turned, and waved the company forward. Bashan surged out of the water, the rest following; thankfully, all hands were in plain sight and not filled with weapons. Only Owen grasped the shaft of his spear tight, but he was using it as a walking stick through the water and sinking mud, and he had carved the rune for the pilgrim order into it before they left the Temple of the Wind, so no one took it from him. Next to him, Nora met the eyes of the wights around her levelly, without a trace of fear. Rakan waited for them all to slip on their boots.
“This is Captain Rakan, leader of five patrols, most of which we don’t see here but are present. He has graciously decided to allow us through to see the High King,” Diaz explained to Bashan.
“Excellent.” Bashan bowed low before the wight captain. “We are indebted to you, Captain.”
Rakan followed suit.
“Allow me”—Diaz switched to wightish—“to introduce to you Prince Kiriath Jearimbashan, rightful heir to the throne of Kandar.”
“Prince of men, you may follow us.” Rakan spoke without accent in the Kandarin tongue. “We will guide you to Gimmstanhol if you seek an audience with the High King. But be warned. The last of your kind came bringing death, and we have not forgotten. Do not expect a warm welcome.”
Bashan bowed again.
“Your mother must have been quite a warrior, then,” he muttered to Diaz from the corner of his mouth.
“She was a pilgrim scholar. He was talking about your forebear Kandar and the war against the Living Blade.”
“I know of no war between Kandar and the wights.”
“Kandar decimated the tribes by means of the Blade after he slew Hin.”
“Ah, I see.” Bashan forced a smile. “This is going to be a rather strained diplomatic affair then, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Rakan gestured for them to follow him. “Master Telen, Prince, you will follow me. Stray from our path just a little and you will die.”
Diaz nodded, while Bashan bowed his head in acquiescence.
“Bastard Diaz, whelped of a human bitch, has already strayed.” Forid also spoke Kandarin, although it was a pig’s language.
The words rang loud, carried on the stiff wind. Diaz exchanged another look with Rakan. This time, the wight captain shrugged and stepped back. He was placing the responsibility of whatever would follow on the two opponents. Always a test. Diaz stared at Forid, taking in the way his upper lip curled up in a sneer, how his ears stood out from his unpatterned bald head, his thumbs tucked through the loops of his belt. He caught the wight’s eyes exploring Nora’s body with a smirk, and his vision blurred. In a flash of silver steel, Forid’s throat was slit. Astonished, he held up a hand to his neck, as though needing to grasp what was happening, before falling to his gurgling death. Diaz flicked the dark blood from his sword, spattering it into the white, and sheathed it once more.
Rakan held up his hand quickly, so that none of the other warriors, seen and unseen, loosed their arrows at the humans.
“You are fast, Master Telen. A warrior like your father.”
“He had a choice, though I regret having to take your man’s life.” Well, it was nearly true. Philosophically.
“May his death be marked on his own skin when Lara takes his hand on the silent road,” Rakan intoned. “However, you will find many who share Forid’s attitude in Gimmstanhol, and not all of them can fall under one man’s sword, regardless of how fast he wields it. If I am to lead you there, you must abide by my side in peace.”
“I understand, Captain Rakan.” Diaz held out his sheathed sword, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rakan took it with an inclination of his head. “Though I hope the rest of your men are more…honorable?”
“They are. And they are now warned, which is even better. Come now. Your humans must step into the shelter of the stones before they drop dead of cold.”
So Diaz followed, and the rest of the company, too. He kept a watchful eye on his sword, now dangling from Rakan’s hip. Not that it mattered. He still had two daggers, various throwing knives, and should need press him, two good hands. Wights might be hardier, more accustomed to the harsh weather conditions, more enduring, longer lived—but what was seen could not be unseen. And all, wights and humans, had seen Forid die beneath a half-wight’s blade, not even a hand on the hilt of his own weapon. The snow covered his body already, and soon it would be fully gone from sight, beneath receptive soil that never gave up what it once pulled down.
* * *
The snow abated as they drew closer to Gimmstanhol, now a much larger company, though Rakan had sent two patrols ahead with the message of their arrival. The wight captain spoke little and constantly checked the white line of the horizon, always on the watch, always checking the borders. Habit, Diaz thought. He walked next to the tall wight, trudging on through the gray days, suddenly feeling shorter and younger in years again. It was strange to have to look up at someone when they spoke. Among men, this never happened to Diaz, as he always stood higher than anyone else. He had been among men too long. On the road that led far away from home. As though Rakan could read his mind, he spoke up when they were but a few miles away from Gimmstanhol.
“How long since you have been to Gimmstanhol last, Master Telen?”
Diaz calculated.
“Fifty-three years now. You?”
Rakan grunted and scanned the horizon once more.
“We’ve been on patrol for three years in the marshlands. It will be good to be home on leave for a few months.”
“I see. You bringing five patrols had little to do with my companions’ small threat, but a lot to do with your returning home?”
“Yes.”
They walked on a few paces, silent again, both comfortable with it, not masters of small talk.
“The High King has summoned most of the patrols back. He wants tighter security closer to home when the tribes gather. He reckons there will be…some disturbances.”
“He is gathering the tribes in winter? Why?” Diaz frowned.
Spring and autumn were the usual times for a summoning of the Wort, a gathering of the tribal chieftains and their main warriors at Gimmstanhol to discuss politics, hear disputes, elect the next High King, and in general just show an interest in the goings-on of the wight peoples scattered across the world. Some
High Kings had called in a gathering to observe annual celebrations together in a show of unity. Others, with a thirst for blood, had called in a Wort to lead assaults on the human-infested lands, to take back what the wights called the Lost Lands. Diaz didn’t remember Korrin, who had reigned as High King the last time the half-wight had been home, as one of the war-mongering types, though. Maybe Korrin wasn’t even alive anymore.
After all, Diaz had been gone quite some time. Things could change. And often did.
“He is expected to choose a queen from among the daughters of the chieftains of the Grim Oaks, the Red Marsh, or the Hounds,” Rakan explained. “A strained diplomatic affair, your prince said? He was right. There will be lots of diplomacy, lots of competitions and revelries, and a lot of fighting going on in between. Split lips, bloody noses, maybe even a few dead.” Rakan paused, then added: “Like Forid.”
Diaz’s frown deepened. Bringing in a group of humans when tribes of warriors were swarming Gimmstanhol was…very bad timing. Many potential Forids there, looking for trouble, already annoyed with the close vicinity of other tribes seen as rivals, pent-up energy, and women present to make the young wights strut around, rattling weapons like they meant it. He groaned inwardly, his stomach churning. But how could he have known this? He walked on, steady paced, across the unending whiteness, wondering if the Seeress had already seen this predicament in vision. Had she laughed at each step he took toward his supposed freedom? Had she known and kept quiet, foreseeing his death, or a dying by degrees until each of them would be willing to die to remake the Blade as a welcome release? He saw her cold smile in his mind’s eye and his chest ached. His and Bashan’s plan had been to make a brief excursion to the Seven Stones tribe to meet up with his father on a token visit before carrying on northward in secret to the location of the dormant Living Blade. But Diaz’s father would likely be here at Gimmstanhol now, as chieftain of the small Seven Stones tribe. It would be far harder to leave Gimmstanhol with the extra security. The ghost of Suranna’s laughter echoed in his thoughts. The chill of a sudden gust of wind felt like her fingers scratching over his tight stomach.
On the Wheel Page 12