by Anthony Ryan
He frowned at her. “Is something wrong, Highness?”
◆ ◆ ◆
“You are mad, woman!” Sollis barked at Davoka. “This is your safe path?”
The mountain loomed ahead of them, slopes of black ash broken by huge boulders ascending to a summit wreathed in roiling smoke, lit by the occasional burst of orange fire accompanied by a vast rumbling that made the earth tremble beneath their feet.
“No other way,” Davoka insisted. She was busy divesting her pony of tack, throwing the saddle down the slope and freeing its head of the bridle. She gave the animal an affectionate scratch on the nose then slapped a hand against its rump, sending it trotting back along the ridge-top trail they had followed for the five days it had taken to get here. “Can’t take horses,” the Lonak woman said. “Slope too steep and they don’t like fire.”
“I don’t like fire,” Lyrna told her.
“No other way, Queen.” Davoka hefted her spear, shouldered her leather satchel and began to ascend without another word or a backward glance.
“Highness,” Sollis said, “Forgive me but I must advise . . .”
“I know, brother. I know.” She waved him to silence, watching Davoka ascending the ash slope with her long-legged strides. “Does it have a name? This mountain.”
It was Brother Ivern who answered. A much younger man than Sollis or the fallen Hervil, he had nevertheless acquired an impressive knowledge of the Lonak and their lands. “They call it the Mouth of Nishak, Highness,” he said. “Nishak being their god of fire.”
Lyrna took hold of her skirt, lifting it clear of the ash and starting forward. “Well, let’s hope he’s sleeping. Loose the horses, good sirs.”
But Nishak, it seemed, wasn’t sleeping today. Several times Lyrna found herself stumbling to her knees as the mountain shook, feeling a rush of heat as the summit belched fire into the sky. The air stank of sulphur and the ash made her cough to the point of retching, but she kept on, endeavouring to keep Davoka’s striding form in sight. Finally the Lonak woman paused to rest, sheltering on the cooler side of a boulder, taking a sip from her water flask as Lyrna collapsed beside her.
“This.” Davoka slapped a hand on Lyrna’s riding gown. “Too heavy, take it off.”
“I don’t have anything else,” Lyrna gasped and gulped water from her own flask.
Davoka opened her satchel and extracted a jerkin and trews of soft leather. “I have. Long for you, but I make them fit.” She laid out the trews for tailoring and drew her knife. “You strip.”
Lyrna glanced at the three men standing nearby, all studiously looking elsewhere. “If any of you turn, I’ll see you in the Black Hold,” she warned them.
Sollis said nothing, Smolen coughed and Ivern suppressed a chuckle.
Standing naked on the slopes of a volcano whilst a Lonak woman dressed her was one of the more bizarre experiences Lyrna could recall, made somewhat more awkward by Davoka’s frank words of appraisal. “Firm thighs, hips not too narrow. Good. Strong children you’ll bear, Queen.”
Brother Ivern snickered, earning a harsh rebuke from Sollis.
It was done within the hour. Princess Lyrna Al Nieren stood in Lonak clothing, ash staining her face and her unwashed hair hanging in a long greasy mass. Davoka had offered to shear it for her but she refused, tying it back with a leather thong which at least kept it out of her eyes. “How do I look, Lord Marshal?” she asked Smolen, knowing he was the most likely to lie.
“Glorious as ever, Highness,” he assured her with impressive sincerity.
“Brother!” Ivern called to Sollis, pointing down the slope.
Sollis shielded his eyes to take in the view. “I see them. About fifty, I’d say.”
“Closer to sixty,” Ivern said. “We have perhaps five miles on them.”
Lyrna followed their gaze, seeing a line of ponies making their way along the ridge. Sentar.
“Good,” Davoka commented, resuming her climb.
“Good?” Lyrna said. “How can this be good? We were supposed to lose them by coming here.”
Davoka didn’t turn. “No, Queen. We weren’t.”
Lyrna sighed, gathered her things and started after her.
◆ ◆ ◆
The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains by the time they reached the summit, a caldera fully half a mile across. Smoke rose in unending billowing columns and the stench of sulphur was so thick Lyrna had to fight her rising gorge. She risked a glance over the rim of the caldera, beholding a vision of roiling lava pools spouting gobbets of molten rock into the air, before the heat forced her back. Davoka sat a few yards below the rim, gazing intently at the sun as it descended below the jagged peaks to the west. Her gaze occasionally flicked to the dim shapes of their pursuers, a rising cloud of dust betraying their progress.
“Ready your bows,” she told Sollis and Ivern. “Might need to slow them down.”
“We’re just going to sit here?” Lyrna demanded. She had tried to keep her temper in check so far but the circumstances were fast eroding her self-control. “Shouldn’t we, perhaps, be moving on with all possible haste?”
Davoka shook her head, speaking in Lonak. “Nishak will kill us if we take another step. We must await his blessing.” She shifted her gaze to the sun again, waiting until it was fully concealed by the mountains, then closed her eyes and began to chant.
“Are you . . .” Lyrna sputtered and spat ash from her mouth. “Are you praying to your god? Have I followed you here and doomed myself and these men so you can seek aid from an imaginary magic man who lives in a mountain?”
Davoka ignored her, eyes closed and chanting.
Lyrna was tempted to shake the Lonak woman but realised it would most likely earn an angry blow which in turn would force Smolen to kill her, or at least try to. She could only stand and watch, fuming like the mountain they stood on, as darkness descended.
“She’s not praying, Highness,” Ivern told her, watching the Lonak woman with an intense curiosity. “She’s counting.”
“That’s three hundred yards by my reckoning,” Sollis said, eyes fixed on the Sentar below, bow in hand. The slopes were bathed in an orange glow, the mountain’s fiery breath reflecting from the smoke clouds. He took an arrow from his quiver and notched it, drawing and loosing with only the barest hesitation to fix his aim. Lyrna watched the arrow arc towards the cluster of pursuing Sentar, falling amongst them with little sign of having caused any injury or delay.
Ivern moved off to the left and both brothers began loosing arrows in a slow, deliberate repetition of notch, aim and release. Lyrna fancied she saw a brighter plume of dust rise from the onrushing Sentar which might indicate one or more had fallen. In any case, they showed no sign of slowing.
“I’m not to be taken alive, Lord Marshal,” she told Smolen.
Davoka stopped counting and rose to her feet. “Sentar don’t want you alive,” she said, then called to Sollis and Ivern. “Save your arrows. No need now.”
“So where is he?” Lyrna said, too tired and defeated to even feel angry. “Where is the great Lonak fire go—”
The mountain shook with a violence they hadn’t felt before, tipping them off their feet, a fresh blossoming of black smoke rose from the caldera and barely fifty yards below the summit molten lava erupted from a dozen different places. It gushed forth in glowing streams, flowing down the slope and coalescing into a great river of fire, the Sentar disappearing amidst the fiery current, the roar of the mountain drowning out the screams they must have voiced.
Davoka got to her feet, arms raised to bathe in the heat, reciting in Lonak, “At the count of two hundred and twenty past the fall of the sun on the third day of the sixth month, Nishak speaks and blesses the south face of the mountain. Know this and mark it well, for Nishak is the most generous of gods.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The descent of the north side of the Mouth of Nishak took most of the night. There was less ash on these slopes and Lyrna found the going easier, though the growing chill as they left the fiery warmth of the mountain behind made her pine for her heavy riding gown.
They made shelter on a narrow ledge snaking alongside the base of the mountain, a rocky overhang providing shelter from a fresh downpour. Davoka allowed their first fire in days, fashioned from the stunted gorse bushes that sprouted between the rocks. Lyrna kept as close to it as she could, too chilled to sleep. Davoka took the first watch as the men slept, the brothers in eerie silence, Smolen tossing fitfully. She sat on the lip of the ledge, long legs dangling over the sheer drop of more than a hundred feet, spear within easy reach.
“I regret my anger,” Lyrna told her through chattering teeth. “My words were foolish. I didn’t mean to insult your god.”
Davoka shrugged, replying in Lonak. “Your insult means nothing to Nishak. He has always been here. He will always be here. Whenever the Lonakhim have need of fire.”
“I-I’m sorry, also, for your . . .” Lyrna spasmed with cold and forced the last words out. “. . . sister. A death like that, is n-not to be wished on . . . anyone.”
Davoka turned to her, eyes narrowed in concern. She rose and knelt by Lyrna, taking hold of her hands then touching knuckles to her forehead. “Too cold, Queen.”
She shrugged off her fur vest, placing it around Lyrna’s shoulders then pulling her close, arms and legs wrapped tight around her. Lyrna was too weak to protest.
“My sister lives, Lerhnah,” Davoka whispered to her. “My sister who is not my sister. I feel it. She rages out there in the dark. She’s lost us for now, but she’ll find us soon. Whatever took her chose well, her skills are great indeed.”
“Wh-whatever took her?”
“It was not always this way with her. She was . . . never a warrior. A skilled huntress yes, Kiral means wildcat in the ancient tongue. She could track prey with such skill many thought she carried the gods’ blessing. But she never sought battle, not even against your kind.
“Then came the day she happened upon one of the great apes of the western hills. It was birthing season and they are fierce in protecting their young. Kiral was badly mauled. She lingered for days, seemingly beyond the shaman’s skills. The Mahlessa had given me leave to be at her side for the end. I sat and watched her until all breath was gone. She died Lerhnah, I saw it. It shames me but I wept for my sister, the only tears I have ever shed, for she was precious to me. Then she spoke, she was dead but she spoke, ‘Tears are not fitting for a Mahlessa’s guard.’ I looked into her eyes, her living eyes, and I did not see my sister there, nor have I since.”
“Will you . . . fight her . . . when she comes again?”
“I will have to.”
“Will you . . . kill her?” Lyrna’s head began to loll and her vision swam as exhaustion began to overtake her.
“No!” Davoka shook her, drawing a groan of complaint. “Can’t sleep now. Sleep now, won’t wake up come the light.”
Won’t wake up come the light . . . Would it really be so bad? What was she now in any case? Useless, childless, unwed sister to a foolish king, seeking proof of the impossible through this mad endeavour. Nersa died, Brother Hervil died. Why shouldn’t I?
“Lerhnah!” Davoka took hold of her face, shaking it, hard. “No sleep.”
Her head came up with a snap and she blinked, chill-born tears streaming from her eyes. “Do you love your husbands?”
Davoka’s face showed a momentary relief then she laughed. “That is your word.”
“What is the Lonak word?”
“Ulmessa.” Great and deep affection. Affection for one not of your blood.
“You feel this for them?” Lyrna asked.
“Sometimes, when they’re not doing the foolish things men do.”
“Years ago I felt it, all the time. For a man who looked at me and saw something vile.”
“Then he was a fool and you are well rid of him.”
“He was no fool, he was a hero, not that he knew it. We could have ruled the Realm together, he and I, as my father had ordained. It would all have been so very easy.”
“Your father was leader of all the Merim Her, was he not?”
“He was. Janus Al Nieren, Lord of Asrael and ruler by conquest of the Unified Realm.”
“Then why did you not honour his wishes? Take this man you wanted, be king and queen together?”
“Because I couldn’t kill my brother, as you can’t kill your sister.”
Brother Sollis stirred and rose, barely making a sound, pausing at the sight of a half-naked Davoka embracing the Princess of the Unified Realm.
“Queen is too cold,” Davoka told him. “Fetch more wood.”
◆ ◆ ◆
She had recovered enough by morning to stumble in Davoka’s wake as they reached a valley floor and continued north. She was aware the Lonak woman had slowed her pace and found her constant scrutiny disconcerting, as if she feared her charge would drop dead at any moment. Smolen and Ivern took turns helping, lifting her clear of streams and half carrying her when it seemed she was about to collapse. They rested more often today, brief but welcome pauses during which Davoka or Sollis would force her to eat the dried beef and dates the brothers carried, though her appetite seemed to have all but disappeared.
“She needs rest and shelter,” Smolen said late in the afternoon. “We cannot make her go any further.” There was an edge of panic to his voice and his gaze had taken on a certain wild-eyed cast.
“Do not speak for me . . .” Lyrna began then choked off as a coughing fit took her.
Davoka directed a questioning glance at Sollis. The Brother Commander gave a reluctant nod.
“Two or three miles that way,” Davoka said, pointing east with her spear. “A village. We shelter there.”
“Is it safe?” Lyrna croaked.
The guarded look in Davoka’s eyes as she turned away was answer enough.
◆ ◆ ◆
The village consisted of a few dozen stone-built dwellings contained within a solid wall. It sat atop a pear-shaped hill rising from the floor of a broad valley through which a fast-flowing river wound its way south. Davoka led them to a marker stone at the base of the hill where a rough gravel track ascended to a gate in the wall. She reversed her spear, resting it on the ground, point first, and waited.
“Which clan lives here?” Sollis asked her.
“Grey Hawks,” she responded. “Big hate for the Merim Her. Many Sentar come from Grey Hawk villages.”
“But you expect them to help us?” Lyrna asked.
“I expect them not to question the word from the Mountain.”
It was the best part of an hour before the gate swung open, thirty or more men on ponies emerging, descending the hill at the gallop. “Do not touch your weapons,” Davoka told the men as the Lonak party neared.
The rider at the head of the group reined to a stop a short distance away, holding up a hand to halt the other riders. He was a large man wearing a vest of brown bear’s fur and the most extensive tattoos Lyrna had seen yet, covering his forehead, neck and arms in a whirling confusion of unreadable symbols. He sat regarding them in silence, face impassive, then trotted forward until he loomed over Davoka. A war club and hatchet hung from his belt.
“Servant of the Mountain,” he greeted Davoka.
“Alturk,” she responded. “I require the shelter of your home.”
The big man guided his pony past Davoka and towards where Lyrna was slumped against the packs. She could sense the tension of Smolen and the brothers as they fought the impulse to reach for their swords.
“You are the Queen of the Merim Her,” the big man said to Lyrna in passable Realm Tongue. “I had heard you scarred the false Mahlessa. Now I see that to be a lie.” He
leaned forward in his saddle, dark eyes glowering. “You are weak.”
Lyrna forced herself to stand and fought down a cough. “I did scar her,” she replied in Lonak. “Give me a knife and I’ll scar you too.”
Something twitched in the big man’s face and he reclined in his saddle, grunted then turned his mount back towards the village. “My door is always open to the Servants of the Mountain,” he told Davoka before spurring to a gallop.
“You spoke well, Queen,” Davoka told her with grave respect.
“Next to history,” Lyrna replied, “diplomacy is my favourite subject.” With that she vomited before falling into a dead faint.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Reva
World Father, I beg you, do not deny your love to this miserable sinner.
Reva had chosen the topmost room in the house. In truth it was more an attic, the roof featuring a good-sized hole she had inexpertly repaired with some nailed-on boards. She sat on a small cot, the room’s sole furnishing, sliding her knife along a whetstone. The Darkblade was arguing with his sister downstairs, or rather she was arguing with him, voice loud and angry, his soft and soothing. Reva hadn’t known Alornis could get angry. Kind, generous, given to laughter despite her many troubles, but not angry.
The drunken poet was singing in the courtyard outside, as he often did when the hour grew late. She didn’t recognise the song, some sentimental doggerel about a maiden waiting for her lover by a lake. She had thought his fondness for song might have been stilled by the presence of so many onlookers, but if anything the crowd of wide-eyed idiots gathered beyond the cordon of Palace Guard only seemed to encourage him.
“Thank you, thank you,” she heard him say, no doubt offering a bow for their non-existent applause. “Every artist appreciates an audience.”
“Easy for you to say, brother!” Alornis’s shout came through the floorboards. “This is not your home!” A door slammed and Reva heard the drumming of feet on the stairs, making her eye the attic door in trepidation. Why did I choose one without a lock?