by Col Buchanan
Happy always struggled now on this portion of the coast road on their return journeys from Bar-Khos. The animal was getting too old for this work, but with the ongoing siege and the requirements of the army there was a shortage of heavy zels in Khos. So Reese only snapped the reins across his back more urgently, praying that this would not be the day he was finally unable to make it to the crest of the hill.
‘Well don’t just sit there!’ she scolded Los, lolling in silence beside her, thinking of games of Rash or women or whatever it was he thought about in the sly privacy of his own head. With a scowl her lover snapped from his reverie and jumped down from the cart to lighten the load.
‘Help him, will you?’ she called down at him, and he made his way up to Happy, where he took the zel’s bit to lead the old animal onwards.
‘Maybe it’s time you thought of buying a new zel,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Sell this old nag for meat. I’ll find us a new one for the right price.’
Reese scowled too, and in her coat and trouser-dress she jumped down with the reins still in her hands to walk alongside the cart. From there she fixed her stare on Los’s back, his oiled blond locks and fine cloak of marine blue ruffling in the sea breeze. ‘You’ll buy one stolen from the army is what you mean.’
‘So?’
Reese shook her head in exasperation. ‘Los, I’m not selling Happy for meat. He’s been with me since he was a foal. I practically raised him.’
‘Well if he doesn’t make it up this hill I can’t see that you have much choice in the matter.’
‘Go on, boy!’ she shouted through her teeth, and snapped the reins over the zel’s back with a crack. ‘Go on!’
Happy snorted steam through the wintry air and jerked his head up, started pulling with a little more certainty and vigour. A few more surging strides brought them to the crest at last where the road levelled off again, and a few more dragged up the wagon behind. Time enough to catch his breath, Reese thought as she tugged him to a stop, and the lathered old zel looked back at her with his brown eyes, snorted some more and flicked his tail as though to enquire what they were waiting for, no problems here. Silently relieved, Reese climbed back onto the seat while Los did likewise, the cart rocking on its suspension.
What did Los know anyway? she thought hotly by his side, not looking at him. A considerate lover he might be, but that was as far as his selflessness seemed to go in this world, no matter how many chances she gave him to show her otherwise. Los had no notion of what she spoke when she talked about Happy, and no way to grasp it. To him, it was a simple matter of money and cold reason.
To Reese, though, if you were going to use animals as your own personal labourers, like your own personal slaves even, then the very least you could do was treat them with the full dignity they deserved, with whatever kindness you could find in your heart for them.
*
‘Drink?’ Los asked with a grin, and refreshed himself with a sip of wine from his leather flask.
She answered by plucking it from his hand, and sampled some of the cheap, bitter wine with a wince before tossing it back at him.
Quiet today, Reese thought, picking out the isolated farmhouses dotting the rugged coastal landscape, spotting only the occasional wisp of smoke from their chimneys, over which the far mountains rose steep and tall from the sea.
She was glad to be away from the city and on her way home again. Swiping a lock of red hair from her face, Reese twisted on the seat to look back at the broad delta of the Chilos, the sacred river flowing out into the chapped waters of the Bay of Squalls under a haze of thin mist. A flock of white spearbills wheeled over the delta towards the bay, their red-tipped wings curving through the air. Beyond them the city of Bar-Khos was a smudge on the horizon, where smoke rose lazily from the Shield on the Lansway, and rose too from the cremation pyres of the countless thousands who had fallen defending them.
An air of foreboding had filled the streets of the city during their morning spent there selling potcheen. Dirty faces, hungry and desperate, watching the endless lines of wagons carrying the dead from the Shield. Widows wailing in grief. Children dumbfounded and strangely still.
Too much for Reese, she had found. Too many reminders of all she had lost herself.
Bored, Los was tapping his heel against the driving board in rhythm to some taverna song he liked, staring off into nothing, disconnected from it all.
‘Rain coming,’ she told him, looking off at the dark clouds rolling in from the north.
‘Better get moving then,’ he said and took another quick drink.
They set off once more at a gentle gait, riding the racket of the cart along the quietness of the coastal road while Los protested that they should hurry, never mind if the zel was tired. It seemed to annoy him, her insistence on going easy on Happy. As though she was choosing the zel’s wellbeing over his own.
‘If you’d do as I keep saying and move to the city with me, we wouldn’t have to travel all this way every time.’
She scowled at this handsome man ten years younger than herself. ‘And what would I do for a living? Sit on your lap making you look good while you lose more of our money at Rash?’
‘Hey, everyone has their losing streaks,’ he protested. ‘At least we’d be safe there.’
Safe, she reflected with her shoulders tensing from the distant cannon fire on the Shield, knowing that he only wanted to be close to the tavernas and whores of the city.
‘I’m not moving to Bar-Khos, Los, that’s final. The cottage is the only home that I know.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘I will.’
‘Do that then.’
She sighed with resigned sadness, looking out at the empty landscape around them, at another farmhouse boarded up and deserted, its occupants already fled to the city.
‘You’re ten years too young for me, Los, that’s the truth of it.’
‘Nonsense, I’m in my prime and so are you.’ And as he spoke he lowered the tone of his voice, just enough for it to matter. ‘You’ll be thinking differently, after we get home and out of these dusty clothes.’
Gently he brushed his fingers down the nape of her neck. Reese wore a cream blouse beneath her winter coat, and it was unbuttoned in her usual fashion to show off her cleavage. Los had been glancing all day long at her curves and grinning when another man did the same, working himself up for what he imagined was to come later. Now, alone at last, he trailed his fingernails over the goosebumped skin on display, then turned the hand and slid it down under the soft cotton, cupping her left breast.
It reminded her of Cole, the way that he touched her. And maybe, when all was accounted for, that was the only reason why she put up with him. That and the fact that she loathed to be alone.
Today she had no passion for her lover, however, felt nothing stirring within her at his touch. She was so indifferent in fact that she allowed him to carry on without responding, for at least she was warmed by the cup of his hand and the close press of his body.
‘I want you,’ he breathed into the nape of her neck, kissing her gently.
Sighing inwardly, Reese tilted her head back to look up at the darkening sky while he nibbled on her neck and squeezed harder, whispering into her ear as he held her closer. But a sudden whinny from Happy interrupted him, the zel responding to the sound of hoof beats ahead of them on the road.
Startled, they both looked up to see riders approaching, soldiers wearing the red cloaks of Guards. Los muttered and drew his hand away while Reese hastily buttoned up her coat.
With jingles of harnesses and armour the soldiers reigned in next to them, their zels noisily spewing steam.
‘Reese,’ declared one of the riders with a nod, and she looked closer at the bearded face beneath the helm and saw that it was Anon, an old friend of her husband from his earliest days in the siege. She hadn’t seen the man in years. ‘You look well,’ he told her with his blue eyes glimmering, and shot a glance towards Los.
> ‘Is there news, Anon? You seem in a hurry.’
‘Aye lass, we’re advising everyone east of the Chilos to evacuate to the city at once.’
‘They can’t be so close yet, surely?’
‘Some advance forces are crossing the Storm river. We’re hearing reports of Mannian scouts and slaver parties to the north of here. Looks like they might be pressing for the coast.’
‘Sweet Mercy,’ she exclaimed and looked about her. Suddenly the mood of the familiar land was a different one, stark and ominous.
‘Can you hold them off?’
The jerk of his head said unlikely, but his mouth spoke otherwise. ‘We’ll certainly try.’
Los was studying the dying light in the western sky. ‘We’d better pack what we can and head back to the city tonight.’
‘I’d advise it,’ Anon told him with a nod, and his zel was jittery beneath him like the rest of them, sniffing and snicking over Happy as Happy did the same.
She saw how tired the riders were, how eager they were to be in from the cold.
‘Thank you,’ she told Anon and coaxed Happy onwards again, offering a brief smile to the man. ‘Stay safe.’
He nodded in farewell then took a final glance at Los. The soldier had been a close friend to Cole, back when they had both been Specials. Perhaps he thought she should live the rest of her life in mourning, pining alone over the husband who had run out on her and their son.
In silence, Los stared back at the departing riders.
He turned to Happy and shouted, ‘Come on, boy!’ then clicked his tongue even as Reese did the same, setting them off again. Together they watched the north ridgelines as though a raiding party was about to come over the nearest one at any moment.
‘I told you this would happen,’ he growled at her more than once.
Reese ignored him, settling her focus on the road ahead. She lashed the reins across Happy’s back, not sparing him now. They were going along at a good clip when the sidetrack appeared to their left and Happy took it without guidance, the shod wheels of the wagon sliding out along the dirt before it straightened again, the empty bottles rattling in a chorus of noise as they bounced up the dirt track through the trees and the tall stands of cane grass without slowing. Rounding the bend, Reese saw the cottage and realized she’d been holding her breath all this time, but her home was still there unmolested as they came to a rickety stop in the yard.
Mannians, so close!
Los’s face was tight with worry. His brows were knitted together in that way of his whenever he was thinking hard; always as though he was thinking for his life. Over his head the sky was dark with clouds now. Cold drops of sleet were falling all around them, though Reese had jumped from the cart and was unloading the crates of bottles before she realized the fact.
‘My sister-in-law will take us in,’ she called over her shoulder as her long hair grew wet against her head. ‘She already asked if we wanted to stay with them.’
No answer from him. Reese stopped what she was doing and wiped her eyes clear. She turned to see where Los had disappeared to. The front door of the cottage lay open.
‘Los!’
For some reason the hairs stiffened on the back of her neck. Reese froze where she stood in the falling sleet, seized by the curious sensation that she knew what was going to happen next. She couldn’t move, the feeling was so strong, couldn’t think.
Out he came some moments later, scattering the yard’s chickens from his stride. His old knapsack was on his back, stuffed too full to tie it closed.
Los threw up the hood of his cloak and strode past her without uttering a word. He didn’t even have the decency to meet her eye.
Now the mood of the land was a lonely one too.
‘Los?’
He strode for the cart without looking backwards.
He’s leaving you, came the dull thud of words in her head, though she already knew it; knew too that she had been waiting for this moment for a long time now. Desertion was always what Reese expected most of all.
‘You worthless bastard!’ she shouted at his back, rushing to the cottage even as she yelled out. ‘You keep your hands off that wagon or I’ll shoot you where you stand!’ She went in through the door and through the parlour into the kitchen. At once, she saw the floor-board removed in the corner next to the stove, and the small wooden box lying open and empty.
Huffing and puffing Reese rushed back out with her husband’s old scattergun in her hands, but Los was already riding away on the back of Happy.
‘You lying cheating bastard!’ she screamed as she broke the gun open and slotted a cartridge into place. ‘Bring that money back to me!’
He was trying to kick the zel to go faster, but old Happy was tired and barely trotting down the track towards the bend. She aimed the gun squarely at the man’s back.
Reese gritted her teeth together to see the deed through, but at the last moment she growled and swung the barrel straight up into the sky and pulled the trigger. The explosion knocked her back a step, and when she opened her eyes again the track was empty. They were gone.
You could trust no one in this life to stay around when the going got tough. Not your lover nor your husband. Not even your own son.
Reese Calvone screamed at the clouds over her head as the heavy sleet beat down hard against her face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
This Boy Kills
Far northwards the sleet was falling too in the Windrush forest. It slashed through the canopy loud enough to deaden the ears of the riders hunched in their saddles below, slowly following a track between widely spaced trees and mounds of snow, every one of them as cold and miserable and weary as their mounts.
Wrapped in her heavy feather coat, Shard the Dreamer gazed gloomily from beneath the brim of her travel hat, the same battered leather hat that she had worn all the way to the Alhazii desert and back. In her belt was her trusty Contrarè boneknife, which had once belonged to her father, light yet razor sharp.
Shard was having trouble remembering what they were supposed to be doing here in the great forest of the Windrush, for she was still soaring today despite the copious amount of cold tannis tea she had been throwing down her neck from her flasks. Since entering the forest Shard had been this way, barely able to sit in her saddle without feeling light-headed and dizzy. The rushes from the worm’s juices were intensifying. Not to mention the cramps in her abdomen, which had been steadily worsening until now she was almost doubled over by them, waves of pain strong enough that she gritted her teeth while she rode them out, barely able to speak or see through her smarting eyes.
The worm’s juices were eating at her insides, she suspected, just as she’d been told could happen by the old shamans of the deep desert if her body continued to reject it. This pain might only grow worse over time, yet there was little she could do about it here in the forest, save for nursing her hopes that the condition would settle down by itself, that the worm would be accepted.
Lightning seemed to flicker through the air of the cold day, coalescing in the corners of her eyes. It was hard to look at the falling sleet, all those streaks of motion dissecting the air. Shard rocked in the saddle with her head down under her hood, eyes nearly closed.
Shard, are you there?
She blinked, wondering if she was hallucinating again, but then the voice of her rook assistant repeated itself, clear and strong through the link of their farcrys.
Blame. Is that you?
Yes. Just checking in. How are you coping with the worm?
His concern brought a crease of a smile to her Contrarè features. For a moment Shard regretted leaving her assistant back in the city to oversee their rooking activities.
Coming on strong now. Nothing I can’t handle. Anything to report?
Yes. Some increased activity around our friendly farcrys. I think it’s Seech’s people. I’ve enlisted some help from the rooks at the Academy to keep communications open.
Good. Keep me inf
ormed.
Will do.
Anything else?
No. Just wanted to make sure you were fine.
Couldn’t be better. Speak later.
Yup.
Shard snapped the connection with the Black Dream and the living farcry belted around her waist stopped breathing so rapidly, returning to its dormant phase once more.
At least she could recall now what they were doing here. She tugged her hood back a little so she could see around her through the sleet. The forest seemed empty of human habitation, though she knew that was only an illusion caused by the vast space of the Windrush and the Contrarès’ famed skills of stealth. That morning they had come across the remains of a Mannian Purdah scout hanging head first from a tree, his body frozen stiff, including the awful sight of entrails dangling from his open stomach. The man had been hanging there weeks by the look of the carved signs of warning on the tree’s trunk.
Later that day with the odd flurry of snow drifting down through the trees, a Contrarè village halted the party in their tracks, a circle of huts on stilts standing in the silence of a clearing. It was obvious the village had been abandoned though, the people no doubt having moved deeper into the forest for safety. Sticks dangled on a rope from one of the platforms, lashed together in a seemingly random fashion, though they told where the people had gone to those who could read them, their own tribe.
Cautiously, the party circled around the stilted structures and carried onwards.
‘Where are they?’ Coya muttered with concern, ahead of her in the line. ‘I thought finding a Contrarè guide to lead us to the elders would have been the easiest thing of all.’
‘Give it time,’ Shard drawled thickly. ‘They’re out there.’
When she spotted a stand of mature cane grass, Shard cut down the thickest stem with her boneknife and banged it against the passing trunks of trees. The hollow stick cracked out through the dense forest in a simple rhythm she had learned from her father, who had rapped it out on the door frame every day he returned home, declaring his presence and his peaceful intent. She could only hope that the Windrush Longalla shared the same meanings of rhythm as their southern cousins in Pathia, her own people the Black Hands.