by Adrian Selby
It quietens after a while, Drogg working through his brandy and some pipes and singing softly to himself off away from camp.
I’ve led us for three days through the Gassies, or rather an Oskoro has. I haven’t said anything about that fact. We spent a few days out of Ablitch waist deep, roped and fighting the mud and reeds and roots tripping us, pulling at us. My black eye caught sight of a bright stone then, almost giving off its own light. I was about to point at it, for it shone like Aoig and appeared all of a sudden it seemed. Nobody else noticed it; indeed, Threeboots and Salia passed over it as we walked. I took it up, and closing my black eye it looked like a normal stone. Switching eyes, it shone near painfully. I’ve seen others since that first one, and they’ve led us true until today. I have no idea why the Oskoro are here and helping us. Can they sense another seed on me? I find it hard to believe. Maybe they think there’s still a debt to pay or I’ve earned their trust. Now, morning after Gravy was killed, I offer them thanks, sing softly over our burned fish and the scrawny ducks we caught, my back and body aching from the digging last night:
On sill and run, in bowls of tin,
You leave your gifts, our tree-blood kin.
With wool and iron, cheese and brin
The oath is honoured, tree-blood kin.
The drudha Yame catches on to it. She’s from the mountains of Western Farlsgrad. Seems they like to drink and sing there, which isn’t a surprise, land being all quarries of slate and mines, which makes brothers of everyone that goes underground together. She can’t get Salia to sing, nobody ever could. Heddirn and Threeboots are happy enough watching Salia do her Forms while the rest of us share some songs. Obvious to me now how fierce she’s been at it all these years, better than any instructor I’ve seen do them. I would join her, hoping she’d give me some instruction, but I’m cut up with a black mood so I’m packing bowls with Drogg, Gravy’s belt at our feet. I spend some time sitting with Drogg, saying I’m sorry. He’s soaked up on some brandy but he’s had a mix to settle him. I hope what’s happened don’t have a lasting effect.
I look over and see Ruifsen’s quiet. Preparing us the rubs for our bones and joints. He’s got good at waxing my eye. I squeeze Drogg’s shoulder and he nods as I leave him to go and sit with Ru.
“What’s up, Ru?”
“Girl needs taking down. She’s loyal, but she’s got some growing up to do.”
“Caryd? She’s right, as far as what’s needed here and now. We both have to keep a hood on it while we’re out here. Khiese is all that matters, but seeing you all brings Marola back and I couldn’t help it.”
He settles with that. I draw on the bacca and let the smoke roll up my face. We’ll be out of the Gassies tomorrow, I reckon. Crimore’s next. I hope to meet Jeife Seikkerson once more.
Crimore
“You need to sleep, Amondsen,” says Drogg. He’s just climbed the tree I’m perched in. The sun’s setting, but it’ll only make my black eye and this luta on the other eye work better.
“You can tell Nazz the walls aren’t guarded today either. Must think the camp is protection enough. Can you smell the boar and deer?”
“No, I can’t.” Might be that it’s the eye confusing my sight and smell, even sound, again. The eye sees the river running past the fort shining like silver and echoing like a thousand bells through the trees. The chatter of the men and women below in the camp are plucked strings. The soil is hissing, crackling where there are footsteps; the fires wheeze like old lungs. It feels like a glimpse into the world of the magists. Some call them gods, and how else might gods perceive things if not fully in the way I have only the merest hint of?
“Crimore’s feasting. We go in tonight. Talley should get the brews prepped.” I look at him, see the dismay. Faldon Ridge was his first brew in years. It was also the strongest by some way. Talley was taught well. “She’s a good drudha. We should make this, Drogg, if you’re as good with those javelins as that hammer. Should stop a few horses if the need shows.”
“I know we’ll make it. I am good with them, or Nazz wouldn’t have picked me, would he?”
“Well, no.”
He worked mines for years. Gives him a power that suits a hammer. I just wish he’d use an axe with some poison, but he obeys orders and doesn’t appear to think too much more than that.
“Did you see Khiese?” he says.
“Not today. He’s still there, in the fort.”
While we hadn’t known where he would be, it was a shock to scout Crimore ahead of going in and ending the Seikkerson line as Othbutter had commanded Nazz to do, only to find two hundred whiteboys camped outside the fort, their tents spread about either side of the main gates. We watched them for two days but it was yesterday I saw Khiese, walking down from the longhouse into the camp, Jeife with him. I can only think he’s massing a force for a push down to Carlessen lands. Port Carl’s too important if you have designs on taking Hillfast from the Circle side of it: crops, trade, a gate to Mount Hope and the Sar.
I follow Drogg back down the tree, careful and quiet, taking a slower, different route, covering more ground to ensure there was no scouts about. We wind our way up the hill, past the clearing we buried Crogan in to the thick woods beyond. I feel peaceful. Last week or so we been moving careful, separated into smaller groups, moving at night with luta, with rain to help us. We used some of the chalk from Faldon and got no trouble from those we did see in small theits that was Seikkerson-sworn Families.
At camp our factions are keeping themselves to themselves: Salia and Yame on their own, Agura together with Drogg, then Helsen, Cherry and Ru, then Nazz and the crew that was already on his scrolls, Threeboots, Heddirn and Caryd. All of them are preparing belts, getting their leathers on. Talley’s at the fire laying out the bowls, flasks, bottles and bags that she’ll build the fightbrew from.
Nazz stands to greet me as I walk into the midst of them.
“Tonight is good. There’s cloud, it’s dry.”
“You’ll go over the plan again?” I says.
“What do you think, Teyr?”
I shrug.
“Amondsen, can you mix this paste up?” says Talley.
“Aye. Helsen, want to help, seeing as you’re not needing leathers?”
“Of course, Master.”
We mix up the chalk that we’ll use to get to the camp. Helsen will be over the river, slinging the spore eggs in among the tents once he sees us go to work. He’s never taken a fightbrew, only dayers. He’s become a friend of Cherry’s of course, for they have at least in common the life that used to be working for me. I talked a good bit with him these last few days we was camped out and hiding. We both lost a keep, and we missed them. I was happy to let him talk about his, the years they’d had, the sorrow when she’d lost two before birth and could not face trying for a third. They had many years and he’d hoped to find a recipe to help a woman during her gravid term. But nobody has, and then she died one winter of wet-lung—come on quick and he had nothing could do much for it. He might have been called a cooker by Talley, no formal training in drudhanry, but his sketches on the scrolls he kept, his recipes, well, she wasn’t too proud to offer a lord’s ransom for his snuff recipe and always turned an ear on the rare occasions he spoke, seeing or smelling some flower, mushroom or weed and speculating on what use it might be. She won’t be too happy if she ever learns he’s left his book with Thornsen should something ever happen to us out here. It was his way of thanking me, he said, for how I was the only purse who hired him out of all the merchants in Hillfast who went to see his wife put in the land, to the tapestry. The choices have become easier, nobler and emptier now, he said.
Soon enough Nazz calls us together. Skin rubs are done, we’re chalked up, faces and hands, a single line under the right eye, left clean so we might recognise each other when it got messy.
“We talked this through yesterday, this morning, and I’m going through it again. There’s three points we attack the camp. Once it starts
, Helsen will be over the river putting spores about the tents before joining us when we’re in among it, so masks up. Talley will check your eyes are pasted right or you’re going to lose them.
“Me, Heddirn, Agura and Ruifsen go in one group, Drogg, Caryd and Threeboots another. Salia, Cherry and Teyr are leaving first. Count to a hundred before we set off, gives them time to get Teyr into a position to take a shot at the lookout at the top of the longhouse tower. She thinks she can make the shot with that black eye of hers, and the last few rabbits we ate are evidence of that. She’ll lead Cherry and Salia over the wall after Khiese and Jeife. We have to hope they find him and kill him before he takes a brew.
“We’re riding the packies in, me and Ruifsen—might look strange us all coming in on foot—but Threeboots, your crew will be nearest the horse pens, so Caryd’s going to shoot the horses while you both protect her. All of you, get the guards first, who’ll probably want you to identify yourselves anyway. The horses scritching will wake the valley so give us all time to get into the tents and start work. Helsen, once you’ve emptied your quiver and sling you join us, you saw the spot you have to shoot from yesterday. If you come under fire it’s a short run from the bushes there to full cover. Head back to the horses if that’s the case and ready them, because it’ll have gone wrong.
“It in’t likely we’ll kill them all, and we won’t take Crimore now like we thought we could, before we knew Khiese was here. But we can really hurt Khiese, and he won’t have as few men about him as this again, so we have to take the chance even if it means leaving him alive and retreating. There’ll be a fair number in the fort, which means we won’t get over the walls as well, so Teyr, Salia and Cherry, once we’ve killed whoever we can I’ll blow the horn to sound that we’re leaving. You’re with us or you’re on your own.”
“Captain,” says Yame. “Going in the fort, they’re not going to come out, are they? Not if Khiese’s in there and as sharp as you’re saying he is. I don’t get it.”
“It’s the purse, Yame,” says Salia. “I’m the best sword here; Cherry will be a good enough archer to cover us. Khiese might well be an excellent sword, so we won’t take any chances if we can reach him toe to toe.”
“So why is Amondsen and not me going in with Salia? I’m a better sword than she is.”
I can’t help but smile, for I have said it to those showing some grey myself over the years.
“I’m the only one alive here that’s been in there, girl,” I says. “With Salia I hope we’ll be good enough for him and his drudha.”
“Are you done, Yame?” says Nazz.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Good. Talley, shall we begin?”
Laughter and some song echo up the slopes and in the branches about us. We’ve got a soft luta mix, the world all sharp and pale green, the flames of the fires dancing black. The lookout at the top of the tower swigs from a flask and stares down at the camp. We’re to his left, near the back of the bailey in the trees. I step out and take my time, though in truth there is no doubt as I draw back. Breathe out. The arrow knows the arc, the air reveals it to me.
He falls. The tower is stone; there’s no sound. We’re running out across the open ground to the wall. I look left towards the river, see the others ambling out of the trees. I burn, burn for Khiese, to rip him open with my hands, pull him apart. The brew’s so strong I’m grinding the few teeth I have left. The wall is easy to climb. We each of us dig spikes into it, find knots in the wood and fly to the top, peer over. The wall’s empty. I hear the horses start up, a few shouts go around the camp. We’re over the wall, Cherry stays on it, waiting for her first targets, me and Salia dropping from the wall to the side of the longhouse. Dogs growl and start barking, blackstrips. I don’t have to say anything, Cherry’s heard them, seen them out of their kennels, has a pepperbag on an arrow and shoots it into the ground ahead of them as their hackles go up and they make a move. It sends them into a frenzy. She’s quick to follow up, killing two. Salia runs forward and spears the others. Cherry moves along the wall so she can see the doors of the longhouse.
They swing open, a mistake on Khiese’s part, perhaps thinking the threat is outside the walls.
He has a sword, no leathers, walking out, three letnants with him, chalked up, armed and likely on dayers if they was guarding him.
He turns as Salia runs in, settles into a stance, his letnants level their spears. Cherry puts an arrow in one of their throats. She should have aimed it at Khiese, maybe thinks I need to be the one that kills him.
“You!” he spits.
I’m struck again by how scholarly he appears, his colouring aside. Then he moves, and the decades of discipline and sacrifice and pain reveal themselves. To my black eye he seems more clearly carved from the world, a keynote in its song, brighter, harder than everything around him.
As I close on him I can’t speak, my blood is roaring, boiling, the brew pulls my strings, shakes me to pieces almost as I smack one of the spears out of my way and two strokes—stab, hack—and put the slow man down.
Salia’s on the other spear, who’s moved in front of Khiese, blocking both her and Cherry. He has to watch us both, calls out for support against Cherry, who has started putting arrows down the slope into doorways as they open, shouting and hissed commands sparking like coals in my ears.
I leap at him, he cannot be faster than me. But I’m predictable, frenzied. He cannot stop me but he uses it, my power; he is bright and clear, passive, quite aware of our disparity. An arrow flies between us, a moment of wood and feather splitting the world in two, and Khiese has struck me, just under the ribs. I step back because this is all wrong.
“Teyr!” Cherry’s shouting. Salia steps in front of me, moving like hot oil, pushing Khiese back away from me.
“No!” I run forward, another arrow, the whip of it rolling up my neck to my scalp as it whips past me. “I had him!”
“Archers, I can’t see them. Teyr!” shouts Cherry.
Salia drives Khiese back further, he makes a step to run, but I see what he’s doing even as he tries it. I throw a knife as he twists and strikes out at Salia as she becomes aware of the archers shooting at us. It stops him, grazing his arm, not quite connecting but throwing him off. Salia thrusts at him, tip catching him just, but he drops and rolls. An arrow scuds the ground, missing her leg by inches. He backs away. She also edges backwards from him. The archers are easier to see now. Cherry once again tries to pick them off but they have doorways for cover. Salia’s hand is on my shoulder, strong as eagle claws.
“Shoot them!” Khiese shouts. He is reluctant to step forward, and he sees Salia is too good to risk us both.
“Salia, no! We’ve got him!” She’s pulling me back. Cherry must be out of arrows now, the way Khiese stands unflinching, his chest heaving and his face flushed, surprise and anger in him, that he’s been proved wrong, that he has underestimated me, that his truth, his spells of command and control; are defied and fractured. I’m a knot of gristle in his meat, spoiling it all.
“You will die, Amondsen. There is no way out of the Circle that I will not find you and bring you to Aude. I keep my promises as I keep him.”
I’m lost for a moment, for I had not believed Aude alive still and I now know him to be, but is he speaking true? There is a shade to his speaking, his claim, that makes me doubt him. I dare not hope what this might mean.
“Cherry’s out of arrows, we’ll die, Teyr,” hisses Salia in my ear. “He’s trying to draw us into his bowmen. Stone what you’re feeling. It was only ever a whisper of a chance we could get him; now we have to go.” She’s a head taller than me, fierce strong with it, doesn’t wait for her good reason to soak into my hate, crushes my leathers in her hand and with a grunt she lifts me to Cherry, who hauls me up the wall. I catch Khiese’s eye as we leap over the wall, arrows following us, him bellowing at his men to man the gate where the noise of Nazz and the rest fighting carries from.
“The trees,” says Salia. She
and Cherry sprint away, but I’m still shaking with anger that we didn’t get him, my blood’s burning in me for killing, so I turn and run alongside the wall towards the camp, to Nazz and Ruifsen, for the fort will not open and whiteboys will not come, knowing Khiese’s called for the gate to be guarded. Those outside the fort are on their own.
I see two whiteboys, one with a bow, the other handing him arrows, absorbed in the fighting among the tents before them, cussing as they try to get a line on one of my crew. Their backs are to me. My sword slides from its sheath slick with poison, wet and hungry. Khiese is gone, but I can still hurt him, take his power from him, one body at a time. The bowman turns at the last moment, I leap at him, sword through the side of his head. It’s a woman that’s next to him, brew running down her face, not risen, slick with sweat, overcome, no chance to stone it. Her hand is on the hilt of her sword as I drive my blade into her, cracking through her ribs, fast and deep, stabbing. I can’t help but salivate at her shock and that brief moment of sadness as death blooms and snuffs her still.
There are bodies all over the ground, tents ablaze, smoke, flames and screaming like rippling silks in the wind. Ahead of me, nearer the gates, Drogg, Nazz, Heddirn are harrying and falling upon Khiese’s soldiers, those alive now brewed up but disorganised, leaderless. As I pass a tent, two men burst out of it, one’s got a pike, the other a seax, had been waiting for their rise and saw their chance to get one of us. I twist and parry the pike but trip and fall back. A cry then. Helsen it is comes in, moving quick, but they’re risen. As the pikeman turns I roll back and to my feet, the seax caught in a moment’s indecision, which is an age on a good brew. Helsen forces the seax back, it hasn’t got anything like the reach, but the pike goes at him. Helsen slips as he adjusts to the thrust, foot giving way briefly on slick grass, just a fraction, enough that his shield moves up as he instinctively tries to keep balance. The pike stabs deep into his thigh. I’m running at the pike, a moment too late, but he’s not got the head of the pike out of Helsen’s leg before I’ve run him through, and I step in to hold him, moving him between me and the seax, who’s charged me. My sword’s got reach. Helsen’s crying out, bleeding out despite our brew. A shout behind us, Talley it is that’s seen us at it. The seax knows he’s beaten, has to try, a misery on him. He parries me, but the intent was to roll the parry into another strike, and I get the sword in his guts, don’t wait, follow with another thrust through his ribs. He spits blood and falls.