A Solitary Journey

by Tony Shillitoe

  ‘And if he was lying?’ Cutter asked.

  Goodman shrugged. ‘We die.’

  ‘You can save your skin by surrendering,’ said Cutter. ‘They’ll kill me whatever I do. Walk away from me when we go outside.’

  Goodman’s lips adopted a grim smile, an expression Cutter didn’t expect from the man who was primarily a diplomat, even if he led the Elite Guards. ‘If the Seer’s promise is false, we die together.’

  Cutter wanted to argue, but the determination in the Intermediary’s eyes told him there was no point. Instead, he said, ‘Are you going to lead the priest?’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Goodman. ‘What about our friend?’ he added, indicating their prisoner.

  Cutter went to the Kerwyn ambassador and pressed the point of his sword against Longhands’s throat. ‘As much as slitting this windpipe would give me great pleasure, the risk that he will accompany us to the afterlife stops me enjoying it.’ He cut the skin precisely, letting blood flow without doing fatal damage, while Longhands wriggled and squirmed. ‘If we die,’ said Cutter, straightening up, ‘that will remind you of me every day of your miserable life. And if we live, I’ll find you one day and finish the job.’ He turned to Goodman who was leading Seer Gold to the door. ‘Is your Kerwyn good enough to tell them that we’re coming out?’

  ‘I can make them understand enough.’ Goodman yelled that they intended to surrender and to hold off the archers as they came out. He translated Bloodsword’s reply for Cutter. ‘I think he said he wants the King’s ambassador sent out first, and then us to follow without weapons.’

  ‘Tell him the ambassador’s dead.’ Goodman looked at Cutter. ‘I know he’s not dead—just say it. Bloodsword doesn’t care about the ambassador. Tell him we’re coming out with our weapons sheathed.’ Goodman hesitated, but when he saw Cutter’s earnest expression he called out the reply. Silence followed. ‘I don’t think that was the answer he wanted,’ Goodman said. Then Bloodsword yelled again.

  ‘And?’ Cutter asked.

  ‘He agrees. We can come out.’

  Cutter smiled. ‘I think this man and I have an understanding,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Our ears,’ Goodman reminded him. ‘We need cloth.’

  Cutter looked at Longhands and smiled wickedly. ‘I know where there’s plenty.’

  Head wrapped in red cloth, ears packed tightly, Cutter gingerly opened the door and peered out to find that the Kerwyn troops were assembled as they had been when he looked through the window. He sheathed his sword and stepped into the dull daylight, watching the Kerwyn while Goodman led the Seer outside. Cutter could see Goodman’s lips moving. If we need our ears blocked, he considered, why doesn’t the priest? The Kerwyn held their circle, but Cutter saw the archers taking aim. Execution, he decided. Nice. He saw four figures leave the circle and advance. Two were Kerwyn soldiers. One was Bloodsword. The fourth was the hooded assassin. Maybe in my final fight I can cut some honour from these bastards’ hearts, he decided grimly. He saw the Seer raise his arms as if he intended to bless the enemy and then he heard a rushing noise, like the noise of a storm from inside a thick-walled chamber and faint screaming as if men were being shredded in the wind. The entire Kerwyn force collapsed. The four men walking towards him buckled as if hit by a giant hand, clutching their heads and writhing like victims dying in agony. The Kerwyn horses reared and bolted north. He turned to see Goodman staring in awe at the vision and the Seer, arms wide, mouth wide as if he was screaming aloud. Gold closed his mouth and dropped his arms to his side and sank again into his glazed oblivion, but the Kerwyn soldiers remained on the ground, hands pressed to their ears.

  Cutter recognised their chance. He beckoned to Goodman to lead Gold to the south before he strode towards the four Kerwyn leaders, unsheathing his sword and ripping the wrapping from his head. Seeing the approaching danger, the Kerwyn Warlord, blood trickling from both ears, wrenched his sword from its scabbard, but Cutter smashed the blade from his grip and kicked Bloodsword viciously in the face. As the Kerwyn leader rolled onto his side, groaning, Cutter hamstrung both of his legs. Then he turned to the assassin and methodically chopped off the man’s hands before he trotted after Goodman.

  ‘What did you do back there?’ Goodman asked, as he removed his head wrap.

  ‘I retired Warlord Bloodsword and the Scribe,’ Cutter answered cryptically.

  ‘We need horses,’ said Goodman.

  Cutter looked back at the Kerwyn soldiers around the farmhouse. Some were staggering to their feet, stumbling as they tried to take steps, but many stayed on their knees, hands wrapped around their ears. ‘They won’t be chasing us,’ he told Goodman. ‘Whatever noise the priest created, it’s made them all deaf and disoriented. We have time.’

  King Future slammed his fist against the black marble tabletop and swore before he crossed the chamber to face the Kerwyn ambassador. ‘You can tell Ironfist that I’ve grown tired of his treachery!’ he bellowed with all the authority he could muster. ‘His Warlord is defeated. His futile attempts to kill my people have failed. I will give him one more chance to withdraw or I will call down the full might of Jarudha on his unholy army and it will be swept from the face of my kingdom.’ He glanced at Seer Diamond, who nodded, before he turned back to the ambassador and said, ‘That’s my answer to your king!’

  The ambassador bowed respectfully. As he raised his head, he asked, ‘May I be permitted to withdraw, Your Highness?’

  ‘Get out!’ Future snarled. The ambassador hastily left the chamber. Future glared at the closing door until it sealed, before he spoke to Diamond. ‘You promise that my soldiers will have the same magic as the Kerwyn?’

  Diamond nodded. ‘You Highness, my colleagues are already creating the magic powder for the thundermakers. Seer Weaver is instructing the metalsmiths how to form the tubes for the powder.’

  ‘And what of your colleagues? Will they be able to use their Blessings as effectively as the reports inform me?’

  ‘We have been twice blessed, Your Highness,’ said Diamond as he moved to gaze out of the window. ‘We have discovered in our passion to serve the new King and servant of Jarudha that our Blessings have been magnified to do Jarudha’s work. That is our second blessing. The first is to be led in this by a king of great vision.’

  The compliment made Future glow with pride. ‘I have begun Jarudha’s work as you advised. New temples are being built for the people.’

  ‘I’ve visited each one, Your Highness. They give the people hope and strength in their defence of the city.’

  ‘Jarudha will not fail us,’ Future said.

  Diamond smiled. ‘Jarudha will not fail us,’ he confirmed.

  Hordemaster Cleaver Broadback sat astride his horse, watching the fire creeping through the tract of forest, filling the sky with white and patches of black smoke. He was pleased with his campaign. The Shessian barbarians had been swept from the plains and driven into the vast forest, and now his men were hunting them methodically, cleansing the land of the enemy in preparation for his people’s settlement. Sometimes his army met minor suicidal resistance from fanatical barbarians, but the enemy generally posed no threat. They just melted under the advancing line of Kerwyn warriors and ran for their lives. In the wake of Broadback’s forces the Western Shess plains were littered with the smouldering ruins of towns and villages. He had done his duty.

  He saw the riders approaching from the south-west long before they wove through the ranks of his resting troops to his position on the crest of a gum-covered hill and he wondered what new orders Warlord Bloodsword was sending. He hoped that it was news of victory at the enemy capital. The lead rider bowed his head as he reached the Hordemaster, and said, ‘Hordemaster, I bring bad news. Warlord Bloodsword has fallen in battle and our army has withdrawn from the river near Port of Joy.’

  Broadback thought that he had misheard the messenger. ‘The Warlord is dead?’

  ‘Crippled, Hordemaster,’ the messenger replie
d.

  ‘Why has the army retreated?’

  ‘The enemy king has turned the priests against us. Their magic has been unleashed and the barbarians now also use the thundermakers.’

  ‘And?’ Broadback asked. ‘Orders for me?’ With Warlord Bloodsword incapacitated, he wondered if an opportunity had opened—an ambition he barely dared to consider. I never even thought I would be a Hordemaster, he remembered.

  ‘No, Hordemaster,’ the messenger said. ‘I was told to make sure you knew the situation and that you continued the extermination of the barbarians. The fewer of them there are, the less the barbarian king can muster when we are reinforced.’

  Broadback let the instruction settle into his understanding. Who will be Warlord in Bloodsword’s absence? he wondered. ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Hordemaster.’

  ‘To whom do I send my reply?’

  ‘Warlord Bloodsword, Hordemaster.’

  Broadback smiled grimly. Bloodsword’s crippling injuries hadn’t stopped him from retaining command. He was a tough bastard. ‘Tell the Warlord that I am burning the forests and roasting barbarians alive every day. Tell him the plains are already cleansed and now only the ones that hide in the deepest parts of the forest are left, and soon they will be eradicated.’

  ‘I will, Hordemaster,’ the messenger promised. He bowed and departed.

  Cleaver Broadback eased forward in his saddle and studied the smoke. The wind today was blowing from the west, conveniently driving the fires into the forest as if it served the Kerwyn army in its quest. There were barbarians still in there, a lot of them, because many had escaped from their towns, farms and villages before the Kerwyn army destroyed them. Burning the forest was a waste of wood supply and game, but Broadback knew that it was the most efficient method of achieving his goal. He expected many Shessian refugees would already be on the forest’s eastern edge, trapped at the foot of the mountains, and he knew there would be a final necessary massacre when his men reached the limit of the forest. The barbarians had outlived their time. It was the time of the Kerwyn. What lands lie beyond the mountains? he wondered.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Meg washed her fingers in the shallow water bowl guiltily, knowing how precious water was. The parties sent to fetch fresh water from deeper in the foothills on the mountain slopes were growing weaker daily with the dramatic reduction in food supplies created by the exploding numbers of refugees who came to escape the Kerwyn. The more enterprising and adventurous had already left the camp, heading east through the mountain passes into the lands beyond. ‘Will he be all right?’ asked the woman who was cradling the boy that Meg was tending.

  Meg smiled at the dark-eyed mother. ‘He will sleep for a day, Crystalwater. When he wakes, the poison should be gone from his leg and he will be well again.’ She hated her promise. The boy would recover from his septic injury because of Meg’s healing touch, only to continue starving and dying of thirst like everyone else. She straightened and glanced over the area set aside for people seeking help. Tired and gaunt faces smiled at her—people grateful for her healing touch. Work finished for the day, she wiped her damp fingers against her patched and torn trousers and started for her tent site.

  The sky was endless grey—a gloomy mixture of cloud and smoke mirroring her emotion. The forest fires were burning closer daily as the Kerwyn hunted their Shessian quarry and although the camp overflowed with people fewer came from the forest now. Stories of murder and rape and the stolen children filled her heart with an anger that burned like the forest fires. She couldn’t understand why the Kerwyn hated her people—what insanity drove them to kill helpless elderly folk and ravage women callously before murdering their husbands and taking away their children? She waved to the big man, Wombat, who was repairing a hole in his family’s thin canvas shelter, but she kept walking, leaving the campsite to climb the eastern slope, weaving between the pines, clambering over the rocks and slipping on the loose shale. When she was higher than the forest canopy, she climbed onto a bowed mountain ash trunk and stared westwards.

  The entire horizon was a wall of smoke and the late afternoon sun a red ball buried in its heart. She rubbed her tired eyes and blinked. The fires were closer than ever. Her heart quickened. How long before the Kerwyn arrive? she wondered. She looked down at the people in the camp and saw Wombat playing with his children. He had changed her world overnight with his arrival and his revelations about her identity. ‘Meg Farmer,’ he told her as she sat with his wife and children at his tent. ‘I wondered what happened to you after we parted. I heard that the Queen sent for you.’ He winked and started to hum a tune that he rolled into lyrics.

  ‘A tale to tell, a song to sing, come listen one and all,

  For I will sing of a lady fair and of wonders wild and bold,

  For there was a lady hair o’ flame whose power had no peer

  And in this song now I will see her wondrous tale is told.’

  He paused and nodded to his wife. ‘Ochre, this is the girl I told you about who saved my life. She has the power of healing and magic. This is Lady Amber.’

  The name stirred memories and as the night deepened and Wombat unfolded what he knew of her past—that she was from Summerbrook, that she had travelled with Wombat in search of her lover only to end up slaying the most powerful warrior in the Rebel ranks, that she had been taken to Port of Joy to meet the Queen and there somehow metamorphosed into Lady Amber, that her companions were a dingo and an unusual bush rat—images flashed through her mind that seemed unrelated to Wombat’s stories and yet felt rooted in her forgotten life. She listened to Wombat sing another ballad version of Lady Amber’s fate, dying with friend and foe at the mercy of the Demon Horsemen in a cataclysmic battle from which there were no survivors, and when he’d finished she said, ‘If this Lady Amber is dead, then it’s not me, is it?’

  Wombat stared at her, as if he was searching for something in her face. ‘Where have you been since then?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’ She wanted to tell him about her dreams, especially the ones in which she had a family—a husband and children—but she didn’t. How did she know what was real and what wasn’t? Only one thing was certain—she had the power to heal others. She already knew that before Wombat’s revelation, but his recognition and confirmation of her name as Meg gave her the courage to do what she could for the others in the camp. She worked her healing skill on the worst injured the morning following Wombat’s arrival and, as news of her magical touch spread through the camp, the whispers became stares as people dared to believe the mystical Lady Amber had come back to life to save them.

  She balanced precariously on the trunk and studied the smoke, imagining the Kerwyn massed behind the white-and-grey wall, milling in the ashes, rabid barbarians waiting impatiently to rush with bloodthirsty hunger onto the innocent and starving survivors. The stories from the latest refugees to enter the campsite contained images of horror and blood, and she couldn’t imagine that men could commit the atrocities they described—only barbaric demons could murder and destroy without reason.

  Wombat’s reminders rekindled her nagging sense of emptiness and loss—knowing without remembering clearly that she had been a wife, a mother, a child, and that the people who loved her and she loved were buried in the earth and ashes of Summerbrook. Her dreams were clearer than ever the last few nights. She dreamed of a handsome man with part of a leg missing—her husband, she knew that now. Button Tailor. And she dreamed of a woman who held her as a child, and three brothers—Daryn, Mykel, Peter—and three children who were her children. And she knew she had buried the eldest boy. Her nights were broken between dreams and tears and her days immersed in healing the people who came to her. She dreamed of a woman with blonde hair surrounded by men in blue robes. She dreamed of an old man who warned her to be wary of the men in blue robes wherever she went. There were stranger dreams—dreams of a barren landscape of endless grey dust and the naked, pale
contorted figure bound cruelly to the black dragon. And she dreamed again of walking east into the rising sun, searching for books. Where do such dreams come from? she wondered.

  Whenever she spread her hands across an injury her spine tingled as she focussed on healing. It tingled when she conjured light and fire, although she was careful not to show anyone else that her skill—some were calling it a Blessing—was more varied and potent than they knew. She knew people believed that she was really Lady Amber, the woman in Wombat’s ballads raised from the dead, but she knew otherwise. She was Meg Tailor. She once was Meg Farmer, too, but that was a long time ago.

  Distant screams and dogs barking snapped her attention to the southern end of the camp. The forest was moving, coming apart, and her heart quickened as the tiny figure of a woman was cut down by a scything poleaxe wielded by a brutally large man. The Kerwyn were among her people.

  Men charged through the camp, torches ablaze in the spreading shadows. She slid from the trunk and scrambled down the slope, falling as stones skidded from under her feet, but she didn’t feel the pain of the cuts and bruising along her hands or knees. Yelling and screaming grew louder as she pushed through a screen of bushes and met a ragged line of women and children desperately seeking refuge higher up the hill among the trees. She ran to the edge of the camp, searching frantically for Magpie in the chaos, and saw a man die as he made a futile gesture of resistance. A Kerwyn warrior burst from between the shelters to her right. A broad smile split his dark knotted beard and he twisted his sword menacingly in his right hand as he strode towards her. Meg back-pedalled, fear making her trembling legs threaten to melt beneath her. The Kerwyn said something and a brown-haired warrior emerged from among the shelters, dragging a girl by her hair. The warrior released his captive’s hair, letting the sobbing girl collapse at his feet, and licked his lips at Meg, before speaking to his companion. They laughed.