A Solitary Journey

by Tony Shillitoe

  ‘I don’t know this Summerbrook,’ said Broadback.

  ‘A village in the north. I heard you saw a witch there.’

  ‘We killed a witch there,’ Broadback answered.

  ‘How do you know she was a witch?’ Vision asked.

  Broadback glanced at Shortarms and said, ‘She used magical fire against my men.’

  ‘You saw her do this?’

  ‘Why so much interest in a dead witch?’ Broadback asked with undisguised contempt.

  ‘Was there a rat with her?’ Broadback blinked as if the question was absurd. ‘Did you see her use magic?’ Vision repeated, as if Broadback’s question hadn’t been asked.

  ‘No,’ Broadback said, ‘but someone reliable did, and I believe what he said he saw.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Broadback snarled, and he started to rise. ‘I didn’t come here to be interrogated by someone who is my prisoner.’

  Vision rose from his seat. ‘What colour was the witch’s hair?’

  ‘It was red,’ said Broadback.

  ‘So you saw her?’

  ‘Floating in the river, dead,’ said Broadback. ‘Now answer my question—why the interest in a dead witch when there’s a live one you have to deal with.’

  ‘Are you certain the witch was dead?’

  Broadback led Shortarms to the door, stopped and replied, ‘She was as dead as your king. I saw the head wound from the thundermaker. She was dead.’ He opened the door and strode out.

  In the sunlight, heading for his new headquarters in the former Royal palace, Broadback considered what he’d gleaned from the interview. Clearly the Seers thought that the witch that Slayer killed was the same witch who vanished in the palace. That was impossible, of course, but it was also obvious that the witches were the Seers’ enemies, dangerous enough for the Seers to hunt them down, and that was information he would remember for the future. He smiled grimly, deciding that anyone who was an enemy of the barbarian priests had to have some merit. And then he remembered the vision of the woman lying on the bank of the stream. There had been a rat, perched on her back as if it owned the corpse—a black rat. He stopped, his companions halting with him. ‘What’s wrong?’ Shortarms asked.

  Broadback shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he answered and walked on, but the memory niggled at him.

  Vision closed his father’s personal journal, laid it reverently on his desktop, and leaned back into his chair. ‘What happened at Whiterocks Bluff, father?’ he whispered at the leather-bound book. ‘Did she kill you and fool the rest of us that she was dead? Is that why Light disappeared as well? Did she kill him, too, and fool us again?’ He hunched forward, buried his face in his hands to rub his weary eyes, took a deep breath and sat back, contemplating the questions. If—and it was a big if—the Abomination was still alive, then the Conduit still existed and the hope of releasing the Demon Horsemen to cleanse the world’s impurities to create Paradise was also alive. If she really was dead, then who was this witch the Kerwyn spoke of? ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘too many coincidences. I don’t know how you defied death so many times, but I know it’s you. I want it to be you. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to kill my father’s murderer.’ He stood and paced across the chamber to the high narrow window that let a cleft light into his room during the day and allowed him to glimpse a tiny section of Jarudha’s stars at night. Gazing out, he could see a band of stars the Seer astronomers had called Jarudha’s Sash. Just above them was a bright star called the Holy Jewel because it sparkled like a giant diamond. ‘Holy Lord, gracious Jarudha,’ he began quietly, passion simmering in his voice. ‘Hear your faithful servant. Hear my plea. Let me find this abomination of your Blessing, this evil that stalks us and strikes down your disciples without compassion, and let me be the one who does Your most holy work in destroying what should not be. Deliver into my hands the Conduit and I will do Your will by releasing your Demon Horsemen to purify the world of all evil and make in its place Your promised Paradise. Hear this prayer, most holy Jarudha, hear my plea.’

  For days, flotsam from the sea battle washed up every morning along the rocks of the harbour—torn sails, broken spars, crates, baggage, personal effects, bloated and pale corpses. The entrepreneurs among the Shessian survivors who remained in the city scavenged what was useful from the wreckage before sunrise and retreated into the city ruins to add their macabre treasure to their stockpiles.

  Kerwyn martial law was brutal in the first three days of occupation with the refugees targeted for extermination, but when news broke that the great Kerwyn king was coming to reward his mighty Kerwyn warriors for exacting a crushing defeat on the barbarians the law suddenly changed to a policy of forcing the Shessian captives to rebuild the city, restricting their movement to the daylight hours and allowing no one to leave the city perimeter. Port of Joy was to be restored, as quickly as could be managed, to a state worthy of King Ironfist’s presence. Warlord Broadback’s second-in-command, Warshield Slayer, was leading a contingent of the Kerwyn army further south to establish the extent of the old Western Shess borders and determine what relations could be engineered with the Coalition of Chiefs, so he assigned the task of rebuilding the city to his long-time companion, Quickriver Doghunter, whom he promoted to the role of governor-elect. ‘Make the barbarian pigs work from sunrise to sunset,’ Broadback ordered. ‘The King will expect to ride through clean streets.’

  ‘But there are not enough slaves to do everything that needs to be done,’ Doghunter lamented.

  ‘More are being brought in from the northern towns,’ Broadback informed him. ‘Child slaves are being marched in to do the menial labour. I’ve ordered men to be taken from the ports to supply your workforce. You just make sure it gets done before the King arrives.’

  Broadback refused to listen to the Seers’ petition for a special force of soldiers to be assigned to hunting the witch. As much as a witch could prove to be irritating to him in a confrontation, he knew from experience that the thundermakers were very capable of stopping a witch and he enjoyed knowing that the Seers were dependent on him to find her. ‘This Abomination will destroy you if you let her escape,’ Onyx told him in the only interview he granted on the matter after the first meeting. ‘Give us the soldiers to hunt her down and you will applaud what we do.’

  ‘I don’t have the men to spare for your personal mission,’ Broadback replied. ‘If the witch reappears, then I’ll decide how to deal with her.’ He knew his refusal infuriated the Seers, but it was more than a simple reluctance to help on his part. The Seers had to fully understand who exactly was in charge in this world—not priests babbling religion, but men with real power, men like him who controlled vast armies. ‘If you want to earn my favour,’ he told Onyx, ‘tell your leader that your first task is to lead your people in rebuilding the city for King Ironfist’s arrival. Do this and I will consider your request.’

  The Seers persisted in sending Onyx to ask Broadback to change his mind, but he steadfastly ignored Onyx’s attempts to see him. Finally, when he received news from his own men that the Seers were working among the Shessian refugees, encouraging them to take on the gruelling responsibility of rebuilding the city, he smiled, pleased that his will was stronger than the will of the barbarian priests.

  ‘Be strong. Know that Jarudha watches and hears all. He sees your struggle and feels your pain, and He is with you. What you suffer now is nothing more than a passing shadow in the eternal life Jarudha offers His faithful when He returns and Paradise is once again on earth. Blessed are those who suffer injustice in silence for they will be the first through the doors of Paradise.’ Seer Emerald made the holy sign of the circle over the heads of the children gathered in the square before he dismissed them to work under the watchful eyes of the supervising Kerwyn soldiers. Then he climbed down from the rubble which served as his dais and crossed the square to meet young Seer Sunlight who came to relieve him of his duty.

 
‘How many children have they got here?’ Sunlight asked, studying a team passing stones to builders who were repairing a wall.

  ‘Upward of a hundred,’ Emerald informed him.

  ‘“The suffering of the children is the loudest cry in Jarudha’s ears”,’ Sunlight quoted. ‘So many were orphaned by this war.’

  ‘Remember,’ said Emerald, placing a hand on Sunlight’s shoulder and staring into the fresh face of the young man who’d been the acolyte named Shadow, ‘this world is nothing in Jarudha’s eyes. It is a place only of evil, a place that will be cleansed when the Demon Horsemen ride through.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sunlight, nodding, ‘but children are innocent.’

  ‘We are all born from sin,’ said Emerald. ‘We are sinful whether we know it or not. Ignorance is not innocence. Remember the words of Alun, who wrote: “Those who claim not to know of the evil in this world proclaim their own evil by their words”.’

  Sunlight nodded. ‘The scripture is always the source of understanding.’

  ‘You are well to go to it every day. It will guide you and nourish your faith, and stop you from wandering down pathways of ignorance.’ Emerald patted the young Seer’s shoulder and excused himself.

  Alone, Sunlight watched the lines of children labouring in the sun, their grey smocks stained with sweat and dust as they lifted stones and carted planks. They were repairing the market square in the Northern Quarter, making it look as if it was not the site of a bloody battle but a thriving commercial area. The difficulty was that there were no people left to make it what it had been. The Kerwyn king would ride through a city of ghosts when he arrived.

  PART SEVEN

  ‘One man’s hero is another man’s butcher. A martyr for a just cause here is a maniac there. You may worship a man I see as the harbinger of destruction. It’s easy to judge the intention of others when the measure we use is what we consider is best for ourselves.’

  FROM CHASING THE CASE FOR HERESY BY PRINCE SHORTEAR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  For the first time Meg was walking through the streets of a large town—a city—dodging the bustling people and carts and horses that seemed oblivious to her presence. She was immersed in the morass of odours—sweat, dung, baked breads and dust—and the jangling sounds of voices, hooves, cartwheels rattling and dogs barking. The time she spent in Port of Joy all those years ago she was confined to the palace, only glimpsing the reality of city life from horseback when she entered or left in the company of the Queen’s Elite Guards. Back then, the city was a mystery—a living organism seen from a protected distance. Now that she was wandering through a city’s heart—through its bowels—it repulsed her even as it fascinated her. She pulled the ragged brown shawl tighter around her chin and lifted it over her mouth in a vain effort to keep the dust and unpleasant stenches from her face, and pushed on through the marketplace crowd towards the tavern with the sign of three emus above its entrance. Inside her dress, Whisper shifted uncomfortably, restless because she wanted to see what was happening beyond the cloth that kept her securely in place.

  Beside Meg was the solid presence of Blade Cutter, his armour and weapons gone, replaced by a rustic fisherman’s garb of half-length ragged blue trousers and a rust-hued short-sleeved tunic. On her left was A Ahmud Ki, dressed in a dark grey cloak with its hood up and tattered black trousers. Only Talemaker was wearing his original clothes. As a minstrel with a reputation, he could walk relatively freely through Westport.

  They had bartered for the clothes at the only fishing village they found intact, half a day from Westport. The villagers were reluctant to talk to strangers when they arrived, but eventually they welcomed the party. ‘The Kerwyn came and took what they wanted—girls and boys included,’ an older woman named Ocean told them as they asked for clothes.

  ‘They burned every other village,’ Talemaker said.

  ‘So we heard,’ an old fisherman chimed in. ‘We thank Jarudha we weren’t so badly treated.’

  ‘They still took the children and the young men,’ said Ocean angrily. ‘We know what they did with the young men.’

  ‘What?’ Meg asked.

  ‘You’ll see the mound out the northern side beyond that hill,’ Ocean replied, pointing beyond the dunes around the village.

  ‘And the children were sold into slavery,’ Meg added.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Ocean confirmed. ‘Poor little buggers. They won’t know what it feels like to grow up like we did.’

  They swapped what little they could—mainly Cutter’s military equipment—for old clothes that would disguise them enough to avoid drawing attention when they entered Westport. They ate fresh fish and crabs with the surviving villagers and headed for Westport, joining the traffic along the road into the city.

  The Kerwyn were everywhere—soldiers in red armour walking in groups of four or five, loitering on street corners, randomly inspecting carts and the bags of people entering and leaving Westport. Meg kept her shawl tight to hide her red hair and mask her face, but she was still conscious of eyes following her as she passed the soldiers because of her height and she walked in fear of being stopped and asked to lower her shawl. They carefully avoided an incident in the street when two men resisted the Kerwyn soldiers who wanted to look inside their cart. A brief brawl started, quickly quelled by the soldiers who gave their victims brutal beatings. Meg was horrified at the injustice and hesitated when she saw the soldiers beating the men, but Cutter pulled her on, whispering, ‘There is nothing you can do. Keep walking.’

  Only when they reached the busy marketplace and were in the middle of the throng did she feel safe from prying eyes. They headed for the Three Emus tavern because Talemaker knew the owner from previous visits and he was sure that they could get news from him regarding the situation in Westport. ‘One thing Oak Wheatbeer is good for is gossip and solid information,’ Talemaker promised when they were making their plans. ‘If there are refugee ships operating in Westport he will know who is running them and where and when they’ll be leaving.’

  ‘And if there’s not?’ A Ahmud Ki asked.

  Cutter grunted, and said bluntly, ‘We make other plans.’

  The Three Emus was busy and patrons were sitting in the street with tankards of ale. ‘You wouldn’t think there’d been a war,’ said Cutter as they prepared to enter.

  ‘The war was over up here more than a year ago,’ said Talemaker. ‘The Kerwyn just marched in and took over. The King’s army wasn’t anywhere to be seen.’ He winced when he realised to whom he’d made the flippant observation.

  ‘I was in the south,’ Cutter said without malice.

  As Meg went to follow the men into the tavern, Cutter took her aside along with A Ahmud Ki and said, ‘You two best wait outside, over at the stalls. Look like you’re buying something. Don’t look too obviously like you’re only waiting for us.’

  ‘Why can’t I come in?’ Meg asked.

  ‘Women only go into a city tavern for two things,’ he explained quickly. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘What two things?’

  Cutter grunted and looked at A Ahmud Ki, who shrugged. ‘Drunk husbands or some easy work. Wait here,’ Cutter insisted.

  Meg glared at Cutter as he retreated and watched him enter the tavern with Talemaker before she turned to head for a small shop displaying clothes. A Ahmud Ki followed as she searched through the wares, pretending to be looking for a good buy. ‘Cheap cloth,’ an older woman called from among the jumble of haberdashery in the right-hand corner of the shop. ‘Nothing too much here.’ Meg looked up and saw the woman’s dark eyes on her, her hair tied back in a green scarf. A brindled cat emerged from behind a bolt of orange cloth, mewing. Meg felt Whisper squirm inside her dress and looked at the cat warily. ‘That’s Mouser,’ the shop woman said cheerily. ‘Mouser loves people, don’t you, Mouser?’ she continued as she scooped up her cat and let the animal drape over her shoulder. ‘Are you looking for something particular?’ she inquired as she came closer to
Meg.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Meg said quickly, and she led a bemused A Ahmud Ki away to the next shopfront which had pottery and ironware for sale.

  ‘What fancy takes the lady?’ a raspy voice asked in greeting. A ruddy-faced man stood beside a tower of cooking pots, smiling to reveal that only half his teeth were in place.

  ‘Which way to the docks?’ A Ahmud Ki asked to Meg’s astonishment.

  The potter pointed along the street. ‘You go to the big fountain and turn to your left onto Fisher’s Way, and follow it around until it spills into the harbour. Can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said A Ahmud Ki.

  ‘You two new in Westport?’ the potter asked.

  A Ahmud Ki glanced at Meg. ‘And if we are?’

  The potter beckoned A Ahmud Ki to come closer and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘The Kerwyn are watching.’ He nodded to his left and when A Ahmud Ki and Meg looked in that direction they saw six Kerwyn soldiers standing in the crowd staring at them. ‘Play along with me then,’ the potter added, and straightened up. ‘So six cooking pots and you want me to make them for six pennies?’

  A Ahmud Ki stared at the potter. ‘Say something,’ the potter hissed. Meg saw the Kerwyn soldiers step forward. ‘We can’t afford more,’ she blurted.

  The potter flashed a brief grin. ‘Come on, lady. You’ve lived here as long as me. You know my goods. You can’t get better than this.’

  Meg glanced at the advancing soldiers. ‘I can down in Fisher’s Way. Six pennies is all I got.’

  ‘Take four for six pennies, lady. That’s a fair deal,’ the potter argued and whispered as best as he could without moving his mouth, ‘Pretend to take it. Pass me the pennies.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money,’ Meg whispered.

  ‘Pretend,’ the potter hissed and straightened up to say loudly, ‘Come on, lady, you can’t say I’m not being fair.’