The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1)

by Davis, H. Anthe

  Abruptly he remembered Ammala’s scroll and patted his tunic. It was there under the cloth, hitched against his borrowed belt, and he wiggled it free and grimaced at how flat it was. One edge held a dark crust.

  Dried blood.

  Cob looked down at himself. A thin slash had parted his tunic, and through it he saw a smear of blood on his stomach. But he felt nothing, not even when he poked the spot. No pain—no wound under the smear.

  “You all right there, lad?” said Jasper, and Cob quickly rearranged his shirt.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Inside, a little bubble of panic rose like a bead on a string. It’s happening. That darkness, that weird itch, that glimpse of whatever had happened with his arm—

  No. Wasn’t real. Just my mind playing tricks on me. This is someone else’s blood.

  And his headache was gone. He had thought the pain was from being whacked with the sword, but when he ran his fingers over his scalp he felt nothing. No blood, no lump, not even a bruise.

  He inhaled deeply and tried to focus past the fear. He was a servant of the Light; the Dark could have no hold on him. Only in doubtful souls could it find any purchase, and he had no doubts. He would journey to the Imperial City and shake off these shadows, submit himself to the judgment of the True Light. He would be purified. Made anew.

  Exhale.

  He opened his eyes, feeling a bit better. Since the dreams had started, he had tried many ways to dispel them or convince himself that he would be fine, but no denial, no prayer had soothed his nerves like this mantra. He would make it through the pilgrimage. He would journey to the heart of the Light.

  It would happen. It had to.

  “So you’re a northerner,” Jasper said suddenly. Cob shot him a sidelong look, but the old man’s gaze stayed fixed on the road.

  “Yeah,” he said, cautious.

  “Gejaran? Drixi?”

  “Kerrindrixi,” Cob corrected automatically. The short form was not quite a slur for his people, but was often used as such. “High Country.”

  “Ah. That explains your silence,” said Jasper with a chuckle. “Most folk won’t stop talking if you give them a silence to fill, but Drixi--pardon me, Kerrindrixi—aren’t said to talk much. You mountain folk don’t often come this far south, do you?”

  “Guess not.”

  “You must have had important business to end up here.”

  It was not a question, so Cob did not answer.

  There was a pause, as if Jasper struggled to find something to break through Cob’s reticence. Then he sighed and said, “You’ll forgive an old fellow his curiosity. It’s been a long road.”

  “S’all right.”

  “Only I wonder how you came to be here, High Country Kerrindrixi and all.”

  “By cart.”

  Cob’s flat pronouncement drew a glance from the old man, then a rough, relenting laugh. “Very well, ‘by cart’,” he said, the amusement heavy in his voice.

  Cob did not answer. The silence fell again, less comfortable, and he considered jumping off. The wagon might be faster but he preferred to be alone, not needled with questions. If night fell before he reached the city, he would just sleep out in the open. The storm had not moved in from the sea yet; he would not be rained on.

  Still, it felt rude. Even if this man was nosy witchfolk, he had given Cob an escape from what would have been at best a savage beating.

  If not a massacre.

  Cob clenched his hand on the stick at that unbidden thought. It was only anger talking, nothing more. Even though he wanted to consider himself a soldier, even though he had spent half his time in the Army either fighting or being punished for fighting, one against four was difficult odds. And they had had weapons.

  Surely he could not have taken them all. The stunned looks on their faces meant nothing.

  Light help me. The sooner I get on with this pilgrimage, the better.

  A leather hat clapped down over his head, startling him from his thoughts. He looked to Jasper, who flashed him a grin. Unshaded, the old man lost some of his devious air. His pure white hair was cut short, the lines of old scars visible on his scalp.

  “Don’t be giving it back, lad,” he said as Cob moved to doff the hat. “The sun’s strong here, and it looks like it’s getting to you. Drink your water.”

  “I’m fine,” Cob said, but let his hand fall. “How ‘bout you?”

  “Ha. Nothing gets through this old hide anymore. You keep it ‘til we reach Bahlaer.”

  Cob nodded and glanced forward, trying to make out the distant city through the glare. Instead of its smudgy outline, a closer dust plume caught his eye. Riders, perhaps, or a caravan. Neither seemed common here.

  He noted Jasper watching the plume too, with a less-than-jovial expression. Maybe Jernizen raiders, he thought, though he knew they were too far south and too deep in Illane for that. Squinting into the cloud, he leaned forward as if that might afford him a better view.

  The riders crested a hill in the distance, and their uniforms, crimson and black, came clear despite the dust.

  Cob stiffened, heart thudding against his ribs. An Army patrol. They would know him; they would stop the wagon and drag him back to the camp for execution—

  Less than a day ago, he would have welcomed that. Now he started to rise, thinking to fling himself off the wagon, but Jasper grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

  “Don’t do that, lad,” the old man said. “You don’t want their attention. Just sit back, be calm, and they’ll pass right by.”

  Cob pried at Jasper’s hand, but his grip was like steel. “They’ll know me,” he hissed.

  “No, they won’t. I’ve done this before, lad. Just settle down.”

  “I have to—“

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “Let go!” Burning with fear, Cob half-stood and raised the stick to strike.

  “Sit.”

  Cob sat. The moment his backside hit the bench, the old man yanked the stick from his hand. Cob clenched his teeth, wanting to grab it back, but Jasper held his gaze with hard eyes until he cursed and looked away. Only then did Jasper release him and turn to watch the approaching Crimsons.

  Drillmaster, Cob thought as he rubbed his arm, but the anger could not keep. His eyes were drawn to the soldiers, and tension locked him in place.

  Two riders on striped Ten-Sky horses approached ahead of the rest. One, dressed in blood-red robes, held a metal rod over his steed’s head like a dowser, a faint light emanating from the tip.

  But Cob’s attention was riveted by the second rider. Black-clad, fair-haired, bent low over the neck of his straining steed. Even from this distance Cob knew him, knew the look in his eyes. That flat, killing stare.

  Darilan.

  He’s come to finish it.

  For an instant he was there again in the dark, with the palisade wall beside him--

  —and the sword stuck in the wall, the glottal choke and flutter of fingers, the half-light painting the scout’s face cold as marble—

  He shrank back against the wagon-flap, clutching the bench with nerveless hands. It was broad daylight but the black memory gripped him like an isolation cell. “I can’t—“

  “Hush, lad.”

  The distance closed, the riders never slowing.

  Then they were alongside.

  Then they were gone, the black and red flicking past, followed by a blur of tan and brown and crimson as the rest of the column passed.

  Cob stared into the dust plume as the thunder of hooves faded behind them. Disbelief held his tongue, and he swallowed thickly—once, twice, then a shallow inhale that would have become hysteria had it not been full of dust. He coughed raggedly, and Jasper pounded on his back until he managed to spit out the grit. “What?” he croaked, unable to form anything more.

  Jasper squinted down their backtrail, then sat straight, chuckling to himself. “Guess they’ve got business elsewhere, eh lad? Lucky us.”

  That didn’t h
appen, Cob thought. He glanced around his side of the wagon, but all he saw was the dust hanging in the air. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t have been him—

  And then he thought of the dowsing rod in the red-robed mage’s hand, and their direction. Another raft of ice fetched up in his gut. The Crays.

  Can’t be. Wasn’t Darilan, just my imagination. No reason for scouts or the Army or anyone to go there. But even as he told himself those things, he was rising and grabbing his bundle, preparing to leap from the wagon.

  Jasper’s hand clamped on his arm and jerked him down as fast as he stood. “Cobrin, no. Trust me, it’s not worth it.”

  “Not worth it?” Cob snarled, wrenching his arm away. “Two women an’ three kids aren’t worth it?”

  “Tell me about the army. Do they slaughter women and children indiscriminately?”

  “They… No,” he admitted, pride rushing back despite his unease. “No, they don’t. But Ammala helped me. They can enslave her for that.”

  Jasper shook his head and Cob stared after the riders, chest tight with guilt. The dust had settled, leaving a blank streak of road. He would never catch up to them.

  “She helped you willingly,” said Jasper. “All here know the dangers of defying the Empire. It doesn’t stop them.”

  “I know, but—“

  “Trust the woman to know her business, eh? Nothing you can do now but be caught up in the same net. And perhaps they are not here for you.”

  Not likely, Cob thought. But that could not have been Darilan. The scout would never have overlooked him. It must have been some other scout on a mission, tracking down bandits or heading to a sea-cliff port to check on smuggling activity. There were other blonds in the Army—plenty of them, Daecians and Jernizen and Wynds, even if most of the troops were dark as dirt.

  And if it wasn't Darilan, that meant there was no danger.

  Slowly he retook his seat and turned to stare past the cart-horse. Jasper glanced at him, then rummaged under the bench.

  “Here,” he said, pulling out a bottle. He popped the stopper with his thumb and waved it under Cob’s nose. Fumes penetrated the plug of scar tissue and Cob recoiled from the whiff of strong alcohol. “Go on,” the old man said. “Square your nerves right up.”

  Reluctantly, Cob took the bottle. He had drunk before--the army had once issued a beer ration to cut down on illness from drinking the river water, and the black market was rife with back-alley brews and smuggled stuff—but it had never really agreed with him. Despite his better judgment, he took a swig.

  It was like a lump of cider-flavored hot iron had hit his throat. He coughed hard, and Jasper nicked the bottle from his hand then pounded him vigorously on the back. “Put a bit of life in you? Good!” the old man said cheerily. “Just sit back. We’ll be in Bahlaer in no time.”

  Cob cleared his throat, wiped the water from his eyes and reluctantly leaned against the wagon. The fierce burn eased and a warmth crept through his chest. Despite how much he wanted to go back, he could not.

  He just had to hope that Jasper was right.

  *****

  The first sign Ammala had that something was amiss was the cat. It had prowled away to parts unknown earlier, but while she stood in the garden setting up the tarps for the oncoming storm, she heard a hiss of grasses and looked over to see the cat bolt from the fields toward the rear of the cottage. Its ears were laid back, its thick tail puffed out in distress.

  She stared after it for a moment, alarmed. Then she heard the hoofbeats.

  Down the trail, which for so long had seen no more traffic than the goat-cart she sometimes drove out to the road, came a full score of horsemen.

  Ammala scrambled from her garden to the cottage door, hardly aware that she could move so fast anymore. In the doorway, she planted herself on the red line and turned to face the horde. Nana Cray was inside; the girls were away with the goats; Aedin was at the Targams’ farm. One person to protect was still too many, but she crossed her arms tight under her bosom and told herself to be brave.

  As the horsemen rode one by one into the cleared circle of the yard, Ammala looked them over, expecting Cob among them. In armor or in chains.

  If he was there, he blended well with the other riders. Each wore a blood-red tabard over chainmail, heavy boots, heavy gloves, heavy swords at their sides, and red hooded cloaks and plain helms. Tabards and cloaks were both marked with the Army’s sign in white--a curved claw--and their cloak-clasps were a badge of two crossed lances. Their horses were the stocky, aggressive Tasgard sort, thick-maned and lion-tailed, and in such close quarters they eyed and snapped at each other with their long canine teeth, but the riders handled them well.

  None dismounted, only sat their horses and stared at her. Ammala struggled to stay calm.

  Bringing up the rear of the column were four more riders in addition to the twenty: two men on Tasgards, one in much finer armor and one in a garish orange robe, and two on Ten-Sky horses that trailed them warily. Ten-Skies were a smaller, skittish breed of horse with striped coats and short spiral horns, and they came to settle beside the garden instead of near the tawny Tasgards. Their riders were smaller too: a fair-haired man in a crimson robe and another in a black uniform, who slid off his horse immediately.

  The one in black moved to consult with the armored officer--a knight, Ammala thought. Then she chided herself for it. The Empire has no knights, only butchers in armor.

  The red-robed man scrambled down to join them. Though his robe had the claw insignia of the Crimson Army, the back of his cloak bore a plain silver circle. He held a short metal rod with a crystal on the end, which he waved helplessly at both the man in black and the still-mounted officer.

  They were too far to overhear, but from the wealth of gestures, Ammala gathered that the mage’s rod had brought them here.

  At last the armored officer dismounted, and the soldiers followed suit. Two flanked him as he approached the cottage, trailed by the mage and the man in black.

  “Mistress, where is your husband?” said the officer. Unlike the others, he wore a helm with the Empire’s phoenix crest spread-winged across the brow and a short brush of crimson horsehair down the back. A steel cuirass covered his tabard, chainmail peeking out from under the cloth, and along with his etched greaves and armguards it looked heavy and unbearably hot. She could not guess his rank, but his voice was clipped by an eastern accent and his face surprisingly pale behind the metal.

  “Dead and buried,” she replied. “This is my steading. What business have you here?”

  He inclined his helmed head. “I am Lieutenant Firkad Sarovy of the Second Lance of the Crimson Claw, in service to the Risen Phoenix Emperor. I pursue a fugitive and require your cooperation as an indigenous resident of this new Imperial protectorate.”

  Ammala squared her shoulders and her will. “My son is a freesoldier in the Army of the Crimson Claw, sir,” she said. “I am not an indigenous resident, I am a citizen through him.”

  “Very well, mistress. Your cooperation as a citizen.”

  “Have you a writ of purpose?”

  The man in black sighed, but Lieutenant Sarovy seemed unfazed and gestured to his companion. With another sound of annoyance, the black-clad one pulled a scroll from the case at his belt and passed it to the officer.

  “If you can not read, it is my duty to read it for you,” said Lieutenant Sarovy.

  “I can read.”

  His brows lifted in surprise, but literacy was not illegal for Illanites—yet. “Very well, mistress,” said the lieutenant, and moved forward to offer the scroll.

  With the difference in height provided by the step, she was just barely as tall as him. His eyes were grey in the helm’s shadows, cool and self-possessed.

  Perhaps a knight in his own mind, Ammala thought as she accepted the scroll.

  It was smooth vellum, with an insignia in red ink at the very top: a coronet surmounting a curved raptor's claw, limned in fire. Beneath it, blocky script spelled out th
e terms of the writ.

  Be it known that the Bearer of this Document serves His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince Kelturin Aradysson, Commanding General of Imperial Third Army Group the Crimson Claw and Overseer of the Western Lands of the Risen Phoenix Empire, and must thus be tendered all Aid and Assistance as befits an Imperial Servant. Let the Bearer be further entitled the Rank of Crimson Hunter for the Purpose and Duration of the Pursuit of the Renegade KRD1184, known as Cobrin son of Dernyel of Risholnis, Kerrindryr...

  Ammala grimaced and scrolled the writ back up. This was worse than she had anticipated. A Hunter could take everything from her and she would have no recourse, even as an Imperial citizen. The only hopeful sign was that the Hunter seemed reluctant to reveal himself.

  Oh Cob, what have you done?

  “You are the bearer this speaks of?” she said, looking to the black-clad man. He was a head shorter than the lieutenant, with a round, youthful face and murky eyes. He nodded and tried on a smile, but in its lines she read annoyance and sleeping malice.

  “I am. Crimson Hunter Darilan Trevere,” he said.

  “Then I shall submit to your command.”

  She offered the scroll, and Trevere stepped up to retrieve it. As he did so, she saw his gaze flick to the red lines painted along the inside of the doorway. For a moment, his eyes widened, and when they returned to her she found the malice no longer asleep.

  “Search the house,” he snapped to the lieutenant, then yanked the scroll from her hand. “I will investigate the grounds.” Turning away, he gestured curtly, and a few soldiers broke off to follow his orders.

  The lieutenant looked after him, expressionless, then back to Ammala. “If you would stand aside, mistress,” he said.

  “My home is small, you will not fit many—“

  “Stand aside.”

  Anxiously she stepped back into the house, though what she wanted was to follow the Hunter, to be sure he harmed nothing. He was one of the Empire’s monsters, she was certain of it. Only they would understand the ward. It had been laid for her by a true Trifold Priestess, and would block anyone hostile, but the Empire’s monsters....