by David Hair
‘A successful expedition?’ Dash asked.
Vidar chuckled. ‘Tell you that, I’d have to kill you.’
They chatted away amiably enough for another few minutes, then Vidarsson began slurring his words. ‘This rye . . . is . . . kragging strong, Cowley—’
‘Oh, Urstian rye’s a beast,’ Dash agreed. He smiled, waiting as the ranger deteriorated quickly, his head nodding, until he slumped and began to snore.
‘Gerda’s Blood, Dad, you just drugged him,’ Zar squeaked.
Dash went to the door and peered into the frigid night. The three Bolgrav soldiers were huddled over a blaze they’d made with his firewood. If these bastards hang round much longer we’ll be destitute again.
‘I want to read this cartomancer’s notes,’ he told Zar. ‘You get some sleep.’
He tousled her hair and they shared a fond, anxious hug; they’d been through a lot together and their bonds were tight but she’d clearly guessed that as soon as Gospodoi’s party were gone, they’d need to move again. If the Bolgrav gave their description to anyone with the wrong connections, the hunt would be on again.
Gerda knows where to next . . . There’re not too many other places to run, unless we leave the continent altogether . . .
Zar went back to her loft and he returned to the unconscious cartomancer and removed the satchel under his head. With half an eye on the drowsing Vidarsson, he opened the leather bag and removed the journal all cartomancers carried, and began to read. He was interested to see that while the older entries were in Magnian, which everyone could read, the later writings were in Ferrean, a standard subject in Otravian universities – but not in Bolgravia.
I’m fluent in Ferrean, but I bet Gospodoi isn’t. Most Bolgravs can’t be arsed learning other folk’s tongues. He read quickly, anxious to finish before his uninvited guest awoke.
I, Lyam Perhan, Imperial Cartomancer, do attest. In the year 1534ME, I accompanied Lord Vorei Gospodoi of Bolgravia on an expedition from Sommaport, across the Narrows, to the newly discovered land of Verdessa, which is claimed by Bolgravia.
The notes detailed navigational bearings, mineral readings and some sparse notes on flora and fauna. Perhan listed no native peoples, but he did mention a lake in the mountains at the edge of the Iceheart, the vast expanse of ice in the north. When Dash read the water analysis, one obscure chemical symbol, buried deep, leaped off the page.
Istariol . . . Gerda Alive, he found traces of istariol! And the readings hinted at far more: a lode bigger than anything discovered since the Mizra Wars. Dash’s veins tingled at the thought of what such a lode could do in the right hands – it might even revive the fight for freedom in Otravia and across the Magnian continent. The call of home flared up inside him, together with the burning need for revenge on the Mandarykes and all the other turncoats who let the Bolgravs into Otravia.
He skimmed the rest of the journal, finding no other references to istariol, but he judged that Perhan was wilfully obfuscating. The Ferreans have suffered as badly as the rest of us. Perhaps he didn’t want to tell Gospodoi what he’d found, so he buried the information in such a manner that it was more likely a friendly eye would see it . . .
He closed the journal and returned it to the satchel, then settled onto his pallet, closed his eyes and fell to dreaming of a glorious return to his homeland.
*
It felt like only minutes later when Zar shook him awake. ‘Dad,’ she murmured, ‘he’s waking – and the sun’s coming up.’
Dash looked up blearily and rubbed his eyes. He might not feel rested, but excitement was tingling in his veins. After too many years of exile the sense of opportunity was beckoning, but he kept calm as he washed his face, re-lit the fire and put water on the boil, keeping one eye on Vidar Vidarsson as the Norgan snuffled his way back towards wakefulness.
The cartomancer’s discovered enough istariol to start a war, but I’m almost certain he’s not told anyone else. So does anyone know about this find but him and me?
He looked across the room at Zar, seeing her mother’s face echoed there, and wondered if he had the right to drag her into one of his schemes. Let it pass, caution urged. Keep your head down. But the cartomancer’s journal was a treasure map. Letting such a chance pass by would tear him apart.
And what’s the alternative? To die in exile, while the Mandarykes ruin my homeland?
‘Zar,’ he asked, ‘if we had a chance to return home, you’d want to take it, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course. I’m sick of being nowhere.’
He winced. She’d be at home right now if he hadn’t stolen her from her mother. But she’d be living at the whim of the Mandarykes and their Bolgrav friends, just like her mother, and they’d soon have taught her to despise me.
‘It’d be for us,’ he said, trying to convince himself as much as her. ‘For all we once had.’
‘I know, Dad,’ she said, throwing him a warning look as Vidar stirred again.
Still undecided, Dash signed her to put the conversation to one side. ‘Can you make us breakfast, please?’ he asked, before turning to the Norgan. ‘You all right there, fella?’
Vidar blinked awake, then peered at his empty cup. ‘Deo’s Balls, that stuff hits hard.’
‘Just relax, friend Vidar,’ Dash said. ‘I’m sure it’s been a trying journey for you.’
‘You have no idea,’ Vidar growled. ‘The number of times I came close to knifing those pricks. Arrogant bastards think they own the whole kragging world.’
‘They do: my land, your land, everyone else’s land. They’ve got the most powerful sorcerers, they’ve got the biggest armies and the most gold: the three pillars of empire.’
Vidar looked at him steadily. ‘Were you in Colfar’s rebellion?’
Dash winked and threw the Norgan’s words of the previous night back at him: ‘Tell you that, I’d have to kill you.’ They laughed, then he added, ‘We lost. There’s nothing more to say.’
‘Aye,’ the Norgan answered eventually. ‘I just pray that one day there’ll be a chance to strike back – a way that isn’t just throwing my life away.’
‘Don’t we all?’ Dash agreed.
The door swung open without warning, Dash flashed his hand to his dagger and spun round – to face a smug-looking Lord Gospodoi standing in the doorway.
The Bolgravian noble chuckled at the sight of bared steel. ‘Physickers take peace oath, ney?’
Dash sheathed his weapon. ‘Teshveld isn’t safe, even for a healer.’
‘Yuz, but maybe nowhere is safe for Physicker Cowley?’ Gospodoi mused, allowing his cloak to fall open: he wore a twinned rapier and dagger, the gems on the hilts worth more than all of Teshveld, not that that was saying a lot. He ambled into the hut and studied the unconscious Perhan. ‘How is patient?’
‘He’s alive, but I don’t think there’s much I can do,’ Dash replied, wondering how good Gospodoi was with his sword. ‘The infection’s gone too deep.’
Gospodoi tutted, as if chiding a disappointing infant. ‘I warned you,’ he said, reaching out and grasping Zar by the hair. ‘Maybe I make your daughter pay for your failings.’
‘I can’t do the impossible,’ Dash replied, keeping his voice subservient despite his hammering heart. The Bolgrav soldiers were now pressed around the door, sensing the chance of violence. ‘He was too far gone. You’re not being fair.’
‘Fair?’ Gospodoi snorted, jerking on Zar’s hair and making her squeal.
Then the Bolgrav laughed and let Zar go. ‘Just joke, yuz? Is funny, seeing man sweat over nothing.’ He put a hand on the back of Zar’s neck and asked, ‘So, you read Ferrean?’
Dash’s heart thumped, but he kept his expression frozen. ‘No one will harm my daughter.’
‘Of course.’ Gospodoi plucked the journal from the satchel under Perhan’s head. ‘You translate Ferrean words in this and all is well for you – and for little Zar-bird. Tell me about this “failed” expedition.’
Dash r
ealised Gospodoi clearly suspected the cartomancer hadn’t told him everything. The empire doesn’t like failure, he thought.
So he took a deep breath, suppressed his worry about the threats to Zar, accepted the journal and retreated to his desk. His mind wasn’t on linguistics; he was trying to find a path he and Zar could walk that would allow them to get away unharmed.
‘Zar,’ he said firmly, ‘no one’s going to hurt you. Get up in the loft and clean up.’
‘Yuz,’ Gospodoi purred, ‘put nice dress on.’
Zar shot up the ladder like a polecat, jerking the curtains shut after her. Dash heard her crawl to the chest against the back wall and open it. He pictured her tossing clothes about in silent fury.
Then he focused on Vidar Vidarsson. His presence here might just provide the tipping factor. I can take one or two down, but not all these men – unless Vidarsson helps . . .
They’d made only the beginnings of a connection, but they shared the same view on Bolgravs, at least. So he threw the ranger a grin and said, ‘How’s your head, my friend?’ A plan began to form. He tapped the jug of rye. ‘You had a little too much moonfire last night?’
In most of Norgania and Otravia, the slang for istariol was moonfire.
Vidar’s eyes narrowed, then he stretched and stood. ‘Can’t ever get too much moonfire.’
‘What is this moon fire?’ Gospodoi enquired.
Dash handed him the jug. There was quite a bit of the rye left. ‘This.’
Gospodoi sniffed it, then deliberately dropped the clay vessel on the stone floor, shattering it and spraying the precious drink among the rushes. ‘I piss better drink than this,’ he remarked.
You kragging arsehole.
‘That’s a waste,’ Vidar muttered, his eyes glinting and the vein in his temple pulsing.
‘I can get more moonfire,’ Dash replied, discreetly tapping the diary, ‘from an old flame.’
Message received?
He awaited some sign, but beyond that throbbing vein, Vidar’s face was unreadable. Tension, or dislike for his employers? Whatever, I’m pretty sure he’s getting worked up.
Deciding he needed more solid confirmation, Dash put one hand behind his back where Gospodoi couldn’t see and traced a circle: Magnian finger-cant. Are you with me?
Vidar frowned.
Come on, man, are you in? Dash wondered. He thought they’d kind of made friends last night, even agreeing they’d both like to strike back against the oppressor. But I doubt either of us thought that would mean here and now.
Gospodoi went to the door and called in Bolgravian for his sergeant. Are they suspecting something? Dash worried as the sergeant came to the door and surveyed the small hut. Then he heard Zar moving above and glanced up.
‘Girl is up there,’ Gospodoi told the sergeant, this time speaking Magnian. ‘If there is problem, we punish her.’
‘Dad?’ Zar called from behind the curtain.
‘Make sure you’re properly dressed,’ Dash replied.
Tension settled like frost. Vidar went to the fireplace and warming his hands, said as if in afterthought, ‘Tell me about this old flame, Physicker.’
He gets it. Dash stopped himself sighing with relief. ‘Died of infection; there was nothing anyone could do. Then the damned nobles came in and took everything.’
‘Too much you talk,’ Gospodoi said. ‘Stop now and read journal.’
Dash obediently began, ‘I, Lyam Perhan, Imperial Cartomancer, do attest—’
‘Ney, ney,’ Gospodoi said impatiently, ‘go to water readings, last entry. Tell me.’
Dash tapped a finger, thrice in quick succession, then twice, then once—
—and moved: his hand flew to the hidden dagger in the scabbard tacked to the underside of the desk, he drew it and thrust it into Gospodoi’s kidneys, shouting, ‘Now, Vidar!’
Gospodoi convulsed in shock as the blade penetrated – but Vidar just stared, his mouth falling open, and Dash realised that the ranger hadn’t understood any of his cryptic messages at all.
Shansa mor! ‘Move!’ he barked at the Norgan.
At the doorway, the big Bolgrav sergeant stood frozen, just as stunned – no one was ever stupid enough to attack a Bolgrav lord like this. But the two soldiers behind him were yelping and flailing for their weapons.
‘What the—?’ Vidar gasped.
‘Jou—’ Gospodoi grunted, reaching for his pistol, but his legs went and instead he staggered against the table.
The sergeant finally wrenched out his sword, but wavered, unsure whether to go for Dash or Vidar.
‘Kragga!’ Dash exclaimed, ripping his dagger sideways out of Gospodoi’s belly, which sent blood spraying an arc across the room. The nobleman collapsed into the fireplace, sending ash and sparks spitting everywhere. The flames quickly took hold of his clothing and as they blazed into life, he shrieked.
The Bolgrav sergeant made his decision: he raised his longsword and swung at Vidar – and the blade caught in the low rafters.
Vidar gaped at the blade, then at the sergeant, and now the pulse on his temple was really hammering.
Then he snarled.
Outside, the soldiers were shouting and waving their flintlocks around, but as they hadn’t fired at anyone yet, Dash guessed they weren’t loaded. But one had had the sense to ram a bayonet onto the muzzle and he burst through the doorway, lunging at the Norgan.
And still Vidar hadn’t moved . . .
Then Dash suddenly realised this wasn’t the paralysis of fear, but something deeper: Vidar’s eyes blazed with amber light, then his spine twisted and he hunched forward, hands splaying as he vented a bestial roar. He battered the bayonet aside, then drove his fingers – no, there were two-inch claws bursting through his nails – into the man’s throat and ripped.
Dash stared. Kragga mor, he’s a bearskin!
The soldier collapsed in a haze of spraying blood as the second man appeared at the door with a loaded flintlock. He saw Vidar standing over his dying comrade and took aim – as the curtain in the loft jerked aside and Zar appeared, cradling a crossbow. With a sharp thunk, she discharged the weapon and the bolt slammed straight into the gun the soldier held, which jolted and roared flame. The lead ball pinged off the floor and lodged in the wall six inches from Dash’s head, but he was already spinning and hurling his dagger, which buried itself in the man’s left shoulder, sending the gasping Bolgrav staggering backwards.
With a furious roar, Vidar went at him, a six-foot leap that bore the soldier down. His teeth – now long, savage fangs – snapped closed in the man’s neck. Vidar wrenched, the neck snapped and the soldier went still. But Vidar continued to rip at the flesh – then he turned his bloodied face back to the doorway . . .
In an instant, he’d launched himself back into the hut, straight at Dash—
—who leaped, pulled his old army falchion from the rafter where it hung and slammed the hilt into the bearskin’s temple. Vidar folded, slumping stunned onto the bloody rushes. The pulse in his temple slowed and his claws and fangs began to retract.
In just ten seconds, the hut had become a charnel house.
Panting hard, Dash turned to the fireplace – and caught his breath in horror, for Gospodoi, who should at the very least have been unconscious, if not dead, was rising to his knees, his fingers tracing ancient runes that hung in the air, glowing, as he muttered, ‘Skiamach! Animus!
The stench of sulphur and smoke filled the room. The Bolgrav roared ‘Impetu—’ as he punched his right fist towards Dash. The air blurred, then rippled – and blasted across the room—
—but Dash had already hurled himself aside. The ball of force still spun him round, but he kept his footing, and he still held his sword. He bounded forward and thrust it into Gospodoi’s chest, sending him backwards into the fire again. The flames once again roared over Gospodoi’s charred silk clothing, but this time the Bolgrav had gone rigid.
Frightened the fire would engulf the whole hut, Dash lunged for th
e nearest liquid, which happened to be the piss-bucket. When he tipped it over the blazing Bolgrav lord, it sizzled and sent foul-smelling steam rising to the ceiling – but the fire went out.
Panting in relief, Dash wrenched out the sword, and just stood there, momentarily dazed by the chaos of the last few seconds.
But then Gospodoi sat up. His flesh was charred and his clothes were smouldering, but his eyes had turned the same bright blue as an azure light blooming from a necklace around his throat. He reached out blackened fingers and an unseen force gripped Dash around the throat, closing his windpipe and throttling him.
‘Skiamach, contundito!’ Gospodoi croaked, his face contorting with agonised rage. He tightened his grip, then twisted, trying to break Dash’s neck.
‘No,’ Dash choked, dropping to one knee as his vision blurred.
‘Father!’ he dimly heard Zar shriek.
He almost lost the falchion as his limbs shuddered and the force binding his throat became unbearable, vaguely saw Gospodoi’s hands swirl counter-clockwise and felt the unseen forces preparing to twist his head and rip it off. With what he knew would be his final burst of energy, he re-gripped the falchion and threw all his might into one movement, swinging the blade in an arc with all his remaining strength—
—and Gospodoi’s head almost leaped from the neck, blood gushed and the torso crashed back into the fireplace, finally staying still.
All Dash saw was the blood, scarlet torrents sweeping across the world as the pressure on his throat finally took him down. Darkness roared in his mind as he toppled sideways.
*
Dash woke to find Zar cradling his head.
‘Dad?’ she said anxiously as he opened his eyes to find himself lying among the bloodstained rushes on the floor of his hut, his clothes soaking up spilt rye and urine.
‘Ahhh—’
Vidar appeared over Zar’s shoulder, peering at him with a mix of perplexity and anger. ‘Gerda’s Teats, what kind of blasted physicker faints at the sight of blood?’