by David Hair
‘It’s your expedition,’ his daughter pointed out. ‘What’d you expect?’
‘Perhaps a little more self-sufficiency?’ He sighed heavily. ‘Rhamp’s bullies think they can do what they like, half the woodsmen are almost feral and the ordinary villagers don’t feel safe – and I’m horribly sure they’re right to feel that way.’
‘Not all of Rhamp’s men are bad,’ Zar replied. ‘Banno—’
‘You keep away from him. He’s ten years your elder.’
‘Five.’
‘Whatever. His older brother is a thug and I warrant he’s no better.’
She stood, hands going to hips – so like Mirella – and snapped, ‘You know nothing.’
‘You’re the one who knows nothing,’ he retorted. ‘Banno might be “nice”, but he has a long way to go to prove himself worthy of trust, and given that his father will probably stab me in the back the moment we find the istariol, I’m not holding out too much hope.’
‘Yeah, like your judgement of character’s so damned good.’
‘Zarelda!’
For a moment they glared hotly at each other, then his anger broke. ‘Look, sorry, sorry. Just be careful, all right?’ When she still looked fit to stomp off, he said, ‘Why don’t we see what that new familiar of yours can do?’
Her face immediately softened, though she was still cross, but she made an imperious gesture and her familiar streaked in from the dark, still in fox cub form, and nuzzled her calves.
Raythe called Cognatus to him and he and Zar watched the two familiars tread carefully around each other, shifting from shape to shape – cat to hound to wolf to bear – and then suddenly they pounced on each other and began flailing furiously.
Zar squealed, but Raythe interjected. ‘Leave them. They won’t hurt each other.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s just play . . . well, more like they’re testing each other out.’ They watched the pair wrestle, a blur of speed and shapes and silent snarls and squeals, then Raythe conjured a little raw energy, enough to link to Cognatus.
‘Opperio, Cognatus,’ he called, and the familiar immediately flashed to his shoulder and perched in parrot shape.
Zar’s familiar snapped at him until she also called, ‘Opperio, Adefar—’
But instead of obeying her, the spirit flashed up into the nearest tree and sat staring down at her with beady eyes.
‘Opperio!’ Zar snapped again, pointing to the ground at her feet – but her familiar tittered like a mischievous child and vanished. ‘Adefar – Adefar?’
She went to chase him, but Raythe laid a hand on her arm. ‘Wait. He’s testing you.’
‘But why?’
‘Remember what I told you? Whatever he looks like, he’s not a cute fox cub. He’s a wild thing that has never had any limits placed on him before now. He doesn’t want to serve you, or even be your friend – he wants to be you. So you have to establish the boundaries, just like you would with any pet.’
‘But he’s not just a pet,’ she blurted. ‘I want us to be partners.’
He stroked her arm. ‘And you will be, Zar, but right now, he wants to be the boss and you can’t let that happen.’ He smiled, remembering his own struggles. ‘Remember, at best a spirit is about as bright as a really smart dog. They can recognise commands and they’re sensitive to mood, but they’re not smart enough to be in control. You have to be the leader, and that means you need to win the battle of wills.’
‘I’m not a bully,’ she told him grumpily. ‘I want him to love me.’
‘Of course you do – and you know what? I went through exactly the same thing. So here’s what you need to remember: some sorcerers react by trying to bully their familiar into submission – that can work, and those who take that route will be quick to tell you it’s the only way. But a familiar who resents you will get you killed in the end. It’ll wear you out, it’ll be inefficient and malicious: it’ll become the thing you make it. But if you’re patient and firm, and do everything with love, it’ll reward you with the same.’
She thought for a little, then asked, ‘So what do I do?’
‘Just wait. Don’t be angry, don’t try to pull him in or punish him. Wait, be open, and he’ll come back to you.’ He ruffled her mop of unruly hair. ‘Patience.’
‘I’m not a patient person,’ she muttered.
‘But you can be.’
She groaned, then sighed heavily. ‘I suppose if you can do it, I can do it better.’
He snorted. ‘That’s the spirit.’
She hugged him briefly, then rose. ‘I need to go for a walk.’
He frowned – it was late evening, and the camp was almost fully asleep. ‘Don’t go far,’ he warned. ‘Stay inside the perimeter.’
‘I’m only going to pee,’ she told him tartly. ‘Is that all right?’ She spun on her heels and stalked off, leaving him floundering, as she increasingly did these days. She was growing up and changing fast and he didn’t really know what to do.
Cognatus chirruped impatiently and he stroked his soft feathers, then sent him off to do whatever he wished. It was tempting to set him to watch Zar, but he’d have quickly forgotten the task anyway.
She’ll be fine, he told himself. She’ll have her familiar mastered by dawn.
Five minutes later, as he poked at the smouldering fire, a girl’s scream ripped the air and his heart almost stopped.
*
Kemara glared out at the night from her tiny circle of light, refusing to cry like a kragging baby over what had been done to her clothes.
What are you going to do about it? the darkness asked, a dark that now wore a lacquered face.
She’d asked around and found out who’d slashed them: one of the Rhamps’ camp-women. ‘Osvard didn’t even have the guts to do it himself,’ she muttered. Confronting him would do no good; he’d just tell her to krag off – and what could she do about it anyway?
Vyre won’t do anything and Elgus will shield his son, no matter what.
She’d spent the evening among other women, even singing vespers with the Sisters of Gerda, anything to avoid being alone, but the camp was falling asleep and her companions had all retired for the night.
I should have set up next to Varahana. It’s too late now – but I’ve camped alone before, and anyway, I’m only a few dozen yards from Relf Turner’s family. I’ll be fine.
Rhamp’s people, over by the open doors to the Aldar fortress, had been singing and drinking to their own dubious courage. But soon that racket had settled down and she began to breathe more easily. Finally, exhausted, she closed her eyes and almost immediately fell into a dream where a masked being like a bipedal panther stalked her through the ancient Aldar ruins.
She woke sometime later, cold because she’d fallen asleep before properly bedding down. All was silent; the planetary rings arching above looked so close she might almost be able to stretch out and touch them. She shook out her blanket and rolled onto her back, settling into sleep again—
—when she jerked up, because someone was moving through the grass just a few feet away. She slipped her knife into her hand, although it was more utensil than weapon, and sat up.
‘Who’s there?’ she called, but of course no one replied.
The air seemed to drop in temperature, sending a cold pulse through her skin – then someone did move, off to her right – and as she spun, a man chuckled from somewhere on her left and she whirled again and saw a big shape loom out of the shadows and her mouth flew open, because she wasn’t too proud to scream.
But the shadows blurred, a rough hand clamped over her face, choking off her cry, while another hand fastened around her wrist and twisted. A spasm of pain shot up her arm and the knife fell from suddenly lifeless fingers. She tried to fight, but though she was strong for a woman, against a man trained to the sword, with shoulders like rocks and muscles she couldn’t span with two hands, she was borne down, her face planted into the dirt and a heavy, stinking weight crus
hed her flat, jolting the air from her lungs. She dimly sensed another man appear – then he crunched his boot down on her hand, but her sharp cry was stifled by dirt.
Red pain burst through her skull and blood flooded her nostrils.
‘Not so high and mighty now are you, Healer?’ Osvard Rhamp snarled in her ear. His free hand gripped her skirts and yanked them up, baring her thighs as she thrashed beneath him.
The other man blurted, ‘Ossi, you said you wouldn’t—’
‘Shut the krag up,’ Osvard snarled, pushing her face back into the earth. ‘Relax, Healer. It’s the last bit of fun you’ll have before I send you to the Pit.’
She managed to turn her head aside enough to prevent him breaking her nose as he slammed her head down again, but that left her so dazed that she just lay there as he tugged at his belt and breeches. Her whole body clenched in terror . . .
Then someone did scream, only a few yards away, her shrill, piercing cry ripping the night in two. A young girl’s scream.
Osvard growled like the beast he was, but he didn’t get off. However, the second man whirled and hurtled towards the sound.
*
Zar had drifted around the fringes of the camp fires, thinking hard. Patience. She hated the word, but by Gerda she’d surely learned it in the last four years: in the squalor of the rebellion’s camps and during their flight afterwards. She’d grown up in a mansion in a big city, but four years of poverty and fear had taught her perseverance, too.
And of course, there was that interminable wait for the praxis to manifest. She’d never doubted it would happen: she’d woken each morning expecting some sign, but every day had been a disappointment, every morning a dawn of hope.
I waited for that and it came. I can outlast a little familiar spirit . . .
After she’d peed, she headed in the direction she’d last seen Adefar, not calling but just being visible, avoiding the distractions of other people, skirting the Rhamps’ encampment, even though she really wanted Banno’s reassuring presence.
She could sense Adefar was hovering nearer and nearer, losing the contest of will by degrees, and decided she could stay out just a little longer, to see if the familiar would return of its own free will.
But then she heard a woman’s gasp of pain and revulsion, and dark, hot male voices, and she saw movement beside the nearest camp fire: Kemara’s little camp – and that someone was lying on top of the healer, grunting and pulling at her clothing.
For a moment she didn’t comprehend and went to turn away in embarrassment at interrupting something – then the man slammed Kemara’s face into the dirt and she realised what it was she was seeing.
Zar’s reaction was instant, the gut response of seeing someone afflicted by what every women dreaded: she screamed like a washer-wraith, the sound bursting from her lungs and ripping through the silence.
The man on Kemara jerked his face towards her and she recognised Banno’s older brother – then a man she’d not seen stormed towards her, growling, ‘You, shut the feck up!’
In her terror, her mind froze – but her body responded, jerking her backwards as she shrieked, ‘Father!’ She tried to dart aside, but the man was on her in an instant and bearing her heavily to the ground.
He landed on top as her back struck the turf, crushing the air from her lungs, and inside her head something seemed to tear loose, while he babbled, ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up—’ and his flailing hands tore her blouse . . .
Then Adefar flashed into her like a torrent of fury, light and heat boiled up in her right hand and she thrust it into her attacker’s face. Something like a river of icy fire streamed through her, exploding through her palm in a flash of livid heat that seared her attacker’s cheek.
His body spasmed away from her and he jack-knifed over, wailing in agony as she tried to rise, but her legs wouldn’t respond and her whole body was shocked into immobility by the aftermath of that explosion of energy.
But even in the heat of terror and revulsion, part of her was exulting: Adefar came for me. She cradled him against her soul as the night burst into life around her.
*
Raythe was up and running in an instant, powering through the darkness, calling Cognatus to him as he hurtled towards the echo of his daughter’s voice, while all around him, the camp shook itself awake. Torches were flaring and voices shouting – then another cry erupted, but this was male and he recognised a blend of panic and pain. He headed for that wailing, and now he spotted the small fire still burning, and someone was moving on the ground and a man was climbing off a woman – and steel was glimmering cold in the firelight.
He bounded in, caught the wielder’s wrist and twisted, hard, then hammered a fist into the man’s jaw, sending him staggering. The knife went flying off into the dark, but the man came back at him, and now Raythe recognised Osvard Rhamp, his face rendered copper-red by the flames, and he was wrenching out his sword as he came.
Raythe threw himself aside from a wild swipe and lashing out with a double-legged scything sweep of the legs, tangled Osvard’s limbs and sent him sprawling. He rolled away from a swinging sword that bit the turf beside his head, ripped out his own falchion from his scabbard and rose.
On the ground, Kemara Solus was also rolling away, pulling her skirts down. Her face was a mess of blood and dirt and the tale of what he’d interrupted was utterly clear. But there was no sign of Zarelda.
Osvard was coming at him again, lining up a deadly thrust which Raythe parried aggressively, then whirled through a high cut that became a feint so late it defied sight, turning the blow into a slash that opened up Osvard’s arm. The mercenary howled, dropping his sword into the fire, and Raythe released one hand from his falchion, clenched his fist and slammed it into the mercenary’s jaw.
Osvard went down hard, out cold before he hit the ground. Raythe whirled, paused an instant to ensure Kemara wasn’t bleeding out, then spun to face the shadows.
‘Zar?’ he shouted in terror.
‘Father!’ His daughter’s voice was strangled but somehow triumphant and he stumbled through the darkness until he found her on the ground, cradling her familiar. Beside her was a young man clutching his face, writhing and whimpering, oblivious to everything but his pain.
Raythe gathered up his daughter in his arms and clasped her to him as she sobbed.
Then Vidar Vidarsson and Jesco Duretto burst into the light of Kemara’s cooking fire, weapons drawn, and other voices demanded to know what was happening.
‘I’ve got you, I’ve got you,’ he told his daughter, before asking, ‘What happened?’
‘I . . . I—’ Zar stammered, and then she writhed in his grip and showed him her left hand: it was glowing, pale orange licked with scarlet, but the light was fading even as he stared at it.
He understood at once. She’s used sorcery, without any training . . .
She was pale and frightened, her blouse was torn and she was in shock, from both the aftermath of using the praxis for real and the assault. But she was also excited. He pulled her to her feet and hugged her hard, while glancing down at the man at his feet: Poel, the youngest of Rhamp’s feral sons.
‘What happened?’ he demanded again, although he was shaking with fury, for the story was clear. The real question was, what should he do about it?
*
‘Rhamp!’ a voice shouted, out of the darkness. ‘Elgus, get out here, now!’
The knight was already awake and arming himself, roused by the alarm spreading through the camp. He threw a grim look at Tami, who was also up and belting her sword-belt over her nightdress. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked blearily as he stamped outside and watched his camp lurch into wakefulness. The lads had grown slack on the road, losing their discipline, and he made a mental note to set that right.
Then he glared about, picking out faces. There’s Banno . . . Nesto and Falgram, there’s Semus . . . Then, Kragga! Where’re Osvard and Poel?
He’d only bred sons – his wife
used to jest that he was compensating for something. Mind, she’d been the only one who could get away with that sort of lip. Birthing Poel had killed her, and his boys had grown all the wilder for that loss. Tami had been warning him for days that his eldest and youngest were plotting something stupid.
I should’ve listened.
‘Rhamp!’ It was Raythe Vyre’s voice.
As Bloody Thom and Crowfoot, his lieutenants, joined him, Tami patted his shoulder, then darted into the shadows, a crossbow in her hands. He smiled. She was a keeper.
‘What is it, Vyre?’ he shouted back defiantly as the bonfire roared back to life, revealing a group of fellow travellers at the edge of his camp: Raythe Vyre, with Vidar Vidarsson and the Shadran, Jesco Duretto. Vyre had his daughter with him, pale as a wraith. And the Ferrean bitch Kemara Solus, the likely cause of all the trouble, was there too, her face roughed up.
But what froze him was that they had Osvard and Poel with nooses round their necks, the loose ends cradled by Duretto and Vidarsson. The ropes, he suddenly realised, were slung over a branch of the tree they all stood beneath. His hand flew to his pommel as anger belched in his belly.
No one treats a Rhamp like that . . . He made a sign to Crowfoot to prepare for mayhem. Maybe it’s time to put Vyre in the dirt? He heard the whores squeal as they were shoved to the back, and the rasp of steel clearing scabbards, the growls of readiness. So he strode out to meet these bastards who dared threaten his boys.
But by the time he’d reached talking distance, he’d schooled his face to geniality. A smile could mask a blow better than most other ruses. ‘Raythe,’ he drawled, ‘what appears to be the problem here?’
Vyre wasn’t fooled for a moment. ‘What’s the punishment for rape, Elgus?’ He gestured and Duretto and Vidarsson hauled on the ropes, bringing Osvard and Poel to their tiptoes, eyes bulging. Osvard was bleeding from the arm and Poel had a livid red hand-print burned into his face. ‘It’s hanging, I believe.’
‘In Shadra, we cut a man’s cock off,’ Jesco put in, tugging Poel’s rope. ‘We leave him an inch, for pissing.’
‘In the uplands of Pelaria, we leave a man tied to a stake, for the wolves,’ Vidar growled.