‘I see you there. So, a traveller like as ourselves.’ He waved Kyle up. ‘Very well, come. Join us.’
‘No. You’re in a death trap. Your only hope is to keep moving.’
The commander appeared taken aback for an instant, then he gave a great belly laugh. ‘We’re holding them off!’ He glanced about to his people. ‘Isn’t that so?’
Kyle resisted raising his hand to press it to his forehead. Blind idiot. ‘Listen – they’re coming in twos and threes, yes?’
The man frowned, losing patience. ‘Yes? What of it?’
‘They’re just using you. They’re sending their least experienced warriors to blood them. You don’t understand: it’s like a game to them. They’ve got you right where they want you.’
The fellow was scowling now, rubbing his bearded jaw. ‘Wait a moment … it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one they’re after. You caused all this!’
Kyle raised a hand for a pause. ‘Now wait! I didn’t cause any of this …’
‘Kill him!’ the commander ordered. ‘Fire!’
Bows and crossbows thrummed. Kyle dived for cover. Bolts and arrows hissed through the grasses about him. ‘Get out there,’ the fellow bellowed. ‘Get his sword! It’s worth a fortune!’
Kyle ran hunched almost double, straight south. Bolts and arrows continued to punish the grass about him, but luckily none struck. One did slash his arm. He ran on until he judged it long enough, then cut due east. He kept glancing back to look for any pursuit but saw none. It appeared these men and women were unwilling to travel too far from the security of their redoubt.
Their voluntary burial ground, as far as he was concerned.
He jogged east until twilight came. Only then did he start to worry; he hadn’t really organized a firm rendezvous with Lyan. What if he’d lost her too? He assumed she’d been watching. Wouldn’t she have started east, knowing that this was his chosen direction?
He walked now in the open, scanned the gently rolling steppe lands as he went. It was getting cold as night gathered. Then a light flashed on a distant hillside. He raised a hand to shield his vision. It came again from north of him, flashing and flickering on and off. A signal? He set out jogging in that direction.
He came to a long winding hillock, not too tall, but broad with steep sides. A figure rose from the deep shadows there and descended towards him. He went to meet it.
It was Lyan. She held out his weapons and gear. He took it all and re-girt himself. Dorrin rose from cover nearby and came dragging the two heavy packs.
‘So,’ Lyan said. ‘That went well.’
Kyle just made a face.
‘Your diplomacy skills at work again, I see.’
He merely gestured, inviting her eastwards.
‘Making friends all over the region.’
He let out a long breath. ‘Try to help someone and what do you get?’
‘No good deed goes unpunished.’
‘No indeed.’
‘Now what?’ she asked. ‘Just going to leave them to be ground down?’
‘They deserve it. I recognized them. Slavers out of the south. A city named Kurzan. I have a particular dislike of slavers.’
‘Slavers! In truth? Then they do deserve it.’
He took a pack from Dorrin. ‘Thanks, lad. You’re doing just fine, you know?
‘Thank you, sir.’
Kyle laughed. ‘Sir? You don’t have to call me sir.’
‘Oh, but I should,’ the lad returned quite seriously. ‘All champions should be called sir. As a sign of respect.’
Kyle’s gaze snapped to Lyan, who looked away as if disinterested, but he thought her face a touch flushed.
‘Who says I am a champion?’ he said, still gazing over the lad to Lyan.
‘Oh, I’ve heard the stories too,’ Dorrin continued, unaware. ‘From my tutors. They said that Whiteblade cut through a ship’s chain a thick about as a man’s thigh.’
‘A wrist, perhaps,’ Kyle conceded.
‘That the sword Whiteblade cut a goddess that none other could touch.’
‘That is true.’
Lyan seemed to flinch at that, reddening even more.
‘They said Stonewielder broke the Shieldwall – though many in Fist claim it was just an earthquake.’
‘It was he,’ Kyle said, his voice hoarse and faint, and he looked away to scan the hillsides.
Lyan cleared her throat. ‘That’s enough, Dorrin.’ Then, to Kyle: ‘This sea to the east … it is the Sea of Gold, yes?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It is another. It has many names. My people called it the Sea of Terrors. Everyone knows it is cursed. We will not go near it.’
‘Then … what is our route?’
‘North, skirting its shore.’
‘Then … we remain within the Silent People’s territory?’
‘No. I understand their territory ends just to the north.’
‘And who is next? What murderous clans?’
Kyle did not answer immediately; he shaded his gaze to the west, squinted into the sunset, glanced away. ‘We’ll need to find a camp soon.’
‘What tribes?’ Lyan continued stubbornly.
His gaze lowered, he drew his hatchets, tested their edges with his thumbs, hooked them back into his belt. ‘There are stories,’ he began slowly. ‘Only stories. The further north we go the less I know of things.’ He took a steadying breath. ‘The Silent People’s territory ends north of here because they are afraid of those lands. As were my people.’
‘Who lives there?’
He cast her a quick bleak smile. ‘No one knows. We call it the Vanishing Lands. That is because those who venture there are never seen again. None have ever returned.’
Lyan halted. ‘And we are walking into it? You would … I would take Dorrin to such a terrible place? I would rather take my chances with this sea.’
Kyle halted as well. ‘Believe me, you would not. I know more of this sea than the north – that is why I would avoid it.’
‘There will be ships! Surely one will be headed south, away from these dreadful lands.’
‘There is only death on that sea. All agree it is cursed with madness.’
‘A few days on a ship will see us free of here!’
Kyle raised his eyes to the darkening cloudless dome of the sky. ‘There will be no ships coming south out of the Sea of Terrors.’
Lyan dropped her pack and waved a dismissal. ‘How do you know? Have you seen this? Countless ships are entering it now. Heading north even as we speak! Yes? Do you deny that?’
‘No, I do not deny that.’
‘Then why are you even arguing? They will come south again.’
Dorrin came and stood between them; he looked from Lyan to Kyle.
Kyle shook his head. ‘None of them will ever return.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, come now. Listen to yourself: “None will ever return.” Some will.’
He drew a sharp breath.
Dorrin announced loudly, ‘We need to camp. It’s late.’
Kyle clamped his jaws shut. Lyan glanced away. She clenched and unclenched her gauntleted hands.
Dorrin headed for the nearest hilltop. Kyle watched him go. After a time, he murmured ruefully, ‘Wise beyond his years.’
Lyan hitched up her pack and followed. ‘I’m glad one of us is.’
*
There was little talking the next morning. Kyle walked ahead and apart. He thought through yesterday’s conversation. How close could they get to the sea? And what of water? They were in desperate need. Yet the narrows could sometimes reverse their flow and seawater would wash into the basin. It was unhealthy to drink much of it, although some claimed it was the water itself – run-off from the great icefields and snows of the north – that carried the curse.
They passed the scene of an old attack: grass grew through the spokes of burnt cartwheels; tiny scavengers had gnawed the leather of scattered rusted equipment. A skull half bare of flesh grinned from the d
usty dry earth. Its hair was long and black. Kyle scuffed dirt over it before Dorrin arrived.
Later, he and Lyan walked together. He cleared his throat. ‘We do need water …’ he began.
‘But as you say – if it is too dangerous …’ she answered. ‘And you should know. You’re the local. I should defer. I’m sorry … command is a hard habit to break.’
He laughed. ‘Yes it is. And I am sorry. I swear that if I see any ship headed south I will personally swim out and shake the captain’s hand.’
Lyan was quiet for a time, then she peered sideways at him, her brows raised. ‘You can swim?’
They walked east for four more days. The grasses grew taller here, and greener. Copses of brush and short trees occupied the depressions. Kyle sought out each hoping to find a pool or a soak. So far he had found none.
He did his best to maintain a watch for possible challengers but it was harder and harder to maintain the necessary heightened awareness and readiness. He felt that they were being watched; yet now these Silent warriors were keeping their distance. It was exhausting, and he was feeling the weakness and drain of lack of water. Dorrin hadn’t realized it yet, but he was now the only one drinking.
Kyle could sometimes feel moisture on his face in the breeze out of the east. White birds flew in the eastern sky. He stopped walking and gestured to the rolling horizon. ‘The sea is close. Just beyond those rises, perhaps. Some call this the Shore of Fear, or Anguish Coast.’
‘Pleasant names you lot have here.’
He grinned. ‘They are meant to keep people away.’
‘They don’t seem to be working.’
He nodded. ‘Unfortunately, they just seem to have piqued everyone’s interest.’
‘We turn north?’
He nodded again, wearily, already tired. ‘Yes. I wonder if we should start moving at night now.’
‘Dangerous. I’ve seen predators watching our camp at night. Jackals and spotted cats.’
‘Yes.’ He drew a sleeve across his brow, let the arm fall. ‘Perhaps I should head to the top of those hills. Have a look.’
‘We’ll all go.’
He eyed her; she still wore her heavy mail coat. Sweat ran in rivulets down her temples and her hair lay pressed and matted to her skull. Her eyes were sunken and dark. He nodded heavily. ‘Very well.’
The slope was gentle; in fact, it was hard to tell that they had reached a hilltop so lightly did the land rise and fall. He stopped, shaded his gaze in the harsh noon light. Between hills he could just make out the iron-grey shimmer of the sea. He raised his chin to Lyan. ‘There it is.’
She lifted her hand to her brow. ‘Looks harmless. We could reach it by the end of the day.’
‘Yes.’
‘But we won’t. So … what?’
He gestured north. ‘There are a few streams that run to the sea. We should come across one eventually.’
‘If we have the strength,’ she murmured; Dorrin was close now. ‘And what of our friends?’
He scanned the surrounding horizons. ‘I have the feeling that they’re letting us weaken.’
‘Not very fair of them.’
He drew a fortifying breath. ‘Well, it’s our own damned fault, isn’t it?’
Dorrin arrived to peer east. ‘So that is your Sea of Dread. I don’t like the look of it.’
‘Neither do I,’ Kyle agreed. He held out a hand, inviting Lyan northward, and they started off.
The next day Kyle sucked on stones. He pinched the skin of his hand and it did not fall back at all. The moisture coming off the sea was a torment, but no matter how much he feared the Silent warriors shadowing them his instincts told him that the true threat lay to the east.
Even so, if the Silent People’s strategy was to wait until they were falling down weak, then it was working. The next day he stopped Lyan from donning her mail coat. He’d found the poles of two dead saplings that he used to build a travois. He motioned to the packs. ‘Keep only what you need.’
Lyan did not even bother answering, merely set to tossing things away. With the travois finished, the poles and cross-sticks lashed with leather straps, they loaded it with what remained of their gear: armour, wrapped dried meat, a sack of meal stuffed into a cooking pot, and the empty waterskins. Lyan hung a leather pouch around her neck and tucked it under her tunic. What remained of the lad’s royal inheritance, Kyle assumed. They set off, Kyle dragging the travois by the length of two leather belts. At noon they switched over.
In the late afternoon they came to the dried bed of a stream. Kyle clambered down among the exposed rocks and gravel and started digging with a hatchet. Lyan joined him. About an arm’s length down the mixed mud and sand became damp. Kyle pressed the cold wet sand to his face and sighed in delight.
A gasp from Dorrin brought Kyle and Lyan jumping to their feet, weapons drawn.
Across the dried stream bed five people faced them: two clan elders, male and female, and three of what must be their most senior warriors, two men and one woman. The warriors wore white face paint while their mostly naked bodies were smeared in ochre mud. The elders were draped in leather skins and furs.
‘Let me drink first,’ Kyle called.
The female elder smiled, revealing blunt nubs of teeth. ‘No pleading, Whiteblade? Good. That is as it should be.’
The old man jerked his head back towards the north. ‘You are truly headed north?’
‘I am.’
The two elders exchanged a glance that greatly troubled Kyle, for it was an uneasy one. Then the old woman stamped her staff to the ground and announced, ‘It is the Quest, then. Child of the Wind, you go to the great mountains, Joggenhome, to stand before our ancestors and prove our worth as our champion.’
‘It is not agreed,’ one of the male warriors, the most scarred one, snarled.
‘Quiet, Willow,’ the old man warned. ‘The clans have lost enough blades. He has proved his worth. And we are shamed by Neese and Niala. They were not chosen.’
‘It is only the blade he carries,’ Willow answered scornfully. ‘Let us see him fight with no advantage.’
Kyle raised his chin to the elders. ‘I am half dead of thirst, but if the elders wish it – I will face this one without the white blade.’
‘The Quest is a not a trifling matter,’ the old man muttered.
‘We must be certain,’ the woman agreed.
The old man gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. You have two nights and two days. Rest, drink, eat. We will meet again at the dusk.’ He gestured to the female warrior and she tossed something to Kyle. He caught it: a skin of water. The five climbed the slope up out of the stream bed and melted away.
‘You should not have agreed,’ Lyan said.
‘I had no choice. It was a test. It was all a test. If I had failed they would have killed all of us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A test of honour. A test of bravery. A test of my resolve – they had been waiting to see whether I truly would turn north.’
‘And this last stupid duel?’
‘It is their … well, our, way. Formalized war. Some might call it a kind of game. Only we two need be wounded or killed. More humane, really.’
She was shaking her head. ‘Stupid. Damned stupid.’
‘Thank you for your faith in my abilities.’
She just waved an arm, dismissing him, and climbed the stream bed.
For two days they rested. They drank the water and boiled the last of their grain meal. As the afternoon of the second day slid into evening, Kyle began stretching. He decided to use his two hatchets and keep two knives tucked into his belt at the rear. Dorrin stood cradling the white blade in its sheath and leather wrap.
The Silent People appeared soon after. They approached in the open, out of the west.
‘Remember,’ Kyle again told Lyan, ‘follow the coast. It should curve to the east and you should come to some sort of estuary, an outlet to the Sea of Gold. There should be people there. A fort
ress named Mist.’
She had objections, plenty, he could tell. But she swallowed them. Instead, she slipped her hand behind his neck and pulled his lips to hers to kiss him.
He stood blinking, quite stunned.
‘There’s some motivation for you,’ she said, looking fierce. ‘Now slit him open and let’s get going.’
‘Yes, ma’am. You really are a shieldmaiden. Where is your shield anyway?’
‘Lost it in the shipwreck.’
‘Have to get you another.’ And he walked away, swinging his arms to loosen them and kicking at the dry dusty earth.
The Silent People’s warrior, Willow, stepped forward. He drew two fighting knives. Kyle was surprised to see that both blades were of chipped black stone, obsidian. The warrior saw him eyeing the blades and held them up. ‘You have set aside your white blade, and so will I face you in the old way, with the traditional weapons.’
So the man hadn’t been seeking his own advantage when he demanded that Kyle set aside his sword. He’d given up quite a lot in choosing those brittle blades. A solid blow from his hatchet should shatter one. But then, even a fragment from such a weapon would be deadly sharp.
The warrior twisted the blades before him as he circled. Sometimes he reversed them, spinning and jumping. Kyle saw that the grips were wound in leather. As they circled, he glimpsed Lyan standing aside, Dorrin before her, her hands on his shoulders. She wore her sword.
‘Do you know why I challenged you, Son of the Wind?’ Willow called.
‘No.’
‘Because when I defeat you I will take your place in the Quest. I will stand before our ancestors and it will be my name they will know.’
‘Then you are a fool,’ Kyle answered simply. He put all the tired contempt he could muster into the observation.
The man jerked, stunned, then snarled and charged in. The charge was a feint as the man slid aside at the last moment, slashing, but Kyle was prepared, as he had learned the hard way from Ruthen’el – these people were deadly knife-fighters. The deadliest he’d ever faced. But he had been taught by the best as well, by veterans of the Crimson Guard, and by Greymane himself. Grey had been a legendary brawler. ‘Just win,’ his friend had always berated him. ‘Never mind the fancy shit – just win.’
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