by C F Welburn
“Kalaqai? Not much. Knew someone that had one once. Damn nuisance of a thing. Got him killed if I remember rightly.” He stared off, recalling some distant, long unthought-of event. Balagir sighed.
“Of the piper himself? What do you know?” He shrugged, and he could see he was losing him.
“What’s there to know? He is. And that’s it. He is, and so are we. You’re not one of those philosopher types, are you? Looking for constant meaning?” Tye grunted, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Aye,” Morogan said, “you see what religion has done to the settlers. We’ll have none of that tripe here.”
“And why did you… stop?” he asked the relics—for that is how he saw them now. Outmoded, out of their time, disassociated not only from the world, but from their purpose. He was unable to fathom how some so mighty had become content to accept their lot, to deteriorate drinking and babbling banalities. From all he had witnessed, the more smoke one gathered, the more one craved it.
“We made a pact.” Tye shrugged. “Long ago. There were more of us then, of course.”
“A pact?”
“Aye. We agreed that once we reached a certain level, we’d meet here. Only four of us ever arrived.” He shook his head and became lost to old thoughts. “Forgive me,” he said suddenly, rousing himself. “Those days seem so distant now.”
“And you’ve been here ever since?”
“Aye. Pretty much. Though we still keep our eyes open for the more opportune ventures. And tonight, we have you to thank for that!”
“Aye,” Ivorn said. “We play now for sport. Keeps us on our toes, makes the wine taste better. You should watch one of our challenges sometime. Might learn a thing or two.”
Balagir nodded glumly. It was true what they said about meeting your heroes. If this was all he had to aspire to, then as well let the largatyn make quick work of them all. He sighed and turned to his companions.
“A moment,” he said, and released his smoke into the fire, surrendering willingly unto the flaming vortex.
XXII
CANNONS AND COLDWATER
They were swift to depart once Balagir was done, and it was a relief to be away from Trummond Dorr and the ashen who populated it.
It was just as well they went afoot, as the Valelands were a web of small streams and brooks, with loose stones that would have played havoc with hooves. Even so, their pace was relentless, which left small room for conversation and less still for resting.
Dawn found them crossing the vale of Sora Dell, where small villages poked their red-tiled roofs from between green patchwork vineyards. People eyed them warily, and Balagir felt certain that this was one such place where the heroes would descend from time to time to replenish supplies. He doubted they paid.
These border dwellers were part Ozgarian and part Eskarathian, and as such were already being torn apart by the forthcoming war. In a lane a mother wrestled her child away from the father’s family as she retreated back to the Ozgarian side. If close-knit communities were divided, what chance was there of uniting the two Dunns? He decided not to dwell on it, and lengthened his stride.
It was not that day, but dawn of the following when the distant battlements of Eskareth came into view. He blinked into the haze, believing a lake of some description separated them, but it was the tents and banners of Dunn Fannon’s blue that swished like a tormented sea on the flats outside its walls.
“You’re awfully quiet, Balagir,” Kiela said as they drew near enough to hear the sounds of the encampment. “Envisage difficulties?”
“When are there not?” he answered with an arched brow, but then his humour faded. “Have you seen the mistrust we draw here? Between the black-eyes and those drunken fools up there, I’m beginning to see why.”
“Many settlers are bad too. Does that make all of them the same?”
“It’s different. People see ashen and fear us, or mistrust or hate. I’m not certain which. Maybe a mixture.”
“Well, you can’t please everyone,” she said, reaching for lightheartedness but falling short.
“We are so unlike them. I mean, even a brutish horlock can trace his ancestry. Why not us? What are we? Should we just forget the world that despises us and join those relics up there? Drinking wine seems preferable.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out, isn’t it? Once the war’s over. If all fails, count me in on the wine.”
He allowed himself a wry smile.
“Things will work out, or they won’t,” she said, in the way she might have spoken back at Bohal’s bar in Kirfory, when life had been, if not simpler, then opaquer.
“The askaba, for all his slyness, made me feel shame at our ignorance. And concern that he knows more about us than we do ourselves. We’re playing a game of Ciga in which they’ve thrown their stones and ours are shield hidden.”
“The askaba are responsible for this. Remember that when allotting shame.”
Balagir nodded, though was not eased by such thoughts. They carried on in silence as the din from the nearing camps rose to a cacophony.
Their weapons were hidden, yet even then they drew cries of warning as they crossed towards the largest tent. As they neared, the more brutish of two guards stepped into their path, not being shy about brandishing his blade. Others were doing the same, and several arrows were nocked.
“There’s no call for your kind here. Away, before we get some target practice.”
“We would speak with Dunn Fannon,” Balagir said. “It’s a matter of urgency.”
“Ha, ha,” the guard laughed. “Hear that lads? With the Dunn! And then what? Dine at his table? Wear his slippers, smoke his pipe? Get you gone, I’ll not say it again.”
“What’s all this?” a figure said, emerging from a nearby tent. It was Beringal, and he drew up short when he recognised Balagir. “You have some nerve showing your face around here,” he said coldly.
“Beringal,” Balagir said, relieved. “Finally, a man of reason. We must speak with the Dunn at once.”
“Out of the question. Now on your way—”
“Many lives are at stake.”
“He gave you a chance when no others would; you squandered it. We are on the eve of battle and have no time for—”
“A battle you wanted to avoid, remember? I was there in the council. I heard your words.”
“Preposterous.”
“You advised the Dunn to treat, did you not? It’s not too late.” Now it was Beringal’s turn to laugh.
“Not too late? Ha. We are knocking at his door with an army. I think they know we do not come to drink tea. Besides, it was always too late; I was a fool to think otherwise. Gorokhan murdered the Dunn. Some things cannot be undone.”
“But the visions I showed you in the crystal. All of that will come to pass.”
“Spare me,” Beringal said with an air of exasperation. “The askaba showed us the true crystal once you’d fled.”
“Fled, no. Held against my will. And I have the true crystal here. I beseech you to look upon it.”
“So you can deceive my eyes as well as my ears? I think not. The decision has been made. We’ve come too far to turn back.” He turned to the guards who had initially intercepted them. “Escort these ashen from the camp. If they try anything… well, they’ve been warned.” Balagir shook off the soldier’s hand.
“Very well. If you’ll not listen to reason, at least allow us to speak with Gorokhan.”
“Ha,” Beringal laughed, considered it, and then nodded. “Why not? One mad man to another. I see no harm in it. But know this: find yourselves inside come dawn, and you’ll be treated as foes. I will fight you myself if I see you on the field.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” The old advisor eyed him silently, gave a curt nod, and marched back into his tent. The ashen were escorted brusquely towards the edge of camp with every eye, arrow, and sword bent upon them.
Once they emerged from the fray, a wide field lay between them and
the castle’s moat with only a scattering of overturned carts illustrating its hasty abandonment. When they were about halfway across, they were aware of as many arrows at their backs as prickled the towering battlements above.
“Halt!” a voice called down as they neared the moat. “Who approaches Eskareth?”
“Balagir of the ashen, and my companions.” The guard above briefly conferred with those at his side before turning back.
“And what would ashen want here?”
“I would speak with your ruler, Dunn Gorokhan, that we may avoid this war.”
Again, the man spoke quietly with his companions.
“And what would your terms be?” he demanded at last.
“I’d rather discuss it with the Dunn himself—”
“State your terms or be gone.”
“That you unite with the Ozgarians. That you stand together against the coming tide.”
“Tide? We are far from the sea, ashen.”
“Even now the horlocks march upon you, and the largatyn at their backs. We bear warning.”
“We have a good view from up here. I see no ‘tide,’ though there be plenty flotsam.”
“I assure you, it comes.”
“Then why have not the Ozgarians been convinced. Why does not Dunn Fannon bring us this proposal?”
“I find it difficult to explain to you by shouting over a wall. May not we enter and discuss—”
“You will explain now, or not at all.”
“Very well. The Dunn has been misled by his advisor, one of the askaba—I fear similar deception within your walls.” The man’s expression darkened, and when he spoke again, his voice had altered.
“You may enter, but you must surrender your weapons.” Balagir looked at his companions. Most nodded their consent, though Unvil, Freya, and Raf Nauger grumbled.
“Agreed.”
The main portcullis remained shut, and they were instead ushered through a stout side door, squat enough to make a ‘gnilo stoop. Within several guards awaited, including he who had spoken from above, a well-built man, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and stern mien. As agreed, they laid down their weapons.
“An odd bunch,” one of the guards commented, looking chiefly at the gillard and the idris. Unvil, the jaegir, snarled, and the guards quickly looked away.
The spokesman inclined his head.
“Yorvic.”
“Balagir.”
“I’ll not lie, Balagir, there’s little love for ashen here, and everyone’s on edge. Make no sudden moves.”
“We come in peace,” he assured.
“What you said about the askaba, I would hear more of it.”
“Whilst in Ozgar, I unearthed a plot to deceive Dunn Fannon. They are orchestrating this entire war for some personal gain.” Yorvic shared a look with his companion.
“Now that Dunn Ortho is dead, we see no easy way out.”
“Then it’s true.”
“Dunn Gorokhan has always been a stringent ruler, but never unjust. His recent actions are out of sorts. He has shunned his council and imprisoned his son. He takes advice now only from one source.”
“The askaba?” Yorvic nodded austerely.
“It feels foul, yet there is no proof. Nor anything to be done about it. Since Dunn Ortho’s execution, two other high-ranking officials have been imprisoned. Nobody dares speak out. Some fled the keep, but now that we are surrounded, we have little choice but to defend ourselves.”
“I need to speak with Gorokhan.”
“It’s difficult. He’s never alone. My captain, Harov, spoke out in the presence of his advisors, and as a result I find myself in command of the garrison. You truly believe the askaba to be behind this?” he asked, a glimmer of hope in his hard eyes.
“I know it.”
“Let us speak of this elsewhere. There’s a tavern nearby. The guards drink there, so we should be safe.” He paused, looked them over carefully, and reached a decision. “You may retrieve your weapons, but keep them concealed. I’ve authority amongst my men, but tensions are high. It would take but a small spark to start a conflagration.”
They were led through the bailey, down a street so narrow and warped the building’s eaves kissed, and arrived at a tavern known as The Whetstone. The patrons’ reactions would have differed little had a flock of haryeks entered, and several tables were spilt as an array of notched swords and rusty axes hissed into view.
“Steady!” Yorvic warned, positioning himself between the newcomers and the bristling animal of steel. “They are allies.” Yorvic clearly held some sway here, yet it still took several moments before all the blades were lowered, and the tone of the conversation remained hushed and menacing. Yorvic ushered them to a corner, waved for a round of drinks, and settled down.
“You must excuse my men. We are all agitated.”
The ashen nodded, but not one of them let their weapon rest out of reach.
Once the drinks had arrived, he continued speaking.
“Earlier you mentioned an attack by horlocks and largatyn. How can you know this?” Balagir described the Gazer’s eye, but knew better than to reveal it in such a place. Yorvic frowned.
“Then it makes sense.” He waved over two guards who sat at the bar. “This is Bail and Hork. Two days past, they intercepted a largatyn on our borders not three leagues from here.”
“A scout,” Roje said. “They are preparing.”
“What did you do with him?” Balagir asked.
“What anyone does with a largatyn.” Bail shrugged. “Shortened him by a head.” Balagir looked the two guards over. Bail, in his cups, relished boasting about his kill. Hork was quiet, his chubby face oddly emotionless.
“If this is true, the Dunn needs to see it,” Kejal, Yorvic’s second in command, said. Yorvic dismissed the two guards, who returned to their drinks.
“First we need to rid ourselves of the askaba; Gorokhan will not see reason until they are dealt with.”
“Sassarek is in charge here. He’s ever in the Dunn’s company. The men made jokes once about it. If only we’d taken it more seriously, maybe the execution could have been prevented.”
“Aye. Like his shadow,” Kejal snarled. He was small and slight compared to Yorvic, and until the askaba had been mentioned, appeared fairly passive.
“Will you direct me to where they are?”
The commander shared an uncertain look with his deputy before sighing.
“I do not know you, Balagir, nor fully trust you. Yet it seems there’s some truth in what you report. The largatyn scout and Sassarek’s hold over our Dunn add weight to our suspicions. I will help you get as close as I can, but I cannot be connected to you. If any harm comes to the Dunn, no one would be able to protect you. Give me some time, meanwhile you should wait here. You’ll be safe as long as you stay with Kejal and keep your weapons out of sight.”
“Don’t tarry,” Balagir warned. “At dawn, with or without our interference, the Ozgarians will make their move. The conflagration, as you put it, would be unquenchable by then.”
Yorvic spoke briefly with Kejal and departed. Meanwhile, the ashen remained as unobtrusive as possible, nursing their drinks in the corner, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Once more Balagir became aware of Hork at the bar, watching them with interest. He stood and felt Kejal’s hand on his arm.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bar,” Balagir said. “I’d have a word with the guards who slew the largatyn.” Kejal gave him a stern look and released him.
“Tread carefully. We’ve enough grief about our walls, I want no bloodshed here. Places of respite are few and far between.” Balagir nodded, and even the other ashen watched him uncertainly as he crossed the room.
“Hork,” he said, and the guard looked up. They regarded each other coolly for a moment.
“Balagir,” the guard said quietly. “I see you still find yourself surrounded by trouble.” And then Balagir relaxed, and it was all he could do not to embra
ce the guard.
“I thought you lost.”
“I don’t like small spaces,” he said wryly. “Becoming largatyn for a time was preferable.” Even in this tubby guard’s body, Jerikin had his old charm about him.
“I’m glad you’re back. What of the largatyn?”
“They’re on the move. They descended the mountains by means of a tunnel and wait at the fringes of the Valelands.”
“Then we have little time.”
“I’ve seen the horlocks too. Or rather the clouds of dust they kicked up. Their numbers are large.” Balagir cursed and took a drink.
“I must go, but do not stray. I want you with me when the battle starts.”
“Like old times,” Jerikin said. Balagir asked for a refill and returned to his seat, unable to show the gladness he felt at the lych’s return.
An hour had passed before Yorvic returned.
“They’re in the gardens,” he informed quietly. “Down by the lake. I could not get too close. There were several askaba present, though I did not see Sassarek himself. Deal with them first, else Gorokhan will not heed you.”
“Then let us depart at once.”
“You can’t all go. You’ll never get close enough.”
“I shall go as a prisoner,” Balagir said. “I’m certain the Dunn and his askaba will be interested to know why an ashen has arrived at the city.” Yorvic’s face looked troubled.
“It could work, though I’d not deliver you.”
“Nor I,” said Kejal. “If I’m going to die tomorrow, let it be with a sword in my hand; not in the dungeon.”
“Bail and Hork will take me.”
“Those two? They are drunks,” Kejal said.
“Killed a largatyn, didn’t they? I’m sure I can convince them there’ll be some sort of reward for my capture, as well as for killing the scout.”
Yorvic looked uncertainly at the braggart and plump guard.
“The capture of two ashen is better than one,” Roje said, offering himself.
“Make that three,” Inverna said, piping up after so long a silence, it made him do a double take. Balagir remembered her ire when he had previously mentioned the askaba. He knew not what they had done to make an enemy of the pale ashen, but her blue eyes shone with such ferocity that arguing the point would only waste time. Yorvic, shaking his head, called the two guards over, and after a brief discussion the plan was underway.