by C F Welburn
“Wait!” Sassarek cried out.
“Something to add?” The tea was in full effect by now.
“You don’t know what you have there. You’re like a child with a flame.”
“Then enlighten me. Why the interest?”
“Because it’s unique.”
“Snowflakes are unique.”
“Because it’s Jakan’s chisp.”
The word pricked Balagir’s ears.
“Jakan, you say. The piper?”
“Call him what you will. Your master is long dead.”
Balagir laughed and looked at Roje, who snorted.
“I’m afraid you mistake us for some form of slave. We have no masters,” the lion-headed ashen derided.
“Wake up!” barked the askaba. “Whose bidding do you do?”
“Our own,” Balagir answered bluntly.
“You know that’s a lie.”
Balagir swallowed, unwilling to let any emotion cross his face, but he felt Freya stir uneasily at his side.
“And whose bidding do you do?”
“Our own.”
“Yet we’re related. Is that it? You’ve been shunned? You’re not allowed at our fires and have grown envious out in the dark?”
“Jakan was an apprentice to Kaliga—the dhaki we aid for our own ends, but never serve. Jakan was lowly and weak, consorting with the hiilg.”
“Dhaki, hiilg… both are gone. It seems the ashen and the askaba fight old battles.”
“Kaliga yet lives. Remember that when you feed the dead echo at your fires.”
“Yet his ‘chisp,’ as you put it, remains, and is clearly of great interest to you. This begs the question, what do the askaba hope to achieve? To kill the ashen? This seems plain now, seeing how you’ve fashioned a cannon using one of our own in the research. But why? What do our poorer, jealous cousins want?”
Sassarek snarled, and once more Era pulsed, her radiance making him stammer.
“You’d not need to ask if you weren’t so self-involved. You might have discovered more from history.”
“You’ve said yourself, the dhaki and hiilg are no more.”
“There are remnants for those with eyes to look. Northern temples. There are many reasons I despise your kind, but your ignorance and unbroken vicious circle of existence irks us who would not squander such a gift.”
“So, it’s our immortality you seek? That makes sense. And yet you are man born. Little more than brainwashed settlers. Tell me, does this Kaliga rule your mind?”
“You know not of what you speak,” he said with a dark edge to his voice.
“I think I’ve touched a nerve. Now, what of this cannon? Where’s it being taken? Ozgar? Is that why your brother wanted the Dunn away?”
His snarl seemed to confirm it. “Such knowledge will not aid you.”
“Your little scheme has failed. Man has united. The largatyn will not win here.” For a moment the askaba’s eyes widened, then he began to laugh uncontrollably.
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Would you mind sharing the joke?”
“You and the lizards deserve each other.”
Balagir, perhaps unsettled by Sassarek’s sudden confidence, lost his patience.
“A pity you will not be around to see it. Now speak, the cannon’s purpose. Is it connected to Ceniza?”
Sassarek’s voice became suddenly shrill.
“Do not speak its name!”
Balagir smiled grimly and leant in, Era glowing an inch from the spike.
“Tell me what you know of the kraelyn?”
But he never got an answer, and the askaba never got his trial. For Sassarek, suddenly wild, grabbed the kalaqai. Ignoring the searing of his hands, he stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed. He began chanting, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Balagir, aghast, reached through the bars, shaking him.
Era, not taken with her new prison, burst from his stomach, showering them with smouldering innards. The askaba sunk to the floor, blood trickling into a grate, and any information they had wanted with it.
There was nothing left to be said. With the reek of scorched flesh in their nostrils, they headed towards the daylight, more perturbed than previously, and with no idea how they would explain this to the council.
XXIII.i
VALE OF DOOM
Jakan and Kaliga. The names rang like ominous bells in his head. Clanging chimes of doom. He desperately desired to return to Kirfory and speak with Imram; to tell him of the hillg and dhaki who may have left traces in the north. Traces of their ancestors, whiffs of their origins. Answers about the kalaqai and possibly the kraelyn. But all that would have to wait. If they lost here, it would not matter. Like it or not, problems need must be dealt with in the pressing of order; right now, that meant the ferocious army bearing down upon them.
Roje and Freya said little as they made their way back into town. They had neglected to tell the guard of the events which had unfolded, but it would surely be broached in the council. The murderer of both the Dunns’ fathers had escaped justice. Sacrificing himself, why? Because he had known he would never be allowed to live? Simply to withhold information? Because he knew the kalaqai had been found and could die satisfied that his generation had achieved something? Or for a final futile shot at immortality? Whatever the reason, it was a conversation Balagir would not relish.
They reconvened with the others at the Whetstone, who were, through ignorance and drunkenness, equally blessed.
“What tidings?” Ginike shouted with his moronic leer. He sat with Kiela at the bar, who stood to greet them. Inverna rose slowly but read their faces more swiftly.
“He’s gone, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.
Their expressions said it all, and as she cursed, her beer froze and shattered in her hand. Ginike winced and waved apologetically at the nearby guards, who promptly took their drinks to another table.
“Did you glean anything?”
“A few things,” Roje said grimly, hailing for a fresh round.
“By deduction alone it seems the cannon may be destined for Ozgar. To what purpose we have not defined, yet it seems part of Sisken’s designs to rid the city of its army. It’s a lead at least.” Balagir ignored Inverna’s scowl and accepted the drink from the barmaid with a weary show of gratitude. “The askaba and ashen appear to be related only in a loose sense, since it is known they are born to this world in the same way as settlers. Yet the common thread seems to be the master they serve. One Kaliga. If we can trust Sassarek’s words at all, it seems that this ancient dhaki was teacher to Jakan.” He paused dramatically as the frowns he knew must come gradually creased each forehead. “The piper,” he clarified with an air of portent that brought both gasps and ridicule. When his earnestness became apparent, he stayed the tirade of questions with a tired hand. “The hillg may have the answers we seek, for they at one time revered the dhaki.”
“The hillg are extinct,” Kiela said glumly. “This is known.”
“They still exist,” Balagir said, “though not as the race they once were. I saw one in the northern wilds.”
“They are but animals,” Unvil said, disgusted. “As well commune with dogs.”
“Ah, but this is where our black-spiked friend erred, for he alluded to records left by the hillg. From a time when they were at the height of their power.”
“Impossible. It would be known.”
Balagir shrugged. “I intend to follow it up with my contact in Kirfory. If anyone can pick up such a faded trail, then it is he.”
Unvil snorted. “Have you at least found out why the askaba hate the ashen so?”
“Envy, it would seem, though one simple word seems petty against the scale of their scheming.”
“Envy?”
“Apparently. At our long ‘wasteful’ lives. At our intimacy with our ‘master’… who can say? The Kalaqai seems to be at the heart of it.” He looked towards his pouch as he said this. “If the askaba spoke true, th
en she once belonged to Jakan. He dubbed her a chisp.”
“A chisp? They are naught but beguiling motes. Wisps of the wood.”
Balagir splayed his hands. “I can only report his words, not verify their candidness.” But memories surfaced just then of Era’s dance in Golden Wood and of the wand he had all but forgotten he possessed.
It was Ginike that piped up next, though not in any manner that contributed helpfully.
“Cannons, hillg, chisps… Am I the only one who has forgotten we’re all about to die?”
“That’s another thing,” Balagir said, ignoring his melodrama. “This war is little more than a ruse. A means of evacuating the cannon from Iylleth, installing it in Ozgar, and seemingly eradicating many pests in the process.”
“An ostentatious ruse,” Unvil growled, clearly angry with everyone and everything.
“A matter of perspective. If the askaba have truly been reaching towards this end for as long as they have existed, then such means must justify an end. In short, it matters not to them who wins or dies here. Just that we are here, looking the other way… Though I doubt they intended for the kalaqai to be caught in the fray. That they hadn’t seen, and they’ll be paying closer attention to the outcome than they had originally intended.”
“What’s that on your shirt?” Ginike asked, noticing the remains of the askaba he had failed to dislodge. Balagir opened his mouth, closed it again. Fortunately, he was saved the unpleasant explanation, for just then the door swung inward, and Yorvic filled its frame.
“The council begins. Your presence is required.”
The expired state of Sassarek remained undiscovered, and as they took up their seats in the crowded chamber, they were spared any awkwardness. Both Dunns were present as well as many of the higher-ranking captains and advisors and one or two well-attired gentlemen. The ashen sat together in one corner and were an odd, untidy addition to the otherwise stately audience.
“The largatyn are on the move,” Dunn Elohim announced. “Three leagues to the north. They will be on us by dawn.” A whisper of concern swept the room. “Our military advisors have been in conference. I ask that you lend your ears to Beringal of House Ozgar, who has fortuitously been on hand to offer his experience.” The old advisor stood and cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Dunn Elohim. We have concluded that staying put is not an option.” Murmurs of agreement and uncertainty abounded in equal measure. “The walls are sturdy, yes, but would not long withstand such numbers. Even were we to repel them, they would starve us out. Eskareth”—he made no attempt to look apologetic—“was ill prepared before, and now with greater numbers, we would not last the month.”
“Then what do you suggest? Meet them head on?” someone called out in a tone that bordered on insolence.
“According to our scout’s report, they outnumber us five to one. They come prepared, and are fresh, having fought no previous battle. All of them are warriors bred, whereas amongst our numbers we sport much youth and age. Also, amongst us are a great deal of farmers and”—here Beringal looked distastefully upon the plump gentleman who had spoken—“gentry. Our experience of warfare is lacking.”
Panic swelled and dipped like a disturbed puddle around the chamber.
“We do, however, have one advantage: forewarning. The largatyn expect us to have been destroyed by the horlocks, or, in the case of our victory, to be diminished and exhausted. They expect to find the victors within the walls, licking their wounds and napping. We must capitalise upon this.” The grey-haired tactician paused, looked from Dunn Elohim to Dunn Fannon, both of whom nodded for him to proceed. He drew a series of sweeping lines on a board and indicated them with a stick. “This is Eskareth, and this”—he reached and prodded at the north—“is roughly where the enemy were last seen. To reach us, they must enter this valley. The first thing they will expect to see is devastation. We will not disappoint them. Although it has been a sticking point, we must leave the dead where they lie. For now. It is what they will be expecting.” A rising grumble was quelled by Dunn Elohim’s stern gaze. Beringal cleared his throat and continued. “They will see the ground littered with horlocks and men alike. They will also find the gates open, encouraging them, goading them to recklessness. Some few will remain here on the walls, moving with torches, giving them the impression those who survived are inside. In reality, this will be every man who can shoot a bow better than swing a blade.” Then he struck the board with a sharp crack of the stick that made several men flinch. “Now, the rest of us will divide our forces and wait behind this eastern ridge, and this one here to the west. Once they reach the castle, the gates will be shut. When the order is given, we will attack them from both flanks, as well as from the walls.”
“How can we hope to win against such numbers?” another plump aristocrat queried with a tremble in his throat.
“We will press them from the northeast and northwest, cavalry units first, then infantry. Their backs will be against the castle, where our archers will hail upon them. We’ve soldiers in the field now scavenging for every arrow and weapon we can reuse.”
“Even so, I don’t see how—”
Beringal cut the man off as if he were a child. “It’s the only chance we have. Ashen, do you have anything to add?” He looked directly at Balagir; in his eyes was an unspoken apology. Balagir stood, hoping any traces of gore were gone from his cloak.
“We have sent word to the heroes. They should be with us by dawn. We are in this together, for the time being.” The flabby ruddy-cheeked man who had previously spoken up snorted.
“Those drunken thieves? I’d sooner trust my stable boy to defend me. And no offence, ashen, but what can the handful of you hope to achieve against such numbers? You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, the lot of you.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Balagir said levelly. “Besides, the heroes, if that is the name you know them by, are formidable. I do not claim they are faultless, and they are certainly not invincible, but they may help turn the tide.”
“Take no offence from Carn Arken,” Dunn Elohim said, frowning at the pompously cravatted man. “It is surely fear and concern that lend him his air of obstinacy.”
“My vineyard is strewn with horlock corpses, of course I’m concerned.”
“None taken,” Balagir said directly to the Dunn, in a tone that told the vineyard owner in no uncertain terms, some offence had most definitely been taken.
“Is there anything else we should know, Beringal?” Dunn Elohim asked.
“I believe that’s all, Your Grace.”
“Good. Is all to your satisfaction, Dunn Fannon?”
“As much as it can be. I only regret we did not heed the ashen sooner. The odds may have looked more favourable.”
“Indeed. Let all present know that the ashen have intervened where they needn’t ought to. We are indebted for their aid.” All eyes were upon them, and Balagir nodded humbly and sat.
“Very well. If that is all, we must to positions. Captains, you have your orders. Divide the forces equally, both mounted and afoot behind these ridges. I need not state the importance of swiftness and stealth. All archers are to man the walls here and prepare catapults and oils. Women and children will be kept in the inner bailey, everyone else must take up arms. Ashen, go where you will, though I’d appreciate your courage and experience on both ridges.”
There was a great amount of murmuring and shuffling of chairs as the audience began to depart. “One more thing,” Dunn Elohim said, making all heads turn. “This is the beginning of a new era. Fate, terrible as it is, has brought our houses together. If we succeed—and we must—a new age of peace will begin. Dunn Fannon will be as my brother from this day forth.”
“And every Eskarathian will find a home in Ozgar once we are done,” Dunn Fannon added.
“Fight as one! Let’s destroy this scourge upon our lands!” Dunn Elohim finished with his fist in the air.
It was the sort of speec
h that deserved a cheer, but nobody could muster one in that moment; instead they shuffled silently out into the chill night.
“Do you think we can rely upon the relics?” Roje asked over the din of barked orders in the square. Balagir shrugged.
“They’ve given their oaths, what choice do they have?”
“Unless they are too inebriated to fight,” Ginike added, receiving several glares. “What?” He shrugged. “You saw them. Surprised they can see straight.” Ginike was not helping morale, but he had a point. They could not put their faith in those ashen, powerful as they might be.
“Right, let’s do this,” Balagir said, changing the subject. “Myself, Kiela, Ginike, Freya, and Raf Isil will take the eastern ridge. Roje, Unvil, Inverna, and Ygril, the western. Objections? No? Good. Then make haste. All being well, we will have a late breakfast together.”
It wasn’t the most rousing of speeches, but it got things moving. One by one they spoke their piece and departed, filing through the gates with the soldiers in liveries both yellow and blue.
The battlefield smelt of death, and despite making it grisly underfoot, would more than convince the largatyn that a battle had indeed been fought. Soldiers stooped to pick up weapons better than their own, upgrading sickles and pitchforks for maces and swords. By the time they had reached the top of the ridge, they were a vastly better augmented contingent.
The east paled as Balagir looked north through his spyglass, but it was still dark enough that his eyes only played tricks. They sunk below the ridge, leaving lookouts on their bellies ready to pass back news. It seemed a long wait. Men spoke in hushed voices, and a low wind moaned through the valley of corpses; nothing else in the world stirred. Then, just as the dawn light brushed the eastern vales, so too did the black largatyn shadow darken those of the north.
At first everything went as Beringal had predicted, but it swiftly became clear that something was amiss. Only half of the force had entered the valley. The other half remained stationed at the peak of the northern hill. Were they aware of the subterfuge? Had the Gazer’s eye altered to reflect this outcome? Or were they merely being cautious? Perhaps they thought that so large a force was not needed to sweep up the wounded stragglers, for in the vanguard strode Zyrath, hungry to claim victory. If he knew of an ambush, he showed no sign. It mattered not. As it stood, Beringal’s plan to surround them was thwarted. If they charged now, then they would themselves become trapped once the vanguard realised and turned back.