by Martin Davey
The mountains. They had to be coming from the mountains. Scraggly bushes and parched trees speckled the slopes, clinging to the cracked grey stone and loosely pebbled paths, plenty of places for archers to hide. A hand landed on his shoulder and Marin whirled about, sword at the ready. Retaj’s only response was to smile and raise a hand in mock surrender. He hadn’t drawn his sword yet, and Marin felt stupid for having his own in his hand. What good a sword against arrows?
The sound again. Thruuuuuump. And an arrow sprouted from the young armoured man’s throat. His hands moved from the arrow at his collarbone to the one in his throat before he fell forward onto his face, the crashing of steel loud even among the shouts of the army.
The Mahrata. Marin kept low, man and horse whirling about him. The rider with the Blood Lord’s banner fastened to his spear clung to his horse as it reared onto its hind legs. “The Mahrata!” The man roared, “For the Shalih!” An arrow harmlessly fell away from his breastplate.
Marin kept well away from the beast’s pawing hooves. “The Mahrata,” he said to Retaj, “We have to go to the Mahrata.”
Retaj’s only answer was to nod and run with Marin, keeping low and watching the mountains. All around them was chaos; horses screaming and men shouting, weapons being drawn and men falling, screaming and bleeding, arrows sticking from thighs, shoulders and backs.
“Five,” Retaj said, still running, crouched low and keeping as many men between him and the towering mountains as possible. Grass and mud thrown by the rearing hooves of a black stallion splattered against his leather tunic.
Marin looked to where he pointed, and saw two dark shapes moving among a ledge on the mountain, almost obscured behind a rapidly descending bank of cloud. A scraggly tree and bush, black against the grey of the mountains were their only cover. He nodded and carried on running, every step expecting to find an arrow protruding from his stomach.
He was already out of breath by the time he reached the Mahrata’s cart. “Shit,” he said. The Mahrata was out of the shelter and walking among her army, jostled on all sides by soldiers and women trying to keep her from the sight of the men in the mountain.
Thruuuuuump. Two men fell to the ground; one more of a boy in leather armour with an arrow hanging out of his upper arm, his screams loud and shrill as the blood began to spread. The other man fell silently to the halter grass, the arrow in his shoulder, his shirt still clutched in his hand as he lay on the floor.
“What the fuck?” Retaj said. “This way! Everyone this way! Quickly!” He stood on his toes and waved everyone away from the mountains and out to the field. The ground was rough there, the haltergrass patches of green and yellow and brown, but beyond that there looked to be a forest or a wood, the cloud hanging low about it and shrouding the treetops in mist. Dark red flowers littered the field before it like welts of blood.
The Mahrata was smiling, Marin realized as he fought closer to her. An arrow landed on the ground before him, the green feathers damp and dark as it shook in the ground. He kicked it away. “Shalih!” he shouted. Somewhere a woman screamed and all around people were shouting. Marin could barely hear himself. “Shalih!”
There she was again, barely tall enough to be seen over the heads of the men and women surrounding her. One shoulder was bare, the other covered in a shining red fabric bright even in the slowly descending mists of the clouds. Where did she keep getting these dresses? He’d never seen her wear the same dress twice.
“This way! This way!” Retaj was still waving everybody away from the mountains and to the fields and the clouded forest beyond, shoving men twice his size out of his way as he strode about the camp.
The Mahrata was doing nothing to stay out of the sight of the men in the mountains, she was still smiling even as she was jostled by the crowd about her, her brow creased in pity of their plight, but still smiling all the same. An expression Marin had seen many times, and still it made his heart ache. Some were on their knees before her, even as the arrows flew about them and men and women screamed and died.
Marin felt the anger rising within him at the sight, though whether it was the stupidity of it, or only jealousy, he couldn’t have said. “Get away!” he shouted. “Get away!” He pulled a young man up onto his feet by the scruff of his red tunic, shoved the lad away. “Get away!” Grown men, soldiers in armour scavenged or looted from corpses, even they surrounded the Mahrata, begging her for words of wisdom. And still she smiled at them, touching a face here, a hand there. “Get away,” Marin roared, his voice tearing, the threads in his throat pulling tight about the wound. He felt it start to bleed again, tried to ignore the nausea at the thought. “Away! Away from the mountains!” He kicked a woman off her knees, elbowed another soldier wearing the most rusted armour he had ever seen out of the way.
Thrruuuuuump. Marin didn’t even try to duck from these arrows. He found himself half wishing one would strike him in the throat and let him join the woman on the riverbank. “Away!” he roared again. Screams from further along the line of march where some were already fleeing for the mountains. Those with horses were already far ahead of those on foot, hooves kicking up clods of dirt. They looked like they had no intention of stopping. Some hadn’t taken to the cause of the Blood Lord as much as others, it seemed. “Get away!” Marin shouted.
Only to find himself face to face with the Mahrata. She was still smiling and her brow was still creased. It was an expression that Marin could die to look upon. And now he was facing her, he wasn’t sure what to say.
Thruuuuump. A sound very far away, far away in a place where people screamed and jostled and shoved to be near this one woman whose hair shone in the damp cloud swelling about them, whose dress was clean and clung to her body.
Marin blinked and stood his ground against the people shoving about him. He could smell blood and it made his nose revolt. He wanted to grab the Mahrata by a slender arm and drag her away. Instead he fell to his knees and bowed his head. It was at the ground beneath his feet, the blood. He gagged against the smell, felt the thick stickiness of it soaking into the knees of his breeches. “We should be away from the mountains, Shalih,” he said, looking down at the flattened halter grass stained dark with blood. Somebody kicked his feet, something banged into his head sending a shooting pain down his neck, and still he knelt before the Mahrata, his eyes cast downward.
She finally rested a hand on his head. It felt sticky and damp and it smelled of blood. “Yes, yes we should be away, Marin. Thank you for coming for me.” With an unspoken command, she allowed him to rise.
The cloud had settled now and most of the army had fled away from the mountains. Scattered dark ghosts running through the grey cloud. The remnants of the Blood Army fleeing the five bowmen in the mountains. Such a fleeting thing it had been. Still more men and women clung about them, clung about the Mahrata.
Thrump. A muffled sound now, deadened by the thick cloud about them. At least the cloud sheltered them from the view of the bowmen. Marin could barely see the mountains as he rose to his feet, only the vaguest dark outline in the shifting cloud. Still men and women screamed, but it sounded far away. Even Retaj had stopped shouting, it seemed; the only sounds the screams of the dying and wounded. Some of the men were sobbing, calling out the names of loved ones long dead or forgotten.
Thrump. An arrow landed on the ground close by, quivering in the mud smeared by running boots. They were still shooting? Marin shook his head, his wispy grey hair feeling damp from the cloud. “We should go, Shalih.” He looked to her hand, wanting to take it, knowing he would never dare. The fingers, the palm, were red with blood. Even as he looked at it, a drop of the stuff dripped off her finger and to the ground, the cloud making even the garish red of the blood seem muted. Was she injured? The thought struck him with the force of a blow and his mouth fell open.
The Mahrata smiled like a child caught stealing a pie off a windowsill. “Don’t worry about me, Marin. Worry about our men. We shall be needing them before the end.” She pu
t a finger to his lips. It had blood on it and Marin fought the urge to lick the wetness from his lips. The Mahrata smiled as she met his eyes. “Come, we have an army to gather.”
Marin nodded and turned away, reaching into his pocket and slipping a ferris root into his mouth. It brushed his lips and he tried to tell himself that the taste of blood was only his imagination.
Somehow the cloud seemed ever thicker, swirling and grey and damp. And still the bowmen fired into the murk. Thrump. Thrump. And still men and women screamed in agony and fear. In a matter of moments, the world had turned to shades of grey and black. Two steel-clad ghosts flitted past, “Here, to the Mahrata!” Marin called, squinting into the greyness. A stupid thing to do, they could be anybody, but he sighed with relief when he saw them approach closer and fall to their knees before the Mahrata. They were in full armour, visors closed and swords in their hands. Droplets of water ran down their steel shoulders and arms. The bigger soldier rose to his feet, “Shalih.“ He bowed to the Mahrata. “My life is yours. We must gather the men.” He turned to his comrade, and as he did, Marin saw the gash in the cleave of his elbow.
“You’re wounded my brave soldier,” the Mahrata whispered, reaching out a hand to touch the soldier’s elbow.
The man lifted his arm and looked to the wound. “It is nothing, Shalih. An arrow grazed me. Nothing.”
The Mahrata withdrew her hand, running her fingers together. “Jerim,” she said. “Your name is Jerim Vanasi from Harragstown. You were caught...stealing,” here her eyes glimmered in the murk. Indeed, she seemed the only thing of any colour in the cloud. All was grey and black, with the Mahrata draining the colour from the world. “That was when you decided to seek the source of the drums.”
Jerim looked at the Mahrata, his mouth open in surprise. “That is true, Shalih. And then when I heard tell of your quest and your beauty, I knew I had to be your man. I have been your man since before I first laid eyes on you, Shalih.” He bowed again, his movements easy despite the bulk of the armour.
Marin looked at Jerim’s silent companion. The man’s visor remained firmly closed as he watched the Mahrata and Jerim speak. “And who is your friend, Jerim?” Marin asked, chewing his ferris root and keeping his hand close to his sword. All about them, more and more dark ghosts were moving closer, most of them armed, some women with children clutched to their breasts, some with banners on long poles, the cloth looking tattered in the swirling clouds.
“This?” Jerim said, pointing to his companion. “This is Ber, a fine fighter and a more loyal servant you couldn’t hope to meet. Doesn’t say much on account of his losing his tongue in a card game at Verpoort years ago.”
The visor turned to Marin, it was pointed like a dog’s snout and it had little holes in it. Marin did his best to meet the black stare from the eye slit. He’d heard the tales of the wagers people made in Verpoort.
“See, Marin? Already our army is beginning to come together again,” the Mahrata said, even as three more soldiers joined them armed with long swords and an axe. Marin recognized one of them, an older man with thick grey hair wet from the cloud.
Their group was about forty strong when they found the first body. A young fighter wearing a helm and a breastplate. Blood pooled from his neck and legs. They all stood around him, looking down at the young lad, his visor open and his face surprised, brown eyes wide and mouth open. All was silence apart from the drums, and even they sounded muffled in the thickness of the cloud. All was greyness apart from the Mahrata kneeling next to the body, a beacon of colour for her followers.
More dark ghosts flitted about, coming toward them in the swirling mists, all had weapons in hands, even the women who had fled the arrows had managed to find swords and branches and axes. Marin felt his stomach quail each time he saw them coming toward the group. Fear, not for himself, but for the impossibility of protecting the Mahrata. He even found himself missing Retaj. The younger man’s confidence would have been good to have around in the mist. Even at the thought, Marin cursed himself.
The Mahrata rose, reached into the visor and closed those wide brown eyes. “Canaristi,” she said rising to her feet. “They rode out of the mists and cut him down before he could even turn to face them.”
A woman in the group began to sob, an eerie sound in the cloud, and more fighters drew their swords, the scrape of steel on steel.
“Then we will be ready for them,” a fighter in full armour said. Rembar, Marin remembered his name. He’d spoken to the man at the camp a number of times before. The way the man tried to assume leadership of the group and the Mahrata’s personal guard sent resentment coursing through his veins. Resentment and jealousy, seeing the way the Mahrata smiled at the man. She was the only person whose hair didn’t look soaking wet from the cloud, and still she wore only her dress with the bare shoulder. The cold didn’t seem to touch her, while even the men with leather armour and the women with shawls and thick shirts shivered against the damp dreariness of the cloud. She stood as straight and as at ease as she had the first time Marin had seen her when she stepped from a tent in a field of green. He found himself loving her even more. He chewed on his ferris root and let the thick ooze slide down his throat. Never spit when the Mahrata was there, she found it distasteful.
“Who are these Cana-whatsits, then?” a low voice whispered to Marin. A tall man with broad shoulders in leather armour; the straps of brown leather looked faded and worn and his head was shaven short, brown turning to grey. Marin had never seen him before; for all he knew he could be a Canaristi right there in their group. Though this man’s eyes were cool and grey as the cloud swirling about them, not the fiery fervent blazing eyes of the Canaristi he remembered.
“Canaristi.” Marin said. “They say they’re servants of the Keepers, doing the gods’ work, but they’re nothing but an army of killers and torturers.” Wide bright eyes, wide white teeth and Marin’s mouth held open by metal things with spikes as the burning liquid is poured down his throat. Marin shivered against the dampness of the cloud and nodded down at the chipped sword in the soldier’s hands. “Be on your guard, friend. And don’t let them take you alive.”
The man widened his eyes and nodded. “Fenner,” he said.
Marin took the offered hand. “Marin”.
Fenner laughed. “I know. Everyone knows the Garanin.”
Marin looked at the man, “Where did you hear that word?”
“Garanin?” Fenner tilted his head to one side, confused by the question. More dark shapes flitted toward them out of the gloom and still the drums beat on in rhythm with Marin’s own heart. “You are the Mahrata’s reborn, her chosen warrior. Her reborn.”
Marin chewed on his ferris root. Why did the man keep saying reborn? It made his head ache. He swallowed some more ooze, his head feeling light and his throat itching. “That’s what she called me,” he said, remembering kneeling before her in the tent. Reborn, is that what he was? He had died when he had his throat cut by Areen, but then she had done something to him. Made him live again.
The Mahrata was moving through the crowd like a beacon of beauty and goodness, talking and smiling and touching all who came to her. One of the men with the banners had joined them, holding the red tower on a black background high above their heads, limp and wet in the mist, but still the sight of it filled Marin with a strange sense of hope.
Fenner looked at him. “You alright? You don’t look much like a chosen warrior to me, no offense, but all the men from Isandri thought you a strange choice to lead us to the Paramin.” He laughed. “But then who could argue with such a woman? She must know something about you to choose you.”
“Yes, she must know something about me,” Marin agreed, scratching at his throat and spitting into the soaking haltergrass when the Mahrata’s back was turned, stooping and speaking to a girl who couldn’t have been more than ten summers old.
Shouts from up ahead, urgent shouts. People running through the mists, pants and skirts and armour wet from the grass
. Marin and Fenner looked at each other and began running to the noise, swords in hands. The Mahrata didn’t run, but then Marin couldn’t imagine her running anywhere. She was still surrounded by men and women, walking to the commotion. And even as he ran, Marin knew that there was really no need to run at all. He knew what waited for him there, and they weren’t going to be going anywhere soon. More bodies.
Three of them this time. Two men and a woman; the men lying together and the woman a little further away as though the men had stood and fought to try and buy the woman some time to escape. A basket lay upturned on the ground near them, food scattered about, salted meats, cheeses and bread. The men’s weapons littered the ground as well, short swords both of them. Not much use if their pursuers had been mounted. Canaristi. Marin looked around for the Mahrata, but already she was nearing the scene. He swallowed the brown gunk in his throat.
“Shit,” Fenner said, looking younger than Marin had first thought.
Marin looked at the blood-spattered scene and nodded. Canaristi. He chewed his ferris root.
“What is happening here?” The Mahrata hadn’t gone to the dead as Marin had presumed she would, she had dismissed her followers and come to him, standing behind him, beautiful and bright in the shifting cloud. “Where are the men you sent to cover our march?”