by Martin Davey
“Dead, Shalih,” Marin said. And only when he said it did he realize it to be true. He remembered those who had fled the arrows, speeding away on their horses, dirt flying in their wake. They would be dead, too. “The Canaristi must have seen us marching and hidden some bowmen in the mountains to push us into their trap.”
“We can’t be wondering around in the mists waiting for them to come to us. We have to bond together, get back to the mountains and back to the road.” She looked to Marin, folding her hair behind her ear. “I think your friend might have misled us, Garanin.”
Retaj. Where had he gone? The last Marin had seen of him, he had been standing on his toes, shouting at them all to move away from the arrows of death. Where had he gone? “I don’t think he was lying, Shalih,” he said. “What he said about your friend...”
“Jermatoah,” The Mahrata said, nodding. “She was no friend of mine.” She turned away, hair still dry despite the cloud. “But whether the Servants are to the east or not, we can’t fight our way through this with our men scattered and waiting to die. Darl, sound the horn. Gather what you can and we will go back to the campsite.”
Darl nodded and raised a horn, as long as a man’s arm and as white as bone, to his lips. The sound was both beautiful and haunting to hear, the note rising and rising and then seeming to last for full minutes. AAARROOOOOO, it wailed. And then on the very last note, Areen called the Mahrata’s name, loud and long, dragging the name out to three syllables. “SHEEE-AHHH-LIIIHH.” Then the horn blew again, and Areen called out the name again. Marin even found himself calling out the name with Areen on the third blast. “Sheee-ahhh-liiihhh!” he called in the same deep voice he had heard Areen use.
The group of thirty soon became fifty or more, making their way through the mists, the banner of the Blood Lord flying high above them, limp and wet in the cloud. Some of the mounted soldiers had survived, their tales of black shapes flitting through the cloud with giant swords of death and black horses with eyes that glowed orange setting the entire army’s nerves on edge. Perhaps it might have been better if they had all perished, after all. And still Marin called out the Mahrata’s name after each blast of the horn. “Sheee-aahhh-lihhhh.” Now it wasn’t just a calling to comrades, now it was a challenge to the darkness and the shifting murk, a challenge to the silent killers. We are here and we are the Mahrata’s men. The horn blasted again and Marin felt himself walking taller, his hand tighter about his sword.
Bags and belongings and food and drink littered the ground about them, scattered as people had fled the screams and the arrows. Five men, Retaj had said, though Marin had only seen three at most. Five men to throw their army into chaos, and now they were headed back to where they had started, men and women dead and dying, supplies littering the field.
The drums beat like the pulsing of the blood in Marin’s ears.
When they arrived, they weren’t ghosts at all. And their horses, while bigger than most, didn’t have flames in their eyes. They wore armour that shone dully in the mists, and rode from the swirling depths with swords drawn and cries of the names of the Keepers on their lips.
Canaristi. Three of them.
Two of the Mahrata’s men died on their first charge, four on their second. Screams and the sounds of sharp steel on flesh. Four of the riders made to chase down the racing Canaristi.
“Hold!” Marin screamed. “Hold!” Three of the riders reined back, their horses snorting and pawing at the ground, denied their chase. The last raced out into the mists, sword arm outstretched. Already a dead man.
“We stay together!” Marin shouted. “Stay together!” And find somewhere they could hold a defence against the Canaristi until the cloud was gone and the Canaristi couldn’t strike like enraged ghosts. And then what? There was no way the Mahrata would flee the mountains and leave the Paramin. So then what? Impotent rage coursed through his veins as the horn sounded again, “Sheee-ahhh-liiihh!” Marin shouted, now a scream of fury. He heard it in the other voices too, some beating swords against armour, some beating swords against shields.
As though enraged, three more Canaristi charged from the swirling depths, helms bearing likenesses of dogs and stags, swords looking giant in their hands and their horses’ breath churning and billowing into the cloud. This time the men of the Paramin were ready, striding out to meet the riders, Marin at the head of them, his hands shaking with rage. The leader of the riders was a big man, with a snarling dog decorating his helm. Three charging Canaristi against perhaps forty men on foot with seven mounted men, and they screamed as they charged, hatred and violence in their screams.
Marin led the men striding forward to meet them, his eyes fixed on the leader, imagining Beratak behind that snarling dog’s helm, eyes wide with madness, teeth speckled with saliva, breath stinking of raw meat and foul ale. He heard the man scream as he leaned from his saddle to strike at him. Marin spun away from the sword with a speed he thought had long since deserted him, and swung with all his might a backhanded stroke at the rider’s leg. The rider screamed, but the horse continued on out into the mists, lost in the cloud.
Marin turned, sword at the ready. The other two riders had been unhorsed somehow and they were swarmed by men removing helms and battering faces and heads with fists and knives, even some of the women were there, kicking at the unhorsed riders. The horses were stamping and rearing about the scene, eyes wide and foam at their lips. Marin ran to one, “Easy, easy,” he murmured, keeping an eye on the cloud all about them in case any more riders should appear. The horse shied away from him, big brown eyes wide and fearful, nose flaring in the mist. Marin moved closer, the beast only rearing onto its hind legs and pawing at the air. “Fuck,” Marin said. And still the Canaristi were being beaten. Strange how fear could turn people into a murderous frenzy.
“You’re bleeding,” a voice he recognized behind him, he felt a slender hand on his arm.
He could never imagine her falling into a murderous rage of fear. “Shalih,” he said, falling to his knee. He hadn’t even realized the rider had caught him with his sword. He hadn’t been as fast as he thought.
The Mahrata stood over him, lifting his sword arm. The sword still had blood on the blade. “My Garanin,” she said. “Not the first time you have drawn blood for your Paramin, for your Blood Lord.” She drew a long finger through the blood on the sword, the nail polished to shine, short but perfectly shaped to her finger. Her lips were parted as she collected the blood on her fingertip.
“Only ever for you, Shalih,” Marin breathed, his breath caught in his torn throat. Death was near. He knew it; out there in those swirling mists, death was close.
The Mahrata smiled, though her brow was creased. Pitying him, it looked like. She held the blood before her face, balanced on the tip of her finger, bright and red. The only things of colour in this world of greys and blacks. Marin watched in grim fascination as she breathed in the scent of the blood, her eyes closed and her lips parted. His stomach felt hollow with need as he watched her.
The drums beat on, muffled and distant, and Marin realized now that the beating of the bodies had ended, the men standing once more, coming to the Mahrata, coming to Darl and the sound of his horn.
AARROOOOOHH. And on that last note every man and woman called out her name, “SHEEEE-AHHHH-LIHHH!” The Mahrata opened her eyes and dropped her hand to her side.
“They are here,” she said. She lifted a hand and Marin turned to face his end.
A rank of steel-clad warriors approached out of the murk, some on snorting horses, some on foot and armed with long, wickedly pointed spears and pikes. One man had a mace swinging at his side. There looked to be two hundred of them. And in the middle of them all, his horse breathing steam into the mists, was the one with the snarling dog’s head for a helm. Beratak. It had to be him.
Marin’s throat burned and itched even more at the memory of that flaming liquid pouring down his throat and he chewed on his ferris root, letting the gunk slide down his throat to
take away the memory of the pain.
The leader, Beratak, if it was him, stepped his horse forward three or four paces. It shook its head, black mane flying and Beratak held the rein easily in one gauntleted fist. With the other he raised his massive sword above his head. “For the Keepers!” he shouted, his voice still loud behind his helm. “They follow witches and seek false gods! For Jerohim, for the Keepers! We’ll nail their bloodied corpses to the trees and the witch shall be chopped into pieces and fed to the dogs!” Still he had his sword above his head and the rest of the Canaristi screamed and shouted, beat their swords.
Yes, Marin thought, death was near. And it surprised him how frightening it was to see it. He had always thought he would meet his end with a steady heart and a resigned shrug. Now he chewed on his ferris root and felt his hand shaking on the hilt of his sword. Looking around, the rest of the army felt the same. Army. He wanted to laugh at the name even as he wanted to turn and flee the Canaristi and their swords and armour and horses.
“We’re fucked.” Fenner had joined him., Marin had almost forgotten about the man in the presence of the Mahrata. He could only nod in agreement as they faced the Canaristi together.
“Whatever you do, don’t let them take you alive,” he said.
Fenner raised an eyebrow at that and shook his sword arm to loosen it. “Goes without saying,” he said. “Shouldn’t we be writing letters to loved ones or something about now?”
“I’ll be seeing mine soon enough,” Marin said and stepped forward, ready to take as many of the Canaristi with him as he could. And then he stopped as he saw the Mahrata move forward.
Fenner grabbed his arm. “What’s she doing?” he said, his eyes wide. Even the screaming of the Canaristi quietened a fraction.
The Mahrata was striding out to meet them, her dress bright and red in the cloud, her bare shoulder seductive, her back straight and her long hair held back behind her ears.
“No...” Marin breathed.
Beratak leaned forward in his saddle to see the Mahrata leaving her army and stepping out to meet him. “Witch!” The giant man shouted from behind his snarling dog’s helm. “Wi..."
His final shout was cut short by a gargling splutter as the Mahrata raised a hand toward him, her other hand down by her side, her fingers pointed to the floor.
The dog’s helm snapped back, the sound of breaking bones must only have been in Marin’s imagination this far away. Still the Mahrata held her hand pointed to the figure transfixed on his horse. Arms looking muscled even under the steel armour raised slowly outward and up to shoulder height. A scream of agony and the sword fell to the ground.
More screams and screams, his arms outstretched and his helm thrown backwards, until one final roar, more animal than human and his entire body shook and shook and a stream of blood erupted from the helm, shooting from the visor in a torrent of red. The body still shaking, arms still outstretched, blood now spewing out of gauntlets, spraying his rearing, screaming horse, spraying his men, most of them screaming themselves and moving away from their leader.
Darl stepped up beside the Mahrata as she lifted her hand higher above her head and Beratak was lifted from his horse, head still back, arms still outstretched, his armour now smeared in thick red. As soon as Beratak was free from the horse, the stallion kicked its back legs and tossed its head and ran between the armies before disappearing into the crowd. Nobody moved to stop its progress.
Even the horses still with riders were horrified by the sight of the bloodied armour held aloft by some invisible force, they stepped and pranced and tossed their heads as riders fought to stay in their saddles. The drums pounded on and Darl lifted the horn to his lips. AAAROOOOOOHH, it sounded. And the response on the last note was muted to begin with; only three or four voices chanting the Mahrata’s name, shocked and quiet with the display of magic.
Higher and higher the bloodied armour rose, head back and arms wide, blood now only dripping from every hole in the steel and Marin dreaded to think what was inside that armour now; probably only bone and hair and gristle. Darl blew the horn again and this time the reply was louder, more confident. “Sheeee-ahhhhh-lihhhh!” And Marin found himself chanting along with them, Fenner joining him after only the briefest of pauses.
No effort from the Mahrata, she looked as beautiful and serene as ever, even when the snarling dog’s helm snapped back further and broke off from the armour altogether, her expression didn’t change. The helm landed on the ground with a clatter, rolling until it came to a stop, nothing in it but grey and red fluid which leaked out of it, slowly staining the grass. Time only for the armies to mutter and sigh at the sight, until the body of the armour crashed to the floor, blood lapping and spilling out of the neck before it had come to a halt.
A mocking cheer from the army of the Blood Lord, though even some of their faces were pale at the spectacle.
The Mahrahta looked small and alone even with Darl by her side. She had thrown everything into one final effort and she had failed. The Canaristi weren’t fleeing, they were shocked and horrified by the violent death of their leader, by the force of her magic, but they weren’t fleeing. And soon they would descend on the Mahrata and her army and kill them all.
“Witch!” A soldier in armour with a long-necked bird fashioned on top of his helm screamed. “Wiiitch!” And the other Canaristi joined in the shouting and screaming. None of them brave enough to make the first move against a woman who had just turned their leader into a bloodied pulp inside his armour. It wouldn’t be long before one of them did, Marin knew, all it would take would be one man brave enough to take the first step, and then the Mahrata would be overrun by men with flashing blades and pounding axes and maces.
At the thought, Marin stepped forward, sword still in his hand. He would be next to the Mahrata at the end, by her side as he should be. What had she called him? Her Garanin.
“Where are you---shit.” Fenner grabbed Marin’s arm, and then let go just as quickly when Marin turned to face him.
Marin turned away, he needed to be with the Mahrata, to stand with her at the last. Darl was blowing the horn next to her. A sound that made the hair on the back of Marin’s neck stand on end. He raised his sword over his head and screamed the Mahrata’s name, his throat tearing and bleeding, “Sheeee-ahhhh-liiihhhh!” And he strode through the swirling mists to the enemy.
The mist circled about his legs as he waded through it. “Sheee-ahhh-lihhhh!” He screamed again, images of the Mahrata being cut down flashed in his mind and filled him with fear and rage. He would cut them all down before they found the courage to challenge her. He strode past her and walked, not ran, but walked to the Canaristi, their mounts quailing and shrieking at the sight of him. Even some of the men sounded like they were screaming, too. Marin ignored them all and blocked the weak strike of a Canaristi. He held the youngster’s wrist in his left hand. “Please,” the Canaristi whispered. “What are—“ Marin cut the lad’s neck so hard he almost severed his head.
Canaristi were running, fleeing now, afraid of the demonstration of the Mahrata’s power. Marin screamed at them, stand and fight, he wanted to shout, but words were lost to him, all he could do was scream and slash out at fleeing backs and legs.
A horse pounded past, sending the cloud to swirling and curling, Marin swung backhanded and cut the beast’s leg, horse and rider crashing to the floor.
Marin wasn’t sure when he knew the rest of the men had followed him into the fight. All he saw was more Canaristi screaming and dying, cut down as they fled, blood staining the halter grass and making the ground slick and wet. More than once, he thought he saw a corpse rise from the ground, blood leaking from its face as it hung limply in the thick cloud, men running past it in horror, but this could only be imagination. Still Marin struck and struck until his arm was sore and his sword covered in blood and gore. Until there was nothing left to kill, all the Canaristi fled or dead or dying on the ground.
All around him men and women stood, som
e leaning on swords, some looking about them in a mix of wonder and horror, some laughing and talking among themselves, and some wandering about the carnage alone or in groups, the mists swirling about their legs.
The Mahrata. Shalih. Where was she now? She wouldn’t be hard to find, the only colour in this grey world. The only brightness in this grey and clouded life.
There. Beyond the blood and the carnage and the screams of the dying, there she was. But something was wrong; she was kneeling as Marin had knelt so many times before her. She was kneeling before a crone with brittle grey hair and wrinkled skin in a green dress that looked like it had been fashioned from a rotten sack. Either side of this ancient were two knights in red armour with long red capes hanging down their backs. Only as he looked at the Mahrata kneeling before these strangers did Marin realize that something else was wrong.
The drums had stopped. The world had fallen into silence.
CHAPTER 28
Yerotan was a bigger place than Landros had bargained for. As soon as the village had come into view, surrounded as it was by fields of tall red flowers with drooping heads, a hundred people or so gathering the flowers into baskets and aprons, he had known this wouldn’t be as straight forward as he might have thought. As straightforward as taking a woman against her will could ever be, anyway.
He pulled Kerona to a halt in the middle of the village and reached into his saddle bag for his waterskin. The skies were grey but the air was heavy. Two laughing girls looked at their group as they passed, whispering to one another and laughing. Torra smiled after them. Landros tried to swallow the rising anger along with the water.
“So, what’s the plan when we find her? Throw her over your saddle and race out of the village?” Dorian leaned on the pommel of his saddle as he spoke; his eyes looked less bleary than they had before, but his clothes were still dirty. Speak to him alone, Landros had thought, an easy way to delay the inevitable argument.