by A. J. Smith
Falling Cloud was sitting upright several feet away, with his head in his hands. He was shivering violently and looked to have a large wooden splinter stuck through his shin. The man was unaware of the wound and Halla hoped his mind had been strong enough to weather the sight of the Krakens.
‘Rexel Falling Cloud, axe-master of Hammerfall,’ she called out, spitting out salt water as she did so.
He looked up hesitantly, and Halla saw tears frozen on his cheeks and his eyes reddened and half closed. He rubbed his face and turned to the axe-maiden.
‘My… lady,’ he responded with weariness. ‘I am alive. I am alive.’
‘Yes, you are alive, and I need your help,’ she said loudly, before pointing weakly to his wound. ‘That needs seeing to.’
Falling Cloud looked down and registered the wound for the first time. ‘Yes, though it doesn’t hurt,’ he said. ‘The water is cold, but it has stopped the bleeding.’ His eyes had a faraway look, but Halla was glad to see he could still think clearly.
‘We need to see who is alive and who is dead, and where in the name of Rowanoco we’ve ended up.’ She craned her neck round to look inland.
The coastline was rocky for a way up the beach and ended in a series of low cliffs, topped with snow-covered trees.
‘Is this Hammerfall?’ she asked the axe-master.
‘No, my lady, there’d be more snow. We’re further south,’ he replied, shaking his head and trying to get his bearings. ‘And there are no cliffs like that on Samnia, so we’re on the mainland somewhere.’
Men lying on the rocks around them now registered the conversation and a few of them sat up, wincing in pain as they became aware of their wounds through the cold.
‘I’m freezing my fucking balls off… and where’s my fucking axe?’ shouted Wulfrick, without moving.
‘Master Wulfrick. Still alive, I see,’ responded Halla with a gratified smile.
The huge axe-master of Fredericksand turned his head and said clearly, ‘Someone tell me where I am and where is the person I should be killing.’
Falling Cloud let a slight laugh escape his lips and for a moment his head felt clearer. ‘I think we’re south of Hammerfall, maybe on the coast of Wraith land.’
‘And my axe?’ Wulfrick asked, still not moving his enormous body from the rocks.
‘Master Wulfrick, your axe is not currently of primary importance. Please pull yourself together,’ Halla responded, making no particular effort to be gentle.
He looked hurt for a moment and swung round to sit up, facing Falling Cloud and the axe-maiden. ‘I’m together. It takes more than a few tentacles to get the better of me.’
* * *
Barely two hundred of the Ranen had survived the initial attack, the Krakens and the subsequent shipwreck. More had perhaps washed up on other coasts, or had managed to flee before the horn was blown, but Halla tried not to think about them. The situation could not be changed by hoping for a thain or two to appear over the hills, and she knew that if none did, she was in charge. Most of those who had gathered on the beach had been washed ashore from other ships and had not had to witness the Krakens – though the main topic of conversation while the men of Fjorlan were carrying out the orders Halla gave them was of tentacles and terror. Of her own men fewer than twenty were still alive, and she found herself giving orders to men from Fredericksand, Hammerfall and the Deep Cross.
Falling Cloud’s injury was not bad and he fashioned a rudimentary splint that enabled him to walk across the rocks with relative ease. Halla thought him quieter and more solemn than he had been, but at least he was being helpful as he moved among the bodies looking for survivors. Wulfrick didn’t move more than a few feet from where he’d washed up and remained deep in thought for some time before he joined the rest.
Halla issued many orders to the battle-brothers around her and didn’t give more than a cursory acknowledgement when they were carried out. Then she just found other things for the men to do, and they seemed happy enough to be moving with purpose. A rough shelter was fashioned to protect against the cold wind, the bodies were assembled in several pyres, and she sent men to scout further inland. The various injuries were being tended to, but every few minutes Halla heard another dying Ranen offer a final prayer to Rowanoco.
A dozen or more Ranen had lost their minds at the sight of the Krakens and they sat in a rough circle, just inside the wash. None of them had spoken and they had ignored numerous shouts from the others. Halla had decided to leave them be for now; if they couldn’t be roused when the time came to move, she’d count them among the lost.
The hours passed quickly and now the sun was beginning to fall in the sky, causing the temperature to drop sharply. Close to a hundred shivering Ranen huddled in the shell of a hull, dragged further inland and propped up to form a rudimentary windbreak. Other small groups of survivors were similarly sheltered along the beach. The body of Algenon Teardrop had not been found and Wulfrick was wandering the surf looking for his lord, refusing calls to come out of the weather and warm himself by the large fire they had now managed to light within the shelter.
One of the few men of Fredericksand to have survived was Oleff Hard Head, an old chain-master from Algenon’s dungeon, and he’d been given the task of scouting further inland. The old axe-man was gruff and surly when he returned to the shelter after several hours of exploring.
‘Tell us some good news, Oleff,’ said Falling Cloud while he adjusted his leg brace.
Hard Head nestled as close to the fire as he could and rubbed his red hands together vigorously. Then he looked up at Halla and smiled thinly.
‘My Lady Summer Wolf, it seems we are south of the Deep Cross. I can just about see the mountains to the north and, if my geography is right, we’re in the realm of Wraith.’
A few of the men smiled, a few more laughed with relief, and Halla nodded at Oleff.
‘Good, we’ll move inland tomorrow and set up camp over the cliffs. The wounded need time to recover or die, and,’ she gestured across to the men who had lost their minds, ‘they need time to… I don’t know, but I’m not prepared to give up on them just yet.’
Halla didn’t know if it was the predicament they found themselves in, but the men of Fjorlan had not once questioned her orders or shown any sign of doubt that she was in charge. Even Wulfrick had not made any move towards taking over, and so Halla Summer Wolf steeled herself for more days of keeping these men together and alive. She had no real plan beyond that but entertained a vague notion of reaching the ruins of Ro Hail, making contact with Wraith Company, and finding a way north to see what Rulag Ursa had done in Algenon’s absence.
Maybe four days, or a week at the most, would be needed to heal their injuries and prepare the men to move as a unit. Halla looked silently over the faces of her new subordinates and began assessing who would make appropriate lieutenants in the weeks to come, as they made their way north.
Rexel Falling Cloud was a good man and already an axe-master, so he’d be an invaluable adviser. Wulfrick would take whatever position he deemed necessary and Halla was aware of the need to be careful when ordering him around. He had, after all, been the high thain’s closest ally and was the mightiest warrior of them all. Oleff Hard Head was a senior man of Fredericksand and would be a good and knowledgeable presence at her side. The others would have to wait for the results of her silent assessment.
‘Get some sleep, gentlemen,’ she said through a yawn. ‘Tomorrow we move inland.’
CHAPTER 5
SAARA THE MISTRESS OF PAIN IN THE CITY OF RO WEIR
Saara cradled the Ranen cloud stone gently in her hands and peered through it into the eyes of Rulag Ursa, battle lord of Jarvik, the traitorous warrior communicating with her from half a world away.
‘I need your assurance that Algenon Teardrop is dead,’ she asked the indistinct image that appeared in the stone.
‘We have woken the Krakens, witch,’ he said angrily, ‘and don’t make the mistake of talk
ing to me like your servant.’
‘I meant no offence. I just need to know that the service we have paid for has been carried out,’ replied Saara, filing away the insult for future repayment.
‘You’ve paid for? I am to be high thain of Fjorlan. This is not some fucking business deal. Rowanoco only values strength, and I am the strongest.’
The Ranen was a worm of a man, but he was a necessary tool in dealing with the exemplar of Rowanoco and Saara knew that he could be easily manipulated with promises of power.
‘Please answer the question, my Lord Ursa. It’s as much in your interest as mine to see Teardrop dead.’ Saara tried to sound patient and relaxed, though in truth she felt nothing but disgust for the Fjorlander.
‘He’s done for. Most of his men are in pieces and the last anyone saw he took an axe to his back and was bleeding out over the deck. Ithqas and Aqas did the rest… if a hundred men made it to shore, I’d be fucking surprised.’ Rulag was decidedly pleased that he had massacred hundreds of his own people, and Saara felt a moment of pity for those who would have to live under his tyrannical rule.
‘Very well,’ she replied meekly, ‘you may proceed with your plan. Communicate with me again when Fredericksand is in your charge.’ Saara waited for an insult, but none came and she guessed Rulag was busy thinking about his impending elevation to the position of high thain.
The cloud stone faded into misty black and Rulag was gone. Saara smiled to herself and took a moment to appreciate the flowering of her plan. Algenon was no longer a threat and the dragon fleet had been neutralized. The invasion of the Freelands could now take place with minimal resistance, and the Seven Sisters would soon be able to kill the few remaining old-bloods and bring the worship of the Dead God to all the lands of men.
She replaced the cloud stone within her robes and left the building where she had paid for a room – an unremarkable tavern, chosen simply so she could be alone while she spoke with Rulag. She’d slipped away from the ten thousand Hounds that had travelled with her and she had a number of things that required her attention. Most importantly, the deal struck between the Seven Sisters, Sir Hallam Pevain and Rulag Ursa had been successful. Now she had further business in the old town of Weir. From within her cloak Saara retrieved a small piece of paper with hastily drawn directions scrawled on it.
Outside, the streets of Ro Weir were quiet and dark. Buildings loomed inwards over the cobbles. Saara was used to the wide boulevards and airy courtyards of Kessia and found the claustrophobic back streets of Weir an unwelcome contrast. She had been here for several days now, implementing the city’s occupation by her pack of Hounds. Duke Lyam, the old noble nominally in charge, had a weaker mind than she was used to and Saara found she had to be gentle with him so as not to turn him into a gibbering mess, incapable of signing the decrees she required.
Master Turve, the whip-master of the Hounds, had taken command of the city’s muster field and was making use of the barracks previously occupied by the knights of the Red, who were now accompanying the king into the Freelands of Ranen. Turve was using the city watchman to implement a low-key martial law, designed to keep the citizens calm and under control while Saara made sure the transition went smoothly and with little disruption. Duke Lyam had pledged his and the king’s support for the enchantress’s designs and, with a few key people in a few key places, Saara was happy with the way Ro Weir was coming under her charge. The huge population of Kirin criminals and Karesian merchants in Weir had made Saara smile, for she realized that her task was half completed before she even arrived. This was not Ro Tiris, and these citizens of Tor Funweir were accustomed to sharing their streets with non-Ro.
Officially, King Sebastian Tiris had agreed a treaty of mutual cooperation with the Seven Sisters. In reality, he had come under the thrall of first Katja and now Ameira, and the few dissenting voices had fallen silent for fear of being accused of treason to the crown.
All things considered, the plan was proceeding at a pace. Saara doubted that anyone could now stop the Seven Sisters from succeeding. By the time the Freelands were subdued, the Dead God would virtually have won the Long War, supplanting the murderous Giants who had stolen his power so long ago. Saara had even begun to hope that fresh worship from the lands of men would return their benefactor to his rightful place as the only permissible god – would breathe fresh life into the lost god of pleasure and blood with a thousand young.
Saara was smiling contentedly to herself as she proceeded down another dark street and entered the slum area called the Kirin Tor, a place built specifically to house the numerous itinerant Kirin who made their home in Ro Weir. She was walking alone through the midnight alleyways with her black cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders to guard against anyone who might recognize her, and she silently lamented the loss of her body slave. Zeldantor had been pleasant company in the years they’d been together and, although his sacrifice had been necessary both to appease the Dark Young and to protect the Seven Sisters from the wrath of Zeldantor’s father, she missed his constant presence at her side. Even now, as she passed the gloomy side streets and dirty alleyways, she longed for his upbeat commentary on events and his unwavering loyalty. His father had been responsible for his death, and Saara consoled herself with the knowledge that Rham Jas Rami would now be powerless to strike at the Seven Sisters.
She stopped at a crossroads and checked the directions she’d been given. To her left, several rainbow junkies looked at her through red eyes – Kirin men with dirty faces and few possessions standing around a poorly constructed hut. Further ahead were a number of stone buildings nestled among rudimentary homes made of wood and scavenged metal. Her directions had been given her by a Ro thief who’d been spying on an old bookseller for her, and she guessed he’d not been paying much attention when he wrote them down, since they did not appear to correspond with the actual streets – although the possibility also existed that these makeshift buildings would move around from time to time.
Saara pulled her hood up the better to obscure her face as she approached the Kirin junkies. ‘I seek a bookseller,’ she asked in heavily accented Ro.
One of the Kirin, fatter and more diseased than the others, grinned and showed several missing teeth and stained gums.
‘You’re in the wrong part of town for learning, sweetheart… why don’t you come and join us,’ he responded, with a deeply unpleasant leer.
‘Yeah, we don’t get fine-looking bitches like you too often,’ said a second Kirin, licking his lips. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be nice to you.’
There were four of them, men evidently of vile intent and little in the way of brainpower, but Saara was in a hurry and not in the mood to play games.
‘I said I seek a bookseller, if you can assist me…’ she held her hands wide, awaiting a response.
‘Oh, we can assist you, you fine-looking cunt,’ the fat Kirin said and stepped forward, reaching for the enchantress with his grubby hands.
Saara stepped back and slapped him hard across the face. ‘I will say it once more and if I get a response that is not helpful, I will cause each of you pain,’ she stated calmly. ‘Now, can you assist me?’
The fat Kirin shot her a look of deep indignation from his bloodshot eyes. ‘I’ll cut your face up for that, you Karesian whore,’ he said, removing a rusty knife from inside his coat.
The other three grunted agreement and one jumped up and down excitedly. ‘Let’s fuck the bitch… let’s fuck her now,’ he cried gleefully, spitting over himself at the prospect of violating the enchantress.
The Kirin she’d slapped stepped forward and moved to place the knife at Saara’s neck. She didn’t move, but smiled with a predatory curl to her lips as the fat man paused, stopped by some invisible force. He began to wince in pain as he tried to raise the knife to stab her.
‘Grab her… what you waiting for?’ asked another, as the first Kirin was overcome with fear at his inability to strike the woman.
Slowly and gentl
y, Saara took the man’s hand and placed the knife next to her breast. ‘Kill me… if you can,’ she challenged.
‘I… can’t… move,’ he almost shouted with rising panic.
His fellows moved to flank the enchantress and one of them aimed some punches at her, but none of the blows landed, and the confidence drained from their eyes as they found themselves rooted to the spot and unable to strike.
Saara gestured slightly with her hand and said, ‘You are venomous little men, you will die in an appropriate fashion.’
The first Kirin started to retch as Saara caused poisonous Gorlan spiders to appear in his throat. His eyes widened and he coughed out several spiders the size of a fist, looking down in horror as they crawled over his body. He tried to scream, but the sound was lost under the pressure of spiders erupting from his throat and rapidly covering the upper part of his body, biting and crawling over each other to get inside his clothing. His arms shot out and shook violently as the venom flowed through his body, and he fell to the ground in convulsions.
Saara let two of the others run away with looks of abject terror on their faces. Another had his eyes fixed on his friend’s body, which was disappearing under the crawling mound of spiders.
‘Look at me.’ She spoke with menace.
This last Kirin was the youngest and his eyes were as wide as could be, watching his friend being consumed before his eyes. Hesitantly, he looked up at the enchantress.
‘I seek a bookseller. Do you know where I would find such a man in these streets?’ she asked with a vicious smile. ‘His name is Kabrizzi.’
The young Kirin forced his left arm to rise and point towards one of the stone buildings.