Trail of Pyres

by L. James Rice

Ivin glanced, the man in the mud breathed, but: “I don’t think he hears much of anything.”

  “Mmm, best hope he got the point while awake.” He tromped to his horse, slipped his ax into a harness, and raised himself and the child into the saddle slow and easy to keep from crushing her. “I don’t think she’s well. A baby ain’t supposed to be this quiet.”

  Ivin mounted. “We’ll make for camp.”

  “The girl dies… I come back and put an end to that bastard.”

  Ivin looked to Solineus’ girls. “Kinesee, you ride with me, Alu, you’re with the Broldun. Don’t you make me have to haul both your asses flopped over the saddle like some bag.”

  Both girls ducked chins and walked to the horse; Ivin grabbed Kinesee’s hand and pulled her up behind him. Damned convenient she wasn’t wearing a dress.

  “What’re you going to do with him?”

  The man hadn’t budged, and Ivin scratched his chin. “First things first, we get this child to a healer. This bastard, if he’s still alive come morning, I guess he can do as he pleases, if he’s dead… we’ll burn him like the rest.”

  Solineus tossed a rock into the Yundile River’s current, a good throw which made it a quarter of the way across. They’d learned lessons crossing the Ilmen, but thought they’d learned too well. It cost them at the Kovo River to the sum of a couple hundred lives.

  The Yundile flowed broad and shallow here, but it was closer to Tek Reshu than anyone would like. Upriver, the Yundile narrowed, but the waters ran deeper and treacherous with white water crashing boulders. It was cross here or further east, a known ford, but it was horizons closer to a Tek they didn’t know.

  Solineus turned to Lelishen. “Our outriders say the ford to the east is passable.”

  “The map we bear is a few years old, but it concurs. But it’s also a candle’s ride from the Blooded Plain’s border with the Tek Reshu.”

  Rinold sent a stone skittering down the shore with a kick. “The plan was to stay away from that ford. The fewer Tek toes we step on the better.”

  “We wouldn’t be stepping on their toes, we’d be on the Blooded Plain.”

  “Just ask Puxele how nervous her toes get when we dance, just for my gettin’ close.”

  “My man has a point. We’ve avoided the Tek and they’ve left us alone since them archers and... well, the dead.”

  Rinold pointed across the river. “No fires, which means grain and game… It ain’t no how a welcome, but it ain’t the hells waitin’ for us. We go east, easy nuf to construe it as a threat.”

  Solineus sighed. “I’d rather they burn it before than while we’re walking through it.”

  Puxele said, “Which they’re less likely to do if we cross here.”

  “I reckon. What’re your thoughts, Lelishen?”

  “We do not deal with the Tek Reshu often. A smaller kingdom, sworn their banners to Tek Litra unless times have changed. The Hidreng are their enemies, this is one nation where Iro would hold little influence, except for the threat of the Rot.”

  Thunder from the southeast, but when he looked the sky was clear; the thunder was too rhythmic for nature.

  Drums.

  “What the hells?”

  A scout whipped his lathered horse upriver toward them, and his horse spun with surging breaths that blew spit. “An army arrived at the ford. They’re demanding a meet this evening. At the ford.”

  Rinold smirked. “At least they’re talking. Better’n we can expect on reaching the Destil.”

  “I reckon so. You, man. Take a fresh horse and let the Tek know we’ll talk to them as they request.” The scout nodded and rode north to the makeshift corral. “Puxele, Rinold… make for the main camp and let the clanblood know we’ve got guests for a twilight chat.”

  Puxele squatted a couple times to loosen her legs. “My ass was gettin’ soft standing around anyhow, I miss the saddle.” She put foot to stirrup and lifted into the seat.

  Rinold snorted with a groan for emphasis. “Me, I was lookin’ forward to a nap.”

  “There isn’t rest for the living nor the dead these days. We’ll see you at the ford.”

  The couple reined their horses, breaking into a trot north. Solineus watched until they were two specks on the hill, happy to be alone with Lelishen. “You’ll join us?”

  She glanced in the direction of the echoing drums. “You’ll need me.”

  If he didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a twinkle of flirt in her eyes, but more likely it was a fleck of silver catching the sun. “Even if I don’t, I always want you.” He tried like the hells to keep a cool, straight face, but his lips curled into his blush.

  She stared, and he couldn’t break the lock of her gaze. He coughed. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something about the Edan.”

  She turned, twining her hands behind her back, happy for a change of subject? “By all means.”

  “It took a while to register, my mind slow to grasp things at times, but I never a saw a child in the Eleris.”

  “There are Trelelunin children in the Eleris, but their numbers are small. Our birth cycle is slow.”

  “And the Edan? Every Edan we met has been alive since the Forgetting.”

  “This is so. Not a single Edan child has been born since the First Forgetting, leastwise that anyone remembers.”

  “So every Edan loss in battle…”

  “So you see their hesitance for war. I trust you to keep this secret.”

  “Aye.” It made painful sense, and if the Tek ever realized this truth, they might win a war of attrition. Might. He still doubted anyone could penetrate the Eleris. His thoughts spun. “No wonder they’re such a dour people.”

  Lelishen laughed. “No, even God Wars tomes speak of the Edan as the unchanging, and they bore children then. No one knows why they can’t, or don’t, now.”

  “Do they, well, you know… couple? I mean for pleasure, seeing as no babes?”

  She pondered this question longer than he expected. “I… Yes, I assume so. They can be affectionate with one another.”

  “I see. And Trelelunin, for pleasure?”

  She hesitated, and if ever anything felt awkward in the typical grace of a Trelelunin, it was the smile she fought. “Yes. Are you suggesting something?”

  “No, ma’am. I suggest nothin’ at all.” He turned, matching her hands behind the back and raised chin pose to stare at the drumming horizon. “Still, I reckon it’s good to know. If we survive until tonight.”

  Several hundred Tek footmen marched to within a thousand paces of the river, their precision steps enviable. Tight rows with practiced spacing, their spears on a shoulder, shields covering their core. The armor these warriors wore differed from their northern cousins, with steel breastplates, greaves, and bracers, less mail and less coverage in general.

  Ivin turned to Solineus: “Wish our warriors showed such discipline.”

  “Our warriors show fight.”

  No denying that men fighting for the lives of everyone they loved burned with extra motivation. “Where are these bastards?”

  Polus said, “Getting sick of these drums, damned sure.”

  On cue the drums thundered faster and a procession of horsemen crested the southern hill at a gaited trot, the long hair above their hooves flapping with every rise and pound to the turf. Beautiful animals with flowing manes and tails, it was easy to imagine these animals as cocksure as most Teks he’d talked to.

  Ivin turned to Meliu. “You think you can handle the dialect?”

  “Lelishen will do most of the talking, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Danwek Bulubar snorted. “I trust the woodkin less than I trust you, keep yer holy ears open.”

  Ivin leaned to glare at the man. “And I trust your tongue less than the Broldun’s to not get us killed, so keep them lips tight.”

  The Teks reined their horses and stepped down from their stirrups and three men spoke to each other before one pointed to the river. The three strode straig
ht into the river’s current until they stood just short of halfway across. They folded their arms.

  Lelishen said, “I think they’re waiting for us.” She led the seven representatives of the Silone clans into the river and stopped a dozen paces from them.

  The three men were typical of Tek nobility, with dark hair, dark eyes, and shaved faces, but these three kept their hair cut at identical lengths, and their jewelry from earrings to necklaces to bracelets were the same. Their faces were similar enough they might be relatives. Either these nobles were the height of some fashion, or two of them were decoys to confuse an enemy from a distance.

  The man in the middle spoke, and Lelishen translated the conversation in both directions.

  “My apologies for the wet feet, a message warned my people of a disease, claiming it spread by you people.”

  Ivin said, “A lie of the Hidreng, who live in their putrid cities and blame others when a plague comes. I am Ivin Choerkin, the voice of the Silone Clans today.”

  “I am Duke Ovrin Hermed, Lord of the Easterly Haven, and vassal to King Einred Diunmo, the Third of His Name.”

  “Well met my lord. As the voice of the Silone Clans, I offer my respect to your King and you, and beseech safe passage outside your border, down the Blooded Plains.”

  The man nodded and rubbed his nose. “My king received word of your travels a week prior and is sympathetic to any hounded by the Hidreng.” He spit in the river. “May the Great Vulture pluck Pulvuer’s eyes from his head.”

  Ivin nodded with what he hoped was a look of sage agreement. “The Silone Clans would like to offer King Einred a gift to honor an agreement.”

  The man smiled at Meliu and licked his lips. “Is it this girl? Her hair is most precious among my people.”

  Lelishen eyeballed Ivin, and he kept his voice smooth. “No, the Silone Clans do not believe in the sale and trade of people.” He unbuckled his sword belt and proffered the sword. “I would like to offer the sword of the Ar-Bdein family, once rulers of the putrid Hidreng city of Bdein.”

  Ovrin chortled. “How did you come by the sword of the Ar-Bdein?”

  “The Bishop of Sin Medor held me prisoner, when I escaped I also took this.”

  “It is a worthy gift. But no.” He faced Solineus and pointed. “We heard of a man who killed the mighty Garvor on the banks of the Delhen, with a sword which met steel as a knife to butter. I want those.”

  Solineus said, “I reckon you don’t want these swords.”

  The man’s head cocked with a wry grin. “I am most certain I do. An inexpensive price to pay for your people to travel safe for the next hundred horizons.”

  Ivin said, “It’s not a price—”

  Solineus put his hand to his shoulder, then unclipped his belt, the swords dropping to his hips. “Duke Ovrin, would you play a game?”

  The man laughed. “If you think to fight me for them… I would not challenge the man who slew Garvor, one because I owe him thanks, and two, because I am no warrior.” He grinned and shrugged.

  Solineus unhooked the sheaths from their harnesses and offered them to the man. “If you can kill me with these swords, you may have them.”

  Ovrin glanced to both men at his side with nervous licks of his lips, and Ivin wondered if he wasn’t the real Duke. “I… What trick is this?” He chuckled, nervous.

  “I will not fight you. Draw a blade, and if you strike me down, they are yours and my people walk south, free and safe. If you fail, you accept the Ar-Bdein sword.”

  Ivin leaned and spoke, and Lelishen didn’t translate. “You do know what the hells you’re doing, right?”

  Solineus gave him a sideways grin and a shrug. “I’m just hurrying up this negotiation.”

  Ovrin clapped his sweaty palms. “Challenge accepted. You’re certain you wish to die?”

  “If this is what fate decides, I accept.” Solineus held the swords out sheaths first.

  The duke’s tongue darted to his lips again, and he grabbed the hilts, pulling the blades free with a flourish. For a flicker he smiled, but his arms froze, his eyes widened. Piss painted his billowing white trousers, and he screamed, collapsing to his knees, arms shaking as one dipped a latcu blade below his neck, the other rising above.

  The bastard was about to cut his own head off. “Solineus!”

  Hands grasped wrists before the swords struck, and Solineus said, “Easy. Easy. Let go of the man.” Ovrin’s fingers loosened and Solineus reclaimed the Twins, shoving them back into their sheaths as the Tek collapsed into the river.

  The man on the left took him by the shoulders, dragging the shaking man toward the shore. The final stood calm, blinking.

  Ivin said, “Duke Ovrin, I presume?”

  The man smiled. “Indeed. This warrior of yours is a kind of witch?”

  Ivin shook his head, and Lelishen did the speaking. “Angels of heaven possess the blade, and they have chosen this man. No other may wield these swords.”

  Ivin offered the Ar-Bdein blade, and this time to the right man. “Please, accept our offer of peace.”

  The man’s nose rose. “I will consider this gift adequate for his Lord Majesty on one condition: I would dine with you people tomorrow evening, so to discuss our arrangement.”

  Ivin glanced from clanblood to clanblood, blank gazes one and all. “Lelishen?”

  The Trelelunin bowed. “The Lords of the Silone Clans will abide by this agreement, though they fear their larders are sparse with fare.”

  Polus listened and piped up. “I’ve whiskey he’s sure to enjoy.”

  The real Ovrin nodded as Lelishen finished with his words. “I will send a dozen rams for a feast.” He bowed and strode from the river.

  Ivin spun on Solineus, who adjusted the twins on his shoulders. “Remind me to never gamble with you.”

  The man grinned and splashed toward shore as Stugin Mulharth sidestepped close. “He wants all our people together… rest he says, prolly to murder us all.”

  Ivin scratched his head. “I don’t think so. The Duke doesn’t have twins to hide himself from us.”

  Budothe Tuvrikt asked, “Then what the forges he want?”

  “Let’s get the hells out of this river and figure that out when the time comes.”

  56

  Peace for War

  For every hundred men, ten lay down before they die, eighty fight to save their skins, nine are true soldiers fighting to kill the enemy, one is a warrior true, fighting with the will of the gods and raising every man behind them. Give me a thousand of these warriors and I will turn this war.

  –Warlord Sedutine Choerkin,

  from The Codex of Sol

  Day Forty-One on the Trail of Pyres

  A dozen rams arrived a candle after their meeting with Duke Ovrin; they were bled and spitted that night for a roast that brought hundreds to stare at the coming feast. Rikis posted guards to make sure the meat survived until the next night.

  The generosity of these people startled Ivin.

  The afternoon of the following day, wagons rolled across the border of the Blooded Plain with a hundred blocks of salt and bags of wheat flour and potatoes heavy enough to hurt a man’s shoulder. The supplies disappeared in a matter of a candle, handed out to the Silone by Teks, neither understanding a word the other said, but smiles, nods, and hugs were all the communication needed.

  Four kegs of beer and two casks of whiskey arrived as the sun approached the western horizon, and with it a wagon loaded with a gigantic block of ice.

  Ivin swirled whiskey with chipped ice in the glass during dinner, wondering what it was this Duke wanted from them. But though the man sat paces away, the tent was too loud with musicians playing flutes and harps for serious conversation. He would have to wait to discover whether this display was softening them for some request, or if intended to impress the Silone Lords.

  The merriment went for hours; the entertainers performing until Tek servants brought jellied-plum pastries for dessert.

  L
ady Tedeu split her pastry with a silver fork. “This is exquisite, but I feel awkward eating your foods when you are our guest.”

  Lelishen translated.

  Ovrin poked a piece of sugared plum and stuck it in his mouth, his hand dismissing her concern with a wiggle of his fingers. “The tent is yours, but we are closer to my home, so in a sense, we are each guests of the other.”

  Ivin raised his glass of liquor. “The Hidreng and their allies, as well as the Merseng want us dead… A salute to you who brings us food instead of knives.”

  The corner of the Duke’s mouth rose. “You sound like a man suspicious of another’s generosity.”

  “Always.” Ivin held the man’s stare as Lelishen translated, and Ovrin chuckled.

  “Word from the Hidreng reached us, but my king chooses to ignore them. We Reshu are at war with the alliance of Motsvin, Nepus, and Mer, among others… and Hidreng supplies them even if they hold their hands high and clean in denial. The Great Vulture take every Hidreng eye.” He sipped his drink.

  This was the first Ivin heard of war. “This explains your kindness, but not generosity.”

  The Duke’s lips wrinkled, and he tapped his glass. “Honesty, yes? Word from the Hidreng speaks of an army of marauding northern barbarians plagued with disease. The Ilombar Alliance panicked—”

  “The who?”

  “We Rexu do not fight alone. Our friends to the south are the Tarmar, Vardo, and Litra.”

  Ivin’s heart beat fast: Three of the Tek nations they needed to pass. “And you all feared us?”

  “If you’d read the Witch-Tit’s missive, you would understand. The kings of the Ilombar sent me with my army north and what did I find? People. Women, children… hungry but healthy. What disease, I ask myself.” He shrugged. “Then I say to my king, let them pass, and if they bare some disease, let it travel south with them instead of polluting the land and waters with their blood. To what end do your people travel?”

  Ivin blinked. “To safety.”