Mirkel Broldun muttered, “You can always warm my roll, you grow tired of this rodent.”
“I’ll take a squirrel over a Broldun dog any which day.”
Solineus said, “Shut your yaps. Our priority is somewhere is these damned mountains.”
They spent a day wandering the slopes before they spotted a herd of goats, and those turned out to be wild. A day later Rinold spotted tracks, and they followed to find a larger herd. The black and white goats milled in a lush green valley and seemed little concerned with the presence of men. When first they heard the ring of bells around one buck’s neck, they knew they’d succeeded.
Solineus’ heart beat faster with new found hope. Somewhere in the rocks and trees and grass herdsmen watched them, he felt their eyes even if he couldn’t point to them. He glanced to the Squirrel.
“See anybody?”
The little man spit, his scar twitching beneath his eye. “No, but I’m jittery as a butterfly who lit on the bullseye.”
Solineus dismounted and dropped his reins, then untied his saddle bags and dropped them to the ground before addressing the rest. “Get us a fire burning and lean all the bows and arrows standing out front, plain to see. Rest of your weapons on the saddle bags, I don’t want to see so much as a dinner knife at your belt to lend them an excuse to kill us.”
Mirkel snorted. “Like as not a pack of disarmed fools will encourage an attack.”
Puxele grunted. “As likely your ugly face’ll encourage them to put you outa yer misery.”
“Best get a muzzle on yer lady, Squirrel.”
Solineus said, “Enough. I’ve put up with this for damned near two weeks. No more.” He glared at each in turn, saving Puxele for last.
Her cheeks curled around her bent nose in a wry smile. “You love me.”
“Squirrel loves you, I just need your keen eyes and bow.”
The party grunted and glared at each other as they unpacked. Old clan hatreds were burning fresh with stressful days in the saddle, but he knew not a one would challenge him while his eyes were open. A fire smoked within minutes, and they spit a turkey Puxele took down an hour earlier. They relaxed as best they could and turned the tap on a keg of whiskey Polus sent with them for the occasion. The Broldun had his faults, but a lack of alcohol even after all the horizons they’d traveled wasn’t one.
They watered the whiskey and sipped their cups for a candle, and juices bubbled from turkey before a Kingdomer made his presence known. From a distance he might’ve been the Wolverine’s twin, with broad shoulders and barrel chest, and legs thick as trees. But his hair draped black over his shoulders, and he wore a beard, braided with rings of silver and brass, which fell to the middle of his chest. In his hand he carried a shepherd’s hook instead of spear or axe.
It was time to test Lelishen’s instruction in the Kingdomer tongue. “Welcome, friend.” If he’d butchered the pronunciation, at least the stranger didn’t let it show.
Solineus pieced together the reply. “Have you meat and drink to spare, for a poor herdsman?”
“Indeed. Please, have a seat by our fire. I am Solineus of the Clan Emudar.”
The man sat cross-legged and accepted a cup of whiskey from Little Sister. “Morik of Highstone.” He sipped the whiskey and his brows arched before taking a second drink. “Emudar. This is a Hundred Nation I have not heard mentioned before.”
Solineus spoke in Kingdomer, but wove Edan in his sentences where he didn’t know a word. “No, we are from an island far to the north, and do not count the Nations as friends. They harry our travels and threaten our people.”
The Kingdomer replied in stilted Edan. “Rare to find a man who speaks Edan cleaner than I do.” Morik’s voice deepened. “The Hundred Nations are ever at war with themselves, which is good… else they find others to war with.”
“Demons forced our people from the island of Kaludor. We’ve marched a thousand horizons with the blessing of the Edan, but still the armies of the Nations seek to destroy us.”
“What the Edan bless, the Helelindin will bless, and the Nations curse. You come seeking safe passage from the Malobund Nation?”
“No.” Lelishen told him the Kingdomers appreciated straight, blunt words, and prayed she was right.
“No?” He sipped his whiskey. “You don’t fear our goats?”
“Our people head for the Roemhien Pass, but first we must make it alive. We come for stonebreakers.”
That brought a smile and squint to the man’s face. “You don’t say.”
“I do.”
Morik pulled a knife from his belt, then sliced a chunk of turkey and stuffed it into his mouth. “I could gain you passage quicker than stonebreakers, though I’m curious how you know of them.”
“The same Trelelunin woman who taught me what I know of your language.”
He nodded, a grin on his face. “A peculiar people, the Trelelunin. And might I ask, what need have you for stonebreakers? Poor weapons.”
“There is a stone bridge the Nations must not cross.”
Morik spit gristle into the fire. “I know this bridge, I suspect. It is a battle stonebreakers can fight, but what can you offer?”
Solineus hefted a saddlebag. “Gold, jewels… friendship.
Morik nodded, stared into his cup. “We value these things, as do all men, maybe at times more than we should.” He sipped his whiskey, spit it into the fire, and smiled as the flames flared. “How much of this do you have?”
Solineus sat up, rubbed his face. “Ah, well… this cask. There might be more, can’t say how much.”
Morik smiled. “I will take your whiskey, gold, and jewels… your offer of friendship, sure. I’ll see how many stonebreakers I can trade for. Mm?” His smile was broad as he looked to each of them. “And if you survive, more barrels, four if you have them. Mm?”
Everyone nodded, and Solineus said, “Agreed.”
Morik sliced a big chunk of turkey and jammed it in his mouth, then tossed the whiskey in to moisten the chew. “Agreed.” He stood and took the bags from Solineus’ hand, then crouched, hugging the barrel in one arm, lifting it with ease. “I’ll be back, maybe two days. You wait.”
“One of us should go with you.”
The Kingdomer guffawed. “No foreigner goes where I go. If you try, you’ll learn to fear our goats.” He whistled twice and men appeared from the surrounding rocks, every one built like a boulder. “Two days. You wait, relax. Pray it doesn’t storm.”
Morik turned and strode away.
“That went better than I expected.” The Squirrel eyeballed Solineus. “But, that’s two days without whiskey.”
Mirkel snorted. “Odds on we never see that bastard again. Wasting Broldun whiskey on foreigners… Polus’ll be pissed.”
“Good to see you men can unite over something.”
Little Sister giggled. “What d’ya think he meant about storms?”
Rinold gazed to the clear sky. “No storms tonight, least wise. It’s warmer than a northern summer, I’ve slept without a fire in fiercer places than these mountains.”
62
The Raging Shore
A warlord who understands and defeats their own weaknesses will more readily recognize and understand the weaknesses of others; understanding weakness allows the warlord to raise their friends above, and cast their enemies below.
–Codex of Sol
The morning after the Silone arrived at the Tarmujon, horns resounded from the cliffs. Their guests had arrived.
Ivin crawled from his lean-to tent to perch on a boulder far enough from the coming battle that he imagined men with shields as cockroaches turning their shells into an oncoming enemy. The first beat of a drum echoed down the valley as the first Malstefne footmen rounded a bend with shields and spears. They marched in precise lines twenty across and gods knew how deep, their feet pounding a rhythm to match the drums.
Reminiscent of the Ambush Chokes, except they had neither numbers nor surprise, and Ivin had no pity for what was to come
, only fear. But he still loathed sitting some place safe while men died executing his plan.
Leto Ravinrin stepped to his side with three ox horns dangling around his neck, one on the left, the right, and by his heart. Fifteen years old. When Ivin was fifteen he was cussing Kotin behind his back and dreaming of battle by uncle Lovar’s side. A boy. Leto should be such a boy, but life had forced him into being a man.
“I wish I was down there.”
Ivin understood the desire, in particular as it’d been the Lady Ravinrin who’d made sure her youngest grandchild didn’t see battle. “My father always told me not to regret missing a battle, because fate would throw me more than I wanted before the end.” The old man had been right again, but at the same time, Ivin prayed he’d live to see more battles.
“Who would I be to question the Hero of Istinjoln?”
Ivin had heard that title enough it brought the urge to scream. “There were other heroes. The Lady of Flame the greatest of all.” And he chuckled to himself, knowing just how much Eliles would love that name.
“I want to be a hero.”
Ivin grinned. “Impressing a girl? Anyone I know?” Torturing the boy was good fun, and a needed distraction. No one in camp could miss his following Kinesee around like a lost kitten after a bowl of milk.
“Yes. Someone.”
“Well, keep after her, but don’t be stupid about it. Heroes die as well as cowards. Sometimes sooner. Strive for bold and wise, these two things will keep you alive and get the girl.”
The drums grew louder; the first Malstefne drew into arrow range and Leto fidgeted beside him.
“On my say, give the left horn a short bugle.”
Leto’s hand fumbled with the horn but brought it to his lips.
Ivin leaned with an elbow to his knee, and when the first spearmen splashed to the middle of the crossing he said, “Now.” Leto’s horn peeled with a high-wailing sqweee! and a hornet’s nest of arrows thrummed from the rocks above the waterfall to dart into the oncoming ranks.
Men fell in the river’s current, sweeping against the legs of their brothers, but more fell or slumped on the shore, raising their shields too late from an attack outside a warrior’s tunnel vision.
“Right horn, long.”
Waaaaaaaaa! And another flight of arrows streaked skyward as the Tek first hit the wall of shields. The Edan bows launched arrows with hardened-steel tips from two hundred strides behind the front lines and beyond the river, into men holding their shields against arrows from archers above the falls. The more enemy who fell, the more they cluttered the river and trail. “Left horn, long.” Arrows soared from the rocks again, and this time they kept coming.
Shields slammed and men screamed to stay alive and screamed as they died, but it was a distant clamor from Ivin’s vantage. The western edge of the shield-wall drifted backward from a Tek push. “Left horn, short, short, short.”
Leto bugled with cheeks turning red, and the archers above the falls directed their aim at the Tek in the river; in flickers a dozen or more Malstefne collapsed on the left, and the shield-wall reset with a roar from Silone spearmen.
The Tek pushed hard, walking over their dead and dying, and with Leto’s horns Ivin directed the archers and reinforcements as the shield-wall weakened here or there. It drug on for what felt candles, dead Malstefne washed down the Tarmujon, lining the banks, caught on rocks, or carried to the Destil.
“How many bodies are you going to throw at us, you bastards? Come on!” The way Ivin figured it, the Malstefne had three choices: Keep hammering infantry at them, send cavalry into the thicket of arrows, or counter the barrage with crossbowmen, but the longer they held against the footmen the greater a chance to hit their horse or crossbows.
The first sign of change appeared when spearmen parted in the rear ranks a quarter candle later, and Ivin leaned so hard he stumbled and damned near fell from his boulder trying to see who came next. Perfect. Crossbowmen marched onto the trail behind the river. Powerful, but slow to load, the Tek crossbows weren’t the same long range threat as longbows but if they carried Wyvern’s Fire the battle would turn to fire fast.
“Middle horn, long. And keep blowing.”
Sqwooooooo!
Malstefne spearmen continued hitting the shield-wall and Silone arrows sailed short and long, felling the enemy, and several hundred crossbowmen strode forward behind a curtain of shields.
Ivin crouched. “Now, damn it. Now.”
Leto pulled his lips from the horn, breathing hard. “What’re we waiting for?”
Ivin’s eyes locked on the crossbowmen; if not in range, damned close, even their bolts wouldn’t reach the vulnerable archers. “Come on.”
The first row of crossbows rose and pitched their quarrels, lethal tips arching toward the shield-wall… A blaze of light and blood erupted at the rear corner of the crossbowmen. Sedut strolled into their midst, Malstefne soldiers dying behind others who didn’t yet realize death was steps behind them.
The horn fell from Leto’s fingers; Ivin knew well that whatever stories the boy’d heard of battle and war, they didn’t prepare him from the horror below, even from this distance. “Tales in camp…”
The artifact sprayed a dome of blood and body parts all around the high priestess, but she walked clean, her black hair still black, through the maelstrom. Warriors turned and loosed bolts, but the sanguine storm smashed shafts to harmless splinters. Hardened warriors dropped crossbows and ran, then the priestess disappeared.
Ivin felt Leto’s breathing ease. “Get ready.”
“What?”
Men screamed and a dome of bright and blood ignited near the river, Sedut’s black hair swirling in the halo’s energies. Leto gasped, and the destruction went on.
The drums changed beat, four beats fast, stop, four beats fast, stop, and Malstefne spearmen backed from the lines, and when they realized the Silone wouldn’t give chase, they turned and trotted north. Every Tek able to walk fled, leaving their dead and dying behind.
Cheers arose from the shield-wall and Sedut’s energies fell as the field cleared, and she strode the Silone lines to a wild welcome. The same woman many of those men despised months ago, even if they didn’t know her name. She was a priestess, and many would’ve stoned her, hanged her, or fed her to sharks, but now they raised their fists in celebration.
Leto said, “We’ve won. I don’t believe it.”
Ivin slapped the boy on the back. “Trust that instinct, don’t believe it. Any dog that isn’t dead still has bite.”
Meliu rode ahead of the caravan, alone most of the time, as folks avoided the Priestess of Dark Terrors, as some folk had begun to call her. The Dark was too much like a Shadow of Man to people who didn’t know better, and they feared her even if she strived to save their lives. Riding into battle enveloped in Dark, terrorizing friend and foe, didn’t help her cause despite everyone knowing she was close with Ivin Choerkin.
They reached the fork where the Destil met the Gediswon the evening after crossing the Tarmujon, and the next morning Kinesee and Maro rode up beside her… and her omnipresent entourage of Ravinrin guards. The Dragonspan Mountains were visible as white caps in the distance, and they followed the Gediswon northwest in search of the ford.
Kinesee rode straight in the saddle, an immature child turning into a young lady before everyone’s eyes. “How much further, you think?”
Meliu smiled. “Scouts last night said we should reach it in a few candles. Midday latest. Question is whether a Tek army greets us soon after.”
“My father will stop them.”
Meliu hushed her tones. “Did yer pearl say so?”
And the girl giggled. “No. I say so.”
Maro coughed. “They say he walked into Istinjoln and slew the Lord Priest Broldun, a man possessed by Shadow. What’s a bridge to a man like that?”
Kinesee giggled her approval.
Meliu surrendered to the logic. “I suspect you’re right. The ford will be clear of
enemies and we’ll ride across unhindered, all thanks to Solineus.” If only she was as convinced as her words.
The grasses grew tall, lush, and green along the banks of the Gediswon, and stood straight before a host of people would trample them into the dirt. The rider coming their way hid in those grasses until damned near on them.
The scout reined in with a huge smile on her face, the horse circling. “The ford is clear, half a horizon!” Loosed like an arrow, the woman rode toward the main caravan at a full gallop.
Meliu grinned at Kinesee. “You said so. Now, let’s test your riding skills.” She heeled her mount into a trot then clucked the mare into a canter. The rush of air cooled her sweating skin and extinguished a few of the pains of the world. It was the secret power a horse held, a freedom from the world and worry.
They slowed their horses and walked them across the ford, the waters reaching their bellies but no further. A dozen Silone scouts greeted them, all smiles.
“Any word of the Ferminki Bridge?”
“Ain’t no way to know, but I heard it’s down. But, could be horsehittin’ rumor for all I know.”
“In that case—”She eye balled them”—you men should be riding north find the truth, and godsdamned let us know if a Tek army is about to sweep atop us.”
To a man they stared. “Aye, priestess.” The men swung into their saddles and followed the river.
Kinesee said, “If it isn’t down yet, it will be.”
Meliu smiled at the girl’s confidence. Pray you’re right, child. Pray you’re right.”
What Tek bodies the river didn’t carry away the Silone stacked on the bank of the river; the next attack would need to climb the carcasses of their own dead. But all that assaulted the shield-wall was buzzing flies. Warriors grew nervous with the unexpected peace, and scouts scoured the area seeking signs of a flanking maneuver, anything to explain the tranquility after such a storm.
They found nothing.
Ivin leaned against the boulder he’d claimed with the pervading silence of the valley eating at him. All reports from scouts who braved a ride north reported no movement.
Trail of Pyres Page 61