Heartland

by Lucy Hounsom

  Gareth stiffened, his body going rigid. Brégenne reached for him, but stopped abruptly, horrified by the black film covering his eyes. She took a step back. ‘Gareth?’ Oily shadows seemed to climb out of his skin, surrounding him in a miasma of dust and death. Gareth lifted his right arm, splayed his fingers and the branches in front of him shrank, withering to dead winter twigs. When he stepped forward, they crumbled and the grassy floor on which he trod turned brown, the fronds of ferns curling away from his boots. He began to walk, pushing his way through easily, leaving death in every footprint.

  Brégenne followed at a distance, trying hard to control her fear. It’s Gareth, she reminded herself, he wouldn’t hurt me. But he wasn’t just Gareth. There was something else within him – a will contained in the gauntlet that was coming close to consuming him. What was this power? So different from Solar and Lunar energy, it negated rather than added or changed. As if the inevitability of death, of ending, could be harnessed into a force.

  Gareth stopped – they’d broken through to a surprisingly wide path which seemed to lead north-west. Under the heavy forest shade, the novice seemed larger. His shoulders bore a suggestion of massive, spiked armour and the same shadowy substance covered his head in a dark helm. When he turned, she let out an involuntary gasp. The shadows on his cheeks had bled together to form a faceguard, cruel-lipped and cold as a winter lake. The eyes that looked out at her were bottomless pits and, as she stared into them, a caul of hopelessness smothered her. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  For just a moment, a gust of wind parted the canopy, allowing a brief ray of late-afternoon sun to touch the path. It caught Gareth full in its light. He blinked and doubled over as if to vomit, shuddering violently. The smallest spark of Solar energy condensed in his fingertips and she watched as it slowly grew to cover his hands. When it reached the gauntlet, Gareth cried out and fell to his knees. The shadowy armour dissipated with a hiss. Hands pressed against the scorched earth, Gareth shook as the two powers fought each other and Brégenne could only watch helplessly.

  Eventually, the Solar light bathed the whole of Gareth’s body and his flaming figure reminded her of Nediah on the day Argat had chased them into the west. The black drained from his eyes and he shuddered, pushing himself back onto his heels. Tentative, Brégenne crouched down beside him. ‘Gareth, are you all right?’

  The Solar power faded. Gareth’s hands were balled into fists and there were tears on his cheek. ‘So cold,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so cold.’ He slumped sideways and lay unconscious on the path.

  ‘Gareth,’ Brégenne hissed, ‘you need to wake up.’ The novice had slept for hours and now the moon filtered weakly through the leaves. She had tried healing him, but found nothing to heal. His skin was unnaturally cold, dry like a snake’s. She’d also tried to get some water into him, but he hadn’t swallowed it, just lain comatose, as still as the dead. Several times, she’d had to reassure herself that he was still breathing.

  ‘Please, Gareth,’ she said. ‘Someone’s coming. I need you to wake up.’ Because she’d heard voices, the tramp of feet, seen the flicker of torches through the trees, as if a significant number of people were heading their way. Gareth groaned. She wondered whether she could use Lunar energy to lift him without being noticed. Brégenne hooked her hands under his arms, attempting to drag him off the path, but she was a small woman and even with the weight Gareth had lost, it was like pulling a sack of stones. ‘Gareth,’ she hissed, half impatient, half anxious. She remembered him saying that the warriors of Ümvast had a tendency to attack first and ask questions later. Who else would be tramping the forest paths at night?

  ‘Where am I?’ Gareth muttered. ‘Brégenne?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. The packed earth shone yellow in the advancing torchlight. ‘Can you get up? There are people coming, sounds like a lot of them. They might be from Ümvast.’

  Gareth heaved himself onto hands and knees. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘How did we find a path?’

  ‘I’ll explain when we’re safe,’ Brégenne said, forcing down a surge of unease at his amnesia. She wedged herself under Gareth’s arm, helping him to his feet and wincing at the weight he leaned on her. ‘This way,’ she said, but it was too late – the torches had thrown their shadows into relief against the path and exclamations were followed by the ring of steel.

  ‘Oh no,’ Gareth said, his head swivelling at the unmistakable sound. There was little point in trying to run; Brégenne could feel his knees trembling. It was a miracle he was even standing upright. The naked silhouettes of swords preceded those of the newcomers as they rounded the final bend and halted at the strange sight of Brégenne supporting Gareth. There were perhaps fifteen of them, men and women all dressed alike in furs and leathers. They were heavily armed. Axes hung from belts and many carried bows with arrows halfnocked.

  Perhaps their most striking feature was their resemblance to Gareth. All had the same dark hair, worn long, the same brown eyes and wide faces. Despite the unfriendly curl of their lips, the warriors studied Gareth with equal curiosity. Although his hair was shorter and his clothes cut in a southern style, the marks of his heritage were quite clear.

  ‘Who are you?’ one man asked finally. ‘What do you do here?’ He wore a wolf pelt across his shoulders and his accent was unfamiliar; the vowel-sounds harsher than Brégenne was used to. She realized Gareth had the same accent, but it was watered down from many years listening to the rounded brogue generally spoken in Naris.

  ‘We are travelling to see Ümvast,’ she said before Gareth could answer, and she felt him tense. ‘I mean to speak with your leader.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. Angry mutters rippled back through the group. ‘Ümvast does not give welcome to strangers,’ Wolf-pelt said to her. ‘Tell us why we should not cut you down as trespassers.’

  ‘You’d harm one of your own?’ Brégenne indicated Gareth, who pushed her gently away so that he could stand by himself. Even in the yellow light of the torches, his face was pale.

  ‘I claim guest-right,’ he said. He drew his sword and laid it across the palms of his hands.

  ‘That’s a Kul blade.’ It was a woman who spoke. Her face was framed by the long-dead jaws of a white bear fashioned into a helm. Its fur hide covered her back so as to make her near-indistinguishable from the winter snows. She narrowed brown eyes at Gareth. ‘Who are you? Why would someone with a Kul blade claim guest-right?’

  The novice hesitated. ‘My name is Gareth Hafgald,’ he said. ‘Guest-right is the only right I am worthy to claim.’

  A hush spread back through the ranks of warriors. Brégenne tensed, ready to open a channel to the Lunar at a moment’s notice. But whatever strange meaning hid in Gareth’s words seemed to give them pause.

  ‘Kul’Das can judge,’ the man in the wolf pelt said finally. ‘We will take them to her.’

  Two other men came to strip the packs from Brégenne’s and Gareth’s backs. They were searched, their food and water removed and then the packs returned. The woman in the bear armour took the knife from Brégenne’s belt, gave it a contemptuous look and tossed it to a comrade. Gareth’s sword was another matter. When the woman tilted it, its shining blade caught the torchlight, igniting the symbol engraved there. Gareth watched, his face guarded. ‘It will be kept safe,’ she said, tucking it through her own belt. ‘You shall have it back should Kul’Das find you worthy.’

  Brégenne allowed her hands to be bound, wincing at the rough scrape of rope. She had no intention of using her power; the last thing she wanted was to frighten or threaten the warriors with a display of magic. The most important thing was reaching Ümvast – better that she and Gareth arrive as prisoners than be responsible for slaughtering his warriors. Or be cut down by them, she thought grimly, eyeing their weapons.

  The novice’s cheeks were still rather pale, but his colour was returning. He stumbled along in the centre of the group, staring at not
hing, perhaps concentrating on staying upright. ‘Who is Kul’Das?’ Brégenne asked him softly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gareth answered, ‘but “Kul” before a name denotes authority. Whoever Das is, she’s important. Maybe an old bloodline, or she’s performed some great service to the people.’

  Brégenne swallowed the obvious question about his sword, sensing that perhaps he’d tell her in his own time. ‘Do you recognize anyone here?’

  Gareth shook his head.

  ‘How far is it to Ümvast?’ Brégenne called and predictably was answered with silence. Probably several days, she thought. We’re on foot and not far from the forest’s southern border. Still it could be worse – although, looking at the pale-faced novice stumbling beside her, his hands bound like hers, and a mere glove hiding the gauntlet that had almost killed him, she doubted it.

  In fact, it took almost a full week of travel before they began to see signs of human habitation. Brégenne had waged several silent battles – part of her longing to seize the Lunar and incinerate the rope around her wrists. You can’t, she constantly reminded herself. If the warriors escorting them knew how dangerous she was, she’d never be granted leave to speak with the mysterious man who shared his name with his people.

  ‘What do you think this group were doing so far south?’ she’d asked Gareth one night.

  The young man looked troubled. ‘I’ve been wondering that too,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s rare to find warriors so far from home. They must be returning from some mission.’

  Their captors refused to speak to them, despite casting several assessing looks at Gareth when he wasn’t aware of it. So Brégenne was none the wiser when they arrived at the first camp one late afternoon. The forest had grown deep and dark, enclosing them in a rustling world of green, but now they emerged into a clearing where several tents were pitched amid banked fire pits and stacks of supplies. A few people glanced up from their work when the warriors marched into the encampment. Gareth was looking around and frowning.

  ‘Egil,’ one man called, striding over to them. His gaze swept across Brégenne and Gareth, still tied and penned in the middle of the group. ‘What news?’

  Wolf-pelt went to greet him. They briefly clasped arms and then the two men walked away, out of earshot. ‘What is this place?’ Gareth asked the woman in the bear armour.

  ‘Bor Tun,’ she answered shortly. ‘One of many encampments we were forced to build.’

  ‘Forced? Why?’

  But that was as much as she’d say. ‘Something strange is going on,’ Gareth murmured to Brégenne. ‘I’m sure this didn’t used to be here. I wonder what’s happening in Stjórna.’ When she raised a questioning eyebrow, he said, ‘Ümvast’s hall.’

  ‘A hall?’

  ‘It’s a big hall,’ Gareth offered with a weary grin and Brégenne was glad to see it. She hadn’t seen him smile in days, not since he’d last used the gauntlet.

  ‘We’re moving on to Bor Sundyr immediately,’ Egil announced as he strode back to them and there were mutters among the warriors at their lack of a rest. ‘The situation in Stjórna worsens.’

  That silenced the muttering. The woman Gareth had been talking to laid a reassuring hand on Egil’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll make it in time.’ Egil opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when he noticed Brégenne and Gareth listening.

  Over the next two days, they picked up the pace and Brégenne gritted her teeth against the pain of her aching calves as she lay curled beneath a blanket during their brief hours of rest. The following dawn, as Gareth was prodded to his feet with a groan, she was shocked anew at the amount of weight he’d lost since leaving Market Primus. His face was drawn, almost gaunt, his belly had shrunken and his shoulder blades stood out sharply before he swung his cloak over them.

  Worried, Brégenne shrugged into her own cloak, glad of its fur lining. Although the heavy evergreen canopy kept much of it off, the odd snowflake found its way through. Brégenne caught one and watched it melt on her fingertip with an echo of a child’s wonder. She hadn’t seen snow in years.

  The warriors did not share her pleasure, but regarded the snow darkly. ‘Barely autumn,’ a man muttered to his fellow, as each craned their necks upwards. ‘It can only get worse.’

  Bor Sundyr turned out to be another encampment, much like the first, but home to a greater number. Its wood-and-hide shelters – halfway between tent and hut – were more substantial and the fire pits had a permanent look about them. Gareth wore his consternation plainly. ‘These camps are all new,’ he said, pointing out a couple of men working on another structure. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here.’

  Brégenne’s unease deepened. Each makeshift settlement they visited had a charged atmosphere that spoke of some shadow stalking the northerners. She tried to crush the feelings of similarity it engendered, tried not to compare the situation in the capital with what seemed to be happening here. She had gone to the Trade Assembly for support only to find them besieged by problems of their own. These scanty camps and bleak-faced people told her the same story.

  They passed through Bor Hurr and then Bor Vir and each camp was filled with displaced northerners, their fur cloaks and boots damp with melting snow. Wooded clearings were hidden under thick white blankets and the trees they passed beneath had an unsavoury habit of shedding their icy vestments when the wind blew.

  Brégenne began to think longingly of fires, warm blankets and rich winter stews. She could use the Lunar power to warm herself, of course, but she and Gareth were constantly surrounded by Ümvast’s warriors, who kept them under close watch, so she didn’t dare.

  ‘We must be near Stjórna now,’ Gareth said one morning after they’d climbed painfully out of their blankets.

  ‘I hope so.’ Brégenne couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. ‘I’ve never been so cold in my life.’

  ‘Southerner,’ Gareth said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

  ‘Oh?’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘And who was that shivering in his blankets last night?’

  Gareth looked sour. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘it’s cold.’ Weak sunlight struggled to reach them through the evergreens. ‘Colder than usual. As far as I remember, we never had snow this early in the year.’

  ‘Do you think it’s responsible for the camps?’ Brégenne said quietly, darting a glance at the nearest warrior.

  Gareth shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to drive them so far from Ümvast’s hall. It can’t be anything good.’

  By midday, the sunlight had lost its battle with the clouds and the scraps of sky above them were white – the flat grey-white that presaged snow. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind when Brégenne felt the first flake on her face. Even the warriors, who Gareth claimed were no strangers to it, hunched their shoulders miserably.

  Another chilly few hours passed before Gareth drew a startled breath and Brégenne looked up. Not a quarter-league away, the trees ended. Beyond them, through the swirling snow, she glimpsed a vast expanse of grey stone which barred the way ahead. As they approached the clear space, the warriors around her began to shift nervously. Weapons were loosened in sheaths, arrows retrieved from quivers and put to bows. They reached the end of the trees and the warriors slowed, their eyes scanning the swirling white to either side. Some looked upwards, Brégenne noted with disquiet, as if they expected an attack from the skies.

  Their group was the only thing that moved as they crossed the icy ground. The building loomed ahead, its corners disappearing into the rising snowstorm. It had to be colossal. Sensing safety, the warriors picked up their pace, near-jogging the final distance, and soon they stood before a pair of gates that made the great portal of Naris look like a back door. The woman with the bear armour brought out a knife and sliced the ropes from Brégenne’s and Gareth’s wrists. Surprised, Brégenne gave her a grateful smile as she massaged life back into them.

  Egil knocked thrice upon the gates, his armou
red fist making no more than a whisper. Nevertheless, a voice answered him. ‘Who seeks entry to Stjórna?’

  ‘Egil Streth-Son’ the warrior said loudly and clearly. ‘We return from the south and our news is vital. May Vorgarde take me if I lie.’

  ‘Vorgarde?’ Brégenne whispered to Gareth.

  ‘Death – the lightless land,’ the novice replied with the slightest of shivers.

  ‘Enter then and welcome.’

  The gates began to creak and swing, ponderous on their hinges. Beyond them a second set were opening and then a third set beyond those. Brégenne couldn’t tell if they were constructed of wood or metal; ice coated them in a thick glassy hide.

  Before they could enter the fortress, a roar came from their left. A flash of movement as something huge streaked past and then Egil was on the ground, blood pouring from a slash across his face. It happened so fast that for a moment all Brégenne could do was stand there, gaping at the hot blood on the snow.

  Then the warriors formed up, those with shields in front of their archers. Two more grabbed Egil’s legs and dragged him towards the gates. Brégenne saw the third set closing, as shouts warned of the attack, and still she didn’t know what they faced. Warriors spilled from the towers on either side of the gates, swords naked in their hands, bows angled at the sky.

  Gareth was looking wildly about, trying to locate the source of the roaring, but the muffling nature of the snow made it seem as if it came from everywhere and nowhere. Brégenne couldn’t reach the Lunar; it wasn’t quite evening and the sun, though hidden, still held sway. Straining for it, she glanced automatically at the sky. It was the only thing that saved her. With a scream, she yanked Gareth aside just as the creature dived for them. Claws raked the place they’d been standing and the beast overshot, skidding across the icy ground. A spear whistled over their heads and struck the creature in its white flank. Dark blood spurted and the thing howled, scrabbling to tear the lance from its flesh.