by RJ Baker
“So it seems.”
“And Varn and Bediri, they weren’t here when Rufra lost at Goldenson Copse. Well, they made bows for Rufra, and Bediri caused trouble constantly, but they were nowhere near command.”
“Maybe Tomas and Neander simply replaced one spy with another?”
He looked at me as our mounts walked slowly on.
“I thought you were meant to be clever,” he said and spat again. “Varn and Bediri replaced men and women who fell at Goldenson, as did Arnst.” He leaned in, speaking quickly: “And I wish I could say the spy was him. He’s a right yellower and he offends the dead gods.”
I did not ask him how dead gods could be offended; instead I bit on my knuckles in thought then said,
“It would be foolish for Tomas to kill his own spies in battle. And I can see no way he would know who would replace them, but that does not mean it could not be done.” Gabran nodded. He was little and aggressive and acted like he truly detested having to speak to me. “Did you know Varn has a promise to avenge his people cut into his arm?” I said. “It is in an old language called Tak.”
“He hardly keeps his scars secret, does he?” said Gabran. A shiver ran through the scars on my body as if they needed to remind me they were there. “Varn is from a tribe of nomads who strayed onto land held by the blessed of Maniyadoc and died for it. Tomas is everything Varn hates about Maniyadoc; Rufra is everything Tomas is not. Rufra is Varn’s revenge. It ain’t Varn – he’s all right, for a foreign yellower.”
“What about the Landsman?”
“Oh, now he is a hedge-homed yellower,” he said, “but they all are, and if I’m made to tell the truth he’s slightly less of a hedge-homed yellower than the other Landsmen, Fureth, his second, especially.”
“But Karrick is still a hedge-homed yellower?”
“Aye.”
What about the blessed, Lort ap Garron?” If Gabran was in the mood to speak, albeit angrily, I thought it best to find out how much he would say.
“One of the first to throw in with Rufra. Tomas burned most of his lands then put his entire family on a fool’s throne.”
“He burned them alive?”
“Women, children, the old – one by one in full view of his court to show what happened to traitors.”
“Dead gods.” I stared at the ground by Xus’s feet.
“Lort is no spy. He knows Tomas is a sorcerer-born yellower.”
“So that leaves who? Boros and Cearis?”
“They’re not spies either.”
“So no one is the spy?” I sat up in Xus’s saddle, rolling my head to relieve some of the tension in my neck. “Well, thank you for your help, Gabran.”
He narrowed his eyes, then shrugged.
“I’m glad it’s your job to find the spy, not mine,” he said. Then he leaned in close again. “The woman who attacked you? She was dressed as one of mine but she weren’t as I know ’em all. We get bandits in camp, but it might be worth you remembering others may recognise you, eh? And Queen Adran, for all her faults, wasn’t hated by everyone. Watch yourself, assassin,” he said and kicked his mount on, leaving me more confused than ever.
I returned to Nywulf. We watched Gabran cantering off uncomfortably on his mount. He didn’t look back.
“What was that about?”
“He wanted to assist me in catching the spy on the council by telling me it could be no one in the council.”
“He is an odd one,” said Nywulf.
“Why?”
“Hard to put your finger on it, in truth. He has been a soldier, I think, but he does not talk of it. He came through with a load of refugees and decided to stay. He is a skilled smith so we were glad to have him, but he gradually drifted back to the troops – he has a real skill with them.”
“He could be Aydor’s man then.”
“I doubt it. He bears a scar on his throat where he once took a blade meant for Rufra, so his loyalty is not in question. I just wish we knew a little more about him.” Nywulf stared after Gabran and then spurred on his mount to where the rest of the Riders waited. Akirin, the man who had broken his vow not to fight Rufra, knelt at the edge of the souring staring at the dead ground. Karrick stood behind him, the bent knife that was the mark of a Landsman held loosely in his hand. Everyone dismounted apart from Rufra, who remained on his mount looking down at Akirin. The man made no attempt to look up at his king.
“Akirin ap Valyan,” said Rufra solemnly, “you were returned to the pretender Tomas after giving your word never to raise your blade against either my troops or my person. You did not keep that promise and as such have forfeited your life.” Rufra sounded unaccountably sad, even though he was only putting a traitor to death. “Karrick has the Landsmen’s book of names if you wish to sign it for whichever god you choose.”
Akirin shook his head.
“The dead gods know my name.” I had to strain to hear him.
Rufra gave Karrick a nod and the Landsman moved quickly, his knife coming round before being brought swiftly back, cutting Akirin’s throat in one practised motion. Karrick pulled back the man’s head, and as the body jerked against his knees he directed the spray of blood onto the dead yellow land of the souring. Akirin’s body began to slump in his hands, and I heard his final breaths bubbling in his windpipe as his lungs continued trying to breathe, unaware his life was past saving. When he finally left for Xus’s black palace he voided himself, though the stink of the sourlands covered the stink of his bowels.
New grass was already growing at the bloody edge of the sourland, worming its way through the dead yellow earth where death brought life from death. In the scars on my body I felt each blade spring from the land as if it emerged from my skin, as if the roots not only reached into the earth but reached into my flesh, reconnecting the black sea of magic to the body it flowed within. I saw a land drowned in blood, a sea of red that swept the sourings off the land like dead leaves being blown from an old tree. I saw an arrow in that final second when it hung in the air like a held breath, seemingly neither falling nor rising in the moment before it took a life. I closed my eyes. I saw a blood gibbet door swing shut, and dug my nails into my palms to rid myself of visions and the nausea they brought.
When I looked up, Rufra was riding slowly away, his head bowed as if in shame.
Chapter 12
We made camp that night at the edge of the marshes where Gabran’s infantry had set up tents for us. Rufra stayed in his tent and I did not see him, nor did I stay up to talk to others around the fire; the souring seemed to have sapped the energy from me.
I was woken the next morning by a cheery soldier taking my tent down. “Good morning, Blessed,” he said happily as I stared blearily up at him. “You should hurry if you want breakfast; the camp is almost ready to move.”
I staggered up, made my way to the mounts and stowed my blankets in Xus’s saddlebags. An early-morning mist had rolled in off the marshlands, all was silence beyond the camp except for the “’Hut” and “’Ayt” of the sentries calling out their positions and the jingling of tack as restless mounts snapped at one another. Once my blankets were safely stowed I made my way back to where a soldier was standing beside a pot of porridge. He scraped the bottom of the pot and handed me a bowl of hot stodge, flecked through with black from the pot.
“More burn than food in this,” said a nasal voice by me, and I turned to see Gabran the Smith staring into his wooden bowl. “Maybe it’ll give it some taste.” He put a spoonful of porridge in his mouth and grimaced. “Dead gods, Balthin, what do you put in this – sandals?”
The cook grinned at him. “Only the best shoe leather for you, sir.”
Gabran shook his head and forced down some more.
“Good morning, Gabran,” I said.
He looked up, appraising me. Running his gaze up and down me. He had a lazy eye, and I don’t think the man could have looked more suspicious if he had tried. “Aye,” he said eventually.
“I’ve been th
inking about what you told me,” I said.
“Good for you,” he said, and spooned in another mouthful of porridge. He was just about to turn away when his gaze alighted on my stabsword and he stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth and let the porridge drop back into the bowl. “That a Conwy, like Rufra’s longsword?”
“It is the twin to Rufra’s.” He could not take his eyes from the blade, so I drew it, passing it over to him.
“You the one who gave him Hope then,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“It’s what he calls it, Hope.”
“Well, he has never been subtle.”
“It’s a great blade, good enough not to need a name. Its edge speaks for it.” He held my stabsword, letting light play up and down the blade and there was a hunger in his eyes. “It was a very fine gift to give.” He pointed the stabsword at me and I felt as if he may lunge at me rather than return it.
“He is my friend,” I said. Gabran let time pass, air shifting in and out of his lungs, and then he flipped the stabsword, catching it by its blade and offering me the hilt.
“Then you are a very fine friend,” he said.
“Nywulf said you fought before you joined Rufra.” He nodded. “And you recognised me from Maniyadoc …” I let it hang.
“Men make mistakes.” It was my turn to nod. “Rufra is a good master.”
“Were you infantry for Aydor?”
“None of your business what I was,” he said, looking away into the mist. It was a small thing, only a glance away, but I was sure he lied. Whether it was a big lie or a small one I could not know, but he hid something.
“Do you think it is a good idea for Rufra to bring Aydor into his camp?”
He turned back to me. His thin face was expressionless, but it was like looking at a lake: the surface was calm but underneath something shifted, currents moved, but if they were the sort that may drag us down I could not tell.
“The bear is beaten,” he said. “I just hope he knows it.” Then he turned away, staring into the mist. He had called Aydor “the bear.” Aydor had told me his men had nicknamed him “the Fat Bear.” It seemed odd that he used a more courteous form. Gabran tipped his bowl upside down, letting the porridge fall on the ground. “Rufra should have sent me back with Karrick.”
“The Landsman is gone?”
“Aye, went last night after giving Akirin the cut. We go to drop off the prisoners and then to meet Aydor and his men.”
“We do? Rufra said nothing to me.”
“Or anyone else. You would think he worries about spies.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Still, it is unlikely Aydor will recognise you, one infantryman among many.”
“Unlikely, aye,” he said and walked away, tossing his bowl to the cook as he passed and saying, “Tasted like piss.” As he walked off I thought it strange that he had not corrected me when I said he had fought for Aydor.
“Is he always like that?” I asked the cook.
“No, you caught him on a good day.”
I went back and mounted Xus. It annoyed me that Rufra had not told me we were going to meet Aydor, though there had not been any real opportunity. He had been obliged to ride at the front, while I had been in the middle or rear ranks, and at night I had been so tired I had fallen asleep almost straight away. Still, it bothered me. I had come back to my friend, but my friend was a king and being king left little time for friendship. I heard the voice of Heamus, who had also been my friend, in a way, and had been slain by Neander’s treachery: “I don’t think anyone is ever truly friends with a king.”
I rode that morning in silence and must have worn an expression that made it clear I was in no mood for conversation; no one approached me as the world rolled by.
The rising sun burned away the marsh mist to reveal a land slowly healing itself of the scars humanity had inflicted on it. Fields that would once have been full of grain were now speckled with the happy yellows, reds and blues of wildflowers. Tiny flying lizards buzzed around us, curious about these strange moving plants. Xus snapped at them, making a meal of more than one, and I ceased chiding him for his bad temper after one of the lizards bit me, leaving a welt that first hurt and then itched abominably. Among the fields and odd stands of trees I saw the burned remains of buildings again, and when we began to skirt the marshes at the edge of the river delta I stopped Xus to study the landscape. The river marshes were a cold and alien place. Greasy-looking water glinted from channels of unknown depth bounded by stinking, grasping mud. The view further into the marsh was obscured by walls of the tall green plants we called hauntgrass. As it died, holes appeared in it and caught the wind, letting out a low, deep “hooom” that reverberated through your bones and made the hairs on your skin stand on end. Somewhere out there were people – the marshes were an excellent place to hide. Far away a lone spire of smoke rose into the air from a lonely stilt-hut or island farm. Occasionally, as the wind blew and the hauntgrass called, I caught more signs of people: ragged hedgescares and strings of straw hobbys, a rotted boat, a wooden causeway and what I thought might be a corpse half sunk in the water – though if it was it was an old one as the black birds of Xus which wheeled above us paid it no mind.
“Damn birds,” said an infantryman as he marched past.
“They are only birds,” I said, turning Xus and walking him by the man. I had always derived an odd sense of comfort from the sight of Xus’s birds.
“Aye, only birds, but when the birds fly, the hogs come.”
“The hogs?”
The trooper spat at the ground.
“The birds have learned that soldiers bring death and they follow us hoping for food. The hogs have learned to watch the birds. They’ll be here soon, mark my words.” He spat again. “Bad luck,” he said, looking up at me. I spurred Xus on a little, catching up with the main band of Riders.
Not long later the cry went up: “Hogs! Hogs to the south!” and Rufra brought the column to a halt.
“Gabran,” he shouted. “Over that rise are the remains of Calumn’s Spire. It’s still got three walls standing. Set the men up there and we’ll go on with the prisoners. The hogs will probably follow us, but with any luck then choose to follow Tomas’s force, if it’s bigger than ours.”
“Are pigs really such a worry? We have a small army,” I said to Cearis.
“Some of the grand boars are territorial and very aggressive. They don’t generally bother cavalry, but if they have a really big herd they’ll drive it against small groups, and sometimes, if they’re hungry enough, they’ll snap at the edges of a large column, running in and out of the stragglers hoping to bring someone down. They’ll bring down a lone Rider too if they can catch them, but they can’t run fast for long.” She looked flushed, ready for action. “It is good to see you again, Girton Club-Foot. Rufra seems lighter of spirit already.”
“He does?”
“Aye, we should talk later.” She held Rufra’s bonemount higher and spurred her mount to catch up with the king, streamers of red and black material flying around the mount skull.
The infantry peeled off to our left, tramping their own road into the yearsbirth grasses, while we followed the overgrown remains of a cart track towards a copse of trees in the distance. After a quarter of an hour I saw the first of the pigs as a ripple in the grasses, then they crossed the track behind us, led by a huge boar with curling tusks. I stopped Xus, watching for over fifty counts of my-master, and still the herd kept coming.
“Canter,” came the order from the front, and we speeded up. Minutes later there was another cry – “Riders!” – and I saw three mounts leave the edge of the copse and felt the tension in our group of twenty ratchet up a little. Violence was in the air, carried aloft by the squealing and grunting of the following herd of pigs. “Lances,” was the next shout, and around me Riders spread out into a line and dropped their lances, keeping the four prisoners and myself behind them.
“Who approaches?” I said, joining the end
of the line next to a cavalrywoman.
She squinted into the distance. “I think it is the halfmount, but you can never be sure. Tomas is a right yellower, happy with treachery and false flags.”
“Who is the halfmount?”
“Boros,” she said, and I remembered his flag, yellow with a draymount’s head on it, one side bare skull, the other fleshed and with a draymount’s huge curling horn.
“It is the halfmount,” Nywulf shouted, and lances were raised once more, though we stayed in battle order to receive him.
“Hoy, King Rufra!” shouted Boros as he approached.
“Ayt, Boros ap Loflaar!” shouted Rufra. “Are we good to approach with the prisoners?”
“Aye,” he shouted back, reining in his mount and letting us ride to him. “Tomas is there with Neander and Tal ap Meyrin behind the copse with ten Riders and fifty infantry. We’ve scouted the area and there is no one else near.” Boros and his Riders fell into formation – Boros and one of his mount archers by me, his other at the far end of the line.
I heard Rufra shout, “It is time to leave those pigs behind. Ha! Bal, ha!” and he let us loose, our powerful animals growling, hooting and hissing with fierce joy as they were given their heads.
“Column!” came the shout from the front. Mounts were brought under control and fell back into two ordered lines, all except Xus. I had never had to manoeuvre him with other Riders and had to fight him. He was clearly annoyed at being forced into the centre of the herd and tried to gore any mount that came too close. Eventually I got him under control and we fell in by Boros, who had been watching me fight my mount. Because of his ruined face I could not tell whether he was amused or scornful until he spoke, his voice full of humour.
“You will have to train with us, Girton. Cearis will only forgive you such shoddy riding once.”
“Why are we slowing?”
“Prisoner exchange. Rufra only galloped to leave the pigs behind. By the time we have exchanged they will have caught up, but the herds generally follow the larger group so they should be Tomas’s problem then.”