by Greg James
Though she was afraid, she remembered her father: a man who never flinched, never faltered, but always stood proud in the sight of his people. She had to be the same, even if she was hurt and scared. She could see that Ianna was not going to be able to show the same kind of strength now.
“He has destroyed me,” Ianna whispered.
“I think, perhaps, you laid the ground for your own destruction.”
“You don’t understand. We were lovers. We were going to rule together. King and Queen of Highmount, and the Three Kingdoms also.”
“Is that what His Shadow promised you?”
Ianna nodded, dumbly. “That is what Mikka told me.”
“Weren’t you ever told the old stories? How His Shadow always lies and cheats those who serve him? None are spared by Him.”
“I know all that, child,” Ianna said, a shadow of her old self returning for a moment. “But Mikka gave me certain ... assurances … and showed me courtesies I had never been shown before. He was ... good to me.”
Perhaps, Venna thought, it was love then, but for her and not for him. Though she was sure it was a love that only someone like Ianna could feel, and not the same as the love borne by other people.
“You see,” Ianna went on, her voice cracking a little, “no one had been good to me before. My father was a hard man. He never loved my mother, but he loved many other women and didn’t mind his only child seeing it. He said it was all women were good for. He hated me for not being a son and for mother being unable to bear more children after I came into the world. And mother … he made her hate me too, through years of shouting and beatings that she passed onto me.”
And so here you are, thought Venna, as hard and as broken as the parents who brought you into the world. So deep in your own sickness and darkness that you could not see something worse than all that lying in bed beside you.
Venna watched the older woman’s shoulders fold in on themselves, and violent sobs wracked the Lady Warden’s body from head to toe. She felt a primal urge to move closer and comfort Ianna with an embrace, but Venna remembered the bruises still showing on her legs and shoulders from her last private meeting with the former Lady Warden.
She let Ianna cry alone.
Chapter Five
Sarah awoke feeling stiff and sore from a night of sleeping on the cold ground. The fire had died down to ashes during the night, and the last of its warmth must have evaporated hours ago. She remembered her dream. In it, Sula came to her door and she let him in. He was dressed not in his armour but in finer clothes, like the robes of a man at court but all black and chased with silver and white silk thread. She let him come in, and they sat together and they talked softly for a long time. Then, once they were done with talking, they prepared for bed and slept together, side by side. She slept with his long arms around her, and she felt warm, at peace and content.
That, she thought, was a good dream.
Sula got to his feet and tramped up and down for some minutes to liven up his limbs before he and Sarah set off for the day.
Both of their stomachs rumbled. There was no food hereabouts.
“Hopefully, we’ll find a stream or something where we can get some water,” said Sula. “It’s a long way on foot to the valley and then to Yrsyllor. We will need our strength.”
“I think that we may not be far from the cottage of Mistress Ruth.”
“The Herb-Sister?” he said, and Sarah was surprised, for a second, that he knew of her.
“Yes,” she said. “She’ll have food and drink.”
“You know her well enough then to knock on her door?”
“She saved my life once before.”
“Let’s ask her if she is willing to save two lives this time.”
They set off across the lower reaches of the Norn Valley. As they walked, Sarah noticed Sula glancing at her every so often. His gaze made her feel warm and excited inside. She returned it at times, looking away when she felt a smile spreading across her face. Maybe things weren’t going to be so bad for her in Seythe this time.
~ ~ ~
“What happened here?”
Sarah stared at the ruins of Mistress Ruth’s cottage, where she had been healed after her first fight with the Fallen-born. It had been raised to the ground, only ashes and stumps of wood remained.
“The Dragon did this,” said Sula. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”
Sarah wasn’t listening. She was combing through the rubble in search of one thing alone.
“Sarah, we must go. We cannot linger here much longer.”
He was right—she knew he was. The land around the cottage was too open and she could hear the far-off cries of unnatural things that soared and circled ever closer. She came back to Sula, dusting her hands.
“She’s not there. She wasn’t caught in the fire.”
“She was lucky to survive.”
“I don’t think it was luck at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, not for sure. Just a feeling I’ve got.”
“Valedown isn’t far from here. They might have taken her in as a refugee. We can see if she is there.”
“Yes,” said Sarah, “you’re right. Woran, my grandfather, he used to sell cheese, meat, and goats’ milk in Valedown. She could be there. I hope she is.”
“We must be careful, though. We are following in the wake of the Fallen. There could be worse things waiting for us wherever people are. Some in Valedown may have been turned.”
“Not Mistress Ruth,” said Sarah. “No, please, not her.”
“I hope not, Sarah. Truly, I do.” And he slipped his arms around her waist and held her tight until her breathing slowed and became soft.
~ ~ ~
It was late afternoon when they came to the village of Valedown. The thatched cottages huddled together around a crossroads. Though it was growing late in the day, the village was much quieter than it should have been. Donkeys stood ill at ease before their carts, blinking and flicking their ears. The wind was cold, and traces of frost scarred the ground here and there. Winter was on its way.
Sarah noticed the dull shapes of people passing by windows and open doorways but not venturing outside as she and Sula walked into Valedown. Keeping to the shade, they came to the square. The only sounds in the village seemed to come from there. A set of stocks had been erected in the square, and a figure was slumped in them and surrounded by a gaggle of children, all scruffy and dishevelled as if they had been fighting with each other in the dirt all day. Something about their laughter made Sarah’s skin creep; it came from a place somewhere between innocence and experience, the joyous sounds echoing with a mean sharpness. The song sounded like a nursery rhyme, but the words were shouted with too much bitterness.
“Eedle, meedle, midle, moes,
Catch a witch by her big toes,
Tie ’em tight, and make ’em glow,
And never ever let ‘em go.”
Drawing closer, Sarah could see what the children were doing to the figure in the stocks. They were wedging thin splints of wood between the bare toes of their victim, lighting them with char-sticks, and then watching the flames burn down until they touched the skin. The figure in the stocks yelped as one of the boys knelt to begin lighting the next row of splints. The children were too engrossed in their twisted game to notice Sarah and Sula behind them. Sarah reached out. In her mind, she saw a single candle flame, she drew it out, allowing it to grow, to become something fierce, bright, and burning. She closed her eyes tight, took a deep breath as if she were feeding the fire with the air in her lungs, and then let the breath out.
The Flame erupted.
A child screamed.
Sarah opened her eyes and the boy was running away from the stocks, his char-sticks scattered on the ground. Tears gleamed in his eyes and he was waving his hand frantically as the other children chased after him. As they passed Sarah and Sula, the boy shot Sarah a look that made her feel cold. His pupils glowed like blood-
red rubies. The hatred there. The loathing. The pure malice. Then he was gone, wailing down the road.
Sarah rushed to Mistress Ruth, brushing blonde hair from her motherly face, which was muddied and very tired. Her bleary, bloodshot eyes took their time focussing on Sarah.
“My dear ... what in the Mother’s name are you doing here? Why?”
Sula made himself busy untying the ropes that held the stocks in place around Mistress Ruth’s ankles.
“Mistress Ruth, what happened?”
“That Dragon happened. Came for me, he did. Sent by Him, no doubt. Burned my home down. I ran into the woods faster than you might believe, and I slept rough through the night until they were done and gone. Then I came down here, thinking I’d be all right in Valedown. The people here can be as funny as anywhere else, but they’d know better than to lay a finger on a Herb-Sister. Turns out, I was wrong. Because they’ve been turned, you see. To Him.”
“That boy, the ringleader, his eyes were—”
“Red as the first fires. He’s in thrall to His Shadow now. They all are here.” She looked at Sarah. “You shouldn’t have come here after me, Sarah. You’re too important.”
“You’re important too, Mistress. You saved my life before. Now I’m doing the same for you.”
As she spoke, the last rope came free and Sula lifted the board holding Mistress Ruth’s ankles in place. The older woman gasped, pulled her feet free, and set to massaging them with thumbs and forefingers.
“Ooh, that’s much better. Oh yes. Now, you two, we must get away from here before—” The words died in Mistress Ruth’s throat as she looked up. Her eyes stared past Sarah, who turned to see people coming out of the houses of Valedown. Their movements were uneven, like puppets jerking on tangled strings, and their eyes were as raw and red as the evening sky was fast becoming. Men, women, and children, all of them bearing weapons: sickles, axes, hammers, and cudgels.
“Run, the both of you. Hard and fast!”
Chapter Six
They left the village behind, fleeing up hills and down through the darkening dales. Sarah glanced back over her shoulder at the milling figures of the villagers as they sank into the shadows of twilight. Torches flared in the darkness as they followed, growing from far-off motes to flickering embers. Sarah panted, feeling a fire that was not the Flame burning in her chest. She could hear Sula struggling as much as she was. Mistress Ruth was faring no better. She must have been a prisoner there for days. Tired, hungry, and without water, they would not be able to outrun their pursuers for long. The villagers were slaves of the Fallen One’s will, and Sarah was certain He would make them run and run until their hearts gave out and they all dropped dead.
This was a race they could not hope to win.
The gnawing ache in her empty gut didn’t help matters much as the day faded away into night, swallowing up the landscape. It was then that she heard the unmistakable howl of Fellhounds.
“Oh, great. Just what we needed.”
She could imagine the creatures straining on leather-cord leashes held by their masters, hands reaching down to untie the nooses around their ragged, mangy necks. And then, the hounds running loose, bounding after their flagging quarry. The hounds’ yellowed teeth, their open mouths slavering, ready to deliver a killing blow. Sarah drew the hilt from her belt and loosened her arm with a practice stroke through the air. She slowed as the flaming blade of the Sword of Sighs erupted from the ether. Some light, at last. Sula’s awestruck face was illuminated by the sword.
“Keep going, Sula. Help Mistress Ruth along.”
“Sarah, you can’t face them alone.”
“We can’t outrun them, and you have no way to fight them. You must go on to Yrsyllor, both of you. I will hold them off, give you a fighting chance, at least.”
“No. I won’t abandon you. I was to be a Watcher on the walls of Highmount. The first to stand; the last to fall—those were the words I would have sworn by. I swear by them now, and I will not leave you.”
“Then, what will you do? You’re unarmed.”
“We are not unarmed, my dear,” said Mistress Ruth.
The Herb-Sister’s hands were glowing all of a sudden with a fertile green light. Nestling in the palm of each hand was a flickering sphere, which Mistress Ruth flung at the villagers that charged towards them. The spheres made silent, elegant arcs in the air before exploding as they struck the ground.
“But you’re a healer, not a killer,” said Sarah.
“I make things better and I make things grow, Sarah. Look, dear.”
Sarah saw the grass around the villagers’ racing feet become tendrils binding and entwining their arms, torsos, and legs, cocooning them in green. They cried out, shouting and kicking where they had fallen.
At that moment, a Fellhound sprang from the gathering night, snapping and slavering at the flaring light of Sarah’s sword. She swung the Sword of Sighs brutally and the hound’s head fell to earth, steaming and smouldering as its rotten body collapsed also. Its fellows showed no reaction to its death; they simply came on, bounding forth, relentless and remorseless. A crash of thunder overhead accompanied lances of lightning from the heavens and was followed by torrential rain. The storm found the Fellhounds as they bore down on the three companions, dousing all flames but the one Sarah wielded.
She let the Flame guide her, as before.
A’aron’s spirit flowed through her, so that she moved, feinted, and struck with unerring supernatural accuracy. Sula’s leather armour saved him from the teeth of the Fellhounds, which he wrestled on the ground, breaking their necks with his hands. Sarah saw him in the melee, bloodied and grimacing, his face set and his arms moving with a graceful, taut rhythm as he wrung the life from one dark horror after another. Mistress Ruth fended the creatures off with her light-spheres. As the citizens of Valedown were no longer alive, Mistress Ruth felt no need to spare any lives. Each sphere that struck home made a hound burst and crumble from the sudden, violent growth of the many moulds and spores within its body.
Hearing a shriek behind her, Sarah spun on her heel and brought the sword up to strike another Fellhound into the dirt. But it was a child—the red-eyed boy from Valedown. He came at her, the small knife in his hand parting the air perilously close to Sarah’s stomach. She backed away, feinting and twisting, her mind racing as the boy flung himself forward again and again.
I can’t do it. I can’t kill him.
Sarah screamed as the boy drove his knife into her thigh, up to the hilt. She fell hard to the ground, losing her grip on A’aron. The sword’s firelight spun away from her into the rain-drenched darkness. The boy’s hands were on his knife, and she cried out again as she felt him pull it free from the wound.
He’ll cut my throat with it. And I can’t do a thing about it.
Sarah scrambled about in the mud and water around her, her hands groping for the sword as she felt the boy grab at her again. She kicked at him, sure she felt him fall, and dragged herself away, clawing at the ground. She swept her arm out again, her fingers searching for that familiar engraved metal. A small hand closed tight on the wound in her leg and gave it a vicious squeeze. Sarah yelled, tears stinging her eyes, and her fingers suddenly fastened around the hilt she sought. The boy was clawing his way up her body. She could hear his winded breathing. The blade of A’aron was dead and gone. She held only the hilt. The boy had his knife, and he would not hesitate. She brought the hilt up and felt it clash against the boy’s short blade, which cut at her fingers. Sarah ground her teeth and twisted her wrist until she felt the knife fall away from the boy’s grip. Before he could move, she struck out with the hilt and found the crown of his head. The boy fell with a grunt, slumped over her. Breathing heavily, she groped at his neck with shaking fingers, muttering prayers to nothing and no one as she did.
There it was.
A pulse.
She had not killed him.
The air around her seemed to have cleared, although the rain still came dow
n hard. Sarah looked at Sula and he at her. She broke the gaze and turned to Mistress Ruth, who approached and helped Sarah to her feet.
“That’s a nasty one he’s given you there.” The Herb-Sister hissed through her teeth as Sarah stumbled and fell again.
She tore a strip of cloth from her skirts. “You lad, hold her still while I tie this round the wound.”
Sula knelt by Sarah and wound his arms tightly around her.
“Now, this is going to hurt,” said Mistress Ruth.
And it did. A great deal.
It was only after the pain subsided that Sarah realised she had been biting down on Sula’s arm. He had not flinched nor moved a muscle. The marks made by her teeth were livid against his moonshine skin.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s not my first wound.”
Was he smiling at her in the dark?
“Come on, you two,” said Mistress Ruth “we need to get to somewhere where that wound can be properly cleaned. Sitting around here in the rain won’t do the trick.”
“Can you do nothing for the wound, Mistress?” asked Sula.
“No, not after that set-to we just had. My energies are spent until I’ve had some good sleep. Let’s get you up, my dear. I know a safe place we can walk to from here.”
Mistress Ruth and Sula lifted Sarah to her feet, and she walked with her weight on Sula, enjoying the sensation of his body’s warmth so close to her and his slender but strong arm encircling her waist.
She wondered if he was enjoying it too.
They walked on through the rainstorm and the shifting white-grey-black of the landscape, which was illuminated by the lightning and thunder that churned overhead. They passed dark farms and unlit homesteads. Few travellers would be out in this weather, which was all the better for them, as it would allow them to move through the Norn Valley unseen. But this weather, and the time of night, was favoured by the creations of the Fallen One. Sarah well knew there could be Dionin burrowing through the damp earth beneath their feet, or a Drujja abroad, stalking them, its sound and fury drowned out by the storm.