“They ain’t my people.”
Vargus smacked his hands together and stood. “Time for arguing is over, boy. Beg your ancestors for kindness on the Long Road to Nor.”
“My ancestors? What road?”
Vargus spat into the snow with contempt. “Pray to your Lantern God and his fucking whore then, or whatever you say these days. The next person you speak to won’t be on this side of the Veil.”
Ignoring Lin’s pleas he led the horses away from camp and didn’t look back. Soon afterwards the chill crept back in his fingers but he wasn’t too worried. The aches and pains from sleeping outdoors were already starting to recede. The fight had given him a small boost, although it wouldn’t sustain him for very long. The legend of the Gath was dead, which meant time for a change. He’d been delaying the inevitable for too long.
Carla, the village Elder, was standing behind the bar when Vargus entered the Duck and Crown. She was a solid woman who’d seen at least fifty summers and took no nonsense from anyone, be they King or goat herder. With a face only her mother could love it was amazing she’d given birth to four healthy children who now had children of their own. Beyond raising a healthy family the village had prospered these last twenty years under her guidance.
Without being asked she set a mug of ale on the bar as he sat down. The tavern was deserted, which wasn’t surprising with everything that had happened. On days like this people tended to spend more time with their loved ones.
“Done?”
Vargus drained the mug in several long gulps and then nodded. He set the bag of gold on the bar and watched as Carla counted it, but didn’t take offence. The bandits could have spent some of it and he didn’t know how much had been stolen. When she was finished Carla tucked it away and poured him another drink. After a moment’s pause she tapped herself a mug. They drank in comfortable silence until both mugs were dry.
“How is everyone?” asked Vargus.
“Shook up. Murder’s one thing we’ve seen before, in anger or out of greed, but this was something else. The boy might get over it, being so young, but not the girl. That one will be marked for life.”
“And their mother?”
Carla grunted. “Alive. Not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. When she’s back on her feet she’ll run this place with her brother. She’ll do all right.”
“I brought in a stash of weapons and their horses too. You’ll see she gets money for it?”
“I will. And I’ll make sure Tibs gives her a fair price for the animals.”
The silence in the room took on a peculiar edge, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
“You hear the news coming in?” asked Carla. There was an unusual tone to her voice, but Vargus couldn’t place it. All he knew was it made him nervous.
“Some,” he said, treading carefully and looking for the trap door. He knew it was there, somewhere in the dark, and he was probably walking straight towards it.
“Like what?” asked Carla.
“A farmer on the road in told me the King’s called on everyone that can fight. Said that war was coming here to Seveldrom, but he didn’t know why.”
“The west has been sewn together by King Raeza’s son, Taikon.”
Vargus raised an eyebrow. “How’d he manage that?”
“Religion, mostly. You know what it’s like in Zecorria and Morrinow, people praying all the time. One story has our King pissing on an idol of the Lord of Light and wiping his arse with a painting of the Blessed Mother.”
“That’s a lie.”
Carla grunted. “So are all the other stories about him killing priests and burning down temples. Sounds to me like someone was just itching for a war. A chance to get rid of all us heathens,” she said, gesturing at the idol of the Maker on a shelf behind her. Most in Seveldrom prayed to the Maker, but those that didn’t were left alone, not killed or shunned for being different. Religion and law stayed separate, but it was different for the Morrin and Zecorrans.
“What about the others in the west? They aren’t mad on religion, and no one can make the Vorga do anything they don’t want to.”
Carla shrugged. “All people are saying is that something bad happened down in Shael. A massacre, bodies piled tall as trees, cities turned to rubble because they wouldn’t fight. After that it sounds like the others fell in line.”
“So what happened to King Raeza then? Is he dead?”
“Looks like. People are saying Taikon killed his father, took the Zecorran throne and now he’s got himself a magician called the Warlock. There’s a dozen stories about that one,” said Carla, wiping the bar with a cloth even though it was already clean. “I heard he can summon things from beyond the Veil.”
“I didn’t think you were one to believe gossip,” scoffed Vargus.
Carla gave him a look that made men piss themselves, but it just slid off him. She shook her head, smiling for a moment and then it was gone.
“I don’t, but I know how to listen and separate the shit from the real gold. Whatever the truth about this Warlock, and the union in the west, I know it means trouble. And lots of it.”
“War then.”
Carla nodded. “Maybe they think our King really is a heretic or maybe it’s because they enjoy killing, like the Vorga. Most reckon they’ll be here come spring. Trade routes to the west have dried up in the last few days. Merchants trying to sneak through were caught and hung. Whole trees full of the greedy buggers line the north and southern pass. The crows and magpies are fat as summer solstice pheasants from all their feasting.”
“What will you do?”
Carla puffed out her cheeks. “Look after the village, same as always. Fight, if the war comes this far east. Although if it comes here, we’ve already lost. What about you? I suppose you’ll be going to fight?”
There was that odd tone to her voice again. He just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. One wrong word and he’d plummet into the dark.
“People like you around here. And not just for sorting out the bandits,” said Carla scrubbing the same spot on the bar over and over. “You know I lost my Jintor five winters back from the damp lung. The house is quiet without him, especially now that the children are all grown up. Fourth grandchild will be along any day, but there’s still a lot that needs doing. Looking after the village, working with the other Elders, easily enough work for two.”
In all the years he’d known her it was the most Vargus had ever heard her say about her needs. The strain was starting to show on her face.
He settled her frantic hand by wrapping it in both of his. Her skin was rough from years of hard labour, but it was also warm and full of life. For the first time since he’d arrived she looked him in the eye. Her sharp blue eyes were uncertain.
“I can’t,” Vargus said gently. “It’s not who I am.”
Carla pulled her hand free and Vargus looked away first, not sure if he was sparing her or himself.
“What about the legend of the Gath?”
He dismissed it with a wave. “It was already fading, and me with it. There aren’t many that believe, fewer still that are afraid. It’s my own fault, I guess. I kept it too small for too long. It would only keep me for a few more years at best. This war is my best way.”
Carla was the only one in the village who knew some of the truth about him. She didn’t claim to understand, but she’d listened and accepted it because of who he was and what he could do. It seemed churlish to hide anything from her at this point. He waited, but to his surprise she didn’t ask for the rest.
“So you’ll fight?”
“I will,” declared Vargus. “I’ll travel to Charas to fight and bleed and kill. For the King, for the land and for those who can’t defend themselves. I’ll swear an oath, by the iron in my blood, to fight in the war until it’s done. One way or the other.”
Carla was quiet for a time. Eventually she shook her head and he thought he saw a tear in her eye, but maybe it was just his imaginati
on.
“If anyone else said something like that, I’d tell them they were a bloody fool. But they’re not just words with you, are they?”
“No. It’s my vow. Once made it can’t be broken. If I stay here, I’ll be dead in a few years. At least this way, I have a chance.”
Reaching under the counter Carla produced a dusty red bottle that was half empty. Taking down two small glasses she poured them each a generous measure of a syrupy blue spirit.
“Then I wish you luck,” said Carla, raising her glass.
“I’ll drink to that, and I hope if I ever come back, I’ll still be welcome.”
“Of course.”
They tapped glasses and downed the spirit in one gulp. It burned all the way down Vargus’s throat before lighting a pleasant fire in his belly. They talked a while longer, but the important words had been said and his course decided.
In the morning, Vargus would leave the village that had been his home for the last forty years, and go to war.
CHAPTER 2
It felt good to be home. The air was damp and it smelled clean and familiar. Beyond the thick city walls, Balfruss could see endless fields of green, yellow and brown, hemmed in on all sides by dry stone walls. There was so much colour here. It had taken him years of being abroad to realise.
In the far east the changing of the seasons made little difference to the weather. The wind blew a little colder, the sun was a little warmer, but the land didn’t change colour as it did here in Seveldrom. After being away for so long Balfruss no longer kept track of time in days or weeks. There was little point when he wasn’t racing home to the loving arms of a wife and family. Before his thoughts became even more melancholy he focused on the city.
From his position at the top of the palace, Charas, the capital of Seveldrom was spread out before him. The city was a fortress with crenelated walls more than a hundred feet high. At the heart of Charas were ancient buildings steeped in history that were centuries old. Towering over them all was the cathedral devoted to the Great Maker. Its vast spire was slightly askew and its metal roof turning green in places, but it was still a remarkable sight. Stained-glass windows depicting former kings, queens and warriors twinkled in the sunlight in a myriad of bright colours.
Despite the cathedral’s prominence it was hard to ignore the domed temple of the Blessed Mother and the shining spire devoted to the church of the Holy Light. Both were clamouring for attention in the New City, a recent addition from five centuries previous. The New City spread out on all sides from the Old, more than tripling the population. The outer wall was as high as the inner, protecting its people from the worst of the weather and potential threats, although there’d not been a siege for centuries.
Peering down at the streets from such a great height, Balfruss could see a riot of colour, from painted shop signs and striped vendor awnings in the markets, to flowers in the Queen’s memorial park. Coloured glass filled the windows on the top floor in most houses in the Old City, a leftover fashion from the days when everyone had sung hymns to the Maker. In the New City it had never caught on, although the newer temples copied the stained glass with varied success.
Compared to other cities he’d visited, the architecture in Charas was simple, but there was a certain beauty in the uniform two-and three-storey buildings of the Old City. All the straight lines, blue slate roofs and lack of ascetic decoration spoke to him of strength and reliability, attributes commonly associated with the Seve people. It galled Balfruss when he heard jokes about Seves being a race of cow-breeding dullards.
It was hard to believe he’d been away for five years. If Balfruss were to look in a mirror he knew his reflection would show a man who looked much older than his thirty-seven years. Already there were spots of white in his hair and beard, and the purple shadows under his eyes had become a permanent fixture, as if he’d been born with them. There was also the unfortunate fact that he felt the wind more keenly on the back of his head. At least his beard kept his neck warm when it was cold.
“Glad to be home, Lan?” said Vannok Lore, coming up the stairs.
It was good to see that some things hadn’t changed in his time away. Vannok was exactly as before, a massive man dressed in moulded leather armour with a sword at his side.
Having grown up together they had no secrets between them. No one else called him Lan, the name he’d been given at birth before his eleventh naming day. It was a leftover custom from a time when six out of every ten children died from the red pox before their tenth birthday. There hadn’t been a new case in four hundred years, but the tradition continued.
Despite their years apart, when Balfruss had been studying at the Red Tower, they could still read the other with ease.
“I never thought I’d say it, Vann, but I’m happy to be home.” Balfruss took a deep breath and then another. “Do you smell it? The green.”
Vannok sniffed the air. “Was it so different in the east?”
“The desert is dry, spicy and hot. You can feel the air inside when you breathe. There are plants and trees, but nothing like this,” he said, gesturing at the land. “I missed the colour, and Maker forgive me, the cold. The rain and the wind too.”
Vannok laughed. “You weren’t tempted to stay?”
“No. It wasn’t home.”
“Are you going to stay home this time?”
Balfruss smiled up at his tall friend. “Ask me again when it’s done.”
“We should go. The King will be arriving shortly to greet you and the others.”
Balfruss followed him down several flights of worn stairs and along wide corridors towards the throne room.
“Have the others been here long?”
“Three were local,” said Vannok over his shoulder, “but a couple arrived in the last day. Some have travelled a long way to help us.”
“How many are there?”
“Eight, including you.”
Balfruss was so shocked he stumbled and Vannok caught him by the elbow before he fell. “Eight? Eight Battlemages?”
It was Vannok’s turn to smile. “Just wait.”
Nowadays Battlemages were rare, but at one time they had been reasonably common. Seekers had combed every town and village for children born with the ability, but that was before the Grey Council had abandoned their posts at the Red Tower fifteen years ago. The tower still took in those who turned up at its doors, but every year only a small number of students were trained by a shrinking group of ageing volunteers. Most of the staff had drifted away once they realised the Grey Council were not coming back. Those trained after the Council left were shown just enough to stop them from killing themselves, or anyone else, before they were sent home.
When he and Vannok entered the throne room the other Battlemages were already waiting for the King. Balfruss immediately recognised two of them and the ache in his chest returned. As soon as they saw him they approached with warm smiles and open arms. Both were dressed in loose yellow robes, but that was where the similarity between the two ended. Darius was dark skinned with a rangy build, black hair and dark eyes, while his wife Eloise was pale and blonde. The only commonality was the mark of Ayilah, a red glyph tattooed on their faces, running in a vertical line from hairline to jaw across the right eye. It signified their status as a wielder of magic in the desert kingdoms.
“What are you doing here? I only left you a few weeks ago,” said Balfruss.
“My wife is not one to be argued with,” said Darius, shaking both of Balfruss’s hands with an iron grip. Balfruss wanted to embrace his friend, but knew Darius’s customs frowned on public displays of affection. “She told me what was happening. After all that you did for my country, how could I not come?”
Balfruss offered his hand to Eloise, but instead she kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him tightly. “Stop scowling, Darius,” she said without looking around. “We’re in my country now. It’s not unseemly to show affection in public.”
Vannok cleared his throat and B
alfruss took the hint.
“Sorry, Vann. Let me introduce you.”
“It’ll have to wait.” The King was entering the throne room, followed closely by his advisors.
Balfruss had never met the King before, but he could see why some called him the Grey Bear. Every hair on his bare arms and head was the colour of old ashes. Although nearly in his sixty-fifth year he was still a solid man in good physical shape. Stood behind him on one side were his three adult children, two broad and bearded sons and their slender and elegant sister. On the other side were two grizzled warriors who he guessed were Generals. One of them had to be Graegor, the mad one-eyed bastard they called the Foul, although never to his face. Much to Balfruss’s surprise Vannok took his place beside the other Generals and they greeted him as an equal. It seemed as if some things had changed in his time away.
The King sat down, but it was clear he wasn’t comfortable staring down at people from on high. The throne itself was basic, made only of wood with a gold lacquered crown painted on the headrest. The throne, like the other plain furnishings in the room, reflected what Balfruss knew about King Matthias’s approach to the trappings of his station. He understood their necessity, but preferred that the money be spent on his people rather than garish decoration for pomp and ceremony. The noticeable lack of colour also spoke of the Queen’s prolonged absence. It had been more than twenty years since her death.
Balfruss approached the bench and the other Battlemages made room for him to sit down.
“Thank you all for coming,” said the King. “I didn’t expect such generosity from my friends in the east,” he said, gesturing at Darius and Eloise who approached and bowed to the throne. As the King offered more lengthy thanks to King Usermeses IV, Balfruss glanced at those beside him.
The golden-skinned man must have come from the south-western kingdom of Shael, recently invaded and conquered by the Mad King. It looked as if the journey had almost killed the Battlemage from Shael. His face was haggard, his clothes dusty and torn, and even sitting down he leaned heavily on a tall staff. A pale headscarf sat about his neck, covering the bottom half of his face, and his shaven head was covered with fresh bruises, scars and scabs. As if he knew he was being watched, violet eyes turned to calmly regard Balfruss. He smiled and the man inclined his head.
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