“And your grandfather before that. I meant an interest in my work, not my personal life, but you knew this also. Do not play your word games with me, child,” rebuked Jonkravish with a shake of his head. “Do you doubt my abilities?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you think your father, and his Generals, are incompetent. Bumbling fools, not worth the salt in their blood, yes?”
“No.”
“Then speak plainly, girl. Time is short and my patience is not what it was.”
Talandra sighed. “Before the war began, I received regular reports from Morrinow. In the last three weeks a large number of Morrin left their homes and businesses here in Seveldrom, to return home to Morrinow. My sources tell me that few of them arrived. I have no proof, but I believe they were murdered on the road. My agents tell me that Seveldrom, and my father, are being blamed for their deaths to fuel the propaganda about him.”
Jonkravish sat back and folded his arms. In the glow from the candles his white and purple marbled skin looked almost translucent. His neatly trimmed hair and beard were completely grey, but as a young girl she remembering seeing patches of black. Jonkravish stared at nothing for a short time before focusing on her again. “You have a question?”
“What can you tell me about the Morrin extremists?”
“It would be them,” agreed the Morrin, nodding his shaggy head. “They are one of the reasons I left my country. At the time, many thought they were nothing more than a group of disgruntled youths, making trouble in the streets. But I saw many people offering them support, and every day their numbers grew. Now I hear they have a seat on the Council and their voice can always be heard somewhere in public, spewing poison on the wind.”
“That was a long time ago. Now they have the majority on the Council. I suspect the Warlock is partly responsible for that.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it was already moving that way, yes?”
“Do you have any contacts or friends back home?” asked Talandra.
“Yes. But do you not have spies in Morrinow?”
Talandra shrugged. “A few foreigners, but they’ve fallen silent. I’m worried they’ve been imprisoned or murdered.”
A brief silence filled the room as Jonkravish considered what she was angling him towards. She didn’t need to mention the risk to those involved.
“You want me to ask my friends to spy for you?” said Jonkravish in a whisper.
“No. I know how your people feel about such things. I’m merely interested in… talk.”
It was said two Morrin could not pass each other on the street without stopping to talk for at least an hour. Although it was a callous stereotype, Jonkravish had sometimes joked that most of his people only went to temple to gossip, and prayer was the second-most popular pastime in church.
“I hear a lot of rumours, but I’d like to know which of them are true and which are propaganda,” said Talandra.
“I will see that it is done.”
Talandra let out a long sigh of relief. She hadn’t been sure he would agree. “Thank you.”
The old Morrin was about to leave when he saw something in her expression. “Something else worries you?”
“There are four thousand Morrin in the army, and perhaps four times that number in Charas. You know it’s only a matter of time. Once the fighting starts, and the first bodies are carried through the gates, people will look for scapegoats.”
Talandra glanced at his horns and winced at her poor choice of words. The racial slur was so old it went past Jonkravish without him noticing. She’d been spending too much time with Graegor and his foul mouth.
Jonkravish bristled. “I will not leave my post, or go home and hide in my house. This country has been my home since before your father was born. In Morrinow I was an outsider because I did not bow and pray to the Blessed Mother twice a day. Here I am a Morrin, yes, but also just another man on the street.”
“I know, I know,” said Talandra, trying to placate him. “I’m not asking you to hide. I already knew you’d say that.”
Jonkravish hesitated. “Then who?”
“The Morrin Ambassador. Most of the western nations have embassies here, and they’ve accepted our protection. Ambassador Kortairlen seems to think there’s no danger, or he’s invincible.”
“It’s common in those who’ve not yet lived a century. I will send him a convincing letter.”
“Thank you.”
“You will get some rest, yes?”
Jonkravish waited until she nodded before getting to his feet. Looking down he affectionately ruffled Talandra’s hair as he’d done when she was a girl. Although impolite, Talandra was tempted to ask his age. Morrin could live up to four times as long as men, and in his eyes it would seem only moments since her birth.
As the sound of Jonkravish’s boots receded down the hallway, she made a mental note to ask him about her mother. Her oldest memories were fading and it would be nice to be reminded of what her mother was like from someone who remembered everything so clearly.
Talandra considered going to bed but there was still work to be done. She laid her head on the desk, telling herself she was just going to have a short rest. She was asleep in seconds.
CHAPTER 6
The morning was cool and the dull blue sky suggested little chance of rain. A poor day for growing crops, but well suited for the first day of the war.
Vargus watched as rangers withdrew from the southern pass, running past him and other warriors on the front line. The southerners were used to travelling long distances on foot. A short sprint to outdistance the enemy wasn’t difficult for them, especially in light armour. Not for the first time Vargus envied the quality of their moulded leather armour. By comparison, his army issue armour was serviceable, but the blood he’d cleaned off it was a little disconcerting. Too late to do anything about it now.
The last of the rangers slipped behind the front rank and a few seconds later the order was given. The air throbbed with a loud humming, and a weak sun passed behind a black cloud. Hundreds of tiny distractions flickered at his eye corners, but Vargus stubbornly ignored them and kept facing forward. Up ahead a vicious rain of arrows fell onto the approaching enemy. Most of the soldiers didn’t have time to raise their shields. Screams and cries of pain echoed off the stone walls. Vargus watched dozens of men die in a few seconds from the lethal rain. Another volley quickly followed the first and then another as the enemy came on, stubbornly pressing forward despite the slaughter. On raised platforms and tiny ledges cut into both sides of the pass, individual archers started picking targets and firing at will.
A faint westerly wind blew through the pass, driving dust into the face of the enemy, adding insult to the carnage. Vargus was glad the wind wasn’t blowing the other way or else he and the rest of the army would be left smelling dead men for days.
Without looking around he knew that Hargo was stood on his right. He could feel him, a solid and reassuring presence. Orran was on his left and the blond ranger Benlor beside him. Not far away he could hear Black Tom, his stained teeth black from endlessly chewing tarr, day and night. Next to him was Curly, who’d fallen out of a tree as a boy and been bald as an egg ever since. Beside him was Rudd, the skinniest man in the squad who ate more than three men, and Tan, a rat-faced lad who’d grown up with Orran.
Nearby, a dozen others were known to him, each with their own stories of sorrow, triumph and loss, big and small. Dead wives and children lost to random acts of violence, tragic accidents and drawn-out illness. Farms burned down and families butchered in wanton slaughter by raiders. Finding ancient gold buried in a field, hearing their firstborn say his first word, and provocative stories of wild nights with foreign, mysterious women. Mundane and miraculous, all of their stories were a part of him now.
They’d bonded over beer and pit fights, rye spirits and shared miseries, war stories and old songs around the embers of a dying campfire. A brotherhood two weeks old and already it was stronge
r than many he’d seen in the past. They were his family now and the only thing standing between him and oblivion.
Despite their losses from the rain of arrows the enemy came on, stepping over the dead and leaving the injured where they fell. The western soldiers were close enough for Vargus to see they were Yerskani warriors, stout, pale-skinned men dressed in steel caps and leather jerkins. For the most they carried spears and slightly curved cleavers, the ancient weapon of their tribal heritage. The weapons and armour would have been mined, smelted and forged in the Yerskani smithies. Theirs was a nation of merchants, craftsmen, traders and sailors. They were not renowned for their prowess on the battlefield. It seemed a bizarre choice for them to lead the first attack when other nations in the alliance had warriors with more ferocious reputations. Vargus wondered who they’d angered to have drawn the short straw.
The Yerskani warriors approached with greater caution, triangular shields at the ready, but the archers were already pulling back. As soon as they were close enough for him to see their eyes, Vargus felt a wave of pity. Their spirit was already broken and the worst had not even started yet.
“They’d better do it now, or else we’ll be in the bloody way,” muttered Orran. Even as he finished speaking there was a loud thump from somewhere behind them.
“Down!” shouted Vargus and a dozen others along the line gave the order as well.
The front three ranks dropped to their knees, pulling their shields over their heads, overlapping with their neighbours.
For a moment the sky turned completely black. Vargus risked a glance around the edge of his shield and saw the shadow break up into thousands of smaller pieces as it flew overhead.
Horrible screams and shrieks rattled his eardrums as the caltrops slammed into the enemy, digging into flesh and driving men to their knees. The iron spikes were not heavy, but falling from a great height the momentum drove them through their armour and flesh with ease. Some tried to huddle behind their shields, but most still died as the caltrops shattered wood or rebounded, burying themselves in exposed limbs. Injured men stumbled and fell onto more spikes, and soon the floor of the pass was carpeted with the dead and wounded men screaming in agony. A few disciplined officers were attempting to rally those still able to fight, but it was hopeless.
A crisp note from a horn blotted out the pleas of the dying Yerskani warriors. Vargus rose to his feet with the others in readiness. Orders were being given, but it wasn’t necessary. They all knew what they had to do. Drawing his short sword Vargus looked first to his right and then left. Hargo nodded grimly and Orran gave him a nervous grin, trying to mask his fear. He was on the verge of telling one of his dirty jokes but it would have to wait.
Taking a deep breath Vargus screamed a wordless battle cry that was taken up by hundreds of others all around him. Setting the pace he jogged forward towards the shattered front line of the enemy. The Yerskani warriors saw them coming, twenty men abreast, but there was nowhere for them to go. The sides of the pass were too steep to climb, and more men were filtering in from behind. All around them were corpses, blood, shit, gore, fallen weapons and more caltrops threatening to maim them.
A small number found the courage to ignore what was happening and face them on their feet. Here and there spears were lowered, one directly in front of Vargus, but he didn’t think today would be his last.
Vargus’s heart was pounding in his ears, a faint tingle running along his arms and legs. Without realising, he increased his pace, pulling slightly ahead of the others in line. Part of him wanted to be the first to reach the enemy.
To his credit the terrified man in front raised his spear, but Vargus parried it with ease and drove his sword into the man’s guts. A second later the two armies came together with an ear-splitting crash as shields slammed into the broken front rank of the Yerskani. Their leather armour could not stand up to brutal punishment at close range, and many swords went straight through. Gouts of blood and chunks of flesh rained down on Vargus as limbs and pieces of men were sliced away.
Screaming at the enemy Vargus smashed his shield into the face of one man, stabbed another in the neck, kicked a third in the stomach and head-butted a fourth. He almost decapitated one man with the edge of his shield, and smashed the pommel of his sword into the face of another, shattering his jaw. Blood sprayed across his cheek from somewhere on his right as Hargo sliced open a man’s neck. With his next blow Hargo cut deeply into an enemy soldier, splitting the man’s collar bone and wedging his blade deep in the man’s torso. From the corner of his eye Vargus saw someone try to take advantage before the big man could find another weapon.
Using his shield Vargus pushed back two soldiers and then slashed at the face of the man in front of Hargo. The soldier recoiled, more in surprise than pain, but it was enough. Hargo took up a fallen Yerskani cleaver and split the man’s skull with one vicious blow. Like a mad butcher he started hacking the enemy soldiers into meaty red chunks. A laugh bubbled up from Hargo’s throat. A slip of madness, a moment of joy amid the mindless slaughter. It faded when someone cut him across the ribs, but the weapon stayed in his hand as if it belonged.
Gone was the sky and the earth. Even the walls of the pass were no longer a part of Vargus’s world. The only thing he saw was the enemy in front. First it was a tall warrior spitting curses through yellow teeth. With a growl he disembowelled the man and kicked him in the face on the way down for good measure. A broad man, bare-chested and rippling with muscles took his place, but he was quickly dispatched with a quick thrust to the groin that left him squealing like a slaughtered pig. After that the faces started to blur together. Vargus kept pushing forward, hacking and slicing, grunting and kicking. Suddenly there was no one in front and his momentum made him stumble and almost fall. A bloody hand touched his shoulder and he spun about ready to hack off the arm that came with it.
It took him a few seconds to recognise the man was Hargo. He lowered his sword and looked around for any pockets of fighting, but there was nothing to see. It was over.
All around him lay the dead and the dying. Vargus had no idea how long they’d been fighting, but gradually he became aware of his loud breathing and the painful burning in his lungs. His shoulders ached and his arms were covered with blood and gore up to his armpits. Orran, and some of the others, came to where he stood catching his breath, their expressions a mix of horror, relief and fear. Black Tom huffed, spat a wad of tarr on the ground but said nothing.
“What’s wrong?” asked Vargus, spinning around and looking for the source of their alarm. Maybe this had only been the first wave and reserves were on their way. But there was no one in sight except warriors from Seveldrom. Any Yerskani survivors had broken ranks and were running for their lives. A trail of weapons and armour had been dropped in their wake as they fled.
Vargus looked at the others. “What is it?”
“It’s not them,” said Orran, wiping his mouth and spitting a wad of bloody phlegm. “It’s you.”
“I could barely keep up,” panted Hargo. He was bent double, gasping for air. “You cut straight through them. It was you that broke them.”
“No,” said Vargus, emphatically shaking his head. “It was all of us. On my own I was a dead man. We broke them together. Hargo saved me three times over, and I know I did the same for him.”
“Where’s Tan?” asked Orran, looking around for his friend. No one had seen him in a while. Fearing the worst they started to search the battlefield.
They found his body buried under two others, a permanent expression of fear stamped on his narrow features. His eyes stared on and on at nothing, and yet none of them could look away. Nearby somebody groaned and they saw it was an injured Yerskani, bleeding from several wounds, but not quite dead. With a feral scream Orran launched himself at the man, stabbing him over and over again, until he was just a bloody sack of meat that didn’t look like a man any more. Orran was crying by the end, sobbing with snot running down his bruised and battered face, but no
one was laughing. He and Tan came from the same village and had known each other since they were boys. More than twenty-five years of shared memories, boys to men.
Eventually the tide of anger passed and Orran just slumped down on top of the dead, forgetting everything in the world but his sorrow.
Hargo picked up his weapons while Vargus and the others helped Orran to his feet. Black Tom and Curly wrapped Tan’s body in a blanket and they carried it with them out of the charnel house towards the sprawling camp.
Vargus cast a final glance around the pass at the bodies, which were already attracting a swarm of flies and carrion. A bloody first day to be sure, but not what he’d expected. To say it had been easy would be a lie. Plenty of men had died on both sides, but for every one of theirs that had fallen, a dozen or more had died from the west. The sun was still not at its highest point and already the fighting was done. After such a crushing and brutal defeat he didn’t think they would return today. Despite the victory, it felt like an ill start to the war.
That night, around a blazing bonfire, they all said their goodbyes to Tan. Greasy black smoke drifted into the air from his funeral pyre, and an old priest of the Maker said a few kind words about his life. There were no prayers, just quiet weeping from Orran, silent tears and grim faces from some of the others who knew him best. Theirs wasn’t the only funeral that night, or the only pyre burning high, but it was the noisiest.
Before the fire had started to burn down a few of the men were drunk, but out of respect they pretended they were sober until Orran was well into his cups. By then it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t remember much of the night, let alone who’d been respectful and not.
Then came the stories and raucous laughter as Orran remembered the good times. He told them tales from their joint childhood of stealing apples, and how Tan had been caught fingering a farmer’s daughter in a hayloft because she’d squealed so loud.
Later, men were dancing and singing old songs from the book of the Maker, often led by the tipsy priest. Their good mood was briefly spoiled when a priest from the church of the Holy Light offered to hear Orran’s confession.
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