by A. J. Smith
‘You should rest, friend Alahan,’ said Timon.
‘Thank you,’ panted the young warrior. ‘I think I will. These rocks are decent cover, unless that snow starts drifting.’
Timon smiled as Alahan sat down with his back against rock. The ground was hard and flecked with snow, but with cover from the wind and his thick bear-skin cloak, the son of Teardrop thought he could find a degree of comfort.
‘Do you mind talking, friend Timon?’ he asked, as he shifted his position against the stone.
The berserker screwed up his face again and Alahan guessed the expression meant he was thinking. ‘Not at all, though there are things I cannot say.’
‘Such as why a berserker of the Low Kast won’t kill? That is not your people’s reputation.’
‘I know,’ Timon replied with downcast eyes. ‘But I made a vow. You may ask me anything else.’
Alahan nodded and began to remove his stowed weaponry and to get as comfortable as he could, feeling waves of tiredness flow over his aching body. ‘How did you come to know Aleph Summer Wolf?’
Timon lowered himself into a cross-legged sitting position. ‘The thain of Tiergarten visited my village when I was young. There was pestilence and my mother had died in my arms. It was a hard time for my people.’ He was looking off into the snow. ‘The thain had many warriors with him. I think they were looking for deep ice to make their cloud-stones... or maybe jewels... I don’t know.’
Alahan knew that Ranen cloud-stones were made from mined ice, but had never thought where the ice came from. ‘You fought them?’ he asked.
The Butcher nodded. ‘My chieftain was a brutal old berserker and he ordered all men to give their lives to keep the Low Kast pure. He was no great friend to the Fjorlanders. Even with so many dying from plague, he kept attacking. Even when Aleph begged him for peace terms, he just laughed.’ Timon’s expressive features showed that he had not agreed with his chieftain’s decisions.
‘Who won?’ asked Alahan.
‘They did,’ was the simple response. ‘They won every time we attacked. We were outnumbered and most of my village were simple men, but the chieftain kept ordering us forward. Men died, hundreds of them. Those not killed by Fjorlan axes were killed by pestilence, until only a handful of my people remained and the chieftain had been gripped by insanity.’
Alahan frowned at the tale and looked with genuine sympathy at the berserker. ‘How did it end?’
‘I was barely a man at twelve years, but I was sent forward with my father to die,’ he said, with an angry curl to his lip. ‘But I acted without honour and refused. I had barely started to embrace the rage of Varorg, but I wouldn’t see my father and mother both die before my eyes and so I challenged the chieftain.’ Timon was sitting in the middle of the gully and snow was beginning to drift in front of him as he spoke. ‘Aleph saved my life when I was defeated. He spared me and my father when he had no need to. His priest healed our pestilence and the few men who remained surrendered with honour. The men of Tiergarten killed the chieftain and let the rest of us live.’
Alahan raised his eyebrows. ‘You view that as kindness?’
‘We had been attacking him unceasingly, and he spared our lives. A man of the Low Kast would not have done that. Aleph Summer Wolf was the first man I ever saw show mercy.’
‘I understand mercy, but why try to find him now?’
‘I have nothing to offer the Low Kast... not any more... so I seek out the best man I know and pledge my fate.’ Timon spoke with conviction, as if acting out an honour ritual of his people. ‘He should see it as a privilege,’ the berserker stated with pride.
‘And his daughter?’ asked Alahan.
The man of the Low Kast absently chewed on a fingernail. ‘I will hope that she is worthy of my fate. If not, I will find another.’ Alahan smiled warmly at Timon, accepting the berserker’s simple world view.
The young thain yawned loudly and fell further back against the rocks, making sure he was under an overhang. He was exhausted and he found Timon’s voice strangely soothing. ‘I may need to sleep, my friend,’ he said wearily.
‘That is good.’ Timon smiled broadly. ‘I have enjoyed talking to you. We will have to do it again.’
Alahan laughed, a loud, good-natured laugh, and gave the berserker a comradely slap on the shoulder. ‘We’ll get to Tiergarten and both reach our goals... I’m sure of it.’
* * *
Alahan was tired enough that the cold bothered him little as he drifted off to sleep. He had no bedroll or camping gear and wished he had been thinking more clearly when he had fled his home. At the time, his head had been full of anxiety for his sister and indignation at the treacherous battle-brothers of Jarvik. He estimated that they were no more than a week from Tiergarten and, as he closed his eyes and felt his breathing slow down, he prayed to Rowanoco that he would find allies in the realm of Summer Wolf. He had known an old priest called Brindon Crowe and he hoped the man would still be there.
Timon was standing above him, watching the snowy tundra from the high ground. Alahan was finding the man of the Low Kast a most intriguing travelling companion and, despite his initial lack of conversation and strange ways of thinking, it was evident that the berserker was more thoughtful and intelligent than was typical of his people – though, as he felt sleep intrude, Alahan was aware that he had only his uncle’s word for this.
Then a deep, rumbling sound travelled along the gully and caused his eyes to open. It was an elongated and guttural snarl, which echoed off the rocky terrain. Alahan sprang to his feet and picked up his battleaxe. Looking down the narrow gully he could see nothing but a bank of drifting snow. He glanced up, but Timon was no longer there. The sound continued and Alahan swore under his breath as he realized he was listening to the keening of a troll.
‘Timon,’ he whispered upwards, ‘we need to move.’
There was no response from the berserker.
‘Timon,’ he repeated, ‘it’s a troll.’
Alahan had encountered the Ice Men of Rowanoco a number of times in his life – living in Fjorlan made it almost inevitable – but he had never had to fight one and, if stories were to be believed, a troll was easily a match for a dozen armoured battle-brothers. Magnus used to say that the Ice Men of Rowanoco were essentially eating machines that would devour rocks, trees and men with equal gusto. Their bellies were never full and they would attack an army as readily as a mountain goat.
He crouched under the rocky overhang and waited. His breath was slow and he dared not blink. He peered into the drifting snow and saw a huge shape lumbering forwards. Hugging the rocks as best he could, Alahan saw the beast emerge into the glaring white of the realm of Teardrop. It was bigger than the ones he had seen near Fredericksand, standing over ten feet in height, though its hunched gait made it likely that its full height was a good deal larger. He couldn’t make out the creature clearly, but its bulk made Alahan’s fist shake as he gripped his axe. Almost as wide as it was tall, the troll swayed as it walked, following a zigzag path in its approach to the gully.
The keening continued. The troll was enormous and, as it came closer, the young warrior saw the talon-like claws extending from each of its bulbous limbs. The beast was covered in thick black and grey fur and seemed bloated rather than muscled. Though vaguely human in shape, it walked with all four limbs, using its claws to gain purchase in the snow.
It was close now and the young thain was beginning to feel panic. He knew he couldn’t run, as the troll would catch him before he’d travelled ten paces, and fighting was clearly out of the question. His only hope was that the troll would pass by without noticing him. The trolls of Fjorlan were notoriously dim-witted, with no real sense of smell, hearing or direction. Magnus used to tell his nephew stories about ancient Ice Men who would die when they chased troublesome birds over the edge of a cliff.
The keening stopped and Alahan held his breath. Chancing a look out from his place of concealment, he saw the troll standing no
more than ten paces away. He could see its face now and had to suppress the urge to simply scream and run away. The beast had a small face compared with the rest of its body, and its jewel-like green eyes shone slightly in the glare. It had thick lips coated in spittle and two large tusks pointing upwards through the dense fur covering its face. Its forehead was wide and creased into an exaggerated display of emotion. Something had alerted the troll and it looked around the gully, rubbing its eyes with its enormous paws as a child might do when tired or confused.
Some stones from the outcropping rolled down the gully to stop in front of the troll, followed by the slowly moving figure of Timon the Butcher. The berserker was making no effort to remain hidden and he moved deliberately towards the troll. Alahan swore under his breath, but made no move for fear that he would be seen. He doubted that even a berserker of Varorg could best so large a troll.
The troll hunkered down on the snowy ground and looked at Timon. It made no move to attack, but looked interested in the strange being that had appeared before it. Timon had taken the leather strapping off his head and the misshapen bulges were bleeding slightly as he approached the troll. In their own way, both were beasts, and Alahan felt as if he had wandered into a bizarre nightmare. The berserker held a small pouch in his fist and the troll’s enormous nostrils twitched, catching a familiar scent. Timon slowly untied the pouch and shook a small amount of a dusty crystalline substance into his palm, before placing the pouch back in his belt and stepping closer to the troll.
All was quiet for a moment as Alahan, Timon and the troll stopped still. Then, with slow movements, the berserker raised his palm to his nose and sniffed in a quantity of the crystals, immediately rearing up as if he’d had freezing-cold water thrown over him. The troll moved as well, but not aggressively, and Alahan wondered what the berserker had snorted. The two beasts regarded each other for a moment longer – Timon twitching and blinking rapidly, the troll clawing at the snow and crouching so as to be at eye level with the berserker. Then, in a gesture that nearly made Alahan laugh, the troll embraced Timon. It was a huge movement in which the berserker practically disappeared within the thick fur of the troll. As the beast playfully patted Timon on the head, Alahan realized that the troll thought of the berserker as one of its own kind rather than a man.
The two of them sat on the snowy ground, pawing at each other as equals. Despite their difference in size, Timon gave as good as he got, even going so far as to mimic the keening sound trolls habitually made when wandering.
Alahan relaxed as he watched the strange ritual before him and almost didn’t notice the other shapes appearing out of the snow. He moved quickly back against the rocks as half a dozen more trolls appeared at the southern edge of the gully and slowly meandered towards Timon. The berserker had seen them and showed no sign of alarm as the family of Ice Men approached. The young man of Fredericksand turned away, feeling exposed in sight of so many trolls, but no violence seemed likely to erupt and so he moved slowly back along the gully, with a vague plan to circle round the encounter and continue south. Timon would have to catch him up when he’d finished pretending to be troll.
‘What a strange week I’m having,’ murmured the young Thain to himself.
CHAPTER 7
TYR NANON IN THE CITY OF CANARN
The streets of Canarn were dark, with just enough breeze to remind Nanon that he was next to the sea. He glanced above him and saw the tower of the World Raven close by, indicating that he was near to the town square. He’d turned off the Brown Road that led to Brother Lanry’s chapel and had taken a number of quick lefts and rights until he was well and truly lost among the back streets of the city. The roads here were narrow and the buildings loomed in over the Dokkalfar’s head, pleasingly reminding him of the forest.
He smiled – a thin expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was conducting an experiment that Bromvy, the new lord of Canarn, had assured him was simply stupid and the forest-dweller was determined to prove his friend wrong.
He took a short run-up and vaulted over a wall and on to a nearby rooftop. Crouching down, he surveyed the dark buildings of Canarn, looking for any balconies or flat roofs within jumping range. There were a few likely candidates, but most would leave him open to the sea breeze and with not enough cover to remain unseen from below. Above, the black raven provided an easy reference point, but Nanon frowned at the lack of other tall buildings in the town. The lord marshal’s office had been destroyed a month or so before, but he had been assured by Bromvy that when it was rebuilt it would be a large building with all manner of climbing and jumping potential. However, all that remained for now was a pile of rubble.
The Dokkalfar got as low to the stone roof as he could, before rolling backwards and landing within a walled garden. As his feet touched grass, he felt a wave of pleasure shoot up his slender body. It reminded him that these men of Ro were not completely oblivious to nature. They had a strange view of grass, trees and rocks, though, and considered nature their servant, something to be bent to their will. There were trees and green areas within Canarn, but all were well tended and lacking in natural beauty. Even with so many Dokkalfar in the city, the natives were reluctant just to let the grass grow, as if they feared it would somehow take over the town. Nanon respected this view up to a point – he knew how terrible nature could be when left unchecked – but he also lamented the loss of the wild within these stone walls.
His experiment had not, so far, been a success, and Nanon grumbled to himself. He would have to admit that the lord of Canarn was probably right – it was not possible simply to live in a town as you would in a forest.
He wasn’t being, as Bromvy had put it, a naive idiot, but rather he was trying to find a way for his people to adapt to life in the city. He was more worldly than others of the Dokkalfar, and he felt an obligation to help them settle in. However, he had had limited success and, as he turned to exit the small garden, the Tyr saw dozens more forest-dwellers dotted across the rooftops and walls as they, too, tried in vain to adapt to Canarn.
He tilted his head and looked skywards. Nanon could feel his people’s uncertainty flowing through the city, and each new Dokkalfar that came to Canarn added to their sense of confusion. The Dokkalfar shared a racial memory that allowed the more powerful among them to feel the pain and emotional distress of others, and Nanon was more attuned to it than most. The Dokkalfar had come here at the behest of their Vithar shamans to bolster Canarn’s strength and to prepare the city to receive refugees from Tor Funweir, but they had adapted only slowly and found the pace of human life difficult to comprehend.
Nanon was different. He had spent much of his long life among men and, because of his short stature, had managed to blend in, in a way that the larger of his kind could never hope to achieve. He had learnt much from Bromvy and, before him, Rham Jas Rami, and he had become adept at understanding humans. He was even beginning to laugh at their jokes because he understood them, rather than pretending to do so in order to fit in. Tyr Nanon puffed out his cheeks, mimicking a human expression of weary frustration, and decided that he would walk back to the keep rather than jump across the rooftops.
It was a pleasant enough night and he found the smells of Canarn constantly surprising, a strange cocktail of odours, most of which he was unable to identify. Crossing back towards the Brown Road, Nanon saw the dark profile of Lanry’s chapel next to the main square. The Brown cleric was not currently in residence, having been sent north by Bromvy in an effort to find news of his sister, Bronwyn, and of the progress Wraith Company was making towards South Warden. Bromvy had not yet made a decision about the long-term allegiance of Canarn, except that the city would no longer bear the prefix Ro. Bromvy did not call himself duke, preferring lord of Canarn when the need for a title arose. Nanon knew, too, that the young man of Ro was still uncomfortable with the title Black Guard.
Nanon strolled casually towards the town square, taking note of the newly rebuilt homes and businesses. Most
were closed, but he knew the human citizens of the city were pleased to have Canarn back to something like its former self. The few taverns that were still open late at night were quiet, with only a scattering of patrons and no Dokkalfar. The forest-dwellers had no real concept of taverns, and the drinking of alcohol was a curiously human habit.
He moved across the square and headed for the lowered drawbridge which led to the keep. A month ago, when he had first come to the city, the square had been full of funeral pyres and was being used by the bastard mercenaries as a playground where they could indulge their passion for rape and murder. The square had now been cleared and a sizeable memorial was already half built in the centre. The statue would be of a longsword, a leaf blade and a hammer, all rising above the spread wings of a raven in flight, symbolizing the three peoples who had fought and died to reclaim the city of Canarn. The Ro, the Ranen and the Dokkalfar made a curious alliance, but Nanon was proud to be able to call an increasing number of humans his friends.
At the base of the drawbridge were two guardsmen, men of Ro elevated to positions of authority following the battle. They wore ill-fitting chain mail and held crossbows, but their demeanour was casual. Both men smiled warmly as Nanon approached and the Dokkalfar tried his best to mimic the strange expression.
‘You’re still not quite getting it, my lord,’ said one of the men, barely containing his laughter at Nanon’s attempt at a smile. ‘It just looks wrong somehow... maybe it’s the black eyes.’
Nanon enjoyed the playful familiarity with which the humans addressed him.
‘Hmm, I think I just need more practice,’ he replied, thrusting his hand out enthusiastically.
‘And you don’t need to shake hands with every man you pass, my lord,’ said the second man. ‘A hello is often enough.’
Nanon considered it. ‘But I like shaking hands. It’s a nice way to bond with people. We don’t really have any kind of ritual touching like that, so it’s quite refreshing.’