by Stephen Hunt
‘The monk told you this?’
‘Dro’alung is a messenger, a calling wind,’ said the skipper. Alexamir wasn’t sure if Shan meant the priest or the spirits the monk served. Either way, the nomad didn’t fancy experiencing sailing down the Yarl River on the wrong end of a fierce blow.
‘Don’t look so damned miserable, Norbu,’ said the boat’s master. ‘I know you don’t get real weather up in the scrapers, but down here you’ll see a thing or two. Nothing we haven’t dealt with before. The priests on the temple will know which spirits to call with their chimes and doors. They will pray us spirits to calm the wild winds; dismiss any which are evil. Meanwhile us mere mortals will sail for a wind harbour.’
Alexamir nodded as though this course of action was already well known to him. Somewhere up in that temple was a fragment of the holy log-book he was being sent to copy. He could only imagine the priests’ reaction if they knew he was arriving to steal away the source of their power. Why, they’d stream down the slopes of the valley like a mob of orange-robed crows, waving their staves towards the sky while cursing him as a filthy invader. That was a pleasant thought. Leaving Rodal with his prize and Temmell’s healing of the Golden Fox guaranteed. No other thief could do what I must do. Steal their priests’ magic and steal it so well they will not even know I have it! His chest swelled with pride at the thought that this duty had been entrusted to him alone. Temmell chose wisely. No other rider could do this.
Alexamir sniffed the air on deck. He didn’t need to be a true Rodalian to smell the approach of a mighty storm, still hidden beyond the horizon, but the weight of its distant anger was making his skin itch. Stillness fell over the shore, birds disappearing for sheltering cracks and crevices in the mountains, the creak of insects in the dry grass fading away. The river flattening and eerily quiet; even the fish diving deep and their air bubbles vanishing. He wasn’t the only one on board who sensed what was coming. The ship’s captain began shouting irritated orders to the crew, hurrying them about their business. The Arrow put the river behind them shortly after, entering a port where they followed a narrow wooden-lined canal through two locks and along the channel into a cavern cut into the sheer mountain wall. One of the well-built wind harbours the skipper had talked about. The canal curved through tunnels, their passage twisting multiple times to break any storms raging outside. The Arrow ended up inside an artificial gallery, a stone harbour surrounded by chambers excavated for rest and refuge. This close to the capital the Arrow shared dock with ten similar vessels. Not just a harbour for river traffic, but a haven for overland travellers as well. From the cog’s deck, Alexamir could see the chambers currently accommodated hundreds of merchants, travellers, pilgrims, trappers and tradesmen. It was a rich tapestry of humanity, lit by a hundred spears of light from mirrored passages snaking up to the mountain slopes. Not just Rodalians in the crowd, but many foreigners too, traveller caravans that had been tracking along the riverbank on horse and wheel. People away from their birthplace; no homes to take shelter inside and hunker down while the local spirits slaked their anger. Alexamir regarded the travellers with fascination. Caravans did not dare to cross the steppes, for they would soon find their goods stolen and their endless ranging traded for life as a Nijumeti camp thrall. But these wayfarers traded everywhere outside of the steppes. As much a nomad as any clan rider might call himself. Never stopping or setting down roots. Transients who traversed millions of miles across the turn of their lives. Never once revisiting the same league of land. Alexamir understood them about as well as he understood the rice-eaters. So timid. They do not travel in force, like a horde. Never brave enough to claim the grass they roam. Everywhere they blow they are strangers and visitors, fearing those who hold the soil as they drift across the land. No warrior’s pride or honour in such a life. Freer, though, than these Rodalian rodents who meekly cling to rocks and make their shelters inside caves.
Wardens pushed through the crowds thronging the wind harbour, shouting the time remaining of their confinement. Holy men connected to the temple outside, swaddled in orange robes. Six hours left. Alexamir left the Arrow and stretched his legs, moving through the exotic crowd, just another stranger among many. His disguise held well enough. Nobody paid him a second glance. The air-mask hanging from the back of his neck marked him out as a simple mountain lad, unworthy of conversation unless there was a crooked card game running to pick his pocket, or a stall owner trying to offload spoiled food. Just a hulking Rodalian yokel down from the scrapers. No sounds from the storm beating outside carried into the wind harbour. Too far under the mountain. What he could hear was a babble of different languages and strange accents speaking common Trade Tongue, or Radio, as it was called within the League. Curious smells from unfamiliar food cooking on the stalls’ griddles. After a while, the confusion of nationalities and races began to wear on the simple thief from the steppes and he returned to the Arrow. At the bottom of the gangplank connecting cog to stone harbour quay, Alexamir discovered a group of six men arguing with the ship’s master. Pale foreign faces in grey military-style uniforms, hard-looking men not from Rodal. They put Alexamir in mind of the Hellenise smugglers which the Krul of Kruls suffered to trade arms and machine parts with the clans, but their angry accents were less pleasing to the ear and none of the devils possessed the flame-hair that oft marked out a bootlegger. They carried pistols, sabres and rifles as though the weapons were an extension of their bodies. Warriors. Battle-hardened men. Alexamir checked his dagger was still with him. He could earn his way into the good graces of the Arrow’s master with a few slit throats if matters turned ugly here. As Alexamir got closer, he read the signs from the soldiers. No, we are safe. None of these foreign fighters appeared prepared to draw weapons. They were deep inside a foreign land and were well aware of what fate awaited them should they offer serious violence to any locals. The same sad fate that might befall Alexamir if Temmell’s spell faded early.
‘I do not like the idea of giving passage to armed bandits,’ said Shan. ‘Leave your weapons under bond here with the harbour wardens and I will carry you to Hadra-Hareer.’
‘These here weapons,’ said a stocky, short soldier at the front of the company, ‘are the tools of our trade. You wouldn’t ask a mason to leave his hammer and chisel behind? You wouldn’t ask a doctor to leave his vials and herbs and scalpel with the harbour master?’
Alexamir couldn’t help but stare at the soldier. He sported an ugly crimson scar down his face, as though someone had tried to split it in half with an axe and only just failed. That might make him a poor excuse of a warrior to take the wound, or a fearsome warrior to have survived it.
Shan raised his hands in exasperation. ‘It is your trade that concerns me. Where fighting men travel, they bring a fight with them.’
‘We left the fight behind in Weyland,’ said the ugly warrior. ‘If we wanted more of it, we’d have stayed. Trust me. There’s plenty of war left south of your mountains.’
So, these are Weylanders? Alexamir’s gaze travelled over their threadbare clothes. Dirty and worn, much like the soldiers’ pinched faces. But their rifle barrels were well-oiled and in good condition. That spoke well. And they were disciplined, too. Letting the short ugly one have his say without arguing amongst themselves.
‘And there it should stay,’ said Shan.
‘If it makes you rest easier, we’ll surrender our weapons for the voyage’s duration. You can keep them nice and snug in a locked chest in your hold or your cabin. Whatever pleases. Just so long as we get ’em back at Hadra-Hareer.’
‘Very well,’ said Shan. ‘But you will give me no trouble. If you brawl with the other passengers or cheat my crew at dice, you will be tossed out at the very next port. You can make the rest of your way on boot leather.’
‘Don’t you be worrying, Captain,’ said the ugly one. ‘We’ve all had enough of mule train saddle sores to last us the rest of our lives. This is a hard land to cross and a little river breeze will be just the
thing to keep us settled until we reach Hadra-Hareer.’
‘And what will you do then?’
‘We’ll take fresh orders from Prince Owen’s generals. Don’t doubt we’ll be sent back south to harry Bad Marcus and the usurper’s forces.’
Shan shook his head sadly. ‘This is no good. You will bring trouble on our heads.’
The stocky one grinned, making his split face even uglier. ‘We’ll keep our killing on the right side of the border, don’t you worry about that, Captain.’
Shan looked as though he might change his mind, but then he waved them up the gangplank. ‘Pile your arms against the mast. All of them. Not a fruit knife left swinging on your belt.’
At the ugly one’s command, the soldiers swung the rifles down from shoulder straps and unbelted their pistols and sabres.
‘You keep an eye on these Weylanders for me, Norbu,’ said the cog’s skipper to Alexamir while the soldiers marched up into the Arrow, making a gift of their weapons in the sail’s shadow. ‘I do not trust them.’
‘Yet you trust their coin enough to give them passage to HadraHareer,’ noted Alexamir.
The boat’s master shrugged. ‘I am not so rich that I can afford to turn away good copper. You will discover there are far too many filthy foreigners inside the capital. Weylanders just like these, looking to carry on their kin-war from within our borders. What are six more soldiers to add to their numbers? Our borders were wisely shut to their ilk not so long ago. But our new Speaker opens them and offers exile to this boy-prince who would supplant his uncle-king. Ever since, our roads have been choked by rag-tag fighters travelling to swear fealty to their Weyland prince and sharpen their swords in our shadow.’ Shan snorted. ‘What would it serve to turn such vagabonds away from the Arrow? They would just follow the river down to the capital on foot. Better I earn their coin than the mule train merchants.’
It seemed a self-serving argument to Alexamir, but he said nothing. He needed to stay on the good side of the cog’s master until they reached Hadra-Hareer. Let Shan bluster and argue with his crew, they seemed ready enough for the quarrel.
The Arrow left the wind harbour before evening descended. Outside, there was little sign any storm had just come through. The buildings in the small port town stood intact. The waters of the Yarl River had kept within its banks. No trees had fallen, although many were leaning towards the east, flexible roots bowed as if in supplication to the Rodalian spirits of the wind. The alpine forests would right themselves soon enough. The Arrow continued her voyage towards Hadra-Hareer. It was easy enough to keep a watch on the foreign soldiers for the vessel’s master. They held back from stealing and brawling, true to their word. The stocky repellent-looking soldier who had done the speaking for the party in the wind harbour knew what Alexamir was doing and started to seek ‘Norbu’ out to converse with him. Nocks was the laconic soldier’s name. Alexamir came to suspect there was more to the soldier’s attention than Nocks just demonstrating he knew the nomad had been set to spy on him. One afternoon, lounging on the deck, the nomad’s suspicions were confirmed.
Nocks’ guileful eyes halted knowingly on Alexamir while he leant over the Arrow’s side, taking in the breeze from the Yarl’s fast-flowing waters. ‘So, you think I’m fixing to slit the crew’s throats, steal the captain’s ship maybe?’
‘Are you?’ asked Alexamir.
‘I’m not the sailing type. A boat can take you places, but it’s the destination which interests me, not the voyage. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
There was an undercurrent in the soldier’s words which put Alexamir deeply at unease. As though the stubby soldier was staring into Alexamir and seeing right through the sorcerer’s enchantment.
‘You’ve got a right strong face,’ continued Nocks. ‘Puts me in mind of somebody else I knew once.’
Alexamir had to prevent himself grinding his teeth. What do you know, Weylander? ‘Have you visited the scrapers?’
‘That I ain’t. No, this fellow was a proper brute of a man I served with in the Burn when I was fighting with the free companies. You heard of the Burn, haven’t you? Far-called across the waters of the Lancean Ocean. Could have done with that air-mask of yours then, just to hide the stink of the place. Centuries of blood and fire and a war that’s still smouldering. A thousand petty kingdoms and princes at each other’s throats and the fight going on for so long nobody can much remember why. Always work for a soldier in the Burn. More mercenaries than farmers when your staple crop is battle.’
‘Who would wish to cross the ocean?’ said Alexamir. He suppressed a shiver. Saltwater, nothing a horse or rider can drink, endless water to the horizon and beyond. Honest nomads and heroic thieves such as Alexamir travelled over land, never sea. Bad enough the fresh waters of this cursed Yarl.
‘Nobody in their right mind. Nobody with a choice in the matter. A man doesn’t always have one, though. Take that friend I was talking about. He’s a Nijumeti clansman. Got himself into some serious trouble with what passes for nobility up in the steppes. Had to flee into exile across the waters, and that tells you just how serious the bad blood was. Nijumeti, they hate the sea like it’s plague. Brave as gods of war on the land, but put one of them on a clipper and they just curl and sob like babies until they make land again.’
Alexamir didn’t like where this conversation was heading, not in the slightest. ‘What was your friend’s name?’
Nocks smiled slyly. ‘Why, he’d be Artdan Arinnbold.’
That cannot be. My father! He died on a hunting expedition with the Krul of Kruls, gored to death by a hill lion. Alexamir gazed at the ugly Weylander, desperately trying to conceal his shock. ‘What was the bad blood?’
Nocks casually shrugged. ‘Woman, I think. Or maybe it was a gambling debt that ended in murder. Everyone in the free companies has a sad story. You get tired of hearing ’em after the first year, even your own.’
Alexamir thought of his mother, living in the Great Krul’s palace. Supposedly taken in as an honour debt to a dead saddle-brother. Alexamir raised almost as one of the Krul’s sons, always favoured among the riders. Was that an honour debt or an act of thievery? Was that an honour debt or the guilt of black treachery twisting in the Great Krul’s heart? His mother taken as a prize while his father narrowly escaped a cowardly ambush and fled? Was everything Alexamir thought he’d known of his life as a rider a lie? ‘And this nomad’s fate . . . ?’
‘Hell if I know, now. I got myself a chance to come home to Weyland and serve in the royal army. Didn’t appeal much to Artdan. Soft living, he called it. Cursed me for a silk-a-bed. He stayed fighting as a sell-sword in the Burn. Maybe he’s still out there. Could be he’s dead. Free companies always offer good fighting. Never offered much by the way of guarantees. If anyone could survive out there, it’d be that ol’ killer, though. You learnt the art of fighting marching in Artdan’s shadow. He could put a quarrel from a great-bow straight through an armoured foe’s helm at four hundred yards, draw two swords and slice a horse in half with the man in the saddle split from helm to belt. Surely wish that big wolf was fighting by my side the last few months, though. Could have used him at Midsburg, bullets as thick as flies down there.’
Alexamir nearly choked on his words as they came out. ‘A hard man to kill.’ Everything a lie. The Krul I serve. Out here, risking my neck for his wizard. No, a voice deep down called to him. Risking your neck for the Golden Fox. Not for the Great Krul.
‘Just like me,’ grunted Nocks, running his finger down the red cable splitting his face. ‘Man who did this to me is going to regret it one day.’
‘Not a recent wound,’ said Alexamir, masking his distress with empty words. The Krul of Kruls. Curse the man to hell. And how did he get to be the horde’s master? By killing every clan chief who stood in his way, making alliances and intimidating the rest. It wasn’t just the wizard’s counsel that had served Kani Yargul so well. He was the ultimate thief. Ruthless and brutal. Stealing
what he wanted and putting those in the dirt who stood in his way. Was Alexamir’s mother among his prizes? Kani Yargul’s saddle-brother another among his tally of cruel victories?
‘Didn’t pick it up in the civil war,’ said Nocks. ‘But it smarts every day. Some nights I can’t get to sleep for my little memento throbbing like I just took the wound fresh.’
‘A sabre slash?’ Perhaps his story is a coincidence? No, it can’t be. A rider with the same name and similar enough in face to me for this Weylander to see the resemblance. My father is not dead. I was lied to. Deceived.
Nocks shook his head. ‘No. I did it myself. With a pistol. It misfired and took my face off rather than blowing my brains out, which was what I was aiming for at the time.’
Alexamir stared at the soldier as if he was insane. Is he raving or speaking the truth?
‘Why?’ Nocks convulsed into a barking laugh as filthy as a sewer. ‘That’s the question, ain’t it? There were a bunch of forest savages coming to crucify me against a tree, build a fire around my boots and roast poor ol’ Nocks for supper. Creatures so twisted they hardly count as human anymore. The bullet was a mercy.’
‘But you said a man did this to you?’
‘It was the man who tossed me a single bullet as the Lord’s own clemency, right before he left me for dead. But I don’t reckon ol’ Nocks can die. Not unless I choose to. Perhaps not even then.’ Nocks hooted loudly, amused by his self-proclaimed invincibility. ‘That’s what those forest cannibals thought, anyhow. Staked me out to die, like a haunch of beef that needed ageing. After I survived for five days nailed to that tree, the savages started to worship me, before they sent me on my way riding a timber-wolf the size of a plough horse. Nocks, holy Nocks, blessed by the stealers for his fine ways with a blade and a gun.’ He fell into a fit of dirty laughter again.
Alexamir was half-convinced that this Weylander had become demented during his trials. Battle-crazed. To be possessed by the gods during a confrontation was to be blessed, being sent the red rage a sign of their favour. But it became a curse if the spirits did not immediately flee after the fight. Staying inside a rider, worming into his soul and heart, tipping him into killing furies over spilt drinks or accidental jostles around the camp fire. Perhaps this Weylander who claimed to have fought with a father Alexamir long believed dead, this Nocks, was truly insane.