The Winds of Strife (The War of the Veil Book 1)

by John Donlan

  Shuvani felt a thrill course through her body. Her forces would be the first to enter the fray of battle, the first to gain the glory of crushing the foes of the empire. The empress would be left looking weak, while she would be seen as the strong one. The one who was enforcing the will of the people. She smiled to herself.

  “I am pleased,” she said. “Your news is like a soothing balm.”

  “I live only to serve, Jagir,” the priestess said, offering a small bow of her head. “As I served your mother. Trust in Tulvash, and all of your dreams will come to fruition.”

  Shuvani left the priestess to her devotions and emerged back into the scorching heat of the city streets. By the time she was back in her palanquin and weaving a path through the crowds, her anger was nothing but a memory. Her fears had all been waylaid. If anything, she was in a better position now than she had been before. The empress had betrayed all of her people, not just Shuvani, and the citizens of the empire would see her as part of the problem once they learned the truth. Shuvani would be there to show them a new path, and would in turn set herself on the road to the throne.

  It had turned into a wonderful day, and she was eager to return home. She would sit out on her balcony, watch the soldiers train, and sip wine. And perhaps later, she would find a particularly handsome, muscular slave to share her bed-chambers for the night.

  Yes, it had been a very good day indeed.

  Eight

  Two days of slogging through the swamp had taken its toll on Needra. She was starving, and she was caked in the mud of the mire from head to toe. Her clothing hung from her frail frame in tatters, barely concealing her body and providing little modesty. Not that she needed such things. Modesty was the last thing on her mind, and she had not seen a single solitary soul to worry over it in any case. The swamp had seemed to stretch on forever, an unending nightmare of toil and muck and rot that she could not wake up from.

  She had stumbled onto the road the first day after escaping the fate that had befallen her travelling companions. But after only a short period of travelling along the raised dirt trail, her courage had failed her and she had plunged back into the swamp. She had felt exposed and vulnerable, and the feeling of being watched had grown stronger by the second, until it was all she could think about. The swamp had been foul-smelling, nasty and wet, but at least it had been able to mask her from sinister eyes.

  She had found a stream running through the bog later that day that had looked relatively clean. But when she had drank from it, it had disagreed with her in the most vehement manner. That night had been spent curled beneath the bole of a tree on a dry patch of ground, clutching at her stomach. Or bent double at the edge of a murky pool of stagnant water, retching. She had emptied her belly, but it had left her even weaker, and nearly delirious from thirst and growing hunger. Even the frogs and toads that made the swamp home had started to look delicious to her fevered mind.

  She knew she needed to find food and water, and shelter. She smelt terrible, and the mud caking her flesh was starting to itch in a way that was fast surpassing her capacity to ignore. The very real possibility that she was going to die here in this rotting marsh, far from home, was weighing heavily on her thoughts. She could picture her emaciated body sinking into the swamp and being lost forever, and the image in her mind made her shudder.

  But there had been no signs of human habitation during her gruelling trek. Nothing but swamp and flies and the gnawing of her stomach. A part of her wished that she’d had the courage to remain on the road. She was beginning to wonder if anyone lived here in this cold, damp place. But she knew that they did. She had seen those men two days earlier. They had come from somewhere nearby, she was sure of it. A town perhaps? A farm? She would have been happy to see either.

  Her one consolation was that she seemed to be reaching the end of the marsh. The land had grown firmer during the last few hours, and there were less of the reeking pools that had dogged her for days. The trees had thinned out, too, and she could see a little ahead. It looked as though she was nearing meadow lands, with a forest bordering the flat, grassy region on the right.

  It looked promising. If there were farmsteads nearby she could find food. Water. Fresh clothing. She would have to be sure that nobody saw her, but she was lithe and quick and good at hiding when she needed to be. She felt confident she could get what she needed and remain out of sight.

  She clambered up the muddy side of a slope and as she reached the top she found her suspicions confirmed. The land stretched away from her to the horizon, dry and open. And there, in the near distance, was a farm. Or what she assumed to be a farm. She could not tell if the lands surrounding the old stone buildings were tilled and cultivated or not, but she could see smoke rising from the chimney, which meant food.

  Her fevered brain pushed her forward, and she scurried through the grass with only one thought on her mind: filling her belly. As she drew closer, however, she caught sight of people outside. They were working the fields, she realised at once, toiling at the crops. The grass was long enough that she could keep out of view, but she would need to approach cautiously.

  To the right of the main building was what looked like a large barn. A place big enough that she could hide inside for days if need be. At the very least she would have shelter. At night, she could emerge to find food and water. With no other reasonable plan presenting itself, and with hunger and thirst driving her thoughts, it seemed the only sensible course of action. She ducked below the tops of the waving grass stalks and hurried forward, skirting the field with her head scrunched low.

  She could see at least three men working in the fields. She was not sure what the crops were, but she could see the men digging at them, cutting them from the ground with large tools. The harvest was almost over, and these would likely be the last crops collected before winter arrived. The men were dressed in simple cotton garments and heavy furred vests.

  Needra looked at the clothing with jealous need. She was ill suited to the colder climes of this northern land, and she missed the sands of Tho'reen, and more specifically the tropical jungles of her homeland. Here, the skies seemed constantly grey, and it seemed to rain more often than it didn't. In the empire, rain was scarce, and in some places to the south, where the sands were the colour of bronze, it never rained at all. They were dependent upon the great rivers that rushed through the regions for their water and to sustain their crops. Here, there was no such problem.

  Skirting around the edge of the fields, Needra made for the barn. The huge wooden doors were slightly open, allowing her the opportunity to push through into the cool, dim interior.

  The barn was made from heavy stone on the outside, but the interior was mostly wood. It was comprised of two storeys, with the upper section being half the size of the one below. Up there she could see a welcoming darkness, and the dim outlines of hay bales and old barrels and crates. There would be places to hide up there. Nobody would see her, if she was careful and wary and quiet.

  A ladder provided access to the dark upper level. She scampered up it and then spent several minutes surveying her potential new home. It did not take long for her to find a small, dark alcove near the back of the platform, behind several stacked wooden crates. She bundled some of the dry hay into a small heap and then curled up on it. The rough, coarse stalks irritated her skin, but they were almost a luxury after the stagnant pools of the swamp, and certainly not enough of a distraction to keep her from sleeping. And there were no flies, either. It felt good to be dry and at least somewhat warm for once. It felt to her that she had been slogging through the cold and the mud for most of her life; an eternity. To have even this small comfort seemed a almost like a dream.

  Her stomach was still growling painfully, but not enough to overcome the drowsiness that stole over her as soon as she lay down on the makeshift bed. Her eyes slid closed, and before long, she had drifted into a deep and powerful sleep.

  * * *

  Blood filled her dreams. Blo
od, and the sound of rending flesh. She was in total darkness, and had nothing with which to focus her senses on other than the sounds of carnage going on all around her. The screams of the dying that echoed through the blackness were the worst. Some cried out for mercy, but were shown none, others simple howled in pain and agony as they were cut to shreds. All Needra could do was to curl up and weep and wish for it to stop.

  It did stop, eventually, but that was almost worse in a way. Because she knew then that whatever had killed the people in the dark would come for her next.

  She woke up sweating and chilled, her nose filled with the stench of her unwashed body. Coupled with the raw terror she felt over the nightmare, it was almost enough to make her vomit. If her stomach had not been empty, she probably would have. She pushed herself to her knees and took several deep breaths, trying to forget the horrors of sleep. The images went away, but slowly.

  Needra felt almost worse than she had when she had first closed her eyes. Her stomach was tied into a painful knot of hunger, and she knew that food would have to be a priority for her now. Much longer without something to eat, and she would become too weak to go on. She took a step towards the ladder.

  It was then that she heard the sound of movement below. She stiffened instantly, her heart thudding with a new kind of fear. She dropped back to the ground and then slithered forward onto her belly and eased herself towards the edge of the platform. Through the barn door she could see that it had gotten dark outside. Stars winked down at her, and she could see the soft shimmer of the moons far above. They cast enough light for her to see what had made the noise.

  There was a man rooting around in the tools below. He was tall, stocky, and fair-haired. One of the farm hands, she supposed. He was looking for something amongst the assorted implements below. Once he found it, he would leave her alone again. She could slip out, find something to eat and drink.

  The man twisted his head suddenly and glanced up at her. Needra almost screamed. She could have sworn to all the Gods that she had not made a noise; but something had drawn his attention, and now she had been seen.

  “What in the name of the king...?” The man dropped what he was holding and crossed in a trot to the ladder.

  Needra scrambled to her feet and backed away, her eyes darting from side to side, looking for an escape. But the ladder was the only safe way down, and unless she wanted to risk jumping, she was trapped.

  The man climbed up quickly and then came to a stop near the top of the ladder. He stared at her through narrowed eyes, before levering himself up onto the platform.

  “What are you doing ‘ere? Come to try and thieve from us, is that it?” He took a step forward and Needra backed away again. Her rear bumped against the wall and she came to a stop.

  “Around 'ere, we don't hold with thieves; chop their hands off we do.” He curled his nose up as he came closer, having finally caught a whiff of her scent.

  “What, have you been bathing in the swamp, little thief?” He hawked and spat in disgust. “Well, they'll give you a bath in the dungeon, sure enough. Right before you get the axe.”

  He laughed and took one more step. Then came to a sudden stop, his eyes growing wide. Even beneath the muck and the grime, the colour of her skin was unmistakable. “Tho'reen! Not a thief! A spy! Come here, you southern bitch!”

  He lunged at her and if Needra had been able, she would have screamed. Instead she dodged to the side. She felt his fingers brush along her arm, scrabbling to find purchase before slipping away. Needra dashed forward, swerving to avoid his reaching hands again. The man swore loudly and turned to rush after her.

  “The duke will pay well for a Tho'reen spy,” the man hissed, his heavy boots hitting the wood as he gave chase.

  Needra had no intention of finding out if that last comment was true or not. The ladder was just ahead. She was quick, agile. She could get away. She made a leap for the ladder and her nimble little hands found it, pulling her to a stop before she could fall out over the edge of the platform.

  She started down as quickly as she could, but the man was already on her. He dropped to his knees, bent over the edge of the ladder and grabbed for her shoulder.

  Needra squirmed away, but her luck was failing. His fingers found the sleeve of her shirt and grabbed it, yanking back hard and cruelly in an attempt to pull her back. She held onto the ladder with all of her might, but the man was much stronger than she was. She felt herself lifting away from the wooden rungs as he heaved.

  But she was not about to go without a fight. Needra twisted her head and then lunged towards the hand with her mouth. Her teeth sank into his flesh. She tasted the bitter, coppery tang of blood flooding over her tongue, but only bit harder, like a dog worrying a hare.

  The man screamed, loud and shrill. Needra shook her head, pulling a chunk of flesh away from the bone. The man screamed again as her mouth came free, taking part of his hand with it. She saw him stagger backwards, holding his hand against his chest. He was sobbing like a child.

  Needra spat the hunk of meat from her mouth and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She felt no remorse over what she had done. It had been a matter of survival. And the man would live. Without waiting to see if he had any strength left for the chase, Needra scurried down the ladder and then dashed across the barn floor towards the huge doors at the other end.

  She stepped out into the cool night air. Shouts were coming from the direction of the farmhouse, and she could see lights appearing outside the door. The inhabitants had heard the scream, no doubt. They were coming to see what had happened.

  Needra did not wait for them to find her. She turned towards the utter darkness of the night and sped away.

  Nine

  Gadmar Crow urged his horse to the head of the line and came to a stop beside the captain of his personal guard. The man rarely showed emotion, but now he looked grim and displeased. Gadmar didn't much like it.

  “What is it, captain?”

  Captain Stairn lifted a hand and pointed along the road. Up ahead, on the right, was the Duke's Wood, also know by its official name, Lanmir's Grove. Once, a very long time ago, it had marked the border of the kingdom. There were still ruins along the outer edge of the forest that were all that remained of where the old fortress had been. It had been reduced to so much rubble now, and only a few walls and time-worn blocks of chiselled stones still stood. The rest of the stone had been carted south, to the new border at the mouth of the mountain pass, where it had been used to build the High Keep. The wood marked a different border now, the line between the Southmarsh – domain of the Crow Dukedom - and the Barony of Arnsmoor.

  Gadmar looked where his captain was pointing and frowned. He could see a line of armed, mounted soldiers approaching. Twenty strong, perhaps. He had more men with him, and if it came down to it, he would win in a fight. But he was not here for that.

  “Come with me,” he said, and spurred his mount forward. The captain and a handful of soldiers fell in beside the duke and rode to meet the approaching contingent.

  As he drew closer, Gadmar relaxed. He could see the insignia on the breastplates of the soldiers now. They were the baron's men, and the baron was an old, old friend. They had fought together against the Tho'reen invasion years ago. They were like brothers. Closer, in some respects. They had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion.

  Gadmar reined in his horse and waited as the leader of the armed men came closer. It was Raylor, Baron Hedick's son. Gadmar had not seen the man for almost three years, and back then he had been little more than a boy. At sixteen he had been short and thin, almost sickly looking. A lot had apparently changed in the intervening years. Raylor was a big man now, almost as big as Gadmar's own son, Luscard. He had thick, dirty brown hair and the start of what Gadmar suspected would turn into a very impressive beard within a year or so.

  Thinking of his middle child now, Gadmar glanced back over his shoulder. Luscard was back there, waiting with the rest of the troop and ta
lking quietly with a soldier. He had been brooding and withdrawn during the two days on the road. Gadmar was all too aware of the reason why. He hated the fact that they were going to beg forgiveness from the king. He was of a mind that they should be demanding war, not grovelling.

  Gadmar did not consider what he was going to do to be grovelling. The king was likely to be angry, and with good reason. He had placed his trust in the duke, and that trust had failed. Not through the fault of Gadmar, of course, but it had happened nonetheless. He had to take responsibility, and find a means of making amends. That was part of ruling, even when he ruled but a small part of the kingdom. He had a duty and a responsibility.

  That was what Luscard did not understand. His thoughts were of his own pride, and how apologising to the king might affect his stature. He had a lot to learn.

  Gadmar looked back to the front. Raylor, resplendent in his shining armour and mail-bedecked steed, came to a halt. He stared at Gadmar for a moment with a stern expression on his face, before breaking into a smile.

  “Uncle Gadmar! By Naedorn it is good to see you again! It has been too long. If you had sent us word that you were coming, we would have prepared a real welcome. Father will be pleased.”

  Gadmar returned the smile warmly. He was not a true uncle to the young man, but the affectionate title was appreciated nonetheless. “As it will be good to see him. How is the old goat?”

  “Still lost in the past,” Raylor said. “I must have heard his stories about the battle of the ford a hundred times, but he never grows tired of the telling. I am not entirely sure he has not embellished it in some way. Perhaps you can tell us the truth.”

  Gadmar laughed. “Not a chance of it. Hedick has earned the right to tell that story as he sees fit. But tell me, why are you here?”