by R. S. Ford
Canio considered Randal carefully, as though he was wondering if it would be too much bother to kill the little shit. ‘You can have four,’ he said, finally.
Josten felt himself suddenly gripped by panic. He was wounded, but not incapacitated, and there was no way he was letting this situation get away from him. Livia was out there, frightened and alone, and he remembered well the bargain he’d made with her before the tallymen arrived. Deep inside he knew it was a bargain that had to be honoured.
‘I’ll make up the five,’ he said, struggling to stand.
Canio glared at him, then his expression softened. ‘That sounds like a good idea to me.’
‘Are you insane?’ said Randal. ‘This man wants me dead.’ He eyed Josten warily.
‘Right now he’s not the only one,’ said Canio. ‘You’ve got four of my men. They’ll take you north. Josten goes with you. I suggest you grab your supplies before I change my mind.’
Randal opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it, surrounded as he was by Canio’s men. Without another word, he left.
‘Thanks,’ Josten said as Randal stalked from the tent. ‘I’m sure you think you’re doing me a favour,’ he said. ‘But Randal will kill me the first chance he gets. And given half the chance, I’ll do the same.’
‘Then don’t give him the chance.’ Canio shrugged. ‘And there’s no need to thank me. The sooner you’re both out of my hair the better.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t feel bad about leaving this shit hole behind me.’
‘Then good luck.’
Josten couldn’t tell if the words were sincere or not, but right now he didn’t care.
As Canio left him alone, Josten gave silent thanks his luck was holding out. But only by the most frayed of threads.
* * *
I am the hallowed legacy that stands the test of aeons,
Raised and anointed in his eternal name,
My faith is the cloak that protects me in the dark,
My will is the robe that shields me from the burning sun,
In suffering so do I find my strength,
For the blood of conquerors runs through my veins.
I am the terror in the night,
I am vengeance on the wind,
I am Sword Saint.
– Credo of the Sword Saint
The winds of the Ramadi blow devils from Shem to the Gargamere,
Dust of uncounted bones, memories of uncounted souls,
The Seven Deserts calling myriad names.
Calling thy despair.
– Lament of the Ramadi
* * *
31
The Cordral Extent, 92 years after the Fall
THEY were heading north. Kaleb knew this because he’d heard Bolan and the hostler talking back at the inn at Farcove.
‘These boys are bound north on the Scrimshaw Road,’ said Bolan.
Kaleb had seen the look on the hostler’s face, like the man had just vomited in his mouth. There had been silence between them after that, like the hostler no longer trusted Bolan. Kaleb understood that. He’d only known Bolan a few days and already it was clear he was an easy man to hate.
That night, the six boys had slept under the cart, chained together, while Bolan slept inside the inn. Kaleb had spent the night imagining Bolan in his warm room and his comfortable bed. Some of the other boys talked about how they’d like to slide a knife across his throat, but without a knife to hand it was just a flight of fancy.
The next day, as the sun beat down and the gulls screeched their morning chorus, they carried on the trek north. It was a dull journey, the sea lapping the cliffs to their left, the cart rolling along the endless Scrimshaw Road and Kaleb’s stomach grumbling in constant complaint.
Still, all this had to be better than where they’d come from.
Kaleb’s earliest memories were of his sister. Her dark hair and her sweet voice still came to him, in the days when his belly had not been empty and the nights hadn’t been cold. But she was long gone.
After she’d died, he’d grown up on the streets. The city of Tallis was huge – big enough to get lost in, which had come in handy more than a few times – but filled with the worst scum imaginable. Food had been scarce, and Kaleb spent his time robbing what he could. Bolan and the Seawatch had come for Kaleb as he slept in an alley. Before he could fight or run he was in irons alongside a group of other boys he didn’t know, headed to Halbor knew where.
Over the past four days he had learned what he could of his travelling companions. There were the twins, Tem and Rulf, who said very little to anyone but each other. There was Jodeth, who had spent the first two days weeping until Bolan had beaten that out of him. Olivar was always trying to make jokes, despite the hardship, and he often made the other boys laugh when Bolan wasn’t looking.
Then there was the last boy. Kaleb didn’t know his name for he never spoke to any of them. His eyes were dark, his hair long, and he had a constant look, something like a wolf, about him. Kaleb was even more scared of this one than Bolan, though he did his best to disguise it. Any sign of weakness would be pounced on, by Bolan or the other boys, and he wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim.
As the sea crashed against the rocks, covering the Scrimshaw Road with a fine spray, Bolan pulled his cart over.
‘Off,’ he ordered. The boys duly obeyed, climbing down from the cart and lining up.
‘Piss if you have to. No talking,’ said the slaver as he fished in his bag. None of them needed to piss.
He walked along the row of boys, offering them a drink from a waterskin and tearing off a hunk of bread for each of them. As they stretched their legs Bolan took himself off to piss over the edge of the cliff down onto the Ebon Sea. Olivar whispered a joke about Bolan struggling to find it beneath that gut of his. None of them dared to laugh out loud.
They journeyed on. Out to sea the horizon turned dark, black clouds rolling across the sky, and by the afternoon the rain hit the coast. The boys hunkered in the back of the cart, cloaks drawn around them. It did little to stop the rain seeping through and soaking them all to the bone. Kaleb noticed Olivar still had that shit-eating grin on his face all the while, but he didn’t have the energy to ask him what was so funny.
As the evening turned to night, the rain continued to beat down and Bolan pulled his cart over. The boys crawled beneath it once again, pulling their damp cloaks around them as Bolan hastily erected an awning for himself from a canvas sheet. They sat shivering in the cold as Bolan pulled what looked like a chicken leg from somewhere within his sheepskin cloak and began to devour it in front of them.
When he’d finished he threw the bone off into the dark and lay down on his bedroll for the night. Kaleb saw the other boys settling themselves to sleep. All but Olivar. He simply sat and waited. The last thing Kaleb saw before his eyelids drooped was Olivar’s face in the half-light, still grinning.
They awoke to commotion. The rain had stopped and the dawn light was beginning to illuminate the Scrimshaw Road as Kaleb opened his eyes.
‘Little. Fucking. Bastard.’
Kaleb heard each of Bolan’s words punctuated by a loud thud. The boys crawled out from beneath the cart to see Bolan atop Olivar, smashing the boy’s head into the dirt. Olivar didn’t move. He certainly had nothing funny to say.
Bolan stood, wiping blood from his neck, and Kaleb could see a knife on the ground nearby. As the boys stood watching, Bolan turned on them, his face a mask of fury.
‘And if the rest of you get any fucking ideas, you’ll get the same.’
Somehow Olivar had slipped his chains.
Bolan had the boys load Olivar’s body onto the back of the cart before they all climbed aboard. Kaleb noticed the boy was still breathing, despite the beating he had taken and the blood covering his face.
‘What do we do?’ Jodeth asked, as Bolan urged the horse onwards once more.
No one had an answer for him.
It took almost the whole day
before Olivar stopped breathing. Bolan checked him in the evening, then when he realised there was no profit to be made, unceremoniously dumped him in the ditch at the side of the Scrimshaw Road. If any of them needed a warning that escape was a stupid idea then seeing Bolan dump that body served well enough.
There was more silence and much less to eat over the next few days as they travelled further north. The Scrimshaw Road eventually led them to a city, similar to the size of Tallis. As Bolan’s cart trundled through the gates, Kaleb could see the folk who walked the streets were a fearsome bunch. He’d heard tales of the northerners – pirates and warriors all – but he was no more scared now than he had been the first day he was taken. The only thing that awed him was the vast bridge Bolan took to cross the waters that split the city in two.
Kaleb and the other boys watched with open mouths as a ship sailed right beneath them, traversing from one sea to the other. Then, as quick as they’d arrived they were over the other side and the shining waters were replaced with endless sands once more.
Their road became more dust-strewn with every mile until it was almost impossible to see. Kaleb couldn’t understand how Bolan knew where he was going; he seemed to be leading them into empty wasteland for all they could tell. No one had the courage to question him. All they could do was sit in chains.
When Rulf spied something on the horizon and began to make a fuss, Kaleb couldn’t help but feel relieved. Through the haze appeared a massive fortress on the horizon and it was nothing like Kaleb had ever seen. The outer walls were white and sheer, the towers within rising like spear points, reaching toward the sky, twisting into the blue as though they were trying to claw their way to the heavens.
The closer they got the more Kaleb’s unease grew. Jodeth looked on the verge of tears and Tem and Rulf grasped each other’s hands in fear. Only the nameless boy seemed unperturbed by their journey’s end. Kaleb tried his best to mimic the boy’s blank features, even though his insides roiled.
When they reached the huge gate Bolan pulled on the reins, bringing the cart to a stop. Kaleb could see up close that the fortress walls looked hewn from a single block of white stone. Within them stood a vast metal gate, which looked sturdy enough despite the rust and wear that gnarled it. Atop the walls flew a score of fluttering pennants displaying a black skull on a red background.
Bolan sat and waited until, with a deep grinding sound, the massive gate began to open. It creaked, painfully slow, revealing a little of what was within the fortress.
‘Out,’ ordered Bolan, as he climbed down from his cart to greet the man who walked from within the fortress.
He wore a plain grey robe from neck to foot. His face was pale and slim, and his dark hair was cropped short to his scalp. He approached Bolan without a sound.
‘Well, here they are,’ said Bolan.
‘Only five?’ asked the man in a quiet voice after looking the boys up and down.
‘One of them didn’t make it. But I’m sure you’ll make do.’
Without a word the man pulled a purse from within his robes and handed it to Bolan. The slaver nodded his thanks then turned to the boys.
‘Been nice knowing you,’ he said, before climbing aboard his cart and steering it back towards the south.
The boys stood in a row, the sun beating down on them. Silently the man approached, unshackling each of them with a key he produced from his robe. When each of the five boys was freed and their manacles dropped to the floor he stood back and assessed them. No one spoke for an age, and for a moment Kaleb missed Olivar’s smart mouth.
‘I am Gerval,’ said the man. ‘Hierarch and master of recruits within the great city of Kragenskûl. You should know that each of you is free to go.’ He paused, letting his words sink in.
The boys looked at each other quizzically. Only the silent one with the dark hair held Gerval’s gaze.
‘But you should also know,’ he continued, ‘there is desert in all directions. Pick the right way and you may find water in a day. Pick unwisely and you will find only sand, snakes and carrion birds.’ He glanced at them each in turn. ‘Or you can come with me.’ He gestured back toward the rusted gate and the fortress beyond.
Jodeth was the first to move towards the gate. Gerval asked his name as he passed and Jodeth told him before entering. Then Tem and Rulf did the same, leaving Kaleb and the dark-haired boy standing outside.
Kaleb knew he had little choice other than to die in the desert, but something in him wanted to be the last to enter – wanted to show a little defiance, to demonstrate he did have some kind of choice.
Gerval stood and waited for the boys without a sound. Kaleb could not see inside but he knew there would at least be food and some kind of shelter.
He glanced at the other boy. Kaleb couldn’t tell whether or not he intended to enter the fortress or strike out into the wasteland that surrounded them.
Defiance be damned.
Kaleb walked past Gerval, giving his name as he did so. Almost immediately he heard the last boy follow.
‘Dantar,’ he said as he followed Kaleb inside.
In all the days they had travelled together it was the first word he had spoken.
32
THAT first night they ate and drank their fill. As Hierarch Gerval led them to a solid circular tower the smell of food wafted from within, luring them like moths to a candle. Kaleb had little time to appreciate the buildings that towered around them within the walls of the fortress city. His only thoughts were of filling his empty belly.
Inside they sat at a long table, one of many within the hall. Other boys sat around them in silence, too many for Kaleb to count and of such different races and colours he could barely recognise their origins. There were dark-skinned boys from Shem, brutish-looking boys with almost full beards who must have come from the lowlands of Gargamere, and dozens of others, with skin as pale as the moon, or hair so black it shone, or eyes so blue they resembled ice.
But all this faded into the background as the food came out. Kaleb barely noticed the looks from the boys surrounding them as they were served first. Didn’t care that they ate their fill as the rest of the boys in the hall looked on with hungry eyes.
When the five of them had eaten, Gerval came to stand at the end of their table. Still there was silence within the hall.
‘That will be the last time you eat without first earning the right,’ he said. ‘The Qeltine Brotherhood will feed, house and clothe you all. But this benefaction will not come without a price.’
Kaleb looked around, noting that not one other boy within the hall was looking their way. Whoever the Qeltine Brotherhood were, he was grateful for the food and could only hope he could afford whatever price needed paying.
As Gerval left, two cauldrons were brought into the hall. In silence the rest of the boys began to line up, taking a bowl and filling it with whatever stew was inside. Kaleb didn’t envy them – the smell of it was vile – but none of them complained. In fact none of them said a word as they took the bowls back to their benches and began to eat.
Kaleb hardly slept that night. The bed, though simple, was more comfortable than any he had ever slept on, and the night was silent, but Kaleb lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet breathing of the twenty other boys who shared the room. He had a dread feeling about what the next day might bring, and it seemed that by the time sleep took him the dawn light was already beginning to encroach on the room.
The door opened. Kaleb didn’t hear a word ordered or anyone step inside but immediately there was a commotion all around as the other boys rose quickly from their beds to stand like statues in the half-light.
Kaleb had never been a fool, and he rose too, standing to attention before glancing towards the door to see a tall dark figure framed there. He noticed Dantar was already on his feet. Tem and Rulf were the next to rise but Jodeth looked up sluggishly from his bed.
The figure in the doorway walked forward, his footsteps clicking ominously on th
e stone floor. Kaleb tried not to look at him, seeing the other boys staring straight ahead, but he could not resist. Instantly he regretted it, as he looked upon the most fearsome figure he had ever beheld.
The man’s bald head was huge and horribly scarred. Some of the gouge marks looked like they’d been hacked there with an axe, others looked like they’d been carved into his flesh on purpose. Veins stood out on his neck and arms and the leather that adorned his body seemed to fit like a second skin, showing the thick muscle beneath.
He grabbed Jodeth’s foot as he lounged in his bed and dragged him out. Jodeth landed on the ground with a thump, wearily protesting, still half asleep. Kaleb watched with growing horror as the scarred giant unhooked a whip from his belt.
The first lash brought such a scream from Jodeth that Kaleb almost had to cover his ears. Only fear stopped him, keeping him transfixed where he stood. At the second lash Jodeth screamed again and tried to crawl away but his torturer stamped down hard on his bare leg with a thick leather boot and continued to go at the boy with his whip.
Jodeth’s cries seemed to recede with every stroke until finally he grew silent. The bald brute secured his whip back to his belt and silently walked back past the row of boys and out through the doors. In his wake, the boys filed out of the room.
Kaleb looked down at Jodeth as he passed. Seeing his flesh torn and bloody. He still breathed, albeit weakly, and his body shook in convulsions. Without medical attention it was doubtful he would last long, but no one looked like they were coming to his aid. Kaleb followed the rest of the boys out of the chamber.