The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  The mind-stench of gorclaks grew stronger. And human emotions: a churning of fear, rage, excitement. Perhaps the mountain horses sensed it too, for they baulked in panic, refusing to leave the open space of the ravine centre. Urged away, they circled back again, eyes wide, ears pricked. Timnius, frustrated, tried to grab at their halters, thinking to lead them instead, but they skittered off in all directions, only to regroup further down the ravine in a nervous hoof-stamping gathering. Far-off thunder grumbled warning.

  Arrant’s heart pounded. He could feel the soldiers coming, as inevitable as a storm about to shatter a windless calm. One part of him was tense, but he also savoured the anticipation. He wasn’t afraid. His mother would be there. She would keep him safe, she always did. She was a Magoria. This was just another adventure, a shivery one perhaps, but its outcome would be good. All those horrid feelings: they weren’t his. They belonged to other people, bad people. He had to learn to push them into the background, that’s what Ligea said.

  He sat still and watched, peering through the screen of bushes. And saw the gorclaks sweep around a corner.

  Dislike of the riders with their yellow hair and short tunics gripped him. They had snarling dog faces on their cuirasses and, in the whirl of bodies and horses and gorclaks and weapons, the faces of the soldiers seemed as cruel as the canine snarls on their chests. The pounding of hooves bonded to the thunder of the storm. The ground shook with the rush of beasts. The air was muggy with sound, saturated with cries, with galloping, with animal panic. Noise all around, till he put his hands over his ears.

  He tried to count them, but in the confusion penetrating his mind, he couldn’t remember his numbers. Eight, nine, ten, twelve—or did eleven come before twelve? Ligea would be annoyed. More gorclaks than he had fingers. He looked back at Timnius.

  The horse-handler was still in the open, tugging at the reins of two of the horses. And the first of the gorclak riders was upon him. Too late, Timnius released the bridles and tried to run, but the rider leaned down and swung his sword. It looked like a game. Slow, casual. The legionnaire was grinning. Grinning as the sword connected. He had been aiming for the side of the neck, but Timnius turned his head at the last minute to look up—and the sword slashed through his throat. Blood spurted, a spray of red raindrops. Timnius ran on, blood spraying, wound flapping. Then his legs faltered, as if he ran through water.

  Arrant screamed, but no one heard. Pain blossomed in his mind. Timnius fell, his dying opening out like a blood-red flower, petal edges slicing their agony into Arrant’s thoughts.

  This was what it was like to die.

  The gorclak rider made the mistake of looking back over his shoulder at Timnius. While he was distracted, the lumbering battering ram that was his mount ploughed into a panicked horse. The nose-horn, backed by the vast weight of the gorclak, ripped open the side of the animal, spilling guts onto the ground. The heap steamed there like hot stew. The gorclak swung its massive head to sweep the slaughtered beast out of the way, but stumbled over the carcass instead and crashed hard to its knees. The soldier, still unbalanced from his sword slash, went flying over its head. The next gorclak thundered into the two injured beasts. Struggling animals now barred the way of the other fleeing men.

  Eight of them. This time Arrant counted them correctly. The first one—the one who had killed Timnius—was dead from his fall. The intense desire of the others to flee flamed out into the air like fire spreading across spilled oil. He couldn’t feel the other legionnaires; there had been more, surely? But his awareness of them was gone.

  Ligea and Mole and Koll and Gev and the others—he felt all of them, though. Even Darius, well at the back. They were following the legionnaires down the ravine, running. Except for Gevenan. The Ingean was riding Darius’ horse. His emotion was like a burning coal, all hot and intense and hard.

  He arrived first, bursting on the scene in a flurry of mud and sweat and panic. The snarling-dog men were still trying to untangle the two fallen gorclaks and riders. Gevenan launched a spear at the back of the closest man. He died not even knowing what killed him. The next died just as he turned to see what had happened. Gevenan swept on and then wheeled the horse to make another pass. He was using his sword and shield now, controlling the mount with his knees and heels.

  Arrant thought: too many. He can’t win.

  He felt the first twinge of fear for himself. Where was Ligea?

  He looked down at his cabochon, but there was nothing there. No colour. No power. But emotions—they were everywhere around him, swamping him, muddling him. Nothing he could use. He sat still, gripping the reins, as his mount rolled its eyes and flung its head about.

  Then Ligea was there. And the ravine seemed to be full of people, all battling to live.

  Arrant felt no relief. His first sight of war and it was the taste of it in his mind that overwhelmed, all the anguish and agony poured onto a pain-saturated slope until it collapsed into an avalanche of terror, submerging everything. So much pain, inextricably combined with savage pride and rage. Who felt what, he had no idea. He clutched his head, just wanting to be rid of it all so he could think. So that he could stop screaming. He wanted the pain to go away.

  I want Ligea. ‘Mater! Mater!’

  And then something else drifted into his mind, touching him in wonder. And abruptly it all stopped. The pain, the confusion, the fear. As if someone had closed a door and left all the bad things on the other side. On his side, there was…peace. Comfort. Then a renewed terror: he wasn’t alone. Someone was inside him, looking out through his eyes.

  For a splinter of time he was beyond fright, in a realm where fear closed down thought. Then, again abruptly, another barrier shut down. The presence was gone. He had his mind back. He could feel nothing and no one, not even Ligea. His terror lingered, along with the memory of that—person? creature?—in his head. With no thought but to find his mother, he urged the reluctant horse towards the fighting. It sidled from the brush. The conflict whirled on; the smell of blood was strong.

  Once, he had thought he would enjoy watching a battle. After all, it was so pretty to see the light shoot from Ligea’s sword; he thought she was pretty, too, with her golden Magoroth glow.

  But he knew better now. Battle was also whirling wind and noise and lots of shouting and screaming. The yellow-haired men had those horrible gorclaks, battle mounts with horns that cut human flesh like knife blades. And the smell. Voided bowels and blood, ruptured guts and horse dung, sweat and the stench of gorclak. The sounds of men about to die with spears lodged deep in their bodies. The gurgle of men trying to breathe without lungs, the rattle in throats making their last human utterance. The resonance of death and agony and parting.

  He couldn’t curb his distress. He hated those sounds, those smells. He hated the fear inside himself. His emotions overflowed, out of his control.

  And his mother’s head swung around searching for him, alarm in every line of her body. A rip-disc came whirling out of a sling towards her. Distracted, she didn’t see it.

  He saw her spin around and fall; he saw blood. Lots and lots of blood. When he dragged his gaze away from that, he saw a big yellow-haired man ride his gorclak at her. He was laughing and swinging a double-headed axe, leaning half out of the saddle, the axe cleaving the air towards her neck…He wanted to run to her, yet he knew he mustn’t and the horse refused to move closer anyway. He wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in his throat—

  Nothing was exciting any more. Fear. Fear that made your throat so tight you couldn’t breathe, or cry, or anything.

  The axe bounced in the air instead of hitting her. Sparks splintered forth in a shower of gold, and it was the yellow-haired man who toppled dead, not Ligea. Wounded even as she was, she’d built wards with her sword and then burned a hole through his chest.

  Still the fighting spun on, but his eyes stayed with his mother, seeing only her blood, knowing she was hurting, feeling the spill of her pain before she conquered it. This wasn’
t just some sort of grown-up game. It wasn’t fun. It was horrid.

  When the fighting was over, he slipped down from the horse and ran to go to her. He had to pass Timnius’ body. He slowed, staring, his panic rising once more. Timnius was so still. His skin was a funny colour, all pale. And his eyes were open, but they didn’t move. Like the eyes of a statue. No life in them, no spark. Painted marble. He rushed on to join Ligea, his sobs caught in the back of his throat, unable to escape.

  She sat, leaning against a rock. Mole was already there, winding cloth around her shoulder. She smiled at him and reached out with her free arm. ‘It’s all right, Arrant. It’s not as bad as it looks—just a bit of blood and skin missing. Nothing I can’t fix with rest and Magoroth magic.’

  Scared and shamed by his fear, he took her hand and clung, swallowing back the tears. She kissed his head. Then she turned to Mole. ‘Did we get them all?’

  ‘All dead bar one, and he’s a prisoner.’

  ‘And our men?’

  ‘Bad news. Olad’s in the hands of the Vortex, Acheron accept his soul. Koll took an arrow in the leg that’s a bit nasty. A few others with cuts that might need your attention some other time. Timnius died before we got here. The other lads are fine, if scared pissless.’

  ‘Olad and Timnius. Vortex-blast. Damn, damn, damn! I thought we had them boxed in. I didn’t think they would find the way in here. My mistake.’ Arrant felt the pain she felt, pain that had nothing to do with her injury.

  She asked, ‘Can you round up the horses?’

  ‘I think so,’ Mole said. ‘They don’t seem to have gone far. The prisoner?’

  ‘I don’t want prisoners.’

  ‘Do you want to see him first?’

  She nodded, so they brought the yellow-haired man to her. He took one look and spat on the ground at her feet. ‘Kardi numen bitch,’ he said. He sounded brave, but Arrant didn’t need his cabochon to sense the sickliness of fear in the Tyranian. Lots of people smelled like that when confronted by the Magor power of his mother.

  ‘How did you find us?’ she asked.

  The man couldn’t keep the stutter out of his voice. ‘I d-don’t know things like that. None of my business. Just do as I’m told.’

  She sighed. ‘And that’s the truth, unfortunately.’ She pointed at the dog face on his cuirass. ‘What’s the meaning of the dog’s head?’

  ‘It is our s-s-symbol. The Mountain Jackal. We are the Jackal Legion.’ He tried to grin. ‘A hunting pack. Culling out those who deserve to die.’

  She ignored his nervous bravado. ‘I’ve never heard of you.’

  ‘A new name for an old legion. We were one of the best, once. We’re the military arm of the Brotherhood now, and we’ll s-s-show you what we can do. You took us because we are just a s-s-squad—a few men hunting out your lair. When we don’t come back, the rest of the legion’ll know where to look, won’t they? And you won’t beat them.’

  The muscles around her eyes tightened. ‘That’s new. The Brotherhood never felt the need of a military arm before. Who’s your commander?’

  ‘Legate Favonius Kyranon. He isn’t here. He’ll hunt you down one day, numen b-b-bitch.’

  Her emotions hit Arrant like a punch in the stomach. Her voice shook as she said, ‘Favonius? He was a Stalwart! Whenever would a Stalwart join the Brotherhood? Stalwarts despise Brotherhood tactics, Favonius more than most!’

  Arrant didn’t understand what she meant. He didn’t understand what the man said next either.

  ‘When the quarry is s-s-sufficiently tempting. Or s-s-sufficiently hated. We remember what numina bastards did to some of our number over there in Kardiastan.’

  ‘You were there in the Mirage?’

  ‘Never made it. I was one of those cut off by the avalanche. You’re dead meat, lady.’ He smiled at her. Arrant wanted to hit him.

  ‘You’re telling me the Stalwarts are now the Jackals?’

  ‘That’s right. After the Mirage muck-up, the Exaltarch packed us off to the p-provinces in disgrace. Five years in bloody exile! But the Magister Officii brought us back a month or two ago, to deal with you.’

  ‘What happened to Legate Kilmar?’

  ‘He never made it b-back from the Mirage. Legate Favonius leads us now.’

  She didn’t say anything; just nodded to Mole, who led the man away.

  ‘What’s a numen?’ Arrant asked.

  She ruffled his hair. He hated it when she did that. ‘Nothing you need ever worry your head about. There are no such things as numina, but foolish people will believe in all kinds of foolish things just to explain what they are not wise enough to understand. Now run along, lad, and keep out of everyone’s way. I want to talk to Gevenan.’

  He moved away, but then all his fears came scurrying back. The fear he might die. The fear his mother might die. The memory of Timnius dying. The memory of that—that something looking out through his eyes. He sidled back behind her, trying hard not to leak all his fears, and sat down.

  She beckoned to Gevenan and he came across to her, grinning, but she was in no mood for his amusement. She turned on him wrathfully. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’ she snarled.

  He raised an eyebrow, his grin vanishing. ‘Do what?’

  ‘You took Darius’ horse instead of letting me have it! That was insane, Gev, and you know it. I’m the only person here who can take on more than half-a-dozen legionnaires at once. If they hadn’t had that pile-up to occupy them while the rest of us caught up, you’d be dead.’

  He looked her up and down and said, ‘Can I mention that I’m the one who’s unharmed and you’re the one who’s wounded? Don’t try to pull my teeth, m’dear, when your own need sharpening.’

  She glared at him. ‘I gave you an order back there. I told you to give the horse to me—and you rode off.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t hear you.’

  She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I can hear lies, Gev, remember? You disobeyed an order during a fight! I should—’

  ‘Should what?’ He met her fury with a derisive smile. ‘Demote me? Replace me? Throw me out of your army?’

  They stared at each other in lengthy silence. Then he gave a sigh of his own and crouched down so his face was level with hers. Arrant had to strain to hear what he said. ‘Ligea, I ride better than you do. I got back here quicker than you could have. Simple as that.’

  ‘You were damned lucky not to die, and you know it. I kill better than you do, Gev.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe. I did take a chance, but it wasn’t stupid bravery. It was a deliberate act based on, er, on my best interpretation of the situation.’

  ‘Gev—there can only be one general in an army.’

  ‘Yes. I agree. And it’s got to be me.’

  The next silence was so long that Arrant began to fidget. He didn’t like seeing them argue.

  Once again, it was Gevenan who broke the silence. ‘Ligea, you set the boundaries. You draw the battle lines. But in the fight, I command the men. It’s what I do best. I was a general, damn it, and a damned fine one too.’

  ‘A general who lost the all-important battle.’

  ‘That’s kicking a man in the nobs. But yes, I admit it. I made mistakes. It was the first time any Ingean army had faced Tyranian legions and our tactics were all wrong. But that was twenty years ago, and I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.’

  A third silence, but this one was less hostile. In the end, Ligea threw up her hands in capitulation. ‘Let me have a look at Koll’s wound, then we’ll ride on to Prianus. We can ask some of the villagers to come back and bury the Tyranian dead and hide what happened here. We’ll take Timnius and Olad back with us.’

  Gevenan won, Arrant thought in surprise.

  On the way to Prianus, he kept eyeing Timnius’ body, flung over the back of his horse. His arms flopped like empty sleeves dancing as the horse trotted.

  As they rode into the stone-cutters’ village in the gloom of dusk, Arrant felt almost happy because he
knew Narjemah would be there, staying with one of her friends from her slave days. He thought of her cakes, and the way she hugged him. It would feel good to have her arms about him, calling him her little boy. He wanted to forget the painted eyes, the flopping arms, the way fear could choke you so you couldn’t breathe.

  As it turned out, this time he was disappointed. Narjemah hugged and then cried over Ligea, not him. Which was odd, because she was scolding her at the same time. Arrant she merely hauled off to have a bath. He had noticed before that Narjemah was overly concerned with cleanliness. He didn’t always submit meekly.

  That evening he was more subdued; he couldn’t forget all that blood. The way the dog-man had been swinging his axe at Ligea. Her wound running red. That other thing sitting in his head, looking out through his eyes. He sat quietly in the tin bath while Narjemah attended to his mother, washing the wound and reproaching her all the while.

  ‘Enough is enough, Magoria. You can’t cart the boy all around Tyrans as if you were both off on some pleasure trip. While you have him with you, you don’t pay full attention to yourself. That’s how this happened, isn’t it? It’s not right, either—he could have been killed! He’s a child! He’s not supposed to fight battles at his age.’ She looked at him. ‘Poor wee mite. And him so brave, too. You leave him with me up in the Stronghold next time you go out.’

  Ligea sighed. ‘You can’t teach him the way I can, Narjemah. He’s the Mirager-heir; he must learn how to control his cabochon as soon as he can. You know he—he has difficulties. He needs a Magoroth teacher. Still, you’re right. Ouch! Haven’t you finished yet?’

  ‘Hold still! You rode all the way back here without a murmur, I guarantee, and now you squawk when I’m as gentle as a breeze?’

  ‘A gale out of Acheron, more like,’ Ligea muttered. ‘Narjemah, I actually agree with you this time. It seems Rathrox Ligatan has his wits about him. These new dogs of his are sniffing in the right direction. And I’ll admit it, I had a scare today. It was too close.’ She made a gesture at her shoulder. ‘And I’m not talking about this.’ She sighed again and Arrant almost cried because she felt so sad. ‘It’s time he went to his father.’