Another, inner archway opened on to a broad central courtyard paved in stone. Across its expanse rose the central sanctum, tall and domed, the dwelling of Poliel herself. The woman paused in the archway, gesturing ahead. ‘Here the children of Poliel once congregated, having sworn pilgrimage to her presence. Now it stands empty, awaiting the devoted.’
Sighing, she turned to continue on and Heboric followed. ‘Passage to the isle is difficult,’ he suggested.
‘No more so now than before.’
Again, a third entranceway stood as an open undoored arch. A pillared hall, thick with hanging layers of incense, lay before them. Here, at least, sat a crowd of worshippers. And within the enclosed space, despite the cloying scented incense, the rank stink of rotting flesh and voided fluids was enough to make Heboric pause and determinedly force down the rising gorge of his stomach.
The woman at his side, however, walked forward without pause. She stepped over huddled shapes, either dead or near to it; Heboric could not tell as he followed her. They approached the altar and its shape both fascinated and repelled him, for it was carved in a human form, slightly larger than life, reclining, yet contorted in agony – presumably the agony of a deathly illness.
He turned to ask what next of the presumed priestess, but she walked on, climbed the dais, settled herself languidly upon the starvation-hollowed stomach of the humanoid altar, set chin on stump, and silently regarded him. Amusement now played openly upon her large brown eyes.
Quite chagrined, Heboric fell to one knee, then, thinking better of that, went even further to lie flat upon his stomach, offering full obeisance despite the sticky layer of dried blood and other bodily evacuations upon the stones.
‘And what,’ asked the goddess, ‘can Poliel do for Heboric, chosen of Fener?’
He slowly rose, but kept his gaze downcast. ‘O goddess, I believe I have been quite frank. You know what I wish.’
‘Indeed you have been quite frank. And so too shall I be. You are correct in surmising that this most recent affliction shares no origins with me.’
‘Then … who? If I may ask.’
‘Another.’
‘Another,’ he repeated. ‘I … see. Why? I mean, who would dare?’
‘Why? A demonstration, no doubt.’
‘A demonstration. I see. To what end – if I dare ask.’
‘To what end? Why, power, of course.’
‘Power. And your answer to this?’
‘I am … considering.’
A wave of dizziness took Heboric then, and he pressed a hand to his brow, finding it hot and sweaty. He suddenly felt quite poorly. ‘Apologies, m’lady,’ he stammered, ‘but I feel … unwell.’
The goddess eased out of the throne and came down to him. ‘You have been too long in my presence.’ She brushed one rotted remnant of a hand across his forehead and pain lanced him there. He weaved upon his feet, hardly able to stand.
‘You have been marked for a great fate, Heboric,’ she murmured. ‘And I admit I was curious to meet you. The next step in that fate may be found in Li Heng. Try to remember that, Heboric. Heng. For if you recall anything else of this audience, you will dismiss it as a fever dream.
‘Now,’ she breathed, ‘you must go.’ She touched the tip of one diseased finger to his forehead and an explosion of agony blasted him into darkness.
He awoke lying in the wash of waves. He pushed himself up on one arm and promptly vomited up the thin contents of his knotted stomach. Groaning and wiping his mouth, he peered about, groggy.
He was on the mainland shore of the shallow crossing to the Isle of the Blessed. He must have passed out when some sort of sickness took him. He pressed a hand to his fever-hot brow. What a fool he’d been, thinking of attempting that pestilential isle! Who knew what contagion or disease surrounded it? Obviously, something of its fetid air had already infected him before he’d even managed the crossing.
A timely lesson, he decided. His arrogance may yet be the undoing of him.
The hermit ascetics in the hills south of Li Heng – that was where he should go. They had dedicated their lives to religious study. If he were to find any answers, it would be there – not here on this island of the wretched. Merely being ill didn’t make you holy!
He strove to rise to his feet, paused, then clutched his stomach as his bowels exploded in a hot wet gush. He sank back into the frigid water, whimpering.
* * *
Orjin Samarr was at his usual post on the south catwalk peering gloomily over the pointed logs of the fire-treated palisade wall when a messenger came scrambling up the ladder, followed by his escort, Terath.
The squat hill-man touched his brow, bowing his head. ‘M’lord, forward scouts have them sighted. Their van is entering the pass.’
Orjin rubbed his unshaven cheeks. ‘About bloody time.’ He squinted up to the high slopes. ‘Four days? Who in Hood’s name is in charge over there?’ He nodded to the messenger. ‘That’s captain, by the way. My regards to Prevost Jeral. Remember – the baggage train! Hit the train.’
The hill-man touched his brow once more. ‘Yes, captain, m’lord,’ then he scrambled off.
Orjin eyed Terath dubiously. ‘What are they up to?’
The Untan duellist drew off her helmet and ran a hand through her brush-cut sweaty hair. Orjin thought her very handsome but for her habitual expression of sour disapproval of everything before her. ‘Taking their time,’ she judged.
‘Damned foolish decision.’
‘In your view,’ she answered; she was second in command, officer-trained, and saw it as her duty to test her commander’s views. ‘They think these forces beaten already. Why rush?’
He shrugged. ‘Gives the enemy time to organize.’
‘You don’t understand, Orjin. They don’t consider the Purge military a real threat.’
He regarded the south once more. ‘Well,’ he mused, ‘I’m not of Purge.’
‘That’s for sure. You’re from some rotten little fishing village, right?’
‘I wouldn’t even call it a village.’ He gestured her to her post. ‘Looks like a dusk attack. Get everyone ready.’
The Untan duellist saluted smartly, hand to chest. ‘Aye aye.’ Watching her go, Orjin wondered once again what might have taken her from Unta; clearly she missed the city, her friends and family. Her silences and obvious discomfort when talk among Orjin’s troop came to love interests – who was currently chasing or pining for whom – made him suspect that an unhappy romance was involved in her quitting the city.
It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a bad love affair had driven someone to run away and join the military, mercenary company or not.
As for himself, well, it was hard growing up in a hamlet you could throw a fish across. Especially for anyone with a dollop of wanderlust. It hadn’t taken him long to sail across to the mainland and dive into the only thing he was ever good at – fighting.
Jeral’s hill-folk were accurate in their estimate; soon after they disappeared the first of the Quon Talian mounted scouts appeared, investigating the valley. Orjin made no secret about his occupation of the Two-River Fort. His troops on the walls watched the Quon Talians ride by on their way further down-valley.
Next came the foremost elements of the force’s van: light cavalry followed by loose parties of skirmishers and light infantry.
The infantry surrounded the fort, just outside bowshot, and squatted down to wait. Orjin knew what they were waiting for – orders from higher up.
He saw the main force long before he heard it; three dark columns appeared high in the pass to come crawling down – the famed Talian medium and heavy infantry. Cavalry flanked the columns, kicking up clouds of thin snow that rose like banners in the winds.
Orjin’s worried gaze climbed to the bare rocky slopes overlooking the valley but saw no sign of anyone; nor was there any alarm or excursion from the invading force betraying detection of Jeral’s troops.
He did a quick calculation of
numbers and came up with close to thirty thousand. His brows rose: damn, they meant it this time. Troops enough to quell and control Purge. This was no quick punitive excursion. It looked as though the Quon Talians were coming to stay.
No wonder it had taken four days to pull together.
Still – not the way he’d have done it.
While Orjin and his troops watched from the palisades, more and more Quon Talians settled in to surround them. As the medium infantry arrived, the lights quit to continue on down the valley.
All this took most of the day. And still not one bow had been shot in anger; the investiture was handled in a very professional manner. Eventually, very late in the afternoon, a mounted delegation of ten approached the closed front gates. Here Orjin met them on the wall, together with Terath and Arkady – the Wickan scowling ferociously, his hands tight on the antler grips of the curved long-knives sheathed across his chest.
Terath noticed Arkady’s fierce expression and murmured to him, ‘I see you have your war-face on.’
He answered from the side of his mouth, ‘There’s a damned lot of them.’
Once the ten were close enough, one of their number called out: ‘Hail, Fort Two-River!’
‘Hail, invaders,’ Orjin answered.
The spokesman was a lean older fellow, in a mail coat set with larger plates of iron at his chest and upper and lower arms. He undid the strap of his helmet and pushed it up his head until it sat high above his brow, then he started pulling at the fingers of his leather gloves. ‘To whom am I speaking?’ he called.
‘Someone who asks that you pack up your dog and pony act and go.’
That got a small smile. The fellow leaned forward from the cantle of his high saddle, gloves dangling in one hand. ‘Come, come. Don’t be coy. You are obviously no Purge or Nom officer. Who are you?’
‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’ Orjin called back.
The fellow nodded. ‘Fair enough. I am Commander Renquill of the Quon Talian Legion. And you?’
‘Orjin Samarr, in the queen of Purge’s service.’
The fellow ducked his head once more. ‘Ah. I have heard of you.’ He gestured about with his gloves, and, leaning forward even further, asked, ‘What in Burn’s mercy do you think you are doing here?’
‘I’m about to kick a lot of pissant Talians off Purge territory.’
Renquill peered about at his infantry circumvallating the fort. ‘I’m told you can’t have more than a few hundred in there,’ he called.
Orjin’s long grey hair blew about and he pulled a hand through it to drag it back. ‘More than enough to beat you arselickers.’
Again the thin smile. ‘I see your game.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. You’ve made your point. How much do you want? How much to go away?’
At that question, Terath, at Orjin’s side, snarled and jerked forward as if about to jump the wall, a hand going to one of her swords.
‘You lot packed up and headed back south would do it,’ he answered.
Renquill shook his head in regret. ‘Foolish.’ He turned to the officer next to him. ‘Keep them in there until the only thing left to eat is each other.’ The officer bowed his acceptance. Renquill pulled his gloves back on, calling up, ‘I’d like to stay and have you put down like the dog that you are, but I can’t have you holding us up, now can I?’
The party turned and cantered away.
Orjin yelled after them: ‘Who’s the damned dog slinking off now, hey!’ But the commander merely waved negligently over his shoulder, apparently big enough to ignore Orjin’s proddings. He muttered to Terath, ‘Well, that didn’t work. I guess we’ll have to see what Jeral can cook up.’
‘If she’s still out there,’ she commented darkly.
‘She’s still sending messengers. They’re even sweeping together broken elements of the Purge army up there.’
As the hours passed, the Quon Talian main force continued its march northwards, filing by the fort. Orjin’s lieutenant, Arkady, made a circuit of the walls and reported back, ‘I make it some seven hundred surrounding us.’ He glowered, his long moustaches fairly bristling. ‘That’s a damned insult.’
Orjin raised a placating hand. ‘It’s all right. They don’t know who they’re dealing with – yet.’
All they could do now was wait. For him this was the hardest part of any engagement. Where he had control he was at ease; where he had no control he was unbearable. And so he stood the wall as the hours passed, thinking, reviewing his choices. What more could he have done? Every twelve hours he’d sent messengers northward to the Purge commanders, informing them of his preparations – and the enemy’s deployment. Now, he had only to wait. Would they respond and send a contending force? Or had they already pulled back to Purage, reconciled to a siege? For Orjin, these unknowns were more uncomfortable than a dose of the clap.
Though he burned to know what was going on high in the pass, he kept a northward post, watching the Quon Talian forces marching onward; it wouldn’t do for the Talians to wonder why everyone in the fort was eyeing the south with such anticipation.
Towards sundown word came from Terath that the baggage train was now descending the pass. He clenched the logs before him, rocking, forcing himself to remain. Now came the gamble. Would Jeral take this opportunity to hit the invader? That at least was his reading of her. She’d struck him as a fighter, not a runner.
After an agonizing wait in which he absolutely decided that she’d betrayed him, then flipped to grant her more time, then changed his mind again a dozen times over, gasps of awe – and a good deal of relief – sounded from his troops scanning the south. He turned, squinting into the purpling distance. Everyone was shouting now, and pointing high to the pass far above, even the surrounding Talian forces.
It all unfurled in breathtaking silence at first. Boiling clouds of snow descending not one but both slopes of the pass simultaneously, closing in on the ant-like file of the army baggage train like the twin arms of a vengeful god. Orjin was staggered by the scale of it; he’d expected a few falling rocks and logs, not this complete sweeping of the high slopes. It occurred to him that the witches and shamans of the hill-folk must have thrown their weight behind it.
Then the thunder of the avalanches hit his chest, momentarily drowning out the appalled cries of the surrounding Talians and the cheers of his troops. Terath appeared at his side, flushed and panting from running across the enclosure. ‘What now?’ she bellowed.
A massive storm of snow now utterly obscured the pass. The Quon Talian train – all the supplies, the support, the wagons with their teams of oxen, horses and donkeys gathered for the coming campaign – must have been obliterated. The catwalk of the log palisade juddered and shook beneath him; the very wall rocked as in an earthquake.
He peered round at the halted ranks of the invaders, the thousands upon thousands of backward-staring infantry, no doubt enraged by the attack, and nodded to his lieutenant.
‘This is a far greater blow than I’d hoped for. I’m thinking we’re about to be overrun. Time to head for the hills.’
She jerked a nod and ran to spread the order. Orjin waved his troops off the north wall and pointed to the east. They’d scale over and make a run to join Jeral.
Opposition was determined but thin. Orjin’s command broke through the encirclement and charged on. The Quon Talians were slow to react; they seemed completely stunned by the scale of the catastrophe. By the time mounted skirmishers were sent after them they’d reached a wooded slope and then it was too late. From there on they loped upwards, always searching out higher ground. When it became too dangerous to continue climbing in the dark Orjin ordered a halt.
They hid among tall boulders, their breath pluming in the cold night air. The most canny veterans among them always carried travelling blankets and these they wrapped about their shoulders, keeping watch through the night.
No pursuit appeared chasing after them; no files of torch-carrying infantry poking among the rocks. The lights
they could see bobbed up and down the pass: this commander fellow, Renquill, was rightly concentrating on searching through the wreckage choking the pass, salvaging what troops and equipment he could.
Orjin leaned up against a great granite boulder, unlit kaolin pipe between his teeth, his hair blowing about his face. He watched the torches and lanterns moving like tiny fireflies.
Yune came to his side. He nodded to the high slopes. ‘The pass is well nigh unusable now. If we cross over we’ll be stuck on the wrong side for the winter.’
‘A small force could make it back.’
The Dal Hon elder pursed his wrinkled lips. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And there’s always the coast.’
The shaman gave a snort. ‘Too many days.’ Orjin nodded his agreement.
‘What are you planning?’ Arkady asked, his dark gaze narrowing suspiciously.
Orjin studied his pipe. ‘We’ll see on the morrow.’
The Wickan bared his teeth in a savage grin to show that, knowing his commander, whatever it might be it would no doubt involve a fight.
With the dawn a pink light came crawling down the westward slopes and Orjin awoke where he sat leaning up against a rock. A rime of frost glittered on his vambraces and gauntlets and he groaned, straightening his arms and legs. He rubbed and thumped his chest to warm up.
Once everyone was kicked awake they headed up-slope once more. They kept to the thinning woods, seeking what cover they could. Orjin was worried about Quon Talian archers, but no sudden salvo came rattling down among them from the sky.
The valley wall steepened and the pine gave way to brush, lichen, and tufts of sharp grasses. They scrambled up on all fours now, seeking the crest of the wall. The wind was much stronger here, cutting through Orjin’s cloak, his cuirass of laminated iron bands, and even the quilted and padded hauberk of layered linen and cotton wadding beneath. He shuddered at the biting cold, so high and exposed. From this elevation the Talian troops still digging among the avalanche now appeared to be the ants.
A light flashed in the corner of his vision and he peered higher. There, among the uppermost teeth of the ridgeline, a light blinked – sunlight reflected to them. Terath now pointed, and he nodded. Hill-folk scouts arrived shortly thereafter and guided them to Jeral’s position high above.
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