by Anthony Ryan
Alucius recalled the night the city fell, the screams and the flames waking him from drunken slumber, stumbling downstairs to find his father in the main hall, surrounded by Kuritai, slashing madly with his sword as they circled, one already dead but they made no move to kill him. Alucius had stood frozen in shock as a meaty arm closed over his neck and the short sword pressed into his temple. A Free Sword officer shouted to his father, pointing to Alucius. The expression on his face as he straightened from the fight was hard to forget, not shame, not despair, just honest and desperate fear for a loved son.
“Thirty days,” Alucius said softly, moving away, hugging himself tight. “Winterfall Eve is in thirty days, is it not?”
“Yes,” Al Hestian said after a moment’s thought. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Alucius felt his father’s eyes on him, knowing they were heavy with concern. “Do you need anything, Alucius?”
“Some more food,” he said. “Aspect Dendrish threatens to hang himself if we don’t feed him more. Though I doubt the bedsheets will hold him.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Alucius turned back, his smile bright, heartbeat steady now the weight of indecision had lifted. “Thank you, my lord.”
He was walking away when a commotion rose at the gate, the Varitai guards parting to allow entry to a lone rider. Alucius judged him as one of Darnel’s hunters, in truth a bunch of rogues and cutthroats recruited from the dregs of Renfael to hunt down the Red Brother. The man sagged in his saddle as he rode towards Alucius’s father, foam on his horse’s flanks and mouth. He nearly collapsed on dismounting, sketching a bow and speaking words too faint for Alucius to hear, though from the way his father straightened on hearing them, clearly of some import. Al Hestian strode off, barking orders, his two Kuritai guards in tow, Alucius hearing the word “cavalry” before he disappeared from view.
“First a risen queen and now a need for cavalry,” Alucius mused aloud to Twenty-Seven. “I believe it’s time to say good-bye to an old friend.”
Blue Feather delivered a painful nip at his thumb as he lifted her clear of the coop, the message dangling from her leg. So much weight on such a fragile thing, Alucius thought, eyeing the thin wire clasp.
“Do you want to say good-bye to her?” he asked Twenty-Seven who, as ever, said nothing.
“Oh, ignore him,” he told Blue Feather. “I’m going to miss you.” He held her up and opened his hands. She sat there for a moment, seemingly uncertain, then leapt free, her wings a blur as she ascended, then flattened out to catch the wind and fly away south.
Winterfall Eve, Alucius thought as he lost sight of the bird. When it’s said all grievances are forgiven, for who wants to bear a grudge through the hardships of winter?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frentis
A stiff autumn wind played over the remnants of the Urlish, raising swirling columns of ash to sting eyes and choke throats. It stretched away on either side of them, a dirty grey blanket covering the earth, broken only by the occasional black spike of a once-mighty tree.
“Would’ve thought some of it might have survived,” Ermund said, hawking and spitting before tying a scarf about his face.
“Darnel was certainly thorough,” Banders said. “Marching across this will not be pleasant.”
“We could skirt it,” Arendil suggested. “Head to the coast.”
“The coast road is too narrow,” Sollis said. “Too many choke points, and Al Hestian is bound to know them all.”
“And if we maintain this course,” Banders replied, “the dust trail we raise will give him ample signal of our approach. Not to mention filling our lungs with this stuff.”
“The country to the west is more open,” Sollis admitted. “But will add another week to our march.”
Frentis stifled a groan at the prospect of more days spent dreading dream-filled nights. Varinshold had become a focus for his desire for an ending, an ever-growing hope that whatever the outcome of their assault he would at least be assured release from her.
“Can’t be helped, brother.” Banders turned his horse about, nodding to Ermund. “Spread the word, we turn west until we clear the ash.”
“It was there again,” Illian said at breakfast, smiling thanks at Thirty-Four as he handed her a bowl of his honey-sweetened porridge.
“What was there?” Arendil asked.
“The wolf. I’ve seen it every day for a week now.”
“Throw stones,” Davoka suggested. “Wolf will run from stones.”
“Not this one. He’s so big I doubt he’d feel them. Anyway, he’s not scary. Doesn’t chase after me, or growl or anything. Just sits and watches.”
Frentis saw discomfort in Davoka’s expression as she watched the girl eat her porridge. “I come with you today,” she said. “See if he watches me.”
Illian scowled, speaking a laboured but precise Lonak phrase he knew translated as, “The coddled cub never hunts.”
Davoka gave a soft laugh and returned to her own meal, though Frentis saw her lingering disquiet. “I’ll come too,” he said, keen to seek out any distraction from the persistent stain of last night’s dream. It had been stranger than usual, a confused jumble of images, mostly violent, often full of pain and sorrow, but not always. She whimpers as she lies abed, staring at her bedroom door … She laughs as she strangles a woman beneath a desert sky … She shudders in pleasure as he moves in her, heart swelling with feelings she had thought long dead …
On waking, sweating and striving to quell a torrent of sensation, he realised he had not seen her waking hours, but her dreams. I dream her dreams. What does she dream of me?
They rode west until midday, finding nothing save empty fields and the occasional cluster of slaughtered cattle or sheep, mostly older animals, the younger ones no doubt having been herded off to Varinshold. Another mile’s ride brought them to an empty farmhouse, the roof gone and walls blackened by fire, no sign of any life within. “Why do they destroy so much?” Illian asked. “They take slaves, which is evil but at least comprehensible. But to tear down everything whilst doing so. It’s beyond reason.”
“They think they’re cleansing the land,” Frentis told her. “Wiping it clean so their own people can start anew. Build another province to the empire in its image.”
Illian pulled her horse to a halt an hour later, turning to Davoka and pointing to a nearby rise, her smile bright. “There. Isn’t he beautiful?”
Frentis found it quickly, a shadowed outline on the skyline, taller than any wolf he had seen before. It sat regarding them with impassive scrutiny as they trotted closer, Davoka resting her spear on her shoulder for a quick throw. They stopped some thirty yards short of the beast, close enough for Frentis to see its eyes, blinking as it looked at each of them in turn, fur ruffling in the wind. He saw the plain truth in Illian’s words; it was beautiful.
The wolf rose and turned, moving off towards the north at a brisk trot for a hundred paces or so then stopping once more, sitting and watching as they exchanged glances.
“It didn’t do this before,” Illian said after a moment.
Davoka muttered something in her own language, face dark with foreboding, but Frentis noticed she had lowered her spear. He turned back to the wolf, seeing how its gaze was fixed entirely on him. He kicked his horse forward and the wolf rose again to follow its northward course. After a second he heard Illian and Davoka spurring to follow.
The wolf started to run after a half mile or so, its long, loping stride covering the distance with deceptive speed. Frentis lost sight of it several times as they galloped after, tracking it over low hills of long grass. Finally they reined in as it came to a halt on one of the taller hills and a familiar scent came to Frentis’s nostrils. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Davoka who nodded and climbed down from the saddle. Frentis joined her and they handed their reins to Illian. She pouted in annoyance as he pointed an emphatic finger at the ground to fix her in place.
They ascended the hill at the crouch,
dropping to a crawl at the summit. The wolf had sunk to its haunches, waiting no more than a few feet away, still regarding Frentis with the same blank scrutiny.
“What a fool the man must be,” Frentis breathed, staring at the scene before them. The camp sat in open ground, the rear flank covered by a shallow stream, pickets patrolling the perimeter but not far enough out. The scent of smoke and horse sweat was richer now, campfires threw dozens of grey columns into the air, only partly obscuring the banner that rose from the centre of the camp: an eagle on a red-and-white-cheque background.
Five hundred men at most, Frentis mused, eyes scanning the camp. And Banders’s army stands unnoticed between him and Varinshold. “Take Illian,” he told Davoka. “Tell Banders I’ll lead them to Lirkan’s Spur. Master Sollis knows the way.”
“She can go,” Davoka said. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”
He shook his head, grinning as he nodded at the wolf. “Seems I’m not alone. Ride fast.”
He waited a good hour after their departure, watching the camp as scouts came and went, small groups of men with hunting dogs reporting in or galloping off in a fresh direction. He thought we’d make for Nilsael, Frentis decided, seeing how most of the scouts rode off to the north or the west. Didn’t consider we’d try for Renfael, his own land, the people so fiercely loyal. He shook his head, wondering if Darnel’s mind was truly that of a fool or if the man wasn’t in fact just a barking loon.
It took the best part of another hour before a scouting party came their way, two riders and a clutch of dogs making directly for their hill. The wolf rose when they had begun to climb the slope, the riders immediately dragging their mounts to a halt whilst the hounds milled about, whining in fear as their masters whipped at them, uttering curses and threats.
And the wolf howled.
Frentis shrank from the vastness of the sound, sinking to the earth, eyes clamped tight shut and hands over his ears as it soared across the fields and hills, the force of it cutting through him like a ragged saw-blade. Not since the long years of the binding had he felt so helpless, so small.
He opened his eyes as the howl faded, finding the wolf staring down at him, green eyes meeting his and birthing a realisation that it knew him, knew his every secret, every hidden scrap of guilt. It dipped its head, a rough tongue scraping over Frentis’s forehead, drawing a whimper and leaving something new. A message. It wasn’t a voice, more a certainty, a clear and bright surety shining in his mind: you must forgive yourself.
Frentis felt a laugh escape him as the wolf drew back, blinked again, then turned to lope away. Frentis stood to watch it run, a silver streak through the twisting grass, disappearing in a heartbeat.
The whinny of a panicked horse brought him back to his senses, turning to find the two riders staring at him in shock, their dogs a good distance away, yelping in fear as they raced for the camp. Frentis chose the rider on the left, palmed a throwing knife and sent it into his throat. He fell from his horse, blood frothing from his mouth as he clutched at his neck. His companion’s wide-eyed gaze shifted to Frentis and back again, hands twitching on his reins, his sword untouched at his side.
“You have a report to make,” Frentis told him. “Give Lord Darnel the Red Brother’s regards.”
He remounted and guided his horse to the crest of the hill, sitting and watching as the huntsman galloped back to camp. It took no longer than the space of a few heartbeats before it convulsed, knights struggling into armour and running to their horses, tents falling as squires packed up, and a single rider emerged from the burgeoning dust cloud, blue armour gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. Frentis raised a hand in a friendly wave, lingering long enough to ensure Darnel had seen it, then turned and galloped towards the east.
He led them on a winding course, buying time for Banders to get his people moving. He would gallop east for a time, halt, and watch Darnel’s pursuit for a few moments, then strike out towards the south. Darnel edged closer with every pause, but his horse and those of his knights were too burdened by their riders’ armour to mount an effective pursuit. Frentis would wave every time he stopped, the last time leaving it long enough to ensure Darnel saw his mocking bow.
He came to Lirkan’s Spur some two hours into the chase, a narrow thumb-shaped spit of grassland jutting into the broad waters of the Brinewash. The river was shallow here, fordable even this late in the year with open country to the north and a tall, rocky hill some three hundred paces south, shielding the eastern bank from view. He pulled his horse to a halt and scanned the surroundings, finding no evidence of any ally.
He turned his horse about, calming him with a stroke to the flank as he waited. The wolf’s message still sang in his breast, his newborn spirit leaving him with a faint smile that refused to budge from his lips, even as Darnel’s five hundred knights thundered towards the spur.
Come, my lord, he urged Darnel silently. Just a little closer.
His risen spirits took a slight tumble at the sight of Darnel raising a hand, his entire command coming to a halt some two hundred paces short. Frentis reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, raising it high before pointing it directly at Darnel in a clear and unambiguous challenge. Be true to yourself, my lord, Frentis implored him. Be the fool.
Darnel’s horse reared as its rider drew his own sword, one of his retainers trotting forward, perhaps keen to offer a cautionary word, but Darnel dismissed him with a furious wave before spurring his horse to a gallop. Frentis made ready to begin his own charge, then paused as a new sound came to his ears; horns sounding a high pealing note to the east, too high for a Renfaelin knight and the Sixth Order had no use for horns. He paused to glance over his shoulder, his smile fading completely at the sight of at least two battalions of Volarian cavalry charging towards the eastern bank of the Brinewash.
Al Hestian! he cursed. Another tumult drew his attention to the south, the great churning roaring of many horses charging through shallow water. Banders led his knights around the rocky hill and straight for Darnel’s company, Frentis spying the dim figures of his brothers atop the hill, bows drawn. He switched his gaze back to Darnel, finding the Fief Lord now halted, his men milling in confusion behind him. Frentis cast a final look at the onrushing Volarian cavalry, now fording the river, but prevented from galloping by the water’s height.
He fixed his gaze on Darnel once more and kicked his horse into motion, sword held out straight and level as he charged, covering the distance in barely a few seconds. He could see the black streaks of his brothers’ arrows arcing into Darnel’s host, horses rearing and knights falling as they struck home. One of Darnel’s retainers took hold of the Fief Lord’s reins and tried to drag him towards the Volarians, falling dead as Darnel hacked his long sword into the man’s neck, wheeling about and meeting Frentis’s charge head?on.
Their horses collided with bone-shattering force, Frentis’s sword rebounding from Darnel’s blade as the Fief Lord slashed at him before the animals reeled back. Frentis’s horse staggered, snorting foam and blood, sinking to its knees as he leapt clear, crouching as Darnel leaned low in the saddle to try for a decapitating blow with his long sword. Frentis let it whisper past then dived to catch hold of Darnel’s armoured forearm, hooking both arms around the steel-clad limb and hauling him from the saddle. He landed with a crash of rending metal but recovered quickly, lunging to butt his helmeted head into Frentis’s side, sending him sprawling, then bringing his long sword up in a two-handed grip. Frentis could see his eyes behind the visor, wide and full of unreasoning hate.
He rolled as the blade came down, cleaving into the earth, springing to his feet and slashing at Darnel’s visor. The Fief Lord dodged the blow and brought his sword around in a great arc, Frentis grunting with the effort as he parried the blow, Darnel’s steel biting deep into his Order blade. He reached out to catch Darnel’s gauntleted wrist before he could draw the blade back, stepping in close, angling his sword to thrust up through the visor. Darnel jerked his head back as t
he blade sank home, the tip emerging bloodied, the Fief Lord roaring in fury and pain.
Frentis spun, bringing the blade round to slash into Darnel’s legs, not piercing the armour but with enough force to send him to the ground. The Fief Lord howled and hacked at him again but Frentis blocked the blow and delivered a kick to his sword hand, the blade flying free. He smashed his sword guard into Darnel’s visor, stunning him before planting a boot on his neck, laying the tip of his blade on the opening, meeting the eyes behind it, smiling fiercely at the fear he saw.
“BROTHER!”
It was Arendil, charging towards them, men locked in combat on either side, his sword pointed at something over Frentis’s shoulder. He didn’t waste time with a glance, diving to the left as a Volarian cavalry sword left a shallow cut on his cheek. The Volarian dragged his horse around for another blow then tumbled from the saddle as Arendil’s sword lanced through his shoulder.
Frentis turned, finding himself faced with four more Volarians charging at full gallop. He heard the thunder of hooves behind him and threw himself flat, feeling hot breath wash over his neck as a horse leapt him. He looked up to see Master Rensial deliver a precise upward stroke to one of the onrushing Volarians, the man’s breastplate parting with the force of the blow. Rensial ducked under a wild slash of the Volarian to his right and replied with a backward stroke as he rode past, the cavalryman arching his back as the blade cut him to the spine.
The remaining two Volarians came for Frentis, close together and blades levelled, then tumbling to the ground as a cloud of arrows arched down from the hilltop to claim both riders and horses.
Frentis whirled, searching for Darnel amidst the raging chaos. Banders’s knights had shattered the Fief Lord’s command but were now fully engaged with the Volarians, men and horses wheeling in a mass of steel and rending flesh. Frentis caught a flash of blue armour through the heaving confusion to the right, a hunched figure on a horse being led away by two Volarians. Horns sounded and the cavalry began to withdraw, riders delivering a final slash before turning about and galloping back to the river.