Outside, in the cold damp wind off the deeps of the Western Sea, he muttered to himself, ‘But whose?’
Four figures rose from a fire nearby. A scarred Wickan with a wild, wind-tossed mane of tangled hair, wearing a long studded leather hauberk; a towering pale fellow, bald, in an iron cuirass; a woman in a full-length coat of mail, twinned Untan duelling swords at her sides; and a squat, very black Dal Hon elder in a cloak of multicoloured rags and patches.
‘He’s not attacking, is he?’ the woman demanded.
Orjin sighed; tucked his gauntlets into his weapon-belt. ‘He’s attacking.’
‘And the woods?’ the bald giant asked.
‘Baron Ghenst Terrall assures us that the woods are clear.’
‘There are horses in the woods,’ the Wickan muttered. ‘I can sense them.’
‘And what would you know about horses?’ the Dal Hon ancient cackled. ‘That is rich! You, Arkady, a Wickan without a horse!’
The Wickan answered slowly, through tightly clenched teeth, ‘I told you … I swore a vow.’
Orjin waved a hand for silence. ‘Spread the word – everyone stick close to me. We may have to carve our way out of Hood’s own grasp tomorrow.’
The four nodded, answering, ‘Aye, captain.’
It was probably Orjin’s impolitic honesty at the staff meeting that saw his command stationed at the rear of the dispositions for the coming battle, in the reserves. He and his would see no glory this day, but that suited him just fine. He wasn’t in it for the glory; leave that to the nobles bred on war and battle. He was here for … well, he really couldn’t say why he was here. It all happened kind of by accident. He’d left Geni, a small backwater fishing isle famous for nothing, and set out to win a living by the only thing he seemed to have an aptitude for – swordplay. And over the next few years he’d found himself with a growing name and a growing set of followers attracted to that name. Now he was a captain, if only unofficially, as his troop was no formal mercenary force, rather more like a large warband such as the chieftains of ancient times used to lead.
So it was that at dawn he and his command stood waiting with hands at belts, or, in the case of the bald giant Orhan of Fenn, leaning his seven-foot frame on a twelve-foot-tall halberd.
As the rising sun burned the fog from the plain and warmed him, the light murmur of contact reached even here, far to the rear.
‘Skirmishers are feeling each other out,’ Terath supplied, her gauntleted hands clasping and reclasping the worn leather grips of her duelling swords.
The Wickan, Arkady, grunted his agreement.
‘You know,’ offered Orhan, ‘in battles the view I’m used to isn’t the rumps of the officers’ horses.’
‘We must be really far back,’ Arkady grumbled.
The swordswoman had set to rubbing her teeth with a willow twig and now she tossed this aside, spitting. ‘You know what we say out east in Unta about this interminable Purge–Tali war?’
‘What, Terath?’ Orjin answered, distracted, focused upon the growing clamour of battle ahead – the lights and mediums must be closing upon one another.
‘Everyone says that the war with Nom Purge is just the Talians keeping in practice.’
The giant Orhan’s chuckle was a deep bass rumble. ‘That is a good one. I like that.’
Orjin rubbed his chin, listening even more keenly now, and muttered, ‘I think you’re right in that, Terath.’
A roar washed over them at the rear, sweeping down from the battlefield – the largest cohorts colliding, mostly medium infantry. Among these two armies the cavalry was mainly the officer corps and their staff, for visibility and mobility rather than actual fighting.
‘Now or never …’ he breathed aloud.
But it came not as he’d expected it – an explosive burst of despairing shouts and screams – rather, all the Nom Purge mounted officers in view slewed their horses over to the forested east and Orjin knew that the rest of the Quon Talian forces had just revealed themselves. And done so too far from the engagement.
‘Ready weapons!’ he bellowed to his troop.
The impact of the charging Quon Tali forces came as a menacing roar and a shudder beneath their feet. Orjin knew the Purge forces still had a chance – as long as they held fast and resisted. One break, or routed company, however, could very well crack the entire dam. He and his force awaited the outcome, whichever it may be, in the rear.
After a good twenty minutes of pitched battle back and forth, Nom Purge infantry appeared, running past them, some even throwing down their weapons as they went. Orjin sought out the company mage, the Dal Hon shaman, Yune, and gave him a nod. The hunched old man pounded his raven-feather-strung staff to the ground – once. That blow communicated itself to all Orjin’s forces, its meaning prearranged: Tighten up.
Mounted Nom Purge nobles then appeared, battered and bloodied, pushing their horses through the milling infantry to charge past Samarr’s unit.
‘Where is Elath?’ he yelled as they thundered by. ‘Dammit! What’s going on?’ All ignored him. Orjin spotted a harried and wild-eyed Baron Ghenst Terrall among those abandoning the field and charged towards him, pushing aside fleeing soldiers as he went. He waved the nobleman down.
‘Out of my way, damn you!’ the baron shouted.
‘Rally the troops – while you can!’ Orjin shouted back.
Ghenst attempted to yank his mount around him. ‘Word of this must reach the queen, dog!’
‘And what of the woods?’ Orjin demanded. ‘The Quon forces came out of the woods!’
For an instant their eyes met, and the baron glanced away, his face flushing. Stunned, Orjin let his arms fall. ‘You Hood-damned bastard …’
Ghenst took that moment to spur his mount past.
Orjin’s troops found him there, motionless, still peering after the diminishing figure of the fleeing nobleman. They surrounded him, using the flat of their blades to push back a rising tide of refugees from the front, all clamouring for protection among Orjin’s tight unit. The giant Orhan came wading through the press. ‘Orders?’ he rumbled.
Blinking, coming to himself, Orjin gestured to the east. ‘Make for cover in the woods – as a unit!’
Orhan inclined his bald scarred head. ‘Aye, aye.’ He waved his great halberd overhead in a circle, ending the arc to point east. As one, the chevron of mercenary heavies began marching, with Orjin at point.
As they pushed through the rout, Orjin spotted a staff messenger, bloodied from a head blow, staggering almost aimlessly. He broke ranks to take hold of the woman’s shoulder and give her a shake. ‘What happened, dammit to Hood!’
‘We held them,’ she murmured, dazed. ‘We held … but there were too many. Too many …’
‘And Elath? What word?’
‘Fallen.’ She wiped a wet, bloodied hand across her face. ‘We are lost.’
‘Only if you break,’ Samarr snarled, pushing her to the rear. ‘Never break.’
They marched onward. Quon Talian forces now appeared, harrying the broken Purge mediums. Among these came grim-faced heavies in long surcoats that bore a black field adorned by a simple silver crown. The famous sigil of the Talian Iron Legion.
These men and women simply struck a guard, allowing Orjin’s troops to pass; after all, the day was already theirs. Why pursue unnecessary hard knocks?
Orjin answered the salute and continued onward, flanked by Terath and Orhan. In this manner they made cover among the woods and here Orjin waved his lieutenants to him.
‘What now?’ Terath demanded. ‘Our contract was with Elath.’
Orjin shook his head. ‘Technically, our contract is with the queen.’
Orhan rubbed his wide jaw. ‘If Purage falls, we don’t get paid.’
Orjin sent him a glare. ‘I know! With Elath’s expeditionary force broken the passes are open to Tali.’
‘The old keep at Two-River could contain them,’ Yune supplied.
Terath laughed her scorn. ‘T
hat pest-hole? A crumbling stone tower and a wooden palisade! Indefensible!’
Orjin looked to the distant north-east highlands. ‘That’s about two days’ march from here.’
‘Two good days,’ Terath appended.
Orjin gave a curt jerk of his head, pushed back his long grey hair. ‘We’ll march straight through. Beat them there. The Purge forces must be rallying somewhere – it’s the obvious strong point.’
‘A hundred years ago maybe,’ Terath grumbled, and she slammed home her blades.
‘None the less. We march.’ Orjin raised a hand and signed Move out.
* * *
Crouched on his haunches, Tayschrenn squinted into the dark gap that remained between the twin monoliths lying lengthways one above the other, and reflected that, as far as instruments of execution went, this was a most ingenious one. Crushing the condemned between two immense slabs of stone – elegant in its simplicity.
This victim, however, refused to cooperate. So far, at least.
Sighing his distaste, the mage sat and idly brushed the night’s flying insects from his face. Too bad; now he would actually have to talk to the fellow. He patted the top slab of granite. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Still with us?’
He waited patiently. The night wind rose, hissing through the tall grasses of the surrounding savanna foothills of these Itko Kan–Dal Hon borderlands. Eventually, a voice snapped from within the darkness of the gap – a space no wider than the outstretched fingers of one’s hand, thumb to pinky.
‘Fuck off. Kinda busy right now.’
‘I should say so,’ Tayschrenn agreed affably. ‘I can feel your Warren sizzling just from here. Weakening, though.’ He added, conversationally, ‘Not much longer, I should think.’
‘Listen.’ The man hidden within spoke again, his voice clipped and breathless. ‘Are you naturally this much of an asshole, or are you making an extra special effort?’
Tayschrenn patted the top granite slab once more. ‘Actually, I’m here to offer a deal.’
‘A deal? Really? Hardly fair, don’tcha think? I’m in a tight spot right now.’
Tayschrenn shrugged, then realized the fellow couldn’t see him. ‘Regardless. The deal should be obvious. Your life for your service.’
‘To you?’
Grimacing, Tayschrenn brushed the rock dust from his hands. ‘My employer, actually.’
‘Ah. And who is he or she?’
Tayschrenn raised his eyes to the starry night sky, twined his fingers together at a knee and rocked back and forth. ‘I really don’t think you’re in a position to ask any questions.’
‘How do you know?’ answered the hidden victim. ‘Maybe I always wanted to lose some weight.’
Tayschrenn made levelling motions with his hands, as if smoothing a cloth. ‘You wouldn’t lose it. It would just be more … spread out.’
‘Asshole!’
‘Regardless, time is running out. You are not the only minor talent I could approach.’
‘Minor!’ the fellow burst out – then gasped as the top granite block dropped a finger’s width. ‘Fucker! If I was out of here I’d tear you apart!’
‘Hardly. Your Warren’s flickering. You are almost spent. And in any case, if you were such a fearsome warlock how did the townsfolk get you in there?’
A sullen silence radiated from within the thin gap. ‘I have something of a weakness for the pleasures of the flesh – wine and women, as they say.’
‘So they drugged you.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well … let this be a warning.’
‘Won’t happen again.’
‘Do we have an accord then?’
‘Fine. Yes! An accord. I’d shake on it but I have my hands full right now.’
‘Very well.’ Tayschrenn gestured and the huge block flew off, spinning through the air to crash to the ground in a shuddering impact.
The little man revealed beneath peered in that direction. ‘Show-off.’ He rose, shakily, and brushed at his fine rich shirt and trousers. Tayschrenn merely gave him a nod in greeting.
‘So who’s our employer, then?’
‘A mage of Meanas, named Kellanved.’
The young man – though young in appearance only – raised a quizzical brow. ‘Not the mage who’s got all the talents up in arms as Shadow cards are jumping from their decks and doing jigs on the tables?’
Tayschrenn showed a pained expression. ‘The same.’
‘Hunh. And you are?’
‘Tayschrenn.’
The slim youth nodded. ‘Calot.’
* * *
Gregar Bluenth groaned and regained consciousness. He rubbed his head, only to wince at the numerous raised welts, and swallowed the taste of old blood. He pushed himself up from the pile of rotting damp straw he lay upon and surveyed his surroundings: the sight was not promising. The only light cascaded down from an opening hidden in the stone ceiling far above. The dim glow revealed that he’d been thrown into a prison cell.
He staggered to the stout iron-bound door and banged upon it. ‘Hello! Anyone there? Hello?’ He kept banging.
After a very long time – half a day, perhaps; he had no way of telling but for the gradual waning of the natural light filtering down into the cell – heavy footsteps sounded from the hall outside the door. ‘Hello?’ Gregar called once more. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Oho! Awake, are you?’
He sighed his relief. ‘Yes. Where am I?’
‘They always ask that,’ said his interlocutor in a tone of wonder. ‘Thought it must be obvious.’
Gregar kicked the door. ‘Yes, yes. In prison in Castle Gris – I just wanted a second opinion. Thank you. Now that you’ve had your joke you can let me out.’
‘Out? Out you say, lad? Whatever for?’
‘What do you mean, “whatever for”? I’ve done nothing wrong. Let me go, dammit!’
‘Nothing wrong? You assaulted the Grisian guard. Sent many to the healing wards, so I understand.’ The shambling, heavy steps came closer. ‘You even boasted of meaning to join the Crimson Guard – and you know those criminals are outlawed here in Gris.’
Gregar let his head touch the cool damp wood of the door. Yes, he remembered that boast. ‘Fine. I’m sorry, okay? I repent. I’m an apprentice stonemason here at the castle. You can let me out now.’
‘Sorry, lad, but this is your third run-in with the guard. You’re bound for labour in the quarries.’
The quarries? As a mason Gregar knew about the wretched lives of those sent to break rock in the quarries. It was no better than a death sentence.
‘Look – I recant. I’d been drinking, okay? Haven’t you ever had a little too much?’
‘Oh, yes,’ answered the hidden jailer. ‘Many times. But it’s not up to me. By the way – I say sorry, but I’m not. Not at all. I just say that to quieten you fellows down. Farewell!’
‘Wait!’ He banged on the door. ‘Wait, dammit to Hood!’
The heavy dragging steps diminished into the distance, accompanied by a mocking chuckle.
He slid down the door to the stone floor and lay there up against the wood, cursing. In time, he must have fallen asleep again, because he imagined himself clawing at the wall. He scratched, pulled, seemed even to be digging – as at the promised quarry, perhaps – pushing at the stones, desperate to escape.
And when he awoke once again the light was different. Flickering sallow lamplight illuminated a narrow stone hallway. He jumped to his feet, unbelieving. The fool of a jailer must’ve left the door unlocked! Gregar ran.
After numerous intersections and doors – always choosing the upwards path, be it stairs or a sloping hall – he found himself in the lower kitchens of the great stone fortress that was ancient Castle Gris. Fat cauldrons steamed over charcoal fires, and wide counters held fowl waiting to be plucked and butchered piglets awaiting dressing. The scent of food made him almost faint and he went to the nearest cast-iron pot. A wooden spoon rested nearby and he dunked it
into the dark roiling fluid.
‘I wouldn’t eat that if I were you,’ warned an amused voice nearby, and Gregar jumped backwards.
What he’d taken for a pile of rags and bones now stirred, revealing a painfully skinny figure all angles and protruding joints. A pale skull limned by greasy lank hair rose as its owner regarded him.
‘Why?’ he demanded.
‘Because that’s lye in there.’
‘Lye? Doesn’t smell like it.’
‘Been boiling for days. Ready to treat the hides now.’
Gregar flinched away. ‘Isn’t there anything to eat here? Isn’t this a damned kitchen?’
The emaciated lad – if it was a lad; Gregar couldn’t really tell – chuckled.
‘This is the sub-sub-kitchen. If Castle Gris has a basement, this is the shithole beneath. Not much food here. Just the worst cast-offs and leavings.’
‘There’s a lot beneath here,’ Gregar answered. ‘I’ve seen it.’
The eyes, huge and luminous in the lean fleshless skull, somehow became brighter. ‘You’ve come from below? How?’
‘I escaped.’
‘Escaped?’ The figure repeated the word as if mouthing it for the first time. ‘Escaped … how?’
‘Never mind! I need food.’
‘No. How. Tell me how.’
Gregar eyed the three open approaches to the kitchen and the one locked door. ‘Fine. The jailer left the door to my cell unlocked and I escaped. There. Happy? Now – where’s something to eat?’
An etiolated hand rose and long crooked fingers extended to point to the far cauldron. ‘Ham hocks rendering. Try there.’
Gregar used the spoon to fish out a pig’s knuckle to gnaw on. ‘Who’re you?’ he asked, as he eyed the openings and considered his chances in the upper halls.
‘Never mind me. Escaped, you say? From the cells? What did you do?’
Gregar shrugged, rather self-consciously. ‘I had a fight with the guard.’
‘Last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah! So that was you the servants were talking about. They said you beat down an entire watch of the guard while armed only with sticks. And that you meant to join the Crimson Guard. Is that true?’
Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy) Page 2