‘Please, Father,’ K’azz murmured, his voice low, ‘don’t …’
‘I’ll …’ the man roared, ‘I’ll …’ Then he clenched his left arm, grimacing, and it appeared to Gregar as if K’azz was now supporting the man rather than trying to restrain him.
Surat moved to stand before Gregar, and, glancing back, shot a significant look to the entrance. Gregar reached out, grasped Haraj’s shirt by the neck, and began backing away.
‘Out of my way, damn you dogs!’ was the last bellow he heard from Courian as the heavy canvas flap closed behind them. He dragged Haraj onward by his shirt and didn’t stop until they were well clear of the encampment.
When they neared the Fourth’s bivouac Gregar cleared his throat and glanced at Fingers. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, gesturing back to the Guard camp.
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, so much for joining. I know how much it meant to you, an’ I went and messed it up.’
Haraj waved it aside. ‘It’s all right. I have a place.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all I wanted, really. A place – like a home.’
Gregar kicked at the ground. ‘Well, sorry just the same.’ He eyed the boy sidelong. ‘So, a mage? Really?’
‘Oh yes. For certain.’
‘Really.’ He shook his head, still disbelieving. ‘But how could that be? I mean, I’ve never … you know …’
Haraj shrugged as they walked along. ‘Just the same. It’s there. You just have to have the training to know how to bring it out.’
‘You?’
‘Sorry. I don’t know much about training. Maybe I can try, though.’
They were nearing their camp and Gregar glanced about, sighing. ‘Yeah. Well, as if we have time for that anyway.’
When they entered the barn Leah jumped to her feet, looking very surprised. ‘You’re back!’
Gregar offered a resigned shrug, ‘Yeah. It – ah, it didn’t work out.’
‘Good.’ She tossed him a spear. ‘Because I’d have lost a lot of faith in the Guard if they’d taken either of you.’
Chapter 12
The range that began at the coast to run eastward of Quon Talian lands was rugged, but unfortunately very small as mountains went, and Orjin Samarr was beginning to think he and his troop had hiked over every square league of it. They had survived to date by keeping to the roughest, most uneven ground available to better keep the Talian cavalry at bay, a strategy that could only work for so long, as they were running out of ground, and steadily being forced eastward.
The Quon Talian commander, Renquill, had indeed been recalled from his assault upon Purage, and had since dedicated himself to chasing down Orjin Samarr and his ‘band of outlaws’, as Quon would have it. So far Orjin had managed to stay ahead of his pursuers, all the while waiting for word from Purage command. For surely they would dispatch a relief force; after all, he’d ended the siege and drawn the invading force out of Purge.
This evening he made the rounds of his forces huddled at shared fires – wood at least was plentiful, and Renquill knew they were up here anyway. No, the real limiting factor was food. The isolated hill tribes had been grateful enough to offer what they could, but they did not have the resources to feed both themselves and another four thousand hungry men and women. And nor would Orjin expect them to.
He paced the bivouac, showing his undaunted face, clapping shoulders and making small talk. Out here, among the men and women, he was now ‘Greymane’, their leader and champion. Finished, he returned to the fire that was his unofficial camp headquarters, where among his old command he was still plain old Orjin. Here, however, smiles were even fewer. Young Prevost Jeral was showing the longest face; she was taking the silence from Purage personally.
It was Terath who finally broached the subject none other would say out loud when late into the night she announced to all: ‘We’re running out of mountains.’
No one disputed this, or everyone was too tired to argue.
‘Indeed,’ rumbled Orhan, ‘the beaters are so close I hear them night and day.’
‘Renquill must be ahead, waiting for us,’ said Orjin – stating the obvious to invite comment.
Prevost offered a sour nod. Gone now were her long braids; she’d had her hair hacked short as there was no way to care for it. ‘He’s a prissy officious bastard, but he knows his stuff.’
‘Could we make a dash for Cullis?’ Terath asked, though she did not appear hopeful.
Orjin shook his head. ‘They have no reason to take us in. Quon’s named us outlaws, remember?’
That at least raised a few chuckles.
‘In the jungle Horn,’ Yune murmured, hunched in his multicoloured rags, ‘we use lines of beaters also.’ He poked his staff at the fire. ‘But sometimes the hunted deer turns out to be a jungle cat. Many beaters are lost this way.’
Orjin peered at the fire-lit faces arrayed round the camp – none appeared to oppose the intent behind Yune’s comment, and so he nodded. ‘Very well. It’s decided. We’ll wait till the last moment then turn upon the line, try to break through westward.’ He looked to Jeral. ‘Perhaps then we’ll have word from Purage, yes?’
But Prevost Jeral would not raise her eyes.
Word spread through Orjin’s command that night and eager faces met him the next day; it seemed everyone was tired of running and looked forward to a fight. Their hill tribe guides led them eastward, and all had been briefed to keep an eye out for the best place to turn back. Towards noon word came of a wide gorge, one of the last before the easternmost slopes, and Orjin gave the order to pass through, although he, Orhan and Terath held back, since they would lead the charge.
Once the last of his troops had filed through, Orjin passed the word to halt and everyone sought cover to wait. The shadows in the narrow gorge lengthened. Thirst plagued Orjin – they were also nearly out of water – and he picked up a pebble to hold in his mouth. Some two hours later – measured by the movement of the shadows – the beaters arrived: a column of Quon Talian regulars following their trail.
Orjin offered a nod to Orhan across the way, who answered with a grin and unlimbered a huge hammer he’d taken from a Talian camp. Orjin drew his two-handed sword. He knew they’d be spotted at any moment, so he stepped out, howled his war-cry, and charged.
Momentum, of course, was all. He had to keep charging forward, shouldering men and women out of his way, not bothering with any finishing blows – those that followed would take care of that.
So Orjin cleared the trail, always pushing westward, hammering more than cleanly striking, counting on shock and surprise to help him. Eventually, however, a spear between his feet tripped him up and Orhan stepped over to take the lead, sweeping his weapon left and right. Terath pulled him to his feet and shortly thereafter they burst through the column and were outside the noose, and Orjin stepped aside, panting, waving everyone forward.
Terath stopped with him, and she offered a salute. ‘Well done … Greymane.’
Orjin gave her a face. ‘Thanks a lot.’
Troops cheered as well, and shouted ‘Greymane!’ as they passed.
Orjin straightened, raising a hand, and nodding to all.
‘They will tell stories of this,’ Terath said. ‘How you bulled aside an entire Talian column.’
‘Easy to do when you have a giant on your arse.’
Terath shook a negative. ‘You led, Orjin. You led.’
He turned away. ‘Another week of short rations and none of us will have the strength for this.’
Terath nodded. ‘We’ll see what Purage says. Perhaps a relieving force.’
‘Yes.’ Orjin agreed, for form’s sake, exhausted, leaning on his two-handed sword. But still – why the long silence?
They marched west, guided by hill tribesmen and women through the remotest and most precarious paths Orjin had ever seen; some no more than cliff trails that he thought would challenge any damned mountain goat. But they were surrounded now, with Quon Talian troops on all sides. Pr
ivately, Orjin thought they had another ten days at most.
It was three days later that Prevost Jeral joined them at the campfire and proffered a cylinder of horn, sealed in wax. ‘Word from Purage, by way of the hill tribes.’
Orjin took it, vaguely troubled by the woman’s lowered gaze – he had thought she would be far more pleased. He walked off a way, breaking the seal and reading the unfurled scroll.
It was a long time before he re-joined the group around the campfire.
Terath raised her eager gaze. ‘What word?’
Orjin tapped the rolled scroll in his hands, took a heavy breath. ‘We are ordered to surrender to the Talians.’
Terath gaped. ‘What? After all this? That’s outrageous.’
Orjin was nodding. ‘I agree. The order is ridiculous. But it is signed by the Council of Nobles and the queen.’ He looked at Jeral, who still would not meet his eye. ‘It seems we are being forced to make a choice.’
‘Choice?’ Orhan asked, his brows furrowed.
‘We are being thrown to the wolves,’ Yune supplied.
Orjin didn’t disagree. ‘Follow orders or become outlaw in truth.’
‘The bastards!’ Terath seethed.
Prevost Jeral surged to her feet. ‘A word, commander. If you would.’
Orjin nodded – he’d been expecting this – and invited her aside. Off a distance, he turned to her, expectant.
The prevost was rubbing her hands down her thighs. After a long silence, she said, ‘Two cylinders arrived from Purage. Orders for you. And orders for me.’
He nodded, unsurprised.
She looked skyward, drew a hard breath. ‘I am ordered – that is, if you refuse to obey your orders – I am ordered to arrest you and hand you over to the Quon Talians as a criminal.’ She crossed her arms, hugging herself. ‘A cessation of hostilities has been negotiated. The price is your head.’
Orjin turned away. It was just as he’d suspected. Facing away into the night, so very impressed by their damned tenacity, he said, ‘Hood take those Quon merchants. They meant every word they said, didn’t they?’
‘I’m so very sorry …’
He raised a placating hand. ‘It’s all right. I understand.’ Turning, he faced the woman, and regarded her for some time before saying, slowly, ‘The choice isn’t ours, then. It’s yours.’ He cocked a brow. ‘What will you do … prevost?’
In one fluid motion the woman drew her sword and dropped to one knee before him, blade proffered in both hands. ‘I say damn them to Hood’s deepest abyss.’
Orjin took hold of her shoulders and raised her up. ‘You realize you will be declared outlaw as well?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t return without you. I’ll be arrested. Perhaps we should break out across Seti lands after all.’ She offered a fey laugh. ‘There’re plenty of wars in the east.’
He shook his head. ‘We’ll settle this here. One way or another.’ He beckoned her back to the campfire. ‘We’ll just have to find a way out of this knot, hey?’
The furious debating at the fire died down as they returned. Orhan, Terath and Yune peered up, expectant, and Orjin eyed each in turn, then sighed. ‘We run. Prevost Jeral here wishes to stay with us and I say yes.’ He glanced to her, considering. ‘However, perhaps you should offer the choice to your troops: stay or try to break through to the north, re-join Purge forces.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll speak to them.’
‘Welcome, Jeral,’ Terath said. ‘But the problem remains – run where? There’s nowhere to run to.’
Orjin waved the objection aside. ‘We’ll just have to stay alive long enough to find an answer to that.’
Terath was obviously not satisfied but chose not to argue any further. Orhan slapped his leg and laughed. ‘We will lead them on such a chase, hey?’
Orjin laughed as well and passing soldiers smiled to one another, their mood brightening. Jeral smiled also; the gift of leadership – this man had it. She leaned to him, saying, ‘I will speak to my sergeants,’ and he nodded her off.
Orhan rose, quite stiffly. ‘I will rest for the morrow.’
Terath stood, appeared about to say more, but reconsidered, shaking her head, and marched off into the dark.
Orjin lowered himself to the ground before the fire. The Dal Hon shaman, Yune, regarded him steadily from across the flames. Orjin cocked a brow. ‘Yes?’
The elder sighed and poked anew at the fire. ‘I will work to locate our beaters as before, but now they are all about. I won’t be able to see them all.’
‘Thanks for the warning. Do your best.’ The old shaman nodded, a touch glumly, and returned to studying the fire. Orjin reflected that their state was indeed dire if this tough old campaigner was showing his concern. ‘We’ll get out of this – don’t you worry.’ The Dal Hon didn’t answer, and Orjin rose to limp to his bedding.
* * *
A young girl ran across the grassed savanna of northern Dal Hon at night. The bright moon lit the landscape in a silver monochrome. She wore a simple slave’s shift and her long dark hair coursed behind her. She gasped and stumbled, nearly spent, peered back with wild wide eyes, then pushed onward once again.
Eventually, staggering and panting, she halted. Tears smeared her dirty cheeks and she sobbed, gesturing into the empty night. The air ahead seemed to brighten as a light like that of the moon began to shimmer there.
A snarled ‘No!’ sounded from the night and the girl yelped, jumping. The brightening snapped away.
The thick grasses wavered all round her, lashing and writhing, and a knot of them twisted about her legs, yanking her from her feet.
The tall swaths of grasses parted, revealing a handsome Dal Hon woman, her thick black hair bunched in woven braids. Bright silk ribbons held gold coins, shells and precious stones tied among the braids; vest and trousers were of untanned hide. She thrust an arm forward and the grasses shifted to lash the girl’s hands behind her back.
Crouching, the woman set to starting a fire. ‘Who sent you?’ she asked as she worked.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ the girl gasped. ‘I … I am just a slave.’
The woman barked a laugh. ‘A slave who is a talent of Thyr? Unlikely.’ Once a small fire of grass was alight, she rose and disappeared into the dark. Alone, the girl let her head fall back, and cursed under her breath.
A short time later the woman returned, a load of dead branches in her arms. These she set down next to the diminishing fire. ‘Regardless,’ she suddenly began again, ‘whoever it was is cruel and thoughtless – sending a child to spy among the tribes. Think about that.’
‘I am just a—’
Snarling again, the woman snapped a hand and the grasses lashed themselves across the girl’s mouth. ‘I am not interested in your lies,’ the woman ground out. ‘I want only the truth. And the fire will reveal it – if only in your cracked and whitened bones.’
Once the fire became high enough the woman dragged the girl towards it until her bare feet touched its edge. The girl struggled, but the thick grasses roped her from her neck to her ankles. ‘Who sent you!’ the woman yelled and gestured again, pushing the soles of her captive’s feet up against the embers.
The girl screamed behind the gag of twisted grass and passed out.
When she came to, blinking, she saw the woman sitting cross-legged in the flickering light of the fire, a set of thin slats, or cards, arrayed on the ground before her. Seeing her awake, the woman indicated the cards. ‘Not what I was expecting. I assumed the Queen of Life would be high – involved. But she is in the far left arcade, detached.’ She tapped the deck of remaining cards to her lips. ‘You do not work for the Enchantress.’
‘I don’t work … for anyone,’ the girl murmured. ‘I’m just … a slave …’
The woman sighed and shook her head. She rose, took hold of the girl again, and thrust her feet into the fire once more. ‘Who do you work for?’ she shouted.
The girl screamed anew until her voice cra
cked and then she mewled, pleading wordlessly, sobbing, until unconsciousness took her again.
When she awoke the second time she found the woman, a Dal Hon witch, seated again, the wooden slats arrayed before her anew. The woman picked up a card and held it up to her. ‘This one keeps emerging. Over and over again, with each reading. Do you know which one it is?’
The girl just shook her head, her hair matted to her face and head with sweat and dirt.
‘The new one,’ the witch told her. ‘This meddler. Shadow – or Shadow House, as some would have it.’ She regarded the girl narrowly. ‘What is Shadow to you?’
The girl looked to the night sky, tears running from the corners of her eyes. ‘He pays,’ she finally stammered, her voice a thin whisper. ‘Pays for information.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘Anything. Everything.’
The witch stood over the girl. ‘Such as? What have you found? Anything?’
But the girl continued to look up, a smile slowly growing on her lips.
The woman spun, scanning the starry sky. ‘Someone is coming.’ She eyed the girl. ‘How could anyone have found you so quickly?’
The girl just smiled, and with a growl the woman gestured again, and the twisted grass ropes tightened round the girl’s neck. She gagged, thrashing, her face darkening.
The fire burst into a gyre of rising embers and flaming branches that flew, swirling, to engulf the woman, who roared her rage, ducking, and covering her face.
When the searing heat had passed she bashed her hands over her hair and leathers to put out any fires, then glared about. She stood in a widening circle of scorched ground, the grasses burning in a ring around her – alone. She pressed her fists to her chin and screamed her rage.
*
Two figures lay smoking in a landscape of sand and rock under a dull pewter sky. One, a lad, rose and shook the other, a girl.
‘Janelle!’ the lad called. ‘Speak to me.’
‘You took your time, Janul,’ she whispered, smiling. ‘Where were you?’
‘The west. I know a healer. Come.’
Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy) Page 21