by Steven Poore
Vescar had a point though, Cassia thought, as she let her horse follow the others down the hillside. As much as she might not want to admit it to herself, it was plain that Caenthell – whatever intelligence lay behind the mists that now devoured the North – was aware of her presence. It waited for her, waited to see what she would do next. It taunted her and the other ragged survivors from afar by leaving open ground for them to march into. She had no doubt the mists would descend upon them the moment they occupied that ground. And that Vescar’s last act, in that instance, would be to curse her and shout something like I told you so!
She rolled her shoulders and winced at the tension she felt there.
There was too much in her head. Her father. Her grandfather. Hetch. The remnants of Guhl’s Company, bound to her service now. The shieldmen, two hundred walking reminders of a man she thought she had loved. All the stories she had ever heard her father tell; those Baum and Malessar debunked or expanded upon. The dragons of Lyriss, and their uncertain allegiance. Craw – the damned beast still knew more than it would tell her, and where was it now her gamble was approaching the endgame?
And all of that was accompanied by the constant thrumming of Jedrell’s wardums, a sound that only she could hear. Sometimes she thought it was all she could hear.
The ruined watchtower behind them was still occupied, but now only by those too old or infirm to march to war. They were guarded by the likes of Mallon and his untrained youngsters, who watched the departure of the makeshift legion in silence, as though they knew they had been abandoned. If the worst happened, they could still retreat into Lyriss, though the prospect frightened them almost as much as the evil from Caenthell did. If they had known about the dragons there, they might have begged to march with the main force instead.
She glanced back once, before the terrain took the watchtower out of sight, and the motionless silhouettes of the youngsters lined up behind the tumbled walls made her shiver despite the fox-fur cloak her grandfather had given her this morning. That gift had made her uncomfortable, even though she was grateful for the warmth. She was aware he was attempting to make up for lost time, and that perhaps he saw more of her mother in her than was truly there. She supposed she could not fault him for that, but it made the fur itch for more than one reason.
Vescar’s vanguard of scouts ranged across the hillsides ahead. Lightly armed, they were tasked with making certain the dips and low valleys had not already been infiltrated by the mists of Caenthell. There were also copses and outreaching arms of dark woods that had to be examined, and the squads assigned to them carried lit torches and horns with which to raise the alarm. The murky interiors could be filled with cursed spirits as easily as with dank, unmoving air. Occasionally, when the country allowed, Cassia could see Vescar himself, stiff in his saddle, directing his men with peremptory gestures. At least he was out of her way.
At Havinal’s suggestion – the former quartermaster was in fact as much a tactician as Tarves or Attis might have been – she assigned most of her shieldmen to the column’s left flank, between the soldiers and the great darkness that had swallowed the North. It was a matter of perception, Havinal told her. The men would feel safer if they were protected by what they perceived as a solid shield of stone, even if that shield was born of the same sorcery that had caused this disaster in the first place. The shieldmen also acted as model examples of a sort, Havinal pointed out; if even the worst of his men was not marching precisely in step at the end of the day, he would eat his hat.
“Are all quartermasters so skilled in the arts of war, sir?” Cassia asked. She thought in particular of Ultess, who had been reluctant to take on any sort of officer’s role.
“It is surprising how much knowledge can be picked up merely by watching and listening to others,” Havinal said, after first looking around to be certain nobody else was paying attention to the conversation. Most of the surrounding officers were busy in their own roles, receiving reports, directing squads, and keeping track of the other outriders that had been sent to scout the column’s unprotected flank. Only Tarves Almoul and Attis himself were close enough to hear, and Tarves’s frown of disapproval didn’t have quite as much force as it would have done a few months previously, Cassia thought.
“But you can’t have learned all of these things without being an officer,” she pointed out.
“Officers have to lead,” Havinal said. “They answer to the Factor. I never wanted to lead.”
Cassia looked around again. “You’re leading now.”
“The end of days,” Havinal said with a shrug. “When all things are turned and men have no choice at all. I didn’t say I was not good at it, only that I had no wish to do it. Quartermasters live longer than captains,” he added with a half-smile.
“Most captains,” Cassia muttered under her breath, thinking of Baum. Her gaze fell upon Attis. Her grandfather was still watching her, as he had done all morning. Almost as though she might transform, in a flash of light, into her own mother. The allusion to Baum made the lines around his eyes deepen, however, and his lips thinned into the scowl for which he had been renowned all through Keskor.
To her surprise – and her relief, after the traumas of the past few days – their march passed without incident until Havinal gave the order to halt on a flattened hillside in the lower Antiachas, still some distance from the Emperor’s March. Vescar’s scouts had quartered the entire area, reporting back that the sheepfolds were deserted and none of the cottages that dotted the slopes showed any signs of life. Their inhabitants had most likely fled, either further down the road or deeper into the hills, in which case they were probably already part of the straggling camp at the Lyrissan border.
Attis sent out scavenging parties from the foot troops to strip what they could from the plots of land around the cottages, while the remainder of the legion raised a hasty perimeter for the night’s rest. Tarves and the other commanders gathered around a fold-down table that one of the adjutants had been detailed to carry. Upon this was a painted map of the major geographical features of the North. Cassia stood at one corner of the table and struggled to make sense of the whorls of colour that apparently represented the land she had called home for most of her life. The table hardly seemed large enough for that.
As much as she tried, she could not follow the discussions and arguments that carried back and forth across the table. Havinal attempted to show her how they might defend this camp against Caenthell, pointing to dark green blooms of colour and grey splashes in turn, but for once her imagination failed her completely and his explanations fell as flat as the surface of the table itself. Aware of Vescar Almoul’s contemptuous presence lurking alongside his brothers, Cassia decided to excuse herself. She headed out in search of Arca instead, but he had disappeared in the bustle of the camp and so she wound up out on the perimeter, looking into the dark. Not the foul dark that pressed down from the North and – increasingly now – the West, but the more genuine night skies of the East, where the stars were beginning to glow through the gaps in the clouds.
Despite its proximity the March was not yet visible in the valley below, and indeed the evening had blackened out everything beyond the camp’s perimeter. But Cassia could see the sense in waiting here for Rais’s half of her army to come up the road. From up here it would be impossible to miss their passage. The shieldmen would pound the earth into submission just as they had done up here in the hills, and that was even before the horses, carts and the hundreds of infantrymen had also done the same. It would be an impressive sight, she thought, glad that she retained enough imagination at least for this.
She ordered her ever-present quartet of stone guards to leave her and return to the main column. It took several repetitions before they finally obeyed, almost as though they had begun to enjoy a degree of autonomy. Cassia did not want to think about the consequences of that. She slipped past the perimeter guards – an absurdly easy task – and left the torchlight behind. If Arca was hidden awa
y in the camp, she reasoned, then he might assume that she was too, or that she had gone to bed. She needed some time to herself, away from everybody. By the time any of the commanders thought to look for her, she was certain she’d be safely back behind the lines.
It was colder than she had expected, and even with the fox-fur draped around her Cassia was soon shivering. She used her staff to prod the ground ahead of her once she was well beyond the perimeter, wary of rabbit holes or sudden drops. The last thing she needed now was to twist an ankle, or worse. Pelicos’s sword still hung at her side, tangling with her legs when she leaned too far to one side. Cassia wished she had left it behind with Meredith’s heavier blade – she felt ridiculous wearing fox-fur and two great swords together, and even more so surrounded by real soldiers – but she was aware that this close to the affected lands of the North there might be more dangers than just hungry animals.
At least the bandits that swept through the hills every so often in the winter months would be long gone if they had any sense.
When the camp’s perimeter was at last out of sight around another contour of the hillside, she found a relatively dry patch of ground to sit upon and tucked the sword awkwardly behind her, keeping her staff across her lap for ease and security. Across the valley the Far Antiachas loomed dark. Somewhere behind them, she thought, struggling with distances and directions in her mind, must be the other forgotten lands of the North.
Gethista. Aelior. And . . . what the was the last one? Cassia sifted through her memories until the name surfaced. Kennetta. Yes, that was it. Perhaps they were lying in wait there, half-buried as Gethista had been, the ground charged with sorcery, hungering for the North to rise again so they could follow in turn. Perhaps Gethis’s undead spirit would seep up from the ground just as Jedrell had done.
Cassia tried to shunt such pessimistic thoughts aside, but it was not easy. She reminded herself that she had come this far from the camp for a reason. A promise, actually.
She had to believe they could win this battle, against all the odds stacked against them. One way to do that was to focus on the promise Arca had wrung from her, back in Lyriss. To immortalise both him and Ultess – and the rest of Guhl’s Company – in story form. Since making that promise she had been too busy to think more on it, but now, in the quiet before the storm of battle, she had the chance to reflect.
She thought first about stories in general. How they were told. Why people told them. How their heroes became larger than life. She had no better example of that than Pelicos himself, whose blade now hung at her side. If Arca wanted to be remembered, she ought to try to make him as immortal as Pelicos. That, she thought, would be a fair trick.
There was a cloud at the edge of Cassia’s thoughts, one she could not ignore. Baum. He had been central to the story of every man of Guhl’s Company, it seemed, just as he had overshadowed Cassia’s own family. If she was to tell their stories, then she would have to tell his too. And if turning Arca immortal was a fair trick, then speaking of Baum without hate would be even harder.
Of course there were . . . what would Malessar have called them? Cassia closed her eyes and tried to imagine the warlock sat at his table in the garden of the dhar, leading her through another frustrating lesson.
Precedents, the warlock intoned in her thoughts. There are always precedents if you know where to look.On many occasions, a scholar treads where others have gone before. One man’s knowledge is built upon the work of fifty more. The trick, Cassia, is not simply to know what is already known, but to know it differently.
That doesn’t make any sense, she had complained at the time.
It will. The warlock smiled, almost sympathetically, and Cassia felt anger meld with frustration in equal measure. I remember when Pelicos, drunk, tripped outside the gates of Quenam, spraining his wrist. He had to climb the wall with one arm bound to his chest -
But that’s not how it happened, Cassia protested.
Is it not? Malessar’s smile widened slightly.
No, she said, but she was no longer certain. He stampeded cattle outside the gates to distract the guards, and they trampled him, just like what happened to Borco in his adventures . . .
She stared at him for a moment.
Malessar nodded. Precedent. Stories become each other, despite their underlying truth. Now you know how to make a new story.
How?
Use an old story, Malessar said. Now – wake up.
What?
Cassia – wake up! Now!
She blinked awake, startled and disoriented. She must have fallen asleep out here – but was that a dream? She could have sworn Malessar had spoken directly to her, but that –
She sensed the danger almost too late. As she hurled herself forwards into a desperate roll down the slope, she heard steel bite into the earth where she had sat. A fleeting glance showed her a dark form silhouetted against the night sky. Not one of her shieldmen, but a man nonetheless, armoured and poised to strike again with his spear. His last blow should have gutted her from behind.
Her scabbard was wedged underneath her, digging hard into her thigh, but she still had one hand on her staff. There was no time for parries or forms; blind instinct took over and she swung the staff up in an arc, just in time to deflect the spear as the man brought it down again. He overbalanced as he struggled to compensate for the deflection, and the spearhead sunk fast into the earth.
Cassia knew she had gained only a second or so. She jabbed up with the staff, the tip slamming into the man’s stomach. He exhaled explosively, then sucked in air hard. His hands sought to wrench the staff away from her. Cassia let him take it, rolling away until she was on her knees, putting space between herself and her attacker.
She heard her own breathing, hard and shallow . . . and that was all. Nothing else. Nothing from the camp; not even the war drums that had not once left her alone since the curse wards first fell. It was as if the entire North held its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Cassia came to her feet, tensed and poised to run. Her attacker was a dim shape, panting opposite her. She caught the glint of his eyes, narrowed, and filled with hatred.
“Vescar,” she guessed, and knew even before he spoke that she was correct.
“Slippery little bitch.”
“Don’t be stupid, Vescar. Turn around and go back.”
“You might want to die, girl, but I don’t.”
“None of us do. And if we all fight together, alongside each other—”
He spat. “You must think we were all born yesterday. I don’t care how many of those carved monstrosities you have, if we go back into the North, we will all die. Pyraete will tear our bones apart.”
He edged closer, trying to distract her. Cassia drew back slowly, aware that she could not see what was behind her.
“And killing me? How does that help?”
“You die, the sorcery stops. Simple.”
Was it that simple? Cassia forced herself away from that thought. No, it could not be – not while her father still haunted her.
“And you run away.”
“To live another day,” Vescar agreed.
“What is it with you Almouls and running away?” Cassia demanded, angered beyond reason. “Is that all you know how to do?”
“Not all,” Vescar snarled. Steel rasped in the dark.
Cassia drew her own sword.
This was insanity, the rational part of her mind shouted, hammering at the sides of her head. Vescar was a soldier. He outweighed her, and he could out-reach her. It made no sense to end her days bleeding out on the side of a hill above the March. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that one high-pitched scream might bring the guards running from the camp’s perimeter, but she knew that even if she shouted for help it would not arrive in time. If it came at all. For Vescar to be this confident that he would succeed in killing her, he must have sympathizers inside the camp. Perhaps even inside the command structure of the legion. He would certainly n
ot be the only man scared of returning to the North to fight an unknowable foe.
Vescar came at her, a blur in the dark. She could barely see him, let alone anticipate his first stroke, but she knew he was right-handed and she ducked in that direction. As he passed, turning and flailing, she slashed out low, aiming at his calves. Her sword caught something, but she was unsure what.
If a man can reach you, you are dead, Meredith reminded her. She danced back again, searching the dark for movement. If she could keep him below her on the slope, the hill would negate his weight and his speed. Then she would worry about his reach.
Again her instinct saved her. Vescar hacked up at her, forcing her off-balance. Her counter drew sparks from his blade and her sword was nearly smashed from her hand. This was not at all like the bout she had faced aboard the Rabbit, on her way to Galliarca. There was no grace, no skill – only hard, powerful hatred.
The battle can be won in three strokes.
She rolled again, sword clutched close to her chest. Vescar’s violence sprayed damp earth over her. Had Meredith said that? She couldn’t remember.
Or lost in four.
Vescar cursed and landed with a thud. He must have tripped on uneven ground. Cassia seized her opportunity and jumped back up.
“Come here, bitch,” she heard him say from her left. Not where she had thought. She parried again, this time forcing the blow aside rather than attempting to stop it, and her follow-through took him below the ribs. Again her sword was almost torn from her grip as he twisted and shouted in pain.
She stepped back and watched Vescar drop onto one knee. “Perhaps you should stop now,” she said.
To her alarm she saw him rise again. Unsteady, and plainly badly wounded, but still armed. “Not bloody likely, girl. Not while you still breathe.”
With that last word he swung his weapon around in an arc that should have dismembered her – had she let it. Cassia stepped inside his reach instead and slashed at his exposed neck. Warm blood sprayed out onto her arm and face.