‘And where is Nassaras?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care, and don’t dare ask, sir. She’s taken a liking to the hostages, you see.’
‘Ah. Tell me, how many hostages did they send us?’
Reaching the long dining table, Trout edged forward to sweep clutter and old foodstuffs from the surface, and then dragged out a chair for himself and sat.
Kagamandra moved to the high-backed chair at the table’s head. He saw that it was sheathed in dust. He sat and looked expectantly at Trout, until the man cleared his throat and said, ‘There were twenty-five to start, sir. Got maybe twenty left.’
‘What? We’ve lost hostages?’
Trout scowled, reaching up to pull at the folds of wrinkled flesh on his cheeks, plucking them away from the bones underneath as if he sought to peel off his own face. It was an old habit, Kagamandra recalled, and probably responsible for the man’s flaccid mien. ‘Might look like that, but it wasn’t none of our doing. The imps like fighting each other. The weakest ones died first. Those that are left are the nasty ones, and I reckon it’s not over. Nassaras thinks it’s to do with keeping them penned up. They’re wild, you see. Some of them are still known to sleep outside, huddled under furs – sometimes the kind that’re worn, sometimes their own.’
‘They veer into their wolf forms?’
‘They ain’t got much control of that, sir. Not yet. Too young, I wager, and with no elders to teach them anything, who knows what’ll come of this.’ His dark, red-rimmed eyes flicked to Kagamandra. ‘We beat ’em on the field of battle, sir. Demanded terms of surrender and made them kneel with heads bowed. Hostages, we said. Insisted, even.’
Sighing, Kagamandra nodded. ‘No doubt it sounded reasonable in principle.’
Braphen reappeared and behind her walked Igur Lout carrying a battered silver tray on which rested a meal of mostly meat.
‘Milord!’ Igur said. ‘You look awful. I’ve seen stuff spat up by one of the orphans with more life in it. Here. Eat. Braph, get that decanter of wine over there, and some mugs. It’s a puking reunion, by the Abyss! The old company – or what’s left of it. But the captain’s back – the real captain, I mean, not money-grubbing feckers like Trout here.’ The squat, wide man set the tray down in front of Kagamandra and then sat opposite Trout. Eyes on the ugly man, he raised a hand and made a strange corkscrewing motion with his index finger, grinning. ‘Goes in one way and out the other, hey?’
Trout said, ‘If the rest of us didn’t hate cooking, Lout, I’d gut you right here, right now, begging the lord’s pardon.’
‘I see that little has changed,’ Kagamandra said. ‘Igur, that joke was old before I ever made captain in the Legion.’
‘It’s the only one he has,’ Trout said, ‘which ably underscores his pathetic state.’
‘This meat – is it horse?’
Igur nodded. ‘Last one, sir. What we could scavenge off it. Had to beat the orphans back and half of them veered and slathered in gore. That was the day the rest of the Houseblades quit, the shit-smeared cowards. I trust, sir, you’re already planning your revenge on Scara.’
Braphen finished pouring out the wine and turned to depart the room, before Kagamandra gestured and said, ‘Sit down, castellan. Join us.’
‘It’s not fitting, sir. I expect they’ve got complaints about me and the like. In any case, I need to see that your bedroom’s made ready.’
‘Sit down. My room can wait.’
Igur leaned forward. ‘Milord, I told you the first time we rode back in through yon gate, and I’ll tell you now. Your father was a fuckwit. We buried him and shed not a tear, except in relief. Even his own staff spat on his shadow and they’re long gone besides. It’s all yours now, sir, and rightly so. I hear you got a wife coming. Good. Let’s hope she has spirit, enough to break the legs on your bed.’ He reached out and collected a goblet of wine, and added, ‘Your health, milord.’ He drank, and leaned back.
There was a long moment of silence, until Trout pointed a finger at Igur and said, ‘And this is why no one likes you, Lout, excepting when you cook for us. You got all the delicacy of a pig on a place mat.’
Distant thumping drew everyone’s attention. Braphen rose. ‘Someone’s at the gate, milord.’
‘Ah,’ said Kagamandra, ‘that would be Sergeant Savarro and her deserters. Igur, best return to the kitchen and begin preparations to feed our guests. They might number a score or more.’
Cursing under her breath, Braphen made for the gate.
Igur rose, collected up the decanter of wine. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘they might change their mind.’
At that moment, a chorus of howls erupted from somewhere on the estate grounds.
Kagamandra glanced down at the supper he had but just started, and then he stood. ‘Well, yes. A warning does seem appropriate, under the circumstances. But I doubt they will change their minds, since they have nowhere else to go.’
‘They got horses, sir?’
‘And mules, Igur.’
Trout groaned and climbed upright. ‘I’ll see ’em stabled and all, sir, and I’ll take the first watch, too.’
By the time Kagamandra reached the gate, Savarro, Ristand and a half-dozen other Wardens were already crowding Braphen, who stood blocking their way in with one shoulder leaning against the door. Upon seeing Kagamandra, Sergeant Savarro’s eyes brightened, and then an expression of dread crossed her features.
Braphen glanced back. ‘Milord, they are proving most insistent.’
‘Step back, castellan.’
‘Milord, it’s the discourtesy I am objecting to. They are in no position to insist.’
‘Agreed, Braphen. But we will give them the compound at the very least, and the stable for their animals. Sergeant Savarro, kindly hold your people back, will you? The situation here is not as simple as it seems. On second thoughts, have them gather here, this side of the gate, while the two of us renew our acquaintance.’
Braphen retreated to permit the troop to spill into the compound. Kagamandra saw that there had been no split from the ranks, despite the news of Calat Hustain’s return. Some of the tension in the air had reached the children, and most were bawling. The mules and horses baulked at the threshold and required some effort to bring them inside. Gesturing to Savarro, Kagamandra moved a dozen paces away from the jostling mob.
She and Ristand joined him, the huge man scowling and casting glares at Braphen.
‘Lord, forgive me,’ began Savarro. ‘You didn’t identify yourself earlier—’
‘No need for apologies, sergeant. I was in no position to enlighten you on the condition of this estate. Now, it seems that the argument I left behind has been settled, although not in the way I would have expected.’
‘We voted, milord, and went with the majority. Continue on. The Vitr’s bitter curse on Calat Hustain. We saw too many friends dead on that hillside.’
‘That castellan giving us grief,’ said Ristand, scowling. ‘What kind of welcome is that? It’s cold. The sun is going down. The night is going to be frigid. My feet ache and I’m hungry. I told you, Savarro, it’s a new age, an age where no one cares to help anyone else. Kurald Galain becomes a realm of refugees. That’s no way to live.’
‘Will you shut your mouth for once, Ristand?’
‘Why should I?’ He waved towards Kagamandra. ‘Even this estate’s lord tried talking us out of coming here. Why else tell us about Hustain’s return to the fort? Hunn Raal has the right of it – you fight for kin and the rest can go to the Abyss!’
Kagamandra cleared his throat, and then said, ‘You are welcome to stay, Wardens. But my invitation must be qualified—’
‘What’s that mean?’ Ristand’s head whipped round to his sergeant. ‘What’s he mean by that?’
‘I mean,’ Kagamandra resumed, ‘that we have Jhelarkan hostages here. Children. They are as near to feral as wolves. Your horses and mules are not safe, although we will endeavour to set a guard upon the stables.’
‘Jhelarkan?’ Ristand tugged at his snarled beard. ‘See, Savarro? What did I tell you? Qualified. He invites us into a nest of shapeshifting wolves! More horses to keep ’em fed and not eyeing us with hungry eyes! I should have voted against you.’
‘But you argued the most for coming here, Ristand!’
‘Because this lord here didn’t tell me the truth!’
‘He didn’t know!’
‘He does now!’
‘Ristand, get out of my face before I cut you into little strips! See to the animals, and arrange us a watch for them, two on guard at all times.’
‘They’re hostages, sergeant! We can’t harm them even if they’re chewing off our feet!’
‘Just beat them back. Flat of the blades. Milord, how many Jhelarkan hostages are here?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Twenty?’ Ristand shrieked.
His cry elicited howls from the main house, rising gleefully into the crepuscular air. Hearing them, Ristand swore under his breath and drew his sword. ‘I rescind my vote,’ he snapped. ‘You hear me, sergeant? I vote the other way. That makes it a majority. I’m not getting my feet chewed off.’
‘Ristand! Just go and arrange the guard postings, will you? The vote’s done with. We’re here now. Besides, I was only humouring all of you, about that majority stuff. I’m sergeant, highest rank left among us. It’s my decision.’
‘Cock curdling liar! Tit bag whore! I knew it!’
‘Go, you’re embarrassing us all.’
Ristand snarled and set off back to the others waiting by the gate.
Wiping at her brow, Savarro drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Apologies, milord. Husbands, what can you do?’
* * *
Four trackers were on her trail, two of them moving up alongside her. Sharenas Ankhadu caught glimpses of them through the crazed lattice of leafless branches and twigs to either side. The remaining pair had drawn up behind her on the track.
She was exhausted, and the day’s light would not fade in time to make any difference in her attempts to evade these hunters. Before dusk’s arrival she knew that blades would clash, shattering the silence of the frozen forest.
It would be an ignominious end, filled with bitter frustration and fraught with pathos. A proper scene, highlighting the sheer indecency of civil war. Soldiers I fought alongside – now we close with murder in our eyes, weapons unsheathed.
Where, in all this, was the life I wanted? The victory of peace whispered so many promises. Kagamandra, we should have fled. Together, into the west, the lands of the Azathanai, or even the Dog-Runners. We should have damned the legacy of peace – you with your promised wife you did not love, me with a future empty of passion. Peace should have won us more. It should have won us a softening of all that was harsh and hard within us, an easing of the ferocity we all saw as necessary weapons in war.
Instead, too many of us turned fierce eyes upon these plain trappings, these quiet chambers. Too many of us still gripped bared iron, even as we walked into realms of peace, filled with the hope of living peaceful lives.
We were contemptuous of such lives, such living. It was beneath us warriors, us harbingers of blood and death. We could see in their eyes – in the eyes of loved ones, estranged friends, husbands and wives – that they knew nothing. Nothing of what truly mattered, what truly counted. They were shallow, ignorant of depravity’s depths. We saw them as fools, and then, as our souls hardened in our self-made isolation, we saw them as victims, no different from enemies upon the field of battle.
To us, they were blind to the ongoing war – the one we still fought, the one that left our souls wounded, bleeding, and then scarred. The one that cried out to us, demanding a lashing out, an eruption of violence. If only to break this brittle illusion of peace, which we knew to distrust.
But I dreamed of being among them, away from the killing and the terror. I dreamed of peace in every instant of war in which I lived.
Why, then, could I not find it? Why did it all seem so weak, so thin, so hopelessly shallow? So … false?
The trackers moving parallel to her had begun converging, while those in her wake had drawn close enough for her to hear their thudding footfalls. Desperate, Sharenas looked for somewhere to make her stand – the bole of an old tree, the root-wall of a toppled giant – but there was nothing like that nearby. She was among young dogwoods, elm thickets and young birch. No fire had rushed through any of this, and the leaf-mould was thick beneath the melting snow.
The soldier on her left voiced a strangled cry. Snapping a glance in that direction, she searched for the man, but could no longer see him.
At that instant, the two behind her rushed forward, even as the third scout swung in to flank her.
Mouth dry, sword-grip feeling greasy in her gloved hand, Sharenas spun round to face her attackers.
Both were women, and known to her, but now hatred twisted their features, and the blood was bright in their eyes.
There was no conversation, no pause in their attack.
Blades lashed out. She caught one, deflecting it, while sidestepping to evade the other. At that moment, the third hunter reached her, lunging with his sword.
The tip pierced the rounded flesh of her right hip, slicing it open to the bone. As the cut muscles and tendons parted, she felt them roll up beneath her skin, and her right leg simply gave way beneath her.
A blade struck her helm, dislodging it. Stunned, Sharenas fell on to her side. A savage blow against her sword knocked the weapon from her hand.
Disbelieving, she looked up into the face of one of the women, who now stood above her, bringing her sword around to push through Sharenas’s throat.
The woman paused, confusion clouding her face.
An arrow’s iron point was protruding from her neck. Blood was rushing down from the ragged tear its passage had made. The life in the woman’s eyes retreated, and then she dropped to her knees atop Sharenas.
Pushing the sagging body off, Sharenas dug in the heel of her one working leg and attempted to scrabble back. The other woman, she saw, was lying a few paces away, her midriff opened wide and its bundle of intestines tumbled out, steaming. Above her body crouched a grey-skinned girl. She held in her red hands long narrow knives, both slick with gore. Twisting round, Sharenas saw the third scout, lying face-down with the shafts of two arrows jutting from his back.
The girl advanced on Sharenas. ‘Plenty hunting you,’ she said. ‘Too many for just a deserter. No matter. You wear the wrong uniform.’
Another voice spoke. ‘No, Lahanis. Leave her.’
The girl scowled. ‘Why?’
‘She is bleeding out anyway, and the cut is too deep to mend. She is already dead. We gave you one.’
‘One is not enough.’
‘Come, we have cleared this part of the forest, but there are others. They will camp. Light fires. We have a night of killing ahead of us, Lahanis, enough to ease your thirst.’
The scene was dulling before Sharenas’s eyes, a grey too flat to be the arrival of dusk. She had one hand pressed against the gash in her hip, and the blood was pumping from the wound in hot waves. Her right leg was lifeless, a weight pinning her to the cold ground. The ache in her skull, and in the muscles and tendons on the left side of her neck, left her gasping, each breath frighteningly shallow.
She heard them move off after recovering their arrows and stripping the bodies.
Some time passed, but it was difficult to know how much. The dimness surrounding her felt disconnected from the sun’s vague departure. It was closer, crawling towards her from all sides, as if promising a warm embrace.
Kagamandra. Look at me now. I hold a hand to the place of my death, seeking to staunch the leak. The blood feels thick now. Thick as clay. It must be the cold.
And I feel an ache in my leg. I imagine I can curl my toes, scuff with the heel. Here, on this edge, I rebuild my broken form, as if preparing for what will come. No longer broken, but whole again. Rea
dy to walk into the darkness.
And yet … Kagamandra. Still I lie here, longing for you with every essence of my being. What holds me to life, if not desire? What vaster power exists? With it, I swear, I feel I can defy the inevitable. Weapon and shield, companion and ally, enough to make the world back away, enough to surmount the highest walls and cross the deepest chasms. Desire, you stand in place of a lover’s arms, and make your embrace such dark comfort.
She heard her own sigh, startling in its clarity, its harsh rattle. Beneath her cold-numbed hand, the gash felt strange, drawn together, the skin puckered and tender. The bunched fists of the rolled-up tendons and muscles no longer burned against her hip bone, as if with her hand she had simply pushed them back into place.
But that is not possible.
Disbelieving, Sharenas found the strength to sit up. Her right leg throbbed with the kind of ache that bespoke deep outrage, and yet it lived. Beneath her the spilled blood had mixed with dirty snow and then leaf-mould and mud. It felt hot to the touch and the steam rising from it did not slacken.
The greyness surrounded her still, palpable like an unseen presence. In her head she heard vague whispers, muttering and, now and then, a faint, distant cry. Blinking, Sharenas looked round. This part of the trail was slightly wider than usual, but otherwise unremarkable. She shared the space with three corpses. The spilled entrails, she saw, were frosted over.
How – how long?
Groaning, she pushed herself to her feet, stood tottering for a moment before she caught the glint of her fallen sword. She hobbled a step, crouched to retrieve the weapon, and straightened once more.
Now what?
The scouts had been stripped of food packs and water flasks, but tightly bound bedrolls and cooking gear remained, all secured to prevent noise when the scouts tracked her. Sharenas realized that she was desperately hungry, and fighting a thirst so fierce she eyed the black spatters of blood on the ground at her feet.
The greyness urged her to feast, revealing its own hunger, bestial and primitive. Sharenas studied the corpse of the woman nearest her, listening to the chorus of faint voices susurrating through her head.
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