I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER

by CF WELBURN

  “Ask him yourself?”

  She swung her gaze back to Oben. Her glazed eyes made it look like she’d been smoking.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She let her eyes linger.

  “You as small all over? Never seen a rabbit naked.”

  Oben drew up his legs to stop her staring at his crotch, and she laughed.

  “Never seen a live southerner north of the border, neither. You must have done something special to be taken to Taliskar.”

  “I killed Mascal, that’s what.”

  Her eyes widened and she gaped at Rak.

  “He a fork-tongue or what?”

  Rak shrugged.

  “He had his axe.”

  “Is that so? Bet you found it somewhere, didn’t you? Stole it while he was squatting in the bushes?”

  “Think what you will.”

  She clapped. “I like this rabbit.”

  “Stop calling me that!” Rabbit, Boy, Worm, Idiot… he wasn’t sure which he hated most. Rak might have been old enough to be, if not his father, then a younger uncle, but this girl was twenty at most.

  “All right, all right,” she said. She crouched and dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “Bit tense in here. Maybe this’ll loosen you up.” She opened her furs. Her breasts were white as a frog’s belly. Oben gaped, realised he was gaping, and closed his mouth. She flashed that wicked smile again. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Southerner. Last one who tried it, lost his ear.” She gnashed her teeth, and he flinched.

  She pulled a wineskin from beneath her arm and closed her furs. Then she pulled the cork out with her teeth and took a swig.

  “I’ll have some of that,” Rak said, his eyes suddenly round, his hand reaching.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” she said, holding it out of reach. “Introductions first. I don’t share with strangers.”

  “Rak.” the northman said, still reaching.

  “And you, rabbit?”

  “Oben,” he said, knowing she was intentionally goading him. He hadn’t realised it, but he craved a strong drink as much as Rak evidently did.

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She handed Rak the wineskin. “I’m Blin, by the way.” She pierced Oben with her gaze. “Looks like we’re gonna be getting pretty close.”

  By the time he’d had his third mouthful, Oben decided there were worse people to be stuck with.

  * * *

  And closer they got. It was impossible not to in such confines. Oben found Blin to be a coarse, shameless, vulgar woman; as quick to laugh as she was to anger; flirtatious, unpredictable, wild; the very essence of heathen the Persuasion were so keen to punish. He wasn’t surprised to learn she had been jailed for various crimes. She and Rak bonded after the wine. They were both set for Eisalhelm; they were both set to die. They found solidarity in that.

  Oben remained wary. His Talis improved, but when Rak and Blin got heated, he could not keep track, especially on the occasions they nearly came to blows. They never mentioned the mark on his back, and even he began to forget about it.

  * * *

  Time passed, the breeze in the cell grew cooler and the farmer in Oben knew autumn had arrived. At last the day came that they were shackled and led blinking out into the grey dawn. He almost regretted leaving that dark place. It had been safe, and not entirely unfriendly. Where the road led from here, not even the Trinity could know.

  7

  A FEAST OF FRIENDS

  Walking in shackles towards the boat was taxing in itself.

  “Get a move on, runt!” the gaoler barked in thick Talis. Oben prided himself on understanding the insult.

  They were led between ramshackle huts to the dirty harbour and a long boat that sat wide and low in the water. Its central sail was furled, and eight oars sprouted out of either side. A carved open-mouthed bear served as its figurehead. Two similar boats bobbed nearby and all were being boarded and readied for departure.

  The denizens of Lanoc watched from the shore, and Oben felt that every eye followed him. It made him eager to be away. Oben, Rak, Blin and several other prisoners were seated at the oars, and before long were made to pull them out onto the sluggish delta and cut their way to the sea.

  Lanoc looked larger than Oben had imagined from within his tiny cell. It comprised perhaps thirty dwellings, plus several larger structures for drinking and commerce. Children skimmed stones at them from the shore, and one bounced off the boat. He searched between the buildings, but saw no sign of Justice. He swallowed, lowered his head, and pulled.

  * * *

  The oars were manned by eight prisoners. Grinchell and five other men moved about, giving orders.

  “Do these chains have to be so tight?” Blin complained.

  “What happens if we sink?” a young shaven-headed prisoner with a thick beard asked.

  “You go to the bottom, Ortho,” replied a wiry, cleft-lipped Kazra, with no hint of humour.

  “Still your tongues,” Grinchell growled, looking at them with a silencing stare. “Brigal, fetch the wine,” he told the Kazra who had spoken. For a long while afterwards the only sounds were the steady splash of oars, the squawking of seabirds, and the occasional laughter of their captors.

  With each passing hour the burn in Oben’s muscles intensified. He was by no means a weak man, having toiled long hours on the farm and in the stables all his life. But pulling this damn wooden pole called on muscles he rarely used, and his captivity had left him feeble and malnourished. He began to lag. When his oar skipped across the surface of the water, Ortho hissed at him through clenched teeth, “Pull your weight!” though he looked exhausted himself. For a time Oben dipped deeper, pulled harder until he felt almost drunk on the exertion. When the oar jumped from his grip, Brigal waved a wineskin at him.

  “No slacking!” Brigal was bald, but his braided auburn beard more than compensated for it. His cheeks were sunken, and his temples tattooed with feathers that had begun to fade.

  “I… can’t,” Oben said, weakly in Edalian. He felt pathetic, but he did not have the energy to care. He was a farmer, not an oarsman. He had nothing to prove to these men. A sideward glance at Blin, who continued to row furiously, shamed him. She was younger than he was, and about his stature, but her set jaw told him she would row until they plummeted off the edge of the Erindal if need be. The difference was not simply strength, but a hardness that existed in the people of the north. An iron that coursed through their veins. That, and perhaps the mela he knew she had bribed from the gaoler that morning.

  Brigal unhooked a flail from his belt. That was enough. Oben grabbed the oar again and put his back into it. His good hand was already blistered and stinging; his bad hand, near useless by now. He did not know how he carried on, but he did and for some time. He imagined his pain belonged to someone else. Subconsciously, he had taken up his inner chanting again, Grinchell, Gulmorgon, Kai; and later he wasn’t sure he hadn’t been speaking aloud. A sudden pain exploded in his back. It took him a moment to realise that the oar had slipped from his grip.

  “Not him!” Grinchell barked, and Brigal’s face reddened. “Not until Seringil has seen him!”

  “Then who?”

  “Him!” he said, gesturing at Rak. “Let his cellmate suffer.”

  “Bastards.” Rak grunted, straining at the oar. “The southerner means nothing to me, nor I to him.”

  Grinchell ignored him. “Give him three lashes.”

  “Right you are,” Brigal said with a fierce grin. “I’ve been waiting for this, Red Rak.”

  “Make the most of it,” Rak said. “When I kill you, you’ll wish you’d hit me harder.”

  Brigal cracked the flail across Rak’s back, and although the big Taliskan did not make a sound, his frame went rigid and his faced drained of colour. After the third lash, blood was seeping through his torn furs. Oben fumbled for his oar, and despite his raw hands, began to row with vigour.

  “Knew it.” Brigal said. He spat over the si
de “He always was keen on Southerners that one. A blood mixer. Shall I give him another, just to make sure?”

  Grinchell shook his head.

  “You’ll get your chance soon enough, I don’t doubt.”

  Brigal laughed and the two men returned to their drinking.

  “I’m sorry, Rak.” Oben said.

  “Pull your fucking oar!” was all the big man said. It was good, if unhelpful advice.

  * * *

  Night came, and with it, respite. A steady westerly breeze filled the sails, and they cut their way east. They were given water and raw meat. Oben sipped the water and took a bite of the meat. He did not recognise the flavour. He became aware that the Kazra were watching him, laughing. Brigal neared, his teeth and beard red with blood.

  “Still hungry, southerner?” he asked.

  Oben did not respond.

  “Oi,” Brigal said, nudging Rak with his boot. “Tell him what I said.”

  “Answer him, boy,” Rak said, not bothering to repeat the words.

  Oben nodded.

  Brigal looked pleased.

  “Tell him, I didn’t know southerners liked horse meat.”

  Oben barely heard Rak’s translation as the Talis words sunk in. He looked at the bloody flesh in Brigal’s crooked teeth, and retched over the side of the boat. Brigal laughed and the other Taliskans joined in. Oben threw the last morsel of meat he had in his hand into the sea, and was rewarded with a stinging blow to his cheek.

  “Don’t waste food!" Brigal shouted. "Tomorrow you will row twice as hard, or I’ll whip ’em all. Her included!” He kicked Blin, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since leaving the cell. “Tell him!” Brigal spat, red spittle spraying the air.

  “You heard what he said,” Rak said. “Don’t be a fool, boy.”

  “But he—”

  “You’ll not get your revenge here. We must reach Eisalhelm. If they whip me much more I’ll be in no state to do anything—”

  “Enough!” Brigal snapped, obviously not understanding them. “No slave-tongue here or I'll whip you double!”

  “Aye.” Grinchell called down the boat. “Rest up while the wind lasts. At dawn you row.”

  * * *

  Dawn came, misty and chill. As Grinchell predicted, the wind had dropped, and they took up the oars. Oben worked the knots out of his muscles, almost happy for the distraction. He’d been given rags to bind his bleeding hands, and for the main part of the day he fared better than he had.

  When his muscles burned, he dug in. Dug deep, touched on something primal. A thing born of instinct. Of survival.

  When night came and they stopped rowing. He ate the horse meat like everyone else. He listened in on their conversations, noting their names. Mako a big bald Skalg seemed the most competent sailor amongst them. Grinchell looked to him whenever the weather turned. Tre was another, blond, fierce looking, but quick to laugh. He and Grinchell seemed close, though Oben would hesitate to use the word friend where these Kazra were concerned. Brigal did not appear to be liked much and compensated for this with a sickening sycophancy and overzealous cruelty. Fife was the final man. He was quiet. He was missing an ear. Perhaps the two facts were connected. He also drank the most and pissed into the wind so that it splattered the prisoners in their faces. They were bastards, all of them.

  * * *

  Days passed. How many, he could not say. But he did what Rak had told him to do. He pulled his fucking oar. He did not recognise his thick arms. He no longer met Grinchell and Brigal’s eyes with diffidence, but with defiance; almost daring them to strike him.

  When, at dawn, the Kazra cheered, he turned and saw a stretch of rocky coastline. They were headed for a gap in the cliffs. He wiped his eyes as white flurries of snow swirled about them. A horn sounded, deep as a bear’s roar.

  8

  IN THE COURT OF THE ONE-EYED MAN

  Just when it seemed they would collide with the side of the mountain, Oben spotted a narrow channel, leading to a natural harbour of sheer stone walls. Booted men pounded on a wooden jetty. There was a gabble of Talis so thick and boisterous, Oben might as well have been back in Gilden’s chicken coop.

  Oben got up and staggered to the dock.

  They entered Eisalhelm, passing through a gateway that was little more than two jagged pinnacles. Every surface was capped with snow. Oben stared up at the sheer rock walls that surrounded the city. His mouth was agape, and he was shoved in the back to keep moving. He felt incredibly small. The street was lined with buildings carved from a hard golden wood, but it was the looming mountains that dominated the scene and made him dizzy.

  The ragtag band of prisoners drew quite a following and even his grownout beard, weathered skin and more muscular form did not stop Oben from standing out. If it was so rare to see an Edalian in Skaligar, he assumed it unheard of for one to arrive in Taliskar. Gilden’s rolling fields felt farther away than ever.

  Despite the early hour, Eisalhelm was bustling. People milled in and out of wooden buildings, and lingered on snowy corners to point and stare. Thick flakes speckled a wide blank sky, hissing in torches and firepits. An open forge pumped out heat and even the blacksmith paused to regard the procession as it passed. Men, women, children and dogs tagged along, until they must have been several hundred strong. Oben cast his eyes downwards, ignoring the unflattering comments he could understand.

  * * *

  The prisoners were ushered through a giant wooden door in the base of a sheer black cliff.

  The cavern was wide, and the high ceiling dwarfed anything Oben had seen in Gilden. The black rock glistened and shone. Elaborate golden wood pillars, carved with elegant faces and strange beasts, ran the length of the cavern in two rows on either side of a long fire pit. Several Taliskans stood drinking by a table in the far corner. They turned to gaze upon the new arrivals. Several came over and embraced Grinchell. Grinchell hugged them fiercely. In that moment he didn’t seem a man who would raid and burn and kill.

  Oben’s gaze shifted to an alcove in the back wall, where, upon a dais, an old man and woman sat watching them. Oben assumed this was Seringil, the so-called Bearn, and the woman, his spouse.

  A silence descended as Grinchell approached the dais and knelt before the old man. Words were exchanged and after a few moments he stood, kissed the woman’s hand, bowed to the man and turned to beckon the prisoners.

  They moved forward, the crackle of the firepits the only sound apart from their footfalls. Blin and Rak stood to his right, Ortho and the prisoners he had come to know as Bartol and Gad on his left. Oben was unaware that the others had knelt until Grinchell kicked him in the back of the knees, causing him to sink down. The Bearn smiled at this.

  Seringil’s hair and beard were white, save his yellow moustaches, stained from mela. He must have seen sixty winters, though his weathered skin could have passed for eighty. His fur robes were burgundy and on his head was a wooden circlet made of the same red wood as all the carvings seemed to be. Oben stared at the burnt hole where the man’s left eye had once been, and then focussed on the one that remained, cold as a hole cut in ice. The woman at his side was younger, but not by much. Her hair retained a darker iron grey, framing a pensive, chiselled face.

  “Do you understand me, southerner?” the one-eyed man asked.

  Oben glanced sideways at Rak, who refused to acknowledge him. The big man was done translating. He seemed to want to distance himself from Oben as much as possible. Oben felt utterly alone. Rak and Blin had become the only two people he could count on, and now acted as if he were something they had trodden in.

  He took a breath and when he spoke, he did so boldly.

  “A little.”

  Several officials and most of the Kazra gasped, but Seringil chuckled behind his bony hand.

  “Ah, a wonder. How did you learn Talis?”

  Oben kept his eyes forward. He would not implicate his cellmate further.

  “I listen.”

  “Is that so.” the old
man said. “You know, I’d never thought to set my eyes on your kind again. My sailing days are behind me. And yet here you are in my court. Tell me, have you Edalians grown backbones? I recall you all squealed like pigs.”

  Oben’s jaw grew tight, which seemed to amuse the old man. “Maybe Grinchell was wrong.” Seringil said. “Maybe you did kill Mascal.”

  “Him and his men.”

  Grinchell bristled.

  “I’ll tear that lying tongue from your head.”

  “Not until I’m done with him, clan chief.”

  “Your pardon, Bearn, but if the farmer had a hand in Mascal’s death, it would have been through trickery.”

  “Perhaps,” Seringil said. “Perhaps not. I hear you have something else to show me, southerner. Take off your shirt.”

  Oben took a deep breath. The moment they saw his hideous scabbed burn, it would be over. He reached back and pulled his jerkin over his head, feeling his new muscles ache. He turned to let them examine him. He saw that close to fifty people had entered behind him. They all gaped at him in a silence.

  “A bloody farmer.” Seringil said, distantly. He began shaking, and it took Oben a moment to realise he was laughing. He threw back his head and roared. The crowd shared concerned looks before a few hesitantly joined in. “Oh, Ishral, how you test me!”

  When he lowered his head, there was nothing of mirth in his eye.

  “But Bearn, it can’t be.” Grinchell said.

  “We shall see.”

  “The Conduit? Him? This is a mockery—”

  “Enough.” Seringil said. A simple word, and yet Grinchell looked like he had been slapped.

  “Bearn, I would never question Ishral’s will. It’s just…” His voice trailed off.

  “I understand your doubt, but it is not for us to decide. The mountain will claim any pretender.”