by CF WELBURN
He thought of Delia, Bayron, Mara and Justice. He remembered Rak and Blin and Ortho, awaiting execution. In a way he was lucky to be here. To be given this chance to drift away from life and not have it torn from him. It was quite a view.
* * *
He awoke at dawn and groaned, clambered to his feet. The snow beneath his body had melted. Several purple flowers poked through the ice. Their long thorns dripped with thawing snow. They had survived in this harsh place, and so had he. Something the other buried pretenders had not. He picked a flower and inhaled its scent.
If he returned empty-handed, they would kill him. If he stayed here, he would die. He thought briefly of his plan and of Grinchell; a fire rekindled inside him. If he went directly to the Kazra, stuck a knife in heart, twisted it, looked in his eyes and laughed… then, at least his final act would achieve something. It would be one more name crossed off the list. That’s what he had come for, wasn’t it? To kill the four headed serpent of the north! The names of the infamous leaders gleaned from tavern talk and trader gossip. But that too, would result in death. And he saw now that it would solve nothing. Cut one head off and another would grow back. What the fuck are you doing here, Oben? The realisation sank in at last. Delia, Brintok, Kyrion, they had all been right. He was an idiot. He’d carried those four names, chanted them as if they had been the answer to everything. As if they would bring Mara back. Shit, he didn’t even know if Grinchell had been there that night in Gilden. He had just wanted actual faces to blame. He rubbed his hand across his eyes, looking down towards the sea. He could try to get to the boats…With luck the sail would catch an easterly breeze, and once he hit land he’d just have to walk south… It was terrifying, but the best of a bad lot. It was time he went home. He tucked the flower in his trouser pocket and started back down the trail.
10
LEGEND OF THE THUNDER-BLADE
Oben trudged as listless as a ghoul, ragged clothes, blackened frost-bitten fingers, wild hair, scanning for food, for water. He could a hear a tantalising trickle beneath the snow, under rocks, but could not find it. He stumbled and staggered on.
Another night came and went. Just after dawn, he reached Eisalhelm and passed back through the fanged archway.
If they spotted him, it was over. He pulled his furs tight, walked as steady and straight as he was able, slinking away from streets where people went about their morning business.
* * *
Eisalhelm, being surrounded by rock, was not an easy city to skirt around. Even so, he made his way as best he could towards the sea. The harbour would be guarded, he wouldn’t have much time to grab a boat. Likely they’d give chase... He hid his face as someone exited a doorway and walked past, he hung back around a corner waiting for a group of children to scurry off. He could see the dark sea through a gap in the cliffs. So close he could smell the brine. Then two Skalgs stepped into his path.
Shit! He ducked back, looking for another way. The way he had come was busy, that left a small square at the other end of the street… He heard Grinchell before he saw him. The big Skalg sat outside a tavern in the square, with his back to Oben. He was arguing with a group of men in a slurred voice. Oben looked over his shoulder. The two Skalgs who had cut him off were drawing near. He would be recognised. He made a decision quickly. A terrible decision, but the only one open to him. He was about to be caught and killed… he suddenly didn’t want to go out alone. Oben unstrapped Mascal’s axe from his shoulder and tested the edge with his thumb. Blood welled and he sucked it away. He imagined it cleaving between Grinchell’s neck and shoulder, through flesh and into bone. He trembled in anticipation. He hoped Delia and Bayron would forgive him. He would be cut down immediately afterwards. The Sower would carry his message to them. The fresh shoots in spring would be his returning. Perhaps Edale would know peace again, for a time. Two out of four of the bastards were more than he realistically could have hoped for. Not bad for a farmer and stablemaster’s son. He closed his eyes and prayed. To the Sower, the Tender, but mostly to the Harvester, to deliver him to the Garden. Then he ran. Grinchell turned, a puzzled look on his face and had just enough time to raise an empty tankard in his defence. Oben’s vision flashed, and he crashed to the ground. Blood streamed from his split brow. Brigal’s face looked down at him and faded to black.
* * *
“He’s awake,” said a female voice. He squinted. It was Blin, and he knew he was back in the cell.
“This how you planned to rescue us?” Rak asked.
Oben jerked upright. A coarse bandage was wrapped across his forehead and over his left eye.
“The fucking Plague.” he said, rubbing the side of his face. “Why are you two still alive?”
“Won’t be for long,” Rak said. “Nice of you to join us.”
“I failed,” Oben told them.
“Everyone who goes to the Sundered Peak fails,” Blin said. "It’s just they’re normally not stupid enough to come back and tell everyone.”
Rak shook his head at Oben. “Aye, lad. You should have done yourself a favour and stayed gone.”
“I made it to the top, but there was nothing there.”
His cellmates shared dubious looks.
“You lost a lot of blood, boy. Might lose a few fingers, too. Not that that matters now.”
Oben looked down at the blackened tips, tried to wiggle them.
“I’d have run for it.” Ortho said. “What in Deriath brought you back here?”
“I… wanted to kill Grinchell,” he said quietly. It sounded stupid saying it out loud, but no more ridiculous than telling them he had been planning on sailing off into the black sea.
“Ha!” Blin laughed. “And almost did, huh? I love it!”
“Don’t mock me.”
“Must have been a fearsome sight!” she said, smirking.
“You know what’s coming now,” Rak said. “It ain’t pleasant. Start praying.”
“To whom? Your goddess is as worthless as mine.”
“Watch your tongue,” Bartol snarled. But Oben was done taking orders from Skalgs!
“I made it to the top of your sacred mountain, and you know what I found? Nothing! Just rock and ice and more dead fools. It’s horseshit, all of it. The Black Swan, prophecies, fucking Ishral, the bloody Trinity! To the Plague with all of it!”
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Rak said,
“You’ve lost your faith, boy, and I pity you. Especially at this hour. Come midnight we will be sacrificed. I for one will not abandon my goddess now.”
Oben snorted and looked away. He’d returned from the top of the mountain, and all he got was mockery. The same he had dealt with his whole life from his father and Kyrion. He hated them. He hated everyone. He tilted his bandaged head back against the cold wall and stared vacantly into the darkness.
* * *
At dusk the prisoners were led to a stone altar at the foot of the miserable mountain. Seri and Seringil both stood there, accompanied by the executioner who held a long knife and wore a bear’s skull on his head. A few withered trees struggled up around the edge of the rock, flickering in the light of a hundred torches. Snow blanketed everything. Seri did not meet his eyes. The altar was worn and notched.
He saw Grinchell in the crowd; beside him stood Brigal, wearing his loathsome smirk. Mako, Tre and Fife from the boat stood there, too. Come to see their job completed. None of them were talking.
The six prisoners formed a line, Oben at the end. The crowd wanted his blood more than any of the others.
A drummer took up a slow steady thumping, and a crescent moon emerged from behind a silver cloud. The skull-headed executioner danced before the altar to the rhythmic dirge. Oben suddenly regretted his earlier slander of the Trinity. He wondered if they judged him now. The sickle shaped moon had an air of the Harvester about it.
Gad, the swarthy, toothless wretch who had never spoken in the cell was shoved forward first. He went quietly and lay upon the stone. The drumming reach
ed a thunderous crescendo, then fell silent. The only sound was the distant screech of an owl. Then the executioner pushed the steel blade of his knife into Gad’s chest, and severed the ribs around his heart. Blood welled on Gad’s chest and spilled down to puddle on the altar. Gad shuddered, but said nothing. The executioner held up Gad's throbbing heart and dripped blood over his skull helmet and into his mouth. He danced a ghastly jig as the drumbeat swelled once more. He put the heart in a bowl, and two guards dragged the body away to lie discarded beneath one of the bare trees. The crowd chanted. Oben realised he had pissed himself.
They kicked Bartol forward next, pushing him down onto the altar. Rak would be next, followed by Blin, Ortho and then the grand finale.
Oben tried to catch Blin's eye, then Rak's. He had a sudden urge to strike the red-headed outcast, to roar in his face that they needed to fight.
Rak noticed him. “Try not to scream,” he said. “Ishral is listening.” He turned back to watch Bartol go rigid as the knife slid deep into his chest. The scar-faced prisoner had never hidden his distaste for Oben, but nobody deserved this. He gurgled at the end, yet miraculously did not cry out.
Try not to scream? His lips twitched in a nervous, inappropriate smile. Bartol’s heart was placed in the bowl, his body dragged off, and slowly Rak approached the stone.
“Where’s your fight, Rak?” Oben called. “You just going to let them do this? What about Nettlegate, huh? You don’t want to go back?!” But the big man did not heed him. This was the night he would meet his ancestors in Valareth. He would not bandy words with an outsider on the threshold of transcendency.
“Silence him!” Seringil ordered, but Oben was ready and caught the guard’s hand as it reached for his throat. If they were going to kill him, let them do so now, not like a pig on the block. He yanked the guard off balance and made a break for the shadows beyond the torchlight. Several people moved to cut him off, but he twisted and leapt, pulling himself up the cliff. He hung, grunting, pathetic. Like a child who refuses to leave and is pulled away by adults. Some of the spectators laughed; others were furious the ritual had been disturbed. He fell down the rockface, not far but at an awkward angle, twisted his ankle, rolled heavily, felt a stabbing pain in his thigh, and slammed his head on a rock.
The guards dragged him back to the line. He squinted with blurry eyes as Rak lay back and the shaman began his chanting.
The executioner knelt over Rak and brought the knife down. Rak tensed, but did not cry out. Blood began to flow. But before the knife could cut too deep, Oben let out a piercing scream. The executioner jerked the knife to the side, drawing a red gash across Rak’s chest.
Oben kicked and thrashed on ground, he felt like he had been bitten by a snake. He struggled to breathe, clawing at the snow and stone. Memories of the men who had died the same way at Mascal’s camp flooded through his mind. Then he kicked, and was still.
“What farce is this?” the shaman spat. He strode over to Oben, grabbed him by the tunic and shook him.
Oben was paralysed. But he could see them. He could hear them discussing him as though he were dead.
“What is it?” Seringil asked, also at his side. The shaman checked for Oben’s pulse, listened for his breath and then dropped his wrist to the ground.
“He’s dead.”
Several spectators howled with indignation, but most just stood in silence. Seringil and Seri bent to examine him.
“The gash on his head?” the Bearn asked, uncertainly.
“Looks like his heart gave out.” The executioner spat. “Weak as a rabbit.”
“Then we’ve been cheated a sacrifice,” Seringil said. “Put him with the rest of the bodies. We’ll burn him after the rituals.”
Oben tried to blink, but even his eyelids were beyond his command. Rough hands grabbed him when he felt a crawling beneath his skin, like his blood was trying to get out. Veins crawled up his neck like ivy strangles a statue. He gasped and lurched up.
“Impossible,” the shaman hissed, stumbling back.
Oben was too distracted by what was happening to his body to pay attention to the man. Every eye he met seemed to turn away. He winced at a sharp pain in his thigh and saw that he was bleeding, stuck his hand in his pocket and drew out the crushed flower; evidently, one of its thorns had snapped off in his leg when he had fallen.
“What’s that?” Seri asked.
“I found it at the peak,” Oben rasped, still gasping for breath. “I think I’ve been poisoned.” Everyone stared at him, many gaping open-mouthed. Even Rak sat up and looked at him, head tilted. Oben’s skin still pulsed, his veins throbbed. A spectator gasped and pointed at him. His veins were bulging blue, crawling up his chest where his jerkin was torn away.
“You reached the top?” the Bria asked, then pursed her lips waiting for an answer.
“I did, but there was nothing there. Nothing but corpses. And this flower.” She reached out and took it from him, twisting it in her fingers. The crowd began to stir, but she raised a hand to still them. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.
“We were wrong,” she said, glancing sidelong at the Bearn. “We’ve been seeking a weapon, but the scriptures are ever set to beguile.” She held the flower up so that its one remaining thorn caught the torchlight.
“You can’t be serious,” Grinchell said, his voice trembling with indignation. He wasn’t the only one struggling to come to terms with the revelation. The crowd had gathered baying for blood. Several men had drawn axes, including Brigal and Tre.
“Stand down!” Seringil hissed.
“This is a mistake,” a heavily inked Taliskan barked. “This foreigner must not live. The Glade has been tainted! Look at him, godless, frail. Piss staining his pants. Ishral would not choose such a pathetic weasel!”
“Enough, Lorf! You do not make the decisions here—”
But Lorf was not alone. “He’s poisoned your mind, Seri!” another voice cried out from over by the trees. More voices joined the swell, but they washed over Oben. He felt the burning spreading out from his thigh. He pulled down his trousers, niceties be damned. The veins on his legs stood out, glowing blue in the darkness, forked like lightning, etching patterns across his body.
“What’s… happening to me?” he asked nobody in particular. The torchlight was spinning in his vision, his mouth felt dry as a rock.
“Stand down!” Seri echoed her husband. She raised her axe and stepped in front of Oben.
More surprisingly to Oben, Grinchell drew his axe and stepped in besides her.
“Come no closer,” he growled.
Rak stood up from the altar and came to stand behind Seri.
When it was settled, far more of the gathering had sided with the Bria than against her.
“Don’t make us do this, Seri,” Lorf pleaded. “Hand over the Edalian. Let us do the honourable thing.”
“Mind your place, Lorf,” she said, calmly. “Lay down your arms, and I may look mercifully upon you. If only for your father’s memory.”
Lorf stood silently for a moment, glancing sideways at his comrades. “I’m sorry, my Bria.” he said. “I can’t let this stand.” He looked at those who supported him and shouted, “For Ishral!”
The warriors charged, screaming and hacking with axes on the torchlit ledge. Grinchell met them with a roar, Mako and Tre ran in with a clashing metallic crunch. Rak and Blin were there, too. Oben staggered back. Blood flew across the crescent moon, hissed in torches, spattered warmly across his writhing skin. A man ran at him, roaring, but stopped short as Tre sunk his axe into his chest. Oben ducked back trying to distance himself. Blin was unarmed, but he saw her astride a man, gouging her fingers into his eyes. Fife, the one-eared lacky turned to face Oben. He had a hole where his left eye had been and dropped to his knees. Oben realised he had frozen, staring stupidly like the rabbit they dubbed him. A scream startled him and he stumbled back. In the chaos of crunching fists and chopping axes, a heavy man crashed into him,
bowled him over with a crunch into the hard snow. It was Lorf. Up close he stank of sweat and damp fur. He sat astride him, pinning Oben's arms with his knees. He slammed his forehead down on Oben nose with a loud crack.
Oben's eyes streamed with tears and his nose pulsed blood. He managed to jerk a hand free and clawed at the Taliskan’s face, grasping for anything, eyes, ears, nose. Lorf seized his wrist and punched him in the face once, twice, thrice until all Oben could hear was a distant roaring. It took him a moment to realise the sound came from his own throat, and that he was pushing up against the big Taliskan. But Lorf was strong and grabbed him in a bear hug, hoisted him up and slammed him down on the altar.
“This disgrace ends now!” he growled, raising a knife up by his ear. Just then Oben felt an explosion in his eyes and saw a flash of light as the veins wormed behind them; Lorf shrank back, repulsed at what he saw. Oben seized the moment, twisted the knife free from the warrior's slack hand and drove it up into his muscled stomach. He heard a pop, and hot blood gushed over his hands and face. Lorf screamed, his foul gurgling breath hot on Oben's face. Several hands grabbed the man by his furs and hauled him off. Faces pressed in. The moon grew blurry behind them. Far off he heard the sound of Lorf dying.