by CF WELBURN
“Indeed.”
“I have to ask, why Skaligar? Isn’t Taliskar the homeland? The altar in the Sacred Grove, Sundered Peak… What do you want over there?”
“Skaligar is cursed. You will come to see this, I am sure. And yet it is sacred too, in its way.”
“As a steppingstone to Edale?”
“It has become that. But it is also the land of the Black Swan, the land from which the scriptures originated.”
They sat in silence as the logs popped and crackled.
“You’re wondering if you will ever see your homeland again,” she said.
“How did you know?”
She shrugged.
“Don’t we all dream of home when we are far away? Eisalhelm has not always been my place.”
“And will I?” he asked, quietly. “See my homeland again?” It was rhetorical, of course. He had no hope she would answer him, yet she did.
“You’ve started upon a perilous path. There will be trials; there will be death. There will be times when you will doubt your destiny, times when you will fight it. But destiny is tenacious, and neither doubting it nor fighting it will change it. Should you prevail, then you will see your homeland again.”
Oben sat up, almost spilling his wine.
“You’ve seen this in the scriptures? The auguries say as much?”
“The scriptures are beguiling. If one wants to find something, then they will. Too often have people twisted words to their own ends. But if you are the Conduit, then yes, I believe you shall. For it is written and is part of your greater purpose. With you the Taliskans will ride, and by your hand the South shall be ours.”
Part 2
OF DEATH AND FEATHERS
12
THE ENEMY’S ENEMY
The wind was merciful and carried them west, requiring much less of the oarsmen than on the journey to Taliskar. Three long boats rode the black swells, ten men in each.
On the calm mornings when rowing was required, Oben pitched in. Work and training in the harsh Taliskan winter had made him stronger, and labour was preferable to boredom, which gave him too much time to think.
Depressing thoughts for the most part. Of his family in the south gradually giving up on his return; of Delia seeking comfort in the arms of another. Once the thought had entered his head it wormed its way deeper, making sleep elusive and souring his mood.
Then there were the thoughts of revenge that returned whenever he caught Grinchell or Brigal staring. The Kazra chief’s scrawny henchman had secured himself a place on his list of names.
But it was Seri’s final words that played mostly on his mind. That the role of the Conduit would be to gift the south to the Taliskans; that he would return home, not as victor, but as vanquisher. It was horseshit, of course. He had come north for one reason and one reason alone. To kill his enemies. But if Seri was wrong, then it cast doubt over the rest of her predictions and made his position even more precarious. Luck and coincidence had seen him this far, but Gulmorgon would be another matter. As soon as they made land in Skaligar, he would seek a chance to escape. If he was taken to Threlwich, it would be too late.
* * *
They made steady progress. By day they let the sun guide them; at night they ate by lantern light and huddled down in their furs. Only once did a storm threaten, but aside from the stinging sleet that made it impossible to see, they were spared anything more serious. On one bright morning a huge barnacled whale back breached the water next to them, spraying water up into the air. Oben watched with a mixture of awe and fear. One of Grinchell’s men attempted to throw a spear, but Mako beat him until his head cracked open. The man died of his wounds and was dumped unceremoniously into the sea.
On the eighth morning, they spotted land. Even though they were still far to the north, Oben fancied he could taste home on the wind.
They tacked up the shoreline for most of the morning until an inlet carried them to a stony beach and the sorry-looking settlement of Tey. After the grandeur of Eisalhelm, Tey was little more than a scattering of wooden lean-tos in which Oben was glad they had only to spend one night. The village was home to perhaps a hundred members of the poor Tiandol clan. They were honoured to have Grinchell stay and treated the Kazra to a feast of steamed crab and clams. Grinchell and Brigal kept a close watch on Oben while they ate. In the middle of the night he tried the door and found Mako and Tre outside smoking mela. They tried to get him to sit with them and smoke, but he told them it tasted like shit. They had laughed, but never took their eyes off him until he had returned from relieving his bladder against a post.
* * *
They struck out at dawn with nothing but cold smoked fish in their bellies.
Oben felt glad to be walking again, even if the cold drizzle made it solitary and reflective, and Grinchell and Brigal were breathing down his neck. In all they were twenty-five Kazra, two Tiandol who had joined at Tey, and the four prisoners. One of the Kazra, sick from eating a bad crab, had to stay with the boats. Oben’s worn boots scraped and crunched over the shingle that formed the banks of the stale smelling estuary.
Just after mid-afternoon, with the sky beginning to darken, they turned away from the water onto a scrubby plain, bleached as old bone.
As they made camp, Brigal muttered a warning and all heads swivelled to the north. A company of twenty men approached, wearing dark brown furs with axes attached to their belts. Grinchell took Oben roughly aside.
“Say nothing. Understand?”
It was one of a handful of times the Kazra chief had spoken to him since they'd left Eisalhelm. Perhaps he hadn’t trusted himself to speak, that he might break his word to Seri.
Oben nodded, and for the first time contemplated that even under Grinchell’s protection, he wasn’t safe in this lawless land. Information gleaned from the Grim Cages had sparked rumours in the south that the clans had united, but the tension that had come over the Kazra warriors suggested it wasn’t as simple as that. They began loosening their axes and clutching knives beneath their furs. Oben used the disruption to speak with Rak.
“Who are they?”
“Tanda.”
Tanda. Kai’s men. The missing piece of the puzzle. All three of his enemies converging. If that happened, could he pass up such an opportunity and not regret it?
“Is there going to be trouble?”
“More than there is already?” Rak said, shaking his manacled wrists. He had a point, but things could always get worse.
The men had arrived and were talking to Grinchell with Brigal looking over his shoulder like a perched crow. Oben tried to look inconspicuous, but even his beard, the stinking furs, and hiding behind Rak could only do so much.
“Is Kai with them?”
Rak squinted, then shook his head.
“No. He’ll be at Eld. Must know something’s afoot, though.”
“Something being me?”
“Something being the coming of the supposed Conduit. Yes, I’m afraid you’re going to draw a lot of attention, and not much of it kind.”
“Can you make out what they’re saying?”
“I don’t need to. They’ll be digging. You’re not getting out of this hiding behind me. I’m not losing another fucking tooth for you. They clearly know you are here. My guess is they intercepted one of Seri’s birds. Act like you don’t know Talis and let Grinchell handle this. And for fuck’s sake, do not go mentioning the bloody Conduit.”
“That would probably be unwise,” Oben agreed.
Terse introductions over, the twenty Tanda were welcomed amongst them.
“Ah, there he is,” their apparent leader said, grinning. Oben scowled at the tall man, at his ridiculous swinging bone necklace and feathered hair.
“Bloody Ifor,” Rak groaned under his breath.
Ifor—or Bloody Ifor, if Rak had not simply been cursing—was unnerving in his confidence. The tall, painted-faced man strolled through the camp of Kazra as calmly as if they were children.
&nbs
p; “Where’d you find southerner?” Ifor asked, nodding at Oben.
“Lanoc,” Grinchell said. “Went for a stroll wrong side of the Weaver and got himself lost.”
“Why lug him around?” Ifor asked. “Put the runt out of his misery. Seems like a waste of good furs to me.”
“I’m not at liberty to kill him. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. He goes to Threlwich.”
“Shame. Well, we can still have a bit of fun, right. Make him walk the coals.”
“And carry him the rest of the way? I’m just gonna get the job done. Been eating nothing but cold fish for the last week.”
“That’s fair enough. If it were true, of course.”
The camp grew very still, and Ifor's wide smile grew wider.
“Kai got nothing better to do?” Grinchell growled, dropping the ruse. “Got his men sniffing after scraps?”
“Yes, your band does look like scraps. And I think you’ve come from much further than Lanoc. Rumours are that you were in Eisalhelm! Imagine that! A southern rabbit in the homeland! Enough to make one curious, I’m sure you’d agree.”
“I’d check your sources more carefully. Could have saved yourself a journey.”
Ifor grinned and surveyed the camp, narrowing his eyes at the prisoners.
“Oh, I think the journey has been worthwhile. Now, tell me why are you harbouring a sworn enemy of the Tanda clan?”
Grinchell frowned, and after a moment Ifor shook his head and said,
“Blin, Blin. Oh, how I have missed you.”
The Kazra exchanged glances, as Blin stepped forward.
“I see you’re still melodramatic, Ifor,” she said.
“Oh, there will be drama, let me assure you.”
“What the fuck is going on here?” Grinchell growled.
“I might ask you the same,” Ifor said. “Last I heard Blin here, pretty as she is, was sent to the Shriving. A waste, really, but deserved.”
“They found me innocent,” she said, grinning. Ifor’s painted mask twitched, his smile faded and he turned to Grinchell.
“This bitch was Tanda. If her execution was forfeited, I would hear good reason. Or hand her over.”
“The prisoner stays with us.”
“On whose say so?”
“Seringil’s.”
“Ah, there you go. I’d thought The Great Grinchell was a man of his word, but you’re just as full of shit as the rest of us. Lanoc, my arse.”
“I did not lie. We were in Lanoc before we went to Eisalhelm.”
Ifor clapped, and looked around, delighted.
“And now here you are.”
“Get to your point Ifor. I’m hungry and in no mood.”
“You’re in Eld.” Ifor said, extending his hands at the empty blanched field.
“Eld is leagues away.”
“Province of Eld. That makes your business Kai’s business, and in turn, mine. Now tell me, why do you take a southerner from Eisalhelm to Threlwich? And why have you pardoned a traitor to the Tanda clan?”
“If Kai has questions, he can take them up with Gulmorgon.”
“Another deceiving bitch? Come with us to Eld. Kai can offer you much for your loyalty.”
Oben looked from one man to the other. Eld was closer, maybe Grinchell would be tempted. Maybe Grinchell and Kai would kill each other and save him the trouble. No such luck.
“Is Kai so bold now as to challenge Gulmorgon? You know she has Eisalhelm’s backing, right?”
“Kai, like the rest of us Tanda, just wants what is ours.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Your job? Tell me Grinchell of Kazra, when did you become a servant of the Ixna?”
“I obey the Bearn. Nothing more.”
“I see. And this has nothing to do with your… infatuation?”
Grinchell jerked his axe from his belt. Another fifty weapons clattered into hands around Oben.
“Now, now, let’s not get hasty,” Ifor said, smiling again. Oben had to wonder if all Tanda were mad. He only had Blin and Ifor to go by, and both were crazy as inbred donkeys. “We just came to talk.”
“We’re done talking.”
“Look, you have your orders from Gulmorgon, or Seringil, whoever you decide to say… I have mine from Kai. But let us talk as simple warriors. Let us drink and eat together.”
“I am Kazra chief, and now the Ferra clan are with me. I’m more than an equal to Kai. If you want to talk with simple warriors, look elsewhere.”
“Ah, yes, we heard about Mascal. Poor bastard. You must be grieving. Or celebrating.”
“Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it out.”
“Come now, the marriage, his death, you absorbing his clan. People are talking…”
“Then let them talk to my face. I have an answer for them right here.” He brandished his axe.
“I agree. I have no quarrel with you, clan chief of the Kazra and the Ferra. We have ale. You look like you’re in need of some.”
Oben waited, hoping Grinchell made the right decision. They were all thirsty. Ale tasted better than blood.
“Why didn’t you start with that?” Grinchell said.
Ifor grinned, clicked his tongue and two Tanda fetched several heavy flasks from a mule.
“Let’s leave this quarrel for Gulmorgon and Kai. We men of the road must enjoy simple pleasures.”
“Let’s see how good your ale is first.”
Ifor grinned, took a drink and then passed the flask to Grinchell who, likewise, took a sip. The men seemed to relax then, and Oben realised an act of truce had been initiated.
Ale dripping from his chin, Ifor asked, “You mind if I at least take a look at him?”
“Go ahead.” Grinchell said, standing back.
Oben tensed as Ifor grabbed his jaw and tilted his head from side to side as if he were examining a horse at auction. It was all Oben could do not to knock his hand away. He could feel the weight of Mascal’s axe strapped beneath his furs.
“Hm. What ain’t I seeing here?” the tall Tanda said. “He looks like a southern farm boy to me. Can still smell the pig shit on him.”
Grinchell shrugged and took another drink. Ifor continued, “I think Kai would reward you all the same, should you come instead to Eld.”
“As I said, I have my orders.”
“Ah yes. That you do, clan chief of the Kazra and Ferra,” Ifor goaded.
Grinchell ignored him and drained the flask.
“I hope you’ve got more where that came from. My men are thirsty.” He gestured towards Ifor's gear.
Ifor stared at Grinchell for a moment, grinding his jaw, then he laughed and clapped.
“You heard him boys, drinks all round! And more fires! Looks like it’s going to be a cold one!”
The tension dissipated, and though Ifor put Oben on edge, the majority of the warriors, be they Kazra or Tanda, seemed content to replace weapons with ale. Gradually, laughter rose among the men and even a song was taken up.
Oben, for all appearances, was reduced to an ordinary prisoner once more, which meant he got to sit with Rak, Blin and Ortho. They were given food but no drink and were forced to endure the boasting and bickering as the two clans got steadily drunker. Grinchell set two guards over them precluding any escape. Oben curled up in his furs and tried to get some sleep as the rowdy revelry rose.
* * *
Oben woke as rough hands seized him, clamped down over his mouth and bundled him away from the dying fires. He squirmed in the grip of a strong Taliskan who put pressure on his windpipe until he stopped struggling.
“Wait here,” someone hissed, dumping him in some scratchy heather. He heard people whispering and saw men moving about in the darkness. The voices faded, and though there were still several men just off to his right, they crouched with their backs to him.
Oben had no idea where the rest of them were, but he knew this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He stretched to make sure he was not bound, took several deep
breaths, stood and ran. He wasn’t sure which direction, just away from the Tanda. It was a moonless night and he had the element of surprise.
Three men jumped from behind a shrub into his path. They cried out and gave chase. He veered off, heading for some trees, but these men were fast. He heard them stomping behind him. He could feel them gaining on him, could hear their ragged breath just behind him. He stumbled and they closed the gap. He got up and bolted to his left, behind a copse of trees, splashed through a stream he hadn’t seen and dashed for the edge of the forest. He panicked, made a wrong turn and skidded to a stop at the edge of a steep ravine. A few loose stones tumbled down, from beneath his feet. He wondered if the fall would be worse than being captured. He’d likely break a few bones. He spun, ran back, dodged his pursuers’ grasping hands, and took off into the trees. He ducked branches, weaved left and right hoping to confuse them, but managed only to confuse himself and headed back to the copse of trees from which he had fled. Five men were waiting. They sprinted to cut him off. He turned sharply and clambered through a thick wall of brambles, their briars catching and clawing at his arms and legs, a hundred tiny thorns piercing and snapping off in his furs. He slowed, and a hand seized his hair and pulled him to the ground. They circled around him, six, ten, twelve men. One of the men kicked him in the jaw with a heavy boot.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” someone was saying as the world swam back into view. It was Ifor. “Gonna have to clip them wings.”
“Break his leg?” another Tanda suggested.
“Nah. Kai wants him presentable. Cut his toes off. The big ones. That should stop him from running.”
The men laughed and Oben struggled as they yanked his boots off. He thrashed, writhed and kicked one of them in the ear.
“Hold him down, lads,” Ifor said and immediately he felt all the air go out of him as a fat Tanda sat down on his chest. Thick, calloused fingers grabbed his feet, fumbling, separating his big toe and twisting sideways until it clicked from its socket. Something cold and metallic touched his skin. He could not move, so he screamed. At first in desperation, then in defiance and finally in agony. Warm blood ran down his foot and the crunch as the bone was severed sounded even above his wailing. The pain was so acute, it made him sick. How could something which was not there continue to hurt so much? The fat man had his arms pinned, so he dug his nails into the cold earth, tearing up the dry shrubs.