I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER

by CF WELBURN

  To have food for a hundred come dawn was ridiculous. He wasn’t even sure why they were trying. They should be looking to escape. That was the only sensible thing to do. But then, the situation did not call for sensible. It called for madness. Oben bent and started scraping at the ground. The others hesitated, then one by one joined in.

  Ortho, had become even more jittery since the guards had fallen back.

  “The Black Swan is watching. I can feel it.” he said, looking at the snow speckled sky.

  “I can feel you annoying me.” Blin said.

  “This place is cursed.” he continued. “Should have stayed in Grey Vale. Should never have slept with that bitch…”

  Oben cursed as his bleeding knuckles scraped the ground. He dropped a seed, prodded it, crumbled a fistful of earth over it as though he were planting herbs with Mara in Gilden’s sunny garden.

  He stood back to appraise his work, then shook his head. Not even weeds grew overnight, but he persisted. At least the work warmed him a bit.

  An hour passed.

  When the muscles in his lower back had begun to ache, he smelt something pungent. He straightened and saw Blin sitting on a rock, smoking mela.

  “We can’t stop.” he said, even though he had been about to suggest they do exactly that.

  “Then don’t.” she said and took a long, crackling draw.

  “Where’d you get that?” Rak asked, dropping his trowel and joining her.

  Blin shrugged.

  “You should know how resourceful I am by now. Want a bit?”

  Rak grunted and took the pipe from her. “I’d have preferred wine, but under the circumstances…”

  Oben threw up his hands. “Need I remind you what will happen come dawn?”

  “Nothing,” Rak said. “Precisely as is happening now. I think it about time we look at other options.” He passed the pipe back to Blin, nodding. “Not bad, that.”

  Oben stared as Blin offered him the pipe.

  “Oi, Rabbit.” she said as smoke drifted from the corner of her mouth. “Have some.”

  Oben waved it away. “No thanks.” But as he looked around, he knew Rak was right. Nothing was happening.

  Ortho joined them enthusiastically.

  Oben sighed, dropped his trowel and accepted the pipe. He took two deep drags, passed it to Ortho and then burst into a fit of coughing. When his eyes had stopped streaming, he saw Rak and Blin were laughing.

  “Tastes like an old sock.” he said, spitting.

  “Beats digging holes, doesn’t it?” Blin said, with a crooked smile. He couldn’t argue with that logic.

  “So, where do we go?” Oben asked.

  He glanced around.

  Ortho stood, pointing a shaking finger.

  “Look.” he whispered.

  Something was moving on the ground where Oben had started seeding. Squirming, like a thick worm. Blin jumped down from the rock and they crept closer to examine it.

  A wriggling, brown stem had emerged from the earth and then another with the crackling noise of hatching eggshells.

  “This can’t be…” Oben murmured.

  He lifted his head to stare at his companions, and noticed they were no longer alone. Swathes of shadow moved over the icy rocks, silently, trailing long draping cloaks. Ortho let out a low moan.

  “It’s growing,” Blin said, pointing at the first plant. Its plum-coloured, bulbous body sat on a nest of gnarled, writhing roots.

  Oben made a sign to the Trinity. The Sower would condemn such an abomination, and he felt sure The Harvester would be watching the spectacle closely.

  As they stared, a vertical slit, resembling a mouth, opened on the ovoid fruit. It suddenly seemed more a grotesque creature than a plant, sitting on snaking legs. Then it screamed. Shrill and long and deafening. Oben covered his ears.

  The creature’s cry drew the shadows, and they crowded in, stooping like mothers examining a child in a cradle.

  “Shut that thing up!” Rak hollered. Blin stepped up and kicked the creature so hard, her foot sank into its pulp. She shook the gunk from her boot and kicked again, snapping it from its brittle legs. It rolled across the dirt to a pulsating, silent stop.

  The shadows swirled and whisked about in a dark vortex. More plant creatures sprang from the earth and began to scream.

  “Destroy them!” Ortho yelled. But there were too many. They could not reach them all. Shadows swirled down from the gyre and bled into the plant creatures’ open mouths, and the roots began wrenching away and lurching about. Ortho stabbed his fork into one, and it whipped up a thick root and thrashed him aside. He stumbled, and the swollen creatures scuttled over him like a horde of spiders.

  Rak picked up his trowel and flung it at one of the creatures. It hissed and flailed its roots at him. Blin kicked and cursed at the things, her face covered in slime. Oben drew Mascal's axe from his backstrap, and with two-handed strokes chopped and spun through the cluster of shrieking creatures. But before long, he was overwhelmed.

  “Rak!” he called out. Nothing. “Blin!” No answer. He looked around and found a gap in the circling mass of shrieking bulbs and thrashing roots. “I’m sorry!” he cried, and fled.

  * * *

  He limped, stumbled and tripped, breathlessly down a long bank. He had a gash on his forehead where one of the roots had struck.

  He still had Mascal’s axe, and a few hours of darkness on his side.

  He continued east down the slippery bank, zigzagging across the tundra. He trudged all night.

  When it had grown sufficiently light, he saw several silhouettes waiting against the sunrise. Even from a distance he recognised Grinchell, massive and muscular. No point in fleeing now. He was spent. He felt like a scolded child heading home to a parent’s punishment.

  * * *

  He was frogmarched through Threlwich’s gate. His axe was seized. Grinchell shoved him roughly into his cell and slammed the door. Spat and left.

  Brigal lingered, peering through the bars.

  “Looks like the prodigal piece of shit has had his day.” he said, laughed then followed after Grinchell, whistling as he went.

  Tre stepped up to the bars.

  “You had a good run of it, farmer. Gave us some entertainment in Eisalhelm at least. Almost started to like you… Got Mako killed, though, so can’t say I’m sorry this is all over. Farewell.” Tre walked off leaving Oben completely alone.

  Oben shivered, his boots and furs were sodden. He was hungry, miserable. Griz appeared next, with a smirk on his face.

  “Well, that was all a big waste of time. I told them so. See you on the slab.”

  15

  SPITE AND RESPITE

  Oben prayed to the Trinity. But it didn’t help. He knew what was coming. They didn’t give a shit about him on the mountain, they didn’t give a shit about him now.

  He was still shivering two hours later when footfalls sounded down the corridor.

  Gulmorgon entered, frowning. Oben struggled to stand but she waved him back down to the dirty straw.

  Gadziel entered behind her, the burn on the side of his face looking more vicious in the torchlight. He carried a tray. Upon the tray was a lidded bowl and a knife.

  “Wait.” Oben said, climbing to his feet.

  “Stay down.” Gulmorgon said. He did as he was told.

  “Look, I did what you asked. It was impossible.”

  “Silence.” Gulmorgon said, then nodded to Gadziel. “Give me the knife.” she told him. Gadziel set the tray down and handed her the knife.

  Oben frowned. What the fuck was going on. Gulmorgon was going to gut him herself?

  “Open it.” she said, indicating the bowl with the point of the knife. Oben did as asked, not removing his eyes from Gulmorgon, he leaned over and lifted the lid.

  Oben gasped and knocked the lid to the floor when he saw what lay in there. A head. Except now, it resembled some large aubergine with a slit where a mouth might have been.

  “Is that�
�”

  “Eat.” she said.

  “No… I’m not hungry—”

  Gadziel took a step forward, Gulmorgon held up a hand.

  “Eat.” she said again.

  Oben nodded and grabbed the spoon which had been beneath the lid. He scooped up a spoonful of the purple sludge and popped it in his mouth. It was slimy. Tasted like old mushrooms. He had to clench his eyes shut in order not to gag. He swallowed and looked up, eyes watering.

  Gulmorgon tilted her head, regarding him. She nodded at Gadziel, “You may go.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” he said, bowing his head, sparing a hard glance for Oben, then left.

  “The farmer has proven his worth, where the warrior was unable” she said, quietly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand. You’re hungry. Eat.”

  Oben looked back at the bowl.

  “Go on.” she said.

  Oben slowly ate another spoonful, trying not to think about what it was.

  “Not bad.” he said, fighting back a shudder.

  “It’s your harvest.” Her words took a moment to sink in.

  “You mean… But the creatures… The others. Where are my friends?”

  She smiled sadly.

  “You’re tired. I shall not keep you long. The other prisoners are back. They didn’t sound like friends though. You left them to cart all this back down on their own. The Tanda girl was quite inventive with what she would do to you.”

  Oben shook his head and looked back at the food.

  He half expected the walls to crumble down and the gnashing creatures to swarm him at any moment.

  “I had my doubts,” Gulmorgon said. She stared at him a moment then clapped. The door opened and Griz entered, holding another tray, this time with two cups and a decanter of wine. The square-headed servant tried not to look at Oben, but his frown was obvious.

  “Will that be all?” he asked.

  “For now.” Gulmorgon said. Griz nodded, sparing a sidelong scowl in Oben’s direction, and left. Once the door had closed, she handed him a cup and continued where she had left off. “And I still do have my doubts. But I see something now of what Seri saw in you. Incredible, yet apt.”

  “Apt?”

  “A southerner, our key to the South.”

  She sipped her wine, appraising him. Her face was hard, but her beauty was undeniable.

  Oben did not speak; he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Despite whatever coincidence or fluke had gotten him this far, he would die before he handed Edale to the Taliskans.

  “You’re very quiet,” she said. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  “Why do you want the South so bad?" he asked. "Are Taliskar and Skaligar not enough?”

  “You’ve seen Taliskar. You know how isolated and cold it is. And you’ve seen Skaligar. How bleak and dreadful it can be. This is not a land for life. Survival is a struggle here; the South is green and ripe.”

  “So, you want to become farmers?” he asked, imagining Grinchell chewing on straw, shovelling horse shit, and almost laughing out loud.

  “That is not all we want,” she said, fixing him with a gaze he found difficult to hold. “Your people need to answer for their crimes.”

  “My people?” he said.

  “Yes. The Persuasion. You know of the mines, of the cages. Your priests, your Jade Knights, your Trinity! They will burn before the end.”

  As Oben listened, he took a long sip. This was not the first he'd heard of the mines on Penn. Rak had admitted similar grievances. And of the Persuasion he knew all too well; Of Golmin the old High Priest, and of Dober the feared Prime of the Jade Knights. The Scythe, they called him. The Harvester’s Hand. But the heretics, blasphemers, sinners and dissenters who they hanged deserved it. Golmin served the Trinity, and Dober did his bidding. It was order. It was respect.

  “Whatever the Persuasion has done to you was justified. Gladbrook tried to make peace more than once. He offered land at Tristleton. A truce. A treaty you spat on.”

  Gulmorgon laughed. “A truce? A treaty? A trick! A trap!”

  Oben suddenly recalled who he was speaking to. Despite the wine warming his throat he still sat on the damp straw and looked like shit.

  “That fucking swamp was an insult. You southerners live in larders and kitchens and you offered us a trough of slops. Those who went, did so against Seringil’s wishes, and never returned. They were taken, enslaved, tortured, put to work on Penn.”

  “That’s not true,” he said. “The Trinity are virtuous. The Temple would never condone it.”

  “The Trinity?” she spat. “Your Sower, Tender, Harvester? Enslaver, I’d call them. Enforcer, Blinder! Open your eyes, rabbit, and you will see. Look to your own. That’s where you will find your evil.” Gulmorgon began to pace the small cell, her knuckles white about her cup. “Tell me, Oben, you say you came north with a list of names. How did you learn them? Where did you think the information was gleaned? On racks, I tell you. Beneath whips and upon spikes. Ask your companion, the red one. He was foolish enough to go.” Her pale face was flushed, and she glared at him. After a moment, she exhaled, and shook her head. “But look who I’m talking to. You will see it yourself. Too late, but you will.”

  Oben was about to retort but held his tongue. He was still alive. They were offering him a chance, the benefit of a thousand doubts. He doused his retaliation with wine. Something about her accusations unsettled him. Perhaps it was because Rak had said the same thing.

  “I’d speak with Rak.” Oben said.

  “You’ll see him, shortly. The disciples still have their part to play.”

  “I still don’t understand what you meant by that.”

  “The Conduit and the four that must walk the road.”

  “And the fourth?”

  Gulmorgon paused, then seemed to take some enjoyment in her next words.

  “You haven’t guessed? You’ve already been bound for a while.”

  “No… No fucking way.”

  “You came north seeking him, did you not? You will learn to get along.”

  “I hate him. I’ll kill him. And if I don’t, Rak or Blin will.”

  “I don’t think so. Grinchell is not easy to kill.”

  “Why him? If you want me to succeed, let me choose!”

  “Who said I wanted you to succeed?”

  “Because you want Edale. You said so yourself.”

  “True. But we’ve been waiting a long time. Most would prefer to endure a hundred more years in Skaligar than acknowledge you as the Conduit. But beyond all expectations, you’ve continued to prove yourself. I chose Grinchell, because I don’t trust you. Any of you. Weren’t you trying to escape from the fields when you were apprehended?”

  “I was lost.”

  “I imagine you were. No, my people will be happier knowing he’s with you. He may seem a brute, but there are few men more loyal to me, to the Bearn and to Ishral. Whilst you continue to fulfil Ishral’s designs, you too, will have his loyalty.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “And yet it is so.”

  Oben recalled something Ifor had said about Grinchell being enamoured of Gulmorgon. Perhaps he could exploit that.

  “Now, your next trial draws near—”

  “May I see the prophecies now? That I might gain some insight?”

  “I despise repetition. Your success does not depend on your knowing your task, only on your fulfilling it. I will trust you more knowing you had no opportunity to manipulate proceedings. Let us not have this conversation again. You should rest while you can. You’ve earned that much. You’re moving to another room for the time being.” She reached down, cupped his chin and raised it until she held his eye. “I haven’t figured you out yet, southerner. Survive the next trial, and we will talk some more.”

  * * *

  As promised, Griz came back just after noon and led him to a bare but bright room. It had a wolf pelt on
the floor instead of damp straw, and a high window that let in a refreshing breeze. Griz did not utter a word the whole way.

  “You don’t like me very much, do you?” Oben asked when he was shown through the door.

  “Nobody likes you very much.” had been Griz’s response. He had not hung around.

  Oben was amazed to see the door had no lock, and after Griz left, he ventured as far as the doorstep. But there, Grinchell approached him with a scowl.

  “While you continue to serve Gulmorgon, you have my protection,” he said without preamble. “But know that when you fail, my face will be the last you see.”

  “Good afternoon to you, too.” Oben said.

  “You’ve still two trials ahead. I’ll abide you for Ishral and because Gulmorgon trusts me to watch you. But when this is done, I’ll see you held accountable for your crimes, of which there are many.” He looked pointedly over Oben’s shoulder to where Mascal’s axe leant against the wall.

  Oben straightened, still only reaching Grinchell’s chest.

  “If that’s all?”

  Grinchell glared.

  “Watch yourself, farmer.” he growled, and then stormed off through the snow, kicking out at a pack of dogs that ran snapping across his path.

  * * *

  The encounter, although unpleasant, had lifted Oben’s spirits. Whilst Gulmorgon wanted him safe, he felt almost invincible. With that in mind, he strapped Mascal’s axe across his back and ventured out. Testing the boundaries of his faux freedom.

  He was aware of people staring and noted the obvious tail as he trudged to the cell block. He left the wider snowy street, heading west. A sled pulled by six dogs skidded around the corner, the two drunk Taliskans riding it insulted him as he narrowly avoided getting crushed. The gaols lay on the outskirts, between a fighting pit and what looked to be some sorry excuse for stables. A scar-faced guard at the door gave him a sour look, but then stepped aside.