by CF WELBURN
“Don’t do anything stupid.” was all he said.
The three dogged prisoners stirred at his approach.
“Well, well,” Rak said, “if it isn’t the fucking gardener.”
“Little bastard,” Ortho growled. He had gashes on both forearms and another down the side of his neck. “Left us up there to die. You were the only one with an axe and you pissed off.”
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Barely. You better be getting us out.”
“Taking care of it.” Oben said, looking at Blin’s ghoulish grin.
“You got anything for us, Limpy?” she said. “Ale, wine, mela? I'm not fussy.”
“Noted.” he said, then, “First, can someone tell me what the hell happened?”
“It was the shadows, wasn’t it.” Ortho said. “Told you. Nobody listens to me until it’s too bloody late.”
“Seri told me Skaligar was cursed.” Oben said, shaking his head. “I’m beginning to see why.”
“We’re cursed.” Rak said. “Please tell me you ain’t got any more jaunts planned.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What’s that bloody bitch got lined up for us next?” Ortho said.
“It’s a surprise.”
“I like surprises,” Blin said. “Whatever it is make it strong. And enough for three. Oh, and some meat would be grand.” She nudged a barely touched plate of purple pulp with her boot.
Oben wrinkled his nose.
“I can’t even look at it,” Ortho said.
“You’ve no idea what she wants?” Rak asked.
Oben shrugged. “Not yet, but I think we have a bit of time to recover. She’s given me a new house.”
“You’re a little cunt, ain’t ye.” Rak said.
Oben grinned.
“Oh, she did say that according to the augury the Conduit and his four disciples will complete two more trials.”
“Four what?” Rak snapped.
“Gulmorgon’s term, not mine. We can say escorts if it helps.”
“Bloody hell.” Rak muttered, rubbing a big hand across his tired eyes.
“You said four.” Ortho pressed.
“Yes. Grinchell will be joining us.” He took no small enjoyment in watching that sink in. “Right, I’ll see you later.”
“Wait, what—?”
Oben didn’t stay to answer Ortho’s question.
He left the prison, pretended to ignore the leering crowds and went to find more wine.
16
THE SWAN ROAD
Almost a week passed before Oben was summoned. In the interim he had done very little save rest and smuggle contraband to his disgruntled disciples. He also had an unpleasant run in with Brigal, which left him thinking that Gulmorgon’s protection was lacking. After that he didn’t go out after dark. Being murdered in a backstreet slick with frozen piss would put a damper on the whole Conduit business.
* * *
He got to know Threlwich, explored its perimeters, but never left the gates. It was larger than he realised, and easy to get lost; clearly built for defence rather than aesthetics, it was made mostly of pine wood, with some natural rock forming parts of the walls and watchtowers. It had three roads leading out of it and one river flowing through it. It was ice-encrusted, smoky and stank of fish and human waste. It made him miss Gilden.
* * *
They convened in Gulmorgon’s central lodge, a three story building which was reminiscent in style of Serinigil’s court, replete with a long fire pit, pelts and wooden pillars carved with depictions of swans and seawolves. The biggest difference was the chair with mammoth tusks curving out to either side on which Gulmorgon sat waiting.
Griz stood next to her, looking suitably sycophantic, and much less sour than when he had spoken with Oben alone. Gadziel and Lief stood in shadowed alcoves along the back wall, fingering the handles of their axes. Kavark, Gulmorgon’s blind seer was also present, unnerving in his watchful sightlessness. Unlike Seringil, he had no eyes, and by his skin-covered sockets, appeared to have been born that way.
Before the dais, gathered Oben and his bound companions. Grinchell stood slightly apart from the others, the frown lines between his thick black brows looked to have been cut in with a knife.
Ortho’s hairless head shone in the fire light, his eyes darting this way and that. Blin chewed something and met Gulmorgon’s eyes unflinchingly.
Rak had really embraced the cell look, his red hair and beard more unruly than usual.
And then there was Oben, who felt like he should never have been within a hundred leagues of any of these freaks.
Gulmorgon seemed satisfied though, and eager to press on.
“You know why you’re here. Tonight is full moon, and the Conduit’s second trial. You are to take the Swan Road.”
A silence followed, in which the disciples shifted uncomfortably until Blin broke the tension with an obnoxious laugh.
“Why stop there? Afterwards a stroll to Deriath? Drink mammoth piss from Gillad’s horn?”
“It can’t be done.” Ortho said, gloomily.
Rak remained tight-lipped, and Grinchell dipped his head.
“It can, and it shall.” Gulmorgon said. “Whether you will be the ones to achieve it, is another matter. Many have failed, but the same could be said about the Shadow Fields or the Thunder-Blade.”
Oben realised that his companions were looking at him. He cleared his throat.
“Erm, what’s the Swan Road?”
“The river,” Kavark said. All eyes swung to his withered grey face. “You follow it to its end.”
“To the sea?”
“If the sea you find," Kavark continued, "then you’re not the Conduit. The augury speaks of the true Swan Road leading to a lake. A lake on the shores of Deriath that only the Conduit can find. Here you will obtain feathers from Ethra. Bring them to me.”
Blin cackled again. “If you’re short of quills old man, allow me to go and kill a chicken.”
The seer shot Blin an eyeless glare. “It is said that the feathers will be our salvation. If the southerner is the Conduit, if you will survive and return with the feathers; then it should make more sense. If you do not, it may not bode well for any of us.”
“So, you see,” Gulmorgon said, looking chiefly at Grinchell. “This is of greater importance than simply proving the Conduit true.”
“I understand” was all the Kazra chief said.
“There’s just one more thing, then you must make haste,” Kavark said. “The prophecy can be obscure, but it is widely agreed that the first of the disciples will fall in this task.”
Blin, Rak, and Ortho exchanged glances.
“What do you mean by fall?” Ortho asked.
“What do you mean by the first?” Rak echoed, thick arms crossed.
Gulmorgon ignored them both, and gestured towards the door.
“Your boat awaits.”
* * *
As they were ushered towards the waiting vessel, Ortho began to rant.
“It’ll bloody be me. I know it will.”
“Could be any of us,” Rak said.
“Well, it won’t be him, will it?” Ortho said, jabbing a finger at Oben as if he were personally condemning them.
“Unless he’s not the Conduit,” Grinchell said. “Then you’re all as good as dead.”
“How do you know it’s not you?” Blin said. “How’d you know we’re not gonna slit your fat throat and dump you for the fishes?”
“Because I’d take more than one of you with me,” Grinchell said, “and that would not tally.”
Oben wasn’t convinced enough that he was the Conduit to feel much comforted. He privately hoped it was Grinchell, but that would be too easy. Ortho had a right to be worried. If it were a story, then he was the most likely to go. The coward, the newcomer, the most expendable.
Perhaps they should be more concerned about Kavark’s foretelling of a greater threat should they succeed. But it d
idn’t seem like an appropriate time to bring it up.
* * *
Whilst Blin and Ortho argued, and Grinchell stood aside, speaking with with Tre, Brigal and another Kazra called Jank, Rak approached Oben.
“Who’d have thought the day you turned up in my cell would lead us here,” he said, shaking his red mane. “You know you could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you had just opted for sacrifice.”
“Yes,” Oben said. “I seem to have chosen poorly.”
Even though he jested, his mind was elsewhere. Something Gulmorgon had said about the mines, about the failed treaty.
“What really happened at Tristleton, Rak? The way I heard it the Skalgs weren’t happy with the offer and turned violent. You were there. Tell me the truth.”
“The truth has many sides.” Rak stared off across the river.
“I want your side.”
Rak sighed.
“Might be the last chance we get, eh?”
The joke was weak, and he barely managed a smile.
“Aye, I was there. Around three hundred of us were. Cost us a lot to leave. A gamble, defying the Bearn to put our trust in a fat southern lord. You know, when a promise seems too good to be true, you better believe it’s full of shit.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was no treaty. Tristleton was a swamp. A shithole. The Persuasion didn’t care for our complaints.”
“And? You going to make me drag this out of you word by word?”
“The treaty was a hoax. A trap. The Jade Knights opened fire on us. They killed half of us before we knew what was happening.”
“Fire lances?”
“Aye. I saw my cousin get ripped in two. I’d just been talking to him.”
Oben shook his head. It seemed unbelievable… wrong.
“What happened then?”
“They staged it perfectly. We had our backs against a bog, we could not run. We fought, of course we did, and took a few of those bastards with us. But we were already as good as dead.”
“How did you escape?”
“I hid, got down in the sludge and covered myself with mud.”
“The story we were told was… different,” Oben said.
“Course it was. Left my brother there I did. Tried following their trail afterwards, once they had gone. I knew the prisoners were being taken to Penn. I lost them at Blanbury, caught up with them the other side of Corwen. Once they got on the boats, I could do nothing.”
“Penn is a prison colony for Edalians.”
“Penn is a slave camp for Taliskans.”
“And what then?”
“I tried to return to Skaligar. To my clan in Iron Hills. Knew I’d be punished but they needed to know the truth. But I was wounded.” He pulled up his tunic revealing a round scar in his side. “Shrapnel. Part of my cousin’s knee, believe it or not. Damn near killed me, the selfish bastard. I collapsed and got a fever. When they found me, they took me in, and healed me.”
“At Nettlegate?”
“Aye, lad.”
“And it took you five years to heal?”
Rak smiled.
“A woman called Fara… Turns out there were things more important than medicine.”
“Then how’d you end up in Lanoc?”
“The Taliskans reacted! Someone must have made it back from Tristleton and told them. We were outcasts, but we were their outcasts. You lived near the border; you’ve seen some of the raiders.”
“They killed my sister. That’s how all of this started.”
“Revenge is popular these days.”
“I’m not the same as them,” Oben said, his jaw tightening.
“Oh no? I heard more about Mascal’s death while I was in the cell. Asked a guard about it. Wasn’t just him you killed, was it?”
Oben looked away.
“That’s different.”
“Some stories are the same, just read in a different voice.”
“Horseshit! Mara was innocent. Mascal and his men were murderers. Just finish your bloody story already, will you. Found you in bed all cosy with a milkmaid, did they?”
Rak grinned.
“Something like that. She was a miller’s daughter, actually, but details…”
“Did they kill her?”
“No. I turned myself in. Kept them from attacking the village.”
Oben recalled the list of Rak’s crimes at Eisalhelm. Desertion, insubordination, blood-weakening, conspiracy. Crime was just a matter of perspective.
“You’re a good man, Rak,” he said quietly. “For a Taliskan.”
“What'd you go and say that for?”
“Can’t take praise?”
“We’re going on an ill-fated quest. He who is redeemed just before they leave is pretty much fucked, right?”
Oben laughed. He couldn’t remember when he had done that last. Before all of this had begun.
“I suppose you’re right. Then, I’ll call you an irritable bastard. Who stinks, by the way.”
Rak inhaled deeply.
“Well, we ain’t all become Gulmorgon’s concubine. Tell me, is her bed softer than her heart?”
Oben was about to retort when Gadziel shouted,
“Get your arses on the boat, you’re losing time.”
Rak slapped him on the shoulder and they walked up the plank to the sound of their thudding boots.
* * *
It was a long, narrow vessel, suited more for river than sea. Grinchell took up a position in the stern, where his back was less likely to receive an axe. The rest sat wherever they could. Oben found himself wedged on a damp plank between the twitchy Ortho and the quarrelsome Blin. She hadn’t had a smoke or a drink all day, and it was beginning to show.
Without ceremony, they untied and set out. Gulmorgon and the rest who had gathered stood on the jetty, watching them go. Tre saluted once to Grinchell before the mists swallowed them.
* * *
Apparently, it was full moon, which was why they had been kept waiting. Yet the mists hung so thickly, it was impossible to tell. Once the torchlight of Threlwich had faded away, the mists assumed a nebulous glow.
It was not difficult to imagine that they had died and were on their way to the Garden. Or was it to their Garden he was going? To Valareth with the heathens. He was in their country, after all. He was doing Ishral’s bidding. Was his Garden any more real than theirs? Was his cause for vengeance more just?
“See that?” Rak asked, snatching him back.
They peered down into the dark water. As Oben’s eyes adjusted, he began to make out shapes. Dozens of them it seemed, flanking the boat.
“Pike.” Grinchell said. “Never seen so many.”
“It’s a sign,” Ortho said. “Water spirits. My Pa—”
“Oh, fuck your Pa,” Blin snapped.
“Both of you shut up,” Grinchell growled.
“How long is the river?” Oben asked, to break the tension.
“Does it matter?” Grinchell said. “If we end up in the sea, then it’s about forty miles… But we’re not going to the sea.” The Kazra chief could not take his eyes from the pike.
“What’s that?” Ortho hissed, gesturing wildly and rocking the boat.
Oben followed his flailing arms and saw a man in the mist, walking impossibly on the surface of the water. The figure didn’t seem to notice them, head bowed, keeping pace with the boat. He appeared to be climbing steps, stopping, putting something around his neck. He raised his head to look at the boat. The man wore Oben's face, looked around, then stepped forward. The rope tightened and he disappeared into the mists. Oben lurched forward, but Grinchell grabbed him before he fell into the water.
“I…” he stammered. He looked around, recognising the same haunted look on everyone’s face.
“That fucker out there looked a lot like me.” Rak said, grimly.
“Will someone tell me what in Deriath is going on?” Blin demanded.
“Our deaths,” Ortho moaned. “
Did you see it! I…”
They drifted on in silence.
* * *
On the mist-shrouded bank, a woman appeared. She wept silently and pushed a small swaddled body down beneath the waters with quivering arms.
Two men emerged from the mist. They were fighting, down into the water and splashing. A ghostly blade stabbed and one of the men went rigid, then drifted in a swirling burgundy cloud. He accompanied them for a time and then descended.
“We’re getting close.” Grinchell said.
Oben noticed they had slowed. The water no longer tugged at them, and they began to drift.
“The lake,” Ortho whispered, gripping the sides of the boat.
“What now?” asked Blin.
“We wait,” growled Grinchell.
Nobody had any better suggestions.
After a time Rak began to speak.
“Oben,” he said, “If you make it to Nettlegate, I need you to do something for me. Find a black stone on the edge of the road, at the crossroads. Near an oak. Take what you find there to Fara. Tell her... tell her I tried.”
Oben sat up.
“Why are you telling me this now? What did you see?”
“Told you not to say anything good about me,” he said, the faintest hint of a smile buried within his beard.
Grinchell broke the tension with a grim laugh. For a moment Oben was certain Blin would launch herself at him.
"I admit, I’m disappointed it ain’t you, southerner. And big red there is the least annoying of the lot of you. But as long as it ain’t me, I'll take it.”
“That true?” Blin asked Rak. It was the first time Oben had seen Blin unmasked. She and Rak had been through a lot together since the little cell in Lanoc. Who knew how low they had gotten in those long, cold weeks of imprisonment in Eisalhelm.
Ortho, on the other hand, relaxed. He began to soothsay, trying to salvage his dignity as though all along he had been valiant.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Mists are often beguiling…”
Oben was lost for words. He simply nodded at the big Taliskan, and a tension went out of Rak’s shoulders.