by CF WELBURN
Oben frowned and opened the door.
“You fucking bastard!” Tre barked punching Oben in the face so that he staggered back into the room. Tre stepped in, shut the door behind him and shoved Oben hard up against the back wall. Oben’s eyes were watering, but he didn’t need to see to feel the knife against his throat.
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
Oben swallowed. “It was him or me.” he said.
Tre pressed the knife closer, Oben felt a trickle of blood run down his neck.
“You… miserable piece of shit.” Tre said, shaking. Oben realised his friend was crying. The knife clattered to the floor, and Tre slid down against the wall. Oben rubbed his neck, then lowered himself to sit beside the weeping Kazra.
“I’m sorry, Tre.”
“We were boys together.” Tre said, running a hand across his eyes. “You didn’t know him like I did. He was a good man.” Oben chose not to comment, but watched Tre as he withdrew a pipe and began to fill it with mela. “You know he could have had Gulmorgon’s position? Was offered it by Seringil. Turned it down, stubborn bastard. Then Seri chose Gulmorgon and sent her over from Eisalhelm. I think he regretted not taking it after that. And he lost her that day, too.”
“I didn’t know. Look, I know he was your cousin—”
“He was my best friend. Saved me more times than I can remember. I’d not be here were it not for him.” Tre paused to light the pipe and inhaled.
“He was there that night my village was torched. He had to pay.”
“I was there when your village was torched, Oben. You wanna kill me, too?”
Oben felt his stomach drop.
“You were there?”
“I went where Grinchell went. A message had to be sent after Tristleton. And it was Mascal that went mad. He lost it! That’s why we split up with him on our way to Lanoc. He killed Pol, one of his own men for siding with Grinchell in an argument.”
Pol. The corpse Oben had robbed of its furs when he first entered Skaligar, finally had a name.
Oben stared off, his jaw working. He should be angry with Tre, but he suddenly found he didn’t feel anything. The events of the morning had left him numb. He felt… empty. Tre nudged him, he looked down at the pipe, hesitated, then accepted. They sat and smoked in silence for a time.
“Does anyone else know it was me?” Oben asked, finally.
“People are talking. They’re saying it was an accident, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Right.” Oben said, inhaling smoke and staring up at the ceiling.
“Is this it?” Tre asked. “You’ll be running?” Oben looked down at the blond Kazra, who had gone from being his captor on the boat, to axe trainer, to friend. He shrugged. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, but if Gulmorgon found out…
“I never meant any of this to happen, Tre. I was happy being a farmer.”
Tre shook his head, exhaling a cloud of the pungent smoke.
“This whole thing is fucked.”
* * *
They’d sat and smoked for a while, then Tre had left. The Kazra had no longer been angry, just sad. Oben wasn’t sure if they were still friends. Probably not. He didn’t have much time to think about it, because shortly after, Gadziel and Denrin came to his door. The stocky guard’s presence told him this was more than just a formal visit.
“You’re wanted.” Denrin said.
“Now.” Gadziel added. Oben nodded, collected his axe and followed them to the lodge.
* * *
Gulmorgon handed him a drink. But she did not put her hand on his shoulder when he sat, nor take a drink herself.
Of course, he couldn’t ignore the news of Grinchell’s death. Everyone was talking about it.
“The augury is coming true,” he said when he was halfway down his cup. “Another disciple gone.”
Gulmorgon’s expression did not change. She stared at him for an eternal moment. The flames that crackled in the hearth danced in her eyes.
“Where were you this morning?” she asked, arms folded over her chest.
“This morning? Out and about.”
“Arnor says you did not show for your training.”
“No. I had a bit too much to drink last night,” he said, forcing a rueful grin. “I wouldn’t have been up to much.”
“Where had you been drinking?”
“Here and there. I actually ran into Grinchell at the Whetstone. I can’t believe that was the last time I saw him. He even invited me to sit with him… And now, this.”
“Yes, uncanny timing.”
He straightened.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“I’m flattered you think me capable. Arnor is talented and all, but even his training has its limits.”
“Your capability as a warrior is beside the point. Grinchell was tricked somehow. That bear should not have been loose.”
“Perhaps the bars weren’t strong enough?”
“The ropes were cut. You were in that part of town this morning, so stop denying it.”
“Are you still having me followed? I thought we were past that.”
“We are not past anything. Yet.”
“Well, if I was followed, your sources will confirm that I never went to the pit.”
They couldn’t, of course, and they both knew it.
After a long silence, Gulmorgon stood and poured herself a drink.
“I am not angry about what happened,” she said at last. “But if you continue to lie to me, that will change. Grinchell died because it was written. The prophecy said as much of the disciples. I shall miss him. He was dependable. I’d expected his death to come when we take Corwen. Not here in Threlwich. Not on a morning of no note.”
“Well, I suppose Grinchell was prepared.”
“How so?”
“He must have seen his death that night on the Swan Road. I suppose he thought he could change it.”
Her brow creased.
“Tell me, do you also think you can change what you saw there?”
“I must try.” No sense in denying it. Who wouldn’t want to avoid their death?
“Hm. Amusing.”
He shrugged.
“Grinchell couldn’t. Rak couldn’t. Ortho? Who knows, maybe he did. Blin is still alive. I don’t know what I can or can’t change, but I won’t go willingly to my death.”
“Tell me again what you saw.”
He took a sip whilst he considered lying. After all, if she would eventually betray him, he shouldn’t give her any ideas. Then again, the gallows made no sense. It was a southern form of execution. Here in the North they used knives or fire.
“I will be killed by my own people,” he said finally and felt a lump in his throat. He had a people. He’d almost forgotten that.
Gulmorgon nodded.
“Things are going as planned. We must go south.” She paused, and poured herself a drink. “Spring is ending. We will leave in five days. I trust you are ready?”
The question caught him off guard. He had always intended to return. He’d made a promise long ago.
But if he marched south with an army of Skalgs at his back, he would most certainly be tried and hanged as a traitor.
He must leave first and alone, and warn the Edalians. He could hardly be found guilty then. He’d be a hero. He could easily explain his time across the border: he was held captive.
In the time it took him to take another sip, he realised this would be the last time they sat here like this.
He would be watched more closely than ever now. Even Blin would not be able to shake any tails. But tonight… the thought chilled him. Tonight, he was drinking in Gulmorgon’s company. Tonight, he would not be watched, except by her. He drained his drink, refilled it but half, and poured Gulmorgon’s to the brim.
“Yes, I’m ready.” he finally answered. She seemed pleased, and beckoned him to her bed chamber.
Oben had dozed. When he roused, he could tell by Gulmorgon’s breathing that she slept deeply. He slipped from the bed, silently dressed and crept towards the door. He judged the hour far enough from dusk for most of the people in the city to be drunk, and far enough from dawn for sober folk to still be sleeping. He hesitated at the door, turned and looked at the Ixna chief. She was as beautiful as she was terrifying. Her pale chest rose and fell with reassuring rhythm. He realised his fingers were resting on the hilt at his belt. It would be so easy. The final piece in the puzzle. Mascal, Kai, Grinchell… only she remained. His job would be done and he could go home. He withdrew the knife and crossed the room. He paused to watch her, tracing the blade upwards above her abdomen and over her chest. His heart thumped in his ears. He took a breath and sheathed the knife. He would not do it like this. She deserved better. He deserved better. Besides, if Gadziel waited outside and saw Gulmorgon was dead, he would be out of options. He wasn’t even sure what killing her would achieve. It would delay the invasion, sure. Disrupt it. But those in Eisalhelm would just elect another to govern in her stead. He gathered himself, walked quietly out of the bed chamber and across to the main door. He lifted the latch, checked that the snowy street was quiet and stepped out into the night.
* * *
He didn’t go back to his house. There would be a guard there. Instead he headed through the backstreets towards the stables.
“It’s done.” he said, stroking Justice’s long, face. “We’re going home.”
“I don’t think so,” came a voice. Oben spun around.
“Brigal.”
“You think you can murder Grinchell and then ride off into the night? Oh no, no.”
“Gulmorgon will have you killed if you harm me.”
“And does Gulmorgon know you're trying to get out of here? I’d catch you for a reward, but I’d rather kill you.”
Brigal might have been smiling, but his cleft lip made it difficult to tell. Oben straightened and unslung his axe.
“I’m the Conduit. You want to end up like Mascal? Like Grinchell? Go now, while you have the chance.”
“You’re naught but a coward. A trickster. I see through you. Always have. Makes me sick to watch everyone falling over themselves for you. It ends now.”
He barred the stable door behind him.
Brigal grabbed the handles of his small axes and rushed him. Oben moved away from Justice so she wouldn’t get hurt. He raised his axe and parried Brigal's hatchets with its haft. Brigal’s hatchets were smaller, faster, easier to wield in these close confines. He understood why the Kazra had penned him in here. Brigal swiped at Oben’s throat, Oben pulled back, ducked and got behind him where there was more space. But Brigal whirled and struck with one axe then the other, over and over. Oben blocked them but a blow from the flat of one of Brigal’s axes knocked the big axe from Oben’s hand.
Brigal’s eyes shone, crazed, victorious. Oben shoved the thin Kazra in the chest with all the force he could muster, sending him back and into the wall. Then he threw himself down on the dirty straw, picked up his axe, and rolled sideways to avoid another blow from Brigal’s hatchet. When he regained his feet, he saw that Brigal was still pressed against the wall. His mouth was working and his eyes rolling, but a metal hook protruded from his chest and dark stain was spreading out around it. It held his weight so that he half hung, half rested against the wall. He looked at Oben.
“Farmer…” he croaked, then his head lolled, and a string of bloody drool seeped from his mouth.
Oben approached to retrieve the fallen hatchets, stood and saw Justice had been watching.
“Still counts.” he said, shrugging and shouldering his axe.
He paused at the door to make sure no one was watching.
“Ready?” he asked Justice, taking a breath and leading her out into the night. “It’s time to go home.”
* * *
The streets were bare and white, but wavering shadows and silhouettes in alcoves and atop towers betrayed the lookouts at their posts.
He knew how to avoid the main streets—he’d helped rebuild this place, after all— and walked Justice down an alley knee deep with snow and along a sheltered path between two rows of thick evergreens. He’d almost made it to the south gate without being apprehended.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said a voice he knew so well.
He reined up.
Blin stood leaning against a wall, axe in her hand.
“Edale.” he whispered.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because things are good for me now. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I don’t belong here. I have to go.”
“You disappear, where does that leave me? What’s a disciple with no-one to follow?”
“You’ve done your part to save Threlwich. Gulmorgon won’t forget it.”
“Perhaps not, but it’s a risk I’d rather not take.”
“So, what? You’ll betray me? After all we’ve been through.”
She stared at him for a moment, a crooked grin forming.
“I suppose I could give you a short time. You know, out of respect or something. You did get me all that wine, after all.”
“I did.”
“No more than a quarter bell, mind. Wouldn’t want to be seen to be in cahoots or anything. Dogs will get you, but will be fun to see you run. Warm you up, at least.”
“That’s very generous.” Oben said. Even after all their time together, he was still not sure how much of what Blin said was to be taken seriously. “And thanks, for this morning.”
“Figured I owed you one. You got me back from Eisalhelm, after all. Though, I wouldn’t have been sent on that fucking awful trip to Skarvor. I think we’re about even, now. You got some blood on you,” she said, looking at his hands.
“An accident in the stable.”
“Hm. I hate it when that happens.” she said with a grin, then looked around. “I’d get going if I were you, before I change my mind.”
“Goodbye, Blin,” he said. “Stay out of trouble.”
She laughed and whistled up to the sentries on the gate.
“All right boys, you need something to keep you warm?”
Oben waited until the two guards moved to look down on her, then he rode out into the night.
* * *
He rode as hard as the snow and ice allowed. There was no road to speak of, but he knew which way was south. Justice was well rested and fed, and he had enough furs to make sure he would not freeze before dawn.
When he reached the snowy rise at the edge of the city, he looked back at the torch-lit ramparts of Threlwich.
A horn sounded. He heard shouting and saw torches lighting up in windows beyond the walls. Blin hadn’t been joking, nor particularly charitable with her timing. Dogs started baying. They were coming.
He squeezed Justice between his thighs and rode south.
Part 3
OF ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS
22
STRANGER’S HOMECOMING
Oben rode deep into the night. Even the sure-footed Justice stumbled and slipped in the snow and ice. Oben glanced back frequently, expecting to see hounds on his trail. They would have no trouble tracking him in the snow.
As he continued south, the weather warmed and the ground became less frozen. Pine trees began to dot the hills and after a while he rode between silent snow-blasted forests. He dug up rocks and rolled them aside to find shallow moving water. It wasn’t much, but it sated them both for a time, and he managed to fill his old flask, which was still attached to his riding gear. Within the denser forests where the snow had not reached, he found mushrooms and berries.
Come midday, when he was certain he was not being pursued, he lit a small fire. He brewed a tea with the berries, then later fried the mushrooms and soaked up the grease with a crust of bread still in his saddlebag. After eating, he climbed a sma
ll hill to survey the land. He was still a few days from the border, but in the distance, he could make out Tormen Ridge, the hill where he had received his mark. Beyond that the land sloped down and would become greener. He might even snare a rabbit or two if he was lucky.
* * *
Nevertheless, the terrain remained treacherous. The ice melted and stones shifted under Justice’s hooves. She complained in white snorting clouds.
Oben had too much time to think. On the vast undulating slopes there was little to distract him. He thought of Delia, and how she would greet him. If she would run to embrace him, weeping with joy. It didn’t sound like her. She would probably still be angry he had left. She’d come around once she knew what he had achieved.
And Bayron would surely be proud of his father. Oben would scoop his son up in his muscular arms and enthral him with fantastical tales of the north. He’d be almost ten now.
He thought of Gulmorgon, too. Of what her reaction had been upon hearing the horn. He couldn’t decide if she would be angry at his betrayal or pleased that the final pieces of the prophecy were moving of their own accord. Either way, what had passed for companionship between them was done. If they met again, there would be… repercussions.
He thought of others, too. Of Rak and the promise he had made him, and of the red-head’s version of Tristleton; of Ortho and Blin and what might have happened to them. He even thought of Seri and wondered if she had foreseen these events. And of course, he thought of Grinchell, Mascal and Kai, and this gave him hope that his journey had not been for naught. Hope that Edale would be safer.
* * *
Thus passed the days; monotonous, enervating. The rocky, purple-heathered hills bulked before them.
When they finally reached Tormen’s craggy plateau, there was no storm. If it were indeed the throne of Ishral, then she did not await to greet him; she let him pass as indifferently as she did the goats.