by CF WELBURN
Little more than a week after his escape the ground turned from grey to green. He descended the range and rode through thick forests, passing near the spot where he had killed Mascal and his men. He slowed to a halt at the Weaver.
He found a forging point and Justice waded in and climbed up the other bank into Edale. They were home. Oben dismounted and kissed the green, soft earth, got mud on his cheeks. He wept. He scooped up the soil and felt its goodness between his fingers, inhaled its rich headiness. He could almost sense the Trinity here, as though they had been waiting for him. He felt sheepish beneath such scrutiny.
* * *
He ate, washed his face and turned towards Gilden. He had waited a long time, but the next few leagues would prove more unbearable than those eternal days at the oars. Justice was flagging. The journey had not been easy on either of them.
Just past the Weaver stood the long spaced-out line of Grim Cages. Many held the decaying corpses of rotting Taliskans; the cawing of crows and creaking of swaying chains, the only sounds above the river. A thin hand waved weakly through the bars of one of the cages. Oben turned Justice and rode three cages along to look upon the captive.
“Oben.” the man wheezed. It took Oben a moment to recognise the bedraggled, gaunt Deyma.
“Ortho?”
“Get me out.”
Oben climbed down from Justice and aimed his axe at the lock on the underside of the swinging prison.
“Get ready.” he said, and swung. The lock cracked, and Ortho fell through the bottom of the cage to land with a grunt on the grass.
They did not speak until Oben had helped him to the river and he had drunk.
“Thank… you.” Ortho said, faintly.
“So, how did running work out for you?” Oben said, looking through his pack but finding nothing to give his emaciated companion.
“Food?” Ortho asked, hopefully.
“Got none. But Gilden’s not far.”
Ortho’s eyes widened.
“You’ll be fine. You can wait in the wood. I’ll return with food. Get on.”
He helped the frail Taliskan up into the saddle and climbed up himself. Justice seemed not to notice the extra weight.
“You know, you missed some things when you left. Later I’ll tell you about the time I killed a giant…”
* * *
After that they rode ceaselessly, through Crow Wood, across Stag’s Brook and down little winding lanes that had been his entire world. He stopped short on Small Hill to look over Gilden. But no-one was there.
“What… is it?” Ortho wheezed in his ear. Oben didn’t answer him. He looked down at the fields, the orchards, the spinneys, the small empty streets. There was no sign of life. Nothing moved. No hearth-smoke rose from chimneys, nobody was working, no crops had been planted. No animals squealed or whinnied from the barns, no one whistled in the fields, no one gossiped around the well.
“There’ll still be food, won’t there?” Ortho rasped. Oben ignored him, dipped his head and rode the last half mile in dread.
The stables were still charred and collapsed, but now ivy grew out of the rubble. Grass and weeds sprouted between the debris. The Trinity’s work. Covering the damage, as a scab covers a wound.
He rode down the main path to his house; the yellow door was ajar. He had foolishly thought Delia and Bayron might be standing on the doorstep, like that last image in his head.
It was not the homecoming he had dreamt of.
They dismounted. He pointed Ortho in the direction of the untended orchard, and the thin Taliskan staggered off.
Oben entered his house and looked around. Dust coated the shelves and sills, mold blotted the windows, mice droppings peppered the boards. A pigeon fluttered out of an open window.
The house had been abandoned for a while. He’d been away two years. Had they given up on him so soon? Had they not waited to see if he might return? He sank down in his old chair and gazed at the cold hearth. A lump in his throat so big, it ached to swallow.
* * *
Sometime later, he concluded they must have gone to Blanbury. With the barns burned and the autumn crops harvested, there would have been nothing for them. Just bad memories and fear. The more he thought of it, the more it made sense. Why would the survivors endure a bleak winter here when they could go somewhere with food and fire? Somewhere with fortifications and soldiers?
The thought soon turned sour. Kyrion was in Blanbury. He would have taken Delia and Bayron in, given them what they needed. He would have gotten his claws into them.
“Fuck!” Oben roared, kicking a chair and flipping over the table. A wooden horse he had carved for Bayron lay on the floor. He picked it up, raised it above his head… and then with great restraint, set it back down. “Fuck.” he said again, quietly.
If he hadn’t been so hungry and tired, he would have jumped on Justice and ridden through the night to Blanbury. The thought of his wife in his brother’s arms turned his insides… He paced, and finally sagged down in the chair again. He was exhausted. It was all in his head. He needed to sleep. Things would be different in the morning.
He ventured outside briefly to find some carrots and onions in the garden, though rabbits had been at most of what remained. He noticed Ortho was already asleep under the big tree in the overgrown square. It was unsettling seeing a Skalg snoring where colourful bunting had once hung, and festivals had been enjoyed.
Sleep did not come easy, but it came and like the house it was full of ghosts.
* * *
They left shortly after dawn. He had found an old sack of oats, so at least Justice was happy. His own stomach growled.
He pulled Justice to a halt in the square, moss and weeds poked through the cobbles. He saw his parent’s house, where he had been born, where his mother and then his father had taken ill and died. The home Mara and Peli had inherited and which became their pyre.
The inn’s sign creaked on the breeze. The big oak rustled. A crow cackled from a chimney pot.
Oben took the East Road this time, crossed Mossy Bridge and bowed to the Trinity shrine at the crossroads. It was here he had fought his brother over Delia, where Mara had come to his rescue.
It was odd not to find a Jade Knight waiting. There was no money to collect now. No harvest. Nothing. Ortho remained unusually quiet. He grunted when he saw the sandstone shrine, but that was all.
* * *
Blanbury lay a full day’s ride southeast, but he stopped just before noon at the crossroads outside Nettlegate, as Rak had asked him to; found the black stone, unearthed a small drawstring pouch and stowed it in his furs.
“I’ll wait for you here.” Ortho said, settling down in the long grass behind a stand of hazel. Oben spared him a glance.
“Good idea.” he said, tied Justice to a big oak and walked into the village.
Nettlegate was of a similar size to Gilden, but being further from the border and closer to Blanbury, it had largely avoided the Skalg’s destruction. Even so, the few people that saw him ran into their homes and locked their doors. “Fara!” he called out, in as pleasant a tone as he could muster.
At first only a moorhen and the steady creak of the water mill dared answer. Finally, a woman’s voice reached him.
“What do you want?”
“I come bearing tidings for one named Fara.”
“I’m Fara, but I don’t know you, Skalg.”
He suddenly realised why the people had fled. How must he look? How must he smell?
“I’m no Skalg,” he said, almost amused. “I’m Edalian.”
“Look like a Skalg to me.”
“I’ve been their captive, but I am one of you. I come with news from Rak.”
There was a long pause, followed by the clicking of a latch.
Fara’s face appeared around the edge of the door. She had the look of a hard-working Edalian, rosy-cheeked, strawberry-blond hair bunched up for practicality, creases around her eyes. But it was a kind face, and her green eyes g
listened.
“You’d better come in.”
* * *
Fara’s cottage was modest and smelt of boiled cabbage but was still more homely than his own abandoned house. She indicated a stool in the corner and he gratefully sat.
“You must be hungry.” she said.
“You’ve no idea.”
She handed him a bowl of warm honeyed oats, and he ate with such relish his beard was caked by the time he was done. When he’d wiped the bowl with his fingers and sucked them clean, Fara spoke, impatiently.
“You said you know Rak.”
Oben slowly set the bowl down and met her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Fara. Rak is dead.”
The woman frowned, and Oben added hastily, “He told me to give you this.”
He passed her the dirty pouch, which she upended into her hand. It was a broach, crafted from sea wolf horn. It was handsome, but appeared more sentimental than valuable. Rak had likely buried it to avoid having it taken if he was captured or killed. Fara stared at it for a long while, turning it over in her hands, squinting at an inscription on the back.
“Did he say anything else?”
Oben thought back.
“He said he tried. He said he was sorry.”
Fara smiled sadly. “Sounds like Rak.”
Oben looked at his dirty hands, at his worn boots.
“Tell me, do you know what happened in Gilden?”
“The folk left. Went to Blanbury. Wasn’t safe living so close to the border. And I don’t blame ’em. Terrible thing what happened up there.”
“Aye, it was,” he said. “Well, thanks for the porridge, I must be off.” Just then he noticed what he had thought was a bundle of clothes in the corner begin to stir, and a small face peeked out.
“That’s Yori,” she said, seemingly annoyed the youth had been seen.
“He looks just like his father.”
Her eyes welled up. Yori shuffled to stand behind his mother.
“Who’s that?” the boy asked. He must have been about five. His hair was red and his features were broad.
“Friend of the family.” she said, looking back at the broach. She replaced it in the pouch and gave it to Yori, who carried it off to play with it.
Oben smiled and stood. He had done what he had come to do and been fed in the process. There was nothing else for him here.
“What do you know about a black swan?” Fara suddenly asked.
Oben froze and slowly sat again. “Where did you hear about that?”
She shrugged. “Nightmares, mostly.”
Oben frowned, not understanding.
“He said you’d bring the broach. That I could trust you.”
“Who did? Wait, is Rak…?” Oben’s voice trailed off as he watched Fara stand and pull back a threadbare, green rug on the floor. Beneath it was a trapdoor. She heaved it open with the iron ring and a faint lamp glow flickered up on a ladder’s rungs. He eyed Fara with a raised brow, but she simply nodded for him to descend.
Oben climbed down the ladder and into a dim, cluttered cellar lit by a solitary oil lamp on a barrel in the corner. There was a bed against the back wall, and upon it a large figure slept. He approached slowly and looked down on his old friend.
“Rak?” he said. The big man had changed. His red hair had turned white, his skin was covered in black marking that looked like feathers. He looked older.
Rak stirred, opened his eyes and met his gaze.
“Well, I’ll be… the bloody farmer made it.”
“What happened? We thought you were dead!”
“So did I. Maybe I was. Hard to say.”
“But how did you get here?”
“I woke on the shore of the sea. Took me a while to get going, but eventually followed the coast south. I wasn’t bloody going back to Threlwich now, was I?”
Oben shook his head in wonder. “You’ve changed.”
Rak sat up and examined him.
“So have you. You look like shit.”
“Feel like shit, too.”
Rak laughed, but his eyes were humourless.
“Did the Swan do that to you?” Oben asked, looking at his skin.
Rak smiled, “Did Gulmorgon do that to you?” he asked, tapping the place on his own temple where Oben had been tattooed. Oben nodded, but did not miss how Rak had avoided answering his question.
“You know, Blin will kick your arse when she finds out you’re alive.”
“I bet she will.” Rak looked at Mascal’s axe strapped to Oben’s shoulder. “See you’re still lugging that thing around.”
“I’ve grown rather attached to it.” he said, smiling. “So, what now? You’re staying here?”
“My son’s here. Fara’s here.”
“But it’s not safe. The Persuasion—”
Rak waved a hand, wearily.
“Nowhere’s safe. Nettlegate’s a good place to lie low. The people know me here, they like Fara. We can trust them. And you? Did you get to finally go home?”
“Home has changed.”
“Ah.” Rak nodded, sadly. “And I take it you left on bad terms with Gulmorgon?”
Oben shrugged. “You could say that.”
Rak chuckled and shook his head. “Something’s don’t change. You’re still a pain in everyone’s arse.”
Oben could not help but give a wry smile.
“It’s a bad habit.”
“Well, you can stay away from me and my family, if you don’t mind. I’m done with boats and cells and swans and shit. This is me now. Until Yori is old enough, at least.”
Oben nodded.
“Then I wish you the best, Rak. I’m… glad you’re alive.”
“Same to you. Just keep your head down, Conduit. All of this will blow over.”
“You think? Got bloody Ortho hiding outside in the trees. Somehow I don’t seem to be able to get away from any of this.”
“That moaning shit! How the hell’s he still going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“So, the ‘doomed disciples’ yet live. There’s a thing.”
“Not all of them. Grinchell’s gone.”
Rak’s eyes widened. “Did you…?”
“I had some help from a bear.”
“Bloody hell.” he said. “Looks like I was lucky getting out when I did.”
“Yes, maybe one day I’ll tell you about our trip to Skarvor.”
“Sounds pleasant.”
“Lovely place.” Oben looked around, shrugged. “Well, I have to get going.” he said, heavily. “Things to take care of. Goodbye, Rak. Look after your family.”
“I understand.” the white-haired Taliskan said, extending a hand. “Take care of yourself, lad. Might see you around, one of these days.”
Oben accepted his hand and shook it, then without answering, he turned and climbed the ladder.
* * *
Oben left Nettlegate and returned to the big oak to find Ortho gone. He had taken Justice.
“Fucking bastard!” he shouted, running out to the road and looking around in all directions. There was no sign of them. “Piece of shit!” he cried, kicking the signpost on the crossroads so that it bent at a crooked angle. A man watching from Nettlegate started to walk quickly away, and Oben thought it best he leave. If he met Ortho again, he’d put him back in a fucking cage himself.
* * *
He continued southeast along the main road, lined with oak trees and rolling fields. He passed spring fountains and Trinity shrines. The occasional traveller he encountered averted their eyes and increased their pace.
Blanbury sat on the eastern plain, a dark jumble against the evening sky. It was a sprawling metropolis compared to Threlwich. Several towers jutted out of its uneven silhouette, including a Trinity temple, the tallest and most imposing of the structures. Torches flickered on ramparts and next to gateways.
He had been to Blanbury six times. Four with his father and brother—they’d ridden in on the trap to hear Gladbrook spea
k, witness a hanging and pick up supplies. The other two times he’d been on his own, after Brintok had died and Bayron was born. He remembered a little inn they had always stopped at, just outside the gates. The Mended Bucket. He did not stop there today. He wanted to find his family.
Three men on horseback rode out to meet him. He could see by the sinking sun’s fiery gleam on their plating that they were guards. Intimidating, unfriendly, suspicious, yes. But at least they weren’t Jade Knights. They rode up to him and dismounted. The one in the lead was tall and wore a tall feather in his helm. The one to his left was fat and his horse was already panting. The one to his right was so short he could barely see over his mount’s head. Pale green and white livery showed beneath their armour.
“Halt.” the tall one said.
“Good evening to you.” Oben said, taking another step forward.
“Do as we say Skalg, or things will go badly for you,” said the fat one.
Oben laughed.
“Ah, I see the problem. I’m no Skalg—”
“Stop now, or I’ll make you stop,” the tall one said, dismounting and drawing his sword.
Oben raised his hands.
“Easy there. I mean no harm. I’m Edalian. I come with news.”
“You’ll speak when you’re spoken to,” the fat guard snapped. The other two stood regarding him, muttering between them.
Oben tried to appear as unthreatening as possible. This was just a misunderstanding. He had committed no crime. Not in Edale, anyway.
“Give us the axe,” the thin one barked.
“It’s mine—”
The other two guards drew their swords and Oben quickly laid down his axe and tried a reassuring smile. He could understand their distrust. His hair and beard were long and braided, he wore bearskins, carried an axe and had a black feather tattooed on his temple. Even his Edalian sounded thick from neglect. In truth, he was lucky they hadn’t filled him with arrows on sight.
“Where are you from?”
“Gilden.”
“Gilden is deserted. I’ll ask again—”
“I’m from Gilden, originally. I’ve been held captive in the north and managed to escape. I’ve not had chance to—” the fat guard, who had walked behind him, kicked him in the back of the knees, knocking him to the dirt.