Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  “What did you do?” Dirk asked.

  “For a time, all I could do was stare,” Aban said. “I was about to speak, when the wind blew from the other end of that road. It carried a chill, but also the sounds of chimes. A snatch of song I had never heard before, but which was familiar to me all the same. I strained my ears to hear more, and I was about to crack the reins when Delyth snatched my arm. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and the discomfort that had lived in her face the past few months had become real pain. Her water had broken, and ran from the sides of the wagon bench.”

  “You fled?” Dirk asked.

  “As fast as my horses would go,” Aban said. “Tired as they were from the trek, they were glad to run. Part of my mind worried what would happen if one of the beasts broke a leg, or what we would do if the cart axle snapped. I paid it no heed, and I drove the team hard into the night, without a care for where we were, or what lay ahead in the blackness. Delyth was groaning and crying, her nails digging into my arm even through my cloak and jacket. In time, I gave the horses their head, and trusted them to lead us home.”

  Aban glanced at the road, blinking several times. He shook his head, then clucked his tongue. The wagon followed the left-hand fork in the road, turning to the northwest. Dirk fell back, and when Aban was comfortably in the center of the road again, rode back up to his side.

  “The baby?” Dirk asked.

  “Loud and lovely, praise be to the moon and stars,” Aban said, touching a hand to his lips and then flinging his words toward the sky. “The horses were half-dead by the time we returned home, and Delyth was greasy with sweat and hoarse from crying out, but we arrived with minutes to spare. I carried Delyth into the house myself, a task for which my back paid me no thanks, and by sunrise we had a daughter. Both of them slept often, and the little one fussed so much we feared she was unwell. But a fortnight came and went, and her parents allowed us to grant her a name.”

  “What did you call her?” Dirk asked when it was clear Aban was waiting to be asked.

  “I wanted to name her after my grandmother, who raised me until I was old enough to travel with my father.” Aban shrugged one shoulder, exaggerating the gesture. “But my Delyth is like iron wrapped in silk. I could not bend her, and in little time I crumbled to her will. We called our daughter Saren, after one of the guiding stars in these cold valleys.”

  “A good name,” Dirk said, once it was clear he needed to say something. “Did you ever return to that place?”

  “No. I spoke to Delyth about it once, when we had a home of our own, and Saren was fast asleep. She told me it had been a bad dream. Something conjured from fear, exhaustion, and pain. She never wanted to speak of it again. And since that night, we never have. At least not to one another.”

  Dirk nodded, lapsing into silence. He swayed with Sunset's ambling walk, and his thoughts turned inward. He thought about ruined monasteries haunted by the last remnants of dying orders, and of black citadels buried to their spires by blowing sands. He saw sunken cathedrals, their walls caked in barnacles like cancerous bone spurs. Hidden ruins, swallowed by the earth or drowned by the sea, revealed intermittently to those with ill-fortune enough to be near their beckoning highways. And he wondered about Teller, and what road his steps had taken once he stole that murderer's bauble.

  Aban flicked the reins, and his team grumbled as the cart bounced over a stone. The trader frowned, glancing up at the sun, and then at the road. “There is a camping spot just around the next bend in the road. It has a well, and when I passed it last there was still a stone wall or two that would keep out the wind and the wolves. I have food to share, and you are welcome to it. What say you to bedding there for the night?”

  Dirk squinted at the heavens, and sniffed the air. “We have a few hours of light left.”

  “This is true,” Aban conceded. “And I am eager to return home. I have not seen either of my girls for some time. But, I would rather hunker among a known place that offers some safety, than hope to find a lucky lay-by when full dark is panting at my heels.”

  Dirk nodded his assent. They walked around the curve in the road, skirting a jagged rock outcrop, and came upon what looked like little more than a fallen-down cottage. The heavy stones of the front wall were still mortared in place, and there were spaces for a front door and a window, but both sat empty. The only roof was the canopy of green shading the way station. Through the door, Dirk saw that a second, gap-toothed wall still stood. In it was a charred fireplace, and a stunted chimney. Nearby was a crumbling well that still boasted a bucket tied with a frayed rope.

  “Just as I left her,” Aban said.

  Dirk dismounted, and led Sunset into the small clearing. She ducked her head, stepping almost daintily off the path and under the trees. He was about to fetch some wood and draw some water, when something caught his eye. Sitting on the stone mantle, tucked into the corner out of the wind, was a small chunk of wood. Carved into the face were four, simple lines. They were shaky, as if drawn by a child, but Dirk recognized his cousin's sigul rightly enough.

  “I will find wood,” Dirk said, patting Sunset as he headed into the trees. “The walls will keep out the wind, but I would as soon not invite the chill to curl up at my feet.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dirk returned with an armload of fallen wood by the time full dark had settled. He walked with heavy steps to ensure both Aban and the horses heard him. He stacked the wood neatly near the fireplace, driving a thick shaft into the dirt to act as a brace for the pile. Aban had unhitched the team, and watered them by lantern light. Dirk hunkered at the fireplace, stacking twigs and sticks into a small pyre. He built a chimney, leaving a cushion of dried leaves at the bottom. When it was to his satisfaction, Dirk slipped his fire piston from his saddlebag, removed the cylinder, and slid some tinder into the small recess at the tip. He took a grip, slammed it home, and dumped the burning cinder onto the soft bed. The fire caught in no time, licking along the kindling, and making itself comfortable. Dirk added some bigger sticks, and soon light and warmth filled the broken lay-by.

  “A good piece of work, that,” Aban said, gesturing to the fire. He withdrew a sack from the wagon, blew out his lantern, and sat near Dirk. He removed a hunk of bread, tore it in half, and sprinkled a pinch of salt onto each side. He offered one half to Dirk. Dirk took it, and ate quietly. Aban ate as well, swigging from his water jug before offering it. Dirk took a drink, and tasted the fresh, cold water drawn straight from the well. Aban removed a smoked sausage from his sack, divided it, and held out one half. Dirk accepted, popping the link into his mouth. Aban chewed slowly, staring into the flames, which had begun to crackle merrily. Time passed. Dirk went to the well, washed his hands and face, then sat near the fire once more. He took out his knife, and carefully carved his sigul into the piece of wood teller had left behind. With his blaze left, Dirk trimmed his nails, flicking each clipping carefully into the fire. Aban walked off into the trees, relieving himself into the underbrush. He gathered some more sticks as he returned, and fed them to the fire.

  “I do not mean to pry,” Aban asked, nodding toward the carving on the dilapidated mantle. “But what is that?”

  “A tradition,” Dirk said. “When one of my kin leaves the mountain, they have to tell someone where they went. And as they go, they blaze a trail. If they do not return, it makes it easier to find where they went.”

  Aban frowned slightly. “Then why leave a second mark?”

  Dirk shrugged one shoulder, and trimmed the nail on his little finger. “In case someone has to come find me.”

  Aban nodded, and cleared his throat. “What will you do when we reach Barrow Fields?”

  “If I am fortunate, I will find my cousin sharing a bed with a local girl or three, clout him over the ear, and start my journey home,” Dirk said.

  “You do not sound like a man who believes fortune favors him,” Aban said after a moment.

  Dirk sighed, and shook his head. He slid his knife away,
rested his elbows on his knees, and stared into the flames. He prodded the blaze with a stick, sending sparks blazing up the old, worn chimney.

  “Teller is in danger,” Dirk said. “You may have my oath on that. So if he is not in town when I arrive, I will simply follow where he has gone.”

  Aban nodded. He took out his pipe, and carefully packed the bowl with shreds of herb. He took a small twig from the fire, and puffed until it was burning evenly. Once it was going, he smoked in silence. His shoulders were hunched, and his mouth turned down at the corners. Smoke puffed from his nostrils, and leaked over his bottom lip. He nodded his head like a man who had made a decision, but who is still displeased by that decision.

  “Did his destination lie to the north, do you think?” Aban asked.

  “I know not,” Dirk said, shrugging. “But north is where his trail has led as long as I have followed it.”

  “There is a danger you should know about, then,” Aban said. “In case your blood has run afoul of it.”

  “What might that be?” Dirk asked.

  “There are a people who live beyond Barrow Fields,” Aban said without turning his head to look at Dirk. “They call themselves the Hann She'lah. They are herdsmen, mostly, moving their flocks with the seasons so they are never in one place for too long. They raise sheep, goats, and the occasional head of cattle. They keep to themselves, but they can be friendly if you learn their ways. It took me several years to open up trade with them, but their wool and skins are some of the finest I have ever seen. No one knows how long they have dwelt in these hills, but all agree it was far longer than the town built near the crossroads.”

  Dirk nodded to show he was listening, but he did not interrupt. Aban puffed his pipe, baring his teeth as if the smoke had gone sour in his mouth. He coughed, and spit. The spittle sizzled on the edge of the fireplace.

  “There are a dozen clans of them in this country, all of them moving and sharing the territory amongst each other. Despite their differences, every clan bows to the Vor Dak'ham; white-clad priests who speak to the gods, and who act as the mouth of the spirits. They conduct the sacred rites when the seasons change, and when marriages or children are blessed. Even the chieftains close their mouths and open their ears when the Vor Dak'ham speak.”

  Dirk's ears sharpened at the mention of white-clad holy men. He remembered what Anbrough had said about the strange man who'd come bearing the pearl; how he'd spoke in a strange tongue, and worn ragged white sheepskins. Aban sucked at his pipe, then gestured with the stem as he kept talking.

  “These priests are the only ones taught the Hann She'lah's rituals, and they learn writing in secret. Boys are chosen based on the stars they are born under, and trained from the time they are young.”

  “Boys?” Dirk's eyes narrowed. “There are no women among them?”

  “There were not,” Aban said. “Until three years ago. As the snows began to fall, a woman came to them from the east. Lanissara, she is called, and in all my travels I have never seen her like.”

  Aban frowned, his lips moving as if he were trying to find the right words. He tugged at his mustache, and shook his head slowly. Dirk drank from the water jug, and waited.

  “She is a great beauty, to be sure,” Aban finally said. “But her beauty is only thin ice on a black lake. Her language is strange, and her knowledge is deep. She arrived in winter's full bloom, wearing only thin, white robes. She showed no care for the biting chill, nor for the outrage of the clans she laid her presence upon. Many voices, and no few hands, were raised against her, but they grew quiet when she spoke. To hear it told, it was like a mother raising her voice to rowdy children who had forgotten their places.”

  “That earned her no friends, I wager,” Dirk said, offering Aban a drink.

  “Not a one. At least, not among those who wielded power.” Aban took a deep drink. He coughed, and wiped his mouth. Once he had his breath back, his put his pipe back between his teeth. “She spoke to the other priests, traveling among the mounds until she found them. If they refused her, she spoke to their people instead. To the herders and gatherers, to the acolytes and midwives. She told them the priests kept secrets from them, hiding the gods' truth to maintain their own power and prestige. She told tales of ancient temples where their ancestors had worshiped, abandoned and forgotten by those who had left to live in the fields like the sheep they raised. She talked of their great lineage, and how they had once been kings and princes, to whom all things living and dead bowed. She spoke words that some considered sublime truths, and others the darkest of blasphemies.”

  “What did the people do when she spoke?” Dirk asked.

  “The Vor Dak'ham tried to ignore her at first, and to turn her out when she would not leave on her own. Every time they commanded her to go, and she refused, she only grew more powerful. Her defiance fed her, and made her shadow grow long in the eyes of those who watched. In time, she gained disciples of her own. They rode with her, protected her, and in some camps brought her words to the clans before she had even arrived. Pots were boiling, threatening to spill over, when Lanissara did the unthinkable. She put her feet on that black road we spoke of, and walked until she found what lay at the end.”

  Aban clacked his teeth against the stem of his pipe, but when he inhaled he found the fire had gone out. He poked a stick into the fire, and re-lit his pipe. Once it was smoldering again, he continued.

  “A man I knew, Medinh by name, had been raised by the priests. His hands had never taken to letters, and his mind was a sieve when it came to the holy words, but it was not until his final test that he was turned away from the priesthood. I had come to him for skins, and stayed the night to wait out a rain squall. We ate, and afterward, we shared a bottle of wine, and swapped stories. I told him the tale of the Haraki Mai, as I told you. He listened, and drank. He poured most of the bottle between his lips before he told me that he had seen such a road. That walking those black stones is considered a holy journey for the Vor Dak'ham. It is the road to the mouth of the gods, or so they believe, and only an acolyte who has been anointed may approach, and return with both his sanity and knowledge of what lies at the other end.”

  “Had he seen the road himself?” Dirk asked.

  “He had,” Aban said, talking around his pipe. “Though he took no more than five paces along its stones before he fell on his knees, and would go no further.”

  “A wiser man than he knew, mayhap,” Dirk said.

  Aban raised his pipe in acknowledgment, before taking another deep draft. “Lanissara went to that road, and walked its length. She went barefoot, wrapped in a light shift, as all other acolytes did, but she did it in the midst of winter rather than the high heat of summer. Even the snow would not cover that road, or so it was said among those who gathered to watch her depart. Whatever the truth of the matter, though, all agree she went down that road, and returned several days later.”

  “Then what?” Dirk asked.

  “Then, as with all things, there was blood,” Aban said. “At first it was nothing; a squabble here, and a brawl there. But there was murder before the spring thaw had truly come, and the one beget others. Krakell, one of the few voices of reason among the Vor Dak'ham, was found hanging upside down from a tree branch with his throat cut. The same way a man might slaughter a sheep, and hang it to dry before roasting.”

  “He was not the last,” Dirk said.

  “No, he was not,” Aban agreed. “In times of peace, it is wise to have many leaders so no voice is drowned out. In times of war, that wisdom can be your undoing.”

  “Did any of the priests survive?” Dirk asked.

  “Some,” Aban said. “But few enough as made no matter. There were perhaps five holy men who took to their heels, and fled south as far as their feet would carry them. Each took a dozen acolytes with them, spreading out in the hopes it would make them harder to hunt. Many of the families scattered as well, fleeing like birds before a storm. Those who remained in the hills, and who spoke their
devotion to Lanissara, simply vanished.”

  “Vanished?” Dirk asked.

  Aban shrugged, and blew out a breath. “Their camps were abandoned, and by the time spring had come and gone the grass had grown long over their meeting places. No herds grazed in the green valleys. There were no trails to follow, and no tracks to tell us where they had fled. Their animals were gone, and so were their skin tents. A few of the farmers in the outlying glens said they had seen figures pass in the moonlight, walking across the melting snow, but nothing came of it.”

  “Where did they go?” Dirk asked.

  “The town, by and large, did not consider what had happened its affair. Though there were some of us with friends among the Hann She'lah, they were gone, and there was nothing we could do. Life went on. There were crops to sow, repairs to be made, storms to hide from, and the eternal list of tasks to be done before the sun faded from the sky.” Aban shrugged, and shook his head. He took his pipe out of his mouth, and regarded it for a long moment. “Some few of them fled through the town, ragged and running, seeking aid and shelter as they hid from the outriders and hunting parties who trailed them. That was the only way we knew any of what had gone on. Most stayed no more than a day, giving hurried, confusing accounts of what they witnessed before slipping away to continue their journeys. Some sought distant kin they hoped had escaped Lanissara's culling in the far hills. Others just hoped to run until there were no more hounds at their heels.”

  “Did any of them flee with treasures?”

  “Treasures?” Aban asked, frowning. “Not as I heard. The Hann She’lah are a simple people, and they have no need for great wealth. Anything that serves no purpose is not worthy carrying on their walks. Why do you ask?”