by R. S. Ford
‘Thanks for the hospitality anyway,’ he said as he mounted up. ‘Just to let you know, you might have a problem with prairie rats. Back of your house is riddled with mounds.’
Felaina’s face turned sullen, her eyes lowering, bottom lip quivering. Without another word she turned and entered the house.
‘Pay her no mind,’ said Markhan.
‘Thank you again for your hospitality,’ said Ermund, kicking his horse and guiding it back towards the road.
‘Yes,’ said Ctenka, still confused at the woman’s reaction. ‘We’ll be sure to recommend you. Top notch.’
With that he guided his horse after Ermund. It didn’t take long as they made their way west before the southerner turned in his saddle.
‘You really are a fucking halfwit, you know that, don’t you?’
‘What have I done now?’ asked Ctenka.
‘Prairie rat mounds?’ Ermund snapped.
‘I was only trying to help. I didn’t know she’d get so upset about it.’
‘They were graves, you idiot.’
‘Graves?’ Ctenka wasn’t quite with him. ‘But they were tiny.’
‘You don’t need to dig a big hole for a stillbirth, Ctenka.’ With that he kicked his horse on ahead.
Ctenka watched him go as the word graves went around and around in his head. There had been so many of them.
Damn his bloody mouth, why was he always so quick to judge? What a fucking idiot. Maybe he should go back and apologise, though by now it was too late for sorry.
But with Ctenka Sunatra wasn’t it always?
11
IT was almost as Ctenka remembered it, though when he last came to Kantor he hadn’t been stinking of horse and parched beyond measure. His village was only a few miles west of the capital, and the walk had been much easier than the horse trek from Dunrun.
He and Ermund rode through the vast city gates, the black iron portcullis half raised, red stone archway carved with myriad shapes depicting the Cordral gods. The Lover and Serpent intertwined, Vane the Hunter battling Karnak the Reaver, Lilith the Masked, the Scorpion, the All-Mother and the rest, all beneath the watchful eye of Sol, glaring down in judgement. It had made Ctenka shiver the first time he passed beneath that arch and he felt that same sense of awe now as he and Ermund entered the city.
‘Is this your first time in Kantor?’ he asked Ermund.
‘It is,’ the southerner replied. ‘But in my experience one great city is much like another. Though this one seems to bear its own unique odour.’
Ctenka laughed. ‘It smells of life, my friend. And this is a city unlike any other. I guarantee it.’
Ermund glanced around at the bustling streets, at the merchants touting wares, at the urchins rushing in and out, at the beggars on the corners. ‘Looks just like any other shithole to me. Everyone just wears different clothes and speaks in a slightly different accent.’
‘This is the seat of life,’ Ctenka said, eager to impress the implacable veteran. ‘They say this was the first city. Where man first crawled from the desert to begin civilisation itself.’
‘Civilisation?’ Ermund said, as a screaming merchant chased a woman across the road in front of them, wooden stick raised high.
‘Well, nowhere’s perfect.’
They continued towards the palace where it sat looming at the centre of the city. The closer they got the more the city’s military were visible. Ctenka would have expected to be greeted with friendly smiles from the other militia, but in the six months since he had been here it appeared the mood had changed. Now there was an oppressive air. The guards were vigilant, not one of them wanting to greet their fellow soldiers. When finally the pair reached the palace their way was blocked by a heavy military presence.
Ctenka stared up at the palace in awe. It was clad in the same red stone as the gate, with mortar of yellow and blue streaking the walls in concentric patterns, giving the impression of a storm raging across the stronghold’s surface.
Both men pulled up their horses in front of the main gate. Guards holding shields and spears barred the way, greeting them with stern looks.
‘We’ve ridden from Dunrun,’ said Ermund. ‘We must speak with the queen immediately. There is a grave threat from the east and she must be informed.’
One of the sentries took a step forward, his brow furrowing. ‘You’ll be lucky,’ he said. ‘No one is allowed entry. And from the state of you two I’d suggest a bath before you go anywhere.’
‘Invasion is imminent,’ said Ermund. Ctenka could detect the anger growing in him. ‘The entire Shengen army is heading along the Skull Road. Dunrun must be properly garrisoned—’
‘Why don’t you take a look around, you southern shit,’ replied the sentry, losing patience. ‘Of course invasion is imminent. Why do you think—’
Before he could continue, Ermund had jumped down from his horse. The sentry backed away and the rest of the guards braced their spears. Ctenka considered dropping from his own saddle, but he froze. This was getting out of hand and he had no idea what to do.
‘What’s going on?’ A marshal came through the gates, summoned by raised voices and the prospect of violence.
‘This fucker thinks he can just walk into the palace,’ said the sentry.
The marshal looked Ermund up and down, clearly unimpressed.
‘We’ve been sent by Marshal Ziyadin,’ Ctenka blurted, before Ermund said anything to make this worse.
The marshal looked up at him. ‘Ziyadin? Is he still rotting out east in the arse end of nowhere?’
‘Yes, Marshal,’ Ctenka replied. ‘And until recently we were rotting alongside him. But we have grave news that must be presented to the queen.’
‘I see,’ said the marshal. ‘Then you’d best follow me.’
Ctenka let out the sigh he’d been holding and climbed down from his horse. As they walked through the gates, he and Ermund were relieved of their weapons and escorted towards the palace. A wide staircase led up to an archway. Sentries stood everywhere amidst red carved fountains. Ctenka noticed there was no water flowing from them anymore, but they might once have looked an impressive sight.
Once inside the palace they were led to an anteroom, three studded iron doors leading from it.
‘Wait here,’ said the marshal, and he disappeared, slamming the door and locking Ctenka and Ermund inside.
‘What do you think?’ Ctenka asked.
‘I think we wait. What do you think?’ Ermund answered.
Ctenka was about to say he thought Ermund had almost got them killed at the gate and maybe he should calm down, when one of the iron doors opened.
Both men stood to attention, Ctenka ready to bow in fealty, but it was not Queen Suraan who entered. Instead a little boy, his head shaved close to his scalp, red silk tunic looking threadbare, ran into the room and quickly hid behind a nearby plant pot.
Ctenka looked at Ermund with a what’s going on look on his face. Ermund gave a reciprocal I haven’t got a clue look back. Moments later, a girl rushed into the room after the little boy. Her head was equally close shaven, her face stern beyond her years. She was lean but well muscled for such a youth. The way she moved was like a dancer, and when she saw the two men she stood tall, surprised but not in the least bit threatened.
‘Rahuul, come out this instant,’ she said, still regarding Ctenka and Ermund suspiciously, despite their uniforms clearly marking them as men of the militia. The little boy giggled from his hiding place, the leaves of the flowered plant shaking as he did so. ‘Now, Rahuul. The game is over.’
As the boy crept from behind the pot, a grin on his face, Ctenka began to work that name around in his head. What was familiar about it?
Rahuul walked past the girl and out of the door, giving a quick look back before popping his tongue out playfully and running off into the room beyond. The girl bowed, then left the men alone.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Ctenka.
‘That was Rahuul,’ sai
d Ermund.
‘Yes, I got that. But—’
‘The Prince of Kantor?’
Ctenka stared at the doorway. The boy who would be king had just played hide and seek in the room he was standing in. Ctenka was still staring when the door opened again. This time it was not a boy who entered.
The man was tall, well over six feet, but there was little meat to him. The dark blue of his robes was barely visible beneath innumerable scraps of parchment – rolled scrolls, sheets of vellum, scraps of yellowed papyrus – all pinned or tied with ribbon, and hanging from his thin frame like old rags. A wispy beard grew from his wizened face and deep-set eyes bore into Ctenka.
Following him were acolytes, three in all, each wearing a black habit, heads shaved, dark scrollwork tattoos marking them as the crown’s bonecasters.
Ctenka realised the man in front of him must be Egil Sun, Keeper of the Word, Vizier to the Queen Regent and the second most powerful man in the Cordral.
‘I am told you seek audience with the queen?’ he said. Ctenka opened his mouth to answer, but Egil carried on regardless. ‘That is not possible. Whatever missive you bring from Dunrun should be delivered to me.’
‘Listen,’ said Ermund. ‘We need to speak to the queen, now. The entire Shengen army is about to fall upon Dunrun, and we need reinforcements.’
Ctenka stepped forward, placing a restraining arm on Ermund’s shoulder. The southerner was clearly unaware of Egil Sun’s reputation. This was not a man you made demands of.
‘Oh great and wise Egil Sun,’ Ctenka said. ‘What my comrade means to say is… the Cordral is under threat. We beseech you to send troops east. A great warlord has risen beyond the Crooked Jaw—’
Egil raised a wizened hand. ‘No. My bonecasters have had no visions. This has not been foreseen.’ He gestured to the silent men in black robes. Their eyes were cast down at the ground, but still they filled Ctenka with disquiet. ‘If there was a threat from the east I would know of it.’
Before Ctenka could think to protest, another figure entered the anteroom. This one he recognised.
‘This is a military matter, Egil,’ said the huge warrior. Musir Dragosh stood like a giant, the glint of his polished armour reflecting the thick, bronzed flesh of his arms and face. ‘You need not concern yourself.’
Egil smiled from behind that threadbare beard. ‘I was merely seeing to matters for the queen.’
‘And I am grateful. But I can deal with this now.’
The two men stared at one another in a silent standoff. Ctenka could sense the animosity between them. In silence, Egil Sun and his bonecasters left the room.
Ctenka couldn’t help but feel relieved, despite Musir Dragosh being an equally imposing sight. When Ctenka had been in the training grounds, the leader of the Desert Blades had overseen some of their trials to measure if any recruits were good enough to join his cohort of elite guard. None had been found worthy.
‘Follow me,’ said Dragosh.
Ctenka obeyed, relieved that Ermund also followed rather than try and get them in further trouble with that mouth of his.
Once outside in the bright palace courtyard, Ctenka could see what had once been a magnificent garden, now fallen fallow. It seemed the whole of Kantor was being left to ruin.
Musir Dragosh sounded grave as he spoke. ‘I hear you would have an audience with the queen. Well that won’t happen.’
‘We need troops for the reinforcement of Dunrun,’ said Ctenka. ‘You must believe us, Musir. The Shengen are coming.’
‘I do believe you.’
Ctenka almost jumped for joy. ‘Thank you, Musir. Thank you.’
‘But I cannot spare the troops you need.’
Ctenka felt like he’d been punched in the throat.
‘But if Dunrun is not properly defended the whole of the Cordral is under threat.’
‘The whole of the Cordral is already under threat. What is one more warlord?’
Ctenka was about to press further when he saw someone he recognised watching from a balcony above the garden. He had only seen her once before – part of a procession through the centre of Kantor. Ctenka had been a raw recruit then and he remembered Queen Suraan was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. Now she looked careworn, her hair tousled, shoulders slumped as though they bore the weight of the world.
Dragosh was the first to fall to his knee upon seeing her. Ctenka quickly followed, relieved when Ermund did the same. All three men bowed their heads, and Ctenka knelt there waiting, wondering when it would be customary to stand. After a moment, Musir Dragosh rose. Ctenka stood, looking up sheepishly, only to see the queen had vanished.
‘Look,’ Dragosh said, seeming to grow suddenly impatient. ‘I can pledge some men. How many I don’t know yet. But if you need more you’ll need to look elsewhere.’
‘But…’ Ctenka was about to protest but he knew there was little point. He doubted the leader of the Desert Blades would change his mind at the behest of a militia recruit.
‘Then we will look to the Suderfeld,’ said Ermund.
Both Ctenka and Musir Dragosh stared at the southerner, who had remained silent all this time.
‘Suderfeld?’ Dragosh clearly did not see the sense.
‘There may be someone who can help us. Once this eastern warlord has taken the Cordral he will not stop there. It may benefit all the western nations if there is an alliance. I may be able to persuade—’
‘Do what you must,’ interrupted Dragosh. ‘You will have men. That is all I can promise.’
Musir led them from the courtyard and through the palace. Before they left he bid them good luck and had them supplied with fresh horses and rations.
As they headed for Kantor’s southern gate, Ctenka found he couldn’t contain himself anymore.
‘So, you have allies in the south? I knew it. I knew you were a man of breeding.’ Ctenka couldn’t wipe the self-satisfied smile from his face, but Ermund looked unimpressed as usual. ‘I have never seen the Suderfeld Kingdoms before. These allies of yours, will they treat us like lords?’
‘Aye, they might,’ Ermund replied. ‘If they don’t kill us first.’
‘Kill us?’ Ctenka said.
Ermund didn’t seem too keen to fill in the details.
But of course. Ctenka should have known it would never be so simple.
12
THEY headed south on the Penitent Path for two days. The fresh horses given to them in Kantor were a vast improvement on the nags they’d ridden from Dunrun, and by the end of the second day Ctenka was beginning to think himself a plains horseman reborn, even taking some joy in the journey. It didn’t last long.
The air began to cool with every mile they travelled, the landscape growing more lush. As the sky turned dark and the first rainfall began to hit the ground, Ctenka realised why the Suderfeld Kingdoms were so renowned for their greenery and the miserable mood of their populace.
For hours they plodded until the rain finally relented. As they rode in their sodden clothes, Ctenka spied a waystone, the legend scratched into the worn granite long since faded. It reminded him that the Penitent Path had once been a grand thoroughfare. Much like the Skull Road it had drawn trade and culture to Kantor from a far-off nation. Since the War of Three Crowns that trade had subsided and the two militiamen seemed the only ones who had travelled its length in an age.
‘That marks the border,’ Ermund said as they passed the waystone.
‘And how much further are we to travel?’ Ctenka asked, glancing up at the grey sky with a feeling of foreboding.
‘Perhaps another two days.’
Ctenka thought about Ermund’s words as they left Kantor – how he had suggested they might well meet their end once they reached their destination.
‘This is not the kind of country I would like to die in,’ he said.
‘With any luck you won’t. Although I can’t think of any country it would be a good place to die.’
‘My own country,’ Ctenka
replied. ‘With the sun above me, not this…’ he gestured at the grey pall, ‘…this curtain of doom above, waiting to soak me through.’
‘You’ll get used to the rain.’
‘I’m hoping we won’t be here long enough for that.’
‘Then you’d best put heels to flanks, boy,’ said Ermund, encouraging his mount into a canter.
‘Forgive me if I’m not so eager to face my death,’ Ctenka replied, but if Ermund heard he didn’t bother to reply.
It didn’t take them long before a building rose up from the greenery in the distance. Ctenka felt his hopes rise at the prospect of sheltering from the inclement weather but they were dashed as soon as the place was in sight. Though the building was large and had clearly once been some kind of hostelry, now it was dilapidated, its roof long since caved in. Nevertheless, the closer they got the more they heard signs of life.
As they made their way through the trees, Ctenka could see a group of men camped under awnings, a fire lit within the open walls of the place. Something was cooking on a spit and his stomach growled in appreciation.
Ermund reined in his horse and dismounted. Ctenka did likewise and followed the southerner towards what used to be the doorway, but now stood as a gap in the crumbling wall of the inn. The place was sodden, but one side of the main room had been covered with a hastily nailed canvas. Beneath it stood a miserable-looking man, skull cap pulled tightly down over his fat head.
‘Do you have shelter for the night?’ Ermund asked. ‘Maybe a hot meal?’
‘Aye,’ said the innkeeper, barely looking up. ‘Three bits apiece.’
‘Three bits?’ Ermund asked, clearly perturbed by the expense, but then he shrugged and fished for the coins.
As Ermund paid, Ctenka couldn’t resist leaning forward. ‘Lovely place you have,’ he said to the innkeeper. ‘Nice and airy.’
The innkeeper gave him a sullen glance that spoke volumes about what he thought of Ctenka’s levity.
Their shelter turned out to be a leaky stable, the hot meal a few pieces of stringy rabbit and some watery broth. As the evening went on they hunkered around a fire in the centre of the open building and Ctenka gave thanks that the heavens held onto their load.
