by R. S. Ford
Despite his fear, Randal stepped into the room. His presence suddenly broke the spell, and the children ceased their silent prayer, bowing their heads.
‘Hestan?’ Randal whispered. ‘Lena? Castiel? What is it?’
It was Mabel Fogg who was the first of them to look up. Randal was relieved to see her eyes had returned to their usual blue. There was a look of fear on that doleful face.
Randal knelt beside the girl, trying to reassure her with a comforting hand. ‘What is it, child?’ he asked.
She regarded him with eyes that seemed to have experienced a lifetime of worry. ‘They are coming, master,’ she said.
‘Who?’ asked Randal, though he dreaded the answer.
‘Our gods,’ she replied, as though it were obvious. ‘Our gods are coming.’
18
‘WHAT a pile of stinking horseshit!’ Ctenka said.
Or at least that was what he wanted to say. It was on the tip of his tongue, the words threatening to spill out like puke after a heavy night on the grog, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. It would have been stupid to question Randal, despite how ridiculous he sounded. And not just because he was an unnerving character. More because that boy, Hestan, was the weirdest child Ctenka had ever come across. If there was any chance he possessed the powers Randal claimed, then Ctenka was in no mood to get on his wrong side.
Even now the boy was staring curiously in Ctenka’s direction, like he was looking through his soul. He would never admit it, but Ctenka was more scared of that boy than anyone he’d ever met.
Randal might have spared their lives but he was a difficult man to trust. And not just from the story he’d told. There was something about him, a single-minded ruthlessness to his bearing. That much of his tale must have been true.
Randal waited for them to respond, but it was clear neither was too keen to start. If Ermund doubted anything Randal had said he was in no mood to pick the man up on it. He simply stood there like a guard on parade, refusing to call Randal out on his tall tale. Ctenka supposed it would be down to him.
‘How do you know those children weren’t just having a nightmare?’ he asked. ‘They said the gods are coming. That could mean anything.’
Randal placed a hand on Hestan’s head. The boy didn’t react to the man’s touch, continuing to stare right at Ctenka.
‘These children have proven themselves to me time and again. I would be foolish to ignore their warnings. More of their ilk are revealing themselves throughout the Suderfeld. Those I can find I take into my care. I would expect there are more throughout the lands of the Cordral and Ramadi. Signs are everywhere that things are changing. If what I witnessed in the Ramadi Wastes wasn’t enough to convince me that the gods have returned, I have seen enough since to make me certain.’
‘Signs of what?’ asked Ctenka. ‘Some kind of apocalypse? We only came to warn of a warlord rising in the east. Not the end of life as we know it.’
Randal smiled. It was wry and humourless and looked out of place on his face. ‘This is just the beginning,’ he replied. ‘There is a war brewing beyond this realm. One that is set to spill over into the lands of men and reduce its nations to ruin. It has to be stopped.’
‘So you’ll help us?’ asked Ctenka.
Before Randal could answer, Ermund stepped forward. ‘Where is King Stellan?’ he demanded.
If Ermund was trying to intimidate, Randal looked unimpressed. If his story was true, he had faced more imposing men than Ermund.
‘He is in his palace, no doubt,’ Randal replied. ‘You shouldn’t concern yourself with the king.’
‘I must see him.’ If Ermund had heard and believed that Hestan could make a man eat his own eyeballs with a thought, he clearly wasn’t rattled by it.
‘You will find your old friend is much changed, Harlaw. Are you sure you want to walk this road?’
‘Take me to Stellan,’ Ermund demanded. He didn’t look like he was about to ask again.
When Randal said, ‘Of course,’ Ctenka heaved an audible sigh of relief. As Randal and the boy led the way through the palace grounds, Ctenka leaned in to Ermund.
‘Try and keep your head,’ he whispered. ‘We’ve just been spared the gallows. Try not to get us killed. This man communes with the gods, for fuck’s sake. Why don’t you just be nice?’
‘You believe his stories of gods and magic, Ctenka?’ Ermund replied. ‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.’
‘Firstly, that hurts. Secondly, whether that boy can make a man mad just by looking at him is irrelevant. It’s obvious Randal holds the power in this place now. Let’s try not to upset him.’
Ermund did not answer. His fists were bunched, his jaw clenched. Ctenka could only hope his friend could keep that temper in check.
As they made their way through the palace Ctenka could see signs of opulence hidden behind the decay. Intricate tapestries hung limply from the walls and ancient gilded weapons were set in skewed sconces, but rats still lurked in the shadows, leaving their tracks in the dust. If Randal truly controlled the throne of Suderfeld it was clear he paid no mind to the upkeep of its palace.
When they drew close to the throne room, Ctenka could hear the sound of a dull and lifeless tune being played on a lute. Like the rest of this place it could have been rousing, but instead sounded like someone was playing a funeral dirge at their own burial.
Randal and the boy led the way, twisting through the corridors of the palace until they reached the throne room. Ctenka glanced around, expecting at least a cursory bodyguard, but there were no towering warriors in their lion livery, just a drunk man on a throne and an even drunker musician at the foot of it.
Ctenka had never met a king before, and if Stellan was anything to go by he wasn’t missing much. The man’s beard was a matted mess, clothes dishevelled, eyes heavy. He wasn’t even wearing a crown.
‘May I present Stellan of Canbria, King of the Suderfeld,’ said Randal with a sweep of his arm.
The lute player stopped his tune, glancing around groggily. As though sensing he was somewhat out of place he stood on unsteady feet and stumbled away into the recesses of the throne room, bowing all the while.
Ermund took a step towards the throne. ‘Stellan?’ he said.
The king frowned back at him with little recognition. ‘Who seeks… audience with the king?’ he replied, the words coming out in a slurred mess.
‘Stellan, it’s me. Harlaw.’
‘Harlaw?’ answered the king. ‘What would you ask of the King of Suderfeld?’
‘Stellan.’ Ermund made to move forward but stopped himself. ‘It’s Ermund Harlaw. Don’t you recognise me?’
The king shook his head lazily as though they’d never met. Ctenka moved forward, about to tell his friend he was wasting his breath, when Ermund turned on Randal.
‘What have you done to him?’ He spat the words, clearly caring little for the stories Randal had told about his sorcerous children. ‘What have you done to my king?’
Randal merely shrugged. ‘I can assure you, this is none of my doing.’
‘None of your doing? Look at him.’ He pointed at Stellan, barely containing his fury. ‘The king is bewitched.’
Randal pursed his lips as though considering the notion. ‘You’re right,’ he said finally. ‘But not by me.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Ermund.
‘Did Selene not cast her spell on you?’ Randal said.
Ermund looked up at the king, slouched in his throne. ‘Selene? She did this? But how…’
‘Stellan was always a fighting man,’ said Randal. ‘The many battles have taken their toll on his body. The queen has seen fit to treat his many ailments with a steady diet of wine liberally laced with essence of the poppy.’
Ermund turned on Randal. ‘And you have allowed—’
‘Yes, I have allowed it.’ There was a hint of irritation in Randal’s tone, as though he had been humouring them both till now and his patience was running thin. ‘Would
you rather he were bedridden? Racked by pain? This land has finally been united under one king after years of war. I will not allow it to fall into chaos now.’
Ermund turned back to his king, a man who had betrayed him. Who had stolen his lands and wife and forced him into exile. Ctenka could see he was torn between loyalty and anger as he took a step towards Stellan, but then stopped.
‘Then it looks like you’ve got your wish,’ Ermund said.
It seemed that was all that needed to be said. All the fight drained from Ermund. Whatever he had wanted from his former king was gone now, he had seen enough.
‘Now, to business,’ said Randal, gesturing for them to follow him from the throne room.
Again they dutifully followed, but then what alternative did Ctenka and Ermund have? Randal appeared peaceable enough, and he had spared their lives, but it was clear he held a position of power here. If it was due to the reasons he had suggested then they’d be fools to do anything but obey him.
They made their way down through the palace and out into a wide courtyard. The smell of a stable hit Ctenka as they made their way outside, but despite the smell of manure and animal, this place seemed to be in a better-kept state than much of the palace interior.
A groom was brushing down a horse. Three saddled mounts waited for them along with two children, who stood holding hands, a boy and a girl, heads inclined towards one another. Ctenka remembered Randal’s story. Remembered two children with strange gifts, and a sense of foreboding began to grow in his gut as he watched them standing there with little conception of what was going on.
‘Meet Lena and Castiel,’ said Randal as they crossed the courtyard. ‘They are my parting gift to you.’ He looked down at them with a slight expression of disappointment. ‘I cannot speak for their usefulness, but who knows, you might find them indispensable.’
‘Cannot speak for their usefulness?’ said Ctenka. ‘They’re children, how much use could they be?’
Randal shook his head. ‘Have you not heard a word I’ve said? These children are gifted. I believe.’
‘You believe?’ Ctenka stared at the two children, who stared back blankly.
‘They haven’t manifested any… powers, as yet. But I know there is potential there.’
‘We came here to entreat aid,’ said Ctenka. ‘We need fighting men. Not… whatever these are.’
‘I need all the men I have. The Suderfeld is still in transition. We have peace, but it is an uneasy one. Besides, you’ll find these children more useful than an entire cohort… probably.’
Ctenka looked at the two children, no more than fifteen summers between them. The boy, Castiel, chewed the inside of his cheek and the girl pulled at the fringe of her dress. Ctenka was doubtful either of them could even speak. What use they’d be against an invading army was beyond him.
‘We’ll take them,’ said Ermund. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
‘I have provided fresh mounts,’ said Randal. ‘And supplies for the—’
‘Appreciated,’ said Ermund, grasping the reins of the nearest horse and checking the tackle was fastened right.
It seemed that was that.
Ctenka lifted the two children into the saddle of the last mount. The girl Lena was cold to the touch, and the boy Castiel was warm and clammy. They both had a strange, ripe smell to them but they looked washed and well tended to, which only added to their oddness. Once they were saddled up, Randal bid the children farewell, then turned to Ctenka.
‘Remember, I am passing these children into your care,’ he said. ‘They’re your responsibility now. When they have served their purpose I want them returned home in one piece.’
Ctenka suddenly felt uncomfortable under Randal’s gaze. ‘You want them returned home?’
‘In one piece. Promise it.’
Ctenka glanced at Ermund for help, but he was too busy checking his saddle was set right to care. ‘You want me to promise—’
‘Make the vow.’
‘All right,’ said Ctenka, ‘I promise. Home in one piece.’
‘Mean it,’ said Randal. ‘These children are precious to me.’
Ctenka shook his head. ‘If they’re so precious, then why not grant us a cohort of knights instead?’
‘With the foe you face these children will be more value than a hundred men-at-arms. Now…’
‘All right.’ Ctenka was done with arguing. ‘I give you my word. I’ll protect these children as though they were my own.’
That was enough for Randal, and he took a step back and watched as Ctenka mounted his horse.
As they made their way from the grounds of Northold’s palace, Randal raised a hand in farewell. Ctenka made to lift his own in reply, but all of a sudden it felt a foolish thing to do.
Ermund didn’t even look back as they left. Ctenka watched as he rode through the gates of Northold and back onto the road. He wanted to say something comforting, but what did he know about comforting people. How did you comfort a man who had lost everything? What words could make up for a life of loyalty wasted?
19
IT was an impossible landscape, changing from darkened forest to marshy bog to lush field in the space of mere moments. The time too seemed to change of its own accord, from morning to evening then to bright midday heat, with little regard for the natural order of things.
She followed the woman Hera as best she could, stumbling over rocks and through craggy mountain passes, where the woman seemed to bound, sure-footed and confident. She felt like a newborn foal trying to follow a mountain lion.
It was impossible to tell how long their journey lasted with the environment constantly shifting, but still she trailed Hera until they came to the foot of a mountain range. As soon as they reached the rocky rise the temperature dropped. Looking up, she saw a thick white cloud crest the mountain peaks, blotting out the previously clear blue skies and instantly depositing a thick fall of snow, as though to welcome their arrival at the mountain. The wind whipped up, lashing the snow into a painful flurry.
‘We’re almost there,’ Hera shouted through the downpour, before forging on up the mountainside. All the hag could do was follow, hoping that Hera was right and they would find shelter soon.
The climb was hard, the mountain surface sheer and slick. More than once she found herself slipping, not daring to look down in case she panic at how high they had climbed. Each time she faltered, though, Hera was there, pulling her up. Just as she began to fear her energy might be all but sapped, she spied a cave entrance hewn into the side of the mountain.
Still stumbling, she followed Hera inside. At first they were plunged into darkness, the quiet of the tunnel striking an unnatural contrast to the howling wind outside. They didn’t have to travel far through the shadows before she heard Hera knocking against a wooden barrier. A firm shove and a grunt of effort and the barrier moved aside revealing… the warmly lit interior of a homely dwelling.
Sunlight shone in through little round windows, the glass panes framed in dark wood. A fire burned in the hearth and bookshelves lined every wall. Something bubbled on the stove, filling the room with a warm, meaty aroma that made her stomach spring to life with gurgling anticipation. This place was impossible. Not moments before they had been climbing the side of a mountain. Now they were in some idyllic cottage in the countryside. But, despite appearances, there was an unnerving sense about the place that none of this was real.
Hera walked in, unstrapping her sword and casting it aside. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Make yourself at home.’
As she entered, a man walked in from an adjoining room at the back of the cottage.
‘Ah, you’re here,’ he said.
He was small, just under five feet, his hair tousled and thick, cheeks full and teeth whiter than any she’d ever seen. His clothes were simple but well-tailored and his shoes shone, winking in the firelight.
‘How is he?’ Hera asked the man.
‘Go and see for yourself.’ He gestured to the roo
m he had entered from, and Hera walked past, leaving the two of them alone.
‘Please, sit down,’ said the man, waving to a chair by the fire.
As uncomfortable as she was, she did as he asked, still too cold to argue. He took the seat opposite, beaming at her all the while.
‘You must have many questions,’ he said as she rubbed some life into her wrinkled fingers.
‘Who are you?’ was all she could think of.
‘Ah, of course. How rude of me. You can call me the Hermit. That’s one of my names, it’ll do for now. But I think the better question is: who are you?’
She stopped rubbing her fingers, stunned at the prospect. ‘Do you know?’
‘Of course. You’re Livia Harrow.’
The name brought a rush of thoughts and memories to her.
An old man in the fields. His face agape, throat opened, lifeblood gushing down his chest. Her captors, so many of them. Brutal, hateful… kind. A journey north. A child speaking like a priest. A battle.
She shook her head, the memories coming fast, solidifying, forming a life she had led. One that had ended atop a ziggurat. One that had ended with her murdering a child.
‘What is this?’ She stood, sending the chair she had been sitting on toppling back to the floor with a loud clatter.
As the curtain was ripped away and her memory returned, the hag’s shell covering her body sloughed away. Her skin began to smooth, brittle hair growing thicker. Meat began to fill out the bony frame of her hips and shoulders. Lifting a hand to her face she felt the flesh of her face become youthful again.
‘Be calm,’ said the Hermit. ‘The rush will pass.’
He was right. Already her mind was steadying. Already she knew with dread certainty that she was Livia Harrow. Born on a farm in Canbria. Taken from her home and forced miles to the north. It was all a mass of confusion but she knew one thing – she was no longer in the Ramadi Wastes.
‘What is this place?’ she asked, picking up the chair and sitting back down beside the fire.
‘Safe,’ the Hermit replied. ‘I am sorry I didn’t find you sooner, but—’
