by Ahimsa Kerp
“The only allies Lord North can think of to replace them are the Marchers?” Ambrose’ exclamation rang through the forest interrupting the quiet night. “I know some of what went on when you were up here before. Surely do you don’t think the Marchers are dependable allies.”
Henry Barlow paused before replying, wondering how exactly to phrase his response. “I think,” he said at last. “I think they are the best allies we can have. The way they fight! No warriors in the south could best them. Oh, perhaps the Gallopers would do passably—they could certainly retreat quickly enough.” The Gallopers were Sturm Galkmeer’s elite cavalry force; he had led them since he was fifteen years old and subservient to the late King Dermid.
“The Gallopers? But we know how to defeat them,” Ambrose said.
“In theory, yes. It’s never been tested though. That’s not the point, either. Truth be told, even the Titans would be hard pressed to defeat the best of the Marchers. They are strong beyond our reckoning. What’s more, they are slippery like snakes, and will take every advantage they can, but once they commit to something, they have done so. You’d never see them commit to a betrayal like Lord Baardol.” He spit too, his glob of phlegm landing close to Ambrose’s. Trying to sound sullen and angry he said, “And I know this: they’re more our kinsmen than the slimy, underhanded prigs of the South.”
“I agree with that at least,” Ambrose said. “It’s just…many of the Titans cut our teeth fighting the Marchers. It’s hard for some to accept.”
“They’ll get used to it. They’ll have to,” Henry Barlow said.
Snow came without warning. Great heavy flakes of white settled on the ground, on the rocks, on the men themselves. It had been clear and cold on top of the mountain, but as they moved down from the peak of the mountain, slowly descending into the valley below, the snow began. Even before this white, wet carpet had settled upon them, it had been bleak, desolate, and inhospitable, now it was miserable.
The North was a barren and frigid land. There were pockets of life, but unless you knew where to look for them, it appeared to be as inhospitable a landscape as could ever exist. There had been a volcano here once. The mountain had not rumbled in living memory, but sharp black rock remained on all sides. In the past, the Marchers had made weapons from that rock, but it was a brittle material and few warriors today still used them. The harshness of the terrain, Marcher valor aside, was a large reason the Northlands hadn’t been conquered yet.
It was cold; a bitter chill seeped into the bones. This high up, there was no protection from the wind, which periodically picked up and daggered them with frigid intensity. The Titan Guard wore warm skins and heavy boots but as the snow piled up, their leggings were getting wet. As long as they were moving they stayed warm, but when they stopped to rest or to allow the healer to catch up, the cold intensified.
When it snowed up here, it was probably raining farther south. Barlow wondered how the rains would affect the battle between Lord North and his quarry. Now well over a week removed from the Plum Grove ambush, what was happening in the wider world? What was that blackspur Sturm Galkmeer doing? Was Baardol fielding an army? Barlow hated not knowing what was going on, felt crippled without information. He had contacts in Etonbreen, but wondered if any were still dependable.
They were gradually descending below the timberline. It was as Barlow recalled, with an occasional copse of trees. Beneath the snow a layer of hardy green moss existed. There would be animals as well—rodents that burrowed into the ground when the snows piled up too strongly. And strange alpine parrots with sharp claws and sharper beaks, birds whose bite could pierce a leather jerkin. The view was dramatic, and the knee-crushing descent brought them air, real air, unlike the thin stuff on top that left even seasoned warriors gasping.
They followed the path as it curved around the mountain and stopped in surprise. Several dozen large, ruddy men sat on large, muddy horses, blocking their path. The snow continued to fall softly all around them. Barlow looked to Ambrose, but the large man seemed taken by surprise as well. They were Marchers, men of sharp features, with long dirty blond hair and wiry beards. Barlow knew well the man in front, and was glad to see him.
The Marchers wore red shirts, black leather leggings, and all had long ash-shafted spears clutched in their hands. Each had three dark lines beneath their right eye, created from the same trees that had become their spear-shafts. These men were an honor guard for the Lord of the Marchers; they were Ashmen. They were among the deadliest of Marcher warriors. He knew because he had created them, and had himself trained their leader.
“Greetings, Tomas,” Barlow called, trying not to reveal his unease. The Titan presence here should not have been expected, and it unnerved the Shade to know their arrival had been anticipated. They must have sensed the leech’s failed cantrip! Or had he surreptitiously been chanting this entire time? It might be simpler—once the Marchers had heard of Baardol’s treachery, they could have anticipated Lord North’s request. If so, the Marchers were growing dangerously more devious.
Tomas balanced his spear on the back of his steed and stepped down. He walked towards Barlow, his boots crunching in the snow while he tucked his thumbs into his tunic and spread his fingers apart. The sign of non-aggression, but for Barlow it also meant “be aware.” The Shade wasn’t so sure how to interpret it. Tomas had been one of the men he had left as agents, but in the intervening time his loyalty could have been bought and sold many times over.
“Greetings, Henry Barlow. Lord Ghazi expects your arrival,” Tomas said. “We will accompany you and your men to Etonbreen.”
“You didn’t happen to bring us extra mounts?” Barlow asked.
“What a question,” Tomas said. “I know how the men of Hairng would never ask for anything from us Marchers.”
A few of his men muttered at that, but the sarcasm was welcome to Barlow. If Tomas had turned, he would be trying to ingratiate himself. Though there was always the chance of the double-bluff. He couldn’t trust anyone.
It was a long, cold walk. The main body of the Ashmen rode behind the Titan Guard, their horses slogging through the muddy snow. Light flakes of snow still fell. A few riders scouted ahead, always at the ready even within a few hours of their home. Barlow was proud; they had learned their lessons well. He would have suggested it to Tomas had the man not done so himself.
Tomas walked beside Barlow at the head of the column. The Ashman spoke of Sturm Galkmeer’s invasion, and wondered if Hairng might fall. He was surprisingly well-informed for a man who lived so far away. Barlow wondered if Tomas had already been recruited into the Shades. Eventually they lapsed into silence, walking ever farther down the jagged path that led down the mountain. Barlow’s knees ached as they continually walked downhill, and at times the path seemed little more than a collection of loose stones.
Billows of smoke revealed Etonbreen hours before they reached it, but the town itself was obscured by the thick forest down at the foot of the mountain. Barlow wondered how much it had changed since he had last been there. The reports he read indicated that it had grown large beyond recognition, but he needed to see it for himself to fully visualize it.
They came to weary halt late in the afternoon, on a snowy plain just outside of the town. “This will be your camp,” Tomas said. “I trust it’s not too inconvenient?”
Barlow looked at the area. White-tipped pines ringed the field. It was scenic, but nowhere near as comforting as a warm inn inside the city. Clearly a message from Ghazi.
“A damn sight better than the top of that mountain,” Barlow said loudly. “And tired as we are, the snow will feel like feathers.”
Tomas watched him for a long moment then gestured to his riders. The Ashmen rode into the city, leaving their leader behind. The Titans looked wearily at the cold ground. They had not looked forward to another night of camping. The healer collapsed into the snow, too tired to notice the cold. He had finally covered up his head, though now he wore a ridiculous loo
king wool cap. Hopefully he’ll get hypothermia, Barlow thought. One of his men, Judec, helped him up. Barlow immediately made a mental strike against Judec. Already Eugo’s weakness was seeping outward, affecting stronger men. Unacceptable. Tomas was digging in his saddlebags.
“Ambrose, have the men set up camp,” Barlow said. “Send two into town for hot food and porter.”
Ambrose smiled. “I’ll take care of that myself. And maybe show Petteri around the city.” Ambrose claimed he could out drink every other man in the Titans, but had not yet had a chance to prove that to the big Half-Marcher.
Tomas approached. He smiled wistfully. “My apologies, Henry. I have strict orders.” He held up a staunch segment of rope.
Barlow did not immediately understand, and then it dawned on him. “You want to bind me as a prisoner?”
It was galling. Ghazi was practically shouting his message now: Don’t take me for granted. I’m not the person you knew.
“I have strict orders,” Tomas repeated. “Don’t make this difficult.” His voice was tinged with regret.
Maryk and Tracant moved to Barlow’s side, their maces dangling ready at their sides. They had joined the Titans together and would gladly strike down Tomas or anyone else for Barlow’s approval.
“Relax, lads,” Barlow said. “I’m here as a diplomat—Ghazi won’t hurt me.”
Barlow put his arms behind his back and allowed Tomas to bind his hands. They were tied tightly. Very tightly. Barlow had long ago learned to extract himself from most types of bondage, but if he needed to escape, this would not be easy.
“At last you’ll see Etonbreen,” Tomas said, as though he had not just turned Barlow into a de facto prisoner. “It has changed significantly since last you saw it.” He turned and strode toward the town, leading his horse with his left hand. Barlow awkwardly caught him up, feeling off balance on the icy ground and wary of slipping. Together, the two men left the Titans and entered Etonbreen.
The town Barlow saw was unrecognizable. When he had been here six years before, Etonbreen had been a shantytown. There had been no law, no civic structures, and no businesses. Much of the surrounding area had been forest. Within the settlement there had been more tents and lean-tos than permanent buildings and Ghazi himself had not come here until Barlow had suggested it.
Etonbreen had expanded; it was many times larger and it was strikingly scenic. Jagged mountains ringed the city and vast pine forests climbed the rolling hills. There were so many people, more people gathered in one place than Barlow had ever seen north of the mountain passes. There were now street grids, and most of the structures were made from rock and stone, presumably from the local quarry. That was no surprise. The Marcher economy was largely derived from their quarries of stone and deposits of coal. But it was a nice touch that the streets themselves were filled with crushed stone rather than mud and sewage.
Something else stood out about Etonbreen. The people seemed hale and healthy. Many had large dogs or wolves that they walked through the town. Compared to Hairng, where many of the merchants in particular were pasty and flabby, Etonbreen was the picture of vigor and vitality. If the sight of an armed Ashman walking with his horse and a bound man seemed strange to the people of Etonbreen, they hid it well.
This late in the afternoon, quarrymen and Silkmen had returned and were filling up the inns and pubs. The quarrymen were large, dusty fellows—some of the most barbaric of this barbaric lot. Silkmen, those mysterious trappers who practically lived on their isolated elk roads, were an enigma even to Barlow, who had studied the culture of the North in detail.
Etonbreen was, in short, a thriving community and Barlow felt a flush of pride as he considered his role in creating it. It was a pity that few would ever know his full contributions; but he had grown used to it. Shades were secret architects of the world.
Still, it was odd as well…surreal. It was difficult to keep the line between the past and the present.
Tomas read the expression on his face. “Yes, the vision you spoke of to me those many years ago has come true. I find it hard to believe myself at times, when I remember my first visit here.”
“What have you become, Tomas? Captain of the Ashman, or something more?”
The Ashman’s face was unreadable as he shrugged. “We are all more than our outward appearances, Henry Barlow. You taught me that. Now, I need to speak to you of Lord Ghazi. Above all things, do not remind him of what he was. Like the short man who strives to be taller, he overcompensates. He is moody and unpredictable. Do not inflame him.”
“Refreshing,” Barlow said. “To hear that in this land of changes there is at least one constant.”
Tomas grinned at him. “It is good to have you back.”
Tomas stopped short of a large stone building. They had left the Titans only a few minutes before; Etonbreen had indeed grown, but it still was far from large on the scale of southern cities.
“We have arrived,” the Ashman said.
The stone structure had been built in the style of a Temple of Ordryn. This building, however, was clearly secular in purpose. Armed guards at the entrance testified to that, as did the lack of iconography worked into the stone. Barlow saw arrow holes in the upper levels and wondered if archers watched him. It was more fortress than palace, but it fit this city and this land.
Tomas cut his bonds. “Enough of this charade. The people of Etonbreen know not who you are, and if you meant Lord Ghazi to be dead these would not hinder you.”
“I am supposed to enter there bound?”
“Aye. I suppose the Lord won’t be pleased with me. It will be fortunate should we be sent South.” The Ashman sheathed his knife and pocketed the rope. “We will speak again soon.”
“May the Passions be with you,” Barlow replied. With no few misgivings, the Titan entered the dank stone building.
The bottom level of Ghazi’s residence was all one room, and it was mostly empty. In the very back, a ladder led to the upper levels. A large stone table filled the center of the room and was covered in expensive red cloth from Gaulang. Small alcoves were fitted on the sides. Perhaps armed guards would stand there someday, but for now they were empty. Two Ashmen stood behind Ghazi, their immense spears turgid in the air.
Ghazi sat at the head of the table, an immense goblet before him. The Marcher lord looked much the same as he had years before. He remained lean and no lines yet marked his face. This was a man suited for power. His eyes ran down Barlow, stopping at his free wrists for a moment but he said nothing.
Barlow hoped Tomas had known what he was doing.
“The infamous Henry Barlow,” Ghazi called. “Please, have a seat. Be welcome.”
Barlow strode across the hall, his snowy boots echoing throughout the chamber. He sat near to Ghazi.
“Greetings to you as well, Ghazi. Lord of the Marchers,” Barlow said softly.
“I know why you’re here. I am not interested in diplomatic doggerel,” Ghazi said. He took a sip from his goblet. “Let us speak plainly,” the Marcher continued. “If you and your men had arrived a month ago, this would have been a different conversation. Plum Grove changed everything. You lost North’s bastard, you lost the murderous Blackfend, and worst of all you lost Baardol. There is war coming; without the Marchers, you cannot win it.”
Speak plainly indeed. Ghazi’s bluntness was unusual, but refreshing compared to the word-dueling that consumed hours in the civilized parts of the world. Barlow also felt reassured. Of all the positions Ghazi could start from, the bully stance would be the easiest to counter. The Marcher lord had not learned as much as he had supposed.
“Bjorn Blackfend was a fell warrior and a good man. The bastard Ernmund had already earned great glory in his youth.” Barlow’s grief was not manufactured. He’d liked both of the men, and had begun to recruit Blackfend into the Shades. “But we could have lost ten of each and not risked the doom you predict. Hairng is far stronger than Baardol, and always has been. We won’t lose this war.”
Ghazi had a far-away look in his eyes. Barlow wondered if he’d even listened.
“Then leave,” Ghazi said, his eyes on the wooden ceiling. “Win the war by yourself. My Marchers won’t die for your cause.”
That forning sense of entitlement again! Barlow fought the urge to listen to the Marcher and walk out of the room.
“You fool, Ghazi. If Galkmeer wins, you think he’ll be content to leave you alone? He’ll come here with the power of the South and the North. Is that want you want? Your homes burnt, your people killed and enslaved, your land emptied of all life? What kind of leader does that to his people?” Barlow was interested to see how the bully would respond to a little bullying himself.
“You are right. Maybe I’ll need to make friends with the Lord Chancellor before that happens,” Ghazi said.
Barlow stared at him. “That’s insane. Listen, Galkmeer is a nobody. A boy scarcely older than you who is playing a game he can’t possibly understand, let alone win. The nobles of the South will use him and when he has no more purpose they will throw him away.”
“Just as you intend to do with the Marchers?”
“Power does not suit you, Lord Ghazi. You grow paranoid. I came here as one ally to another, to find myself cast into chains, threatened, and hear you speak of allying with our mutual enemy. A lesser man would find himself growing angry.”
“You want to speak of anger? You come here expecting our people to be glad to die in a war that is not ours. Yes, we are angry.”
Barlow threw up his hands in despair. Ghazi was playing it well, but there was a chase here, and one that could be cut to rather quickly. There was a price for every man.
“We’ll pay you 45,000 birdseye maples,” Barlow said after a pause. “In addition, when we retake Northport you can have the loot from half of the ships there.” The offer beggared anything the Marchers had ever received before. Less than a decade before, they would have marched for a few mugs of ale.
