Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  ‘How bad were you hit?’

  ‘I lost half of my people.’

  ‘Emperor’s grace,’ swore Owen, shaking his head.

  ‘We got lucky there weren’t more of them, those crazy bastards attacked us even though they were outnumbered. We got them all, which gave us a chance to get away, but it cost us.’

  ‘Your daughter, Myra?’

  ‘She didn’t make it.’

  Owen opened his mouth to express his sympathy, but found that he had no words. She had been young enough to still be innocent, perhaps she had died that way too, not truly understanding how wicked the world could be. Like Em.

  ‘They’ll pay,’ he said. It was the most honest thing he could say.

  ‘You got room on that bird for a passenger?’ asked Gerat. ‘I’m getting too old to walk everywhere.’

  Owen smiled. ‘I reckon he can carry us both, as long as you don’t mind heights.’

  ‘It’s not the heights so much as the falling.’

  ‘Yep, the falling bit hurts like hell.’

  ‘Then keep it low.’

  Together they walked out of the barn, towards Arno.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ Owen asked, as he pulsed to Arno, ‘We have an old friend flying with us.’

  ‘Not far, you head north and when you hit the stream follow it upriver.’

  ‘Alright.’

  They reached Arno and Owen pointed to the rear saddle straps.

  ‘See those things that look like long saddle bags? Just climb up and put your legs into them. Then just tie yourself up with the straps.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gerat, and he hauled himself on to Arno’s back.

  ‘I’m impressed you want to give it a try,’ admitted Owen.

  Gerat fixed him with a stare. ‘Things change.’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ agreed Owen. ‘Yes, they do.’

  Owen followed suit and settled on to Arno.

  ‘Sorry, old friend. Heavy load for you to carry.’ Arno shook his head in response and extended his wings. Owen turned him around to take advantage of the gentle southern slope.

  As they took to the air, Owen felt Arno toil against the extra weight. He hadn’t had to carry more than Owen and his kit for some time and, though the eagle was bigger and stronger now, Gerat was a test. Owen kept them low and on a northerly track. Their speed through the air reduced, and Arno had to battle a headwind. Owen turned his head so he could be heard against the rush of air. ‘I haven’t seen any hostiles since I came back.’

  ‘There isn’t much of anything this far west. There’s no one here but us now,’ shouted Gerat.

  That was interesting.

  They flew on for a short while before they saw a line of water flowing south west. Arno tilted his wings and started to follow it back to its source: a range of craggy, forested slopes. Gerat tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Head to the highest point, there’s a small plateau that you can land your bird on.’

  Owen nodded. Arno flapped his powerful wings, matching his position relative to the rising ground, and cruised over the treetops, aiming for the tallest point of the range. The trees did indeed give way to a bare peak: uneven and strewn with rocks and boulders. Owen felt a wave of relief, he was starting to worry for his bird. Once Arno had settled, Owen climbed down quickly to help Gerat off.

  ‘How was that?’ Owen asked.

  Gerat looked at him askance. ‘Don’t know; I had my eyes shut for most of it. Come on, there’s a way down over here.’

  Owen raised a hand. ‘Gerat. A moment.’ He turned to his saddle bags and collected his crossbow and spare bolts.

  Gerat nodded his approval with a grunt then started leading them down.

  ‘We used to use this as a lookout point during the day,’ said Gerat. ‘You get a good view from here.’

  ‘Not anymore?’

  Gerat didn’t turn to respond. ‘As I said, things are quiet round here now.’

  Fair enough.

  As they went into the treeline, they followed a path that navigated rocky outcroppings. Owen passed by a pile of detritus and bones. A midden? He glanced at Gerat, felt himself hold the crossbow a little tighter. It was probably nothing. Further on a number of openings within the outcroppings marked the entrances to caves. Clothes and several sheets hung suspended from the trees crowding round those cave mouths, and now he saw dark, grimy faces peering silently out from the gloom within. He had to step over an animal carcass, the size of it suggesting a small dog or a fox. This unsettled Owen. The eerie silence didn’t help either.

  ‘No fires during the daytime. And only in the caves,’ said Gerat simply. ‘No reason to advertise our presence, even now.’

  ‘Gerat.’

  A familiar looking man appeared from behind a tree.

  ‘Bedwyr. Look who decided to show his ugly face again.’

  Owen nodded at him, recalling his dislike for the stout Scotian.

  Bedwyr eyed him for a moment with unconcealed suspicion.

  ‘You get lost?’ he asked sourly.

  Gerat laughed.

  ‘Bedwyr’s humour has not improved I’m afraid. Come on.’ Gerat tilted his head at Bedwyr. ‘Come see me later.’

  Further down they went, passing crude shelters made of thick branches and covered with earth, their roofs spouting carpets of moss and thin grass. Men and women gathered by their homes to watch them pass. Owen felt uncomfortable as they regarded him with suspicious, even hostile eyes. Children peered from behind their parents with a mixture of fear and curiosity. The worked their way down in a zig-zag fashion, arriving at a sheet of rock set into the hillside with a narrow cave entrance. Here Gerat stopped and motioned Owen inside. The entrance was little more than a slit, and Owen had to turn himself to the side to squeeze in. Within, the space opened into the size of a large room. A shaft of daylight from high up allowed Owen to make out a pile of furs against the far rock face, and a low table stacked with weapons. Gerat brushed past him and settled down on one of the tree stumps by the table, placed there in lieu of chairs, waving to Owen to sit on another. As he did so, Gerat pulled forward a couple of beakers on the table and fished out a waterskin, pouring something that didn’t smell like water into the vessels. He pushed one across to Owen then raised the other in salute. Gerat downed his in one large gulp and gave Owen an expectant look. Owen picked up his beaker, brought it to his mouth and flinched. Emperor! The smell! He tipped it back and swallowed, the liquid running like fire down his throat. Gerat grunted, slammed his beaker down and wiped his hand across his mouth. Owen placed his down as well, focusing on containing the burning heat that was now rising back up his throat. He sucked in some air and swallowed a few times before blowing out, and the sharp, sour taste lingered unpleasantly on his tongue.

  Gerat’s grin was feral.

  ‘It’s the best we can do, but it works.’

  Owen could only nod.

  Gerat placed his hands on the table and eyed Owen. ‘It’s maybe not what you were expecting.’

  ‘This place?’ asked Owen. ‘I don’t have any expectations. Only hopes.’

  Gerat barked a harsh laugh. ‘Hope? You still spinning that wheel of bullshit?’

  Owen placed his hands on the table, mimicking Gerat, and leaned forward. ‘Yes, Gerat, I am. And I’m hoping that you’ve still got some fight left in you.’

  Gerat’s eyes narrowed. ‘Careful, lad. I’ve got more than enough fight for anyone who cares to question it.’

  Owen raised his hands. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. I told you we are rebuilding. I’ve even got other Riders now. There’s a community, back in my old home Eagle’s Rest. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for folk that are willing to fight.’

  Gerat raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve changed your mind, then?’

  ‘I just had to learn a lesson. We won’t be safe until they realise they have to leave us alone. They have to learn a lesson too, that they must pay a price for what they did to us.’

&nbs
p; Gerat rubbed his chin.

  ‘Do you know all that we had to do to survive?’

  ‘What you had to,’ replied Owen flatly. He didn’t care to judge; it didn’t matter to him.

  ‘Aye, we did what we had to,’ said Gerat. He inclined his head to the exit. ‘You see how many people I got out there?’

  ‘More than you had.’

  ‘A lot more. I’ve got maybe two hundred, give or take. We did what you did, what was left of that first group you knew. We started looking for other survivors. I said to you back then there would be. This place is the ass end of nowhere: tough country, tough people.’ He stopped and poured them both a refill. ‘We also found some other groups of refugees that never made it to Aberpool, or never even tried. They were in a bad way. We gave them a choice, join us, pull their weight and survive, or don’t.’ He took a drink. ‘Not many of them made it through that first winter, when we were on the move, living hand to mouth. We found this place last summer. I liked it straight away. Problem was the folk already staying here didn’t want to share.’ Gerat stopped and looked intently at Owen, his eyes dark, challenging. ‘I took it from them.’

  Owen held Gerat’s gaze. He wants to see if I judge him? Who am I to judge?

  He reached for his beaker. Then thought better of it. ‘You did what you had to do.’

  Gerat pursed his lips, then nodded his head and emptied his beaker.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Owen. ‘It’s the same message I’m giving to anyone we find. Join us. Come to the Highlands. There is space, there is safety. There is strength in numbers.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘You fight. Everyone fights.’

  ‘No more living quietly?’

  Owen shook his head. ‘It’s not going to work. I don’t want it to work. Not yet. They have to pay for what they did. All of them, the elves, the dwarves, all those bastard races who judged us. They have to bleed.’

  Gerat hissed and leaned in close. ‘Now you understand, don’t you? They wanted what we had and tried to take it from us. They damn well took near everything from me. Now I do the taking.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Owen nodding. ‘I know what we have to do.’

  Gerat placed a hand on Owen’s shoulder.

  ‘Alright, then. Tell us where we need to go.’

  CHAPTER NINE – FILLION

  As the expedition gathered at the northern gate of Apamea, Fillion rubbed a hand against Amice’s flank. He’d barely had time to prepare and had given little thought to the logistics of the journey. He eyed the other members of the deputation: three staff to take care of their living arrangements and drive their attached wagons, two clerks of the Parliament, both riding on the wagons and his fellow Servant Ezra who possessed a fine-looking mare. He’d been surprised to hear the older elf had been picked to go, Fillion did not have him pegged as the type who would enjoy a field trip. But as the Servant to Member Tekla, it made sense. She was second only to Patiir in her political influence and the two were often thick as thieves in their machinations.

  He nodded to Ezra and the elf hurried over.

  ‘Well, this is going to be a tedious trip, isn’t it?’ said Ezra, looking put out.

  ‘If you say so.’

  Ezra caught his tone.

  ‘Sabin, you look unhappy … oh, of course. You wife is soon to give birth. My apologies, no wonder.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ agreed Fillion, longing to punch his tactless elven face.

  Ezra reached out and patted his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be back before you know it. Excuse me I just need to talk to the clerks.’

  He bustled off to the other elves in the group. Fillion watched him go, working hard to contain his annoyance. They were all so full of their own self-importance. He turned away to inspect their travelling companions. It appeared that Marmus had decamped with almost his entire Embassy staff: eight more wagons, some thirty dwarves, of which a good score of them were guards. Fillion appraised them with a professional interest; arrayed in column, two abreast, they wore a full set of chain and leather armour topped off with thick black angular helmets, their faces hidden behind the cheek and nose guards. Each carried a halberd resting against their shoulders. Fillion was grudgingly impressed. He could ask for no better protection on the road. The guards were the only ones on foot.

  As he readied Amice for the journey he was alerted to the sound of hoof steps behind him. He turned to find Marmus astride a solid-looking mountain pony. Fillion felt his eyebrow rise in unbidden surprise. The ambassador fixed him with a surly stare.

  ‘Is something amiss, Sabin?’ he asked, sharply.

  Fillion raised a hand.

  ‘No, my friend, on my honour. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen a dwarf mounted upon a horse.’

  Marmus shifted in his saddle and grunted.

  ‘It’s not that unusual, we have cavalry and I’m too damned old to be walking everywhere. But it’s true, my people have more affinity to the soil than the sky,’ he conceded. ‘We like to keep our feet on the ground. Gives us a good sense of perspective.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ agreed Fillion, affecting a sly smile. Marmus shook his head, his suspicion evident. Fillion knew Marmus well enough now to know the dwarf understood teasing, even if he didn’t appreciate it. ‘It’s important to know where you come from and where you are headed.’

  Marmus let out a sudden loud bark of laughter. ‘That is why I like you, Sabin. You have a twisted view of the world that I can sympathise with. Quite unlike your kin.’

  Fillion acknowledged the compliment with a gracious bow of the head. Yet, even as he did so he realised his mistake – be too different and his travelling companions might start to question just what was going through his head. He had to be cautious; he was still a Servant and had to conduct himself as such.

  That need for caution was further brought home two weeks into the journey. Vineyards and tended fields and forests had turned into the wilder foothills of the borders between the two realms. As the elves and dwarves settled around their respective campfires, Ezra took a seat next to him.

  ‘Young Sabin, it is good of you to grace us with your presence tonight,’ Ezra said lightly, making a show of warming his hands against the fire. An unnecessary act considering the time of year. It was a calculated attempt at being comradely. Surely Ezra didn’t expect Fillion to fall for that shit?

  ‘Oh, you noticed?’ he said lightly. Try as he might to mix with his fellow elves, his evenings were mostly spent with the dwarves; Marmus was just better company.

  Ezra smiled.

  ‘Oh, it’s alright, Sabin. I do understand. Member Patiir is keen to have someone close to the ambassador and it seems you have made great strides in that regard.’

  Fillion smiled.

  ‘He does seem to tolerate me more than most of my kind. And, yes, you are right. I see no harm in being gracious and forging links.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so. Member Tekla is equally keen to ensure our interests are looked after and our alliances … well-tended.’ He stretched his legs out and waved to one of the staff. The elf reacted quickly, bringing him a cup of wine. Ezra nodded his thanks and cradled it in his hands. ‘It’s never easy dealing with the Dwarf Nations. They have no King, just a cabal of lords – merchant princes if you will – who make up a council, and they get a little agitated if someone of high importance comes calling. They get competitive, falling over each other to gain advantage, constantly wary of who of their number might be making deals and agreements behind their backs. Makes it dreadfully hard work to get anything done.’ Ezra stopped for a moment to take a sip.

  Sounds just like Parliament to me, thought Fillion.

  ‘So, in a way,’ Ezra continued, ‘we, that is you and I, are doing them, and Marmus, a favour. We can conduct our business at a lower key. The council can accommodate our visit, knowing we are just functionaries; in ourselves we do not possess any
real power.’

  ‘Of course, we just happen to represent two of the most influential Members of the Parliament. Both of whom could be said to have the ear of the King.’

  ‘Inasmuch as any has,’ said Ezra. ‘You are learning fast, Sabin. Why if we wanted to, either of us could cause all sorts of trouble if we allowed our personal agenda to get in the way of what is best for the Heartlands.’

  And there it was, the veiled threat? The friendly warning? Ezra and he may be on the same mission, but their loyalties were clear. At least as far as Ezra understood it.

  ‘You know me, Ezra. I like to keep it simple. I am just happy to serve and play my part. Besides, I’m going to be a father soon.’

  ‘Yes, you are, young Sabin,’ Ezra said, somewhat patronisingly. ‘Is it still weighing upon you, the imminent weight of parental responsibility?’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Fillion. He didn’t have a clue what might be happening back there and the thought was quite terrifying.

  ‘I am sure we will be done with our business and back in no time. And then you can get on with the serious work of fatherhood. Keeping Patiir’s family line going, eh? And it’ll mean less time for you and your two cronies at the Chalice.’ Ezra chuckled and took another sip. ‘Honestly, Sabin. Of all the two individuals to tie your flag to, a wood elf and a dwarf. If it tells us Servants anything, you are definitely not a political animal. You are an odd fish!’

  Yes. And another reason to watch my step. No matter how hard I try, there will always be questions about my behaviour.

  Fillion waved at the staff elf. He fancied a drink himself.

  It was another full week of travel before they saw their first dwarf settlement, towards the end of that seventh day. Fillion hadn’t been sure what to expect and was curious. He stared ahead at the cluster of buildings sitting at the confluence of two rivers coming down out of the mountains. From here it looked like a human town. He felt a hollow ache inside as he moved forward again. He’d assumed it would be all high walls and grim aspects, given dwarven nature, but as they came closer and began to move in amongst the shops and dwellings, he found himself in a bustling community that could have been a twin of Vyberg, but for the absence of humans and albeit at a slightly smaller scale. As they entered the town, Fillion was bemused by how everyone appeared almost nonchalant at the arrival of a heavily armed caravan. A few stares at the elvish contingent and then folk just carried on with their business.