Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  ‘It’s a little late?’ he said.

  ‘I thought I saw an apple tree a little way back. Might be some nuts too.’

  ‘Alright,’ he said. He was in no position to argue.

  ‘Mind Brynne,’ she ordered, and settled her down next to him.

  Brynne’s hands reached up, he waggled a finger in front of her, and she grabbed it.

  He heard Nadena walk off but he only had eyes for Brynne. She was gurgling in delight and he felt himself smile.

  He awoke to darkness and heat. Even so, he felt his body shivering. He tried to get his bearings. The fire was in front of him and it blazed vigorously. Far more than it should.

  He looked for Brynne, she had been right by him. Where had she gone?

  ‘Nadena?’ he called.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said. He looked down towards his feet. She sat there, looking him, the shadows and light warring for her face.

  ‘You shouldn’t build the fire up so high.’

  ‘Why not?’ she asked softly.

  ‘You know why. We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves.’

  She ran a finger along her cheek. ‘Oh, yes.’

  Damn but she was getting more withdrawn. ‘Where’s Brynne?’

  ‘Nearby.’

  Nearby?

  He pushed himself up.

  ‘Nadena, what is the matt–?’

  She put a finger to her lips and moved towards him, crawling on all fours, on the far side of his body away from the fire. She stopped as she drew level with his chest. He twisted and lay on his back as she loomed over him.

  ‘We are going home.’

  ‘What? We can’t,’ Fillion responded. Her mind had finally given in.

  ‘We are going home.’

  ‘Nadena. They’ll find us if we do. It’s not safe.’

  Nadena smiled gently, leaned forward and ran a hand over his forehead.

  ‘No, they won’t,’ she said.

  Fillion screamed as he felt the blade slide into his wound. He thrashed in agony, but Nadena pressed down on his head and leaned in with her body. He tried to reach her other arm the one that held the blade but as he clutched for it she drove it in deeper. He cried out again. His remaining energy drained away and he stopped struggling.

  He felt the blade slide out but there was little pain now. Nadena started to stroke his head again. He found it hard to breathe.

  ‘Why?’ he whispered.

  ‘I am your wife. I know you better than anyone, my love. I have learned to tell when you are lying.’

  ‘I’m no–’ He stopped himself. What was the point?

  ‘None of it made any sense. The deaths. Your behaviour, making us run like this. But I worked it out, Sabin. There were no dwarf assassins.’ She paused and her hand halted its gentle caresses. ‘It was you. I don’t know why – I don’t care why – but you were the one. You killed our family.’

  Fillion looked into her eyes. They were sad. So very sad.

  ‘Yes.’ What else could he say?

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  He saw a flash of reflected light. The knife held in her other hand. It was the one he had taken from the kitchen. He couldn’t even remember losing it. She pushed it into his chest and the pain was sharp and quick. He heard his sigh and his vision shrank. As the light faded he thought of Brynne.

  And then, nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN – OWEN

  Winter. Why did he spend all of his time travelling during winter? Owen’s teeth started to chatter. He wrapped the woollen scarf around his face. It was crusted with ice on the outside. His gloves were similarly covered in a layer of white. At least he could still feel his fingers, although they were so well encased he couldn’t feel much of what he was picking up anyway. He gathered the fallen wood in his arms and clumped his way back along the shore line to the camp. The wind was a brisk north-easterly and their west-facing aspect on the small peninsula gave them shelter from the worst of it. The shore was covered in shingle, coated with spray, polyp-covered seaweed and other bits of detritus. The sea was a murky grey, churning with white foam and utterly uninviting. Overall, it was damned grim. He turned away from the water and struck inland. The clearing was only a few yards from the shingle and the gathered trees were little more than lichen-covered skeletons, lacking any sense of strength or any particular height. But he’d been able to clear away enough of the thinner branches to string up the canopy, sloping diagonally like a pitched roof. Made up of treated cotton, it just about shielded Arno from the elements. He’d also been able to weave together a surrounding framework of more pliable branches from further inland. The fire, small but lively, was as close to Arno as he could get it without spooking the eagle. Arno was pretty relaxed around flame, but he was still a beast with thousands of years of survival instinct bred into him.

  Arno eyed him suspiciously as he approached.

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m in trouble. Sorry.’

  Arno’s forbearance has been nothing short of legendary but there was no way Owen was sleeping next to the bird when he was in such a bad mood. So, he shivered by himself on the far side of the fire. He hunkered down and dropped the wood, adding it to the semi-circle of earlier collections so it could dry out a bit before he added it to the flames. Well banked up it would give them as warm a night as possible. He laid his hands in front of the fire and waited for the heat to penetrate. He gave a little sigh, he could definitely feel his fingers. He rubbed his gloves together. One more trip. Then that would be enough. He stood and faced the sea. In the dismal, grey distance, he could see a dark smear spreading along the edge of the horizon. It was land. They’d leave at first light and should reach it within a couple of hours. Owen had to balance resting Arno against the draining cold. The eagle had done well. They’d left the coast of Scotia two days earlier and had embarked on an island-hopping adventure across the Drifa Straights. Most were not on any maps that Owen possessed or had seen, he just knew what others had told him. On the whole they were barren rocks, but there were some, like this one, that was large enough to have some proper vegetation. The larger ones even had some game. He looked at the shelter. It would be a pain in the arse to get that down. And, if they actually made it back here again, it would be good to just shift back into it. Yes. He’d leave it. They only had one shot out of here so why make Arno take the extra weight? As he wound his way along the beach he smiled, feeling his lips crack beneath the scarf. He’d have been in some shit if he had tried that under Cadarn’s command.

  That night he risked sleeping on Arno’s side, having first fed him and built the fire up nice and high. It was a welcome relief to fall asleep bathed in heat. He awoke slightly later than he had planned, but dawn was a slow, deceptive affair this far north. The skies were still so dark, and the cloud cover so thick, he could only guess where the sun actually was. He pushed off his bedroll. The fire had burned down in the night and the insidious cold had crept back in.

  ‘Arno. I think it’s time to go.’

  His eagle was awake and restless. He had been aground too long. Owen forced himself into activity and got to preparing Arno for flight. He fumbled his way around strapping on the saddle and the other assorted bits of gear. It must have taken another twenty minutes before they were finally ready to start. He led Arno away from the shelter, out from the clearing and on to the beach. The wind was gusting almost easterly. That would make things a little easier for the eagle.

  They took to the air and Arno turned towards the north. Owen hunkered down. It’s cold. It’s so bloody cold. There was little else for him to do but shiver. He had all his flying gear on with the extra furs he had bought along and it still wasn’t enough. With his spare scarf wrapped around his head, his vision was reduced to a small slit of light. There was nothing to see anyway. He closed his eyes.

  And awoke.

  Just ahead, no more than a few miles, was a coastline, ragged and saw-toothed, stretching east and west. Drifa. He could see no beaches as such. It was all
high cliff peninsulas and inlets, bordered by forested slopes of tall, evergreen trees. The land was covered by snow and as they skirted the edges of the coastline, he saw the spreading branches droop with the weight. Many of these inlets cut deep into the land. He had no clue how far they had drifted westwards but, from everything he had heard, it was within those high-sided inlets where he would find what he sought.

  Picking one at random he lined Arno up and they slipped in, passing between two towering cliffs, covered with those tall trees – spruces, not pine. He kept them centre of the inlet skimming across the water. It was a lot calmer here, away from the open seas. He spied a pod of large sea creatures working their way north. Were those whales? He had never seen any before. They looked huge! They swam, lazily, breaching the surface and then sinking back under. One let out a spray of water. For his part, Arno paid them no mind and soon outpaced them. The inlet must have been all of a mile long, if not longer. What did the Scotians call them? Fjords. The land on either side looked friendlier now, the slopes leading down to rocky shores. The trees climbed high and a flock of birds emerged from the left, startled, perhaps, by Arno’s presence. There were no giant eagles this far north. At least, none he had heard of.

  The fjord’s end was swiftly approaching and revealed nothing more than what he had already seen. It was too much to hope that they would get lucky straight away. He took some comfort from what he had seen so far. If they needed to camp, the territory looked far more forgiving than the islands to the south.

  ‘Which way Arno?’ The eagle offered no suggestions. ‘Let’s try east.’

  Arno gained height, following the climbing treeline north before cresting on to a series of tree covered hills and snowbound peaks. Just ahead he saw a pounding, fast flowing, white water cascade back down the slope. He had not spotted where it entered the inlet. Arno turned right and Owen started to guide him to the start of each fjord in turn. On the fourth try, Owen thought he saw a shimmer of something. Turning Arno south he angled downwards, barely clearing the trees.

  There.

  It was a ship. Long, thin, with a single wide mast, the sail furled.

  It was tied up against a short pier that led on to the shore and a wide wharf, flanked by a shallow sandy beach. He knew very little about sailing matters but he was surprised the boat was still in the water at this time of year. They flew over the boat and out to the water, getting a better look inside. There were banks of benches but little else. He turned again to cruise over the ship. Ah. There were buildings here, two of them, just set back from the beach within the trees. He had not seen them before because the roofs were covered in the same thick branches. Something was off about them. At first he couldn’t place it. Then they were past them and Arno was climbing again. Owen wanted another circuit to work it out but it struck him. The size, it’s the size! That’s why it looked all wrong. The huts were larger than they should be. Obviously. What next? He thought about how best to announce his presence. He wasn’t sure at all about any customs or etiquette. But he reasoned most people didn’t like strangers just showing up and barging through the door. He got Arno flying in a loose gentle circle, just over the water beyond the pier. He flexed his hands, rolled his head and tried not to think about how damn cold he was. He spied none of the sea creatures below in the water. He saw very little of anything. There was no movement in what he could see of the site. No smoke curled into the sky, no industry was present by the wharf.

  ‘I think we have made a mistake, Arno. We’ll have to try elsewhere.’

  He looked out along the fjord to the open sea. Perhaps he’d give it another hour then he would put down for the night. Find them a nice protected site like this. Arno swung north passing by the settlement one last time.

  Standing on the wharf was an ogre.

  What else could it be? It was half again the height of a tall man and its shoulders were broad. Its hands were tucked into a leather belt and it was studying Owen. Arno flew over him and the ogre looked up to watch him pass. Owen waved a hand in greeting. The ogre did not respond.

  That shouldn’t be a surprise. He had, at least, found what he came for. It was time to say hello properly.

  Arno landed on the beach surprisingly gently, his talons sinking into the sand. The ogre hadn’t moved. Owen hauled his stiff, frozen limbs off the saddle and slid clumsily to the ground. His eyes alighted on his spear, and then they drifted towards his crossbow in its holster. Not that it was loaded. He made a face. Neither of them would do him much good if things went south.

  Instead he steeled himself and walked across the beach to the wharf, stepping on to its crudely cut planks. He raised his hands high, palms facing outwards. He really wasn’t any threat whatever way you cut it. He was no Shaper.

  He was close enough now to study the ogre properly. He had been right about the size. It was big. Bigger than any man. But it wore clothing not dissimilar to his own; a mixture of thickly woven wool and animal skins. Its feet were covered in leather boots with fur sprouting out from the inside lining. Its belt was wide and thick, encompassing an impressive waist. Only its hands and head were uncovered. The hands were gnarled, thick fingered, and covered with rings. His head was where the true difference emerged. The skin was white, very white, like it had never seen the sun. It had an overly thick neck, marked by wide veins. An equally wide chin, clear of any hair was flanked by sets of mutton chops that had been allowed to grow almost six inches. The nose was large, bulbous and flaring, way out of proportion with the rest of the face. The forehead was very high, almost angular, it possessed no eyebrows. And the hair on its head was dark, almost ebony, sweeping back in what Owen could best describe as a mane. Then there were the eyes. They were red. Not bloodshot. Red. They almost glowed. Perhaps at night they did. If anything marked them out as no close cousin to humanity, this was it.

  Trying to radiate a sense of confidence he in no way felt, he pulled his hood back, unwound the scarf and then removed his flying mask. He kept his eyes on the ogre watching for a response. As the mask came free he expected some kind of reaction.

  Nothing.

  He raised his arms once more, clutching his headgear and took another step forward.

  ‘Good day,’ he said with forced lightness. ‘My name is Owen. And you are?’

  The ogre, motionless, unreadable, stared at Owen.

  Its mouth opened, thin lips cracking apart, a wide maw appearing in the white, bony landscape of its face. Huge teeth appeared: uneven and sharp. And hanging from the incisors, what looked like small pieces of flesh. Owen’s imagination started to run riot.

  The journey was short, perhaps ten minutes before they arrived at the village, or stockade, Owen wasn’t sure. They crunched through the snow, following a clear path amidst the trees, leading north and east. The land levelled out a little, like they were in natural bowl set into the hillside. There he discovered a crude wall surrounding a collection of huts, animal pens and a large central building set back against the hillside. He thought of Gerat’s settlement in Scotia and found there was no comparison. This place looked like it had a sense of permanence, for all its lack of any cultural identity. Everything had a function, but no sense of craftsmanship about it.

  Then there was the smell, an overpowering odour of fish. He’d got it on the shore too but here though, the place seemed to radiate it. It was awful. They arrived at the gate, little more than a screen that could be lifted into place. Right now, it was open, and the screen rested against the stockade wall. They continued inside. It was gloomy, like the sun never penetrated the tree cover, everything frosted in ice. Why was there no one else around? They passed by a long, windowless hut, crudely constructed with large gaps between the timbers. A noise, a whisper, a gentle bump. He studied the hut and for the barest moment he swore he saw a set of eyes watching him, but just as quickly they withdrew into the darkness, leaving him doubting what he had seen. The eyes had been white. The ogre continued without a glance. It led him to the central building
, which was not backing against the hill as Owen had thought. Instead it merged with it, projecting out from the slope which was steeper, not far from vertical at this point. The effect was not so much a separate structure, it appeared more like an entrance, a vestibule.

  The ogre pushed at the large, unremarkable wooden door in the centre and walked inside. Owen was greeted by one of the most offensive smells he had ever experienced. A mixture of sweat, decay, the stench of viscera, of bowels loosed at death and of course, the ever present fishy odour. He felt an urge to gag but placed his gloved hand in front of his face, drawing in the more reassuring scents of old leather and eagle. Damn, Arno but I’ll never complain about your stink again.

  He was right about the entrance. As his eyes adjusted, objects emerged from the dark: scattered sacks, detritus, discarded weapons, items used for fishing and sailing. The ogre continued on towards another portal, this looked like the access to the hillside itself. Large enough to accommodate the ogre, it was simply a cave mouth. Large boulders and rock protrusions flanked it and Owen could well imagine how it looked before the wooden structure was added to it. The light filtering in from outside did not penetrate within the cave but was replaced by large yellow candles. One such sat on a rocky ledge just within the entrance. It was smoky and gave off a weak light. A short passageway opened into a large cavern, with a high ceiling and several exits leading off. It was much warmer in here, musty and oppressive. More candles burned in niches and the smoke wafted its way lazily upwards with no discernible airflow.

  And they were no longer alone.

  Ogres filled the room, lounging upon skins, leaning on benches, or sitting at tables spread throughout. Most went bare-chested, having shed their tunics and skins in the stifling warmth. And their white skins were covered in tattoos, swirling chaotic messes of concentric circles and rings, embellished with finer detail between them. Just to his left an ogre lay on its front as another used what appeared to be a piece of bone to pierce the skin. The ogre holding the bone looked up at him with a blank expression before dipping the bone into a bowl of black ink. For a moment Owen had trouble spotting the difference, but he quickly separated the females from the males. Their breasts hung free and their hair was braided at the back. He passed one lying on the ground, propped up on one elbow. She was feeding a male, holding a chunk of ragged meat, letting him tear pieces from it.