Too Cold to Bleed

by D Murray

  Subath grinned. “I like seeing you get excited. I should get you rutted before the Cannans come. You’d be a force of nature, I’m sure.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and it opened. “Beg your pardon, my lords, but this officer insisted he must speak with the chief marshal straight away.”

  A figure stepped up from behind the guardsman and entered the room.

  Subath smiled and stood from his seat. The man was filthy, with travel dirt marking the lines of his face, ageing him. But it was Thaskil, of that there was no doubt. Subath stepped up and grabbed him into a rough embrace. “My boy, you are most welcome.”

  Subath watched the physician apply a fresh bandage around Thaskil’s waist and tie it off in a knot just under his ribs. The lad’s chest, shoulders, and back were a tapestry of welts, bruises and cuts. “How’s it looking?” he asked.

  “The wound has healed well enough, my lord,” the physician replied, turning around to face Subath and Merkham as Thaskil pulled on his shirt. “From what I can tell, the blade didn’t penetrate too deeply. The muscle wall is coming back together well. It’ll be sensitive for some time, but he is not dramatically limited by it. He’s young, and he’s fit. He’ll be fine, as long as he rests, and gets plenty of meat to build up his strength.”

  “Plenty of anything may be a bit of a problem,” Subath grumbled as the physician stood and buttoned his long black coat. Subath walked towards the window, stepping over one of the giant hounds that lay asleep in an awkward place behind the table. He looked out at the night scene of Carte and watched the thin lines of soldiers on the upper level of the High Command’s wall. He mumbled to himself, “Unless he wants plenty of arseholes giving him grief all day long.” As the physician bade them farewell and left Merkham’s study, Subath turned back and walked over to the table, leaning his hands down on the surface. “Does that feel better, lad?” Subath asked.

  Thaskil looked up, his eyes ringed with weary shadows, and his cheeks a little more hollow than they had been when last they saw him. “It’ll be fine, really.”

  Merkham pulled up a seat beside Thaskil. “Now, to business. What actions did you take to secure Apula before you responded to your summons?”

  Thaskil finished buttoning his shirt. “I promoted a new commander, a man named Omree. He’s solid, fought by my side.”

  “You got stuck in the side, lad.” Subath inclined his head towards Thaskil’s wound.

  The young officer grinned. “Not that side. That was my own fault. Omree is a native of Apula, so he’ll not flee like some of the craven hearts before him. We established squads of volunteers to assist in getting the city back in order. When I left, there were squads active in clearing the city of damaged buildings, and making sure the wells were drawing clean water. The main well will take some time to run clean. It had been fouled. We managed to stockpile enough grain ahead of Grunnxe turning up, so we’re not short on food, for now.” Thaskil looked at Subath and then back to Merkham. “I brought what spare grain I could. It should help a little.”

  “Thank you.” Merkham nodded.

  “You hold out against the odds, and are able to spare grain. Lad, you’re truly a hero.” Subath could tell the lad felt he was by no stretch a hero, but then heroes never did. “How’d you get them in the end?” Subath enquired.

  “Had to blow a number of buildings to create a kill zone.” Thaskil’s eyes seemed to wander off into memory. “The boulevard was tight, with high-sided buildings. They funnelled in, chasing us into the main square. We placed black powder about the buildings and channels of rubble. Filled it with anything we could. Broken weapons, metal work, crockery, tableware. Anything, really. It went off, and decimated them.”

  “Impressive.” Subath blew out a breath. “Would’ve liked to have seen that.”

  Thaskil’s eyes searched the floor. “Not sure you would have.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  “Aye.” Subath’s tone softened. He clenched his fist by his side, feeling the tremor edge about his fingers. We all carry the ghosts of our deeds with us, lad. He drew a deep breath and fought the palsy in his hand. “The breach?”

  Thaskil looked up from the floor. “The rubble that was left after we blew the kill zone was no use as a grave to the raiders. We established construction crews working under the guidance of some of the remaining engineers. When I left, we had plugged about two-thirds of the breach.”

  “Good job.” Merkham smiled.

  “Wasn’t pretty.” Thaskil sighed, raising his brows and shaking his head. “Not pretty at all, but we think it’ll hold solid when the mortar sets. We’ll have carpenters set to build a wooden rampart.” He poured himself a cup of water and drained it before refilling once again. “What’s the status here? I mean, I read the letter Kalfinar sent, and I saw the dock and the city. Looks like it’s been hell.”

  Subath sighed and swung his boots up onto the table. “The status here is that we’ve been fucked, and are about to get fucked all over again.”

  “I think our chief marshal means to say it has been challenging, and our trials are not yet over,” Merkham said.

  “We’ve a skeleton force, with fewer quality officers still. We’ve almost no grain, a city half burned, and a population in shock and grieving. Thousands are dead, and we’ve the threat of our erstwhile friends from Canna attacking the city in order to string Kalfinar up for the murder of the Daughter of the People.”

  “The what?” Thaskil asked, his face screwing up. “Bergnon’s wife. Kalfinar murdered her?”

  “No. He did not murder her,” Merkham said. “She threw herself into the sea after Kalfinar and the others had rescued her from Solansian raiders. She was overcome with guilt at the thought she may have been in any way responsible for all the killing, and grief that Bergnon was likely dead, or soon to die.”

  “He’s not dead,” Thaskil said.

  “Where is he?” Merkham asked.

  “I set him free.”

  “You did what?” Subath hissed, his face hot with anger.

  “I set him free,” Thaskil replied, his face remaining calm. “Bergnon did much to help Apula resist. Despite all that he did before.”

  Subath swung his feet down from the table and slammed his hand down. “He did more to give Apula to the fucking wolves! You wouldn’t have been in that state if it weren’t for him. None of us would!”

  “I beg your pardon, Chief Marshal,” Thaskil said with an impassive tone, “but I was there. I felt the weariness of the city as the days dragged on. I bathed in blood as much as anyone, and felt the city slip from my gore-slick hands. We needed him. I needed him. I needed his mind, his lust for redemption. He gave us everything, and it turned the tide. It was my decision, as commander of the city. I take responsibility. If you wish that I be held accountable for him being set free, then I will take my punishment, but I believe we would have fallen had I chosen to keep him caged.”

  “Lad,” Merkham said in a gentle voice, shaking his head, “I think what bothers our chief marshal so much is not that you chose to take advantage of his skill in defending Apula, but rather that you chose to send him off free after the battle was won. Didn’t it occur to you to put him back in chains?”

  “It did, my lord,” Thaskil replied. “It occurred to me to cut him to the ground piece by piece. It occurred to me to string him by the arms and legs to draft horses and have him ripped asunder. I thought of all manner of ways of killing him, and in the end, I was sick of blood. I was weary of death, of suffering. I wanted to find some good. As it happened, the only thing that felt right in my gut was to turn him loose.”

  “Boy, he has to pay for what he did.” Subath groaned wearily as he rubbed at his face with his scar-notched hands.

  “Chief Marshal,” Thaskil spoke softly, “Bergnon will pay every day for what he has done, and what he has lost.”

  Subath looked at Merkham and shook his head. “We’ve been too soft when training these lads. Too damn soft.”

  Mer
kham stood and walked to the window. He faced out with his back to Subath and spoke. “Perhaps we have been. But if what you believe is true, and the Cannans do arrive at Carte, then young Thaskil’s education will continue. Perhaps we can remedy our mistakes of the past.”

  Subath looked back at Thaskil. “From the cook pot to the coals with you, laddie.”

  Thaskil furrowed his brows and made to speak before Subath cut him off.

  “If there is to be a battle here, it will require those hardened on walls of the past. You are a veteran now, lad, and there is none better to lead the defence of a besieged city than a veteran who has bled on them before. Are you ready?” Thaskil held Subath’s stare with hard eyes. Hard eyes that Subath could not read. He squeezed his fists shut, clenching hard on the tremors that worked through his hands. Are you ready, boy, or have you bled out too much of yourself? I know what it is to soak yourself too deep in blood. Been soaked through for a lifetime now.

  “I’m ready.”

  Twenty-Three

  The Maracost

  Odd-eyes led them down the scree slope from the howf and onto the black beach. They passed their way along the beach, stepping around chunks of wave-carried ice and onto the rocks that edged around towards the next bay to the east. They passed washed-up fragments of the ship and were led up the side of the rocks, into a narrow gully between the cliffs that rose up and out onto a narrow path between a deep canyon of black rock.

  One by one they walked, carrying the bodies of their drowned crewmates with them. In front and to the rear walked their armed escort, faces hidden behind masks of sealskin and hoods. Their spears were lowered, urging Kalfinar and his crew onward along their trail. They walked through the day, stopping rarely as they made their way through a series of tall and narrow canyons.

  “What the hells was all that about fire bringing the truth?” Lendal asked Kalfinar from behind, where he held the ankles of Cookie’s body.

  Kalfinar turned his head and whispered, “Don’t know. Maybe they mean to burn us. Maybe it’s all a show. How’s the wound?” Kalfinar asked.

  “Better. I mean, head’s a bit sore. Worst’s past.”

  Kalfinar grunted and nodded. He looked up at the thin and curving line of grey sky. “Weather’s holding.” He looked at the broad shoulders of Broden up ahead, who carried the body of the young guardsman with the help of Ferdus.

  The man with the odd eyes crested the rise of the narrow pathway and stepped out of sight. As the rest of his crew ascended the path, they too stepped away from view.

  “Got a bad feeling about this,” Lendal grumbled from behind.

  “Steady,” Kalfinar hissed. “No telling yet.”

  Broden and Ferdus were the first to crest the top of the path. They carried on, disappearing from view for a moment before Kalfinar and Lendal made their way up and over the path. Before him, Kalfinar could see a mass of black and white ragged mountains to the north east. The Hagra Peaks. They were half obscured by savage-looking clouds, lit purple and black by flashes of lightning. Smaller peaks, though no doubt massive still, littered the foreground, partially covered in snow. Stretching out from the foothills was a drab plain of treeless browns, reds, grey and umber. Greasy columns of dark smoke twisted up from an almost invisible collection of buildings situated at the bottom of the heather-clad hill they had just climbed. The village was shielded from the north winds raging in from the coast by a broad, saddle-like ridge that connected two chains of hills. Surrounding the collection of buildings was a ring of raised, grassy ground. With only one entrance, situated at the foot of the hill to the north, it had all the appearance of a defensive structure. The outer earthworks rose in a steep, tall mound, and ran around the collection of buildings in a wide circle overgrown with dead yellow grass that undulated in the wind. The earthworks then dropped down on the outer edge into a deep and wide moat, fed by a steely grey river that curved around the settlement. Cold, metal-grey mirror pools stretched off in a boggy network to the south.

  “We go to there,” Odd-eyes said from behind his face mask. “Come.” He set off down the thin track that cut straight down the hillside towards the village below.

  After several minutes of careful descent, Kalfinar and his crew made it down the hillside. They were led over a stone causeway that picked its way though the bog and towards the village across a wide stretch of heathery ground. A small bridge constructed from driftwood tree trunks provided them with safe passage over the fast-flowing but shallow river.

  “Boss,” Lendal hissed. “Ravenmayne! Same as from Carte.”

  Several villagers, women and elderly, watched them from where they gathered water by the river.

  “They’re Maracost. Crene spoke of them. He said they were good people. Valus has mentioned their kind too,” Kalfinar whispered over his shoulder. He looked ahead at the settlement. The buildings were constructed from what seemed to be a mix of rock, large bones, and sods of earth. They were squat buildings, largely circular in shape, with low conical roofs covered in thick layers of mosses. A central hole in the roof allowed the grimy black smoke to escape, its twisting tendrils having all the hallmarks of a fire made of fat. The truth shall be borne out in flame. The words of Odd-eyes rang in his head, and Kalfinar couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease as they advanced on the village. They have to be the people Crene spoke of.

  Several youths ran out to the group, waved away by Odd-eyes with irritated words in his strange tongue. The giddy youngsters, faces split in wide, bright grins, duly ignored the rebuke and ran about the newcomers.

  Kalfinar watched as they stared in fascination at the dead bodies, or laughed, pointing at Kalfinar and his crew. Not so different from our own children, are you? Kalfinar watched Broden for a moment. The big man in particular appeared to be a source of fascination for the youths. Broden’s face turned slightly, and Kalfinar could see he was pulling faces at the youngsters. Kalfinar felt a smile play at the edges of his own face.

  They entered the settlement and were led to a broad central circle between buildings. In front of them stood a long, low building. Dark rocks lined a low wall, topped by a mossy roof. Odd-eyes exchanged some words with those guarding Kalfinar and his crew, and then walked towards the long building, stooping to enter. A few moments later he exited and walked over to them.

  “Drop the bodies over there.” Odd-eyes pointed to a pit in the centre of the clearing. It nursed the ash remains of a previous fire. The truth shall be borne out in flame. The man’s words again echoed in Kalfinar’s mind. He means to burn our dead, not us.

  They carried the bodies over to the pit, and placed them within the shallow hollow.

  An elderly woman with thick white hair of tied-up dreadlocks approached the hollow with an armful of dried heather branches and mosses. Beneath her eyes and across her high cheekbones were small runic tattoos, the faded blue of the ink standing out even against the pale grey tone of her aged flesh. As she hunkered down over the edge of the hollow she placed the mosses underneath the bodies and the remnant ash of the pit. She then snapped the dried branches of heather, placing them about the clumps of brittle yellow moss she had deposited. She looked back at Kalfinar and his gathered troop, and licked her lips before laughing and hurrying off.

  “They mean to eat our dead,” Jukster hissed in a gravelly whisper, his lower lip hanging heavy from his slack mouth.

  “Enough!” Broden snapped. “Enough of your talk. You’ll set a fear about folk with that nonsense. They won’t eat anyone.”

  Odd-eyes walked over to Kalfinar. “The Grey Father wants to speak with you. He’ll say things that would cause you to fight, to resist. Know this: there has been, and is ceremony about this. We are Maracost. We have our ways, and the people expect it to be so. Be a good man, and play along, for all our sakes. It will quicken matters.”

  Kalfinar was sure Odd-eyes could see the look of incredulity on his face.

  “The old man, Crene, the sailor. He was known to me.”

&
nbsp; “Known to you?” Kalfinar studied the man’s face a moment.

  “My name, Harvind, was given to me by my father. It’s not a name of my mother’s people. To them it is unusual, hard even to say. But my father had his way. My full name is Harvind Crene. The old sailor sired me. You say he drowned, and if what you say is true, then that is a good thing.”

  Kalfinar frowned, uncertain of the meaning.

  A small smile stretched on Harvind’s lips. “The old sailor is back to Woakie. It would have pleased him such, and I have a father no longer.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kalfinar found his muttered words were weak, and carried no weight.

  “It’s of no sorrow to me. He served her, and belonged to her. In any case, he wouldn’t have gone to Woakie’s embrace had he not the will to do so.”

  Kalfinar nodded, then turned back to the fire pit. “The old woman there,” Kalfinar nodded toward the fire pit filled with the bodies of their dead, “why did she lick her lips and laugh? Does she toy with us?”

  “That old woman is called Boli Din. She is to us what you would call Tuannan. She is our Shaman, and yes, she was toying with you. She has a unique way of drawing amusement from the world. If I had a stone for every time I saw Boli Din play with a sailor’s fear, I could build a great hall. Come, the Grey Father will see you. Bring the woman, too.” Harvind pointed to Valus. “Her, the Lihedan one.”

  Kalfinar exchanged a glance with Valus, expecting her voice to sound in his mind, but there was nothing.

  “The rest of your people will go to the end of the Great Hall. We will feed them. You can eat after. For now, you need to convince the Grey Father that he should help you, rather than burn you.” Harvind smirked at him, and Kalfinar was not altogether sure there was any ceremony about this at all.

  Kalfinar passed on Harvind’s words to Valus as they entered the Great Hall, warning her of the need to allow whatever course was to follow to play out. He raised his head after stooping below the low lintel of the hall, and beheld a huge expanse of room. In the centre stood a four-tiered dais constructed of a mix of wood and large bones, most likely those of a great whale. At the top of the dais sat a broad-shouldered old man. He wore dark robes, and a dark shawl about his shoulders. He wore a thick grey beard and white hair fell from his head in waves. The brightness of his hair contrasted starkly with the grey-blue hue of his skin, giving him an awesome appearance. At each corner of the dais stood an armed Ravenmayne, clad in grey-and-black mottled armour of sorts resembling the sealskin clothing Kalfinar and his crew had received at Grantvik’s Bay. The eyes of the Ravenmayne guards were cast forward, and in their hands they held long spears of white bone, polished to a gleaming finish and capped with long blades of leaf-shaped metal reflecting the light about the hall. Surrounding the hall on all sides were glowing crystals, each around two or three feet in height. As he walked past the wall, guided by Harvind, Kalfinar looked at the glowing crystals and noted they were hollowed-out quartz, with oil lamps burning in their centre. Their smoke rose up and mingled in the soot-blackened ceiling space with the smoke of the two stone fireplaces that burned either side of the dais. Kalfinar studied the fires a moment, and realised that what burned within was a mix of heavy logs, most likely driftwood. By the colour of the flame and the smoke in abundance, he assumed they were also burning whale or seal fat.