by Kirby Crow
Their tracker was a huntsman, young but well-taught. Jarad was his name, and he had led the way through a spare forest that turned thicker and greener as the land rose higher above the sea, until now—entering a narrow rive beyond the stream—the evergreen woods were dark and quiet.
Liall held up his hand. Theor and the men following him halted at once. Liall listened for a moment, then nodded. The boar was down there, in the furthest eastern end of a hollow, concealed in a bramble thicket. Whether it was hiding in fear or lying in wait, he could not guess. Knowing boars, perhaps the latter. He had hunted many, in a younger life. Those memories were dim and misty now, images of carefree laughter and friendly faces, when he was a boy and his brother still loved him. It was almost as if they had happened to a different man.
Would I have stayed this course, if I knew then what I know now? It was a foolish, useless question, one he often asked himself. If he had known he would be king one day through his brother’s death, would he have left Rshan before it could happen? Would Nadei have been a good king, and would he have had sons? Could Liall have returned home when those sons were grown and the kingdom secured by heirs, or would Nadei still have seen him as a threat? The answers hardly mattered. He was king now and not all the daydreaming in the world would bring Nadei back, nor wash the blood from his own hands.
Liall looked silently to the huntsman and pointed east. Jarad looked displeased, a slight tightening of the mouth, but he nodded his obedience and signaled Theor to take the men west while he followed Liall. Theor would oversee the flushing of the prey while the king lay in wait.
Tense minutes passed while they maneuvered into position. The land was rockier than it looked beneath the snow, and Liall picked his way carefully down the slope, wary of other predators who might have the same designs on the boar. Once during the descent, his pike scraped against stone and he heard the boar’s whuff of anger from below. Cursing himself for a clumsy fool, he stood aside for the huntsman to take the lead.
“Boars are not snow bears, my lord,” Jarad whispered almost apologetically.
His pride dented, Liall did not answer him. Snow bears behaved more or less predictably, but a wild boar might do anything, even charge up the hill toward danger at the scent of man. Best to have the better hunter be the first to meet the animal, if that happened.
I was always the better hunter, he thought. I’ve spent too much time indoors, sitting on a damned throne.
They arrived at a rock shelf just above the boar’s hiding place. Liall could hear it under them. Below, on either side of the divide, six hunters approached. Alexyin was on the right flank, moving stealthily with the men.
No matter. The boar saw or scented the hunters closing in and knew it would be trapped. With a squeal of rage, it burst from the thicket and barreled up the rive, gray coat stiffly bristled and curled tail held high. Its pale tusks were short but thick, and would be deadly if the boar drew close enough to hook them in flesh.
For all his youth, Jarad was skilled. He motioned Liall to stand concealed behind a twisting, wind-blasted pine as the others flushed the beast. When the boar charged almost directly past them, the hunter dodged aside, allowing Liall to slip from concealment and drive the barbed spear into the base of the boar’s spine.
The hunting party shouted in joy and pounded their fists on Liall’s shoulders as if they were old comrades together, or as if he had not just done something any farmer could have managed. He tolerated it graciously and commanded that the boar be dressed for the spit. The riders fanned out to locate the best ground to make a rough camp.
Alexyin approached him, his spear held at an angle. “Again, my weapon is unblooded in the hunt.”
“Blame Scarlet,” Liall joked, then damned himself for an idiot, for letting his guard down. “Figuratively,” he amended. “It was not his fault the snow bear charged him that day, nor that Vladei was a traitor.”
It was Alexyin’s turn to look uncomfortable. All Rshani knew the tale, that Liall had executed Vladei in the temple ruins for the murder of Prince Cestimir. The uncomfortable truth was that Alexyin had killed Vladei, and Liall took the credit, knowing that, according to the law, Alexyin would be sentenced to death for spilling royal blood.
It was Liall’s silence, and the silence of the men present that day, sworn to keep the secret, that had allowed Alexyin to keep his rank as counsel to the crown. Liall could revoke it at any time, for any reason, but he would not. Not without provocation.
“I have never forgotten your mercy that day, sire,” Alexyin said lowly. “Every day, I strive to be worthy of it.”
Liall was pleased to see some humility in Alexyin. In many ways, he still looked to Alexyin as a father. He had never known the queen’s husband, who had died before Liall’s birth. Alexyin had stood in for the slain king when he could; teaching, advising, guiding. Even on the darkest day of Liall’s life, when his own brother lay dead at his feet, Alexyin had spoken for him, counseling the queen to choose exile over death. Many sad years had passed before Liall could feel gratitude for that mercy.
But he forgets his place, Liall mused. Yet what Setna did not? They were arrogant advisers, at best. At worst, they became ambitious and power-hungry, but the wisdom and knowledge of the ancient brotherhood was undeniable. Too, Alexyin had known him since he was a boy. A certain amount of familiarity was to be expected.
He patted Alexyin’s shoulder. “We will talk no more of it. Come. Let's sit by the fire and get drunk.”
HE DID NOT GET DRUNK, but he drank a great deal. The wine was palest yellow, nearly white. Maidenhair, the freeriders among the hunt called it, with much sniggering. After three bottles, with the good smell of roasted meat wafting in the air, Liall began to see the humor.
The young huntsman had chosen to camp them near the base if a low hill, shielded from the wind. A clear, cold stream ran under the stones of the hill. It was a narrow thing, little more than a silver trickle that made a pleasant sound to accompany the fire. The crumbling remains of an ancient stone footbridge lay scattered all around them, and the riders had gathered the stones to ring their campfire.
Seated in the place of honor by the fire (a rough assembly of fallen pine logs) Liall glanced around at the deep forest surrounding the camp and felt as close to peace as he had in a very long time. Here, he understood his enemies of beast and weather, ice and road. He understood the unsophisticated rangers he traveled with. Hells, he might even almost understand Alexyin. Almost.
“What's that?” Liall asked, pointing to a squat block of chipped black stone resting beneath a twin pair of leafless oaks. New spring vines curled around the stone like fingers.
“Old gods,” Theor answered. He raised his bearded chin at the trees. “They always put them 'neath a marriage.”
A marriage of oaks. It was a charming notion. Liall craned his neck to look up at the height of the trees. Their crowns were massive, dwarfing their camp. Had the Ancients placed it there? If so, perhaps they should not be camping so near. But no, the rangers would be wary of such taboos.
“Should we move away from it? The Ancients do not like such things disturbed.”
Scattered laughter answered him. Liall looked to Theor, but Theor only glanced at the rangers, as if weighing his answer.
“Not them,” an older ranger volunteered. “The other ancient ones.” He gestured at Liall. “Like your own, sire.”
“My own,” Liall echoed blankly. Scarlet. Now it made sense, and it made him even warier. Of course, he knew that Hilurin had once lived in Rshan. Once, they had roamed all corners of this land, shared all aspects of life with his people. Not as equals, to be sure. That was before the great rift between their kinds, before—according to legend—the small, unassuming Hilurin had nearly destroyed the mighty people of Rshan.
“Is it a templon?” he asked. It did not look like the ones in Byzantur, which were more like pedestals.
“Don't know that word, lord,” the ranger answered. “Sometimes we fin
d little gods on the ground near them. Stone figures, man and wife.”
Liall nodded slowly. Then it was a templon, far more ancient than any ruins he had visited thus far. “The little gods are the spirits of their ancestors.”
A scandalized murmur went through the rangers.
“What do you do with the figures when you find them?”
“Nothing, lord. We leave them be.”
“That is wise. Hilurin revere their dead. If their goddess speaks to them, perhaps their own in the Overworld do, too.”
The rangers liked that no better. “Do you believe all that, sire? About the Overworld and such?”
“It matters not what I believe, but I no longer doubt anything when it comes to Hilurin.” Liall polished off a fourth bottle, burped, and tossed it to the growing pile by the fire.
A young ranger seated nearest Liall laughed. “You hold your drink like a Norl, sire.”
Norls were their word for men who did not live in cities. True Northmen. A freerider with a grizzled white beard kicked the younger ranger's boot. “There's none more Norl than our king, pup.”
The young man ducked his head down. “Your pardon, my lord.”
Liall waved it away. “I’ve only had three bottles. In Morturii, that passes for breakfast.” He grinned at the rangers. “The Hilurin are fond of drink, too, especially for a brew they call bitterbeer. Have you heard of it?”
They had not.
He tried to describe it. “It’s like ale, only much darker. It's sweeter and thicker... and... and foamy. While at the same time smelling like rotten fruit and cat piss.”
The rangers roared their laughter.
“Only a lenilyn would call that a drink,” one snorted, oblivious to the warning stares of his fellow. “I’d sooner lap vomit. Some of them do!”
Suddenly, the hunt lost its charm. Liall frowned and called for water, ignoring the ranger's puzzled looks as he waited for the boar to cook. Superior bastards, all of them, he groused silently. And with so little reason. Their leathers and saddles were worn. Some had missing teeth. All were dirty and unshaven.
And yet, even they have the same sickness that infects Rshan. I cannot even joke with them about my years in the south without it turning sour on me.
It was time to admit it: he sorely missed his old friends in Kalaslyn. One of the pitfalls of melancholy was that one tended to remember only the good things about absent friends, forgetting their flaws. No danger of that. Kasiri had as many faults, petty conceits, and blind spots as Rshani did, if he cared to tally them. Yet, there was great diversity among the yurts of the Kasiri, men and women of many lands who worshipped different gods, spoke different tongues. He missed those differences, and he missed the grace and skill of how easily the Kasiri seemed to navigate such contrasts. A Kasiri was a Kasiri, no matter where they hailed from.
He missed Peysho and Kio, and his small, fierce band of loyal Kasiri. He even missed how the wind howled under his yurt and stole into it on snowy nights. His bed had never really been empty, not for long at any rate, but it had been lonely. Until Scarlet.
A rider brought a dittern to the fire and began to tune the instrument, strumming a simple tune that the others began to sing off key. A marching song, Liall believed. He had forgotten the words to it and pretended to listen as they chose another song and yet another, getting louder with each verse.
By the time the boar was served, most of the rangers were drunk, but none of his own men. He ate the roasted meat and smiled when the dittern player dedicated a song to “the king’s fiery flower”. No one laughed, then. If there was one thing about Scarlet that provoked no argument among them, it was his beauty.
Liall was leaning back against a log, enjoying a last cup of maidenhair, when loud voices cut into the amiable chatter around the fire.
“Shut your mouth, Athan! I know what I heard!”
He glanced over at the argument idly, a little amused
A freerider lumbered unsteadily to his feet He was a young ranger with fists the size of hammers. “Take it back, Shivan! Or I'll clout you another!”
The man called Athan laughed in Shivan’s face. Both men were as alike as two acorns; broad-featured, with short silver hair bound in intricate braids, and bright blue eyes. Brothers, probably. Good common men from the western hills, born to a family of farmers or millers, or perhaps a smith.
“You clout like a wee girl,” Athan said. “Best go for your knitting needles, missy.”
The tone was so much like Scarlet's that Liall chuckled. “Enough,” he called. “What's this melee over? Coins? Women?” He stretched his legs closer to the warm fire and crossed his hands over his stomach. “Men?”
Athan shook his head. “Nay. Nothing of the sort, my lord. It's about honor.”
Shivan snorted. “Not yours.”
Athan looked like he was about to take those hammer-fists to Shivan’s face.
“I said enough,” Liall called again. “Tell me.” The young men exchanged wary glances. Liall raised a brow. “You refuse?”
Both men bowed at once. “Not at all, my lord,” Athan said. “But I don't want to... insult you.”
“I’m not that easy to offend. Out with it.”
Athan cleared his throat and pointed an accusing finger at Shivan. “My brother said you were a bandit in Kalaslyn. A highwayman. He said you were called the Wolf of Omara.”
So that was it. Calling a man wolf in Rshan was much like calling him a dog. “I was a Kasiri in the Southern Continent,” Liall corrected, “among many other things. And yes; they called me the Wolf.”
Athan blinked. “What's a Kasiri? My lord,” he added quickly, obviously unused to addressing nobility. “And what's Omra?”
“Omara,” Liall said with emphasis, “is a place. It's a city south of Rusa, on the coast. A bit like Volkovoi, even though it's in Byzantur.” Which left both Athan and Shivan no wiser. “It's smaller than Sul,” Liall explained. “Most cities in Byzantur have walls, but Omara does not. The Flower Prince still rules there, but in name only. In reality, the city is run by the Noor Fan.” He signaled for more wine. “The Noor Fan are outlaws. Not your petty gangs or small kraits like in the hills and fens of Byzantur, either, but real fighters. Hard men.” He nodded at their confusion. “Yes, there are hard men in the Southern Continent. The Aralyrin, Morturii, Chrj, and the Arbyssians. And don't forget the Minh and the Volstlanders. Arbyssians are the best archers in the world, while there are bravos in Volkovoi who are almost Rshani in appearance.”
This left them all wide-eyed and silent. Some leaned closer to listen. The good heat of the flames warmed Liall as he told his tale of warm lands, the rich smells of spice and plowed earth floating in the air, and the great plenty of the south.
“But war, sire.” Athan was avid with interest. “How fare they in war?”
“In the south, there is always a war somewhere,” Liall conceded. “The last summer I was in Ankar, the king there—Helain An’Daros Agalina—was readying for a campaign against the Minh, their ancient enemies. Or rather, the Minh emperors. The Minh people themselves often cross the mountains into Volstland, fleeing the tyrannies of their rulers.”
“And the Ankars—”
“Morturii,” Liall corrected. “Ankar is a city.”
“Morturii,” Athan tried the word out. “They don’t kill the Minh folk for stealing their lands?”
“It’s not stealing if you’re welcome. Volstland needs workers and few Morturii care to live there. It’s a harsh place. The hills are rock and the soil is black sand. Only tough grass grows there in plenty, so they raise horses. They are famed for a breed of horse whose coat shines like polished gold.”
“Have you seen one, lord?”
“I owned one,” Liall said with a grin. “In Omara. She was a filly, testy as a spoiled girl. But oh, the mere sight of her in the streets would cause the whole market to stop and stare. She knew it, too, gaudy thing. Flashed her tail and wiggled her rump like a whore.” They laugh
ed and he joined in with them. Even Alexyin cracked a smile.
“What happened to her?”
“Ah.” Liall’s smile faltered. “Well, that’s not so merry. My filly caught the eye of a bandit prince, some petty lord’s bastard son. I wouldn’t sell her, so he stole her. One does not steal from Kasiri. The atya of my krait hung him for the insult, but the prince’s woman took her revenge. Put an arrow through the filly’s neck.”
“Bitch,” Shivan opined, chewing on a boar’s rib.
Liall shrugged. “She paid for it. They hung her beside him.”
Mouths gaped all around the fire. “For killing a horse?”
He shook his head. “No, they are not so barbaric as that. The bow is an assassin’s weapon in Byzantur. Strictly outlawed. And she proved she knew how to use it, so no need for a trial.” He brought his cup to his lips and sipped in the new quiet. “It’s because of magic, I think,” he mused. “Some Hilurin are able to cast fire over a distance. The bow is like that, in a way. It can kill from range, therefore almost all ranged weapons are forbidden.”
“Fuck,” Athan blurted, then remembered his manners. “Beg pardon, my lord.”
“Not at all,” Liall murmured. “I had much the same reaction. It may be why Kalaslyn is home to the best swordsmen in the world.”
This was too much for the men to believe, and they began to argue among themselves about it. Liall did not try to convince them. He gave the rangers permission to retire and the cozy crowd around the fire broke up. Men stood and stretched and yawned before they sought out their pallets for sleep. Like rangers, they would all sleep under the pale, open sky tonight.
Alexyin stood and shrugged a great, shaggy coat over his tunic. “If you’ll excuse me, sire, I’ll set the first watch.”
“Let another do it. I’d have you stay, Alexyin.”
