The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Redmaine called it the trickster’s jab,” Wilhum explained, tapping the pommel of his longsword against the lower rim of my visor. We were tangled together in a clinch in the centre of Fohlvast’s stableyard. He was once again clad in his fine blue armour, me in a mismatched but serviceable collection of battlefield scavengings bought or purloined from my fellow soldiers. With little else to occupy us save tedious drill or walking the short span of the wall, we had sought and obtained the captain’s permission to continue my lessons in the knightly arts.

  I was gratified to find the former noble a mostly patient tutor. Also, judging by the new keenness of his gaze and lack of liquor on his breath, he was now entirely sober. He would guide me through the various sword scales with careful advice rather than the scorn or punishment that I knew had coloured much of his own education. Sparring with him after the first few days, it was easy to fool myself that I had begun to match his skills. However, every now and then he would display a sudden ferocity or wickedly devious tactic that illustrated in stark terms just how much his inferior I remained.

  “All knightly helms have a weak point,” he went on, pressing the pommel hard against my visor and craning my neck to a painful angle. He had contrived to snare me in this position by a blurringly fast reverse of his sword that trapped my own blade against his armoured side. Too quick to follow, he then looped his left arm around my right and pulled me close. I could have swung a punch at his head, but it was clear his pommel would have done its work before it landed.

  “Hit it hard enough,” he went on, “and the visor will come loose, maybe even snap your opponent’s neck in the process.” He released me and stepped back. “You try.”

  “All these tricks don’t seem particularly chivalrous,” I commented as he slowly demonstrated the required set of movements. He had already shown me all the various gaps in knightly armour through which a dagger could be thrust, a particular favourite being the unprotected patch behind the knee. One good stab at that and any knight would find himself lamed.

  “War is always a trick,” he replied. “Or so Master Redmaine was fond of saying. Churls are tricked into following their lord’s banner on promise of loot, or the threat of a flogging which they could avoid if they just stood as one and told him to piss off. Nobles trick themselves with notions of glory or a king’s boon. And chivalry—” Wilhum let out a short, bitter laugh “—is the worst trick of all, for it fools us with the illusion that war is anything but a chaos of slaughter and suffering.”

  “A cheery fellow, then.”

  “No, he was a miserable, sadistic swine of the worst kind. But he had his moments of insight.”

  Shortly after, we sparred with quarterstaffs which Wilhum used in lieu of a better simulacrum for the length and weight of a longsword. I quickly became aware that he had gone easy on me over the first couple of days, a concession he was abandoning with increasing violence as my lessons continued. Thanks to my brawler’s acumen, I could hold my own for the first few blows, but he invariably found a way to put me on my arse before long. Still, I knew my skills were improving and the longsword was no longer the unwieldy length of iron it had once been. With enough time I reckoned I might actually come close to matching Wilhum, or at least have a chance of surviving a real encounter with a knight of similar ability. But time was against us. In three days I would seek out Berrine’s sea captain and purchase my passage out of this company and its precarious situation.

  I considered inviting Wilhum to accompany Toria and me when the time came but knew it would be a wasted effort. He and Evadine spent most evenings conversing in seclusion now, often in counsel with Sergeant Swain. No doubt they were planning their defence of this port, meaning Wilhum was now effectively part of the command of this company. He continued to hold no more rank than I did, yet could speak his mind to Evadine and the Supplicants without fear of chastisement. Nor was he expected to knuckle his forehead in their company.

  I hadn’t noticed any particular thawing in Evadine’s regard since returning from our reconnaissance, her gaze remaining bright with reproachful accusation. However, she hadn’t felt the need for any further life-endangering punishments, which was something. Also, her willingness to allow me to forgo the routines of soldiery in order to receive Wilhum’s tutelage spoke of a largesse not extended to my comrades. Perhaps I had been forgiven, or at least deemed worthy of possible redemption for my indulgence of heathen ways. Not that it mattered now, or so I imagined up until the moment one of Fohlvast’s servants came running past us with his voice raised to panicked shrillness.

  “They’ve come, my lord!” he screeched, arms flapping in a way that I would normally have found comical. He stumbled to a halt beneath Fohlvast’s window, casting out a plaintive, desperate call. “The northern monsters are here!”

  “Three hundred and forty-eight,” I reported, unable to keep the doleful disappointment from my voice as I handed the spyglass to Evadine. The Ascarlian fleet had appeared out of the mist some three miles off the harbour mouth, the multiple splash of their anchors announcing their presence better than any pealing of trumpets.

  “As Trooper Dornmahl said,” I went on, “some are bigger than others, but they’re all sitting low in the water.”

  “Fully laden then,” Sergeant Swain surmised, squinting as he surveyed the fleet. “The elderman was right: they’ve brought at least twenty thousand swords against us. And it appears they aren’t going to oblige us by assaulting the wall.”

  “And yet there is nowhere for them to land,” Evadine mused. She didn’t appear especially troubled, her brow creased with puzzlement rather than concern. “The outer dykes are protected by a sea wall and too steep for a ship to beach on even at high tide. They could assault the harbour directly but with the mouth blocked they would have to scale the mole, and that’s just as easy to defend as the wall.”

  “It could be they see no reason for an attack,” Wilhum put in. “As long as they remain in the fjord no trade will leave or enter this city. Nor will any fishing craft put to sea.”

  Swain gave a soft grunt of agreement. “A blockade then. This Tielwald of theirs intends to starve us into submission.”

  “Which raises the question of stocks, my lord Fohlvast,” Evadine said, turning to the elderman.

  He appeared more composed today, standing straighter with a look of calm assurance on his handsome features. However, I judged his pallor to be a shade paler than normal and his expression the result of extensive practice in front of a mirror glass.

  “We have enough grain, preserved meat and other sundries to last through the summer and into winter,” he said, his tone just as studied as his expression. “Longer even, if properly rationed. If the Sister Queens’ pet dog thinks he can beggar my city, he shall find himself disappointed.” He sniffed, stiffening his back and casting a dismissive hand at the Ascarlian ships. “I think more likely that it is they who shall starve, Captain. Let them sit there stewing in their heathen stink. In winter, Aeric’s Fjord becomes a channel for bergs sloughed off the glaciers to the east. Only the worst fool would remain at anchor then. If their grumbling bellies haven’t convinced them to depart, the prospect of shattered hulls surely will.”

  “Months on end of just sitting here bodes ill, Captain,” Swain said. “We have boats aplenty in the harbour. Let me take a dozen or so, scurry out in the dead of night and set some fires in those hulls. It would certainly inspire the company.”

  Evadine considered for a short interval before inclining her head in agreement. “Very well, Sergeant. Volunteers only, mind.” Any notion that she might have been harbouring warmer feelings towards me vanished as her eyes slipped from the sergeant to mine. “How about it, Scribe?” she enquired, eyebrows raised and a faint smile of expectation on her lips. “Fancy another chance at the heathen?”

  Does she think me a traitor? I thought, wondering if my safe return hadn’t aroused some suspicions in her mind. But then, Wilhum
had also returned unmolested and she harboured no apparent odium towards him. Just spite then, I decided, jaw aching as I clenched it and bowed, knuckle pressed to my forehead once again.

  “As the Covenant requires, Captain,” I said.

  Swain’s volunteers consisted of thirty souls in all. Brewer and Toria couldn’t be dissuaded from stepping forwards once they learned I was to be part of this mad folly. Wilhum joined us too and, to my surprise, Ayin was also permitted to volunteer.

  “She’s keen to prove her courage and her devotion to the Covenant,” the captain said when I made a clipped but determined objection. “Who am I to deny her?”

  The party was assembling on the wharf close by, clad in only the lightest scraps of armour. Every blade and face was darkened with smeared soot and only dimmed lanterns were allowed. Ayin certainly appeared keen and nimble as she hopped into one of the three longboats that would carry us from the harbour. I watched her position herself at the prow, turning to wave happily at where Evadine and I stood on the quay.

  “She’s still mad,” I said. “Less mad than she was, to be sure, but her mind remains broken. I doubt battle will mend it.”

  “You should have more faith in your comrades.” Evadine’s tone was quiet but possessed of a now familiar hardness. “In fact, Scribe, I find your faith lacking in many respects.”

  The heated response of Fuck my faith! rose to my lips but I managed to cage it in time. “I can understand your desire to punish me, Captain,” I said, speaking with a controlled terseness. “But my friends should not be part of it.”

  “Why do you assume this to be a punishment?” She fixed me with a look of bland enquiry. “What could you have done to merit such treatment?”

  More unwise words boiled up to be contained once again, though only barely. “I’ll not apologise for saving Brewer’s life,” I said. “By heathen means or any other.”

  “And what of his soul? Do you imagine the Seraphile will allow him through the Portals now it has been so besmirched?”

  “Scripture speaks of the Seraphile’s grace as being boundless in its compassion. Perhaps it is you who should have more faith in them, Captain.”

  Anger had pushed me to stray far beyond my bounds and I expected a harsh command to mind my place, possibly even a call for Swain to clap me in irons. Instead, Evadine’s anger was only momentary. Her brow creased then smoothed as she lowered her head, eyes closed as she drew in a slow breath.

  “I know why you did what you did,” she said, opening her eyes. I was taken aback to find them fearful rather than angry. “And, in their wisdom, the Seraphile have seen fit to show much of what you will do, Alwyn Scribe. So, know that this—” she gestured to the boats “—is not a punishment.”

  Her gaze settled on my face, shining with a scrutiny I found more off-putting than her fear. Unusually, I couldn’t think of a thing to say, staring in dumb silence when she stepped closer, narrowed eyes peering into mine. “What they show me is often… confused, even contradictory. I saw both triumph and defeat on the Traitors’ Field. I saw the Council of Luminants both laugh and bless me when I sought permission to raise this company. Now the Seraphile send visions of you… and me.” She raised a hand, extending it towards my face. “Sometimes we are—”

  A soft cough from Swain froze the passage of her hand. Evadine blinked and withdrew it, stepping back and turning to the sergeant with a brisk smile. “Ready for the off then, Supplicant Sergeant?”

  “Boats loaded and all keen to get at the heathen, Captain.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be more troubled by the squint of bemused suspicion Swain struggled to keep from his face or the complete lack of irony in his voice.

  “Very well,” Evadine said. “I’ll muster the full company on the dockside should the Ascarlians be foolish enough to come in pursuit once you’ve done your work.”

  She gave me a final glance before she strode off, her face taut. However, the mingling of fear and doubt in her eyes caused me to track her departure, my unease deepening into abject fear. Something was very wrong this night, something far worse than the prospect of rowing out in the dark to confront thousands of Ascarlians.

  “Stop gawping and get aboard, Scribe,” Swain snapped when the captain’s tall form faded into the gloom beyond the lanterns.

  It would have been a comparatively easy task to extend a swift jab at his chest with my sheathed longsword as I passed him by. Watching him flail and sputter in the harbour waters may well have been worth the dire consequences. But I didn’t. Intuition told me I would be grateful for the sergeant’s abilities before this night was out.

  In Aeric’s Fjord the tide ebbs just after midnight, creating a slow shift in current that enables a boat to drift free of the harbour without benefit of oars. Of course, we had oars loaded. They would be slotted into the rowlocks to be hauled with frenzied energy during the return journey, but our approach was made in tense, protracted silence save for the swish and slap of water against the hulls. The moon was a thin crescent behind drifting clouds, meaning the boats resembled just a trio of shadows amid the darkened chaos of the fjord’s shifting waters.

  We all lay prone beneath black cloaks, blades sheathed until they were needed. Those of us in the lead boat had been given a dozen clay pots each, all filled with lamp oil. When the hull of the first longship came within throwing range, we would dash the pots against the timbers, the boats behind would light torches and soon a decent-sized inferno would rage among the outer fringe of their fleet. With luck and a favourable wind, it might even spread to the other ships.

  I had to admit this was a clever scheme, as such things went. Whatever our fate, a victory of sorts would be scored tonight. What concerned me wasn’t the likelihood of successfully setting a few ships ablaze; it was the unlikelihood of making it back to the harbour once the Ascarlians had been fully roused. I knew Swain saw our lives as fair exchange for ensuring the port’s survival, but I did not.

  Consequently, as we neared the outermost line of ships, I raised my cloak to gain a better view. It was my hope that I should espy or be espied by a vigilant warrior appointed sentry for the night. Upon catching sight of said fellow it was my full intention to do everything to snare his attention thereby raising a commotion of shouts which would force us to abandon this suicidal enterprise. Sadly, no keen-eyed Ascarlian obliged me and the curving rail of the nearest longship remained conspicuously vacant. Neither had the irksomely negligent crew taken the simple precaution of posting lit torches fore and aft. In fact, as far as I could tell, the entire Ascarlian fleet was shrouded in darkness unbroken by a single torch.

  “Make ready,” Swain whispered and there rose a shuffling in the boat as my comrades readied their pots. “Wait for the order.”

  Jutting from the ship’s prow was a garishly coloured carving of some snarling bird of prey. As the gaping beak loomed above and our boat made loud contact with the longship’s hull, the curious absence of any alarm sounded a deeper warning in my mind. Not only was there no one on watch and no torches, there was barely a sound from the ship beyond the creak of timbers and faint rasp of rope.

  “Don’t,” I said, turning to Swain as he opened his mouth to voice the command to throw. “Something’s not right.”

  “Just ready your arm, Scribe,” he hissed back. “The captain may indulge your indiscipline, but I won’t…”

  I turned away from him and stood, casting off the cloak and calling out to the ship. “Anyone there?”

  Instead of a line of hastily armed warriors rushing to the rail, I was confronted by the sight of a lone, small pale face. It bobbed up to blink two wide, scared eyes at us before disappearing followed by the faint urgent whisper of two youthful voices.

  “Scourge take you, Scribe!” Swain erupted as I jumped from the boat and latched my hands to the rail. I scrambled over to tumble to the deck beyond, crouching with one hand reaching for the hilt of my longsword. I began to draw it then stopped at the sight of two boys standing
a few paces away.

  They had the blond, braided locks common to other Ascarlians I had seen, but little of their ferocity. I reckoned the smallest at about ten years old, the other twelve at most. It was the oldest who reacted first, after a moment in which he and his companion exchanged indecisive glances. Drawing a small knife from his belt, the boy let out a creditable attempt at a challenging roar and launched himself at me, stabbing overhand with more enthusiasm than skill.

  “That’s enough of that,” I said, catching his wrist and hauling him up. The knife fell as I tightened my grip before turning to survey the otherwise empty deck. “Where’s your kin?” I asked, receiving an eyeful of defiant spit in return. Blinking, I shifted my gaze to the ship anchored barely a dozen yards to port. Its deck was also bare of all crew save a trio of small figures. A glance at the other nearby ships confirmed the same state of affairs with each.

  With the boy still dangling in my grasp, I turned and called over the rail, “Something’s afoot, Sergeant! The ships are all empty save for whelps like him!”

  The sergeant’s no doubt anger-filled response was drowned by a loud, bear-like yell from the ship’s stern. Looming out of the shadows came a far larger figure. At first I thought it might actually be a bear, the shaggy head and fur-covered bulk conveying a distinctly animalistic impression, but then I saw the battleaxe it held.

  Casting the boy aside, I stepped clear of the rail, drawing my longsword. The charging axeman altered his course to match, raising his weapon high. He continued to yell out his challenge, voice hoarse but strong until it ended in an abrupt shout of surprise as Brewer vaulted the rail and drove his boots into the axeman’s back. He landed face down on the deck, the axe jarred from his grip. Grunting with the effort, he tried to rise only to be forced down when Brewer pressed a knee to his neck, dagger poised to stab into his temple.