by Den Patrick
For a time they stared at the glowing embers of the burned hall and drank quietly. Nils worked his way around the courtyard, pouring mead and laughing. ‘Bravery and skill rarely last long against men in full armour,’ said Einar. ‘And the bravery and skill of half-starved brigands lasts no time at all. It wasn’t a fair fight, but fights never are.’
‘I thought there’d be honour or glory or something to make me feel better about it but …’
‘You’re a good man, Steiner.’ Einar laid a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘But I’m not sure you have the luxury of acting honourably, not against the Empire.’
The brigands shared out the loot from the granary but Steiner drank more than he ate. The world grew pleasantly blurry.
‘What will happen to the soldier I captured?’ he asked, a little louder than he intended, fearful he wouldn’t like the answer. The brigands fell silent and Nils favoured Steiner with a long hard look then grinned with arms outstretched to both sides.
‘He’s going to join us!’ Nils took an unsteady step forward. ‘The Empire’s kid soldier,’ he slurred, ‘becoming a brigand like us.’
Steiner was too tired to reply. A slow smile crossed his face and it took a drunken moment before he realised it was relief he was feeling. There’d been enough killing for one day.
Kristofine approached out of the gloom with a torch and tugged on his sleeve with a wariness in her eyes.
‘Come on, there’s a guardroom with a bed above the gatehouse. I’m not sleeping outside tonight.’ Steiner followed, mute with exhaustion.
‘Go to your lady love, dragon rider!’ shouted Nils. ‘And know the goddesses go with you.’ Steiner waved back without looking and paid no attention to the filthy laughter of the brigands
‘I’m sorry about before,’ said Kristofine, as she led him into the gatehouse and up the narrow stairs. The shadows jumped fitfully in the torchlight and the smell of damp lingered in the darkness. ‘I just didn’t want to see you hurt is all.’ But they both knew she meant killed, that she was unable to even say the word.
The room was perhaps ten strides wide with a low ceiling, and featured a fireplace, a narrow bed, and a desk, though the chair was missing. Kristofine set the torch in a sconce and sat against the edge of desk, crossing her arms over her stomach. ‘This is what war looks like, I suppose.’
‘This is what killing looks like,’ he replied. The sweetness of the mead had done little to cover the bitterness of his regret.
‘Burning the hall with all those men inside …’ The torchlight revealed the tracks of her tears, like silver scars on her cheeks. Her gaze was directed at the floor, eyes dazed and unseeing.
‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ said Steiner. ‘Not sure I know what I was expecting. A mass surrender perhaps? Was I naive to even think such a thing?’
Kristofine forced a tired smile. ‘Perhaps we both were.’
Steiner knelt beside the fireplace and began stacking wood. It was a comfort to perform such a familiar task after living outdoors for so long. He lit the wood with the torch and tried not to think about the screams of burning men.
‘Will you hold me?’ she asked when the fire was ablaze. He drew close, circled his arms around her waist and rested his forehead on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’ He breathed the words faintly.
‘For what?’
‘For being a killer. A murderer, I suppose.’
‘It’s not murder when they’re hunting you,’ she replied. ‘And there’ll be more death to come. A lot more.’
‘You’re right,’ he replied. ‘Nils is already talking about travelling back to Trystbyre and killing the soldiers there. I should feel good about it. I should feel good about delivering the uprising I promised to Kimi, but …’ He slipped free of her arms and stared into the fire.
‘I thought this is what you wanted?’ said Kristofine, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
‘Talking about a thing is hardly the same as doing it. I suppose I’m shocked is all. Killing doesn’t get any easier.’
‘This is how we bring down the Empire,’ answered Kristofine firmly. ‘This is how we stop them taking children from their families.’ Steiner envied her conviction; it sounded so easy when she spoke of uprisings in a dimly lit gatehouse chamber.
‘I’m a blacksmith from Cinderfell. What do I know about uprisings or killing?’
‘I’d say you know plenty after Vladibogdan, and a fair bit more after killing Shirinov in Cinderfell.’
‘This feels wrong!’ There was a snarl to his voice. ‘Burning men alive while they’re at their dinner is hardly a thing to be proud of.’
‘Right or wrong, this is the start of your uprising, Steiner!’ She matched his anger with some of her own and the room felt small for it.
‘My uprising.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I’d say it was your uprising more than mine. If you hadn’t told the brigands the story in the forest we’d be dead by now.’
‘Get some sleep,’ she said with something like disgust or disappointment in her voice. ‘Perhaps you’ll feel better in the morning, or at least see some sense.’ She went to the narrow cot in the room and slumped down, leaving him with the fire and the scent of dried blood.
Steiner would not miss the howling winds of the Urzahn Mountains, nor the constant chill in his fingers. A vast throng of pine trees awaited them as they reached the foothills.
‘I’ll be glad to be under the cover of trees again,’ said Steiner. Kristofine glanced at him but said nothing. It had been like this since the night in the gatehouse.
‘Do you miss your friends?’ asked Marek. The brigands had remained at the garrison, or headed back to Trystbyre to hunt Imperial soldiers. Steiner shrugged and looked away to the horizon.
‘I’d say they were more Kristofine’s friends than mine,’ said Steiner.
‘What’s got into you?’ pressed Marek.
‘I’d say they were friends to all of us,’ said Kristofine in a low voice.
‘Between her persuasiveness and your fame you make a good pair,’ said Marek.
‘Try telling him that,’ said Kristofine. ‘As if having a band of brigands praising him for being the dragon rider, or Hammersmith, or whatever damn foolish folk hero name he fancies this week.’
‘I wondered if something was brewing between the pair of you,’ said Marek as he looked from Kristofine to his son with a grim expression. Steiner took a moment to frame his answer, caught off balance by Kristofine’s anger.
‘I wanted to be the one to persuade people is all. I wanted to tell my story.’
‘All that matters is that the tale is told,’ said Marek. ‘Who cares if she’s better at the storytelling than you?’
‘I care. It’s my story.’ Steiner could hear how petulant he sounded and hated it. ‘And I’d rather people didn’t know that we burned two dozen soldiers to death while they ate.’
‘I doubt Kimi will care who does what or how it gets done,’ replied Kristofine with a sneer, ‘just as long as the thing gets done. Then you can crawl back to her. Isn’t that what you want?’ She took off down the hill, outpacing them until she was a good half mile ahead.
Marek stared at Steiner until his son blurted out, ‘What?’
‘I’m trying to work out when you filled your head with sawdust is all. Was it in Trystbyre or Virag?’
Steiner opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it.
It was another ten days before they reached the coast and the walled port town that promised beds, beer and a hot bath. Winter was not yet done with this corner of the world and spring had not gained purchase in Slavon Province. An icy north wind shrieked by night and the days alternated between drizzle, sleet, and on the coldest days, flurries of snow.
‘We need to get into this town,’ said Marek. ‘We won’t last much longer in these temperatures.’ Any food they’d stolen from the garrison in the mountains was many days gone and the rewards of hunting were few.
The tow
n walls were an unlovely grey that matched the colour of the sea. Travellers waited in a queue outside the gates as the soldiers questioned them. A light dusting of snow fell from the overcast skies, almost dreamlike. Steiner, Marek and Kristofine joined the end of the line and shivered fitfully. The daylight was leeched out of the sky by the oncoming night and a surly mob of darker clouds.
‘Well, well,’ said the soldier when they finally reached the gate. There was no one else around save the three soldiers who now barred their way.
‘Another three starving peasants wanting to come in from the cold.’ The soldier spat at the ground by Steiner’s boots. ‘No shortage of those around here.’
Steiner clenched the shaft of the sledgehammer tighter, and hoped it would remain hidden under his cloak.
‘Just passing through, friend,’ said Marek in Solska.
‘And why should I let you in?’ said the soldier. The glow from the brazier cast him in a ruddy light. He’d taken the unusual step of removing his helmet; something Imperial soldiers rarely did. He was missing an eye tooth and his face was deeply lined with age or drink, or perhaps both.
‘My family were chased away from our home in the Karelina forest,’ said Kristofine in Solska. ‘We are carrying everything we own.’
‘Chased by who?’ asked the soldier.
‘Wild men of the forest,’ she replied. ‘Thieves and killers.
‘Very well,’ replied the soldier, but he sounded far from happy about it. ‘And what will you do here?’
‘Look for work of course,’ said Marek in Solska. ‘I was a smith before I was a farmer.’
The soldier conversed with his comrades a moment. ‘Why didn’t you simply go to Trystbyre rather than coming all this way?’
‘You haven’t heard?’ said Kristofine in a hushed voice. ‘Trystbyre isn’t safe, a man with a sledgehammer slew the soldiers there.’
Marek held up two coins. ‘Perhaps this will help?’ The soldier gestured they should enter the town and spat again, barely missing Steiner’s boots. The coins were snatched from Marek’s hand. Moments later they were inside the port town, traversing the muddy roads and trying to ignore the sour reek of Frøya knew what.
‘We should have just killed them,’ said Steiner under his breath.
‘I thought you had tired of killing?’ replied Kristofine with a hard look.
‘Why did you tell them that story about Trystbyre?’ said Steiner, irritation itching like a rash.
‘Misdirection,’ said Marek. ‘They won’t look for you here if they think you’re at Trystbyre. Seems your girl has a head for subterfuge.’
‘I’m not his girl,’ replied Kristofine. ‘I’m a woman.’
‘Subterfuge it is then,’ replied Steiner. ‘But we shouldn’t have bribed them. We’re not so rich that we can throw coin at soldiers all the time.’
‘Marek and I stole those coins from the dead soldiers at the garrison,’ said Kristofine. ‘While you were drinking with your friends.’
Steiner was stung by the barb but determined not to let her have the last word. ‘So when did you learn to speak Solska?’
Kristofine shook her head and hurried down the street before disappearing through the door to an inn.
‘Frøya’s teeth,’ said Marek. ‘The words you’re looking for are “thank you”. Those soldiers would have happily cut our throats just to pass the time.’ Steiner scowled but said nothing.
‘We’ve plenty of people to fight, son,’ added Marek. ‘We don’t need to be fighting among ourselves.’
The inn was a much-needed reminder of civilisation after too many weeks claiming shelter from dark forests. The smells of straw, stale beer, unwashed bodies and woodsmoke all vied for attention, and above everything the smell of roasting meat. Steiner wasted no time and ordered meals, beer, and rooms in stilted Solska, glad to have something to do. ‘How much?’ he asked.
The innkeeper replied and Steiner began to slowly count the coins from the palm of his hand. The innkeeper, who was a stout man with a squint, gave a rough, unpleasant laugh.
‘We don’t take lousy Svingettevei money here. This is Slavon! This is the Empire.’ Kristofine stepped forward, paid the man from her stash of coins and forced a smile at Steiner.
‘Like I said, the soldiers at the garrison had a few coins.’ She offered a small smile though a sadness remained in her eyes. Marek gave a long, filthy chuckle. ‘Did you leave anything for the brigands?’
‘I hope not,’ said Kristofine with a smirk. ‘They got an entire mountain pass out of it, after all.’
‘Thank you,’ said Steiner, though in truth he was more ashamed than grateful. It seemed he couldn’t even pay for a room any more.
Steiner’s mood improved drastically as their wet cloaks were hung up to dry. They were given a table near the fireplace on account of yet another small bribe. Steaming bowls were set before them with all manner of cabbage, beef, mushrooms and spices floating in soup. A plate of dark bread was placed at the centre of the table and the innkeeper grinned, his eyes lingering on Kristofine’s money pouch as he left.
No one looked up from their food and the soup and the bread were quickly gone. Steiner turned his attention to the beer and was resolved to buy another as soon as he was done. They were all lean from the road; Marek looked fit to drop. Somehow Kristofine remained beautiful despite the journey, and Steiner spent a moment wondering at what had changed between them.
‘What do we do now?’ said Marek when he was halfway through his pint.
‘We could tell these drinkers the tale of the rebels who took a mountain pass against all odds,’ said Kristofine. ‘Or let them know where children with witchsign are taken.’
‘I’m more interested in finding Felgenhauer,’ said Steiner, keen to avoid approaching another reluctant audience.
‘Come on,’ she replied. ‘We’ll tell the story together.’ Steiner felt a pang of guilt for treating her so poorly.
‘No stories tonight,’ said Marek. He had gone very still but his eyes were fixed on the far side of the room. The cheerful din of raised voices diminished and several locals made space at the centre of the room, for good reason it turned out. A Vigilant approached the bar, flanked by two soldiers.
‘Frejna’s teeth,’ muttered Steiner. The Vigilant wore the usual garb of a red leather surcoat over a padded cream long coat. He wore a black cloak like the soldiers that escorted him. The Vigilant’s mask was neither wolf, nor bear, nor dog, but something in between, painted a dark grey.
‘What is that?’ whispered Steiner.
‘It’s a wolverine,’ said Marek with a scowl. ‘Vile creatures that consume every last morsel of their prey. They’re not given to sharing their spoils.’
An uneasy quiet settled over the room and the innkeeper’s usual squint seemed to become a wince of almost physical pain as he drew close to the masked man.
‘C-can I help you?’
‘All citizens of the Empire may be of service in some way,’ said the Vigilant, loud enough that the whole room could hear.
‘Three beers?’ said the innkeeper.
The Vigilant gave a low chuckle and shook his head. ‘I do not drink, but I daresay my comrades will take two pints of whatever you’re serving. I require a room and hot food.’ The innkeeper nodded. There was an awkward moment when payment would normally be expected and none was proffered.
‘And this will be a service to the Empire?’ asked the innkeeper. ‘My service to the Empire.’ One of the soldiers slammed some coins down on the counter top and few of the locals flinched.
‘You will show me to my room now,’ said the Vigilant. The innkeeper nodded and made to lead his guest to his room. They were halfway to the door when the Vigilant paused and turned to Steiner. His gaze dropped to Steiner’s feet.
‘What sturdy boots you have.’ The Vigilant took a step closer; the snarling wolverine face bore chips and dents in the metalwork. Steiner guessed it must have been painted over a few times. ‘And where d
id you come by such fine craftsmanship?’
‘Hand-me-downs,’ said Steiner in Solska, but his pronunciation was poor and he had to repeat himself.
‘Not local to these parts,’ said the Vigilant, not bothering to turn the statement into a question. ‘And who handed these boots down to you?’
Steiner’s mouth went dry. He knew full well that Vigilants with the sight could see enchantments on weapons and clothes. He’d learned that lesson the first day he’d reached Vladibogdan.
‘They were mine,’ said Marek. He stood up from his table and eyed the Vigilant without fear or courtesy. The bestial mask of the Vigilant turned to each of them in turn, taking in the old blacksmith, the pretty girl, and the rough youth.
‘You may call me Exarch Zima. We will speak again, I think.’ The Vigilant turned and gestured to the innkeeper. There was a stunned moment of silence and Marek sank down to his seat.
‘What just happened?’ asked Kristofine.
‘Steiner’s boots are enchanted,’ said Marek. ‘He can’t be knocked down while he wears them, can’t fall, rarely stumbles. They were his mother’s.’
‘And the Vigilant was able to see the …’ She shrugged. ‘The witchsign on the boots?’
‘Something like that,’ said Steiner.
‘We’ll be watched,’ said Marek. ‘And our every word will be reported to Exarch Zima.’
Steiner looked around and had his worst fears confirmed. The locals that hadn’t turned their backs stared at the newcomers with unalloyed hostility.
‘So much for quietly finding Felgenhauer,’ said Steiner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Taiga
‘Frøya save me,’ muttered Tief. ‘And I thought Vladibogdan was bad.’ They had made camp for the night but finding firewood was difficult. An outcrop of rocks provided a reprieve from the endless wet grasses and constant damp of the Izhorian swamps. Taiga hummed gently to herself as she cooked over a small, smoky fire, sprinkling herbs into the simmering water and slicing carrots.
‘At least the food is better than what we had on Vladibogdan,’ she said. ‘Shame we don’t have a roof over our heads, but there it is.’ The stars hung in the sky far above them and the full moon emerged from the clouds like a vast eye thick with rheum.
