A Time of War and Demons

by S E Wendel

  Her eyes flicked to the top of Manek’s circular tattoo. She nodded at it, saying, “Is that one of their customs?”

  He looked down at his chest. “Yes, though we consider it ours now too.”

  “What does it mean?” The Highlands certainly had nothing like it, at least not with such consistency among the people. Ennis had seen a similar tattoo on Kellen, a boy of five.

  Pulling a sheet of parchment and quill towards him, Manek made three lopsided circles in a triangular formation. “This is for your parents,” he said, indicating the right circle, the only one he had. For the left, “This is for who you marry. And the top one is for your children.”

  She found herself smiling. “The cycle of life.”

  “Yes.” He met her gaze. “A new circle is added with each stage.”

  “And here I thought you Lowlanders knew nothing of poetry.”

  He grinned.

  “Is there no reasoning with the Oltaraan?” she asked. “Of reconciling, I mean. They could be a useful ally, especially if your people are already linked, as you say.”

  “About as much chance of the Midlands reconciling with the Highlands.”

  “Ah.” She cleared her throat. “You think them likely to raid soon?”

  “I don’t know about soon, but they’ll come again.”

  Bending towards the map of Rising, she said, “This doesn’t make things any simpler, but I’d suggest utilizing the hills. A few towers wouldn’t go amiss—if one was built atop a hill, you could spy further downriver and have a few more moments to prepare for an attack.”

  He nodded. “That’s good.”

  As they leaned over the map again, Ennis heard voices from upstairs. She watched a couple in their middle years descend into the great hall, the woman stout and the man limping.

  They seemed surprised by the scene before them, and Manek’s father, leaning on a staff, stopped on the landing to regard her curiously. His mother wasn’t so shy.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, sauntering forward.

  Manek stood, opening and closing his fists. “Mother, Father,” he cleared his throat, looking between them, “this is Ennis Courtnay.”

  His mother crossed her arms over her impressive bosom. Ennis heard Manek take a sharp breath and hold it.

  “She’s one of the new gifts?”

  “Yes. She—”

  “So you get one to help you with all of these—” she rifled through the stack of parchment on the table, “what even are these—drawings? You get one when I’m left to slave away keeping up this house?”

  “Mother, would you—”

  “Why do you suddenly have one working for you? Hmm?” She was on her tiptoes before Manek, her hands on her hips with elbows bent out aggressively.

  Ennis wanted to melt into her chair when his mother turned towards her.

  With slightly raised eyebrows, Manek’s father, still standing on the landing, said, “He likes this one.”

  Twenty-One

  Having chosen a suitable spot, Corran the Stonefist built a grand city. Upon its eastern peak, he built a market, wide and fair. On the southern peak, he built many temples to thank the gods for leading him to the spot. On the northernmost peak, he built a castle, sitting like a crown atop the mountain, with an impenetrable keep at the very top. And when blackguards from the west grew envious of his white city, Corran built a wall the likes of which had not been seen before and has not been seen since.

  —from A History of Highcrest

  Centering the plow, Manek put his weight behind it and yelled to Oren. The horse’s great flanks shivered as he heaved, the plow driving forwards to cut the earth.

  Something plinked against the plow-head, and he yanked on the reins to stop Oren, who did so willingly. Stooping over, Manek discovered a sizable rock resting in his way. As he heaved it away from the newly upturned dirt, he noticed his father hobbling towards him, his face a dangerous red.

  “What,” Kierum shouted, “do you think you’re doing?”

  “Building a wall,” Manek replied, knocking dirt off his hands.

  Kierum grabbed Oren’s bridle. “With a warhorse?”

  “He’s the only horse I have.”

  Kierum sputtered. “What about the horses you brought back from campaign? Surely one of those would be better suited for—”

  “You gave those to Walker’s boys days ago to go scouting downriver.”

  “They still aren’t back yet?”

  “No.”

  “You said they were good fighters,” growled Kierum.

  “They are. But even better drunks.” Kierum grew redder at this, and Manek just shook his head. “How much ale did you give them?”

  “What they asked for,” Kierum muttered.

  Manek said nothing, knowing they wouldn’t be seeing Walker’s boys again until they were dry.

  “Still,” Kierum started again, “Manek, this is ridiculous. Oren’s a warhorse, not some work nag.”

  “Find me another, Father, and I’ll happily give Oren a rest.”

  At this the warhorse flicked his mane in agreement.

  “I’m sure we could get some—work and warhorses—from Kennick.”

  “I’ll be spending most everything for more warhorses—we lost too many at Highcrest. We can’t afford workhorses.”

  “You just came back from campaign! Surely you brought back—”

  “Yes, I did,” Manek hissed, “and promptly gave most of it to pay off your debts.” He took a step closer to his father, whose shoulders were taut and indignant. “I’m using the last of it to buy food for you and Mother. You won’t make it to the summer harvest otherwise.”

  “We’ve enough land. We don’t need your charity.”

  “Then consider it payment for living in your house for winter. Since you won’t give me other work, then I’ll do this.”

  “You’ll plow.”

  “It’s the initial line for the wall.”

  “A wall,” Kierum said.

  “A wall.”

  “All by yourself.”

  “If I have to.”

  Kierum looked over Manek’s shoulder at the half dozen souls who’d answered his call to help. There were two men, a farrier’s son and an orchard farmer, but the rest were boys, young sons fathers could spare from the day’s work. Manek was happy to have them, but knew it wasn’t enough.

  “And since you’ve bestowed all your riches on us, how’re you planning on paying them?” Kierum asked, nodding his head at the still-yawning boys.

  “They’re volunteers.”

  “You haven’t even the gold to compensate a few men? How do you think this will succeed with only a handful of boys for help?”

  Manek threw his hands in the air and turned away before acting on the impulse to shake Kierum by his collar.

  “We haven’t had the gold to compensate anyone for years, Father! You gave up your own seneschal years ago, what with all that gold disappearing into your damned house—”

  “Stop that,” Kierum growled. “I built that house as a symbol—it’s a warlord’s house!”

  “You’d still be warlord whether or not we lived in a damned great house—you earned that right with your valor, not your house! And if you’d spared your coffers, I mightn’t’ve needed to build this wall!”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “If you’d just taken a moment to look beyond these hills, you might’ve seen the threat of Larn. We could’ve paid his tribute—he wanted gold and goods when he first came. But all we had to offer was our men.”

  “You know that’s not true. He wanted Anneka just as much as our gold.”

  The heat drained out of Manek at the mention of his sister. Memories rose like bile in the back of his throat, and he tried to swallow both. His shoulders sagged and he moved back behind the plow.

  “We need this wall, Father. It’d be quick work if you called the men in.”

  Kierum only grumbled like Manek knew he would.

&
nbsp; “I don’t want to fight with you.”

  Kierum turned around and hobbled into town without another word. Manek stared at the back of Oren’s head, trying not to think of the boys watching behind him. He’d hedged around Ennis’s questions the other day; in truth, he couldn’t summon the men to work, not like his father. In Rising, it was Kierum’s word that was followed. The fact irked him, and he hadn’t wanted to admit all this to Ennis.

  And so Manek did the only thing he could to quiet his mind: he threw himself into work. Anchoring the plow, he urged Oren on, the horse’s black muscles shining in the morning light. He directed them in a somewhat curved line, stopping only when they began to mount a hill.

  Manek wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, looking up at the crest. This was going to be a lot work.

  He was too preoccupied with thoughts of timelines and workloads to notice Ennis walking towards him. When he did, she washed over him like a soothing rain. He liked the way she sauntered more than walked, how her long, bright hair, coiled in a loose plait, swayed behind her, and how, when she met his gaze, she grinned wide in greeting. He liked that she still wore his cloak, too.

  “This is a fine start,” she said, and it was exactly what he needed to hear.

  “Eight hands will certainly be quicker than one.”

  “Eight…?” She looked behind him, her lips moving silently. “I count six, and you make seven.”

  Withdrawing the plans they’d outlined from his jerkin, Manek said, “And you make eight.”

  She crossed her arms, not taking the parchment. “I’m not digging.”

  “We’ll dig later,” Manek said. Ennis shot him a look. “For now, direct me. We need to make this line as close to the one on the map as possible.”

  Her lips pursed, and he almost laughed at the thoughts he saw crossing her mind; he doubted she’d ever had dirt beneath her nails before. She finally met his gaze, eyes mischievous.

  Taking the parchment, she said, “You get my help on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “You answer any question I ask. Truthfully.”

  “I don’t think I’d make a blood oath on those terms!”

  She shrugged. “That’s my deal.”

  He grinned at the ground, kicking some dirt with the toe of his boot. “Your help better be worth it.”

  “The best,” she agreed, taking a step closer. “Have we an accord?”

  He gazed at her, perhaps less wary than he should’ve been. “Yes.”

  “Well then,” she said, unfolding the map, “shall we?”

  Having the uneasy feeling he’d just entered into a dangerous bargain, Manek resumed plowing as Ennis mounted the hill to survey the work so far. She directed him to go just below the crest as he and Oren made their way up.

  As they started back down the hill, she asked, “How is it you became warlord?”

  “Technically,” he said, pulling another rock out of the way, “my father’s the warlord.”

  “And how did your father become warlord?”

  “He won it.”

  “Won it?”

  Manek nodded as she walked out ahead, waving her hands to warn him around a particularly large boulder. She patted Oren’s neck when he came up beside her, awaiting Manek’s answer.

  “Twenty years ago, many of the strongmen, such as my father, gathered together and decided to be allies. They thought it would be best to have a central leader, like the Highland clans—but unlike them, the warlord would earn his position.”

  Ennis’s mouth opened at this, her face darkening into a frown, but she bit her lip and kept in what she was going to say. Manek had a feeling he’d pay for that.

  “Several men were selected and then, through a number of tests, the most honorable man was chosen.”

  “Leave it to men to pick a leader with a sword,” he heard her mutter under her breath. Louder she asked, “And your father won?”

  “Yes, and the towns that wanted to be in the alliance swore loyalty to both my father and his family.”

  “You didn’t have to prove yourself?”

  “I did,” he said, reining Oren to a halt to give him a rest, “and I suppose I did all right.” He grinned at her, resting against the plow, and asked, “Why? Do you think me a tyrant?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she sniffed, walking ahead.

  He smiled at her flustering, though it bemused him.

  They rounded the south side of town and began turning away from the river. Plowing behind the great house, Manek refused to look in the house’s direction. He suspected his father was watching. Probably glaring too.

  Coming down from an adjoining hill, Ennis told him, “You’d best veer out more, else you’ll run into a house when we get to the square.”

  Nodding, Manek adjusted course.

  “Why a religious house?”

  “What?” He’d almost forgotten their game.

  “Why a religious house for your…gifts? Are you Lowlanders particularly keen on the Mother?”

  “Ah. No, actually. I just…” She watched him as he tried to find a way around the question. He didn’t like thinking about the answer—the whole answer.

  “Just what?”

  He cleared his throat. “It was all I could think of, to be honest. When I came back from my first campaign with Renata, I didn’t know what to do with her. She’d suffered enough without me…well.” He tried looking anywhere but at Ennis. “It was actually my father’s idea—thought it would bring good fortune.”

  Ennis nodded and finally looked away. She opened her mouth several times, trying to voice something, but each time she closed it and her frown deepened. They carried on like that, in silence, until they came to the tree line.

  “And here we stop for now,” he said, pulling up on the reins.

  The western houses were built close to the tree line, too close to lead a horse and plow without hitting roots and foundations. Having made a loop from the northern to the southwestern tree line, he planned to use the trees in his way as the first for the wall. For now, they dug.

  Unhitching Oren, he left the plow after pulling it up out of the tilled earth, and they made their way back to the group at the start of the line, walking on either side of the ditch.

  “That’s not the whole reason,” she said.

  He glanced over at Ennis, wondering why it was he wanted to tell her. No matter how he tried, his sister’s face wouldn’t leave him.

  “When Larn first came ten years ago,” he said quietly, “he demanded many things. We gave him what we could, but when he—” He closed his eyes, his skin crawling at the memory of Larn’s face that day; eyes gleaming with greed, teeth bared in a vicious leer. “When he saw my sister…”

  Ennis gaped at him. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “Anneka was the last thing he demanded. For a concubine. My father was heartbroken, but we didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Did…did she…?” Her face was pained, as if part of her didn’t want to know.

  “That night, Anneka decided she’d rather…” He forced out the words. “My sister killed herself rather than be with Larn. I found her just after.”

  He felt her touch his arm and he looked at her in surprise. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

  He tried to grin in thanks but couldn’t manage it. “My sister would rather die than be with Larn. I could never stomach doing that to a woman—especially not after seeing what Anneka did to avoid it. She was only eighteen.”

  Ennis seemed to swallow hard, as if she fought back tears. He stared at her even when she looked away. She could feel such sympathy for him and his family?

  They rejoined the group in silence, took up extra spades, and began working. Pulling up dirt, they made the initial plow line wider and deeper in preparation for the logs to be hoisted into place.

  “So,” said Manek as they neared the first small hill, wanting to think of something other than his sister’s bloody bod
y in his arms. “Have you run out of questions?”

  Ennis scoffed and peered at him with a lopsided grin. He was relieved to see its return. Much as her sympathy moved him, he wanted her smiles more. “You won’t get away that easily,” she said. “What about swords? One or two?”

  Leaning on his spade, he considered for a moment, even tapping his chin for effect. Ennis laughed and he felt his chest expand and fill with warmth, like a lamp flickering to life. “One,” he said finally, “provided it’s good. There’s something reassuring about a heavy broadsword.”

  “Even if it makes you tired sooner?”

  He shrugged. “You train to not get tired. I don’t need to ask, but what about you? One or two?”

  “Two, of course,” she said, wiping her forehead. “Light and quick.”

  “And you think two smaller swords could best a broadsword?”

  “That would depend on the swordswoman.”

  He chuckled, meeting the subtle challenge in the arch of her brow with a smile. He very much liked this side of her.

  “Why does he feel the need to campaign?”

  And just like that, the lantern went dark in a puff of smoke. “Larn?”

  She nodded. “Is the Midlands such a poor place? Why not rejoin the Highlands?”

  “The Midlands hasn’t considered itself part of the High Kingdom for many years now,” he replied.

  “And the Lowlands?”

  He shook his head.

  “Hm. And he thinks he can just take everything from the Highlands?”

  “Not everything. Just what he wants.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “Gold and women. He spends the gold on his city—I’ve been to Scallya many times, and every time I go back it’s grown; walls, towers, markets. His people love him for it. Of course, he keeps some for himself.”

  “And the women?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

  “The women are said to last just as long as the gold…” He stopped, kicked himself.