by Anthony Ryan
Ellese let out a small whimper at the sight of the outlaw’s body spasming, the crotch of his trews becoming sodden as his bowels loosened in death. Just a child after all, Vaelin mused, watching the blood drain from the girl’s face. The thrill of the hunt and the fight is one thing, this is another.
The outlaw’s legs kicked a few more times before he slackened. Piss mingled with shit to cover his boots before dripping to the ground where it steamed in the chilled night air. Ellese gagged and turned away, hurrying off to a shadowed corner to loudly disgorge the contents of her stomach.
“She will truly be Lady Governess of Cumbrael one day?” Tallspear asked, eyebrow raised to a dubious angle.
“As is her mother’s wish,” Vaelin told him.
“I did so much in service to the World Father and the Fief.” Tallspear shook his head, a new depth of sorrow in his voice. “It all seems like a dream now. An old nightmare that troubles me only rarely. Sometimes I wonder if I deserve this life. Iron Eyes, our children, the people who took in a starving madman they found wandering the woods. It feels like gifts to an unworthy soul. I suppose that’s when I lost him, the Father. For why would he ever reward one such as me?”
Vaelin found himself seized by sudden anger. This man he had spared, this former assassin and fanatic bemoaning his lost god. He had an urge to beat this self-pitying fool to the ground. As it often did, anger carried Vaelin back to the craggy hilltop in northern Volaria, the wind and the rain beating at his benumbed flesh as he held Dahrena, her body a small, limp thing in his arms. She spoke of how much she loved you, the Ally had said. But mostly she worried for the child you made together . . .
“My lord?”
Vaelin blinked, realising Tallspear had retreated a step, face wary. Vaelin turned back to the gate, where another outlaw was being dragged towards the noose, feet scrabbling at the muddy ground, his face rendered childlike by desperate sobs. “Captain Nohlen!” Vaelin called out.
“My lord?”
“This is taking too long. Behead the rest and have done. I’m keen to be gone from here.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
He left Nohlen and half the North Guard at the gulch as security against any outlaw gangs who might attempt to seize the mine. At Alum’s urging the Moreska agreed to remain, though most seemed disinclined to keep working the seams. Only half the gold ore accrued by the outlaws could be packed onto the mules they found in the stables. Vaelin told Nohlen he would send a suitably well-protected caravan for the remainder on return to North Tower.
Before setting off he watched Alum consult with a small group of Moreska. There were six of them, four men and two women comprising the oldest souls to be found amongst the freed captives. They joined hands to form a circle with Alum kneeling in the centre, head lowered as he spoke in a tongue Vaelin didn’t know. He was struck by the sadness of the other Moreska, each face drawn in sorrow, tears visible on their cheeks.
When Alum had finished speaking, one of them, a woman marginally older than the others, raised her eyes to look at Vaelin. Like Alum, her brows were inscribed with a series of precisely placed scars, but hers were more numerous. Vaelin found her gaze uncomfortably direct, possessed of a piercing quality that he knew saw a great deal. A faint, plaintive echo of something lost stirred in his heart as the woman continued to regard him, making him wonder what tune the blood-song would have sung at this moment. The loss of his gift was several years distant now, but there were occasions when he felt its absence keenly, like an old wound aching on a cold morning. There were even times like this, when he fancied he still heard it, a faint tune just out of reach, a tune that brought insight and surety, a tune that had saved him more times than he could count. A tune lost in the Beyond, he reminded himself, straining for it once again but failing to grasp more than the faintest echo that may have just been born of his yearning. But, blood-song or not, he somehow still sensed this woman’s gift. What does she see?
As if hearing his unspoken question, the woman blinked and returned her gaze to Alum, speaking softly in their shared language. It had a melodious quality, possessed of a near-musical cadence that made it seem as if she were reciting poetry. When she fell silent she and the other Moreska all unclasped their hands and turned their backs on Alum, walking away with neither glance nor word as he continued to kneel on the ground.
“If you would, my lord.”
Vaelin looked down from his horse to find Tallspear proffering a piece of parchment. “The name of our factor in North Tower,” the hunter explained. “He’ll oversee receipt of payment for our efforts here.”
“The Bear People have a factor now?” Vaelin asked.
“As you know, the Reaches are full of rogues keen to cheat the unwary. Last winter a merchant came to the Sound offering strings of beads for all the beaver pelts we could provide. He was lucky to be chased off with only a spear jab to the arse.”
“I’ll see to it.” Vaelin pocketed the parchment. “I would ask that you have a care for these people,” he added, gesturing to the Moreska. “Provide food until they can hunt for themselves.”
“It’s not our way to shun those in need.” Tallspear smiled tightly and moved back, then paused, a cautious look in his eye. “Hunting outlaws is not truly a war, my lord. Merely the management of vermin. The wars are over. You do know that, I trust?”
Vaelin gave a very small laugh as a long-remembered phrase came to mind. “There’s always another war.”
“Only if you go looking for it.” Tallspear gave a formal bow of farewell and strode away.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Your walls aren’t big enough,” Alum observed eight days later as they reined in atop a hill from which the whole of North Tower could be seen. Vaelin had to concede the man had a point. In the years since his return to the Reaches a once-small but bustling port had transformed into a minor city. Homes and storehouses now extended a good distance beyond the walls. Some months ago, Vaelin had commissioned plans for a new defensive barrier, much to the objections of the Merchants’ Guild, dismayed at the prospect of a levy to cover the costs, despite their ever-more-swollen coffers. But such greed-inspired grumbling hadn’t been the reason he put the plans aside; at the rate the place was expanding, any new walls would soon also be rendered obsolete.
“Gold is like water in this Realm,” he told the Moreska. “It makes things grow.”
Alum gave a rueful shake of his head, both amused and baffled. “Those born to the sands will never understand the allure of a shiny yellow metal too soft to even make a decent spear-point.” Vaelin detected a wistful note to his voice that told of a profound longing for lands now lost, perhaps forever.
“The world is ever changeable,” he said. “Perhaps one day . . .”
“No, my friend.” Alum smiled and shook his head. “There will be no return to the sands for the Moreska. The Protectors do not live there anymore, so neither will we.”
Vaelin thought back to their departure from Ultin’s Gulch, the sight of this man kneeling in the circle of elders. “What did it mean?” he asked. “When your people turned their backs?”
“It meant that as our clan can no longer return to the sands, I can no longer return to them, not until I have found our children, be they dead or be they living.”
“You do know that may not be possible?”
The question seemed to baffle Alum, and Vaelin realised it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him before. “I have never failed in a hunt,” he said. “I will not fail now.”
Vaelin opted to enter the town via the north-western road where the new-built housing was thinnest. Even so, people still came to watch the Tower Lord’s arrival, dozens emerging from homes to offer shouted greetings although most simply bowed. These days, over half the population of North Tower were immigrants from the wider Realm. Almost all seemed to have their share of da
rk memories of the Liberation War and a frequently annoying level of reverence for the man who wrought the Miracle of Alltor and stormed the docks of Varinshold. Consequently, Vaelin took every opportunity to absent himself from the tower and did his best to ensure his departures and arrivals occurred in the hours of darkness. Sadly, with the need to get the gold under lock and key, that hadn’t been possible today.
“I thought your people worshipped the dead,” Alum said, squinting at the passing crowd.
“They do, after a fashion,” Vaelin replied. “Though some worship a single god and others . . .” He trailed off with a sigh. “Suffice to say, when it comes to matters of worship, the Realm is a complicated place.”
“Not so complicated.” Alum bared his teeth in a grin. “These people seem to worship you.”
The North Guard were soon obliged to take the lead in order to clear the road of over-enthusiastic welcomers, ensuring a reasonably swift passage to the western gate and into the town proper. Here the people were mostly Reaches-born and less inclined to gather in welcome, though a few Vaelin knew by name called out a greeting as they navigated the narrow streets to the tower. In times past it had been custom for the North Guard garrison to parade upon return of the Tower Lord, but Vaelin had long since discontinued the practice. In fact the only sign of a welcoming party was the blond woman and the girl standing on the tower steps. Both seemed nervous and keen to avoid his gaze, something that caused his heart to plunge. Not again.
“You’ll be provided a room,” he told Alum as they dismounted. “It would be my honour if you would join me for a meal tonight.”
“Of course. The Merchants’ Guild . . .”
“First thing on the morrow.” Vaelin glanced at Sehmon Vek clumsily disembarking the back of a mule, much to Ellese’s amusement. “Your servant will sleep in the stables.”
The blond woman greeted him with a formal bow as he climbed the steps, something he had told her not to do more times than he could count. However, she had always been keen on propriety, evidenced by the unadorned gown she wore, which still bore the black ribbons of mourning for a husband near six years dead.
“My Lady Kerran,” he greeted her, bowing in return before extending a hand to the girl at her side. “No kiss for your uncle, Lohren?”
“Sorry,” she said, coming forward to hug him tightly as he planted a kiss on the top of her head. The fierceness of her embrace told him a good deal, as did the faint tremble in her limbs.
“My lord,” Kerran began. “It grieves me to raise a somewhat difficult matter so soon upon your return . . .”
“Just tell me,” Vaelin cut in, frowning at the sight of her tightly clasped hands, the knuckles pale with tension. “He hasn’t killed anyone this time, has he?”
Kerran gave a very weak smile before replying. “Not for want of trying, my lord.”
CHAPTER THREE
Lord Nortah Al Sendahl sat on the floor of his cell, head slumped and back propped against the wall. He didn’t look up as the door swung open, though Vaelin detected a faint grimace under his beard. The cell lay deep in the bowels of the tower, the only illumination a small candle in an alcove. The space reeked of unwashed flesh and stale drink, the foul humours enhanced by the contents of the bucket in the corner. The stench did little to alleviate Vaelin’s already darkened mood.
He told the guard to close and lock the door, then stood staring at Nortah in silence until he finally raised his head. The amused glint in the reddened eyes visible through the veil of unwashed hair made Vaelin glad he had removed his weapons before coming here.
“What happened to your nose?” Nortah asked.
“An outlaw’s arrow,” he replied. His gaze shifted to a patch of dried blood on Nortah’s forehead, picking out the small black knots stitched into his scalp under the reddish brown stain. “Brother Kehlan says they’ll live.” Vaelin stooped to peer at Nortah’s wound. “You’re out of practice, brother.”
“This was Master Hollish, proprietor of the White Stag,” Nortah replied, his chains rattling as he lifted his hands to gesture at the injury. “Now there’s a fellow with a strong arm. He was at Alltor, you know.”
“So were many.”
Vaelin moved to the low wooden bunk with its straw mattress and sat down, allowing the silence to descend once more. Nortah had never been comfortable with silence.
“Three dim-witted sailors talking about the war,” Nortah said finally. “Bragging about the battles they’d been in. They’d never been in a fucking battle, I could tell. I thought they might benefit from a taste of what it’s really like.”
“Actually, one of them served aboard the Queen Lyrna at the Battle of the Beacon. Brother Kehlan says he’ll be lucky if he keeps his eye.”
Nortah looked away, tongue playing over his lips and fists bunching in his manacles. Vaelin knew his moods well enough by now to read the signs; he was starting to sober up, meaning he was also getting thirsty.
“My sister came begging, I assume?” Nortah asked, a certain resentment colouring the discomfited note in his voice, just a notch shy of desperation. “I didn’t ask her to.”
“No, you never do. And yet she comes anyway. This time she brought Lohren, but not Artis. Why is that?”
Nortah shrugged. “The boy wishes to carve his own path.”
“The boy is barely twelve years old. Having lost his mother it seems he’s also lost his father.”
“Kerran cares for him, and Lohren and the twins. They get all of my pension save a small pittance.”
“For which the innkeepers of this town are very grateful.”
For a second Nortah glared at him, then laughed. “All right,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. “What will it be? Another thirty days in the mines? Sixty? Fair enough. Miners always have plenty of grog. I will, of course, pay due restitution to the injured parties. Even buy that sailor a glass eye if he needs it.”
“No.” Vaelin shook his head. “No, brother. Not the mines. Not this time.”
“Then what? A flogging in town square? Hang me in the old gibbet for a few days?” His mouth twitched as he smiled, voice quavering as the thirst took hold with a vengeance. “As you wish, my lord.” He closed his eyes, running a palm over his bunched brows. “Just a small cup of wine first, is all I ask.”
“I am not currently minded to accede to any request you might make, Lord Nortah.” Vaelin got to his feet, moving to the door. “You will receive adequate food and water. Brother Kehlan will visit every few days to check on your health.”
“You’re just going to leave me here?” Nortah forced a laugh, bracing himself against the wall as he got unsteadily to his feet. “I have a right to trial, don’t forget. As a Sword of the Realm . . .”
“You have all the rights I choose to grant you,” Vaelin snapped, pausing to glance around the cell. “For now, I choose to grant you the hospitality of my home.”
Nortah’s tongue snaked over his lips again. “For how long?”
“However long it takes Brother Kehlan to tell me you’re no longer a drunkard.” Vaelin turned back to the door, raising his fist to knock for the guard’s attention. “By then perhaps you’ll have remembered you’re a father.”
The attack came without warning, Nortah’s bulk slamming Vaelin against the door, his chain looping over his head, drawing tight. “What do you know of fatherhood?” he hissed in Vaelin’s ear, his breath acrid enough to sting the eyes. “What do you know of family? Just because you used to fuck my sister . . .”
Vaelin’s head snapped back into Nortah’s nose. He followed with a hard elbow to the ribs before ducking loose of the chain. Nortah retreated a step, eyes bright above his bloodied beard as he snarled and charged again, aiming a double-fisted blow at Vaelin’s head. Vaelin stepped close before it could land, driving a knee into Nortah’s midriff, forcing the air from his body. Nevertheless he kept trying to
fight, reaching for Vaelin’s throat with chained hands. He may have been more than a match for three drunken sailors the night before, but in the midst of his thirst, his weakness was pitiable. Vaelin shrugged his hands aside and clamped his own about Nortah’s neck, pressing his head hard against the wall.
“What do I know of family?” he grated, teeth clenched. “I know what I lost. Sella was my family too, and so are you, you self-pitying fool!”
Nortah stopped struggling as Vaelin’s hands tightened on his throat, the animosity draining from his face to be replaced by a grim, hungry acceptance. “Do it,” he whispered. “They’re all gone. Caenis, Dentos, Barkus . . . Sella. All gone. Send me to them. Send me to her.”
Vaelin’s hands slackened and he moved back, finding he couldn’t meet the desperate plea in Nortah’s eyes. This man was a ghost, a tired echo of the overly proud scion of Renfaelin nobility Vaelin had met the day they were taken into the House of the Sixth Order all those many years ago. A decade of harsh tutelage and war had transformed that boy into a man of deep compassion and great courage, ensuring his elevation to the highest rank in the pantheon of heroes to arise from the prolonged nightmare of the Liberation War. But, as Vaelin had often observed, in peacetime the rewards of courage were often meagre.
“I told you before,” he said. “The Beyond is not . . . was not what they told us. She won’t be there.”
“You can’t be sure,” Nortah insisted. “You told me that too. There is something there, something on the other side. You’ve seen it . . .”
“She won’t be there!” Vaelin rounded on Nortah, fully intending to beat him down, try to pummel some sense into his addled brain. He stopped upon seeing the undimmed hope in his brother’s gaze. As much as he thirsted for drink, it was plain he thirsted more for death.
