Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  “Close the bloody door, would you?”

  Halvor heaved it shut and set the latch. “So he’s still in a foul mood?”

  Across the table, Ardel grinned and ran a calloused hand through thinning hair. “Can’t help that he’s losing.”

  Kurkas glowered at one, and then the other. He sighed and flipped his cards face up. The Queen in Twilight, the Soldier, the Three of Moons and the Eight of Ravens. Worthless hand anyway.

  “I don’t like being cooped up. I’m not poultry.”

  Halvor shook off her cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door. She didn’t look right without the battered phoenix tabard. Kurkas knew a thing or two about divesting parts and pieces of one’s body. A missing arm or eye should have trumped a scrap of ratty old cloth, but Halvor just didn’t seem whole.

  “Any word on Lady Trelan?” asked Kurkas.

  A small, sharp shake of the head. “No. Either she’s lying low, or . . .” The words faded into a weary growl.

  “How is it out there?” asked Ardel, all levity gone from his weathered face.

  Halvor pulled out a chair. “Granfield’s a mess. Soldiers on the streets. Door-to-door searches.”

  “What’re they looking for?”

  “Same thing as in the other villages: opportunity,” said Kurkas. “Makrov’s tidying up before the wind changes.”

  “He’s right,” said Halvor. “They’d prisoner wagons out front. They weren’t empty, neither. Two lads and a lassie. One of them more banged up than Kurkas here. Anyone suspected of being a wolf’s-head is dragged up to Cragwatch. Word is that most who survived the Hadari are up there too.” She brought her fist down on the table. Her face scrunched tight. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  Kurkas knew better than to meet her gaze and settled for meeting that of the Queen in Twilight. “Lord Akadra will put it right.”

  He felt the fury of her gaze fall on him. “Can’t put right the dead, can he?”

  “Wouldn’t be a popular fellow if he could. Different kind of trouble, that.”

  “Can you not spring the wagons?” asked Ardel.

  “With who?” Halvor replied. “What’s left of my phoenixes have scattered. Running for the coast or the Thrakkian border, if they’ve any sense. Everyone else too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Kurkas chuckled. “So, what do we do?”

  “You’re staying here. I’m a fugitive, but you’re a loyal servant of the Republic. Ardel found you on the battlefield and nursed you back to health. Try not to die on him. It’ll raise questions.”

  Halvor’s story wasn’t too far from the truth. Only Ardel hadn’t “found” him – Revekah had fetched Ardel from his tiny hilltop farm.

  Kurkas sniffed. “I’m feeling much better.”

  “Feeling better?” Halvor replied. “How far can you walk without that stick?”

  Kurkas patted the crudely padded and cut-down spear-staff resting against his chair. “Reckon that if Lumestra meant us to walk unaided, she’d not have given us the idea of crutches.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And I’m hearing a lot about what I should be doing, and nothing of what you intend.” He shrugged. “If you don’t trust me, just say so. I can take it.”

  She tipped forward, head falling into her hands. “What I want to do more than anything is pull the ground up over my head and sleep. I feel like I’ve barely closed my eyes in days.”

  Kurkas couldn’t deny that Halvor had lost a good deal of her spark. She looked every bit as grey and miserable as the weather, and with about as much prospect of sunlight breaking through. She’d almost killed him a few days back. Now, a determined field mouse could have given her a stiff challenge. It was upsetting, and not just because that same field mouse could have settled him with two paws tied behind its back.

  Why was he thinking this way? He was a soldier. Halvor was a traitor. That circumstance had flipped her back and forth across that line wasn’t supposed to matter. Smart thing to do would be to walk away, maybe even report to Makrov. Problem was, there were two kinds of loyalty in the world. One to the rule-makers and the other to comrades. The one was not equal to the other. Couldn’t be, could it? Or he’d have seized the retirement Akadra had offered him after Zanya, taken a steward’s position with a noble family and lived the easy life.

  Slippery slope, friendship. Might even tempt a man to treason. Still, treachery was the Southshires’ perennial crop. Maybe there was something in the air . . .

  “What would Katya have done?” asked Ardel.

  “She’d have looked for another way forward,” said Halvor. “But I don’t see one. It took years to gather support. It’s all gone. They’re all gone.”

  “Not entirely,” said Kurkas. “Didn’t you tell me they’d taken the duke’s doxy back up to Branghall?”

  Halvor raised her head and fixed him with a scowl. “Her name is Anastacia.”

  He stifled a smile, glad to see a little fire in her eyes, but knowing better than to say so. “Didn’t say it wasn’t. Point is, I’ve still got my ward-brooch, and I’m betting you’ve still got yours. If you’re lacking for inspiration, I’ll warrant she’s an idea or two.”

  “What if Anastacia’s not there? What if Makrov’s had the enchantment altered?”

  “Reckon he’s been too busy for that. Not a man for details, our archi-mandrite.” Kurkas shrugged. “And if he has? Well, I shouldn’t rightly say this, what with you being a traitor and all, but my mother set a lot of store by retribution. If Anastacia’s beyond reach, you might find Makrov pleasingly close to hand.”

  Reluctance sharpened to suspicion. “And you’d stand by and watch while I ripped out his fat throat?”

  “Madam, please!” Kurkas scratched at his eyepatch. “I’m a soldier of the Republic. Moreover, I do have some finer feelings. I’d turn around first.”

  She laughed her acceptance. Kurkas shook his head and wondered again about what it was about the Southshires that tempted honest souls to treason.

  The dray cart’s reins hung loose in Revekah’s hands. She hadn’t wanted to take the cart at all – the only thing worse than walking in the rain was sitting in it – but Ardel had insisted. And it wasn’t as though Kurkas could have made the journey on foot. Glib remarks about Lumestra’s holy crutches aside, the man still had as much trouble walking as keeping his fool mouth shut.

  She didn’t even know she could trust him, not really. And here she was, rumbling soggily into harm’s way at his suggestion. But despite it all, Revekah was glad of the company. Even if that company was given to tuneless whistling. After a third breathy iteration of “The Maid of Kilver”, she could take no more.

  “Will you please give it a rest?”

  Kurkas leaned back on the bench seat, shoulders slumped. “I liked you better when you were trying to kill me.”

  “I definitely liked you better when you were unconscious.”

  He flicked the tail of his sodden cloak and drew the rest in tighter. “You want to tell me what’s eating you? You’ve had a face like a flooded gutter all day.”

  “I’ve failed my oldest friend in every possible way, and you want to know why I’m unhappy?”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve fought ever since Zanya. Don’t reckon you’d give up now.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I’m the sympathetic sort, ask anyone.”

  Revekah grunted. She’d caught her reflection that morning. Or at least the reflection of an old woman who looked like her. She’d never thought of herself as old before. Just older. But these past days she felt the tally of years in every creaking joint.

  “I’ve not slept well,” she said at last.

  “So you said. Guess it must’ve been thunder I heard last night. Maybe a wild pig broke in and passed out beside the fire.”

  “Will you stop with that?” she snapped. “There’s a difference between sleeping and sleeping well. It’s the same as exists between having been bred and havi
ng good breeding.”

  “That an insult? Because I never had much tutoring, so I ain’t one for erudition or loquacity. And don’t get me started on similes. Pass me by like a leaf in a gale, they do.”

  Revekah shot Kurkas a suspicious glance. He stared dead ahead, with his good eye out of sight. Aggravating man.

  “Bad dreams, is it?” he asked.

  “I never remember them.”

  “Might be it’s better that way.”

  She shook her head, again trying to piece together the scattered details. There were no images, only feelings. Of yearning. Of coming home. “All I know is that my thoughts feel heavy all the time. Like I could curl up and sleep at any moment.”

  “Then why don’t you? Plenty of room in the back. I can manage the cart for a spell.”

  “Won’t help,” she said instead. “I’ll just feel worse when I wake.”

  “No way to live, that. Makes my skin itch just thinking on it.”

  “You asked.”

  Another prolonged silence, broken only by the hiss of rain and the mare’s plodding footsteps. Eskavord became a grey smudge on a rain-swept horizon. To the north, firestone lanterns blazed beneath dancing heels on Gallows Hill.

  Revekah glanced away. It wasn’t supposed to have ended like this.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. “Why help me?”

  “Why’d you save my life instead of going to your precious duke?” “Can you not once give a straight answer?”

  He grinned. “Maybe. Why’d you patch me up? Me, a fearsome northwealder.”

  Why indeed? But there was really only one answer. “We were comrades back then. We’re not any more, so I’ll ask again: why are you helping me?”

  He shrugged. “I like having my debts paid off good and prompt. Figure this might set us even. Besides, Makrov’s a boil on the Republic’s arse. My lads and lasses fought for something better than his pride.”

  It was all a mess, Revekah decided. He owed her. She owed him. Over and over, tallied in wounds mended and foes fought. Perhaps it wasn’t the greatest foundation for friendship, but she’d had worse.

  She listened close to the rain, and fancied she heard Katya laughing at her.

  The sentries at Eskavord’s east gate waved the dray through with only the most cursory of searches. Kurkas guessed few of his fellow north-wealders had much stomach for their current duties, especially in the rain. Only away to the west, where Branghall stood dark against brooding clouds, was there the suggestion of sun and clear skies.

  Halvor stabled the dray and they set off through the streets. Here, at least, the rain was a blessing. With so many folk swathed against the weather, Halvor’s hooded cloak wouldn’t draw notice, let alone suspicion. In fact, no one seemed eager to pay them any heed at all.

  Tressian patrols marched past with the determined speed of soldiers who believed they could stride between raindrops. Southwealders shuffled about like folk on the brink of exhaustion, eyes downcast and dull. The whole town stank of malice and despair.

  It was such a bloody waste, thought Kurkas. Criminal, really.

  He staggered as Halvor’s shoulder thumped into his. The crutch skidded across cobbles. Kurkas scrabbled for a handhold but found none in the press of the crowd.

  Strong hands righted him before he fell entirely.

  Halvor grimaced. “Lost my footing.”

  He set his crutch back in place. “Raven’s Eyes. If you like patching me up that much, just break a few bones while I’m sleeping. Spare me the excitement of the fall.”

  “You’ve had your apology.” Her breath steamed in the cold. “Everyone’s heading to the marketplace.”

  “Want to bet Makrov has something planned?”

  “No.”

  They joined the shiftless procession, which in truth wasn’t all that much faster than Kurkas’ crutch-bound pace, and joined the crowds packed in the shadow of the reeve’s manor. Taking up position towards the rear – but not so far back as to seem unwilling – Kurkas glanced around. He took in dispirited face after dispirited face; the ring of king’s blue soldiers at the periphery and the one broken-down kraikon salvaged from the battle.

  Hard to believe the marketplace had rung with cheers just a week before.

  The crowd should have been rife with discontent – mutters loud enough to carry, but not so loud as to identify those who gave them voice. There was nothing, just the drum of raindrops on wattle and timber – the swish of boots traipsing across waterlogged cobbles.

  “Don’t know why they’re bothering with the soldiers,” muttered Kurkas. “This lot look ready to lie down for just about anything. So much for the unruly south.”

  The expected protest from Halvor never arrived. Kurkas turned about to find her staring distantly at the reeve’s balcony. As a man with few friends and no family beyond the one offered by the hearthguard, Kurkas knew he’d never really understand the depths of Halvor’s losses. Sure, Zanya had cost her, but there’d been hope things might change. Now? Now she was fifteen years older. If Akadra couldn’t set things right, she’d more chance of seeing the mists of Otherworld than a free Southshires.

  “Nothing lasts for ever,” he said softly.

  Halvor blinked and stared at him with fleeting confusion. “Did you say something?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Branghall’s clock chimed for six. Heralds appeared on the balcony. Buccinas blared their brash chorus. Even in the deluge, Makrov couldn’t resist pomp and ceremony.

  As the notes faded into the rain, the archimandrite appeared on the balcony, scarlet robes bright in the gloom. Yanda stood a little to the side, her expression only a shade less dour than the assembled southwealders. A trio of veiled serenes stood in silent attendance behind.

  “People of Eskavord!” Makrov’s querulous tone was a poor match for the rain. The more he strove to overcome the din, the more his voice cracked and broke. “Blessed Lumestra despairs how you have strayed from the Council’s authority! I will guide you back to the light. Lumestra’s radiance may once more grace this town. But it must be earned!”

  If Makrov hoped to fan the flames of fervour, he’d sorely misjudged his audience, who regarded him with the same sullen indifference they’d earlier reserved for the rain.

  “There can be no hope of redemption while you harbour traitors!” shouted Makrov. “I know these were once your friends, your family, but they have renounced Lumestra’s light, and the light of the Council! Their deeds have left us all with empty bellies! They bring punishment down upon you out of selfishness, and out of pride!”

  There should have been something by now, Kurkas decided. Some rumble of discontent. Some protest. Had the tumult of recent days broken the folk of Eskavord so completely?

  Makrov braced his hands against the balustrade and leaned out into the rain. “But I understand loyalty. I do. I served in the Republic’s army. I stood the line on the border. I know that swords drawn together are the highest loyalty. So I’ll make this offer: whoever brings me Calenne Trelan or Revekah Halvor will receive clemency for themselves, and all their kin! They’ll earn exemption from rationing, and the gratitude of the Council! I know I ask much. I know this is a sacrifice. But the Republic was built on sacrifice!”

  Beneath the balcony, one soldier dipped his head to another’s ear. A finger pointed across the crowd. Shoulders hunched, they made their way into the marketplace, parting onlookers with sharp gestures and the flats of swords.

  “This was a mistake,” muttered Halvor.

  “Let’s not make a scene,” Kurkas replied.

  The soldiers drew nearer.

  Kurkas blotted out Makrov’s diatribe and swept his gaze around the marketplace. The ring of soldiers was tight, but not unbroken. Through the gap, beyond the fountain and an empty wagon, an alleyway beckoned. A potential escape, for someone light enough on their feet. If she could get through the crowd. If the soldiers didn’t block her retreat in time.

  If a lot o
f things.

  “Hold, you!”

  Gloved fingers tightened around the shoulder of a woman a dozen paces in front of Kurkas. The soldier spun her around and ripped her hood back. “Thought it was you!”

  The woman struck the challenger in the gut. Golden hair spilled free as she made to run. The second soldier reeled her in and cuffed her about the head.

  “Hands off, northwealder pig!”

  The second soldier clapped his hand over her mouth. He snatched it back with a cry and cuffed her again. She collapsed into the first soldier’s waiting arms, eyes glassy.

  Halvor stiffened. Kurkas gripped her wrist in warning. “No scene, remember?”

  Makrov’s invective faded. Brow furrowed, he stared down at the interruption.

  “What is this?”

  The first soldier straightened. “Wolf’s-head, my lord. Snagged a wagon of provisions meant for Cragwatch just yesterday. Killed two of my company and wounded a third.”

  “You know her?” murmured Kurkas.

  “Elbi Semmer,” Halvor replied through gritted teeth. “She’s a phoenix. One of mine.”

  Makrov raised his voice and flung a hand in Semmer’s direction. “You see? They’re still among you, inviting punishment! Stealing from those who defend you against the eastern barbarians!”

  A scuffle broke out. A soldier staggered away, a hand cupped to his face.

  “I fought the Hadari!” shrieked Semmer. “Where were you? Where were any of you?”

  Makrov gestured. Three more soldiers started out across the crowd. “Where are the stolen supplies?”

  “Gone,” spat Semmer. “Gone to feed the hungry.”

  “And your compatriots?” Makrov shook his head and leaned low over the balcony, elbows propped on the balustrade. “Give me their names, and where they can be found. Your sin will be forgiven. You’ll go free.”

  She spat. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

  “That too I doubt. Take her away!”

  The soldiers dragged Semmer from the marketplace. She fought and kicked at every step, her heels splashing through the filthy puddles.