by Nathan Hawke
He held out the gloves. Achista stared at them and then at him. Her eyes shone in the sunset. ‘I don’t understand, Oribas.’ She cocked her head.
‘I’m telling you, Achista of the Marroc, that I belong with you. And I’m asking whether you will belong with me, for the rest of our lives, however long or short they may be, whatever the dawn may bring. I’m asking you to become one with me, that we may both be the wings that the other may fly, that we might do together what neither of us could do alone, that, gods willing, we shall live long and bring great happiness to one another, that we shall raise sons and daughters together and watch them make us proud, that we shall herd our animals and grow our crops and work hard, side by side under the burning sun, and that we shall sleep softly in the same tent and hold one another in the cool hours of dark until we are old and grey and the gods call us away.’
Tears marked her cheeks. She looked away. ‘Oribas, no. Whatever the dawn may bring? You know the answer to that. Forkbeards. You’re not Marroc. I can’t ask you to stay. I don’t want you to stay.’ She looked back at him. ‘I want you to go. You have to close the seal and wait for—’
Oribas put a finger to her lips. ‘For the signal you’ll never give.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘I know. And I’ve thought about this long and hard today. I’ve watched you move among your kin. You bring a spark of hope to each and every one. I could never do that. Except for you. I’m not a fool, Achista. I know what awaits us. I’ve looked at the future. I’m a wizard, after all!’ He laughed but not for long. ‘If I leave, perhaps I will have a long life or perhaps not, but it will be one that is forever tarnished with regret. If my choice is between long dull empty years or one more day here with you then I will stay, and so I will stay, however you answer, and you cannot stop me. I will find means to make this tower impossible to enter, no matter how many forkbeards come, if that is what I must do to keep you. I would call down gods and raise up demons and fling fire from the sky if only I could find a way.’
He offered her the gloves a second time. ‘I have felt this fire once before. A demon destroyed my world. I gave my life to bringing about its end. The gods sent to me what I needed, and now they have sent me to you. My fire then was vengeance but now I have another that burns with a kinder flame. My heart is yours, Achista of the Marroc, and you cannot change that, for my heart belongs always to me and so is always mine to give as I choose.’
She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Her voice broke to a whisper. ‘I cannot ask you to stay, Oribas. I cannot.’
‘You can ask me to stay or you can ask me to leave or you can say nothing at all, but it will make no difference. I will stand with you to the end either way.’
‘You can’t even hold a sword!’ She shook her head, sobbing and laughing, smiling in a ring of tears.
Oribas reached a hand and lifted her chin so she was looking at him again. ‘But I can hold you.’
She fell into his arms and crushed him and he held her back, long and tight. He lifted her head and kissed her, and for a long time the sunset and the glory of the Isset gorge and the mountains around them faded into nothing. Oribas thought he saw Addic poke his head up onto the roof, but he vanished again, and suddenly it was dark and cold and the sun was long gone and stars speckled the sky, and Addic really was there this time.
‘Brother. I . . .’ Oribas watched her smile, and he was right: it was every bit as warm as the sun itself.
‘Diaran and Modris watch over both of you.’ Addic smiled back and beckoned them away, out of the cold, down through the belly of the tower, past the kitchens and the cellars to the old Aulian tomb where a brazier now burned beside a huge pile of furs that hadn’t been there before. ‘There’s little enough joy for us Marroc,’ he said, and he hugged Achista and then Oribas as well. ‘No one will trouble you here before sunrise.’
And no one did, though neither of them got much sleep that night, and it was well into the next morning before they were finally awoken after they fell asleep in each other’s arms amid a cocoon of fur. When Addic came down to them again, this time there was no sign of a smile on his face.
‘The forkbeards have come,’ he said.
31
THE CRACKMARSH
Gallow opened his eyes. He was in a cave. Three Marroc stood looking at him. ‘Well,’ said the one who’d given him the worst of the kicking. The other two stared. The torchlight behind them made them into silhouettes. They were soldiers and that was all he could see.
‘That’s him.’ He didn’t know the second voice but he knew the one that came after it.
‘Gallow.’
Valaric. Gallow hauled himself up to his hands and knees. ‘Need your horse shod or a new blade for your scythe, do you?’
‘I thought you were dead.’ Gallow twisted until he was sitting up. ‘Might have been better if things had stayed that way too. Better for a lot of people.’ For a long time Valaric didn’t move. Then he let out a great sigh and turned away. ‘Go on then, Jonnic, let him loose. Then he can tell us all about the iron devil of Varyxhun being in Middislet. You’re not going to tell me you have nothing to do with that, are you, Gallow?’
‘He’s left Middislet by now.’
Outside in the sunlight the Marroc fed him and gave him water and returned what they’d taken from him. They were none too happy about it but they did what Valaric told them. He let Loudmouth loose as well after Gallow told him what they’d done in Andhun.
‘Turning into a right forkbeard-lover, aren’t I?’ Valaric spat, then listened as Gallow told his story. ‘They turned Varyxhun upside down looking for you,’ he said when Gallow was done. ‘Blood ravens lining the road. Dozens of them. All because of you.’
‘If you put it that way, how many Marroc in Andhun died because of you, then?’ snapped Tolvis.
‘Was Sixfingers who turned on the city.’ Valaric’s eyes narrowed.
‘Was Sixfingers who turned on Varyxhun.’
The two of them stared at each other, neither one giving any ground until a Marroc ran and whispered in Valaric’s ear. He nodded. ‘Forkbeards came past Middislet yesterday. One, maybe two dozen. They had the iron devil of Varyxhun and a Marroc woman with them.’ He cocked his head, still staring at Tolvis. ‘Didn’t burn it down, didn’t hang anyone, just passed through. Why are you here, Gallow?’
Gallow shrugged. He’d been asking himself the same thing ever since Beyard had sent him off into the night. Why? Why would a Fateguard do something like that? Because they’d once been friends? But that had been long ago and Beyard was an ironskin now, and so didn’t the past and friendship count for nothing? Why all the trouble to hunt him down only to let him go? And if it was only the sword he wanted then he had that already. Why take Arda? It made no sense. No sense at all.
‘Spying,’ said Fat Jonnic. ‘Why else?’
Valaric finally let his eyes move from Tolvis to Gallow. ‘And what say you, Gallow the Foxbeard? Are you a spy?’
‘I cut off Medrin’s hand, Valaric.’
‘So you say.’ He leaned forward. ‘But you know the Crackmarsh well enough to find these caves. Everyone in Middislet knows them. What about your friend?’ His eyes flicked back to Tolvis. ‘He a spy?’
Tolvis growled. ‘Ask me to my face, Marroc.’
Gallow put a hand on Loudmouth’s arm. ‘I’d vouch for Tolvis with my life, Valaric.’
‘A forkbeard vouching for a forkbeard?’ Valaric sneered. ‘What’s a Marroc to make of that?’
‘When Twelvefingers and his army stood inside the gates of Andhun, how many Marroc stood with you?’ Gallow let that sink in a bit. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Valaric. Beyard has my wife.’
‘Arda Smithswife?’ Valaric chuckled and even Fat Jonnic laughed too. ‘Good luck to him!’
Gallow flared. ‘Mind yourself, Valaric!’
‘Oh calm now, Gallow. We know Arda well enough. She’d come through the Crackmarsh now and then with a mule, heading to Issetbridge and back. She was a fr
iend of the Crackmarsh men and did us favours now and then, and in return we kept the ghuldogs off her.’ He snorted and grinned at Jonnic. ‘Not that she needed much help with that, mind, not with that tongue of hers.’ Then his face became serious again. ‘The iron devil has a score of men with him. If he crosses the Crackmarsh again then we’ll take him down this time. He might not die, but all that iron will rust if it’s held under the water for long enough.’
Gallow shook his head. Beyard wouldn’t be going through the Crackmarsh. ‘Hrodicslet,’ he said. ‘There’s a way into the Varyxhun valley without crossing the Aulian Bridge.’ And he told Valaric and the Marroc about the trail from Hrodicslet into the high valleys and Jodderslet and the Devil’s Caves while Valaric scratched his chin and began to pace. By the time he was done, Valaric was smiling.
‘Show me this road and I’ll take you to Hrodicslet.’ He cocked his head. ‘What do you say, forkbeard?’
‘What about my family?’
‘They can stay here with Fat Jonnic until they’re ready to go home again. Safe as anywhere. Shall we go?’
Gallow nodded.
‘Good.’ Valaric rubbed his hands. ‘Cithjan’s iron devil has had it coming for a while now.’ He nudged Gallow. ‘You’ve got a forge. We’ll melt him down if that’s what it takes.’
32
SNOW AND FIRE
Addic might have seen fifty or sixty forkbeards riding out of Varyxhun castle but there were closer to a hundred of them around the fortress. They took their time, picking their way around the slopes below Witches’ Reach, carefully outside the range of the Marroc archers on the walls. They ringed the fort with watchers and then withdrew and set about cutting wood for their fires and got a few of them going. The smell of roasting fat wafted up the mountain. Hours after they arrived two of them finally walked toward the gates with their shields raised, holding high a spear with a white rag tied to the shaft. Oribas watched them come.
‘Oribas should talk to them,’ Achista said.
Addic snorted. ‘What’s to talk about? Do you imagine they’ll let us go? Either the valley will rise to our banner or the forkbeards will kill us, and I’d rather die on the end of their spears than be hung as one of their ravens.’
Achista shook her head. ‘Nevertheless, Oribas will talk to them.’
Achista led them now, and however much Addic rolled his eyes, this was a thing Oribas had asked to do. He went to the gates, the Marroc opened them and he walked out onto the road, hands held high where all could see them. Fifty paces away the Lhosir stopped and waited. They looked at him in puzzlement as he drew closer.
‘I am Oribas of what was once Aulia.’ He stopped before them, hands still raised. ‘In my own land a herbalist and a healer but now a prisoner of these Marroc. They’ve sent me out to hear your words and receive your spears. There are many arrows pointed at my back.’
The Lhosir carrying the spear frowned and peered at him. ‘Didn’t we send you to the Devil’s Caves once already?’
‘Yes, you did. There were Marroc waiting in ambush and so I became their prisoner instead of yours. They won’t let me leave because I fled with them and I have seen their secret paths between the valleys.’
The Lhosir’s eyes narrowed. ‘So how is it they send you to do their talking?’
‘Forgive me. I’ve given you my name; may I have yours?’
The Lhosir glanced past Oribas to the walls of the Reach. ‘Skilljan, known as Spearhoof. Tell your Marroc friends my name. Some of them will know it.’
Oribas bobbed his head. ‘I am here because the Marroc have nothing to say and nor do you. If I take one step past you on this road, Skilljan Spearhoof, I will fall with a dozen Marroc arrows in my back. I have no friends among either of you. If you turn your spears on me, you save them a few arrowheads. If you take me, there is little I can reveal save how to reach from here to the Devil’s Caves without walking the Varyxhun Road. The Marroc don’t believe you have anything to say that could possibly matter. If I’m honest with you, Skilljan Spearhoof, nor do I. I’ll take them your name. Is there anything else?’
‘Who leads them here?’ asked Skilljan.
‘A woman. Her name is Ylista but they call her Shieldborn.’
‘Never heard of her. A woman leads this Marroc rabble, eh?’ The Lhosir glanced at one another. ‘Here’s what I have to say, Oribas of Aulia: there will be no quarter or mercy for any Marroc here. I will grant the remainder of the day for you all to make your peace with your gods. On the morrow we come. For every day that the gates of Witches’ Reach remain closed to us, one Marroc farm somewhere in the valley will burn with every Marroc who lives there still within it. To those who surrender before we come, death will be quick and merciful. Those we take in battle will be raised on poles as blood ravens to keep watch over the Aulian Way and greet the shadewalkers. I will find the names of those who die on our swords from those we take alive. We will hunt down their fathers and their sons and their brothers. Sisters and wives and mothers and daughters will weep and curse and throw salt over the cairns of their sons. Tell them that, Aulian.’ The Lhosir cocked his head. ‘Shall we speak again? Shall we say sunrise to hear their answer?’
Oribas shrugged. ‘I doubt they will open the gates for parley a second time.’
‘Nor will I have aught else to say. But I’ll offer you the chance nonetheless. I’ll bring some shields. Maybe you’d like to run away from those arrows and speak a little more about these secret Marroc paths, Oribas of Aulia.’ The Lhosir bowed and turned away. Oribas returned to the tower and told Addic and Achista what the Lhosir had said.
‘I’d like to speak with them again,’ he said when he was done. ‘The seeds are sown. I have an idea how you might win this battle.’
‘How many of them are there?’ asked Achista.
Oribas shrugged but Addic answered. ‘Not yet enough to take this tower by force but too many for us to face in the open. And there will be more.’ He shook his head. ‘I say we fight on a few days until they’re ready to overwhelm us, then we leave. We slink away through the caves and strike again elsewhere. It’ll gall them that we’ve slipped through their grasp.’
Achista shook her head. ‘Every day we stay, Marroc turn their heads as they walk along the Varyxhun Road. They see our banner. They whisper our deeds where the forkbeards can’t hear. If we run the whispers will be nothing more, but every day we defy the forkbeards they grow louder. We’ll stay until they’re shouts hurled from every rooftop in Varyxhun!’
‘These are simple men,’ snapped Addic. ‘They have farms and families and sons and daughters. Let them make their stand and go. Half of them are only here because they know there’s an escape waiting for them.’
Achista glanced at Oribas. Oribas shook his head. ‘Make ladders,’ he said. ‘Rope and wood. Things that can be thrown over the walls. Do that first. They will seem another means to escape. Keep them in the tomb where they can be watched with care. Perhaps some of these brave men here should be allowed to slip away once the end is in sight to spread the word far and wide of what you have done at Witches’ Reach?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but left them and went back into the tower, down the stairs to the old tomb and the Lhosir stores. There were kegs there with the smell of fish oil to them. He opened them one by one and tested them to see which would most easily burn. When he’d found the ones that suited him best, he put them aside and returned to the Marroc above. Fire was a fine weapon in any siege. Let the Lhosir learn that when they came, if they didn’t know it already. For the rest of the day he walked the walls and stood on the roof of the tower, watching the Lhosir camp. The Lhosir were busy in the woods, felling trees and building. They were careful to keep out of sight but there weren’t too many things they could be making. Ladders or a ram or most probably both. Oribas watched their scouting parties circle the walls, looking for places where they might climb up the slopes under cover and bring up a ladder without being seen. There weren’t any, but he thought he knew whe
re they might try. And they had their own watchers too, climbing up the side of the neighbouring mountain where Achista had shown him her banner and told him what she meant to do. They’d be able to see down into the yard between the walls and the tower, and so Oribas had the Marroc build a few things that might look from a distance like Aulian bolt-throwers and carry them up around the gates. He waited with the oil until after dark, rolling out half a dozen kegs while the Marroc lit fires and sang and drank.
‘Be sparing,’ he warned Achista. ‘As soon as it’s gone, that’s when you’ll wish you had it the most.’ He took her back into the tomb with a few other Marroc and as many buckets and all the rope they could find to lift water from the bottom of the shaft, as much as they could carry. ‘You have enough water in the snow here for days but there’s no call to waste it. The water down here is foul. Tip scalding pots of it over the forkbeards when they try to climb their ladders. If the time comes when you must drink it, heat it over a fire until it steams. Keep it there for one finger of the sun and then let it cool.
