Cold Redemption

by Nathan Hawke

  ‘It seems a lot of work when there’s snow lying everywhere underfoot.’ They barely had enough rope.

  ‘Pile the snow outside into a mound against the gates in the night and pack it tight. It will strengthen them and be your source of water. Make other mounds elsewhere, against the wall of the tower. That too will be your water. Who knows what will come over the walls when the Lhosir attack. Animal dung and their own faeces, perhaps. Although perhaps not.’ He frowned. ‘In the desert heat it is effective. Here perhaps less so.’ He climbed down the rungs of the shaft and called to the Marroc to lower the first bucket. As each one came down, he filled it five or six times and threw the water down the tunnel that led out to the mountainside. It would freeze into ice in the night, he thought. He did that and then filled each bucket one last time and tugged on the rope for the Marroc to haul it back up. The buckets banged and clattered against the wall as they rose and most of the water spilled, but Oribas kept them at it. When they were done, he tested the level of the water in the shaft. It was a handspan down from the level of the passage now. Good enough.

  ‘What was the point of that?’ Achista asked him when he finally reached the top again. ‘The buckets were almost empty by the time we got them up.’

  ‘Fill them with snow.’

  She threw up her hands in exasperation and fatigue. ‘If we’re going to do that, why did we waste half the night with this?’

  ‘Do your Marroc have something better to do?’

  He thought he had her there, since although the Marroc should be resting before the fight began in the morning, they both knew that most of them wouldn’t be able to sleep. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck, he realised he was wrong. ‘I do,’ she whispered.

  They didn’t get much sleep that night either, and this time Oribas was up before dawn. He showed Achista the oil he’d kept aside and told her exactly what he meant to do. Then, before he went out to parley with the Lhosir again, he opened his satchel and set to work.

  33

  HRODICSLET

  Two days of hard walking on the heels of Valaric and his men brought them across the Crackmarsh and to Hrodicslet, where little wooden jetties stuck up out of the snow and all the houses were built on stilts for when the Isset flooded in the spring and the swamps and bogs of the marsh turned into miles and miles of water meadows and a thousand creeks and channels. Some years Hrodicslet didn’t flood but more often than not it did. Boats lay scattered everywhere, resting askew in the snow, half buried, tethered to the houses and walkways, waiting for the thaw and for the rising waters that would follow. Valaric sent Sarvic ahead into the town to find where Beyard and his men were staying.

  ‘They’ve helped themselves to Elder Hall,’ Sarvic said when he came back. ‘Can’t see where else they’d go.’

  ‘No. Don’t suppose you can.’

  Gallow looked over Valaric’s Crackmarsh men. They were surly seasoned soldiers who’d face up to a Lhosir, but Beyard was a Fateguard armed with Solace, and every Marroc knew that the Comforter was a wicked blade.

  ‘You can look as doubtful as you like,’ Valaric growled. ‘Do you think I’m going to stand outside and shout at them until they come out in their mail so we can have a fair fight? It’ll be creeping in at midnight with knives. It’ll be cutting throats, and the ones who wake up won’t be dressed for battle. You know how much a forkbeard in a nightshirt troubles me? Not much at all.’

  ‘I’ll not be a part of murdering men while they sleep.’

  ‘Fine.’ Valaric picked up a stick and began to strip the bark off it with his teeth. ‘You two go in there and ask them nicely to give your woman back, and then later after we’ve done with cutting throats, we’ll all stand around your corpse and think what bloody idiots you forkbeards are. Or stay here and pick your noses and wait for me to bring her back to you. Your choice.’

  The sun set. Winter darkness came quickly in the mountains but in the marsh the twilight seemed to linger. Valaric and his Marroc sat in a circle around a small fire, swigging beer and playing dice to while away the time. Gallow and Tolvis sat together apart from the Marroc. Gallow wasn’t sure what to make of Loudmouth now he knew the truth. He should be grateful. Most of him believed that. Grateful to a man who’d walked across a hostile land to hand a purse of silver to another man’s wife and not kept it for himself. Grateful to a man who’d protected his family and hidden them away from Medrin when he could so easily have sold them. Grateful to a man who’d seen to it that his children had food and grew strong, who’d taught them right and wrong as a Lhosir should know it and how to hunt and forage and the beginnings of how to fight. Grateful to a man who’d lost his own family years ago and was content to take on the duties of another. Grateful, and yet Tolvis had done more than merely care for Arda and his children as though he was a dutiful brother, and even if all of them had thought he was dead, a part of Gallow seethed at that. Tolvis had taken what was not his to take. Among the Lhosir such things were only ever settled with blood.

  ‘I’ll leave,’ Tolvis said. ‘As soon as she’s free, I’ll leave. I’ll return across the sea and never come back.’

  ‘You’ll never survive. Too many people know you. Medrin will hear. He’ll have you hanged.’

  ‘I have plenty of friends.’

  ‘You have plenty of enemies.’

  Tolvis hesitated. ‘And which should I call you?’

  ‘Friend. I’ll tell you if it must be otherwise.’

  ‘Don’t blame Arda.’ Tolvis held his head in his hands. ‘I was the one who—’

  ‘Stop!’ Again and again he remembered standing over Tolvis on the road out of Andhun, axe in hand after Medrin had sent Tolvis to bring Gallow back to join him in his hunt for the Crimson Shield. He’d looked at the soldier lying on the road scrabbling for his feet and had made up his mind that yes, he would go back and he would join Medrin and he would finally set his eyes on the mystic shield that had created the rift between them in the first place. He’d thought it might change something. And it did, but nothing good. He’d have given much to go back to that moment, to leave Tolvis lying there and ride on home. Leave the Marroc and the Lhosir and the Vathen to fight and fight until only one remained while he lived quietly in peace, far away from anything, drawing wire and hammering nails and hoes and ploughs and scythes.

  ‘Stop,’ he said again, more gently. He pressed his hands to his face. It made no difference now. There was nothing he could do to make those years come back and nothing he could do to make things as they’d been before he’d left. Loudmouth might go home but so what? Did Arda even still want Gallow? Did his children remember him? And even if they did, Beyard knew who he was and perhaps so did the Lhosir who rode with him. They’d seen where he lived and they knew his family, and nowhere would ever be safe again. ‘I don’t want to know, Loudmouth. This is how it will be. When I’m with you, I’ll blame Arda and be grateful for the care you took of my sons. When I’m with Arda, everything will be my fault, since Arda certainly won’t allow for anything else.’

  ‘She has a tongue to her, that’s for sure. I wondered sometimes how you survived for all those years.’ Tolvis chuckled and for a moment Gallow smiled too. Arda with her sharp tongue and Loudmouth together? Surprising they were both still alive.

  ‘She put a spell on me, my friend,’ said Gallow. ‘The same one she put on you. One that never went away.’

  Tolvis thought about that for a bit. ‘There’s more than one Marroc in Middislet who calls her a witch when they think no one will hear.’

  ‘I remember three. Shilla, because everyone knew her brother was an idiot but Arda couldn’t stop telling everyone anyway in case they’d somehow forgotten. Jassic because he was sweet on Shilla.’

  ‘And then there’s old woman Katta in her hut, who comes into the village once a week and makes the sign of Modris every time she walks past the forge.’ Tolvis smiled.

  ‘Still alive, is she?’

  ‘I think she’ll live fo
r ever, that one. Didn’t know about Jassic though. He died two winters back. Vanished. Didn’t find his body for weeks. No one knows what happened.’ Tolvis shrugged. ‘Got hurt, couldn’t get home and froze, I suppose. Shilla married Boric the spring after.’

  ‘She was always playing those two off against each other.’

  They sat in silence after that, neither of them finding anything to say until Valaric finally got up from the fire and the rest of his Marroc rose to follow him. ‘You forkbeards coming or are you leaving it to Marroc to do your fighting for you?’

  ‘I’ll not murder men in their sleep.’

  Beside Gallow, Tolvis shook his head. ‘Nor I.’ He stood up anyway. ‘But you’ll need someone to face the ironskin for you.’ He followed as Valaric led his men into the darkness and the distant fires of Hrodicslet, and so Gallow rose too, because Arda would expect it. She’d expect him to cut throats if that’s what it took to keep his family safe, but some things he couldn’t do, not even for her.

  Valaric knew Hrodicslet well enough to find his way around its outskirts in the starlight. With his men he crept towards the centre through the deep snow among the raised walkways until the Marroc found their way to the Elder Hall at the town’s heart. Valaric led them to the small door at the back, hidden in shadows under the overhanging eaves of a house that was more like a barn. He took the stick he’d been whittling earlier and wriggled it between the door and its frame and then made a face and crouched down and wriggled it some more, trying to lift the bar that held it closed on the inside. He peered through the crack and whispered, ‘Quick as you can, lads. No need for quiet. They’re a-snoring on the floor in there.’ Then he threw the door open and the Marroc ran inside, swords drawn, yelling and screaming, stabbing into the thick bundles of fur on the floor. Valaric grabbed Gallow’s hand and pulled him, dragging him inside. ‘You don’t have to do the killing if it troubles you, forkbeard, but by the gods you’ll be here to see it happen.’

  He stopped, the two of them barely inside the door. The first Marroc were halfway across the hall, their cries dying on their lips. The Lhosir bundles of fur were thrown over not men but sacks filled with straw. And then all around the hall, the doors to the little rooms around the sides where animals were kept indoors for the winter nights were thrown open and there they were, the Lhosir, axes drawn and ready for battle. They howled and fell on the Marroc and the Marroc ran. Valaric seized Gallow by his furs. ‘Forkbeard piss pot! You led us into a trap!’

  A Marroc bolted through the door. Gallow pushed Valaric outside and then stood to bar the way to Beyard and the advancing Lhosir. The Marroc who’d led the way were already dead, cut down in the first charge. Two Lhosir ran at him; he blocked them both with his shield and swung his axe at their faces, forcing them back. Behind him Loudmouth tugged at his coat. ‘The Marroc are running, Truesword, and we should run too.’

  ‘No!’ Beyard had seen him now. Most of the Lhosir were pouring out of the big door at the other end of the hall into the streets of Hrodicslet. ‘Arda!’

  ‘Will not be helped by our deaths! Maker-Devourer, Truesword, I’d die for her too; I’d die for both of you if it would help, but it won’t, not this time. This time we must run!’

  Run. A Lhosir never ran. That was what they all told themselves but the truth was that they did, more often than any of them would ever admit. He remembered old Jyrdas One-Eye, most terrible of the Screambreaker’s men: he’d been happy to admit that he’d turned and run plenty of times when the odds didn’t suit him. Hadn’t been afraid to die when he thought it would make a difference but had no interest in it when it changed nothing. Even the Screambreaker had run once. They’d all run at Selleuk’s Bridge, the one and only time the Marroc had got the better of them. He and Tolvis had run from the Vathen in Andhun. So yes, a Lhosir ran when it suited him, but Arda was in there, the woman whose memory had kept him alive for three hard years.

  Tolvis pulled so hard that Gallow staggered back out of the doorway, and then Loudmouth was standing in front of him with his axe and his shield and no mail at all, facing three Lhosir who saw how easy he was going to be and grinned. ‘Stay if you like, Gallow, but if you do then I won’t budge from in front of you.’

  So he ran, and Tolvis ran after him, and the Lhosir gave chase but Beyard called them back. ‘Find the Marroc! Don’t worry about them. They’ll be back. I have something they want.’ As the Lhosir stopped, Gallow slowed and looked over his shoulder. He could just about make out Beyard in his iron crown, striding out into the night. ‘I kept my word, Truesword! I gave you a day and I’ve not hurt her!’

  Gallow rounded on the cry with one of his own: ‘Why did you let me go, Beyard? Why keep her but let me go?’ But he got no answer.

  They followed their own tracks back into the edges of the Crackmarsh, to where the surviving Marroc were gathering. Valaric stared at the two of them in disbelief while the other Marroc circled around, weapons drawn and faces tight with fury.

  ‘I lost seven men tonight, forkbeards. Another man might think you knew all along that this was a trap. Another man might think you led us to Hrodicslet knowing they’d be waiting.’

  ‘Kill them Valaric! Feed them to the ghuldogs!’

  Tolvis snarled, ‘Who’s first?’

  Gallow pushed in front of him. ‘I led you to some forkbeards, that’s all. You were going to kill them in their sleep. I told you not to. You did this to yourself, Valaric. You knew a Fateguard led them.’

  Valaric turned away. ‘Go, Truesword. You’re not welcome here any more.’

  ‘Valaric!’ Two of the Marroc almost jumped at him. ‘They’re forkbeards! You can’t just let them go!’

  Valaric stilled them with a wave of his hand. He didn’t look round as Gallow and Tolvis left.

  34

  BETRAYER

  The Lhosir were waiting for him as they’d promised. The same two but now they had the rest of their men only a hundred paces further down the road. They stood in a solid rank across the track, ready for battle, a wooden ram behind them. It couldn’t be anything else. They’d been thoughtful enough to put a roof over the top of it.

  Behind Oribas, the gates to Witches’ Reach were closed. They’d be closed for the rest of winter now – the mound of crushed snow and ice behind them would see to that. Oribas had come down the wall on a ladder.

  ‘They’ve heard of you, Skilljan Spearhoof. They don’t strike me as particularly afraid. Shall I give you the message I have for you? The gates tell you all that matters. Their message is the same except in words more calculated to enrage.’

  Skilljan Spearhoof nodded. ‘Will you stay then, Oribas of Aulia? Tell me of these secret Marroc paths and I’ll give you a kind death when the time comes. Kinder than the one you’ll receive when we breach the walls.’

  ‘I’d prefer no death at all, Lhosir.’

  ‘My eyes tell me that the Marroc have been building Aulian spear-throwers in the night. Since they’re farmers, I must suppose you were their architect.’

  Oribas shook his head. ‘There are no spear-throwers. The Marroc have neither the tools nor the skills nor the materials to make one. What your eyes have seen are a few pieces of wood thrown together to deceive you.’ He looked up sharply, catching Skilljan’s eye. ‘I could show a man how, though, given time.’

  Skilljan shook his head. ‘Not enough to earn you your life, Aulian. Cithjan himself gave the order to send you to the Devil’s Caves. I cannot ignore my lord.’

  ‘Would you send men to the Devil’s Caves, Skilljan Spearhoof?’

  The Lhosir started to shake his head and then caught himself and smiled. ‘You’re a clever one, Oribas of Aulia. No, I would not, but nor am I the lord of Varyxhun.’

  Oribas turned back towards the tower. ‘Do you have any words for me to take back?’

  ‘None that any Marroc will heed.’

  ‘There is one thing, Skilljan Spearhoof. Consider, as I leave you, whose people it was who first built this tower.’r />
  ‘Oh, I know they were yours, Aulian. We all know that.’

  ‘Our people liked to dig, Skilljan Spearhoof.’

  ‘And what am I to take from that?’

  ‘That I am one of my kind.’

  Skilljan laughed. ‘Are you offering to dig our cesspits, Aulian?’

  ‘You may scorn me but I value my life, Lhosir.’ Oribas left them in the road. The Lhosir waited for him to reach the walls and climb the Marroc ladder before they came on. They took their time and assembled on the slope below the gates, out of range of the Marroc arrows. A hundred of them perhaps, and they had their ram with its sharply sloping hide-covered roof on top and a dozen ladders. Around the back of the mountain three more groups of Lhosir picked their way through the tumbled stones. They didn’t go to much trouble to hide themselves, nor would it have made any difference if they had.

  With a howl the Lhosir raised their shields and ran at the wall, a tightly packed mass of them. The Marroc loosed a hail of arrows and a few of the Lhosir fell, but most of the arrows found only shields and mail. The Lhosir reached the wall and hurled their ram at the gates while the ladders came up from among them and tipped against the walls. Now on the tower roof, Oribas tensed. The first minutes mattered more than anything. The Lhosir were what they were and it would take a very bloody nose indeed for them to lose the will to fight, but the Marroc were flighty. They weren’t soldiers seasoned in the blood and fire of battle, these men. If the Lhosir gained a foothold on any part of the wall then the Marroc would break and it would all be over. He closed his eyes and said a prayer to the gods. He wasn’t sure which gods he should talk to on this side of the mountains, whether Marroc gods would even listen to an Aulian, but he prayed to them anyway. Let the ice behind the gates hold. Let the Marroc trust in it and turn away the ladders. Let them win! He might have added, Let them keep back the burning oil until it would make the most difference and use their pots of boiling water instead, but that seemed a strangely cruel prayer to any god, save perhaps the Weeping God of the Vathen.