by B R Crichton
“Who are you talking to, old man?” asked Valia.
He turned quickly to see the woman standing behind him.
“Ghosts,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“I have seen you talking to the air before, you know,” she said.
“Sometimes the air is the best listener,” he replied in a conspiratorial manner. “It never talks back.”
“Go easy on the wine,” she said with a laugh. “It’s strong stuff.”
“You’re right,” he said, looking at his cup accusingly.
“That’s why I came outside,” she said. “My head was starting to swim in there.”
They stood silently for a while, just enjoying the view, before Granger spoke again. “I really should lie down, this is strong stuff.” He abandoned his cup on the stone balustrade and made his way unsteadily inside.
Valia continued to stare out to sea, trying to make out exactly where the sea became sky in the haze. She was rubbing a calloused hand when Truman arrived at her side.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“No fancy words or I swear I’ll put you into the sea, Poet,” she warned. She knew his reputation only too well to be beguiled by his slippery tongue.
“At least you would have paid me some heed,” he said, his hands apologetic.
She gave him a warning look.
“I wonder,” he continued more seriously. “Now that the Empire has been sent back to Kor’Habat with a bloodied nose, what will you do?”
“That is my business, Poet,” she replied. She gripped her braid tightly in her hand, kneading it slowly.
“I only ask, because it would be my greatest honour to accompany you if you were to leave.”
“Accompany me? Why?” she asked, incredulous. “For a pacifist you seem intent on surrounding yourself with conflict. You know my profession.”
“But your profession does not define you. There is more to you than you allow most to see, but I can see through the mask to something of the woman within. I find you fascinating in every respect, and forgive me if the wine has loosened my lips grossly, but I could make you my life’s work, capture your moods in prose, your every nuance in verse.” He stopped when she held up a warning hand.
“Remember what I said about fancy words?” she said.
Fate, but the man was infuriating.
“What I mean to say is, I feel…” he began.
“I’m not leaving the Band,” she said quickly to stop his next words before they tumbled out and could never be unsaid. “I’m not leaving Blunt.”
“I see.” He nodded.
Just then, Foley swaggered out onto the balcony.
“Uh-ho-ho-ho-ho,” he said lewdly, “what have we here?”
“We were just enjoying the view,” Truman said quickly.
“The view, hey?” he said, looking Valia up and down suggestively. “And what a view.”
“Behave yourself,” Valia said. “Your mother made me promise to look after you.”
“She never did,” he replied, “As I recall, it was I who was tasked with watching over you, and protecting you from the clutches of men such as him.”
Despite herself, Valia actually felt sorry for Truman when Foley put an arm around her shoulder and shepherded her back indoors, he looked utterly crest fallen. She caught the lewd wink that the Dasari threw back at him and understood the hidden message to the jilted suitor. However, neither Truman nor Foley would be bedding her tonight, or any other for that matter, and she would see to Foley’s mischief soon enough. She loved him like a brother, and knew that he was only teasing Truman, but she would not be used as a prop for his childish games.
They opened a bottle of rakshi, a rough spirit enjoyed by the people of Dashiya, and few others. Then she proceeded to drink Foley clean off his chair, and into a stupor on the floor.
There were sore heads in the morning. Kellan rose early and woke Elan, whose quarters were down the broad corridor from his own. Many of the mercenaries had not made it to bed last night, and had slept where they had fallen. There were several still sleeping in the reception room they had partied in, as well as a few groggily trying to find their way about the carnage of the previous night’s revelry.
They rode out as the sun was rising above the eastern horizon, squinting into the warm morning light as they did so.
“They have done that every night since the day of the battle?” Kellan asked.
“Oh, yes.” Elan laughed despite his tender head. “And worse. I’m afraid I can’t keep pace with them. I have been excusing myself early.”
“Very wise.” Kellan laughed. “Still, I feel I could use this to clear my head.” He referred to their morning ride.
Kellan and Elan rode through streets where market traders had already set up their stalls, and wagons were busy moving wares through the growing crowds. He was already feeling better; the city was constantly refreshed by an onshore breeze that cleared the cooking smoke and stink of animals. It was certainly the cleanest city he had been in.
They rode through the Eastern Gate and followed the cobbled road out of the city for about a mile before leaving the road to head towards what had been the position of the defensive line days earlier. Scattered about the battlefield were the smouldering remains of dozens of enormous bonfires where anything that burned, including the horse carcasses, were disposed of following the battle. The Koratheans had been allowed to remove their dead without harassment, which they had done with an army of carters and hired labour over three days. Armour had been reclaimed where possible and scavenged if left, to be melted down or sold.
In another few days there would be little to show for the most decisive battle in recent history; this dusty plain would guard its secret with its return to the unexceptional.
There were so many blanks in Kellan’s memory, and he had hoped that returning to the field of battle might stir some recollection and make the dreamlike images he did retain seem more real. But this place was utterly alien now, compared with just a few days past when the footfalls of men had shaken the land with their number.
They rode in silence, all the way up to the point where Hatar Merat Fol’Ashar had been confronted, and where Kellan had collapsed, exhausted. He looked back down the gentle slope and tried to imagine column upon column of Heavy Infantry standing in his way. He knew he had killed a great many, but they all blended into one long, fluid, killing movement.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Elan said at last.
“Unbelievable,” Kellan corrected him. “So this is where it ended”
“I must be honest; I thought Valia had overplayed her hand. I fully expected to die up here.”
“She must have known just what to say to sway his decision,” said Kellan. “Merat would have gladly died for the Kodistai.”
“That he would,” Elan agreed, “but as Valia rightly said, the Empire would have died with him. As good as, anyway.”
They waited on the mound in thoughtful silence until Elan spoke again, “Are you finished?”
“What?” Kellan was jarred from his reverie.
“With the Empire? Are you done with it? Can you let the past rest now?”
Kellan was thoughtful. “I cannot honestly say that I am,” he said, a little surprised by it. “It seems like there are so many things yet to avenge, so many deaths to even the score for.”
“More death?” Elan sounded shocked. “Kellan, over forty thousand Korathean soldiers died in one day.”
“It is all well and good to kill vast numbers, but there are still individuals who need to pay for their crimes, individuals too cowardly to take to the battlefield, but who instead kill the defenceless and the weak.”
“Some ghosts should be left in the past, Kellan.”
“Well they are not in the past!” he shouted, feeling the stirring in his belly that felt so right, yet so terrible. “I live with it every day. In here!” He jabbed at his head, poking his temple hard with a finger.
T
he anger bubbled within him and he reached for that place of calm; the moment of weightlessness falling with the water in space. The rage immediately began to subside, and returned to a glowering undercurrent. Still there, but controlled.
He slumped a little.
“I’m sorry, old friend,” he said with a wry smile. “You followed me into a battle that was not yours.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Elan said in reply, “Someone needs to look after you; but don’t let it consume you. You know you have a home now, and welcoming arms to return to.”
Kellan turned away sulkily. “Don’t,” he said.
“All right, but think on it. I will be returning to Lythuria soon. I have been away from the family Grove for far too long. We call it ‘the longing’, you know.”
“I know.” Kellan rolled his eyes “‘The worst form of homesickness’,” he quoted as though he had heard it a thousand times before. He had been told of ‘the longing’ that drew Lythurians back to their forest home like salmon up a river, and felt sorry for having kept Elan away for so long. He knew that Elan followed him because he cared for him. He felt a pang of guilt for using him, but he was an invaluable support when Kellan found himself in dark places.
“Don’t you feel a ‘longing’, of a different sort?” Elan asked mischievously.
“No,” he replied shortly, pulling on the reins and wheeling his horse round, “I bloody don’t. Last one to the Eastern Gate is a horse’s arse.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!” the Lythurian shouted. “You have a head start.”
They galloped, laughing all the way back to the city. Elan won, as he always did, despite Kellan’s unfair advantage.
“We really should race for money,” said Elan cockily, when Kellan arrived behind him.
“Not likely,” he laughed.
Chapter Six
Beginnings…
Kellan enjoyed the few days of travel with Granger. He was a kind man who told him stories as they walked and made him laugh with his antics when he was tiring at the end of the day. He would sing funny songs and do silly voices when Kellan was flagging, which always boosted his spirits enough for another mile or so.
Kellan thought about his parents all the time, but he thought of them alive; their deaths seemed so unreal, in another lifetime. He knew deep down that they were gone, but as children did, he was able to put thoughts away into recesses of the mind that did not govern his every thought or action. Besides, with people like Granger in the world, bad things could not possibly happen to people, and a part of him was sure that he would be reunited with his parents soon.
The small river they followed grew narrower, and faster as the ground got steeper. The water regularly cascaded from cliffs that they had to find routes around, picking their way across the broken scree fields and scrubby heather that dominated the mountainside. Soon they would reach the snowline.
The last night they spent in the open was a cold one. Granger had not been able to gather enough wood for a decent fire, and so they had huddled under an overhanging rock on the exposed mountain. Granger promised that they would arrive at their destination the next day as Kellan curled up beside him for heat.
They had awoken cold and stiff from their uncomfortable night’s sleep, and hurriedly packed their bedrolls. A layer of frost had formed on the outside of the blankets, which they did their best to shake off. They breakfasted on flat bread and cheese, again, and gladly started walking, keen to get some heat into their muscles.
A few hours later, Granger stopped and pointed to where the river spewed from the top of a sheer cliff, sending a white ribbon of water hundreds of feet to the rocks below. The strong wind whipped a fine mist from the waterfall which painted a rainbow across the grey cliff face in the morning sun.
“That’s it, Kellan,” said Granger, “we’re nearly there. They call that waterfall the ‘Veil’.”
“How will we get up?” he asked.
Granger looked at the wall in front of them, and scanned both directions for a way around.
“Well now, I’m not entirely sure,” he said with a grim chuckle, rubbing his stubbly chin.
They set off again, heading for the cliff up the broken rock of the slope, still icy even now. The cliff loomed in the distance, never appearing to get any closer until at last, they were near the base. The sound of the waterfall on the rocks was deafening, and Granger had to raise his voice over the din.
“Look,” he said pointing, “steps.”
There were indeed steps, carved into the cliff, narrow but regular, zigzagging up the wall to the left of the ribbon of water.
Granger started up them, but immediately retreated. The steps were slick with ice.
“Let’s have a break and wait for the sun to come around to melt the ice,” he suggested.
They sat on a flat rock, and ate the last of their food, enjoying the view of the valley below. They could just about make out the snaking line of the White River through the haze of distance. The tree line was far below; they had spent the whole of that morning and most of the previous day above it. Kellan had never seen anything like it. The world looked so much bigger from up here, impossibly so.
“Who lives up there?” he asked.
“Oh, someone very old,” Granger replied.
“A friend of yours?”
“No. Well, that is to say we’ve never met. But he will know who I am.”
“Can he take me to ma and pa?”
“No, Kellan,” he replied, “I’m sorry, but he can’t. He can help you, though.”
“Help me do what?”
“Do you remember the man you met at the river? When you got into that fight with Dolmar. Before…” he hesitated. “Before I found you? The first time.”
Kellan remembered the stranger.
“He was sick.”
“Yes,” said Granger. “He was carrying a terrible disease.”
“Like the fever?”
“A bit like the fever, but different.”
“Do I have it now?”
Granger hesitated. “Yes, you do, Kellan.”
“Will I die?”
“Look, I think the sun has melted the ice. We should make a start.” Granger stood up and headed for the stone steps.
The steps were steep and narrow but well cut, and so long as they didn’t look down too often, they were comfortable enough to climb. Higher up, they used their hands too, leaning forward to give them better stability as the jagged ground beneath them grew further away. They rested at every turn, where the step hewn into the rock was big enough for them both to stand on, and admired the cascade to their right.
Kellan watched the water of the Veil. If he focused on a single breakaway droplet, glinting in the sun, it seemed to hover for a moment if he followed it with his gaze, the droplet locked as it was to the main body of water by whatever laws pulled them both downward. He found himself searching out such drops as they plummeted past their position. The world fell still as he watched it down, then roared and rushed as he glanced up to find another. It was so unfair that those peaceful pearls of water should break away from the cascade, only to suffer the same fate and be dashed on the rocks below, but just for a moment at least, all was still and at peace.
Eventually they climbed beyond the point where the water exited the stone face and it fell below them.
Kellan continued up the last flight behind Granger. When the man reached the top ahead of him he looked back at Kellan.
“Do you remember I asked you if you liked trees?” he said.
Kellan reached the top and gasped at the sight before him.
“Welcome to Lythuria.”
An enormous bowl was cut into the mountain range, many miles across and hazing into the distance. The impossibly high, snowy peaks of the Greater Cascus Mountains reared beyond. Within the bowl it was lush and green, steam rising from a lake at its centre that fed the waterfall they had left below them. They crossed the rim and began to descend into the bowl. Huge br
oadleaved trees rose from grassy hillocks, and threw their shade over wild flowers and brooks. Against the austerity of the grey and white of granite and ice that surrounded this place, Kellan found the verdant growth here almost painful to look at.
They walked down from the steep edge and onto the soft lawn. The air was immediately warmer and more humid, the dry cold of the cliff face a distant memory. The path was not obvious but led to a wider paved road; cobbles with grass growing between the stones as though the tenacity of life here refused to give any quarter to the function of rock.
Kellan saw small stone houses with thatched roofs and wisps of smoke from their chimneys. Cattle and pigs, chickens and sheep, went about their business in small fields interspersed with enormous trees.
He saw someone at a window, and thought it a trick of the light that their skin appeared green, surely a reflection from the grass. Then he saw more people about, with piercing green eyes and skin the colour of un-worked jade, turning to watch the strangers.
Kellan drew closer to Granger and gripped his hand, as more of the strange people appeared, abandoning their tasks and moving closer to observe the visitors.
They walked, unhindered, to what Kellan judged to be the rough centre of the bowl on a small headland leading into the beautiful lake, where an enormous tree stood. Although its canopy was no bigger than those around it, the girth of the trunk, all gnarled and twisted, told of this tree’s great age. It was at least thirty yards across at the base, where contorted roots gripped the ground like twisted talons. The bark was thick with lichen and moss; its limbs riddled with cavities and splits. Kellan saw birds within the upper branches, coloured as he had never seen before; bright feathers of every hue and long tails trailing as they flitted between branches, their crests rising and falling in agitation at the newcomers. A pair of green skinned men stepped into their path. One held up his hand.
“We are not accustomed to receiving guests unannounced,” he said in a heavy accent.
Granger stopped and bowed his head, then spread his hands, “We mean no harm. We are not armed.”
