by Kildare
“You don’t seem pleased to be allied with the Rebel Sly,” Cillian observed in Norwegian.
“I’m not, but Arinbjørn is right. We must put aside our past grievances. The Dread Queen is capable of far worse than Arx Aequoris.” Kjartan seemed to have no interest in this conversation and changed the subject. “What did Red Ruin show you of your future?”
“He didn’t show me anything.” Now it was Cillian’s turn to desire a different topic, but Kjartan pressed ahead.
“Cillian, I watched you speaking with the dragon. I know he showed you events that have yet to occur. It’s the Dragon’s Curse. To force a person to see a future they’re unable to prevent.”
“I saw no such thing.”
“You lie because you saw our deaths.”
Cillian faltered at this knowledge.
Kjartan laid his hand upon Cillian’s shoulder. “We’re dead men the moment we enter this world. Nothing will change that. Death haunts our every step. Life ends in the ground, where it began. In these mortal lands, defeat is our doom. The end is certain, but we choose how we meet that end. We’ll fight, and we’ll lose, but we’ll fight anyway. Now answer me honestly. Did you see my death?”
Kjartan’s eyes pierced so deep into Cillian that he knew he couldn’t lie again.
“Yes.”
“Was it a good death? An honorable death? A warrior’s death?”
Cillian placed his hand on Kjartan’s shoulder so that they each stood with a hand on the other’s shoulder. “It was the most honorable death I’ve ever seen.”
Kjartan smiled. “Then there’s nothing to fear. The gods smile upon me. Soon I shall join the long line of my fathers in the eternal halls of the undying.”
“Are you going to tell the others?”
“No.”
“I appreciate that.”
Cillian settled down on the edge of the rock slab, his feet dangling over the edge. Kjartan sat with his back to him so that between them the entire horizon was covered.
“How did you, one of the Sjøenfolk, come to serve the empire?” Cillian asked.
“I was born on Sjøløveøy, an island named after the seals that breed there, near the border of the empire. My people and the Solaeri conduct a great deal of trading with each other, exposing me to their ways even as a young boy. I spent many summers trading wares in Solaeri ports. Walrus tusks were our most valuable cargo. By the time I was twenty I’d traveled from the farthest ports of the Sjøenfolk in the north, to every major Solaeri port in the south, and even the far-flung ports of the Daoine Saora in the west. Many of my people burn with wanderlust for the sea, and can’t go long without traveling its broad roads, but I wanted to traverse the land. The great forests, the high mountains, and the vast plains were my longing. The empire’s border guard offered that choice, so I enlisted. Many of the Sjøenfolk fight as mercenaries for Siderea.
“I, as well as my kinsman Arinbjørn and Egil, are members of a special military expedition unit that travels throughout the empire suppressing plots of insurrection, conducting relations with foreign tribes, maintaining peace, et cetera. The three of us have served together for sixteen years. We’ve been stationed all across the eastern, northern, and western borders. Few know the empire’s lands better than the three of us.”
“And the southern border?” Cillian asked.
“The only border in the South is the ocean. Beyond lies another continent to which I’ve never ventured. Niamh’s people come from those distant lands. I’ve seen their kind in the Solaeri ports.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Before she was accepted into the Imperator’s guard, she served in the border forts around the Grim Mountain. She accompanied a few expeditions in the area that I led. I’ve only seen her a few times since, when Imperator Raighne surveyed the empire. With little fighting anywhere, he kept a close eye on the condition of the border forts. Especially in the north. He never ignored the peril that lies beyond the Shining Mountains.”
Cillian remembered hearing about the Grim Mountain. After Rebel Sly’s bandits had captured the wagon trail loaded with treasure, the guards had said they were paid to take the wagons there. “Where’s the Grim Mountain?”
“It’s the northernmost point in the empire, lying at the top of a pass crossing the mountains into the lands of the Dread Queen. The pass is guarded by the massive fortress of An Ráth Gruama. It’s heavily fortified, with never less than a full legion stationed there. Beyond the pass, the land falls away into a wide plain, known as Tir na Marbh. No one ventures out onto that wasteland from either side. On the far side, the mountains climb up to another pass guarded by the queen’s forces. It’s an unsettling fort to serve at, always within sight of An Túr Dubh, one of the Dread Queen’s main fortresses.”
The Grim Fort, The Land of the Dead, and the Black Tower were all names convincing Cillian that he had no interest in travelling anywhere near this region.
“Did the Grim Fort fall when the trolls invaded?”
“We’ve heard no news. It wouldn’t be taken easily. The approach is steep and the fortress is protected by the flanks of the mountains. Although heavily fortified, it was never built to endure a long siege. Only to stall an invading force long enough for reinforcements to arrive or to allow the people of the North to find shelter.
“Unfortunately, the fortress failed its purpose. The Dread Queen has discovered a new route through the mountains or dug tunnels through the rock. Who knows what machines she’s created in her stronghold? Either way, the warnings came too late. Most of the northern outposts were overrun before any alarm was raised.”
“In which direction is the Dread Queen’s land from here?”
“Northeast.”
This answer alarmed Cillian. “We’re riding toward a powerful queen who wants me captured? That seems like a terrible idea.”
“It is, but you desire to speak with the druids.” Kjartan smirked. “So we ride toward danger and our deaths.”
***
The next morning they came to a crossroad. The road fell into such disrepair beyond that the going was easier off in the grass. The road, even in its broken condition, was the only sight that hinted at the presence of people. They were leaving the boundary of the empire and entering wilderness where few dwelt. At some point the land swallowed up the road. It happened so slowly Cillian hadn’t even realized the road was disappearing until it was already gone.
Soon after, wildlife appeared. Flocks of deer at first, and then herds of elk of a kind Cillian had only seen in pictures—Irish elk. Their horns were more like a moose than an elk, only larger. The biggest bulls had antlers twelve feet in width. They showed little interest or fear in the travelers, and though they kept a safe distance, didn’t take flight.
“Why is the land so depopulated?” Cillian asked.
“Most were killed or displaced during Cogadh an tSneachta Dhuibh,” Niamh answered. “Revenge for the atrocities committed by the Solaeri against the Daoine Saora during the War of the Black Snow fueled the rise of Imperator Raighne. He wasn’t Solaeri, but half Saora and Mac Tír.
“Raighne was fifteen when he fought in his first battle and within four years had displayed such impressive bravery and fierceness that he had rallied all the Daione Saora beneath his cause. After he succeeded in cementing a shrewd alliance with most of the clans of the Muir Mac Tír, he marched south at the head of a massive army to reap his revenge against the Solaeri.
“The ranks of his soldiers further swelled with those dissatisfied with the rule in the Siderea. Hearing the strength of his approaching army, many of the capitol’s elite fled south and sailed to the islands beyond the control of the empire. After a brief siege, the capitol surrendered peacefully, and in gratitude for their voluntary submission, Raighne spared the city a sacking. He was only twenty-one when he ascended the throne to a celebration not repeated until your triumph.”
“When Raighne rode south to lay siege to Siderea, his followers bel
ieved he intended to conquer the empire, loot its wealth, and return north. But he had other plans. He wished to unite the Solaeri, Muir Mac Tír, and Daoine Saora beneath one banner. Once he’d secured the throne, he began to implement this plan.
“Instead of looting the capitol, he took the wealth housed in the treasury and dispersed it among the soldiers, satisfying their lust for riches. He then convinced them they could gain even more wealth fighting as the core of his new army. As a further incentive, they’d be able to choose their own leaders to fill the depleted ranks of the senate. The Southerners weren’t keen on this idea, but they had no choice. Their leaders had fled, their army had defected, and they were weary of war and the instability caused by decades of civil war. They had no choice but to acquiesce. In one brilliant maneuver, Raighne managed to secure the loyalty of all three factions.”
Rebel Sly heard their conversation and slid in next to them. “Yeah, but not everyone was keen on living in Raighne’s new empire. A few months after his coronation, numerous insurrections broke out in the North and in the coastal cities where members of the former elite roused the citizens to rise up. The southern revolts were quickly dispatched. Not so in the North. The Imperator spent two decades quelling the North, and even then he succeeded only in pushing the resistance underground.
“The heart of the resistance beat at An Dún sa Spéir, a fortress that has never fallen and is considered by many to be impregnable. Raighne knew the city couldn’t be captured, nor did he want to fight his own people, so he refused to lay siege. As such, he could never extinguish the resistance. For all our political disagreements, I did admire the man. He wasn’t one to waste lives in unnecessary warfare.”
“That’s one of the reasons I chose to fight for him,” Niamh said. “He desired to end the bloodshed. Those before him had desired only to carve out their own little dominion and quarrel with all those around them. It was this cycle of vengeance that the Imperator tried to stamp out.”
“At the expense of our liberty,” Rebel Sly countered. “With the conquest of our lands, using our own warriors, it’d only be a matter of time before our culture would be eradicated by the spread of Solaeri customs. That’s what we’ve always been fighting against. The Imperator wanted unity, but at the cost of our traditions.
“From the time I was a child, I was taught that no rule over the Daoine Saora by a Solaeri capitol would ever be legitimate, even if the ruler was also Saora. I joined the resistance when I was fifteen and began conducting attacks on the caravans traveling up from the South. I’ve been the commander of the men I currently lead since I was twenty-two. There are Saora like me who’d rather die than submit to a Solaeri overlord.”
“You may get your wish,” Niamh said, a note of sadness in her tone. “Many will die on account of the empire’s collapse.”
Her fatalistic tone ended the conversation and for long no one spoke. Cillian suspected that like him, their minds had all drifted back to the memories of Arx Aequoris.
The plains gave way to foothills piled up at the base of the mountains, the hills rising higher, the valleys sinking lower. Their line wandered, tracing the easiest path over and around the steep hills. Stands of junipers and ash darkened the hillsides. For the first time, their progress became easier to notice. Each time they rounded a corner or reached a hillcrest and the mountains came into view, Cillian could see they were getting closer. No more were the mountains a distant shadow along the horizon that seemed always out of reach, always retreating away.
The scent of pine filled the air. Cillian took deep breaths. He would never tire of that fragrance. Why did the air always seem so much purer when fragranced with pine? No other smell in nature had that affect. Far subtler was the change in altitude; each day the air thinned a little more. They could hear the effect by how heavier the horses were breathing. At least they were slowly acclimating. The change would become far more pronounced once they climbed up into the actual mountains.
Something about mountains had always stirred a feeling deep within him that he could never quite describe. It was a longing, but he wasn’t sure for what. Was it the peaks themselves, the woods, the streams, the sheltered lakes, or all these things? He hadn’t seen his first real mountains until his early twenties, but their awesome beauty had cast a spell over him. At times a longing would overtake him and he would want to pack everything up and head west to Montana. Life was never that simple, so the urge had to be resisted, but the fire once kindled refused to die. Something in his soul needed to gaze on such stunning majesty. His favorite destination was Glacier National Park. Those towering, majestic peaks, clothed in dazzling glaciers and cradling sapphire waters, humbled all who stood at their feet.
Despite his yearning, he had never wanted to live in the mountains. They were too claustrophobic for his taste. He needed the wide-open spaces of the plains. Liked to see the sky and earth coming together on a horizon little higher than the ocean’s. The plains had their own unique beauty, if you were willing to look for it. Most weren’t. He had never understood this blindness. The world was filled with many varieties of beauty, and the soul flourished in experiencing them all.
The sun was sinking into the west when they trailed around a hillside overlooking a deep, wide valley. The road picked a zigzagging path down the hill, crossed a wide, shallow river, and vanished into woods on the other side. Beyond rose a high, jagged wall of sheer cliffs. Veins of dark gray streaked the lighter-colored rocks. Beyond these mountains lay the stronghold of the druids. Their destination was in sight at last.
They descended the hillside and crossed the river without difficulty. On the other side they watered the horses, dismounted, and took a short rest. They had been in the saddle since morning. Cillian sat down on a boulder beneath the shade of a spindly pine. His sore, aching body needed the rest. Each day the time in the saddle got a little easier, but he was still a long way from reaching the end of a ride without pain.
A rowdy flock of magpies had gathered in the trees, their high-pitched, raucous cries a burst of life in the quiet woods. Rebel Sly whistled a strange call, repeating it over and over. The call was answered up in the tree above, seconded somewhere else, and then the trees exploded with dozens of the calls. Cillian was astounded. The magpies were mimicking Rebel Sly’s whistle.
Rebel Sly winked at Cillian. “Even the birds know me here.”
The magpies abandoned their perches and zigzagged deeper into the woods. They landed, yet were still several feet off the ground. From this distance Cillian couldn’t see what they were perched on. He rose and walked over for a closer inspection. The magpies scattered at his approach. A mound of flat, gray stones had been heaped as high as his waist, with wilted blue flowers sprinkled on top. He looked around and saw no other stones anywhere. He wondered where they had been hauled from. An odd place for a grave, as well. They hadn’t seen so much as a cottage in days.
The mound reminded him of a grave he and his brother Otto had found as young children near the base of the Killdeer Mountains. Nothing marked the spot to memorialize the soul that lay below, leaving them to guess at its owner. The stones might have guarded an Indian or an early settler. They had tread carefully to avoid offending the site. Johnny Bad Gun’s stories had convinced them that strange powers could lurk in such a place.
“That’s a new barrow,” Arinbjørn noted.
“A strange place to build it,” Rebel Sly said. The two men had appeared without Cillian hearing their approach. “No one lives in this land. Not since the War of the Black Snow. Rare even for people to pass through.”
“Could it be one of your people?”
“Doubtful. The Saora rarely bury their dead. Even less likely they’d bury someone on this side of the mountains.” Rebel Sly scanned the horizon in all directions. Even though he offered no elaboration, he was visibly disturbed by the grave’s presence.
“You don’t like?” Arinbjørn asked.
“Not at all.” He walked around the mound twice
and squatted down at one end to examine the flowers. “I know of no flower like these growing within hundreds of miles.”
Cillian squatted down next to him and reached out to pluck up a few of the blue petals. Rebel Sly grasped his wrist and shook his head not to touch. He rose and scanned the horizon again. Arinbjørn and Cillian followed suit. Cillian wasn’t sure what they were looking for, but he saw nothing besides trees.
Rebel Sly started back for the horses. “It’s best we leave this place.”
They joined the others and rode on for another couple of miles. Whatever foreboding Rebel Sly had felt by the grave, he declined to share with the others. They stopped for the night at the base of the mountains. For the first time since Cillian had rejoined them, the camp was set up near the road and with enough sunlight to see what they were doing. The nightly ritual was performed of unsaddling and brushing down the horses, starting a fire, arranging their bedrolls, and preparing a simple meal.
After he had eaten, Cillian walked away from the camp to piss. He hadn’t gone more than thirty feet when he spied an old man standing in the woods. He recognized the figure immediately—the same one who had appeared before he met Mórríghan, and the one who’d led him to the leprechaun’s cottage. The old man turned and stepped behind a tree. Cillian rushed to the spot, but the old man had already vanished. Three times he had seen the man now, every time only for a moment, and then he was gone. Who was he? How was he able to vanish? And why was he following him? He walked back to the camp wary and troubled, forgetting why he had left to begin with.
