by Nathan Hawke
The boys roughhousing on the floor thumped into her feet and stopped and looked up. Pursic and even Tathic and certainly Feya barely remembered him. They’d come to know Tolvis as their father, and Arda quietly wondered if they understood that Tolvis Loudmouth was dead and gone for ever now. At least you could mourn for the dead. Speak them out like the forkbeards did or bury them and know where their bones lay and now and then go and talk to them. Couldn’t do that with Gallow. He’d chosen something else. Found a thing that mattered to him more than her and his own children. Lhosir thought differently and there was nothing any woman could do about that, so she was better off with him gone, or so she told herself. She’d been miserly with the silver he’d sent back from Andhun and still had enough to make her worth a look from a Marroc man looking for a home, even if he’d have mouths to feed that weren’t his and even if she was tainted by two forkbeards now. Although it was her silver and she wasn’t sure she wanted another man anyway. If it wasn’t for Nadric losing his strength, she might have kept things quietly as they were and done without, thank you very much.
She sighed and turned back to drawing her wire. Men would be knocking on the door for Jelira soon, not for her. She was Marroc through and through and close on her fourteenth year, which certainly made her old enough for the village boys to be interested.
Made her old enough to help in the forge too. She could cut wire into lengths for nails. Or wind it and cut it for links for all the mail that Nadric was quietly making. Valaric the Mournful had done her a favour looking after her little ones and he hadn’t forgotten who she was and where, and nor had his men still left in the Crackmarsh, and there were precious few forges where a man could make mail without the eyes of a forkbeard on his back.
She caught the thought. Snatched it out of the air and held it dangling, wriggling before her eyes, full of guilt. Forkbeard. She’d always called him that, right to his face, in good moods and bad. And he’d taken it. Never complained. And then she smiled and started to laugh, though the tears that came weren’t of joy, because really what did it matter? She’d sent him away, and that had been the right thing, right for her and right for their children, though it hurt like a nail in the knuckle.
‘Arda Smithswife?’
She almost dropped the draw plate. She spun round, hand reaching for the forging hammer that was never far away, but it was only Torvic, standing out in the wind and the lashing rain, leaning in around the corner of the workshop and flicking drips of water from his eyes. Torvic, who’d walked with her back to the Crackmarsh so she didn’t get murdered by ghuldogs or the sentries Valaric had left behind.
‘You’re early,’ she snapped. ‘Wasn’t expecting you for another two days.’
Torvic slid into the workshop. He cast an eye up and down the road. ‘Sixfingers is on the move.’
She flinched. The name put her on edge every time. King Medrin and the doom looming over them all since he learned that Gallow was still alive.
‘He’s heading for Tarkhun.’ Torvic snorted. ‘The Vathen are getting restless again. When the weather breaks we’ll be back to forkbeards and Vathen killing each other. And us Crackmarsh men, we’ll be in the middle, happy as anything . . .’ He laughed and then caught himself and looked up sharply. ‘No offence.’
Arda shrugged and shook her head. ‘He’s gone, Torvic. I don’t know where and I try not to care. Say what you like.’ She smiled. Forced it. Took some getting used to, being mistress of her own house again but knowing that Gallow was still alive after all.
A nasty grin spread across Torvic’s face. ‘Valaric let slip that he’s got the Foxbeard in Varyxhun carrying the Comforter at his side. You ask me, Mournful can’t wait to get Sixfingers across the Aulian Bridge so he can start picking and poking.’
‘Is it true? Is Gallow with Valaric?’
Torvic’s grin froze and then fell off his face piece by piece. He looked away. ‘Best I know, your Gallow left the red sword in Varyxhun and headed out the valley. He hasn’t been through the Crackmarsh. We’d know. Sixfingers holds Isset bridge and the forkbeards that were in Varyxhun have got Witches’ Reach and no one crosses without their say-so. So I’d say he’s still in the valley, but no one knows for sure.’ The crooked grin grew back. ‘Valaric’s been putting it about that the Foxbeard had family in Hrodicslet and now they’re in Varyxhun. Close enough to the truth, eh, but far enough to keep the forkbeards from coming across the Crackmarsh again.’
It was like the weight of a wet fur cloak coming off her, though she tried to sound as though she didn’t care. ‘As long as they’re on the other side of the Isset, they’re no bother to me.’
Torvic made a face. ‘I’d keep my worries for the Vathen. Not often they come this far south but we see them now and then.’ He hunched his shoulders and pushed out into the rain and came back again a moment later leading a bedraggled mule. ‘Flour. Good for the rest of the winter.’ He hauled a sheet of oiled leather off the animal’s back and then threw down a couple of sacks and a pair of strong leather bags and emptied out a string of onions and a leg of cured ham. ‘Keep your bellies full for a bit.’ He went back to the mule. Arda picked up the onions and the ham and put them carefully to one side. She started to fill the leather bags with squares of mail. Making it up into a coat that sat well on a man was an armourer’s job, but long hard hours went into drawing the wire, cutting the rings and riveting them together into lines and squares the size of a man’s hand. Didn’t take much skill, but it did take a forge and tools and a willingness for hard work. Nadric had the tools and the forge and everyone in Middislet knew how to work. Valaric paid in food and the winter had been a hard one. They were grateful, all of them.
She looked up when she was done. ‘So. Are you all going to die up there when Sixfingers comes?’ She spat out the forkbeard king’s name. A ritual that was habit now.
‘He could bring every forkbeard ever born, he still wouldn’t get into Varyxhun castle. The Screambreaker had ten thousand men and even he couldn’t do it. Anyway, you know the story. If the sixth gate ever falls, the Isset itself will wash the castle clean. Can’t lose, can we?’ He chuckled.
Arda snorted. ‘The Screambreaker didn’t bother trying, and his ten thousand were more like two by the time they got to Varyxhun. And they were knackered, worn to the end of their boots.’ Little things she remembered. Gallow had never said much about the Screambreaker’s war, all his years of killing good Marroc men. Hadn’t been something either of them wanted to hear, but little things still came out now and then.
Torvic rummaged around in the mule’s packs and threw a small leather bag at her, about the size of a hand. ‘That’s for Gallow,’ he said when she caught it. ‘If he comes by. From his Aulian friend.’
‘What is it?’ Arda opened the bag and sniffed. Some sort of pale crumbly grey stuff.
‘Salt. In case.’
‘Salt?’ She laughed. ‘Well you know how to keep a woman sweet!’ Then she shivered and her smile died. Salt was for shadewalkers. And Fateguard too, as it had turned out, but the less said about them the better. One of the things you learned when you were stuck in a besieged fort with an Aulian wizard for company. Other things as well. Mostly things she didn’t care to dwell on.
Torvic was looking at her like he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Something else.’ He stepped out and then came back in out of the rain with a second mule, even more bedraggled than the first. There were large pieces of metal tied across its back. He pulled one off, and it took a moment before Arda understood what it was. A mask and helm and crown made of iron, which could only mean it had once belonged to the iron devil of Varyxhun. The devil Gallow had said was once a friend, who’d taken her in a cage from her home. Some friend. She looked at the pieces of armour like they were a nest of snakes.
‘Valaric said to give it to you. Maybe you can melt it down and make something. Or maybe if Gallow comes by there’s some proper thing to do with it. Some forkb— some Lhosir thing.’ He dragged th
e rest off the mule’s back onto the floor. A whole set of iron plates. The iron skin of a Fateguard. She shuddered. The Aulian wizard had had things to say about the iron devils.
‘Melt it down?’ If Gallow comes by. Torvic had said that as if he was hoping for it but Arda wished he hadn’t because a part of her was hoping for it too. A part hoping and another part praying that he didn’t.
‘Forge something with it.’ Torvic shrugged. ‘Whatever you want. Valaric wants it gone, that’s all, and he doesn’t want Sixfingers getting it back.’ He nodded at the floor. ‘It’s good iron that. Worth a bit.’
He wasn’t wrong either, and maybe it would feel good to turn those pieces of cursed metal into something of value. The other villagers would help. They’d be glad to. A little victory, but still, the very sight of it made her skin crawl. Valaric wanted it gone? She could understand that. ‘You want me to hammer this out into wire and make it into mail for your men. Will they take kindly to wearing the skin of the iron devil of Varyxhun?’
Torvic shook his head. ‘Not when you put it like that, no.’ He shrugged. ‘Do what you like with it. No one wants it back, not in any shape. Just get rid of it. Bury it if you want.’
Across the yard, the back door of the house opened. Nadric stood at the threshold. He stared at Torvic, scowled at the rain and then hunched his shoulders and hurried across to the forge. ‘This your friend from the Crackmarsh?’ He looked Torvic up and down. ‘Rotten day to be living in a swamp when you could be under a roof with a nice warm fire.’ He flashed a look at Arda. ‘Getting ready to stick some forkbeards?’
‘This is Torvic.’ Arda stepped away from Nadric, distancing herself. They’d never quite got past what he’d done three years ago on the night that Gallow had left and never came back. Gallow’s choice, but a part of her would always blame Nadric for doing something so stupid.
Nadric beckoned Torvic closer. ‘Come over here then, Torvic of the Crackmarsh. I have something for you.’ He pushed his way past Arda to the back of the workshop, to the corner full of dust and cobwebs where he kept the bits and pieces he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. The scrap corner. Arda had never paid it much attention except to note that in the three years Gallow had been away all it had done was grow. Gallow had kept his armour there once, his sword and shield and helm. There was still a single Vathan javelot.
Nadric pulled away an armful of old tools and broken wood and then some sacking. Underneath was a wooden chest bound with iron and three thick leather straps. Torvic crowded closer as Nadric started to undo them and even Arda couldn’t help peering over his shoulder. She’d had no idea the chest was even there. ‘Pull it out where we can all see it, then!’
‘Pull it out, she says.’ Nadric chuckled. He finished with the straps and threw open the lid. Arda stared.
‘Diaran preserve us.’
‘Holy Modris, old man. Where did you get them?’
Nadric cackled. ‘Get them, young man? I made them. Me and that other forkbeard, the one who’s dead now.’ Tolvis. Arda winced. ‘Been making them for the last three years. Still got some strength in these arms.’
Inside the chest were arrowheads. Thousands of them. Arda and Torvic and Nadric stood together, staring at the pile. Torvic couldn’t keep his mouth closed and Nadric couldn’t stop chuckling.
‘How long?’ asked Arda. ‘How long were you making them?’
‘Ever since Gallow left.’
‘No.’ Arda shook her head. ‘You didn’t make all of these. I’d have known.’
Nadric laughed. ‘I made a lot of them. It started after the Vathen—’
He stopped abruptly. They’d both said everything they had to say about that night long ago, loud and furious, and they both thought they were right. Gallow had brought a wounded forkbeard back after Lostring Hill. The Widowmaker. When the Vathen came looking, Gallow had killed them and he and the Widowmaker had gone and never come back, and it had been Nadric’s fault and Arda had never forgiven him.
‘It wasn’t so bad. Not like what the forkbeards did across the Isset.’ Torvic coughed and Nadric turned to him, shuffling away from the anger in Arda’s face. ‘They killed the animals we couldn’t take with us, you see. That was how it started, because they left all their arrows behind and that was money that was, if there was anyone who’d buy them, only no one wanted to be making the trip to Fedderhun to see if the Vathen would trade them for food, not when they were Vathan arrows in the first place.’ Nadric shook his head. ‘Was a hard winter after that summer with so many animals dead. We were back from Varyxhun by then.’ He peered sharply at Torvic. ‘Was Arda who kept the village alive, not that she’ll tell you. Her and that silver the forkbeard brought with him. They had food in Varyxhun and the Wolf was in the Crackmarsh.’ He nodded at Torvic and the mule outside and then the sacks of flour and the onions on the floor. ‘Was how that all started. Arda here and that other forkbeard. We did what we could. No one in the village had money or anything to give that winter. They had them arrows, though, and so they gave them to me.’
‘And you never said a word?’ Arda snapped. ‘Money, that is!’
Nadric waved her away. ‘Ach, you’ve enough to keep this house fed for a good long while.’ He leered at Torvic. ‘She hoards that silver like a squirrel hoards his winter nuts.’
‘And for much the same reason!’
‘Anyway.’ Nadric shrugged her aside. ‘People owed us and there was plenty of old pieces of metal about after all the fighting that summer. Broken bits of this and that. People took to keeping whatever they could find, and that winter it came to me. I thought a fair time about what I might do with it.’ He kicked the box. ‘There you have it. Broad heads mostly, the older ones, but later I took to making them like the Vathen do. Narrow points. Up close they’ll put a hole in a forkbeard, those ones, even if he’s wearing mail.’
Torvic bent down and tried to pick up the box. He heaved and huffed and his face went red.
Nadric laughed. ‘Careful, friend. You’ll do yourself an injury trying to lift that. Needs a wagon, that does. There’s a few pieces of Vathan mail at the bottom too and some other bits and pieces. I been hoarding it for you, for when the need was right.’
‘Can’t take a wagon into the Crackmarsh.’ Torvic winced. ‘And I’ve only got two mules here and no spare bags.’ He gave Nadric a long look. ‘I’ll come back, old man. I’ll bring more mules and take them off your hands. What do you want for them?’
Nadric shook his head. ‘Nothing. Was forkbeard silver that bought the metal when it comes down to it. Give it back to them, nice and hard. That’ll do nicely.’
Arda stepped between them. ‘I’ll take six sacks of flour and two legs of pork, Torvic.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Nadric glared. Wasn’t like him to stand up for something but he had a fierce look on him now. ‘Forkbeards killed Merethin. Your husband, woman, your first one, and my son in case you’ve forgotten. Forkbeards can have this lot back for nothing.’
Arda’s face tightened but she kept her peace. Torvic looked from one to the other and then nodded to Nadric and backed away. ‘Take me a few days. When I see Mournful I’ll see what he says.’
5
HRODICSLET
The drunken forkbeard was going to be a problem. Mirrahj watched him, keeping a careful distance. He was sitting in the mud in the middle of Hrodicslet, not doing much except singing to himself, and that was fine until any of her riders got anywhere close, when he stumbled to his feet and lurched and started shouting and swinging his axe. No one wanted to go anywhere near him and Mirrahj Bashar could see why.
‘Let me shoot him,’ grumbled Josper. ‘Put an arrow or two in his legs, that should shut him up.’ Josper was sulking. The rains might have broken the day before but the Marroc town was soaking wet. The streets were rivers of mud and the houses were all built on stilts, as if mud was only the beginning. Josper liked to burn things, but around here he couldn’t even find tinder to start a flame.
&n
bsp; ‘No.’ Mirrahj waved him off. ‘Circle the place again. Find some Marroc and chase them into the marsh. See which way they go.’ Josper rode away laughing. He’d enjoy himself with that until it got dark and the ghuldogs came out. He’d be back sharp enough then though, tail between his legs.
Which left her with the forkbeard. Other times she’d have let Josper have his way, but this one interested her. A forkbeard on the wrong side of the river. Just the one, not some raiding party, which begged the question: how did he get here? And that in turn begged the answer she was secretly looking for: a southern passage around the Crackmarsh and across the Isset. Because there had to be one, there simply had to, and if the forkbeard knew it then she wanted it out of him.
Mirrahj got off her horse. She checked the buckles on the little round shield strapped to her left arm and headed towards him. Shrajal and two of his riders came out of a house dragging a pair of screaming Marroc children. ‘Don’t get too close!’ He was laughing at her. ‘That one bites.’ He made a show of stringing up his captives but he was watching her all the time. Waiting for her to fail, just like Josper was waiting too.
The forkbeard stopped singing and started staring as Mirrahj came close. He tried to get up, fell over and then finally found his feet. Mirrahj drew the short curved sword at her side and stabbed it into the mud. Her helm followed. She shook her hair, letting the braids fall around her neck. Sometimes men didn’t know what to do when they realised she was a woman. The forkbeard stumbled a step towards her, half drew the axe from his belt and then put it back. ‘Men all too scared, are they? That’s you horse buggerers. No pride.’
