by Tom Stacey
But that did not mean he could not be prepared.
It was fully dark now, though the moonlight reflected from the snow and provided an eerie glow. It did not matter, for he could have found his way blindfolded so many times had he visited this spot. The Forester stepped into the clearing and paused before the grave. There was no stone to mark her resting place, simply a large block of greenish glass half-buried in the ground. It was untouched by the snow and surrounded by a thin halo of grass, for it had been purchased at great expense and possessed properties beyond those of normal craft. He stepped forward and knelt, careful not to kneel on the imagined outline of her body.
The snow all around was neat and untroubled. It bore no memory of his most recent visit a few days before, and once he was gone it would carry no sign of this one. That was why he had picked this place, away from deer paths or the lairs of scavengers. Perfect. Pristine.
Like her.
The Forester sighed and laid his head on the glass. It was warm, as he had been promised it would be forevermore, for sorcery was dearly bought. It felt comforting, like a maternal hand placed on his brow. It was a dark night but in daylight you could see down through the glass to her elaborate stone tomb. It had been hand-crafted in Vendal and engraved with her likeness. The engraving was so detailed that more than a few of his tears had salted the earth nearby and beaded upon the glass block before today.
But today was no time for tears. It was time for resolve. And farewells — at least for now. She would wait for him. She was eternal.
He kissed the glass and got to his feet, aware that she was staring up at him from the gloom. He took three large steps to the left, hefted the axe and swung at the ground, grunting as the blade bounced off earth frozen as hard as iron. After a while, the snow and soil began to break up and he worked quickly, digging down almost to the level of the tomb. It pained him to do this so close to her, but this grave did not only hold the woman he loved. It also held memories of a different time. A darker time. Now he would have to revisit those memories, if only to last the winter.
He crouched and fumbled in the loose dirt, lumpy and frozen. His bare fingers screamed at the knives of cold and the scratching of hard-packed earth but he ignored it. He had to find what he was looking for. At first he told himself that he needed what he sought. After her passing he had buried it here with her to guard over her, but in truth he had buried it here because then he wouldn’t have to look at it and scream at himself to throw it away.
Even that was only partly true, he thought as he scrabbled in the darkness. He had buried it next to her because, try as he might to forget what he had hidden here, part of him worshipped it as much as he did her. His visits to her grave were equally visits to this symbol of his former self. He would never be rid of it and, unlike her, he could never be parted from it.
He would not be parted from it.
A cloud passed from in front of the moon and something in the wall of soil ahead of him caught his eye: a gleam of oiled wood, poking out from the ground. He couldn’t help but grin. He scratched the soil away from around the wood to reveal the edge of a strongbox. He wiped his hands on the furs he wore and gripped what little of the box he could get a purchase on. A quick, savage tug and the full length of the box came free, falling atop him. He brushed dirt from the dark wood and turned it around to get at the silver catches. It was a wonder the strongbox had not rotted. The man who had sold it to him had said that it was tough. How right he was.
The Forester leant back on his haunches and hauled the box on to his thighs. It was surprisingly heavy — he had forgotten just how heavy. He ran a hand across the top of the box, clearing it of the last few flecks of dirt and snow. Strangely the wood was warm and smooth, like stone baked in the sun. He slid his hands down to the catches and marvelled again at their workmanship: two hands wrought in a dark, tarnished silver, clasping wrist to wrist in the grip of a warrior. He flicked them open and eased back the lid.
And stepped into dark memory.
Within lay the great warhammer, Kreyiss. Its haft was of a red-black wood that caught the wan light of the moon in a glossy sheen. It stretched the length of a man’s arm and then half again, terminating in a sharp steel bodkin at one end and at the other the hammer itself. The hammer was not overly large but it was solid and heavy enough that the majority of the hammer’s weight was concentrated at the killing end. It made Kreyiss a weapon of rare devastation. The Forester plucked it reverently from the case, his skin creaking as he tightened hands dry with anticipation around the haft. A wave of emotion swept over him and caused him to shudder. It was at once a feeling of overwhelming joy and a sense of self-loathing that threatened to engulf him. This simple fusion of wood and steel had been the centre of his world for most of his adult life. With it he had broken nations, toppled kings, and made an Empron. And killed. Gods, how he had killed.
He hung his head and touched the haft of the warhammer to his brow. Shame struck him but Kreyiss’ touch was a comfort nonetheless. He knew not why.
“I’m disappointed,” said a voice in the darkness.
The Forester stood and turned in one smooth motion, swinging Kreyiss over his head ready to strike out two-handed. Above him, a few metres away, a very tall figure sat in the snow, wreathed in a shroud of black. The figure held up a hand and in so doing his robe fell away to reveal a thin, long-fingered hand, pale enough to carry a hint of blue — although that could have just been the moonlight catching his skin.
“Do not fear. I have long since discarded the notion of attacking you.” He breathed in raggedly. “I don’t believe I have the strength.”
A sibilant series of hisses that could have been laughter made the Forester frown. He climbed back up to level ground, yet was careful not to take his eyes from the shadowy man in front of him.
The Stranger did not react, nor even move his head. “Now that I see you with that,” he nodded at Kreyiss, “I understand why the Mallephiskarii wanted you dead. It’s truly like watching a warrior of old come to life before your eyes.”
The Forester scanned the trees behind the Stranger. He would not be caught out any more than he had already been, yet if this was a trap it was an odd one. If this tall man wanted to kill him, why not just crouch in the shadows that necked the clearing and end him with a bow? Any half decent bowman could have made a killing shot from that range. He raged at himself for being so careless. He had not sensed even a whisper of movement on his journey here, yet clearly he had been followed. Now his pursuer sat here before him, seemingly at his mercy. The Forester was alive through sheer damned luck, and the man who trusted to luck fed the worms before his time.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I am alone?” said the man sitting in the snow. “No? I thought not. Well I am, so you can quit your posturing. It may be impressive but it is also tiresome.” He sighed and broke into a wheezing cough, then spat. A fine mist of red, black in the night, spattered on to the snow.
“Who are you?” growled the Forester, his eyes never leaving their target.
“You wouldn’t know if I told you, but that is not to say I am not someone important,” the Stranger raised his head to look at him and he caught a flash of intelligence. The eyes of a predator. “Your kind has ever overestimated itself. You have blurred the line between history and myth.”
“You did not answer my question,” the Forester took a menacing step forward, but if the tall man saw it, he did not react.
“I did not answer because it was a foolish question,” the Stranger sounded irritated. “None of you now remember those that curdled the blood of your forefathers. I must say we did not expect to be forgotten so… carelessly.” He coughed again and spat more blood into the snow.
The Forester was circling the cloaked figure, searching for any obvious weaknesses. He lowered Kreyiss, holding it before him with one hand. “You were with the men that burned my home,” he pointed the warhammer accusingly.
“The men you buried in
shallow graves? Yes, I was with them for a time. I did not foresee such brutality from one so old, though of course your reputation precedes you.”
The Forester ignored the barb. “Who sent you? Was it Illis?”
“In a sense.”
“Speak plain, man,” snapped the Forester.
“The men I was with thought that their Empron had sent them. In reality frail, mad Illis knew little of it. Thankfully he knows little of less these days.” Another hiss of laughter.
The Forester was behind the man now. “What do you want with me?”
The Stranger sighed, and when he spoke his voice was distant. “A selfish, individualistic race. That is what I was told about men.” He hissed again. “You’re not alone, just one more frayed end on a thread that has been unravelling for centuries.” He laughed. “You must forgive me, but then, of course, you cannot fathom how queer it is for me to be having this conversation with you.”
The Forester was wary, yet he felt compelled to draw what information he could from this bizarre man, if only to delay whatever the Stranger had planned. “Queer,” he grunted. “How so?”
"Does the spider talk to the fly? Would the slaughterman stop to speak with the herd?”
“What is your meaning?”
“I have spoken with men before, of course,” the Stranger continued as if he hadn’t heard, waving a hand weakly, “but only those worth speaking to. The kings of the herd.”
The Forester gripped the warm wood of Kreyiss’ haft tighter and edged further around so that, once again, he was before the figure in the snow. A deep sense of unease settled upon him. “What are you?”
The Stranger began to nod, slowly at first and then quickly and violently. Abruptly he stopped and looked up. “Not of your kind,” he said and whipped back the hood of his cloak with alarming speed.
Underneath the cloak was something like a man’s face, but one curiously stretched from chin to brow so that it gave him a mournful and lordly appearance. His cheeks were sunken, with high and sharp cheekbones, leading to piercing eyes that could have been a pale red. His mouth was sumptuous with feminine lips slightly parted to reveal many perfect though slightly pointed teeth peeking out from between them. His chin was long and his jaw strong whilst his brow bled into a widow’s peak, his blue-black hair hanging down his back in a single braid. Most remarkable of all were his ears. They rose to a point like those of a forest spirit from a children’s story and lay very close to his skull. The Forester had never seen anything like this man in his life. No, not a man. The Stranger had made that clear.
“Not. Of. Your. Kind,” said the Stranger, relishing every syllable.
“What are you?” the Forester asked again. He had begun to let his guard drop and Kreyiss hung loosely in one hand, its killing end pointing towards the ground. Suddenly the Stranger began to move. The Forester snapped to instant alertness, Kreyiss flashing to a battle-ready position just over his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a sapling branch.
Yet his reaction was unnecessary, for his opponent was only trying — and failing — to stand. The Stranger stood bent over and clutched at his side. Although he was not at full height — which must have been impressive — it was clear that he was a head taller than the Forester at least. For the first time, the Forester could see that the cold had taken its toll on the tall stranger: his cloak was frozen stiff at the hem, and here and there patches of frost showed blue-white on his robes. What fool wears robes in the snow?
“Something older,” it said. The Forester was not sure whether the Stranger’s flesh was naturally so pale or if he was in the first stages of the heat death that winter brought to the unprepared. Then he noticed the wet stain that glistened on the Stranger’s side. Only flowing blood would be warm enough to fight the cold for so long. Indeed, the Forester thought he could see steam rising from the Stranger’s robes.
“You are wounded,” he said and immediately felt like a fool.
The Stranger stared at him, fighting for breath, and then replied quietly. “Mortally. Even the lower beings of this world have their weapons.”
“Wolves?” guessed the Forester.
The Stranger nodded.
“Are they close?”
“They are dead. If not now, then soon.” He must have seen the Forester’s confusion for he continued. “My blood is as poison to them and other beasts.”
“What about a deer? Or a man?” asked the Forester. He saw again the dead deer, frozen to the earth, and the circle of dead wolves that had tried to feast on it.
The Stranger looked at him and then laughed, a true laugh. It was rich and throaty, unbridled by pain and fear. The Forester frowned slightly. The Stranger was entering the final stages, then. It was premature.
“You did not answer my question,” he said and gripped Kreyiss tighter.
The Stranger stopped laughing and sighed. “Which one? There have been so many.”
“Who sent you? And what for?”
The Stranger spat and once again stained the snow with blood. “To kill you, Beccorban.”
The Forester blinked. Beccorban. He had tried to bury that name with Kreyiss and his wife yet, like so many other things this day, it had returned to haunt him.
“You are Beccorban, are you not? I had it on good word.” An edge of wavering panic entered the Stranger’s voice. “It would be a strange fate to die here at the feet of the wrong man.” He shook his head emphatically from side to side. “Of course you are him,” he calmed and pointed. “You have that.”
Beccorban did not need to look at his weapon. He knew every inch of her, even after all these years, every mark on her haft, every facet of her killing weight, engraved with arcane language.
“One more avenue to wander down, one more hopeful casting of the dice. All to find… to find…” The Stranger coughed and then turned, as if to walk away. He began to speak in a low voice, quickly and to himself, pausing every now and again to splutter and heave.
Beccorban strode to the Stranger’s side just as he began to sink to his knees. He gripped the tall creature by the scruff of his neck and held the hammer one-handed near the top of the haft, a flick of the wrist away from crashing into his opponent’s face.
“Why?” he screamed, angry at the thought of losing his best chance of understanding. The Stranger coughed and pawed weakly at his attacker’s scarred fist, but it was to no avail. “Tell me why!” Beccorban shook the Stranger, fury threatening to overwhelm his need to know.
“Is… is it not… enough,” the Stranger heaved for breath, “that I let you live?”
“Let me live?” asked Beccorban incredulously. He could feel the rage bubbling up his veins and knew that soon it would swamp him. But it felt good. It felt like letting go. “I would break you and render your bones dust, o man-that-is-not-a-man. I am Beccorban, I am your death, I am the Helhammer!”
He froze and released the Stranger, who fell coughing and spluttering to the snowy ground. Is that how quickly he had forgotten who he had been? Forgotten the things he had done? He took a step backwards and it seemed that the world before him suddenly lost its red hue.
The coughing had turned to hissing, and the Stranger rolled to his back. “The fearsome Helhammer reduced to a squeamish old man. The Mallephiskarii had nothing to fear and nothing to find. Their words are wind. They have wasted their time and my life, but I give it gladly to see this!” The Stranger was ranting now, screeching and clawing at the frozen earth, screaming in a mix of Verian, old Verian and a musical tongue Beccorban did not recognise. He scrambled over the ground to Beccorban’s feet, pawing at his boots. “We heard the signal. Though we were far away we heard it like a whisper in our ear.” The Stranger’s red eyes were wide and glassy with pain. “It called to us, Beccorban. Told us to return from where we had been cast out. Now we are returned. We have come in force to seize what is rightfully ours and your time is done. All will fall. We will find who called us and all will shatter and fall.” The Stranger wheezed
brokenly. “Men will pay for their carelessness. They will bleed and we shall drink. Run, Beccorban! Run! For they are coming and your strength is spent. Your world is finished and all will bathe in—”
He did not finish, for Beccorban, the man who had once been known as the Helhammer and other things besides, had heard enough. His was a cool concentration, something he had honed these last few years, very different to the molten rage that had taken him so quickly before. As he focused his mind, Beccorban realised that his life had become more than hiding and waiting to die. Once again he had a purpose, and the last thing he could do was run from his past. He had to meet it head on and face that which had made him a killer of men.
But this creature writhing on the ground before him was not a man. That had been made clear.
And so the great hammer swung downwards, and for the first time in almost twenty years, Kreyiss drank again.
VI
From behind, the robed woman’s silhouette was just another shadow, one more dark shape melting into the trees. She was very careful, avoiding pools of light as though they would burn her skin, and stopping every now and then to listen for anybody following. As he crouched behind a thick stand of thorn bushes, Loster wondered what he hoped to achieve. He rubbed the shallow depression above his ears. Though he was now recovered from the pain in his head, he still felt drained.
Helpfully the woman had been easy to follow at first. After her dismissal from the Great Hall, she had wandered through Elk like an outcast. People instinctively avoided her, and in turn she paid them no heed. Loster kept his distance too, and often found himself ducking into alleyways or behind carts being unloaded to the curious stares of the townspeople. Even when the woman stopped to purchase some supplies — dried oats, corn, flour — the shopkeeper had done his best to ignore her, only feigning interest when she flashed a fat purse. Loster smiled wryly. As she had said, Malix was no idiot.
