by Tom Stacey
“Going to do men’s work? You haven’t even got a weapon!” Barde’s laughter was crueller than anything he could have mustered in life and it stung Loster, making the backs of his ears grow warm.
“Stay here, Mirril. I’ll come back for you.”
“Don’t leave me!” she cried but he ignored her. This was the safest place for her. He had to go and do something.
Anything.
Beccorban darted forward and brought his weapon down on the last knight’s neck. The tall figure crumpled to the earth with a crash. Antler Helm, standing some distance behind, did not even flinch though he was now alone. Instead, the tall knight pulled a long, intricately curved horn from a sling on his back. He raised it to his lips, reaching up and at the same time removing his strange helmet in one fluid motion. Beccorban stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that face: long black hair and bluish skin and features that would appear human if they were not so mournful and oddly distorted. His ears were sharp and pointed, like the masked stranger that Beccorban had killed in the Dantus. Not of your kind, indeed, he thought.
Antler Helm blew a low, nasal note and then stood still. There was a distant screech like a knife caught in bone, and the huge, feathered creature that Beccorban had seen from his eyrie above Kressel appeared behind the ruins of the farmhouse. It unfurled leathery wings and leapt to Antler Helm’s side, shielding him from view. Beccorban staggered backwards as the wind from the beast’s movement flattened the grass around him. He brought his forearm up to shield his eyes, and when he brought it down again, he could see that Antler Helm was seated on the strange creature’s back, a thin pair of reins held loosely in one spiked hand. With the other, the demonic figure placed his helm back on to his head and then raised his free arm so that one finger was pointed directly at Beccorban’s heart. Beccorban felt fear wash over him but he stood firm, holding Kreyiss out in front of his chest to ward off whatever dark curse this foul creature was spinning.
Finally Antler Helm turned and, with a horrible scream, his feathered beast carried him over the trees and off into the distance. Beccorban stood and watched him go. He was exhausted but there was a strange itching under his jerkin where the dread knight had pointed and he felt as though there was some special significance to the gesture that he was yet to see.
He counted only six bodies though there should have been seven. He looked around for the remaining knight and then remembered Riella and the others with a jolt. A cry brought his attention back to the distant ridge and he could make out a tall, loping figure that was almost upon Riella. She was still so far away, yet he could see that she stood with her hands held out defensively. He started to run towards her. You know you can’t save her. Beccorban ignored his doubts and put his head down. He tripped and fell, falling heavily on to his front. Gasping for air, he planted his hands on the ground to push himself up and stopped.
Something was moving fast, and it was making the very earth vibrate.
This was it. This was the moment she died, here in a field in the middle of nowhere, far from home, far from her dreams, forgotten, abandoned. Even Beccorban would not be able to save her, only cradle her broken body and avenge her death. As the demon came closer, she pictured the heavy weight of Kreyiss splitting that implacable helm, the skull underneath bursting like a ripe melon, and a small voice in her head cheered at the image. She felt a sudden calm envelop her like a blanket and looked up to meet the black, eyeless gaze of the knight.
A harsh scraping sound broke through her solace and then became a screech. The knight flew forward, narrowly missing her to land on his face a few paces behind her. She took a deep breath and blinked and a clod of turf hit her in the chest as the blond warrior thundered past on his horse without so much as a downwards glance.
The world came rushing back in and she staggered, falling to her knees, half turning as she fell to see the knight lying motionless, a great red gash at the back of his neck. There on the grass beside the corpse was a small wooden horse.
The blond man moved like a flash of summer lightning and gripped Loster roughly by the chin with one filthy hand wrapped in stained rags. At first he had ridden past, dismounting by the orchard and disappearing inside. He reappeared moments later and now he had Loster at his mercy. Something on Loster’s cheek felt over-warm and he peered down, flinching with disgust as he realised that the man was missing a finger. The day’s exertions had opened the crude stitching and blood ran thick and warm down the man’s arm and Loster’s face. Without warning the blond man forced two fingers from his other hand — whole but no less filthy — into Loster’s open mouth and the young acolyte gagged and bowed over, trying to fight his way free. The man’s grip was like a smith’s vise.
His fingers probed around Loster’s mouth, pressing down on to his tongue and making him retch. The blond man ran the tip of his finger behind the crescent of Loster’s teeth, bruising the roof of his mouth. Loster kicked out and managed to land a blow on the madman’s thigh, but there was no sign that he had noticed. Finally, desperate, Loster bit down on the invading fingers and the blond man yelped and jumped back, cradling his hands and then looking up at Loster with an expression of betrayal.
“Get away from him,” boomed Beccorban’s voice. Loster turned to see the big warrior, hammer held low, Riella beside him.
The blond man ignored Beccorban, his eyes lancing into Riella’s. “What is your name?” he asked. His voice was low and soft, yet cultured with the crisp tones of nobility.
“Riella,” she answered.
“And your second name?” he pressed her and there was an edge of desperation to his voice.
“I do not have a second name,” she said, bowing her head. To have no second name was to be the lowest of the low in Daegermund yet the blond warrior showed no notice of her admission and turned to Beccorban instead.
“And you, hammerman. What is yours?”
“You must be insane if you think I will stand here and—”
“Tell him,” said Riella. “It is only a name.”
Beccorban looked at her with a scowl and then turned back to the blond man. “Beccorban. My name is Beccorban, though I am often called other things.”
“Beccorban.” The blond man rolled the word around his mouth like a morsel of exotic food and his eyes wandered up into memory as he sought to place it in his mind.
“What is yours, horseman?” Beccorban asked gruffly. “I like to know who I kill.”
The blond man came out of his reverie and that baleful green gaze wandered over Beccorban as though he was seeing him for the first time. “I am Callistan,” he said, “and that is all I can remember.”
XXI
On a beach on the northern shores of the Bay of Fend was a large mass of people. Atop an overturned wagon in the centre of the crowd stood a man. He was not a particularly tall man nor was he particularly large. His shoulders were round and from them hung ill-fitting robes that could have once been the white of a priest of the Temple Dawn but had been so soiled as to appear a light brown. His body tapered to a long, thin neck, atop which was perched a head that could only be described as pointy. Its most prominent feature was a large, hooked nose that curled downwards like a beak before ending in a flat line that cut the straightest path back to his face. He was speaking in a voice that was neither too loud nor too soft but instead perfectly measured so as to carry to the furthest edges of the listening crowd. Beccorban was too far away to make out what he was saying but it had caught the attention of those around him and they filled the beach, as numerous as the grains of sand upon which they stood. Men, women, young, old, rich, poor — the crowd ebbed and flowed in parody of the cold grey waters of the Scoldsee, anchored to the words of the speaker.
There were several ships in the waters of the bay. They were long, sleek things, of dark burgundy wood, each with high masts and great expanses of once-white cloth, stained an unwholesome grey by the salt waters of the Scoldsee. Most were little more than shapes on the horizon, alr
eady loaded and bound for safer shores, but at least three were as close to the beaches as their keels would allow, and small pockets of colourful motion indicated where boats were ferrying people out to them.
“Those are military ships,” said Loster and Beccorban nodded.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Designed for fighting though, not ferrying peasants. Makes you wonder what they’re doing here.”
“We don’t think we can hold the land,” said the boy, and Beccorban looked down at him. He was young but he was no fool.
“No, lad. I fear you may be right.” Beccorban grunted and lowered his voice. “There are many here. We may have to fight to get aboard a ship.”
“Not all will make for the ships.”
“The smart ones will.”
“We could pay?” offered Riella.
Beccorban raised an eyebrow. “You have coin?”
“Some.”
He laughed. “Trust me, girl, it will not be enough. People are desperate, and that means there’s money to be made.”
“Well, what do you suggest then?”
He twisted his mouth. “I’ll think of something.” He looked over at Callistan who was making Mirril laugh. The tall blond warrior had taken a liking to the young girl and now he was holding one of the fluted ears of his horse, Crucio, whispering into it as if he was telling the beast a great secret. Mirril found it hilarious. Riella had tried to draw some kind of information out of him, but little was forthcoming. The farmhouse had been his, as the grave had been that of someone dear to him, but all that was obvious. Of his background he said nothing, though from his dishevelled clothing and wounds — he was missing a finger on his left hand — it was clear that he had not just been a farmer. Nevertheless he seemed content to follow them. “Maybe we should let him do the talking. He seems the conversational type.”
“You shouldn’t make fun,” Riella scolded.
“No, you’re right. He has proven me wrong. Apparently a man can love a horse.”
“Gods!” she shook her head in despair and stalked from him. Beccorban chuckled to himself. He watched her go and felt his stomach tighten as he saw how lovely she was when she was walking away. Calm, he told himself and turned back to Callistan. The blond warrior was staring at him and he was suddenly convinced that the horseman had heard every word he had just said. He shifted his shoulders to loosen the discomfort and swung around to face the others.
“Ruum has fallen, as has Kressel. We must assume that the Heartlands are lost,” Beccorban told them grimly, trying to ignore the haunted, gaunt faces that looked at him for direction — all, he noted, but Callistan, whose eyes were ever distant, distracted. Beccorban had come to the decision to flee sometime earlier and it had not been an easy one. The enemy was loose in the soft belly of the Verian Empire and he had already seen how sharp were its blades. Though Beccorban wanted to fight, there was no news of the army and it seemed that every major city was either broken or besieged. “We need to get out of Veria. Find somewhere safe and then regroup.”
He twisted his head to stare at the hard dark line to the north. Fend. Beccorban’s stomach clenched at the memories. In the early days of the war against the Respini, he had known only victory. Then he had brought his army to the fortress at Fend, used by the elite Higard as a barracks for decades. From Fend the Respini had lorded over the Heartlands and the Watch, keeping Veria under the yoke. Beccorban had known that if he could topple Fend it would send a message to the Respini and bring anyone not yet committed over to his side, to fight for Illis and the Verian cause. But the assault on Fend had brought him only ambush and then the anguish of defeat, of knowing that he had been bested and that the rebellion would die with his name upon it.
Yet it did not die. Beccorban had led the broken Verian forces into the icy passes of the Heartland Range, fleeing the battlefield but leaving Illis behind to be captured and imprisoned. He had never meant for it to happen like that. He felt again the emptiness, the cold fury freezing as ice in his mind as he dragged his surviving men through weeks of lethal conditions, living off snowmelt and rage. And other things. He shuddered. When they had emerged from the mountains into the north of Respin, they were fewer in number, but those left were hardened like forged steel. The first Respini city they came across was Iss, now known as the City of Innocents for what they had done to it. Iss did not have walls nor did it have many soldiers; most had been conscripted to put down the Verian rebellion. His rebellion. He could still remember watching dispassionately as his veterans poured into the defenceless city, a black flag fluttering above their heads.
He shook himself back to the present and looked around, wondering how much pain and suffering this land had already seen, how much he was responsible for. Could he lead these people? Would they follow him? Callistan seemed to sense his indecision. The strange, brooding warrior was staring at him with that merciless green gaze, sizing him up, seeing through his soldier’s mask into the old man’s mind that feared failure. By contrast, Loster was looking upon him with big eyes, waiting for his word. The lad said that he had been on his way to Kressel when his wagon train had been attacked. Beccorban noticed that he was clad in the white tunic of a member of the Temple Dawn. He was to be a man of the gods. Let them help him now, thought Beccorban.
The speaker on the wagon reached a crescendo and several people nearby roared with zealous anger. They won’t all be saved, he thought. He turned to look at his group, a girl, two young adults and a wild man. He was not even sure he could save them.
“Outta the way!” said a rough looking man with greasy hair, spiking an elbow into Loster’s ribs and shoving him roughly aside. Loster gasped in pain and staggered at the blow as the man disappeared into the mass of people. Gentle hands pulled him to his feet, and he breathed in the sweet smell of the woman, Riella. He looked up at her face and saw something he did not expect there: concern. It shamed him.
“Be careful, Loster. There’s little kindness to be had here.”
He nodded and brushed himself down. Next time I’ll stand up for myself, he thought.
“Next time, next time!” crowed the familiar voice, and Loster shook his head to clear it.
“They knew!” came the voice of the speaker. “They knew and they did nothing!” More and more people were edging towards the speaker’s group, forcing Loster and the others further into the mass. “The men in the black cloaks, the thralls that walk in the shadows, they had their hands on the warnings of our elders and ignored them, cast them aside in favour of evil service to the Unnamed.” A low murmur rippled through the crowd at the mention of the Black God. Loster felt a chill roll down his spine.
“Hammerman!” Loster turned to see the tall blond warrior, Callistan, striding through the crowd towards Beccorban. He was tugging Crucio along by the bridle and the bulk of the horse allowed him to bully a route through the throng. Mirril, still atop the horse, was grinning and kicking her heels into Crucio’s flanks. Somebody stepped into his path and he casually threw them aside, facing down their protest with a baleful stare until they slunk away.
Beccorban waited for Callistan with his head cocked to the side, ready to hear what the horseman, often so quiet, had to say. “What is it?”
“Trouble,” said Callistan with an air of assumed authority. “Look, by the water,” he nodded in the direction of a small rowing boat, just now returning from its last trip out to one of the waiting ships. “Calm for now but it won’t last, and then it will be chaos. There aren’t enough ships to take everyone here.”
“Keep your voice down, man,” snapped Beccorban but Callistan continued as if he hadn’t heard.
“They’ll realise it soon. We won’t make it to the ships if that happens. When that happens.”
“So what can we do about that, besides force our way on to a boat?” asked Riella.
“The priest,” Callistan pointed at the pointy-headed man on the wagon. “His words are poison. They will make this crowd turn ugly faster than anything. I’m
going to shut him up.” For a moment, Loster assumed that the warrior was asking permission. It was an easy mistake to make — Beccorban was the largest and oldest of them and they all looked to him for leadership; it came easily to him. However, Callistan also walked with the swagger that only a man who has been tested physically and has come out on top can muster. A man like him was not much given to asking for things, so he simply handed Crucio’s reins to Riella and walked off, pushing into the crowd and out of sight.
“Where’s he going?” asked Mirril and Beccorban cursed with a word that Loster was sure he had never heard before. Mirril leaned down from Crucio’s back and reached for his hand and, though it irritated him, he let her hold it nonetheless.
“He’s going to get us all killed,” said Beccorban to no one in particular, stalking after him.
Left alone with the two women, Loster suddenly felt very afraid, but Riella rescued him. “Come on. Let’s go with them.” She clucked to lead the horse onwards and strode into the rapidly closing wake left by Beccorban’s massive frame.
Callistan was angry but he did not really know why. Perhaps it was because he felt robbed. He had been so sure that the others were slipskins but now he knew they were not. He had not tested them all, of course, but until they gave him reason to think otherwise he would give them the benefit of the doubt. There was, after all, something pleasant about being around people again.
He was still angry, though. Perhaps it was because he knew he should be riding towards Temple, towards vengeance for his family. Instead he was here on this damp stretch of land north of the Watch, following a boy, a girl, a whore and an ancient. He knew that if he stopped to think for a second he would start questioning himself again, so he shut that part of his mind off. He focused on the now, on the man with the pointy head on top of the wagon.
