by Anthony Ryan
“Even so,” Sollis said, turning back to the horses. “I’m unwilling to linger and her meal will have to wait. Mount up. No more stops until nightfall.”
* * *
They covered another ten miles before the sun began to fade and made camp in the lee of a large, flat topped boulder rising several feet above the treetops. The horses were tethered close by and Sollis took the first watch atop the boulder whilst the others sheltered below. There was no question of lighting a fire this deep into the Lonak dominion and they were obliged to huddle in their cloaks for warmth.
The northerly winds had grown stiff by nightfall, bringing a chill that Sollis’s years in the mountains had never quite accustomed him to. Unable to pace for fear of attracting attention, he sat as he maintained his vigil, continually flexing his fingers beneath his cloak. It was never a good idea to draw a sword with a benumbed grip. He counted as he sat, one to three hundred, maintaining a steady cadence. Upon reaching his total he would close his eyes and listen to the song of the mountains for a count of one hundred. It was a trick the Master of the Wild had taught him during his time at the Order House, a means of occupying the mind without losing concentration, and it had saved his life more than once.
It was during his fifth repetition that he heard it again: the hawk’s call, more distant this time but unmistakably the same, plaintive cry. His eyes snapped open, ranging across the sky in search of the bird. The cloud cover was thinner now and the half-moon bright against the black of the sky. What manner of hawk flies at night? he wondered, finding no trace of a winged shape anywhere. The question brought Oskin’s words to mind: ain’t natural. Sollis began to rise, intending to wake Oskin for an opinion, then paused as a faint scent reached his nostrils. Smoke, he thought, lowering his gaze to the surrounding landscape. He found the source quickly, a blaze atop a low hill perhaps five miles north.
Hearing a scrape of leather on stone he turned to find Sister Elera clambering up onto the boulder, gazing at the distant fire with a wary expression. “A signal fire?” she asked.
“No,” Sollis said. “The Lonak don’t use them. You should be resting.”
She gave a sheepish shrug. “I couldn’t sleep. And I smelt the smoke.” She nodded at the yellow-orange smudge in the distance. “If it’s not a signal, what is it?”
Sollis returned his attention to the blaze. It was large, sending a tall column of thick smoke into the night sky. It was also a good deal above the trees which meant at least it wouldn’t spread. “There’s a village on that hilltop,” he said. “It appears to be burning.”
“A battle?” she wondered. “The clans war amongst themselves, Brother Arlyn said.”
“It’s possible,” Sollis conceded. “But I’ve never seen them burn a whole village before. It’s not their warriors’ habit to kill the young or the old, unless they’re Merim Her, of course.”
“Merim Her?”
“It’s what they call us. It roughly translates as ‘sea-scum’.”
“I see. A reference to our forebear’s seaborne migration all those centuries ago, I presume. It’s said the Lonak and the Seordah once had dominion over all the lands that now comprise the Realm.”
“Then we came and took it all away. It’s hardly surprising they’re still somewhat bitter.”
Sollis lifted his gaze to the sky once more, resuming his search for the hawk but finding nothing. The bird’s unnatural nighttime flight in close proximity to the burning village was enough of a troubling coincidence to dictate their next course, albeit one he would have preferred to avoid.
“In the morning,” he said, “we will inspect what remains of that village.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to go around?” Elera said. “Whoever attacked it may still be in the vicinity, may they not?”
“Two bucks with one arrow,” he reminded her. “You have your mission and I have mine. Please sister, get some sleep.”
* * *
They found the first body halfway up the sloping track that led to the village. A girl, perhaps thirteen years old, lying face down with an arrow in her back. She was running, Smentil signed as he examined the corpse with a critical eye. From the depth of the shaft I’d put the range at over a hundred paces. In the dark too. Quite a feat. He crouched and reached out to run his fingers over the fletching.
“Gull feathers,” Oskin observed. “Looks a good deal like one of ours.”
The quill isn’t flush with the shaft, Smentil signed, shaking his head. No brother’s hand made this.
“But I’d hazard whoever did wanted the Lonak to think otherwise,” Sollis concluded. He looked towards the top of the slope where a dim pall of smoke mingled with the dense morning mist. The points of the sharpened logs forming the village stockade were just visible above the crest, a long row of blackened teeth in the murk.
“Anything?” he asked Oskin, nodding at Red Ears. The hound’s tail swished continually, though the direction of her nose wavered.
“Just death, I think,” Oskin said. “And no small amount of it either.”
Sollis and his brothers notched arrows before approaching the entrance to the village at a slow walk whilst Elera followed closely behind, leading the horses. The familiar stench of the recently dead mingled with charred wood as Sollis paused amidst the ruins of what had been the gate. The large oakwood doors that had guarded this settlement were now shattered and blackened splinters. Beyond them much of the rest of the village was shrouded in mist, but he could see the bodies of a dozen Lonak lying nearby, men and women. A variety of spears, knives and war clubs lay amongst them and their wounds told of an intense close-quarters fight. Most were only partially dressed and Sollis deduced they had been roused from sleep by the attack.
Came running to defend the gate, Smentil signed. I’d guess it had already fallen when they got here.
“Brother,” Oskin said, nodding to another corpse just beyond the gate, a corpse clad in a blue cloak. Sollis moved quickly to examine the body, finding an unfamiliar, pale complexioned face beneath a shock of close-cropped black hair. The man had a sword of the Asraelin pattern lying close to his hand and a hatchet buried in the thin leather armour that covered his chest.
“Done up like a brother, sure enough,” Oskin observed. “Not well enough to convince anyone with an experienced eye, though.”
Sollis scrutinised the rest of the dead man’s clothing, finding the boots and leather armour of unfamiliar design. A cursory glance at the man’s hands confirmed them as rough and strong, the hands of a warrior, but of what stripe?
He looked up as Smentil tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to move aside. When Sollis had done so the brother knelt to draw the hatchet from the dead man’s chest then unfastened his armour, pulling it aside. Using his hunting knife he sliced through the wool shirt beneath to reveal a pattern of old scars scored into the man’s flesh.
Volarian, his hands said. Slave-soldier.
“Seen this before, brother?” Oskin asked him.
Years ago, Smentil replied. After a fight with some Meldenean pirates. They had taken a Volarian ship and were sailing it to the Isles. Hadn’t got round to throwing the bodies overboard when we hove into view.
“Then this fellow’s come a very long way.” Oskin retreated a few steps, shrewd eyes scanning the village. “Another one over there.” He pointed to a second blue-cloaked figure lying some twenty yards on. A closer inspection revealed the same complexion and scar pattern beneath his armour. However, the cause of his death was different, a large gaping hole in his throat Oskin judged to be the result of a bite.
“Another snow-dagger?” Sollis suggested but Oskin shook his head.
“They puncture the throat and suffocate their prey.” He moved away, eyes narrowed in concentration as he surveyed the muddy ground. “This was something with different teeth, and bigger.” He paused and sank to his haunches, fingers reaching out to hover over a mark. “Much bigger…” he murmured, Sollis detecting a faint note of inc
redulity in his tone.
“It looks like a wolf print,” he said, looking over Oskin’s shoulder, although the size of the track made him wonder. It was at least twice the breadth and width of any wolf’s paw he had ever seen.
“That it is,” Oskin agreed, rising and moving forward, eyes fixed on the ground. “Got quite the stride, this fellow.” He came to a halt several yards on, nodding at an overlapping matrix of tracks. “Looks like he paused here, then…” Oskin turned, striding towards the stockade. Sollis followed him through the gap between two huts whereupon they both drew up short at the sight before them. A large ragged hole had been torn in the timbers of the stockade. It was both wide and tall enough to allow the passage of a full grown man, or something of equal size.
“Faith,” Oskin whispered, staring at the jagged edges of the hole. “What could do this?”
“The splinters are all on the inside of the wall,” Sollis noted.
Oskin’s gaze immediately returned to the ground. “It came in this way.” His finger traced a route from the stockade to the village, then back again. “Killed one of the slave-soldiers, paused for a second or two then left the same way.” He shook his head in grim-faced bafflement. “Why, brother? What unearthly thing has happened here?”
“Not so much an unearthly thing, brother.” Sollis peered through the hole at the misted landscape beyond. “A Dark thing.”
Oskin gave a perturbed grunt and moved to survey the ground beyond the hole. “Bare rock all around. Little chance of tracking it, whatever it…”
He fell silent at the sound of shouting to their rear. Sollis and Oskin raised their bows and swiftly retraced their steps. Sister Elera came into view first, standing with her arms outstretched in the wide thoroughfare that ran through the centre of the village. Smentil stood to her right, his bow drawn and arrow aimed at something to her left, though she moved continually in an obvious attempt to frustrate his aim.
“Put that down!” she commanded, though Smentil seemed disinclined to obey.
Sollis rounded one of the huts, preparing to draw his own bow then pausing at the sight of the three figures behind Elera. An old, stick thin Lonak man stood shielding two small children, a boy and a girl. All three were glaring at Elera and Smentil with a mix of fear and defiant hatred. Upon catching sight of Sollis the old man began to mutter a death song, pulling the two children closer to his side as he did so.
“Brother,” Sollis said, lowering his bow and shaking his head at Smentil. The brother slowly relaxed his bowstring as Sollis stepped past him. The trio of Lonak tensed as he approached, the children’s faces bunching, though the old man held them in place and they made no attempt to flee. He straightened his back as Sollis came to a halt a few yards away, snarling a rebuke at the little boy when he let out a sob.
“Isk-reh varn kha-il dohim ser varkhim ke!” Do not blight our death with your weakness!
Sollis saw that the old man held something, a crumpled, ragged edged length of tanned goatskin, clutched tight in his bony fist. Drawing closer Sollis recognised the markings stitched into the skin: war banner. Slowly, he removed the arrow from his bow and returned it to his quiver, holding the weapon up and raising his other hand, fingers spread wide. “We do not bring death this day,” he said in Lonak.
“Why not?” the old man enquired, lips curled. “When you brought so much last night?”
Sollis looked around at the ruined village with its blackened, roofless huts and many corpses. “We didn’t do this,” he said.
“Lies!” the old man spat. He raised a fist to brandish the war banner at Sollis. “Kill us and have done, but do not soil my ears with Merim Her tricks.”
“These men,” Sollis went on, pointing to the blue-cloaked corpse lying nearby, “they wear our garb, but they are not from our lands. We have come to end them.”
Sollis saw the old man’s eyes twitch then, betraying a certain sly glint as he straightened a little, saying, “Then you are too late. The Varnish Dervakhim have already ended them all.”
Sollis’s gaze snapped to Red Ears as she let out a soft whine. The hound’s nose was pointed towards the ruined gate, tail straight and unwavering. A half-dozen figures stood amidst the ruins of the gate, features obscured by the mist but evidently Lonak judging by their weapons and garb. A slender figure stood at their head. This one carried no weapons, regarding Sollis with head titled and arms folded in apparently careful scrutiny.
“Brother,” Oskin said softly, Sollis hearing his bow creak as he drew the string taut. Turning in a slow circle Sollis saw other Lonak emerging from the ruins, some with lowered spears, others drawn flat-bows. He quickly counted at least twenty with more appearing behind. Too many, he knew, grinding his teeth in self-reproach.
“Sister,” he said to Elera. “You were right. We should have gone around.”
“Thank you, brother,” she replied in an admirably steady tone.
“When it starts,” he went on, reaching for his quiver as the Lonak inched closer, “mount up and ride off, as fast as you can. We should be able to create enough of a distraction for you to get clear. If it appears they’re about to catch you, I advise that you cut your wrists. A downward stroke works best.”
“Your concern is appreciated, brother.”
His fingers closed on an arrow and his gaze fixed on the closest Lonak, a stocky warrior now only twenty yards away. The man’s features were set in the hard mask of imminent combat, his own bow fully drawn. There were two more behind, one with a club, the other a spear. Sollis was confident he could get two with his arrows before dispatching the third with his sword. After that…
“Reh-isk!” Stop!
Sollis’s gaze swung towards the gate where the slender figure was now striding forward, arms unfolded and waving dismissively at the encroaching Lonak. At the command they came to a sudden halt, although their bows remained drawn and spears lowered. As the figure came closer Sollis saw that it was a woman. A pelt of wild-cat fur covered her torso, though her lean, muscled arms were bare, each richly decorated in tattoos. A long scalp-lock traced from the top of her head and down her back. Sollis was quick to recognise the green and red ink pattern covering most of her shaven head: shaman.
She came to a halt a dozen feet away, looking at each of them in turn. Sollis was struck by the lack of animosity on her face, she was even smiling a little. “Hello,” she said in perfect Realm tongue, the accent every bit as smooth and cultured as Sister Elera’s. Her eyes tracked over each of them again before coming to rest on Sollis, whereupon she frowned, lips pursed in apparent disappointment. “She said you would be taller.”
5
“They’re called Kuritai,” the shaman said, kicking the blue-cloaked corpse at her feet. “The Volarian slave-elite. Deadly but mindless.”
The other Lonak had retreated after she barked out a series of harsh commands. They still maintained a perimeter around Sollis and the others, but had at least relaxed their bows and lowered their spears. From the hard, hate-filled glares on every face Sollis deduced that the only thing keeping them from a swift and merciless slaughter was the authority enjoyed by this strange woman.
“And what do they call you?” he asked her.
“Verkehla,” she replied, turning to him with a smile and bowing. “Tahlessa to the Varnish Dervakhim, by the word of the Mahlessa.”
Verkehla, Sollis searched his memory for the meaning. Bloody Arrow. “I am…” he began but she cut him off.
“Brother Sollis of the Sixth Order,” she said, eyebrows raised in a mockery of awe. “The Grey Eyed Fox himself. I am truly honoured.”
Sollis heard Oskin let out a soft laugh before muttering, “Told you, brother.”
“Varnish Dervakhim,” Sollis went on, ignoring him. “The Outcast Knives?”
“Your translation is somewhat inelegant,” Verkehla replied. “I prefer ‘The Banished Blades.’ A tad more poetic, don’t you think?”
He gestured to the surrounding Lonak. “These are all
Varnish?”
“Indeed they are.” Verkehla’s face took on a sour expression as she surveyed her fellow Lonak. “Murderers, thieves, liars and oath-breakers. All given a chance at redemption by the Mahlessa’s word. They make for fairly terrible company, I must say. I find I hate them all quite a lot.” Her features bunched into a sudden, resentful snarl and she called out in Lonak, “I just told him how much I hate you, you worthless ape-fuckers!”
This caused many of the onlooking Lonak to stiffen and focus their baleful glares on the shaman instead of the four Merim Her. However, Sollis noted that although their hands tightened on their weapons, not one voice was raised against her. Every warrior suffered the insult in rigid silence.
“See?” Verkehla said. “They’d dearly love to kill me, almost as much as they’d delight in killing you. But they’ll put up with pretty much anything, just for the merest chance the Mahlessa might restore them to their clans.”
“I assume this is the reason why we aren’t currently fighting,” Sollis said, nodding again at the corpse she had named a Kuritai.
Verkehla met his gaze, smiling and saying nothing for a moment that stretched as her eyes shifted from him to Sister Elera. “You’re a healer, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I am,” the sister replied. “Sister Elera of the Fifth Order…”
“Yes, all very nice and fine, I’m sure,” Verkehla broke in. “We have wounded. Will you attend to them?”
“Of course.”
The shaman turned and barked out more commands at the surrounding Lonak. “Find a dwelling that still has a roof, and gather the wounded there. The Merim Her bitch will see to them, and I don’t want to hear any grumbling about it.”
She fixed her gaze on Sollis once again. “Whilst your sister does her compassionate duty, you and I will share stories at the fire. I’m sure you have an interesting tale to tell.”
