Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  As the most potent mage present, it had become Kyrik’s duty to blaze the trail for the Vlpa, making each crossing first. He was thankful he had the best hunter in the valley to guide him. He found Rothgar good company; he was around thirty, of an age with Kyrik, though with his grey-streaked beard and weathered skin he could have passed for fifty.

  They finished rubbing down the stallion, then Rothgar led the horse away while Kyrik waved at the next to cross: Brazko, the chief’s eldest son, with another two dozen riders. The cliffs above caught the constant roar of the tortured water and funnelled it down the gorge, all but drowning out their voices. He glanced at the sky: it was an hour or so before they lost the light and they still needed to make camp. The Sydian column was spread out for miles on either side of the river. At no point since they’d entered the gorge had he been able to see more than three dozen riders.

  Five minutes per man to cross, and we need to allow half an hour to set up camp . . . He held up both hands, three fingers raised on each, splayed so they could count. Six more men across, then make camp, was the message he hoped to convey. Then he and Rothgar helped Brazko haul his pony up the slope. The Sydians rode superbly, of course, but river crossings like this were beyond their experience. They’d adapted swiftly, though, with Brazko invariably third to cross, after Kyrik and Rothgar. They were all diligent in tending their mounts – the Vlpa men treated their horses better than their women, Kyrik thought.

  Thinking of Sydian women sent his eyes roving across the ford to the far bank, seeking Hajya’s shock of black hair amidst the tightly top-knotted warriors. Her strong face was marked with a thick blue stripe running across both eyes and the bridge of her nose, the same face-paint as the warriors in a warband ritual Brazko had led. It accentuated her exoticism and emphasised her penetrating gaze.

  he sent. She didn’t reply, but he knew she’d heard.

  He left the warriors to deal with the rest of the crossings and hurriedly assembled his own Sydian tent, a semicircle of hide over three poles forming a cone. It was cosy enough when shared by two.

  ‘When will we reach the path up to the cliff-tops?’ he asked Rothgar.

  ‘Tomorrow evening,’ Rothgar estimated. ‘We’re still six miles north of Neplezko Flat and we’re only making three miles a day so far, but the crossings are easier from here on, at least until we strike the narrows – there’s some tricky climbs around the rapids, but after that the river forms a lake, about three hundred yards across. Neplezko Flat is beyond the lake. We call the path up top the eastern cliff the Gazda’s Stair – getting a horse to the top is a feat, but no worse than some of the fords.’

  ‘Will Dragan and Valdyr be there before us?’

  ‘Probably – they should have cleared the Rahnti Mines yesterday evening, and it takes about a day and a half to get from Watcher’s Peak to the Magas.’

  ‘Then let’s hope the Delestres have no inkling we’re here.’

  ‘On that count, we’re in Kore’s hands.’

  They got back to the river in time to haul Hajya and her horse from the water. Kyrik went to rub down the animal, but Rothgar took the cloth from his hands. ‘Your lady’s soaked to the waist,’ the hunter noted wryly. ‘You might want to help her with her leggings. Leather’s a bitch to get off when it’s wet.’

  Kyrik snorted, slapped the man’s shoulder and went to help Hajya as best he could.

  An hour later, he emerged from the tent, wrapped in a blanket to protect his modesty, and waved thanks at the man who’d cooked that evening. A small pot had been left at his tent flap. As he kindled a small fire to reheat the stew, he noticed Brazko and Rothgar talking intently, the other six warriors listening respectfully as they huddled around a larger fire. He contemplated joining them, but in truth, he just wanted one person’s company tonight.

  Hajya joined him soon after, wrapped in the fox-fur wedding cloak he’d made for her. She sniffed ruefully at her armpits – she’d been disbelieving when he told her that Rondian women plucked out armpit hairs – then kissed him and swayed away towards the river. She returned soaking and shivering a few minutes later, dried herself on a blanket, then hung it to dry, unconcernedly naked. ‘Those men have seen me before,’ she remarked when he gestured towards the others, but she did wrap the fox-fur about herself again.

  He looked at her admiringly. Perhaps most men would have found her unremarkable, and in stillness, she didn’t stand out. But she did everything with vigour and conviction. Her weathered face had never been pretty and her muscular, fleshy body was ageing, but when she moved, when she danced, when she spoke, no one else mattered.

  She swivelled and caught him staring, and he fancied that pleased her. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he said, then turned his mind to logistics – there were things he needed to know about her Sfera. ‘I was talking to Rothgar earlier. We have to get enough men to the top of the eastern cliffs above Neplezko Flat tomorrow to shield us in case an enemy patrol happens by. We’ll not reach the flat until tomorrow afternoon, and if there are Rondian scouts, we’ll be hard to hide. How can your Sfera help?’

  She considered. ‘I’m primarily a hermetic mage so I can help calm the beasts for the climb. Most of the others have similar gifts. I chose the ones to travel with us for their abilities to hunt and fight – in truth, almost all of our affinities are of elemental and physical magic.’

  ‘Don’t you have a diviner among you? Torzo?’ He recalled a tall, skinny man, a little older than Hajya. He’d never seen him move from the shadows of the Sfera pavilion, but he’d foreseen Kyrik’s advent last month. ‘A shame we didn’t bring him. We could use someone who can give us a view of the bigger picture.’

  Hajya shook her head. ‘Torzo’s frail – and blind. A hard ride as we did wouldn’t have been possible – and anyway, Thraan needs him, back on the plains.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised he was blind.’

  ‘When it was realised that his strongest affinity was divination, the Sfera leader – the one before me – had him blinded, so that his body would be forced to rely on his mind. We’ve found such things can accentuate an affinity.’

  Kyrik felt his eyes go round. ‘That’s barbaric!’

  ‘Ysh, but it works,’ Hajya said softly. ‘I felt bad for my friend, but it was the way of it. Korznici, his granddaughter, has the same potential – if she is revealed to be a diviner, I will do the same to her.’

  He swallowed. ‘But—’

  ‘We are all of us in the Vlpa Sfera low-blooded. We have learned little tricks to transcend our limitations. It’s called survival.’

  Every day brought him a new challenge. She’s an animage . . . ‘What did they do to you?’

  Pain flashed momentarily in her eyes. ‘Nothing you truly wish to know.’

  He swallowed, and decided she was right: he didn’t want to know. So they talked of neutral things for a time before returning to the tent to enjoy each other’s bodies, then let sleep settle on them like a mantle and soothe away their fears.

  *

  Watcher’s Peak, Feher Szarvasfeld, Mollachia

  Dragan’s runners were gone, but there were likely Rondian riders between them and the Magas Gorge. The Gazda had sent Juergan and a dozen other scouts south to get a better feel for the strength of the enemy and the news wasn’t good: there were footmen too, advancing through the valley behind the cavalry. A small army lay between them and Magas Gorge.

  The morning and afternoon crawled by. With so many fears and frustrations churning inside him, Valdyr couldn’t rest. All his fretting and pacing finally took him to the trail to the watch-spur again, but on a whim, he took the peak trail so he could put his back to the blackened stump with the rack of antlers nailed to it and try to think.

  We can’t warn Kyrik and we can’t fight a force that size. We’re useless! I’m useless. He buried his head in his hands, screaming inside his head, Kyrik, Kyrik, can you hear me?

&nb
sp; But his call never became a call. It never left his skull, just rattled inside it. He prayed to Kore that someone would get through in time. If they failed, then unless Kyrik found a way to contact him – and he’d said he wouldn’t even try, in case it alerted the Delestre magi – then there was nothing he could do. The implications of his brother dying weren’t lost on him: he’d be king – but he hated himself for thinking of it.

  The crunch of boots below wasn’t really welcome, but it was Dragan himself, climbing the steep track with an easy lope, like the wolf whose pelt he wore. He threw himself down beside Valdyr. ‘The first scouts are in,’ he said without preamble. ‘The valley floor is crawling with redcloaks: cavalry and footmen. They’re strung out over almost seven miles. We estimate two maniples of cavalry and maybe four of rankers: enough to fight a battle, but not arrayed like they expect one. They mightn’t know about Kyrik’s column yet.’

  Valdyr brooded on this tendril of hope for a long, silent time.

  ‘Your father and I came here once, when you were a boy,’ Dragan said eventually. ‘We’d thought to climb all the way to the peak and see the world as Zlateyr did. But there’s a ravine only a stag could leap and the bridge is long lost. We nearly froze – and that was in Junesse.’

  ‘Do you think Zlateyr and his warband were Sydian?’

  Dragan’s reply was vehement. ‘Never! Zlateyr was a great Mollach hero. He was Andressan – like you and me: dark hair, white skin. Your brother can believe what he wants, and he can tell those Sydians whatever he wants, but he’s wrong.’

  His conviction sounded defensive, but Valdyr let it pass. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. Like the fact that just thinking of touching dark skin makes me ill.

  He looked up at the peak, its summit lost in cloud. ‘I’d like to climb it one day.’

  ‘Pick a hot day in Julsep,’ Dragan replied, ‘with clear skies. When the clouds drop past where we sit, there’s a storm coming.’ He clapped Valdyr on the shoulder and they were rising to leave when they heard a great snorting sound. Turning, they saw a giant stag barely a dozen paces away: an eighteen-pointer, built like a warhorse, with shaggy fur and the blackest eyes. Its coat was pure white.

  Dragan slowly reached for his bow, but Valdyr caught his hand. ‘No. It’s sacred.’

  ‘When did you become a priest, lad?’ Dragan rumbled, but he dropped his hand. ‘That fur, the velvet, the antlers – lowlanders pay deep in the purse for a white.’

  ‘Zlateyr saw a white stag the day he died,’ Valdyr breathed. And one saved me from the Vrulpa-daemon . . .

  ‘Aye, and King Rodislan shot four in one season when he was twenty, and lived to sixty-seven. They’re just animals, lad. There are herds north of Lake Jegto. Believe me, you don’t want to get caught by those prongs.’

  ‘I’d just said that I’d like to go up there, and it came.’

  ‘You said “one day”. That doesn’t have to be today,’ Dragan retorted.

  Valdyr took a step towards the stag, which made a strange lowing and twitched its head backwards, towards Watcher’s Peak. ‘Look! It wants me to follow—’

  ‘It’s eyeing an escape route is what it’s doing.’

  But Valdyr was certain. He’d expressed a wish, and the stag had come. He didn’t care if it was foolish: he needed to be doing something, and this was something. ‘I’m going to follow it.’ He took a step towards the massive beast, which tossed its magnificent head and moved a little way up the path.

  Valdyr pursued as fast as he could, sucking in the cold, thin air that stung his throat. Dragan followed, telling him this was foolish, that losing Kyrik would be bad enough but losing him too would destroy the kingdom, but Valdyr, caught up in the stag’s huge eyes, barely heard.

  Then it bounded up another slope to the very edge of a wall of mist and Dragan called, ‘Stop, lad!’ He caught his arm. ‘It’s too risky – there’s snow up there.’

  The stag looked back and bellowed, trumpeting its strength and mastery, and the sound went echoing around the peaks, coming back in waves. The effect was stirring, setting Valdyr’s heart drumming. ‘No, I’ve got to follow.’ He pulled free and trotted across the next dell, around a tiny grey tarn, and crunched up the slope.

  Dragan came partway, then stopped. ‘Please, lad!’

  The stag roared again as the mists closed in and it was just a silhouette at the top of the rise. When Valdyr looked back, Dragan was a forlorn figure beside the tarn, fading to a grey shadow, still shouting, ‘Valdyr – come back!’

  The stag bounded off into the clouds, and Valdyr, afraid to lose it, ran after it until Dragan’s voice was lost in the moan of the winds. He stumbled, grazed his hands and scrambled on as his field of vision dropped to two or three feet and the wind plucked and pulled at his cloak. The stag snorted on the slopes above. That way? Or that? He clambered up the rocky slope and almost ran into a giant boulder – and the picked-clean skeleton of another deer, a female, just a pile of yellowy broken bones and stubby antlers. It felt like a warning.

  The air was colder. It’d been mid-afternoon when he left, but the light was fading into deep grey and it felt like he was climbing into night. But the white stag was before him again, stamping its fore-hooves and sending little rockfalls back down the slope.

  Dragan wasn’t wrong. I could die up here. He commended his soul to Kore, and the stag blasted air from its nostrils as if laughing, then with a flex of its huge shoulders it sprang into the gloom. Valdyr ran after it and darkness swallowed the world below. He staggered into old snow, crunching through the dirty skin of it, all his instincts shrieking at him to go back – but he refused, even though the wind was whining over the teeth of icy rocks, sucking at his vitality. The white stag was still ahead of him, always at the edge of vision. It no longer looked like a real beast but a wisp of mist, somehow visible despite the lack of moonlight, showing him paths where he’d seen none. The only light was the pallid glow of the mist.

  He topped another rise and stumbled towards an area of flat ground – and suddenly realised the place was paved with broken slabs: a roadway, of sorts. The stag dashed through what might be a broken-topped arch sheltering some dead hagwoods, with Valdyr breathlessly following in its wake until he found himself inside the circle of a shattered keep barely ninety feet in diameter. The remaining walls were low, encrusted in ice and snow.

  Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of ravine? He glanced back through the arch and almost fell: the ground behind him, the road he’d walked, was gone and there was only a precipice: a deep drop filled with swirling mist.

  ‘Kore’s Light!’ he gasped, and this time it was the wind chuckling at his piety.

  There was no sign of the stag as he walked into the stone circle. Surely this was a tower’s foundations, he thought, wondering if he could find enough shelter here to wait out the night. There was an old fire-pit in the middle, and around it were huddled four mounds, like old folk in blankets trying to soak up the last of the heat from a burned-out blaze. He looked closer and realised that was exactly what they were: rime-coated bones encased in cloaks of heavy furs. How long ago they’d died, he had no idea. Two had armour and weapons; the other two were bare-headed, with tangled manes of dead hair. The skulls leered at him, teeth bared, frosted grey hair teased by the shifting air.

  Though he was still sweating from the climb, the cold struck him and he began to shake, thinking of the dangers of frostbite, and worse. He looked back at the broken gates: the hagwoods were the first fuel he’d seen up here. They were long dead and it took no time to break off some branches and drag them to the fire-pit. He’d not worked out how to set fire to them, but somehow that problem solved itself: with a sudden terrifying whoosh, the branches caught alight and flames roared.

  He almost ran, but it felt like death out there beyond the stones. His world had shrunk to this one last haven of light in the dark, so he hunkered down, frightened but watchful, between two of the dead and leaned into the flames, soaking up the hea
t rolling out of the pit. He had hard bread and dried meat in his pouch; as he began to thaw, he ate, the cavernous eye-sockets of the dead following his every move.

  Nothing moved but the flames. Outside the stone circle, the wind was like the howling of the unquiet dead, but in here it was . . . safe.

  He closed his eyes, drifting . . .

  *

  ‘Hey, boy, you want a swig?’

  Valdyr blinked awake to find four faces peering at him: all black-haired, with narrow eyes and copper-skinned faces. Sydians. An old man with a top-knot – a shaman, he realised – was proffering a leather-wrapped flask. He went to refuse, then thought, Why not: it’s only a dream.

  He took a mouthful, and reeled as the liquor hit the back of his mouth, threatening to burn a hole right through to his brain.

  The shaman chuckled. ‘Good brew, ysh?’

  Valdyr looked at him mutely as the fluid seared his throat.

  ‘Tongue frozen, boy?’ the woman tittered. ‘Or burned off?’

  ‘Dissolved,’ the smaller of the two warriors laughed. ‘Here, have a bite of venison, lad. We took down a white stag in the valley today.’ He offered a stick with a hunk of roasted meat skewered on it. ‘Go on, have some.’

  Valdyr hesitated. A white stag? But he was only dreaming, so he took the meat and nibbled. Delicious juices filled his mouth and he wolfed the rest down ravenously.

  ‘He’s a handsome boy,’ the woman commented. ‘There’s pain though, in here.’ She gestured towards her heart. She wasn’t pretty, but she had a confident frankness that was unsettling . . . a lot like Hajya of the Vlpa.

  ‘Cautious,’ the shaman said, dipping a wooden cup into a pail of water – snowmelt, he guessed – and handing it to Valdyr.

  ‘Afraid,’ said the young warrior. ‘But no coward. He’s faced death and taken lives.’

  They turned to the one man who hadn’t spoken: a tall, angular man, by far the biggest Sydian Valdyr had ever seen, though there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him. He had a long, horse-like face and a black beard and ponytail. His cheeks were scarred and his rudder-like nose had been broken at least once.