by Rob Scott
Sharr stood up from kneeling, folding canvas tents into tight bundles. It was sleeting in Traver’s Notch, and that stinging, freezing downpour had soaked the tents through; they’d all need to be unrolled to dry out as soon as the weather cleared, otherwise the cloth would sprout fungus and start rotting through. Trying to prepare for travel or combat in the rain was unavoidable, and Gita had ordered the entire Resistance force – almost regiment-sized, if they were part of a proper army – to be ready to march on Capehill at a moment’s notice. Platoons, companies, squads of farmers, merchants, woodsmen, sailors, even, were all scattered throughout the surrounding foothills, all disguised as miners and spread out so they wouldn’t attract notice from passing occupation patrols. Every group, no matter their size, had a cache of mining implements to help with the ruse, and some of the soldiers were actually working the lode shafts outside Traver’s Notch when not drilling, each hoping to tap a rich vein before the assault on Capehill.
The order had come that morning: prepare to move southeast right away. And an extra order for Sharr Becklen: keep a close eye on Stalwick Rees of Capehill.
Sharr cursed, scraped the mud from his knees and glared at his annoying countryman. Gita had made it clear that Stalwick was not to be left alone at any time, and any changes in his behaviour, any seizures or fits, were to be reported to her immediately. Inexplicably, Stalwick had grown attached to the burly Capehill fisherman, and Gita had encouraged the pairing, telling Sharr, ‘It’ll be good for you! You two have so much in common; I imagine your new friendship will last a lifetime.’
Standing in the sleet, his clothes clinging to him like wet laundry, Sharr thought that even for one as old as he had managed to become, a lifetime of friendship with Stalwick Rees would leave anyone contemplating suicide. He scratched at his grey-streaked beard, considering his charge.
Stalwick was tall and lean, with blotchy skin and hair that looked permanently matted to the top of his head. His vision was poor and he had nervous tics and idiosyncratic gestures that left everyone around him on edge. He was interminably clumsy, and more than one dinner companion had discovered the challenge of eating beside him – Kellin Mora now automatically moved her goblet out of his reach the moment he came near, although even that didn’t always save her from having its contents spilled on her food. But they all put up with Stalwick, for he had a few uncanny abilities that made him an asset to the Falkan Resistance. He could make a fire anywhere; Sharr had heard that his campfires managed to burn even through the torrential rains that blew through Falkan in the early spring. He didn’t quite believe it, though he had also heard that a log from one of Stalwick’s fires had remained alight even after it had accidentally been kicked into a pond.
In addition to kindling his resilient flames, Stalwick periodically foretold the future – not the distant future, Ages and Eras yet to come, but the immediate future, the next aven, or the following day. What was troublesome about Stalwick’s clairvoyance was that he himself rarely knew he was seeing anything at all; he’d say something odd, leaving those around him to try to work out what he was prophesying. ‘I’m looking forward to the fish tonight,’ or ‘The mud will be thick tomorrow,’ might be followed with ‘I’ve never sailed on a schooner before.’ Later, Stalwick’s family and Resistance colleagues – now plagued with anxiety about what might happen – would discover that a relative who had been fishing near a mud flat had dropped by to share the day’s catch and was keen to talk about the schooner he’d seen passing by on the horizon. Sharr found Stalwick’s ability to capture glimpses of the future infuriating; he tried to ignore the periodic babble, pretending not to hear.
‘Did you hear me, Sharr? Did you? I said, “what”.’ Stalwick tied a length of bailing twine about the rolled canvas tent, but Sharr stopped him, gripping him too tightly by the shoulder. ‘Ow, stop that, stop it, Sharr. That hurts, don’t you know? That hurts.’
‘Sorry, Stalwick,’ Sharr sighed. ‘It’s just that these tents have to be ready to go. We may be leaving for Capehill at any moment, and if we don’t have tents loaded into the wagons, half of us will be without shelter. Do you understand?’
Stalwick nodded excitedly; Sharr was making his point for him. ‘That’s why I’m saying you need to let me help, Sharr, you do! I can do this, watch me.’
‘No, Stalwick.’ Sharr gripped his shoulder again, less forcefully this time. ‘I’ll finish these, but why don’t you go and get us some beer, or some tecan. Someone around here must have some brewing; see if you can find us a couple of goblets.’
Stalwick beamed. ‘I will, Sharr. I can do that. I know, there was a guy… I think his name is Daran or Deren, I can’t remember, but anyway, anyway, he knows a woman from the second company – that group from the plains – who fights like an unchained nightmare, I guess, but anyway, she makes tecan for them. I don’t know why none of the rest of them can make their own, or maybe she’s just especially good at it, but anyway, anyway, she makes it, and it’s drop-dead good tecan, the best in the whole battalion. And well, you know, the second company is camped on the other side of the stream. So, it’s not far. It’s really not, I mean, I can be over there and back in a breath or two, so it won’t even get cold, and if it does, well, then I’ll make a fire. I’m good with fires. I mean, I’m good with folds, too, but you know, fires are something I am good at too.’
Sharr sighed again, a long, slow exhalation to purge the lingering feelings of homicidal rage. ‘Thank you, Stalwick,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘Some tecan would be wonderful. I could use a warming-up. I’ll be here.’
‘Good, Sharr, good. I’ll be back. I’ll get as much as I can- Well, I’ll get two goblets, anyway, but if there’s more, I’ll get more. I mean, that’ll save us a trip later. You know? I mean, the second company is close, but who wants to cross the stream, especially today, more than once if you don’t have to. You know?’
‘Go on, Stalwick, and when you get back, we’ll make a fire.’
Despite the bone-deep chill, Stalwick’s face flushed a warm red and he looked as though he might expire from pure unchecked enthusiasm. ‘I’ll start one, Sharr. If you want a fire, I’ll get a blaze going that they’ll be able to see in Pellia. We’ll be the warmest, driest squad in the whole company, maybe the whole battalion. I’ll do that, ho, ho, will I ever!’
‘Good. Thank you, Stalwick,’ Sharr repeated. ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’ He turned back to the tents until he was sure Stalwick had left. He felt the tension leave his shoulders as he relaxed into the welcome silence. He really didn’t mind the sleet; he’d had a lifetime fishing the deep trenches off the coast of Capehill. He missed the steely-grey, freezing cold days, even when it had been utterly miserable, for fishing the North Sea had been glorious in its unpredictability. Hand-lining for summer jemma-fish, the giants that had not yet begun the season’s migration; that was lucrative fishing. But it was the nets that Sharr missed; hauling them along the trenches and canyons was like reaching into a wizard’s chest and withdrawing a handful of whatever magic might be secreted inside. Sometimes it was schools of hullen, tough little fish he could sell on the wharf for a copper or two a basket. On other days, they’d haul up a shark, a fat-bodied monster, stuffed to bursting on jemma and too slow even to get out of its own way. Sharr sometimes looped a line around their tails and dragged them for half an aven – there was no reason to bring a live shark on board, stuffed full or not, and dragging them backwards drowned them. Most tried to fight it, engaging in a titanic tug-of-war while intrepid archers would take turns firing, but eventually, the sharks always succumbed. His crew loved these fights especially; Sharr found the whole ritual gruesome. He always heaved a sigh of relief when the sharks died.
He recalled another day that had begun with frigid sleet, when he and his crew had hauled up a giant tapen, its tentacles coiling and grasping as the creature fought for its life in the unforgiving sea air. They didn’t know quite what to do with it, but they weren’t willing to cut it
away and lose a valuable net, so Sharr and his men had beaten it, gaffed it, shot it full of arrows, even stabbed it with a makeshift harpoon fashioned out of a fillet knife lashed to a docking pole. When finally the beast quieted, they hauled it aboard, assuming it was dead.
No sooner had the tapen struck the deck, than it found new reserves of energy, a monster dose of will. It rolled across the deck, its powerful limbs crushing or shattering anything it could grip on to – Sharr himself was injured when his feet were yanked out from under him and he went down, his head striking the starboard gunwale. He was lying there with his head bleeding, watching as the monster fought to the death, his crew battling to kill it before it tore out the transom and sent them all to the bottom, and he had smiled. He would not have traded places with anyone that day.
Now, folding tents mechanically, the erstwhile fisherman glanced down the hill only to see the tapen once again – it wasn’t a giant this time, nor was it threatening his life or his boat, but it was there just the same: lying in the mud, halfway to the stream, legs and arms flailing in the air.
‘Stalwick!’ Sharr roared, running down the slope. He slipped, tumbling out of control, then dizzily regained his feet. Others heard his cry and ran to see what had befallen the irksome soldier. Within moments, Stalwick had half the squad standing over him in the freezing rain.
‘Brand’s coming,’ Stalwick panted, his eyes rolling white and his limbs twitching in an ungainly dance, ‘March on Capehill, now. Malakasians know. Capehill now. Malakasians know. Brand is coming!’ Something wet ran from Stalwick’s nose, sticky phlegm the colour of spoiled milk, bubbling from one nostril as his convulsions subsided. He lay in the mud, his gaze focused on something half a world away.
‘Let’s get him up,’ Sharr said. ‘Get one of those tents back up and find some dry clothes or blankets.’ A few of the men hustled off. ‘And bring Gita,’ he continued, ‘quickly! Tell her to get over here now. One of you stay with me; we have to listen to everything he says. We can’t miss a word.’
Although Sharr remained by Stalwick’s side all day, he didn’t speak again until the following morning. As he stared out at nothing, he looked as though he had been kicked by a horse.
Raskin rode hard as the sun rose behind her. She was less than a day from Traver’s Notch now, and she promised herself as soon as she had found the officer in charge and reported the loss of her entire squad to a grettan pack the previous Moon, she would find a tavern – the one she’d visited before, The Bowman – and get drunk. How long she would stay drunk was yet to be determined, but it certainly wouldn’t be less than three to five comatose days.
Staying alone at the border camp had been difficult, but Raskin hadn’t wanted to abandon her position, not when she was all that remained of her squad. She didn’t patrol; that would have been pointless – the first band of border runners she stumbled upon would have flayed her and left her for the grettans. Instead, she stayed in her tent, tended her horse and periodically went in search of firewood. She had plenty of food, enough to last through the Twinmoon, but somehow being warm and dry was no real comfort. Twilight came early in Gorsk during the winter Twinmoons, and Raskin sat up most nights, listening to the sounds of the forest with her blankets clutched nervously beneath her chin. She cried frequently during the long periods of darkness.
Denny, Mox, Maia, even Sergeant Greson with his homemade mittens, they all visited during the Moon she waited alone in camp. Sometimes they came all at once, whole, healthy and laughing. Other nights, they came to her one at a time, haunted, broken and bleeding. Mox was the worst. He had been torn to pieces by the first attack, and whatever remained of him the following day had been scattered when the grettans returned. When Mox visited Raskin’s tent, he came with pieces missing: one leg chewed off below the knee, both hands, part of an arm and half his throat. He never spoke; she worried that if he had, his voice would have been little more than a raspy gurgle. Raskin felt guilty about it, but in the end she was glad her old friend never said anything.
Occasionally she was visited by the Ronan, Garec Haile. He had saved her life. He knew the grettans were coming; he’d told her to get back to her horse. Had she not been in the saddle, ready to ride, Raskin would have died with the rest of the squad, but as it was, she barely managed to outrun the one grettan that pursued her down the draw and into the river. She had no idea where Garec was now, him and the South Coaster, the fennaroot smugglers working with Rodler of Capehill. She didn’t care.
One Moon. She had promised herself she would stay in camp for one Moon, following procedures, until someone arrived with orders or until one of their platoon mates came west from the border station for a visit.
No one did.
Before he’d died, Sergeant Greson had mentioned strange goings-on, and a curious lack of communication from Capehill. Raskin wasn’t sure, but she feared that perhaps she had heard nothing from the major because somehow the southern occupation had been jeopardised, perhaps even beaten by a surprise attack from the Falkan Resistance. Her fears were fuelled on this, her first trip out of the mountains; she had set off for the border station less than a day’s ride away, but when she reined in alongside the wooden gates spanning the Merchants’ Highway, she knew something was wrong. The second squad in her platoon, the one that staffed the border crossing, was missing.
She was alone, a full Twinmoon’s travel from home.
Capehill was too far, alone, so avoiding the main routes into Falkan, Raskin turned towards Traver’s Notch, conscious that she was fair game for any number of human predators. Whilst her chances of encountering other Malakasian soldiers along the Merchants’ Highway were good, her unwarranted fear that they had all been killed or pushed south continued to bother her all the way down the Remondian foothills.
Now, nearing the canyon leading into the Notch, Raskin began to breathe easier. Had she been travelling with the squad, they would have come into town from the northeast, through the mining encampments and over the ridge. There were several decent roads over those hills, kept open even during the worst Moons of winter. But she was riding alone and didn’t want to come too close to the mining camps for fear that she might disappear for other reasons entirely. So she dropped down from the foothills, entered the forest south of the Notch and picked her way west towards the main avenue running into town. Behind her, the sun rose and for the first time in the past Moon, it felt warm.
Raskin had done her duty; she had stood her post a Moon longer than most soldiers alone in the northern mountains, and she felt a sense of pride in having held out that long. With the sun on her shoulders, she could feel the memory of them all fading into the bright yellow glow, even Mox. She turned once to see if they were following, those ghostly apparitions that had kept her company in the dark avens, but they were gone, Garec Haile too.
Raskin crested a short rise and saw the miners moving towards her. She had no option but to ride through them. There was no one coming behind her, no serendipitous band of occupation infantry closing the gap.
‘Well, rutting horsecocks,’ she sighed. ‘I made it this far, and now I’m ruined.’
The rising sun was in their eyes, and several of the men pulled hat brims down in an effort to see more clearly. A few pointed, gesturing in her direction, and in a moment Raskin knew that despite the shovels, picks and coils of rope, these were not miners. ‘Demonshit!’ she cried, turning her horse into the sun, ‘what are they doing out here, anyway? Someone serving breakfast?’
They were Resistance fighters. All her worst nightmares had come true: the southern forces had been overrun. Raskin was on her own.
‘Look at that,’ Stalwick said, ‘who’s that? Who’s that, Sharr? That’s a soldier. What’s he doing out here? Oh no, oh no; we’re in trouble, we’re in trouble, Sharr. He saw us, he knows, he does; I’m sure of it. Look! Oh no, look, Sharr, look, he’s turning towards Capehill. He knows!’
‘Would you shut up for one godswhoring moment, please, Stalwick?�
� Sharr fought the urge to slap the man. ‘Can anyone see him? Is it a soldier?’ He squinted into the sun.
They all tried to make out the mounted silhouette against the dawn.
‘That’s a soldier, Sharr, I know, I saw a whole column of them one time outside Cape-’
‘Shut up, Stalwick!’ Sharr pointed at a farmer from the plains. ‘Give me your bow, Sal, quickly.’
He sighted along the arrow. It was hard to see; the sun was blinding, its rays refracting through a hundred million glints of overnight frost. On any other morning, he would have found it beautiful, but right now it was a deadly nuisance. He fought to get a clear shot at the fleeing occupation soldier. ‘He’s alone,’ he muttered, ‘and if we can drop him, no one will be any wiser.’ He closed his eyes but could still see red behind his lids, his own blood, lit from across the heavens. He’s just like one of those sharks, just a fat old dogfish, fighting for his life, trying to drag the whole trawler out to sea.
Sharr aimed, blinked and released the arrow with a muted thunk. The others strained to follow as the shaft arced into the brilliance.
Raskin rode directly into the morning sun, chanting, Blind them; blind the bastards! like a mantra. She spurred her mount into a gallop; there was no sense masquerading as anything other than terrified. It was a long shot, but a skilled bowman could make it. She held her breath and counted the horse’s steps. A few more, maybe ten more, and I’ll be out of the fire, at least for now. She didn’t know what she might discover on the road to Capehill, but from the look of the miners walking southeast – marching, Raskin; they’re marching – away from the mountains, Traver’s Notch was no longer safe for her.
