Clarin bumped into Tycho.
‘I will put guards on them,’ the knight said, gesturing at their prisoners, who had been made to sit on the floor in small groups. ‘Can you organise the wounded?’
Clarin nodded. ‘You think we’ve won?’
‘Almost certainly. Theron drove Ampelios off the field. I think they will be chasing down those that fled. If I know Theron, he will be trying to capture Straton.’
Clarin ordered his unit to separate from Tycho’s, in an effort to bring some order to things. He assessed the damage. One of Zared’s Persaleians was dead, bringing the number who had escaped from Samir Durg down to eighteen. They had suffered another half a dozen fatalities from amongst the Madrians, as well as various wounded. As he began trying to work out who needed help, Elana and Belwynn appeared. Belwynn seemed used to such a job and began to organise those that needed to see Elana urgently. Other Madrians began to help, and Clarin decided to leave them to it.
He walked away, keen to know how the Knights had fared. Two knights were riding over in his direction. He walked over to meet them, as did Tycho and Diodorus. It was Sebastian and Remi.
‘Well?’ asked Tycho.
‘Euthymius is dead,’ said Remi. ‘It was tough fighting—I lost a few, as did they. We have captured the rest.’
‘Any news from Theron?’
‘Not yet,’ said Sebastian. ‘We will have to wait a while longer. Well done, everyone. Whatever news Theron returns with, we’ve scored a major victory and kept the loss of life to a minimum.’
Clarin sat and waited, relief and exhaustion kicking in. The knights saw to their horses first and eventually squires were sent round with food and drink for the soldiers. Elana worked her healing magic on those who needed it. Sebastian gave the order to strip the corpses. Unclaimed bodies would be burned together, he said, since they were all Kalinthians.
Eventually Theron’s force returned. They led a large number of prisoners, who walked along in a group, surrounded on all sides by mounted knights. Theron steered his horse over. He was pale with exhaustion but looked satisfied enough.
‘Straton tried to escape,’ he croaked, climbing off his horse stiffly.
Tycho handed him a cup and he drank deeply before continuing. ‘It took a long time to track him down, but we got him. We also captured Ampelios in the first fighting. What news of Euthymius?’
‘Dead,’ said Remi.
Theron looked about, trying to take in what he saw, but his eyes glazed over. Clarin could see the strain he had been under, not just today but during the campaign as a whole. Defeat would have seen the end of the regime he and Sebastian had established, and a return to the policies of King Jonas. Kalinth would have become subservient to Ishari once again.
On that count, Clarin grudgingly conceded, maybe it had been worth it.
The mountains took their toll on Soren’s body. Day by day the recovery he had made under Elana disappeared; day by day he found himself reverting to the state he had been found in at Samir Durg. He lacked the stamina he once had, and too much climbing and walking put such a strain on his back that he had to stop and rest before the day was done. Gyrmund, uncomplaining, would have to find food and make camp without his help. He became too exhausted to do the exercises Elana had insisted on, crawling under his blankets as soon as he had eaten supper.
The nights were cold at such a height. Gyrmund and Moneva slept on either side of him. There was a tension between them, and they were avoiding lying next to one another. At first it made him feel awkward to be stuck between them. But after a while he was simply grateful for the warmth.
When he woke on a morning his back had always seized up and he was virtually blind. He would reach out for the staff, panicking if it didn’t come to hand immediately, until his fingers grasped the smooth wood. The feel of it as he gripped it in both hands would calm him and his back would loosen. The staff allowed his mind to feed information to his eyes, rebuilding a version of the world around him that he could see and understand.
Then one morning the staff didn’t work so well. He could see, but his back and limbs remained stiff. A chill had entered his body, and neither breakfast nor the morning walk removed it. He didn’t mention it at first, concentrating all his energy on moving without falling, using the staff to support himself.
The irony was that they were leaving the mountains, descending to the grassy plain of the Jalakh Steppe. They would get the occasional glimpse of it now and then, when they ascended to the top of a peak. The grasslands stretched out seemingly forever, flat like a green ocean. At those moments it seemed deceptively close, and Soren would redouble his efforts, the end in sight. Then hours would pass without a sight of it, just bare rock and stunted trees all around them, and he would come close to despair.
As the sun started to fall on another day Soren got warmer and warmer, trickles of sweat running down his body. He put his hand to his forehead. It was hot and clammy. A fever. He had to tell them. Gyrmund walked them on a bit farther until he found a suitable place to stop. He built a fire and made Soren a hot soup with the herbs and medicines he had to hand. Soren forced himself to drink it before giving in to sleep.
The next morning, he had to be woken up and lifted to his feet. His head pounded so much he felt sick. He leaned on his staff, drawing as much strength from it as he could. He knew they had to get down off the mountains.
That day and the next were lost days of delirium, half-remembered fragments, of Moneva helping him to walk, following a path that led them out of the high ground, of collapsing into the grass of the Jalakh Steppe. Gyrmund and Moneva talking to each other in hushed voices. They needed to find help, Moneva said. But there was no-one around, not a settlement, not a field or a wall or a single cow or sheep to show that anyone lived here. His fever needs to take its course, Gyrmund said. Soren let himself lean back into the grass. It supported his weight, just like he was floating on water. He let the grass carry him away, his broken body floating along to wherever the wind blew him.
The next memory he had was waking with a canvas roof above him instead of the sky. It felt like he was still floating, but how could he be with a roof above him? Then he realised that the movement was different. It was the slow, bumpy movement of a wheeled wagon. And Belwynn was there. How had she got there so fast?
Soren, can you hear me? She was saying. Soren, where are you?
He tried to reply, but all that came out was a croak. It was too difficult to talk, far easier to just close his eyes and let the wagon wheel him along.
He woke up, the memories playing in his head. He tried to clutch at them, tried to make sense of them, but they refused to be caught.
He scrabbled from one side to the next, desperately searching for his staff. There. He gripped it and his sight returned. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. He was alone in a circular felt tent. A round hole in the roof let in sunlight. It was a yurt. A Jalakh yurt. He looked down. His part of the yurt was covered in rugs and blankets and cushions.
He felt weak, but it felt like his fever had broken. Gyrmund and Moneva had somehow found help. That was the second time they had saved his life.
Belwynn? He called, remembering hearing her voice, though whether he had dreamt it or not he didn’t know.
Soren? She replied immediately, her voice full of concern.
I’m safe, he said. I fell ill. But I’m alright now. We’ve made it. We’re with the Jalakhs.
In Shadow
X
WHEN BOLORMAA HAD EXPLAINED that all of the Jalakhs were travelling to Tosongat, Gyrmund had assumed that she was exaggerating. It appeared not.
The Oligud tribe who had picked them up and taken the feverish Soren in their wagon had merged with other tribes heading east, becoming a horde on the move. And when they had arrived, Gyrmund could see that other hordes had arrived from every direction on the Steppe. No longer a tribe or a single horde, a nation had decided to come together in this one place.
&n
bsp; Surely, this was the most likely location for the Jalakh Bow. But he had to be careful about revealing their intentions.
‘Moneva and I would like to look around Tosongat,’ he said to Bolormaa.
She looked at him appraisingly. She was wily, still handsome and strong, even though she was now a grandmother. She knew they were up to something, and yet she was the one who had decided to take them with the tribe, a decision that had probably saved Soren’s life. Gyrmund couldn’t help thinking that she was up to something too.
‘Now I see,’ she said, ‘you are here to witness the Great Contest.’
Gyrmund raised an eyebrow.
‘We come here at this time every year that the Jalakhs need a new khan. The Great Contest decides which man will be khan.’
‘The greatest fighter becomes khan?’ he asked.
Bolormaa pursed her lips. ‘That is the idea. The Contest began this morning. You and Moneva should go and watch it. But if you want to watch, you will need to dress appropriately. I will also send Gansukh with you.’
Bolormaa had Gyrmund and Moneva dressed in the traditional deels of her tribe. She advised them that each tribe had a distinctive cut or pattern of deel, so that the other Jalakhs could see which tribe Gyrmund and Moneva belonged with, affording them some protection.
Bolormaa’s eldest son, Gansukh, led them through the camps of the various tribes, a maze of yurts that they would have got lost in themselves. Roaming freely about the place, in greater numbers than the Jalakhs themselves, were their horses. A totally different beast to the great warhorses bred by the Kalinthians, the Jalakh horse wasn’t much larger than a pony, with shaggy hair. They were allowed to graze wherever they wished, but Gyrmund saw that when their owners whistled they came back, like obedient hounds.
Unlike his mother, Gansukh said little, grunting at them if he wanted their attention. He walked in a young man’s swagger, letting all who looked his way know how highly he thought of himself. Gyrmund wondered whether Gansukh considered himself a candidate for the Great Contest.
Gansukh grunted and drew their attention to a large roped off area of short grass, around which many Jalakhs sat or stood.
‘This is our Contest,’ he said. ‘You can watch with me.’
Gansukh led them to a space where they could see. The space inside the ropes was empty, but before long a section of rope was untied. First one rider entered the area, then a second. They were introduced one at a time, their name and tribe called out, after which their supporters, who had gathered to watch, cheered and banged kettle drums. Both men wore scale armour and helmets, and were armed with scimitars, curved swords made for slashing.
Moneva turned to Gansukh. ‘It’s a fight to the death?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘But that’s so wasteful.’
‘Only those who truly believe they can win will fight. Otherwise, any man could enter the ropes and the Contest would never end.’
The two adversaries moved to either end of the ropes. There was a shout and the fight began. Both men hurtled forward at incredible speed, their mounts strong and agile. Once they got within distance of each other, their horses sidestepped and they leant in, trying to land a strike while defending themselves and their mounts. The speed of their blade-work was impressive, doubly so when one considered they were using one hand to hold the reins, while constantly nudging their horses back and forth or to the sides, trying to manoeuvre an advantage for themselves, or lead their opponent into making a mistake.
The ring of steel on steel filled the air. Both men landed blows, but they hit the armour of their opponent, skidding off the scales to no apparent harm. They broke apart briefly then moved back in, their swords a blur of frenetic slashes and blocks. Then one man scored a hit. He slashed at his opponent’s hand and lower arm and his blade came back with a spurt of blood, the blow somehow penetrating armour. The fight continued, the injured man not done yet, even though Gyrmund could see a steady trickle of blood coming from his hand. Depending where the wound was exactly, it could begin to make his grip more slippery.
Perhaps it was the injury driving him to take more risks, but the warrior drove in close, aiming a blow at his opponent’s head. The second warrior’s horse skipped aside at the last second, and he then found the space to land a strike on his opponent’s mount. The poor creature collapsed, sending its rider skidding to the ground. Ruthlessly, the mounted warrior wasted no time. He rode in close, leaned over and cut down, twice then three times, until the floored man was dead.
Staying on his mount, he raised his arm in the air, receiving the adulation of his tribe, who made a cacophonous noise. He left the roped area, before the members of the other tribe moved in to recover the body of their fallen champion.
‘Both were good fighters,’ commented Gansukh. ‘But their riding was not so good.’
‘What happens next?’ Gyrmund asked.
‘Next, a champion from another tribe will challenge the winner.’
‘Would that be you?’ Gyrmund asked with a smile.
‘I will enter the ropes,’ said Gansukh proudly. ‘But Bolormaa will tell me when.’
‘When does it end?’ asked Moneva.
‘It ends when there are no more challengers.’
Gyrmund and Moneva shared a brief look. No doubt this was a tradition that went back many generations, and had its uses, in binding the tribes together. Nonetheless, Gyrmund thought it a flawed system for choosing a leader.
‘Is there anything else to see in Tosongat?’ Moneva asked Gansukh. ‘Except more yurts?’
Gansukh frowned, as if wishing to see anything further was greedy. ‘Just our temple.’
‘Temple?’ asked Gyrmund.
‘It is only for priests and royalty to visit.’
‘Can we see where it is?’
Gansukh shrugged. ‘Follow.’
He took them away from the ropes and away from the yurts. Here, in an area which the tribes had left empty, was the only permanent structure Gyrmund had seen. A large rectangular area was surrounded by wooden walls, only reaching the height of a man. Peering over, Gyrmund could see that inside was mostly open to the elements. On his side of the wall was a ceremonial garden, with developed trees, plants and a pond. He could see walkways had been constructed around the garden. Elsewhere within the walls he could see one story wooden buildings. He could hear rather than see animals: sheep, probably goats, were kept somewhere behind the walls. At the far end, its protruding eaves visible in between the branches of the trees, was a pagoda. It was elaborately designed, with five small towers emerging at the top of the building.
Moneva peered over the wall too.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Only priests and royalty are allowed in there,’ Gansukh repeated.
Gyrmund and Moneva shared another look. Surely this was where the Jalakhs would choose to keep their Bow.
They found Soren, awake and alert, sitting up in the yurt belonging to Bolormaa. He listened, leaning back on his cushions and sipping at the drink he called kumis. Moneva remembered giving him the same drink in Samir Durg, when they had rescued him from the Tower of Diis. It had revived him then and it looked to be doing so again—his face less pale, his eyes sharp and inquisitive.
‘The question, then,’ said the sorcerer, having digested their description of the Tosongat Temple, ‘is whether we explain our need for the Bow, and ask the Jalakhs to give it to us. Or try to take it without their knowledge. Both approaches have their dangers.’
‘Take it,’ said Moneva instinctively. ‘They’re not going to hand over a precious relic to a group of outsiders. The Temple is barely defended. I can find the bow, take it without them realising it has gone.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Gyrmund. ‘I would favour talking to Bolormaa. She may be able to help us.’
‘Why would she?’ countered Moneva.
They both looked at Soren, who seemed to have the deciding vote.
&
nbsp; ‘If the Jalakhs had a leader, a khan with the authority to grant us the Bow, then I would take that option,’ Soren said. ‘But they don’t. Who would we ask for it? Bolormaa is an impressive woman, but even if she decided to help us, how would she persuade all the other tribes to agree? I think, if we can take it undetected and leave, that is the better option. I could come and help, I’m feeling much better.’
‘There’s no need,’ said Moneva, pleased at his decision. ‘I just need Gyrmund to help me over the wall. There’s no benefit to more than one of us moving about in there. It just raises the chances of getting caught.’
‘Alright,’ said Gyrmund, conceding defeat. ‘When do we go?’
‘Tonight,’ said Moneva.
Moneva and Gyrmund crept through the fields of yurts, matching each other in the silence of their movements. The Jalakhs slept on, and if there were any still awake who heard a movement they would put it down to a grazing horse, since each tribe had hundreds if not thousands of the animals moving freely in the area around their camp.
It was the first time they had been completely alone together in a long time. Her mind should have been completely focused on the job at hand, but once they moved out of earshot of the last group of yurts, Moneva stopped.
‘Gyrmund,’ she whispered.
He stopped immediately, looking about in case she had spotted trouble.
‘I need to talk to you. About Samir Durg.’ She took in a breath. She had to make herself keep going or she would never get it out. ‘I had to sleep with Arioc. I’m sorry.’ Why was she apologising? That wasn’t what she meant to say. ‘I mean, it affected me afterwards. When we got back to Heractus. I didn’t deal with it very well.’
She paused. She had been thinking about what exactly to say to Gyrmund for a number of days now, and it had all come out a jumbled mess anyway. She looked at him, but it was too dark to read his expression.
The Jalakh Bow Page 13
