Under A Colder Sun (Khale the Wanderer Book 1)

by Greg James

  Table of Contents

  Under A Colder Sun

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  The Evolution of Khale

  Timestone

  Each Dawn, I Die

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Under A Colder Sun

  By Greg James

  Copyright © Greg James 2014

  Published by Manderghast Press

  London, UK

  First Edition published August 2014

  All rights reserved.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Any reproduction, resale or unauthorised use of the material or artwork herein is therefore prohibited.

  Disclaimer: The persons, places and events depicted in this work are fictional and any resemblance to those living or dead is unintentional.

  Dedication

  To the memory of a Mystic Swordsman ~ Karl Edward Wagner (1945 – 1994)

  Chapter One

  “You don’t want to know about Khale, trust me.”

  Leste Alen narrowed her eyes at the man sitting across the tavern table. The Black Rat was not the kind of place she wanted to be in—a grim drinking hole for those with less reputation than coin in their purse—but duty had brought her here. She was acting on the King’s orders, although she couldn’t say as much to the mercenary across the table. Disguised in rough, beggarly clothes, she was struggling to affect the same slumped, disdainful posture as he. The Black Rat’s ale, served in flagons that left splinters in her fingers, was helping though; Leste was certain she could hear the booze eating into the wood. She swallowed another mouthful of the stuff and managed not to gag on its acrid bitterness.

  Her eyes searched the mercenary’s hood for his eyes. She could feel his gaze following the shape of her body, which was not as well hidden by her attire as she would have liked. She guessed that few to none of the women here exercised, were toned for battle, or were even well fed. Regardless, she went on, “I do want to know about Khale, and I’m told you’re the man to help me. I have an offer to make him.”

  “An offer? How much?” asked the mercenary, who drank his ale without flinch or pause.

  “One thousand golden-eyes.”

  “A thousand, eh?”

  “Aye.”

  The mercenary laughed. “Khale has ten thousand, easy. Why would he want just a thousand more?”

  Leste ground her teeth. He was testing her. “The offer can be ... negotiated. But I negotiate with Khale, not you.”

  “You do, do you? And what if Khale doesn’t want to talk with you and wants me to do the talking for him?”

  “Then we have a problem,” Leste said.

  “Aye, we do,” the mercenary agreed, “you’d better go away and come back with a better offer. Then we can talk about it.”

  Sergeant Leste Alen, Lady of the City-Watch, rose from the table. Knowing the mercenary was watching her, she returned to the table where Murtagh, the City-Watch Captain, was waiting. He was thirty winters her senior, and it showed in his lean face and greying hair. His eyes reflected the low light of the wrought-iron lanterns set in the tavern’s walls. Though his face was rough as beaten leather, his eyes were keen flints when compared to the dull, drunken eyes of others.

  “You would do well to stay away from him,” he said to Leste, “His name is Ihlos. You can’t trust his kind. There must be another way to reach Khale.”

  Leste nodded at his words. Murtagh wore similar attire to her: stitched hide and shorn furs.

  “I know what you mean, sir. But I don’t think there is another way. He’s the first one to speak Khale’s name, or to even acknowledge the man exists.”

  “The King is a fool if he thinks scum like this can help Colm. Khale came here after marauding in the south, so the rumours say.” Murtagh went on, “He moves around when there’s hard weather and stays put in whatever cavern or hole he can call home when things get easier. His men do all the killing and the robbing. He collects the spoils they carry off and keeps himself out of sight. Why would he come into the open for us?”

  “Because we have something he wants, so says the King.”

  “Alosse thinks highly of himself,” Murtagh said, “and he’ll bring us all low before long, you mark my words.”

  Leste’s skin crawled at Murtagh’s words. They were treason, and she knew he would not say them anywhere other than here. The Black Rat was the kind of guttersnipe hole where a man could speak his mind, because no-one cared what was being said on the next table. It was a place where the poor and the broken came to forget the nightmare of their lives and to be alone.

  He would also not say such things to anyone else but her. She was his daughter by adoption after all.

  “I think we must offer him more if we are to get to see Khale,” she said.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “The usual,” Leste replied. “I could feel him looking me over when we were talking.”

  “Be careful, Leste,” Murtagh whispered. “You promise yourself to a man such as this, he won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Sir, with respect, I’m not a little girl.” With those words, Leste got to her feet and returned to the mercenary’s table and sat down.

  “You back with a better offer?” her grunted, swallowing the dregs of his ale.

  “I am. I think I have something you want, and if I give it to you, then you will take me to Khale.” Leste hoped he would understand.

  The man threw back his hood, revealing a grizzled complexion and eyes that were black, cold, and bright with brutal need.

  “Aye,” he said, “I’ll take you to Khale for a good go in your cunny.”

  Leste smiled. He returned it— showing teeth and gums as brown as the tavern’s broth—but the light in his eyes quickly dulled as he felt the tip of a dagger scraping its way along his inner thigh to worry the head of his cock.

  Leste drew another knife and set it down on the table between them. “This is what will happen now. You are going to leave with us, and we are going to follow you, and you’re going to take us to meet with Khale—because Khale already knows about us. You’re not the only one of his dogs abroad tonight. But if you call your friends, or for anyone else, I’ll cut your manhood off and feed it to real dogs.”

  Leste flashed him a smile that could have been cut from mountain ice.

  The mercenary stiffened. “You think you’ve got the better of me? You think I will forget this?”

  “No. I want you to remember it.” She dug the tip of her knife into his cock until she was sure she’d broken a little skin.

  The mercenary’s throat tightened, and his eyes thinned. Leste returned her other knife to its pouch and held her free hand out to him. “Here’s
my hand.”

  The mercenary hawked and spat on it. “And here’s mine.”

  Leste waved a hand to Murtagh, and the older man was at her side in a moment.

  “Help him outside. I think the ale and broth do not agree with him.”

  The mercenary allowed Murtagh to bring him to his feet, but Leste could see his black eyes casting about, looking for his fellows from Khale’s gang. His dirty skin became drawn and pale as she pressed the knife into his back, just hard enough to make her point.

  “I will use this, my friend,” she whispered, “have no fear of it.”

  He kept his tongue as Murtagh and Leste led him to the door. Leste could feel many eyes following them, drunk and not so drunk, but no-one got in their way.

  Chapter Two

  A bitter wind lashed at Leste, Murtagh, and the mercenary as they made their way up the slopes and away from Colm.

  The City-State was the farthest-flung of the north-eastern kingdoms; once you left its lights behind, there was nothing ahead but the mountain crags that some called the Crown of the World. On through the lonesome pass of Traitors’ Gap, one came to the Heart of the World; a cold, grey desert of dust and ashes.

  The wind was laced with an icy rain, and their horses navigated the slopes that led to the marshes at a pace somewhere between a stagger and a trudge. Leste rode along beside Murtagh, who held the noose fastened around their unwilling guide’s throat. At the merest hint of treachery, she knew Murtagh would yank the rope, dragging the man from the horse’s back and breaking his neck.

  A cruel fate, but she had no doubt the mercenary would have raped and killed her if she had given him the chance. She wondered how much worse could be the man they were seeking. The one this dog owed his allegiance to.

  Khale.

  He was something of a legend, but not the high or noble kind. Stories spoke of him as a bandit, pirate, mercenary, and, sometimes, a sorcerer. He was a ghost of history, who seemed to have lived far longer than he should have, which was where the stories of sorcery, and even necromancy, came from. The most outlandish tales suggested he was a liche—a man who had sold his soul in return for long life—but would such a crude creature as this mercenary follow him if that were the case?

  Leste doubted it; thieves, rapists, and brigands were notoriously superstitious. They followed their own kind for the most part. They did not trust men who could think, reason, and read unless such a man had some power in his possession that cowed them.

  No, she thought, Khale was just a man, and, like many men before him, his deeds had earned him a reputation.

  She wondered how many of the stories were of his own devising. She might ask him, when they met.

  With head bowed against the driving wind and the rain it carried, she followed Murtagh and the mercenary onwards as they descended into the marshlands that spread along the banks of the river Keth before it passed under the outer walls of Colm to feed into the moat around King Alosse’s castle.

  Leste’s steed was used to the firmness of Colm’s city streets, with their packed dirt and cobblestones. She could feel the animal’s unease as it went over the soft ground after the mercenary’s flea-bitten nag. The night was dark and heavy, with a marsh-mist that stank of refuse and human waste; the leavings of Colm were emptied into the river night and day. Their guide paused in his motion for a moment, and Murtagh twisted in his saddle to cast a look back, “You having trouble there, Leste?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Leste replied.

  She didn’t like this. The mercenary could be leading them into an ambush and they’d never know, not with the mist and shadows clinging this close about. Still, her sword was at her side and she knew how to use it. She could cut down most men in a fair fight, but men like this mercenary were wont to be less than fair to the law-abiding.

  “We’re coming close,” the mercenary called back through the mist.

  Murtagh grunted a response, and Leste did not feel compelled to courtesy as her horse stumbled again through the cloying marsh water. A lantern shone up ahead, piercing the gloom for a moment. It went out, came back, and then extinguished again—a simple signal.

  “Dismount, and leave your swords behind.”

  “And why would we do that?” Murtagh asked.

  “Because there’s more of us than there are of you. You both might think you could win, but you won’t. You might not mind having your throats cut out here in the dark, but I’ll bet you’d like it less if the same fate happened to those you care for.”

  “What did you say?” Leste’s voice was as cold and close as the mist.

  Threatening Yrena and Osta—what kind of bastard was this Khale?

  “We know where you live,” the mercenary said. “Your loved ones are being watched in their beds, even now. You do something we don’t like, and they will pay the price for it, not you.”

  It could be a bluff, an empty threat, but they couldn’t take that chance.

  “All right. We’ll leave our blades,” said Murtagh.

  “Follow me,” the mercenary said. “Khale will see you now.”

  Leste said nothing; her thoughts were on Yrena and Osta. Gods’ bones, she swore she’d not forgive this Khale for the threat against their lives. She trudged slow through the marsh, following the dim shades of her two companions, noticing the pale lights that drifted on the water’s surface and the even paler shapes that danced beneath. This was a haunted place, so many said in Colm. Though it was easy enough to say such things and be safe and warm at home, than to walk through these mires in the dark.

  “Here we are,” the mercenary said.

  The ground became firmer, and the mist retreated somewhat, revealing an isle in the midst of the marsh. Tents of cured skins were arranged before her, supported by stanchions fashioned from wood and animal bones. A low light burned within the largest one.

  The mercenary stepped forward and drew the tent flap aside, allowing Murtagh, and then Leste, to crouch and enter. The light in the tent came from a fire that burned without smoke. Leste glanced around and saw as many tomes and grimoires as there were ornamental chests, strips of hide armour, and weapons hanging in sheaths and scabbards. Someone sat across from them, on the other side of the fire.

  When Leste’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that it was a man. His body was solid, firm muscle underneath a patchwork armour of furs and leathery skins. His hair and beard were a dirty, greying mane with the skulls of small animals woven into its threads. His eyes were shielded by the crags of his forehead, which cast his face deep into shadow.

  Leste waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as Murtagh stood calmly with his arms at his sides.

  The man in shadow was immersed in a papyrus scroll held between his thick fingers. He had not looked up since they entered.

  Murtagh grumbled in his throat.

  The man in shadow did not raise his face, but Leste saw his eyes flash to the fire at the sound Murtagh made. They were yellow, but not as a wolf’s or a cat’s eyes—more like a snake’s. Her mouth became dry when they turned on her and held her gaze for a moment, before returning to the scroll.

  “We are here to see Khale,” Murtagh said.

  “Khale sees you,” he said.

  “We are here to speak with you.”

  “Then speak. Khale hears you.”

  Murtagh nodded and went on, “Will he do me the courtesy of addressing me face-to-face?”

  “Do not weary my temper, old man. I can have your throats cut, your bodies reamed and then thrown into the marshes, where they will never be found. If it comes to that, I can do the same to those you love.”

  “We are not children for you to threaten,” Murtagh said. “We are of the City-Watch and here on the King’s orders.”

  “You are children to me,” Khale said, still not looking at them. “You are nothing to me. I value the message you bring and the promise of gold that comes with it. Now, speak and tell me the words of your King.”

&
nbsp; Leste’s hand searched for the hilt of her sword. This thief, this swamp-dwelling brigand had dared to insult them, to say they were nothing. She could feel a pulse pounding in her temples and heat coursing through her veins.

  “We will tell you nothing,” she said, “until you face us like a man and recant your words. You are a brigand and a thief. You cannot speak to us without respect.”

  Khale stopped his reading. He curled the scroll and fastened it with a clasp of fashioned brass. Then he set it aside, rose quietly to his feet, and raised his face out of shadow to meet her indignant gaze.

  Leste’s mouth went dry once more. She felt a queer sickness pass through her body and come to rest in her bowels. Khale’s eyes were colder suns even than the one that hung in the sky. Their tainted yellow hue made her think of disease, rot, and mildew. There was no humour in the worn, scarred lips that spoke. “So, now we are face-to-face, little girl. Tell me what your King wants of me.”

  Leste licked her lips, trying to wet them, but her tongue was a sand-worm that refused to move.

  “Speak,” Khale said, now having moved around the fire to stand over her as a mountain stands over a stunted sapling that is desperate for nourishing light. “Speak! Or I will call my men so they can rape your tight little arsehole before they throw you in the water to drown.”

  She could feel the flesh at the nape of her neck beginning to creep and itch as she continued to meet Khale’s unwavering gaze. Something inside this man was deeply rotten, and there was no balm or cure for it.

  Finally, she found the strength to look away. She steadied herself, pressing her hands together. Taking a breath, she returned her gaze to his face but avoided meeting his stare.

  “Something ails you?” he said, without empathy. “Perhaps being this far from safe walls does not agree with you.”

  “I am well,” she said.

  Khale turned his gaze on Murtagh. “Go on, old man. I would hear why your King has sent you out into the marshes on the Subote to seek counsel with me. I thought the Church of Four kept a curfew on every eighth day until dawn”—he smiled—“or are you not of the one true faith?”