by Anthony Ryan
Liar. The priest’s voice followed her into sleep as she sheathed her knife and huddled in her cloak. Fatherless, sinning liar . . .
◆ ◆ ◆
Another week brought her within sight of the Greypeaks, a jagged blue-misted outline on the horizon. Woodland grew thicker here, covering the foothills rising in height the further south she walked. Game was sparse, her kills amounting to a solitary partridge and a somewhat aged hare too slow to scamper out of the arrow’s path. Two nights more and she judged herself within a half-day’s march to the mountains proper. The exact location of the High Keep was unknown to her but the days when it had been forbidden for any Cumbraelin to even speak of it were long over, her father’s martyrdom had seen to that. She knew of a village situated just over the river forming the border with Asrael. The priest had indicated that pilgrims could find assistance there, for all Sons of the Trueblade must journey to the High Keep to honour the Father’s most blessed servant.
She found a pool of clean water beneath a small cascading waterfall, stripped and bathed, washed her clothes as best she could and lay them out to dry as she reclined on a rock in the sunlight, gazing up at the drifting majesty of the clouds. As ever, when her thoughts strayed, she thought of Al Sorna and his lessons, of Alornis and her drawings, even of the drunken poet and his awful songs. It was wrong, she knew, indulgent, sinful, and she always begged the Father for forgiveness afterwards, but for a short time every day, she let her thoughts wander over the memories, waiting for the moment when the treacherous voice would whisper its enticements: It’s not too late. Turn around, go north. Take ship to the Reaches. They will welcome you . . .
She punished herself with sword practice, flashing through the scales faster and faster until her vision swam and she nearly dropped from exhaustion. As the light faded she piled up some ferns for a bed and settled down to sleep, for once not bothering to hold the knife to her hair, though in truth it was now long enough to warrant a trim, just enough to keep it out of her eyes.
◆ ◆ ◆
She awoke to screams, the sword coming free of the scabbard in a blur as she rolled to a crouch, eyes searching the blackness of the forest for enemies. Nothing . . . Wait.
Her nose picked up the scent before she saw it, smoke on the breeze, the yellow flicker of a tall fire through the trees. The scream came again, shrill, agonised . . . female.
Outlaws, she decided, rising from the crouch. Not my concern.
More screams, a babble of incoherent pleading, choked off into sudden terrible silence.
Reva thought of the outlaws she had killed at Rhansmill, of corpse-fucking Kella and the others who had not troubled her sleep one whit since.
She sheathed the sword to conceal its gleam, shouldered the quiver, hefted the bow and started forward, moving as Al Sorna had taught her when they hunted, foot raised only enough to clear the ground, strides short, crouched low. The flickering cone of the fire grew as she neared it, flames rising high from logs stacked in the centre of a clearing, dark forms moving in silhouette, a voice raised in fierce conviction.
She dropped to the ground when she got within thirty paces of the fire, crawling forward, the bow in her left hand, the string resting on the upper side of her forearm. A few moments of crawling brought something into focus, something that made her stop. A heavyset man standing with his back to the fire, eyes scanning the forest with diligent attention. He wore a sword on his back and cradled a crossbow in the crook of his arm, drawn and loaded. A sentry. No outlaw was ever so conscientious or well armed.
Reva crept a little closer, slow and careful, fingers sweeping the ground for twigs or dry leaves which might betray her, unseen by the sentry who, she now saw, wore a black cloak. The Fourth Order.
The voice became clearer as she closed, the speaker moving into view, a lean, sallow-faced man, also cloaked in black, gesticulating towards something off to the right as he spouted an unhesitating tirade: “. . . as Deniers you live, as Deniers you will die, your souls cast forth into oblivion, finding no refuge amongst the Departed, the falsehood that makes you wretched in this life will earn you an eternity of solitude in the Beyond . . .”
Reva waited until the sentry’s eyes shifted to the left then rose as high as she dared, following the direction of the speaker’s frantic gestures. There were four of them, all bound and gagged, a man and a woman, plus a little girl no more than ten years old and a beefy boy maybe five or six years older. Two black-cloaked brothers stood behind them with swords drawn. The boy was the most animated of the group, straining against his bonds which consisted of a stave thrust between his elbows and his back, lashed tight enough to gouge the bare flesh of his arms. A six-inch length of wood had been jammed into his mouth and tied in place with twine. Spittle flowed over his chin as he raged, his eyes alive with fury, not directed at the ranting black-cloak but beyond him at the fire.
Reva looked closer and saw there was a darker form visible through the flames, something blackened and vaguely human in shape, something that gave off a stench of burning meat.
“You!” the sallow-faced speaker pointed an accusing finger at the bound man who, unlike the boy, knelt in his bonds with his head bowed in dumb submission. “You who have ensnared your children in this falsehood, corrupted them with your Denial, you will witness the fate you have reaped for them.”
One of the black-cloaks took hold of the man’s hair and jerked his head back, revealing a face curiously absent of fear or rage, the eyes tearful but showing no sign of terror as the ranting brother loomed closer.
“See this, Denier,” he hissed, face twisted and red in the fire’s glow as he took hold of the little girl, dragging her to her feet. “See what you have wrought.”
The girl squealed and twisted in his grip but he lifted her easily, advancing towards the fire. The beefy boy’s scream was choked by his gag as he surged to his feet only to be clubbed to the ground by one of the brothers, a sword hilt coming down hard between his shoulder blades.
Reva’s eyes took in the scene in the space of a heartbeat, the ranter, the two by the captives, the sentry. Four that she could see, no doubt more she couldn’t, all well armed, none of them drunken outlaws. It was a hopeless prospect, and this was not her mission. The choice was clear.
The sentry died first, taken by her knife as she stepped out of the blackness, clutching at the gaping wound in his throat and falling face-first to the ground with barely a groan. Reva sheathed the knife, notched an arrow to the bow and sent it into the back of the ranter as he raised the girl above his head. He collapsed instantly, dropping the girl who thrashed at him with frantic kicks of her small legs, scrabbling free.
Reva had time for one more arrow as the two remaining brothers recovered from their shock and turned to face her, swords ready. She chose the one closest to her, the one who had been forcing the man to witness the girl’s end. He was quick, dodging to the left as she drew a bead on his chest, but not quick enough. The shaft took him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling. She drew her sword and advanced on the other, killing the wounded brother with a slash to the neck as she passed.
His companion moved from behind the captives, raising a crossbow. With a howl the beefy boy launched himself at the brother, his shoulder connecting with an audible crunch of breaking ribs, pitching the black-cloak into the fire. He screamed and flailed in the flames, tumbling free to roll on the ground, voicing his pain in a continuous torrent of high-pitched yelps.
A shout drew Reva’s attention to the left where three more brothers came charging out of the blackness, crossbows raised. Reva glanced at the boy, crouched on his knees, eyes wide and pleading above the gag.
She turned and sprinted for the trees, ducking to scoop up the fallen bow, a crossbow bolt fluttering her hair before the darkness claimed her.
She stopped after twenty paces, turned and crouched, taking two great breaths then forcing stillness into
her body as she waited. The three black-cloaks were all anger and confusion, aiming kicks at the boy to vent their fury before heaping earth on their smouldering brother, babbling at each other about their next course of action, standing in a row, outlined against the fire.
Not so hopeless a prospect after all, Reva thought, raising the bow and taking aim.
◆ ◆ ◆
The boy was named Arken, his sister Ruala, the mother Eliss and the father Modahl. The body on the fire belonged to Modahl’s mother, her name had been Yelna although Ruala and Arken called her Gramma. Reva had no inclination to ask the only surviving brother his name so kept on calling him Ranter.
“God-worshipping witch!” he cried at her from his place slumped against a tree trunk, his legs splayed out on the earth before him, slack and useless. Reva’s arrow had punched clean through his spine, leaving him dead below the waist. Sadly, his voice was unaffected. “Only with the aid of the Dark could you slaughter my brothers so,” he accused, waving an unsteady finger at her. His skin was pale and clammy, his eyes increasingly dull. Killing him would have been a mercy, but Modahl had stopped her wielding the knife the night before.
“He was going to burn your daughter alive,” she pointed out.
“What is mercy?” he said, his long face tense with fresh grief but still devoid of any anger, his eyebrows raised as if he were asking a sincere question.
“What?” she replied, frowning.
“Mercy is the sweetest wine and the bitterest wormwood,” Eliss, the mother, said. “For it rewards the merciful and shames the guilty.”
“The Catechism of Knowledge,” Arken informed Reva, heaving a black-cloaked body onto the fire. His voice had a bitter edge to it. “She’s obviously Cumbraelin, Father,” he said to Modahl. “I doubt she wants to hear your lessons.”
Catechism? “You are of the Faith?” she asked in surprise. She had expected to find them adherents of one of the myriad nonsensical sects appearing out of the shadows since the Edict of Toleration.
“The true Faith,” Modahl said. “Not the perversion followed by these deluded souls.”
Ranter said something, scattering earth with his breath. It sounded like “Denier lies!”
“Tell me if this hurts,” Reva said, reaching down to pluck her arrow from his back. It didn’t, he couldn’t feel it.
The burnt brother had also survived her attack but succumbed to his wounds before the sun came up. He had screamed for quite some time and once again Modahl had stood in her way when she went to silence him. Nonplussed, she busied herself with aiding Arken in consigning the bodies to the fire.
“This one was skilled,” she commented, hefting the legs of the tallest brother, the last one to fall. “Expect he was Realm Guard before the Fourth Order took him.”
“Not skilled enough for you,” Arken said, lifting the corpse by the shoulders. “I’m glad you made him suffer.”
Was that what she had done? She had certainly played with him a little. After the others had fallen to her arrows, he had managed to duck the final shaft, running for the safety of the forest. She met him at the edge of the clearing, sword in hand. He was fast, experienced and knew many tricks. She knew more, and was faster. She made it last longer than it should, feeling her skill grow with every parry and thrust, every scar she left on his face or arms, like a lesson with Al Sorna only played for real. She finished it with a thrust to the chest when she caught sight of the little girl weeping on the ground, still bound and gagged.
Forgive me my indulgences, World Father.
Modahl said the words as the flames grew high, calling on his family to thank Yelna for the gift of her life, to remember her kindness and wisdom and to reflect on the flawed choices that had brought these unfortunate men to their end. Reva stood apart, cleaning the blood from her sword, seeing how Arken’s face darkened as his father spoke on, glaring at him with a fury that seemed to border on hatred.
Morning brought a light rain and the sound of Ranter’s voice, rousing her from a fitful sleep. The fire had burned down to a pile of black-grey ash, the rain washing it away to reveal a jumble of human bone and grinning skulls.
“Oh my fallen brothers!” Ranter cried. “To be taken by the Dark. May the Departed cleanse your souls.”
“Not the Dark,” Reva told him, yawning. “Just a knife, a bow, a sword and the knowledge to use them.”
Ranter started to voice a reply but choked instead, coughing and rasping. “I . . . thirst,” he croaked.
“Drink the rain.”
The brothers had left a clutch of good horses, food for several days, plus a decent harvest of coin. Reva chose the tallest of the horses, a somewhat feisty grey stallion with the rangy look of a mount bred for the hunt, and scattered the rest. At Modahl’s insistence the brothers’ weapons had all been heaped onto the fire the night before, Arken making a disgusted noise when his father gently but firmly tugged the sword he had claimed from his grasp.
The family’s wagon was still intact along with the oxen that pulled it, although the contents had been badly ravaged, evidenced by the sight of Ruala crying over the ripped and tattered remains of her doll.
“We were heading for South Tower,” Arken said. “We have family there. It’s said Tolerants have less to fear under the gaze of the Tower Lord of the Southern Shore.”
“They hunted you,” Reva said.
Arken nodded. “Father is keen to speak the words of Toleration to all who will listen. He hopes to find more willing ears in the south. It seems Aspect Tendris didn’t relish the prospect.”
Reva’s gaze was drawn to the sight of Modahl laying out a blanket in the back of the wagon, casting aside sundry items as he endeavoured to clear a space. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“For the injured brother,” he explained. “We must find him a healer.”
Reva moved close to the man and spoke very quietly into his ear. “If you attempt to make your daughter share a wagon with that piece of dung, I’ll hack his head off and throw it in the river.”
She lingered for a moment, eyes meeting his to ensure he understood. Modahl’s shoulders slumped in weary defeat and he began ushering his family onto the wagon.
“There’s a village some miles east of here,” Reva said. “I’ll ride there with you if you wish.”
Modahl seemed about to protest but his wife spoke up first, “That would be greatly welcome, my dear.”
Reva mounted the grey hunter and trotted over to where Ranter was slumped against the tree.
“Will you . . . kill me now . . . witch?” he enquired between rasps, his eyes two black coals in the pale wax of his face.
Reva took a full canteen from the hunter’s saddle and tossed it into his lap. “Why would I do that?” She leaned forward, casting a meaningful glance at his useless legs. “I’m hoping you live a very long time, brother. If the wolves or the bears don’t get you, of course.”
She turned the hunter and cantered after the wagon as it trundled on its way.
◆ ◆ ◆
The village proved a strange place, Cumbraelin and Asraelin living side by side and speaking a strange accent that seemed to accommodate only the most jarring vowels from both fiefs. It was clearly an important way-station from the numerous travellers and wagoners milling about. Wine going north, steel and coals going south. A company of Realm Guard was in evidence, the soldiers policing the cross-roads about which the village clustered, ordering diversions and clearing blockages to ensure the trade kept moving. A temple to the World Father stood on the south side of the cross-roads, facing a mission house of the Fifth Order on the other side.
“The Order will have salve for your cuts and such,” Reva told Modahl. “Best if you tell them it was outlaws. They stole but were on their way quickly. No need to trouble the guards.”
Modahl gave a slow nod, his eyes betraying a severe warines
s. No room for killers in his heart, Reva surmised. Even though he’d tend to them if they lay dying. What comedy their faith is.
“Our thanks go with you,” Eliss said as Reva tugged on the grey’s reins. There was genuine warmth in her eyes, and gratitude. “We would welcome your company on the road come the morrow.”
“I’m bound for the Greypeaks,” she replied. “But I thank you.”
She guided the horse further into the village, glancing back to see Arken gazing after her from the rear of the wagon, raising a hand in hesitant farewell. Reva waved back and rode on.
The inn was the smallest of the three found in the village, a sign above the door proclaiming it as the Wagoner’s Rest. The interior was crowded with travellers and drovers, mostly men with wandering hands, quickly withdrawn at the sight of a half-bared knife. She found a stool in a corner and waited for the serving girl to come round. “Shindall owns this place?” she asked.
The girl gave a wary nod.
Reva handed her a copper. “I need to see him.”
Shindall was a wiry man with a fierce growl to his voice. “What’s this you bring me?” he demanded of the serving girl as she led Reva into a back room where he sat counting coin. “Makin’ me lose count with some boney wh . . .” He trailed off as his eyes found Reva’s face.
She placed her thumb on her chest, above her heart, and drew it down, once.
Shindall gave a barely perceptible nod. “Ale!” he barked at the serving girl. “And a meal, the pie not the slop.”
He pulled a chair over for Reva to sit at the table, his eyes fixed on her face as she unbuckled her sword and removed her cloak. He waited until the serving girl had come and gone before speaking, a hushed reverent whisper. “You are her, aren’t you?”
Reva washed down a mouthful of pie with a gulp of ale and raised an eyebrow.
Shindall’s voice dropped even further and he leaned closer. “The blood of the Trueblade.”
