The pair raced through the trees as fast as they could. Oban’s eyes were streaming from the cloying dust, but his sight was gradually returning.
‘Never figured you for a hedge witch,’ said Oban when he could breathe again.
‘There’s much can be learned from the hags of the wilds if you choose to talk rather than burn them,’ replied Pike.
Oban had never burned anyone in his life, but he knew it happened and he knew it was the Wardens that sanctioned it. He guessed there was nothing more to say on that one.
The two of them ran on, but for every pace they took they could hear the Khurtas gaining. They howled like dogs, relishing the hunt, and Oban knew it was only a matter of time before they caught up – with his old bones he was never going to outdistance them.
He and Pike came out of the trees at a rocky ledge, the cliff edge dropping away before them. A noise rose above the bloodcurdling screams of the approaching Khurtas, and Oban looked down to see a wide and violent river a hundred feet below them, its white water crashing furiously against the rocks on either side.
‘What now?’ he said, raising his voice above the din.
Before Pike could answer, the Khurtas came screaming from the trees, half a dozen of them, wild eyed and ready for the kill. The time for questions was over.
Pike went at them like he had before, face a determined mask, blades slashing. Oban would have liked to watch him go to work, but he had problems of his own. Two of them came at him with murder in their eyes.
But it wasn’t like Oban couldn’t dish out some murder of his own.
His axe came up to block and he ducked, slashing out with his knife and severing tendons in his attacker’s leg. The first Khurta went down with a howl. The second was no more trouble as Oban rolled away, coming up hacking, taking the bastard out before he knew what had hit him.
There was little time to gloat though, before an arrow came whistling from the trees to take him in the thigh. Oban grunted, snarling at the pain and his bad bloody luck. He dropped to one knee, looking up in time to see Pike take out the last of his opponents, but there were more. There were always more.
The Khurtas waited though, standing at the edge of the trees in no hurry it seemed, but then Oban and Pike weren’t going anywhere. As the arrow in his leg started to burn, the Elharim woman walked out into the open.
‘You’ve led us a merry little dance, but I think it’s over now,’ she called over the sound of the river.
Oban glanced towards the edge of the cliff, hearing the roar of the white water a hundred feet below, and he knew she was right.
‘Don’t suppose you have anymore magick tricks up your sleeve?’ Oban asked.
Pike only shook his head. ‘No, but one of us still has to take the word south.’
Oban glanced at the Khurtas, who were watching them hungrily. ‘And how in the bloody hells do you think we’re going to do that?’
‘I’m going to make a diversion for you.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not too spry on my feet right now,’ he replied, the arrow in his thigh stinging like a white hot brand.
‘You know the ways south better than me, and these bastards would never find your trail.’
Oban glanced toward the cliff edge and the river that ran beyond. ‘You don’t have to die here, Pike. We can both make it.’
Pike smiled, though it looked as cold as the waters running swift below. ‘Not likely, Warden. I can’t swim.’
Oban had no time to answer. Pike was off, those blades swinging in his hands. At first the Khurtas made to charge in, but the Elharim raised her hand, halting them with the gesture. She took a step forward and it seemed an almost languid move as she faced Pike’s weapons moving with blurred speed. But her sword came up faster, meeting each swipe of those blades, the sound ringing out above the noise of the river. They danced around one another, Pike with a look of grim determination, the Elharim almost amused.
The Khurtas were mesmerised by the dance, but Oban saw his opportunity. Slowly, he made his way to the edge of the cliff, wincing with every movement as the arrow bit into his thigh, the wound stinging like it was tainted with venom. He managed to drag himself to the lip, hearing the roar of the river even louder, seeing it crashing down the gorge. As he looked back he saw Pike stagger back, the Elharim’s blade having sliced a crimson line from shoulder to elbow. One of the swords fell from his grip, but still he didn’t stop, striking in again, only to have his deadly thrusts turned aside with casual ease.
Another flurry of her weapon and Pike’s thigh was opened up, a spray of blood coating the rocks as he dropped to his knees.
Oban struggled to his feet. Over the sound of the river crashing far below he couldn’t hear a thing, but he could see Pike and the Elharim exchanging words. The Rook knew he was about to die but faced it with defiance. Oban could only admire him for that.
If the Elharim shared his admiration she didn’t show it, smiling with pleasure as she spun her blade one last time and thrust it through Pike’s chest.
The Khurtas howled their approval, quickly turning their attention to Oban, who stood teetering on the brink. He looked down, in no hurry to fling himself into the icy waters below – if he even made the waters before he was dashed on the rocks. When he looked back he saw the Elharim approaching.
‘Come, southron,’ she said above the din of rushing water. ‘There is nowhere to go. Do not fear – you will find my lord an agreeable host.’
Like fuck he would.
He would most likely find himself tortured, then thrown to the Khurtas so they could finish off the job. Though he was in no hurry to meet his end, the quick way out was much preferable to the alternative.
Without a word, Oban leaned back into nothing.
He’d expected the fall to be longer, to go spinning and reeling through the sky, but no sooner had he stepped back and felt the lurching sensation in his gut than he was engulfed by the icy cold and the darkness. It surrounded him so tight he couldn’t draw breath. It squeezed him like a fist, crushing him with its absolute finality.
There was a sudden squall, a rush of bubbling white water caught him and he spun, turning, tumbling, caught in the vortex. His head glanced off a rock, jarring him, spinning him yet further as he clawed desperately. Something hit his leg, snapping the shaft of the arrow embedded in his thigh and he screamed a silent scream beneath the surface of the river.
A flash of light cut the dark, showing him the surface, showing him life. Urgency suddenly gripped him. His lungs gave up the ghost and he was forced to gasp for breath. It filled his throat, invaded his lungs with ice-cold water and he gagged, feeling it filling him with its doom. Oban pumped arms and legs, feeling a clutch of hope as he moved towards the surface, but for every stroke he took towards the light the current pulled him farther along, farther down, twisting him, spinning him in its embrace.
Teeth gnashed, arms and legs thrashed frantically. Even though his lungs were filling with water and he could not drag an ounce of air into them he still struggled, still willed himself to fight against the death that was pulling him further into darkness.
His hand broke the surface, clawing for purchase, but there was nothing there. He sank, fought once more and his other arm managed to reach out, grasping a rocky outcrop, slowing him, but his weight and the river’s current pulled him from the slick stone.
With a titanic effort he reached out again, pumping arms and legs until his head broke the surface. He tried to breathe but his lungs were full; only water spurted from his mouth. He could feel himself becoming groggy, lack of air causing shadows to form across his eyes.
Before he could succumb to the dark, he was suddenly washed to the bank, freed from the river’s deathly embrace, and he scrabbled across the stony shore on all fours gagging for his life. He retched cold water, dry-heaved, retched again, his whole body convulsing as he vomited onto the earth beneath him. With his lungs clear he managed to suck in some air, then was sick a
gain. With every breath he let out a pitiful moan, tears streaming from his eyes. He was exhausted, nauseated, his throat and nose burning with the sting of puke, his leg throbbing, head pounding, lacking the strength to do anything but collapse to the wet earth.
There, lying in a pool of his own sick, he allowed himself to succumb to darkness.
He didn’t dream. There was only black behind Oban’s eyes as he lay on the rocks beside the river.
Only oblivion consuming him in its endless embrace.
His eyes flicked open, seeing the world on its side, skewed but reassuringly real in the waning daylight. In the background he could hear the sound of the river flowing past. It had tried to kill him earlier, tried to suck him down to its depths, but now it whispered a sweet song as though it hadn’t tried to murder him at all.
He realised he was shivering. Freezing on the wet rock of the riverbank. Carefully he moved, trying to lift himself up on weak arms. The fight for his life in the river had left him exhausted, but he had to move, had to get some blood flowing into his limbs or he was going to freeze to death.
It wasn’t until he tried to rise to his feet that he realised someone was watching him.
Instinctively his hand went to his belt, but the knife and axe were gone, lost to the river.
The figure sat some way from the bank, back resting against the bole of a tree. Oban wasn’t sure if he should fight or run – though running was pretty much out of the question now. The arrowhead still stuck in his leg burned, but the cold helped to numb the pain some. Fighting was also a bad idea, since he was unarmed and exhausted.
He supposed he was pretty much fucked.
‘Evening,’ he called out.
It was as good a greeting as any. What was he supposed to say? Did you see me just wash up there on the bank? I nearly drowned, you know. Not sure how in the hells I survived, but there you go. Got any spare clothes? I’m frigging soaked.
The figure didn’t answer, just sat there in the shadow of the tree. Oban took a limping step forward, squinting through the gloom. He could make out the silhouette in the dark but couldn’t see any features.
‘You all right under there?’ he asked. It sounded stupid the moment it left his lips, considering his own condition. ‘I’m Oban. What’s your name?’
The figure didn’t move, didn’t turn its head nor nothing, but Oban heard the answer clear as day.
‘You know who I am, Oban Halfwyrd.’
And though it seemed impossible, though it went against everything he’d ever seen or heard or believed, Oban instantly knew who it was.
A chill went up him then, a chill that was colder than the river he’d crawled from, colder than winter snow or northern winds.
‘You’re the Lord of Crows,’ he answered.
And he knew it to be true.
Perhaps he hadn’t survived the river, after all.
‘And you know why I am here?’
Oban nodded. He knew exactly why he was here – come to take old Oban Halfwyrd off to the hells or the heavens, whichever it was judged he deserved the best.
And as he thought on that, he started to laugh.
He laughed long and loud enough that it echoed up through that valley, over the sound of the river and cut through the coming night.
‘Why do you laugh, Oban Halfwyrd?’
Oban stopped, noticing for the first time that every branch in the surrounding trees housed a bird; dark and black against the ink-coloured sky.
‘Just thinking how different it is believing a thing, and seeing a thing. That Rook believed, and I guess he’d never once seen you before. And yet here I am, with you right in front of me, and I’m still not sure you’re real.’ He shook his head and his grin turned to grimace. ‘But I guess not believing don’t change the situation any. Come on then; we’d best be off. I’m starting to feel the cold in my bones, and I guess where I’m headed there’s a nice big fire to warm myself by.’
‘So eager, Oban Halfwyrd? That is unusual.’
‘Well, I’m not one for dwelling on a thing.’
‘No, you are not. But dwell on this a moment. Were I to offer you a boon, one last request, a chance to change something before your time is over, what would it be?’
Oban looked into the shadows at the figure sitting there. He thought about his years roaming the wilds, of the life he had led, of the other lives he could have had – a home, a wife, a family. But he’d never wanted that.
Not that he didn’t have regrets.
There had been failures, yes; men who had beaten him, escaped his wrath. And there had been men he had killed who perhaps hadn’t deserved it.
But despite all this he had lived a good life. He had served and been proud to serve. He had protected his country, walked the dark paths so others didn’t have to. He had kept the common folk of the Free States safe in their beds.
Until now.
There was one last failure that might bring doom to his countrymen. One last failure that could not be allowed to stand.
‘I would warn my king what is coming,’ he replied. ‘I would give him a chance to raise his armies so he could turn back the Khurtas and send their Elharim chief to the hells that spawned him.’
No sooner had Oban said the words than the trees erupted.
A thousand fluttering wings broke the silence, a thousand black shapes took to the sky and Oban staggered back, closing his eyes against the onslaught.
When he opened them again he was lying on that pebbled riverbank once more, the Lord of Crows and his black-winged host gone to the winds.
All that was left were the singsong tune of the river and the cold of the night.
Oban stood gingerly, took a glance at the stars and they showed him the way south.
Without another thought he made his way along the riverbank.
There were a lot of leagues and a lot of pain to come, but Oban would suffer it, and with any luck he’d make it to Harrowgard in one piece.
And with any luck he’d beat the storm that was coming after him.[GdM]
Richard Ford originally comes from Leeds in the United Kingdom, but now resides in the sunny Cotswold countryside. His first novel, Kultus, was published by Solaris Books in 2011. Herald of the Storm, book one in the Steelhaven Trilogy was published in 2013, followed by The Shattered Crown in 2014. The concluding volume, Lord of Ashes, is released in May this year.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9941659-6-1
Copyright 2015 Grimdark Magazine
Table of Contents
Contents
From the Editor
Brazen Dreams
The Mud, the Blood, and the Years
An Interview with Brandon Sanderson
Review: The Vagrant by Peter Newman
Excerpt: A Crown for Cold Silver
Ashes
Redemption Waits
An Interview With Peter V. Brett
Excerpt: The Liar’s Key by Mark Lawrence
The Halfwyrd’s Burden
Grimdark Magazine Issue #4 mobi Page 10
