by Greg James
“Woran,” Sarah said, “thank you for helping, for caring for me. I don’t feel like I deserve it.”
Woran smiled. “Thank you for warming an old man’s heart with the fire of fond memories these past three years. They have been too few, and I wish that we had more time, but it is not to be. Sleep now, Sarah. We will make tracks before sundown.”
~ ~ ~
Sarah slept until evening.
As she got to her feet and slipped on her leather boots, she looked out through the window and saw that it had become twilight. The light along the horizon was casting the foothills and slopes in autumnal shades. The dying sun was burning out, falling into the flames of an open furnace secreted just below the horizon and out of sight. In this brilliance, she saw a mounted figure upon the crest of the far slope. A black rider silhouetted against the last livid light of day on the horizon. A still, silent creation of shade and shadow. It was too far away for her to make out any details, other than a slight angularity to its form. Like a man armoured for war, she thought, remembering Woran’s words.
She shivered.
Sarah had seen soldiers of Norn come and go along the roadways to Highmount, but not one dressed like this. Even from this distance, none of them had borne the slightest resemblance to what she was looking at across the valley. And she felt, in her heart and bones, that it was looking right back at her with eyes cut from searing coals.
Sarah stepped away from the window, took a breath, and then looked out again.
The black rider was gone.
~ ~ ~
She was alone in the house.
Sarah had dressed and washed quickly before entering the parlour, expecting to find Woran there; he was nowhere to be seen. Nights were becoming long, cold, dark things, and she swallowed hard, thinking about what that Black Rider might do once the light of day vanished and shadows were spread everywhere to cover its approach.
I should not have let him see me, she thought.
Sarah cupped her hands and blew onto the ashes of the hearth fire, smiling as she watched the embers blossom into faint tongues of flame that spat out a handful of sparks.
It’s not yet ashes, she thought, there’s still some warmth to be found.
She stood, rubbing her shoulders against the night’s cold, which was seeping through the house, and went to the stove to see if there was much stew left over. She spooned what was there into a bowl and ate in silence. Woran was not there and neither was Barra. Woran often took the little mongrel with him when he had to collect something from the Taproots or Saltwines. Barra wasn’t as big as their dogs, but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in tenacity. His raggedy fur hid scars and marks from countless fights. He would be okay, and so would Woran.
But telling herself this did not stop her heart pounding. The fire had nearly died, and the stew was almost cold. They had been gone a long time.
When will they be back? Shall I go and look for them?
As she mulled it over, Sarah lit candles and the hurricane lantern to illuminate the house. She fed some more wood to the fire from the stack in the corner, to encourage a glow from the windows that she hoped would somehow deter any intruder. She could feel the lining of her gut twisting as she sat and waited and watched the door.
She didn’t know where she was to go once she left here, and Woran had said he meant to come with her. If she got herself lost out there, missed Woran and Barra returning in the dark, what good would that do?
“Think with the heart more than the head and you will come to the Path that leads you out of a forest dark.”
It was something Woran had said to her a few times before, but it reminded her of Gorra and the White Rider.
Damn it, where was he? Because her heart was telling her to leave the house, with or without him. To go now. That twisting in her gut was screaming that something was out there. Something wrong that should not be in this World.
Rap-rap-rap-rap
Sarah got to her feet and tried to peer around the window frame, but the firelight had turned the world outside to shadow.
Rap-rap-rap-rap
Woran had taken his axe with him. A rolling pin lay on the table from when she had rolled out oat biscuits a few days ago. She picked it up and went to the door. She stopped. What good was a rolling pin against something like that?
She moved her hand away from the bolt. She stepped away from the door.
A fierce rush of wind slammed the door open.
Sarah looked up at the tall figure that stood before her. There was nothing angular about him, and there was no sign of armour on his person. He wore a robe that had seen better days and he carried a staff of gnarled yet polished darkwood. As she opened the door, he removed the great cowl that covered his head and shadowed his face. The skin there was wrinkled, care-worn, tanned by the elements and the passage of time. His beard was long, ragged, and untrimmed, and the stark white of its hairs was contrasted by traceries of night black and stone grey. His one eye, though, was a piercing sapphire that shone like a jewel in the reflected light of the fire within. Where his other eye should have been there was only a pink, puckered hole.
“Am I addressing Sarah Bean, granddaughter to Woran Bean?”
“You are,” she said before she could think to hold her tongue. “Who are you?”
She made sure he could see she was armed, even if she felt slightly ridiculous holding a rolling pin as a weapon.
“You have seen, yourself, that the nights are growing longer and the days themselves colder. It is wise to be wary of uninvited guests in such times.”
“You’re right about that. Now, who are you?”
“I am Ossen, a Wayfarer. You may have heard of me.”
Sarah shook her head, holding her ground so that he could not get a foot across the threshold.
“Ah, then you must not be from around here?”
Sarah tried to steady her face. She pressed her lips into a hard line in answer to the question. Ossen’s eye glittered and his next words broke her silence into pieces.
“Thou foot treads soft amidst thy darkening trees, O hear my call whisper on this twilight breeze. Does that sound familiar to you, Sarah?”
The rolling pin clattered on the floor before she even realised she had dropped it. “You ... are you Gorra?”
“No. You flatter me, but no. I am not the Father of Leaves. But I have known him and he has spoken of you, O Daughter of the Flame.”
“He ... he called me O Flame. The Fellhound called me that too. What does it mean?”
“The Fellhound? Then he has found you already, not that it matters. Sarah, know that I mean you no harm, but I come with a message and a warning. Woran Bean is hurt in the woods to the north of here. Barra is with him and guarding him well, but the Fellhounds and those they serve will find them both soon enough.”
“Why did he leave without me?”
“He did not. He meant to return after buying travelling bags and two mules from an old friend—an old friend who betrayed him.”
“The Taproots. Esiah!”
“Yes. Woran slew him for his trouble, much to Esiah’s surprise. Go to him, Sarah. Find him and save him before the Fallen-born correct Esiah’s failure.”
“How can I save him alone?”
Outside, in the now shapeless darkness beyond Ossen, there came a howl. It was a long, high, forlorn sound that echoed in ways it should not have done, not in a valley.
“I did not say you would be alone, Sarah. Now go, quickly, before His Five Shadows find you. Awake!”
Chapter Eight
It was evening in the city of Highmount and Venna and her warden, Ianna, sat at the head of a long, time-cracked table carved from greybeard oak. A number of the thirteen men and women who sat on the council around the table were grey-bearded and grey-haired respectively. To be on the Highmount Council was an honour, but it was an office served until the grave claimed you, which led to the Council being made up of civil servants long past their
political prime. It suited Ianna perfectly—the aged folk before her could be manipulated with a certain amount of ease. The customary murmurings settled into a hush around the table and the heavy red curtains were drawn across the Chamber’s high-vaulted windows in observance of symbolic tradition; nothing spoken or seen within the Chamber was to reach the ears and eyes of those outside.
Ianna rose to her feet and rested her palms upon the table, a dominant pose and one enhanced by her slender but muscled six-foot frame. Her hair was a cascade of black, framing her overly powdered white face with its thin lips and emerald eyes, which always seemed to be searching, probing, and assessing those around her. Her long fingernails glittered with minute inset emeralds. She cut a powerful figure beside the crowned queen.
Venna, at eleven, was small for her age. Her face was elfin and gentle, like her voice and manner, but her lower body was shrunken and stunted from a childhood bout of the Grey Touch—the same disease that took her mother’s life. Her legs hung wasted and useless from the chair. Venna ran her fine fingers over them often, as if the gesture would somehow revive and strengthen the atrophied muscles hidden beneath the gold-hemmed white silk. She was usually quiet in the Council meetings because she understood little of what was going on and cared for it even less. She missed Jedda, and she hated Ianna with a bile that would set the doddering old heads who whispered and hurhmed around her dead father’s long table into shock. Her dreams at night, after Ianna was done with switching her, were always of running. Waking up and running far, far away over the Grassland Plains, hand in hand with Jedda.
Both of them together, laughing, happy, and free.
She knew it would never happen.
After clearing her asthmatic throat with a light bronchial cough, Venna spoke. “I call this meeting of the Council to order. My Lady and Warden to the Throne, Ianna Keldorn, will now speak on our business for the day.”
Venna fell back into her chair, her eyes fluttering, her throat tight and whistling. Colours and shades danced before her eyes in the darkened room. She listened muzzily to Ianna’s words.
“My Lords and Ladies, we live in a time of darkness and coming crisis. I am sure you have all heard the rumours that the Fallen One has awoken.”
A series of sharp mutters and muted gasps went around the Chamber.
“You have been called here today because these rumours are true.”
More mutters, gasps, and a few cries.
“The Fallen One is raising his armies of the dead in the Nightlands to the east. Our scouts and spies report that he has sent emissaries to the Three Kingdoms, bypassing Highmount entirely through some means. The word is that they are negotiating with the Fallen One. The price of fealty to him is their dead, and their prize is that their lands will not be sacked and burned.”
“Has such an emissary been received by the Crown, O Warden?” The question came from the one youthful face among the councillors: Mikka Wyrlsorn. He was a short, scrawny man dressed in black and gold. A closely-trimmed and curled black beard framed a ferret’s face with protruding hazel eyes. His eyes were on Ianna, more challenging than those of any other at the table.
“None so far, Councillor Mikka, but we expect one any day now, which is why this gathering has been called.”
“To discuss the terms of our fealty to the Fallen One?”
The mutterings around the table took on an angry tone.
Councillor Della, his beard nearer to white than grey and his red robes shimmering with ornate silver filigree, rose to his feet and glowered at Mikka. “You would treat with the Fallen One, Mikka? You would break the oath that was sworn by the Founders of Highmount? You soft dog of a boy! We must stand! If Fallen-born and Fellfolk come, then we must hold the pass in which our city stands to the last woman or man! I was there when His Five Shadows led Drujja and Fellspawn into E'phah! I commanded men and women who fought and drove back his demons into the Nightlands!”
“Peace, brothers and sisters. I speak only the truth of our situation. If the kingdoms see fit to lay down, rather than raise their swords, then the terms of such treaties with the Fallen One must be ... reasonable.”
More were on their feet now, shouting and pointing at Mikka. None moved to strike him. They only brayed and bantered until the room was an echo chamber of righteous ravings. Venna cringed as the sounds came to a crescendo.
“Peace!”
Ianna’s word had a shattering effect upon the councillors. All fell silent and returned to their seats.
“Brothers and sisters, Mikka is a councillor as are you all, and the purpose of these gatherings is for us to discuss and consider all opinions brought to the table. Is that not so?”
Murmurs of agreement answered her.
“Now, as Mikka and Della have illustrated, we have choices before us. The Founders swore their oath to hold the pass against the Fallen One and his kith, no matter what. But, chivalry aside, we must consider our position...”
Mutters, dark and sharp in tone, arose once again.
“We must consider our position as a city that is not all that it once was. The ascension of Queen Venna, following her dear father’s death, was not without its ... difficulties. Women and men who manned the walls have since deserted us and taken their families with them, leaving us a force of less than a thousand to stand against invaders. As you know, the Fallen One's forces are legendary and powerful. With less than a thousand, we will be swept away if we do not treat with his emissary.”
Sighs and moans followed, and a few sobs from the women at the table.
Marra, a former Watcher, asked, “So, we are to give our dead over to the Fallen One? That is it. Without question?”
Mikka answered her. “It is a small price to pay if it means the survival of the living.”
“But does it?” Marra went on. “We give him our dead and from them he fashions more Fellfolk, more dead-men for his rank and file. His armies will grow and grow, and we will be responsible for that. Before we know it, he will be able to sweep all of the kingdoms away in a matter of years, maybe even months.”
Mikka sighed and scratched at his prematurely balding pate. “What else would you suggest, Marra? We have no means of bargaining. We may try to lie and cheat but what if he sends one of His Five Shadows to our gates? You’ve heard the stories as well as I. Such a creature will see right through any deception and bring the full fury of the Fallen-born against us.”
“There is one thing we can do,” said Ianna.
Mikka’s head snapped around to face her, his brow crinkling, his eyes wide and surprised. “And what might that be, Lady Warden?”
“A’aron.”
“By the Mother,” Della muttered, tugging at his whiskers.
“You can’t be serious, Lady Warden,” Mikka said. “The Sword Without a Blade? It was lost more than five hundred years ago.”
“Not lost,” Della said. “I know the legends well, better than you, I should think.”
Mikka’s lips curled at the old man’s jibe.
“A’aron sleeps with its sighs and whispers, robed in prophecy and damnation atop the heights of the Fellhorn.”
“I know all of that, Della, but just because old tales are told, it does not make them true. Besides, the Fellhorn lies in the Western Wastes. Who in the world would go there by choice?”
“If I were not so old, I would go,” said Della. “I would make my life forfeit for Highmount and the Three Kingdoms.”
Mikka frowned and turned again to Ianna. “My Lady Warden, if you please, I think the Council should know what exactly is being suggested beyond the chasing of old ghosts and myths.”
“The counsel I have received comes from a man known to you all: Ossen of the Wayfarers.”
The mention of his name roused Venna from her quiet lethargy. She remembered Ossen coming to the court when she was little, telling stories of the other lands and distant kingdoms to a rapt audience of herself and Jedda. Conjuring fireworks, faerie dancers and shadow puppets in t
heir private rooms.
Mikka gave a contemptuous snort. “Old One-Eye is in Highmount, is he? I thought he was too good, great, and mighty for the likes of us.”
“Still your tongue, Councillor. Ossen is a Wayfarer and thus accorded due respect.”
Her words hanging in the air, Ianna moved from the table to the doors of the Chamber and opened them. In strode Ossen. Seeming to pause to reflect for a second longer on Mikka than the others, he then drew himself up to his full height, revealing his stoop to be an act of frailty. A darkness appeared to enter the chamber as he addressed them in a voice that seemed to resonate rather than be spoken.
“You have my greetings, Queen Venna. Lady Warden. Councillors of Highmount. As has already been discussed, there is a way to save the city from the armies of the Fallen. But it is no light or easy task to undertake. The Fellhorn lies over the Grassland Plains, across the Mountains of Mourning in the Western Wastes. I offer my services to lead the party that will travel on this journey; as a Wayfarer, it is my duty to do so in such times of need. How long we would be gone, I do not know. Whether we would succeed in what we set out to do, I cannot be sure. Whether we would come back, it is beyond—”
“To be sure,” Mikka interrupted, “you wish us to trust in a wild hog’s hunt. To wait in vain for that which may never come whilst we are crushed under the trampling feet of Fallen-born and Fellfolk, yes?”
Silence, sick and uneasy, reigned in the room as Mikka’s hazel eyes met and matched Ossen’s penetrating stare. The other Councillors plucked at their beards and twirled their tresses. No-one had spoken to a Wayfarer in such a way before.
Mikka turned to Venna rather than Ianna. “My Queen, I am your humble and honoured servant, and I have to say that this scheme of your Lady Warden beggars belief and, indeed, sanity.”
Everyone at the table seemed to hold their breath. It had been many years since a member of the Council had directly challenged the throne in such a way. Venna shuffled in her chair, trying to sit straighter and show more dignity. In the dimness of the chamber, she hoped no-one could see her blush. She hoped her father’s shade was not there somewhere, watching.
