by K J Taylor
“Hullo,” he said.
Laela woke up from her daydream and looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Just wanted someone t’talk to,” said the man.
Laela yawned. “All right.”
“So, where are yer goin’? I got to say, it’s not that often yer find a woman travelling alone.”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere in particular,” said Laela.
“Well,” said the man, “yer gonna have to pick a destination soon, ’cause we’re gonna be enterin’ the Northgates pretty soon.”
Laela started at that. “How soon?”
He squinted ahead. “I’d say the next day or so by my reckonin’. But y’wanna be on yer way before that happens.”
“Why would yeh be goin’ into the Northgates?” said Laela. “Yeh ain’t goin’ into the North, are yeh?”
“’Course not,” said the traveller. “Use yer brain, girl. There’s not a Southerner in Cymria would go there, not for love or money.”
Laela sat back and thought. It had been a long time since any Southerner had gone North, that was very true. Once upon a time, the North had been Cymrian territory—ruled over by griffiners. The lords of the land, given power by their partnership with griffins. They had conquered the North centuries ago, and its inhabitants had become either slaves or vassals.
But that was before what was now referred to as the Dark War, or the War of the Darkmen. That had been before Lord Arenadd Taranisäii, a renegade Northerner, had allied himself with an extremely powerful griffin and led a rebellion against the griffiners. Together, the man Southerners called the Dark Lord Arenadd and the griffin, simply called “the dark griffin,” had ruthlessly slaughtered and burned their way through the griffiner cities in the North. Any Southerner living there had been killed or driven out, and in the end, the rebels had captured Malvern, the capital city, and massacred its inhabitants.
Today, the North was its own country, and Arenadd Taranisäii was its King. And no Southerner would ever enter it unless he was stupid, or insane.
Still.
“So why are yeh goin’ into the mountains if yeh ain’t gonna go through ’em?” Laela asked. “What’s the point?”
“We’re goin’ to Guard’s Post,” the traveller explained. “The men livin’ there don’t get much in the way of supplies, so they’re happy to buy them off us.”
Laela nodded to herself. In that case, she would stay with this cart until it got to Guard’s Post, and when it arrived she would do whatever she had to to pass beyond it and into the North. And if the men living in it resisted, well . . .
She reached into her bundle of possessions and fingered the bag of oblong, which was still nearly full. Her father had taught her that a sword was the best persuasion, but Laela had always thought money worked far better.
• • •
With that in mind, she stayed with the cart for the next two days, ignoring her new acquaintance’s suggestions for her to leave before they reached Guard’s Post.
By midmorning of the second day, the Northgates loomed ahead. She had never seen mountains before, and these looked enormous to her. She watched them as the cart trundled on, marvelling at their sheer, rocky slopes and wondering why and how anyone would ever climb them.
Fortunately—of course—the cart and its owners weren’t going to try. The road led them to a wide pass that led through the mountains, and they entered it at around midday and then trundled along it, walled in by cliffs on either side.
Laela shivered and pulled her dress over her legs. The cliffs were high, and it was cold and dark between them. For a moment she had the irrational feeling that they had gone underground, but after a while, the pass opened up a little, and the sun warmed her face.
She looked ahead, her heart thudding now in anticipation. They were nearly there.
They reached Guard’s Post by evening. Laela, standing up on the back of the cart to look ahead, had seen it some time ago, and she watched it come closer.
Guard’s Post had been partly carved out of the walls of the pass and consisted mostly of a huge archway. Below it was an enormous iron gate that had to be raised and lowered by chains. Above it there were towers, built on the cliff-tops. Laela thought they looked familiar, but it took a while for her to decide why.
She remembered a drawing she had seen once, in a book. A tower, tall but solid, its sides full of strange, arched openings, each one with a platform jutting out from it. A griffiner tower, her father had explained. The platforms were for the griffins to land on, and the openings led into nesting chambers.
The towers at Guard’s Post had openings just like that.
Laela hugged her knees and shivered with excitement. Griffiner towers! She had always wanted to see one, and now she was seeing two.
There didn’t seem to be any griffins around them, though. Privately, she was relieved. Griffins were notoriously dangerous and temperamental creatures—not even a griffiner could really control one, or so her father had told her. They had magic. They also had beaks and talons meant for tearing flesh, and they were carnivores. That last part bothered Laela far more than magic.
The cart reached the gate before the driver pulled the oxen to a halt and waved to a small figure standing on the crenulated wall above. The figure waved back.
The driver sat down.
“An’ now we wait,” one of his companions muttered.
Laela got off the back of the cart, suddenly nervous.
At first it seemed nothing was happening; she kept expecting the huge gate to open, but it never did. Were they going to have to turn back?
The driver tensed in his seat. “Here they come,” he said. “Throw yer weapons down.”
Laela pulled her sword around to the back of her belt and took her blanket-roll down off the cart and slung it over her shoulder, hoping it would hide the weapon. Nothing would make her part with the sword unless it was a matter of life and death.
A few tense moments passed, while the travellers laid their weapons down at their feet in plain sight, and the driver got down off the cart. Laela stood tall to look past them, and her heart beat fast as she saw a group of men come toward them.
“Who are ye an’ what d’ye want, Southerner?” a harshly accented voice demanded of the driver.
He bowed nervously. “I’m here to trade, sir. I’ve brought plenty of goods.”
Laela, keeping well back, clenched her fists with nervous impatience. She desperately wanted to see the Northerners, but the bulky forms of her fellow travellers were in her way, and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.
“Out of the way,” the first voice said, and the travellers obligingly moved away from the cart.
The Northerners—six in all—surrounded the cart, while two of their number climbed up on it and began to search through its contents.
Laela, seeing them at last, felt her breath catch in her throat. No.
The Northerners were tall and long-limbed—lightly built, but sinewy. Their hair was black as coal, and they had pale skin, and when one of them turned toward her Laela saw his eyes—glittering black, impassive.
Oh, Gryphus, she thought, suddenly trembling.
One of the Northerners lifted up a box. “What’s in this?”
“Melon seeds, sir,” said the driver.
The Northerner grunted and prised the box open. Laela saw his fingers, long, elegant fingers . . . his face, sharp-featured and cunning . . .
Without thinking, she ran a hand over her own face. Was that what she looked like? Was she one of them? A darkwoman?
But she was. She knew she was. Everything about them matched her own looks, everything but the eyes . . .
“We’ll take it,” said the leader, his sharp voice breaking into her thoughts. “Ye can bring it in through the gate—only ye, mind. The rest can stay here. We don’t need no bloody Southerners stinkin’ up the place.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver nodded, and climbed back onto his seat.
T
he Northerners seemed to find something very amusing about this, and they sniggered among themselves as the cart moved forward again.
Laela darted forward. “Hey!”
One of the Northerners turned sharply. “What d’ye want, girl?”
Laela faced him. “I’m goin’ through, too.”
He planted a hand on her chest and shoved her backward so hard she nearly fell over. “Ye’re goin’ nowhere, Southerner. We’re only lettin’ this one through under sufferance. An’ we don’t buy whores.”
Laela felt ice-cold rage burning in her chest. “Yeh’ll let me through, Northerner,” she said. “I’ve come ’ere because I want t’go into the North.”
The Northerner laughed at that—a rough, cruel laugh. “Ye, go North? That’s a nice ’un. Listen t’this, lads—we got a Southerner wantin’ to come into the King’s lands!”
“I can pay yeh—” Laela began.
The Northerner had had his fun. “Sod off, Southerner,” he said.
Laela ran after him. “I ain’t no bloody Southerner, understand?” she roared. “I’m one of you, damn it!”
The man turned. “Look—”
She reached up to the hood she had kept in place for weeks and tore it off. The long, jet-black hair she hated tumbled free in greasy curls around her face, and she glared defiantly at the Northerners.
Everyone there started in shock.
“There,” Laela said loudly. “Yeh see that?” She held up a hand. “See these, yeh bastard? I’m a Northerner, an’ I want t’go home.”
The leader of the Northerners pushed past his comrades to look at her. His black eyes narrowed. “Ye ain’t no Northerner. Look at them eyes. Ye’re a Night-cursed half-breed, ain’t ye?”
“Me father was a Northerner,” Laela said steadily.
“But not yer mother,” the man finished. “Go away, girl. We don’t need yer Southern blood on our soil.”
Laela took a deep breath—this was her last chance. “Fine, so I’m a half-breed. But I’m a half-breed what’s carryin’ five hundred gold oblong.”
The commander stopped at that. “Five hundred—don’t try an’ play games, half-blood, or I’ll carve yer throat out.”
Laela swung her bundle down off her shoulders and pulled out the bag of money. She opened it and pulled out a single oblong, holding it so it flashed in the light. “I’ll give it to yeh,” she said. “If yeh let me through.”
The man fingered the hilt of the wicked-looking sickle in his belt. “An’ what’s t’stop me takin’ it anyway, girl?”
Laela reached behind her back and freed her sword. “This is,” she snarled, and pointed it directly at his throat.
The man stared at her. Then he glanced at his companions, who were looking on, unreadable.
Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. “Hahahah! Hark at that half-breed, would ye? Thinks she’s gonna walk straight through here with her trusty sword an’ her bag of oblong.”
“I’ll walk through with the sword,” said Laela. “The oblong’re yours.”
The commander became serious. “What’s yer name, girl?”
She lifted her chin. “Laela Redguard of Sturrick.”
“An’ why are ye tryin’ t’go North, Laela Redguard of Sturrick?”
“’Cause . . .” Laela hesitated. “’Cause once all Northerners . . . once darkmen like you din’t have no place to call home. Yeh were all slaves, in the North or anywhere else, an’ nobody thought yeh were anythin’ but worthless. Now yeh’ve shown the world yeh ain’t that, an’ yeh’ve got Southerners callin’ you ‘sir.’ Well, I ain’t no Southerner, an’ I ain’t no Northerner, an’ I got no home an’ no respect neither. But I thought if I went North an’ found my father’s people, then maybe I’d find somewhere, ’cause you people’d understand. Or maybe I’m wrong,” she added more softly.
The commander watched her in silence while she spoke. When she had finished, he looked her up and down and then turned away.
“Right,” he said to his companions, as if nothing had happened. “Let’s get goin’. Ye, run back an’ tell ’em t’open the gate. Ye there—Southerner—get them ox movin’. I want that cart inside before the Night God wakes. C’mon, hurry it up!”
The men sprang into action. Laela, for her part, stayed where she was, still holding the sword and the bag of money. Nobody went near her, and the commander, busy ordering his men around, paid her no more attention.
Slowly, laboriously, the gate rose on its chains. When it was high enough and the signal had been given, the cart moved forward again.
Laela followed it. Nobody tried to stop her.
They passed through the gateway and into a big open area with curving stone walls on two sides and another gate in front. There the cart came to a stop, and a group of Northerners—including some women—began to unload its contents while the commander argued with the driver over prices.
Laela stood to one side, expecting to be attacked at any moment. Nobody paid her any attention.
Finally, when the cart was all but empty and the driver had collected his money, the gate opened again, and the oxen did a clumsy turn and began to walk back out the way they had come. Laela watched, not knowing if she should stay or follow.
“Where d’ye think yer goin’, girl?” said the commander’s voice from behind her.
Laela turned and silently offered him the bag of money.
He ignored it and ushered her toward the other gate. It stayed closed, but there was another, far smaller door set into the stonework beside it. The commander opened it.
“Go,” he said, gesturing to the landscape on the other side.
Laela tried to put the bag into his hands. “Here,” she said. “Payment, like I promised.”
He pushed it back toward her. “Keep it,” he said. “I get paid plenty.”
Laela looked suspiciously at him. “Why are yeh lettin’ me through then, if yeh ain’t takin’ the money?”
He straightened up. “The North’s a home for warriors, girl, not traders. I dunno if ye’ll find a home there, but ye’ll need that money. An’ maybe ye’ve got Southern blood in ye, but ye’ve acted like a darkwoman, an’ that’s enough for me.”
Very slowly, Laela refastened the string around the neck of the bag and stowed it away again. “Thanks.”
The commander smiled very slightly at her. “Go on,” he said. “An’ good luck, Laela.”
Laela glanced at him and stepped through the door. Into the North.
3
Malvern
She travelled toward Malvern though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because it was the nearest city, or perhaps because it was the seat of the King. She didn’t have a plan, and Malvern seemed like the best place to go, so that was where she went.
Travelling in the North was far more difficult than it had been in the South. The road to Malvern was wide and well-marked, but there was virtually nobody else on it. Nobody, therefore, to beg or purchase a ride from. Nobody to trade with. Nobody to tell her if she was going in the right direction.
Under the circumstances, she did the only thing she could: She kept doggedly following the road, hoping to find someone or something that could help her.
Eventually, with her food running low, she came across what looked like abandoned farmland. Crops were growing wild, and she spent some time picking whatever looked edible before she moved on.
Finally, after nearly a solid week of walking, she came across her first village.
She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting a Northern village to look like, but now she saw one, she felt vaguely disappointed to discover it was barely any different from any farming community in the South.
But the people were different.
Laela walked through the main street, heart pounding, waiting for someone to single her out.
Nobody did. She garnered a few curious stares, but nobody shouted at her, nobody came up to accost her. There were no jeers or insults.
Laela felt all her a
nxiety drain away. Thank Gryphus, she had been right. She could blend in with these people.
Her confidence soaring, she approached a farmer busy unloading a cart.
“What d’ye want?” he asked—impatient but not hostile.
“I’m tryin’ t’get to Malvern,” she said, careful not to look him in the eye. “Could yeh give me directions?”
The farmer looked curiously at her. “I ain’t heard an accent like that before—where’re ye from?”
“Nowhere yeh’d know,” said Laela. “But I want t’get to Malvern. Just tell me if I’m goin’ the right way.”
“Well, the main road leadin’ out of here goes straight there,” said the farmer. “Just keep followin’ it an’ ye’ll be at Malvern’s gates in the end.”
“How far is it?” said Laela. “I’m on foot.”
“On foot!” the farmer repeated. “Ye gods. Ye’ll be lucky to make it there in two months, girl.”
Her heart sank. “D’yeh know how I could get there faster, then?”
The farmer scratched his nose. “If ye see anyone goin’ in that direction, ye could try an’ hitch a lift, or ye could buy a horse if ye had the money . . . it’s playin’ with fire, takin’ horses into Malvern, mind.”
“Why?” said Laela.
“The place is swarmin’ with griffins, ain’t it?” said the farmer. “An’ we all know how much they like horses.”
Laela hadn’t heard of this. “Er . . .”
“Griffins hate horses,” the farmer told her. “Mostly they kill the things on sight. Ye know, I heard this old story once how there was unicorns in Cymria once, but the griffins wiped ’em out.”
“Oh,” said Laela. “I never knew that. Can’t ride, anyway.”
“Well, I’ll tell ye what,” said the farmer. “Tomorrow I’m headin’ off on a jaunt northward meself. I might be willin’ to give ye a ride on the cart if ye can pay.”
“I can,” Laela said promptly. “An’ I’ll pay yeh extra t’let me sleep in yer barn.”
“How much?” said the farmer.
“Ten oblong for the ride, an’ ten more for the barn,” she said.
