The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1)

by Davis, H. Anthe

  Then the world returned like a slamming door, and she jerked back from the offering bowl with a gasp, her shoulders whacking against the hay-bale propped behind her.

  “Did it work?” said Trevere, no concern in his voice.

  She blinked rapidly and stuck her bloody finger in her mouth. The tugging remained a gentle pull at her breastbone. Northeast.

  “Yes.”

  “How far?”

  “I’m not sure. The turn-off…” She closed her eyes, trying to envision the silver ribbons again. “I don’t think it’s very far. Then through the forest, a long distance.” She drew her bearskin coat close at the thought. It did not look like a pleasant ride.

  “Then we go once we’ve eaten,” said Trevere, and ducked out of sight beyond the makeshift screen. She heard him rummaging through the packs. “You and your goblin to the Corvish. Myself to Thynbell. The wolf…wherever it plans to go.”

  The wolf made no sound, only watched them, still curled around the goblin like a furry shield. But it occurred to Lark that it could not really be a wolf. Not with the way it had followed them, slept beside them, and listened like it understood.

  She flushed, glad for her dark skin and the uncertain light through the screen. Of course it was a skinchanger. It was just smart enough not to go furless in winter.

  While she packed up the ceremonial things, while they ate—even the wolf, which deigned to lick up the bowl of everything-porridge Trevere left for it—she mused on the knowledge. Was it a person in wolfskin, with all of a person’s feelings and foibles? An animal with human intelligence?

  A difficult question, and as they drew the horses from the stable-side and saddled them, the wolf skittered away again, leaving the empty bowl behind. Lark caught it up and crammed it with the rest of her gear, not sure if she would be comfortable with the wolf on her own.

  But whether it followed her or not, she could not say, for when they found the tiny side-path that made the tug in her chest turn northward, the wolf had once again melted into the silver shadows of the snow-bowed forest.

  *****

  “Stay safe,” Trevere told Lark as he turned his horse east, and she north.

  She nodded at him, her dark lips pinched in an uncertain line.

  Before she could say anything, he yanked the bolt-case from his belt and held it across the distance. He saw her eyes widen, then she reached out to take it. Their fingers brushed briefly. He pulled away.

  “You might need them,” he said, and tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks.

  He felt her stare on his back for some distance, but put it out of mind. The cold, wet wind raked its fingers through his hair and ran down the collar of his coat as he urged the horse onward.

  The last bolt, tucked in the back of his belt, tapped a constant rhythm against the hilt of the akarriden blade.

  Chapter 17 – The Red and the Black

  Weshker ducked low through the hidden door into the tunnel of stacked crates and pallets. It was the evening of Sebryn 27th, and rain hissed down into the alley outside, the same way it was pouring on the rest of the Crimson camp. The boards under him were damp from the passage of other men, the light in the distance flickering from movement. He crawled forward quickly, smaller than most of his comrades and eager to join in the conspiracy—the Shadow meetings that Maevor sometimes held in secret, under the Army’s nose.

  This would be his first one, and apparently the first since the murder at the River Gate; it had taken more than a week for freesoldier scrutiny to die down on Weshker’s camp-mates. He did not know how often the Shadows met otherwise, but Cob and Jas Fendil were now fifteen days gone, and tensions had begun to ease.

  For most folk.

  After a few yards, the passage opened into a larger space, and Weshker shimmied free and stood blinking in the glow of the shaded lantern. It was like entering a tiny amphitheater, with slaves of all types and a few freesoldiers perched on the tiers of crates, watching the new arrivals from above a clear circle. Beyond them, more crates rose like walls in the darkness, filling the warehouse and sheltering this secret spot.

  Weshker swung up onto a crate and watched with interest as more men crawled in and arrayed themselves around the circle of light. Soon there were dozens, with Weshker’s tent-mate Maevor in the center, fiddling with the lantern shade. Its strange cut-outs cast eye-shaped patterns across the gathered faces.

  He tried to spot more people he knew, but though he recognized a few men from nearby camp-circles, the only ones he knew by name were those he had nicked things from. They did not seem to notice him, but he smoothed his hands over the bandana that covered his hair nervously to make sure no strands had worked loose. His Corvish coloring was an instant giveaway.

  The flick of an ember caught his eye from a darker corner, and he squinted at it sidelong, not liking how hard it was to see everyone. It took a moment for him to discern the pocks on the man’s face, but that was enough.

  Erevard, smoking rashi, his eyes like cinders.

  Weshker looked away quickly. He had always been afraid of the Wynd, not due to any personal conflict--since Erevard was as indifferent to Weshker’s Corvishness as he was to the camp and all its business--but from his reputation. Ex-Gold Army, having deserted for no reason he would say; ex-grifter, known for being the muscle behind Fendil’s mouth; frequent visitor to the whipping post for his total disregard of the officers. Now, with a cloud of rashi smoke haloing his head, he scared Weshker even more, for if he wore that expression under the soothing influence of the herb, then what would he be like when it wore off?

  No one wanted to know. Maevor was supplying him for free just to keep him under control. Two new slaves had been shifted into their team to replace Fendil and Cob, and on the first night Erevard had stabbed his new tent-mate ‘accidentally’, then hauled him out still hollering and proceeded to bandage him by the fire, occasionally smacking him when he got too loud. The man was in the infirmary now, and Erevard spent most of his time lurking in his solo tent like a spider in a hole.

  The influx finally trickled to a stop, and he heard a muffled thunk as the hidden door was pulled shut. The last man crawled in and twitched his fingers at Maevor in some kind of a sign, to which Maevor nodded.

  “Thank you all for coming at such short notice,” the Shadow leader said, his voice pitched low but carrying through the arranged space. “We have a few guests, and apparently some absences, but I think we can blame the weather. Before I move on to business, are there any pressing issues to add to the agenda?”

  Weshker leaned back against his crate, frowning as people piped up about black market price-gouging and the flooding of the south-east latrine pits. He had expected something creepy and mystic, with hoods and hand-waving and invocation of the Shadow God, not a town council meeting.

  But maybe the cult stuff came later, after they stopped dripping damply on the crates and got down to real business. Weshker had only a vague idea of what that might be, but it had to be exciting. Daring, defiant, full of spying and sabotage, always seeking to undermine the Empire of Light…

  So he sat there, waiting for the revolution as men asked Maevor about Trifold medicines and tea herbs, about news from the outside world, about better ways to set up their tents for the weather and whether carving one’s own chits for card-games was cheating. Maevor referred a few questions to the freesoldiers who sat in uniform, separate from both the slaves and each other, and they discussed shifting assignments and skipping certain slave-camps on their routine searches. Everyone expressed concern about the presence of the Inquisition.

  Finally Weshker could wait no longer. He had never been patient, and as a burly Illanite voiced a complaint about not being allowed to see his wife in the women’s quarter, he said, “Why don’t we jes’ do somethin’ about it?”

  All eyes turned to him. Looking pained, Maevor said, “That’s not how we operate, Wes.”

  “No? ‘Cause I thought you guys were about freedom an’ shit. Maybe
it’s jes’ cause I’m new here, and not really one a’ yeh, but where’s the rebellin’? Aren’t yeh plannin’ to get us outta here?”

  With a sigh, Maevor looked around the circle. “Gentlemen, my camp-mate Weshker. I know some of you recognize him, but try to refrain from punching him. Weshker, it’s not that simple.”

  “Sure it is,” said the Corvishman, fingering the daggers under his clothes despite Maevor’s protective order. He felt secure when he had blades, and thus wore more than were probably practical, especially since it was illegal to have them. “More’n half the camp is us slaves, if yeh count the women, and obviously we got some freesoldiers on our side. So why not jes’ overthrow the rest of them bastards and quit this place?”

  “We’ve tried fighting before,” said the burly Illanite. “We fought in Savinnor, we fought in Fellen, and we lost. That’s why we’re here.”

  “En’t what I’m talkin’ about. There, yeh fought the armies in the streets like fools. Here, we can get ‘em in their bunk-beds, before they can even get their boots on.”

  “That’s not how the Shadow Folk work, Wes,” said Maevor. “We serve Kherus Morgwi, Lord of the City and Spindle, and by his declaration and the agreement of the Illanic kais, we are to watch the Crimson Army from within—to influence its actions and succor our allies, but not to fight them. We are agents here, not slaves.”

  “I’m a slave,” said Weshker, pointing at his branded shoulder. “So are yeh. We all-- We most of us got this same pikin’ mark, scarred and magicked on us, and yeh sayin’ we shouldn’t do somethin’ about that?”

  “There are no mages on our side,” said Maevor, the eye-shaped lights shifting across his broad face as he gestured with the lantern. “It’s difficult enough keeping our work a secret without having thoughts of revolution swimming in our heads, ready for any mentalist to pick out. We work in the shadows, Weshker. Only Light-followers charge face-first into conflict.”

  Weshker grimaced, thinking of Cob—that young idiot, that Imperialist kid who had finally snapped and gone for blood. It was eerie to think that it could have been him dead outside the wall instead of Fendil, almost like he owed a debt to Scout Trevere.

  “Yeh, well, I en’t buyin’ it,” he said. “D’yeh plan to sit and wait ‘til the world magically gets better? Because it en’t gonna. Tomorrow we’ll be slaves, and the day after, and the day after, until we finally get the balls to say ‘pike it, we’re gone’.”

  Maevor smiled faintly. “And getting ourselves captured, mindwashed and reassigned throughout Illane so that we can not reorganize will help?”

  “If we all jes’ fight—“

  “Fifteen thousand slaves plus five thousand slave- and freewomen, uncoordinated and in various states of mindwash. Ten thousand Imperial freesoldiers, nearly two hundred mages, the Inquisition, the hounds, and anchored portals prepared to bring in reinforcements from the other Crimson camps as needed. A hostile city right at our doorstep, ready to retaliate the moment our guard drops, no matter the reason. How do you think this situation will end?”

  Weshker swallowed, sweat beading on his damp brow. He had never considered it like that before, just envisioned swordfights in the narrow alleys, a grand melee in the central training yard. Something heroic and inspiring yet with plenty of places to hide if it got too messy. It had never even occurred to him that Kanrodi might jump into the fight and smash them all.

  “So…yeh guys like it here,” he said slowly, baffled. “Yeh not plannin’ anythin’ ‘cept to make sure it stay comfortable.”

  “We have our orders.”

  Lip curling, Weshker shook his head and slipped down from his crate. “Then this en’t fer me. I thought yeh were somethin’ better’n this, somethin’ cleverer, but if all yeh gonna do is wait, then I can do that on my own. I en’t gonna be some Corvish mascot fer yeh t’say yeh mended our fences. My clanhold fell because yeh pikers couldn’t back up yeh talk.”

  An ugly murmur went through the crowd, but Maevor held up his hand to forestall it. “Go on then,” he said. “Can’t say I expected much. And if your clan fell, it was because you couldn’t keep your raiders on a leash, not because of us.”

  Weshker sneered, then turned away stiffly, trying not to see the flames of the past. It was old history, and Maevor had a point: his clan had allied with the Shadow Folk to withstand Gold Army harassment, but then had retaliated against the Golds despite the Shadow Folk’s wishes, breaking the covenant and alienating the Shadows.

  Still the specter of his sisters would not fade; it had been more than a decade since they had fallen among the burning buildings, but he still dreamed of them—their laughter and their fierce eyes. The Shadows could have saved them all, but instead only he had lived, spared from the sword because he had looked young enough to be trained.

  He wished he could forget.

  The voices of the Shadow men followed him through the tunnel. By the time he reached the hidden door, they were back to talking about supplies, and that stung. Not even a word of debate. He fumbled in the dark, trying to figure out how the panel moved, and when he finally pulled it aside and slid free into the drizzly night, the rain felt like defeat.

  He ran a hand over his wet face and sighed.

  Squelch.

  The air seemed suddenly very still, the patter of drops on his brow unnoticed. Beneath the bandana, his ears twitched.

  It had sounded like a muddy footstep. Close. Very close.

  In either direction, the alley stretched damp and dark. With another, more theatrical sigh, Weshker slanted his gaze sidelong to consider the nearer end. Was there an odd bulk to the shadows there? A vague manlike shape?

  Only one way to find out.

  And if I catch a spy, that piker Maevor can’t look down on me.

  Slumping his shoulders, he hooked his thumbs in his rough belt and shuffled toward that corner, fingers lightly caressing the shapes of the daggers under his tunic. He kept his head down but eyes up, narrowed to slivers as he watched that spot.

  There was definitely someone there, shifting away slowly as he approached. He caught another squish of mud and thought, Heavier’n me. Probably freesoldier, which means sword and armor. Get him in the throat with the hilt, let ‘em question him.

  A dagger came easily to his hand. The anger that the meeting had stirred up pushed him forward. At the corner, the shape receded, and he fell into a rush—low and fast, the blade leading as he lunged around the edge.

  In the dark and the rain, his hand moved faster than his eye, but he recognized his opponent just in time and slung himself backward, worn boots giving no traction as the mud sloughed beneath him like a rotted skin. He hit the ground on his backside and winced, blinking up through pain-tears.

  “What the pike yeh doin’ out here, Horrum?” he said incredulously as his camp-mate stared down at him. Horrum had been a farmer, and if not for attacking the soldiers that had come to conscript him, he would have been a freesoldier himself. Blunt-faced, taciturn and rule-bound, he was the last person Weshker would have expected to find out after dark.

  Horrum offered his hand, and that surprised Weshker too, but he took it anyway, letting the bigger man haul him up. The adrenaline of the near-fight tapered into embarrassment. “Seriously, I coulda killed yeh,” he said as he steadied on his feet. “Yeh late fer that cult shit. S’weird, yeh dun seem like the type.”

  Horrum did not respond. Nor did he let go.

  “Uh,” said Weshker, suddenly nervous. Horrum’s assistance had drawn him from the alley into the narrower corridor where the ex-farmer had been lurking. Here, the eaves overhung slightly, sheltering them from the rain, and in the dim cloud-light Weshker noticed odd hummocks on the ground, like piles of clothes. Horrum tugged him another step in, and a frisson of fear went up his spine.

  “All right, leggo,” he said, and yanked his hand in Horrum’s grip. It was like trying to pull free from a vise.

  The ex-farmer gave him an uncharacteristically nasty grin. Then
his lips drooped, his eyelids slid back into the sockets and his whole face ran like wax.

  Weshker opened his mouth to scream, but a net descended across his mind, locking his limbs and congealing his thoughts to paralysis as his camp-mate’s features melted into a claylike grey knob dominated by a cavernous, ever-stretching maw. The hulking body disintegrated into a mass of sandy, tangled ropes that surged forward to pin Weshker to the wall.

  Fight, fight! he screamed at himself, but the more he struggled, the tighter the psychic net pulled, denying all action. The clammy, writhing bulk of the creature pressed hard against him, forcing the breath from his lungs as gritty tendrils slid up his sleeves and down his collar, under his shirt, into his breeches, and knotted together at the nape of his neck to pull his head back. The grey knob bent toward him and he could not even raise his hands against it—could barely feel the dagger still jittering in his grip. More tendrils reached from that null-face like antennae to caress his damp cheeks almost tenderly before invading his nostrils and slack mouth.

  An intense pain sparked in his left shoulder, like his slave-brand had rekindled. The dagger fell free. He inhaled unwillingly and the claylike stuff surged down his throat, forcing his jaws wide. His chest strained for air. The creature’s embrace coated him under his clothes and sheathed his hair, and as he felt it slide into his lungs, the knobby head dented and smeared as if beneath the hands of an invisible craftsman.

  A crooked grin formed on its blank mass. A sharp chin, snub nose, wide-set eyes. A bandana with a rusty forelock slipping free to stripe the brow.

  Spirits save me, he thought as he stared up into his own face.

  The paralysis snapped abruptly, far too late. He pushed at the mass with strengthless arms and only sank into it. More and more tendrils enwrapped him, forcing their way in as their owner took on his shape. Soon they covered everything but his eyes.

  Something fluttered at the fringe of his vision. Something black. Through the grit in his ears he heard a thud, a squawk, but the world was receding. The shock, the terror and violation, all were drifting away. For an instant he saw himself from above: an indistinct shape beneath the writhing grey mass, two glassy black marbles for eyes.