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

by Davis, H. Anthe

  Then darkness descended—a darkness of claws and beaks, of thundering wings and cacophonous cries. He jolted back into himself, breathless, dying, and saw crows by the dozens falling upon the creature that had taken his shape. It tore away from him, its mimicked arms flailing with hideous bonelessness, and with it went the thickest of the cords that had invaded his throat.

  Weshker convulsed as it pulled free, grasping at the warehouse wall. It was like a plug had been yanked; suddenly the thickness in his chest could move again, and he doubled over, retching out blood-speckled clay as a maelstrom of crows whirled through the narrow corridor. Claws ripped away his bandana and tore through his hair, gashing his neck and shoulders and back, but he barely felt it; the real pain was in his chest as the remaining fragments wriggled like worms inside him. He fell to one knee, lungs and gut heaving as he expelled all he could.

  When the tendrils he had puked up reached for his face, he knew it was not enough.

  Wings buffeted him as he struggled to his feet. His legs felt like bags of water, but he managed to find his balance, head bent against the assault of dark bodies. Somewhere too close behind, the thing that had tried to become him turned its attention away from the crows.

  He dared not think. He simply ran.

  *****

  Lieutenant Firkad Sarovy adjusted the hood of his oilskin and sighed. Slightly ahead of him walked his companions—Colonel Wreth of the Free First Brigade and his adjutant, who held the lantern. They were neck-deep in the conversation that had embroiled them since they had left the Crimson General’s evening debriefing.

  Sarovy tried to ignore them. Colonel Wreth was his superior, and thus Sarovy had no place in the conversation. He did not care to chime in on whether the Colonel of the Third Slave Brigade had been breaking protocol to bring his concerns directly to the General instead of through the chain of command, or speculate on who the scouts were currently surveilling. What Sarovy really wanted was to walk back to the barracks alone, to think his own thoughts without interruption, but as Colonel Wreth had pointed out, they were headed the same way.

  He thought darkly about gossip and politics, and eyed the alleys they passed like enemy territory. It was better than brooding on his report.

  At least it was over. The mission a failure, three of his men killed and several injured, Trevere and his prisoner gone, and quite a lot of damage done that needed to be paid off. Having to stand before the gathering of senior officers and the General to recount the mishaps of the mission had taken all the strength he could muster.

  Especially with the General’s cutting remarks on his performance. They had made it difficult to hold his tongue about the quality of the mission briefing and the reliability of his backup. He had never felt so disappointed in his commander.

  But done was done, and now, with the reports written and filed, he and his men could be thoroughly mindwashed of the debacle. It would be a relief.

  Abruptly, the Colonel halted. Sarovy checked his stride to avoid treading on the officer’s heels and looked up, noting that his companions had gone silent. The thin rain reflected the lantern-light back at them, and for a moment all he saw was Colonel and adjutant peering into the night.

  Then a shape detached from the darkness of the road, stumbling toward them. On reflex, Sarovy stepped forward, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. It was his duty to protect his superiors no matter the threat. “Declare—“

  The figure crumpled into the mud.

  “…yourself,” he finished, puzzled, and looked to the Colonel for guidance. The Colonel gestured him forward. Drawing his sword, Sarovy moved toward the slumped form, the circle of lantern-light following him to encompass it.

  Blood, he noticed first. Red rivulets streamed down the man’s face from wounds on his scalp and forehead. He had fallen to his knees, head bowed and arms wrapped tight around his stomach, and as Sarovy neared he bent low and loosed a wet, retching cough. Something slimy slipped from his lips into the mud.

  Sarovy held up a hand to keep the Colonel back. The man wore slave garb, tattered and sodden and blood-stained. Mud and some greyish substance smeared his skin. His shoulders heaved again, expelling another wet, horrible sound, but nothing else came out. When he raised his head, his face was shock-pale under the mud.

  “Help,” he croaked weakly.

  “What’s the problem, Lieutenant?” said the Colonel from behind him.

  Sarovy stared down at the man. This was not normal. “A slave, sir. Injured. Possibly drunk.”

  “Ah. Dispatch him, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, that would be against—“

  “His presence here in such a state is a violation of at least three regulations, Lieutenant. How do we deal with slaves? Do we pat them on their pestiferous heads and shoo them home?”

  “No, sir. But—“

  “Do your duty, Lieutenant.”

  Sarovy opened his mouth, then closed it. Obeying the Colonel would be a violation of the General’s edict to treat the slaves like soldiers. Staring down at the cowering man, Sarovy marshaled his arguments and took a deep breath.

  It froze in his throat as the thing the slave had spat up twitched.

  Sarovy took a step back, controlling a wave of nausea as he stared down at the slimy wad. Finger-long, it swam through the mud; the slave spotted it and tried to lurch to his feet with a whimper, but had not the strength. Sarovy caught him by the arm and hauled him aside roughly, watching the thing squirm away from them, toward the alley that cut between the nearest barracks.

  In the darkness there lurked something tall and pallid.

  Sarovy’s mouth went dry. He could not see it well, but there was nothing human about it. His hand tightened on his sword and he brought it up defensively. Behind him, the Colonel spluttered a question but he did not listen; every speck of his being focused on that creature and the grey finger that wormed toward it.

  At his side, the slave convulsed with a gurgle of pain and sank to the ground again.

  For a moment, all was still except the wiggling piece, all silent but the rain.

  Then, behind him, the Colonel exhaled a slow, hissing breath, and every hair on Sarovy’s neck stood up as he caught a whiff of something acrid. The pallid shape retreated into darkness along with its missing piece.

  Aftershock gripped him. His arm sagged, the tip of the sword drawing through the mud, and for a moment he could only stare at the alley-mouth and think, That was a monster. In the camp. Then, with a concerted effort of will, he made himself shake his head.

  That small movement was enough to break the bond of mindwrought lassitude, and with unsteady momentum, he turned to stare at the Colonel. The senior officer raised his brows in response. In the flickering light, nothing seemed wrong, nothing amiss: he was the same chilly, hard-nosed Wynd he had always been.

  A glint of gold caught Sarovy’s eye, barely visible at the gap in the Colonel’s uniform collar.

  “Well, Lieutenant?” Colonel Wreth said sternly. “Are you going to carry out my order?”

  “No, sir,” Sarovy answered, banishing the questions for now. His voice was not as steady as he would have liked. “No. I’m sorry, sir. That would also violate my duty. I will escort the slave to the infirmary and fill out the incident report, sir, if you will excuse me.”

  The Colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You are defying me, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. I am obeying the General’s orders. Slaves are disciplined as soldiers, and all incidents must be investigated. Your time is valuable, sir, but I will of course bring the report to you for review before I submit it.”

  Something shifted in the Colonel’s expression. It was tiny, fleeting—gone before Sarovy could pinpoint it—but it set his nerves on edge. With a sharp nod, the Colonel said, “See to it, Lieutenant,” then waved to his adjutant to lead the way. Sarovy’s salute went unreturned.

  He watched the lantern recede until he could no longer see their shapes within its glow, then he looked down to the s
lave again. “What happened?”

  Shivering and pale, the slave just whimpered.

  With distaste, Sarovy hauled him up again and slung the man’s limp arm across his shoulders. The slave was significantly shorter, but after a few steps of being nearly dragged, he found his own feet and hobbled along meekly with Sarovy’s pull.

  Not until they reached the infirmary and he handed the slave off to the surprised, striped-coated matron in charge of the night shift, did Sarovy sheathe his sword.

  *****

  Far to the north and east, the sky had cleared. The stars sparkled like diamonds on black silk. Lark’s path lay plain in the near-full moonlight, a white ribbon weaving through the firs and inkwoods. A few tracks of foxes and small game dotted the snow, but nothing more.

  In her opinion, it was bitterly cold. She had on every garment she could wear, with the bear-hide coat buckled over them, but still she shivered in the saddle. Nothing warded off the penetrating chill that beamed down from the sky now that the muffle of stormclouds had passed. Her horse also suffered; its pace had slowed to a trudge over the last few candlemarks, and she was beginning to think she would have to walk it.

  She envied Rian, fast asleep in his swaddled nest of layers.

  It felt like ages since she had parted from Trevere. The tug in her chest kept directing her onward, upward, along steep little paths and rocky prominences between the dark trees. She longed for the road with its shabby caravan-shelters. She longed for a town, a real town—not a collection of log houses but a place with thick brick walls, bright lights and no hint of a chill.

  Her only consolation was that the shadows would not lead her to her death. If it grew too cold, they would pull her into the safety of Oretcht’ke.

  They had to. They owed her.

  Abruptly, the horse halted.

  Lark blinked from her thoughts and was surprised to see the end of the trail. Ahead was a frozen stream, the trees tightly packed on its opposite bank, no trace of a path. She closed her eyes, envisioning the streamers of silver light that had directed her here.

  Yes, there had been travel up a watercourse.

  “Pike me,” she mumbled.

  The horse hung its head. From its earlier troubles on ice, she knew this would not be pleasant. Grimacing, she stirred herself from the saddle. The goblin under her clothes hugged tighter, and when she slid down to the ground he shifted his grip, long skinny arms moving up to link around her neck instead of her ribs. With a sigh, she adjusted her clothes and nudged him into a more comfortable position. Her back hurt, her ass hurt, and she thought she knew now what it was like to be pregnant. She regretted being amused about it earlier.

  Taking the reins, she led the horse down to the smooth, slick surface of the stream.

  How can people bear to live here? she thought as their progress slowed to a crawl. Her soft boots found little traction on the ice, and though the horse’s unshod, split hooves served it better, it was weary. Its delicate horned head kept dipping, and Lark had to yank on the reins every few yards to keep it moving. She felt terrible--the pace they had set since leaving Bahlaer had been grueling--but stopping now would kill them.

  Bit by bit, they forged onward. No exit appeared. The leafless brush grew dense along the banks, and the rocks rose steadily to become a narrow canyon no higher than Lark’s head. The walls were shot through with ice that gleamed glassily in the bright moonlight.

  It was a sign of weariness that Lark did not immediately realize the ice was pink.

  Not ice, she thought dazedly. The stones from the towns. Thick veins riddled the rock on both sides of the gully, bright against the dull basalt and close to the surface. Gripped by a suspicion, she edged to the wall and hoisted herself up to peer over the edge.

  The sudden brilliance of moonlight on glassy spires forced her to squint. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Yards of spindly trees and bracken etched black lines against the gleam but could not conceal it: a crystal tower, broken to just below the canopy, its walls riven by some unknown force. Small pillars leaned drunkenly among the trees, and great chunks of glassy stone lay fallen in all directions. Beyond the broken tower, more bright surfaces reflected the moonlight—more collapsed spires.

  Lark looked behind her. On the other side of the stream, shining rubble lay strewn about like children’s blocks.

  Slowly she lowered herself back to the ice. The shadows had not shown her this. “At least now I know where the blocks came from,” she mumbled.

  No, that was wrong. She knew nothing about this place, this stuff.

  A fire kindled inside her.

  But it was foolish to investigate now. She would freeze, or be drawn back into the shadows before she could learn anything useful. The Corvish stronghold had to be close; following the stream had been the last step in the trek.

  Follow the stream, find the Corvish, warm up and rest. Then come back.

  With great reluctance, she tugged the reins and headed onward.

  It was no easy route. The frozen stream rose regularly over rocks and inclines that would be whitewater in the summer. Footholds had been hacked into the ice here and there, the first sign of local habitation, and soon Lark had to rely on them. Her horse struggled along, its split hooves and agility all that kept it from being trapped downstream as a Tasgard horse would be.

  Only when she turned to tug the balking horse up another slippery incline and felt the prick of a weapon at her back, through her layers, did she realize she had been under scrutiny for some time.

  She froze. She had mostly surmounted the canyon, only a few feet of stone hemming her in on either side, and through the screen of bracken she glimpsed bundled and camouflaged figures. Smooth black arcs of shortbows.

  “Declare yehself,” said the assailant at her back. The voice was gruff, but female.

  “Lark sa Bah-kai. I am Kheri, Shadow Folk. I come seeking aid.”

  “Shadow Folk?” The unseen woman laughed curtly, and the weapon-tip did not retract. “Not the usual Shadow Folk arrival.”

  “I’m not of the blood,” Lark said. “I can’t travel the paths. And this isn’t official business.”

  “What is it then, girl?”

  “An offer. And a request for hospitality. You do still extend that to the Kheri, don’t you?”

  The woman snorted, then the weapon retracted. “Eh. S’pose yeh couldn’t be much else, dark as y’are. Ghreshev eher Imperials dun recruit yeh kind.” A harsh sound as the woman spat to the side. “Kem on then. Nevnet, tesa nenen!”

  The figures in the bushes rose at the woman’s command, whatever it had been. As they pressed through, Lark realized they were small: just children in grey and white, their faces covered with ash-paint, their hands gripping shortbows or small hatchets with black stone heads. They scurried toward her and she tensed, but they only plucked the reins from her hands and started urging the horse up the slope.

  Lark turned to face their leader. She was a short woman, with fierce lines etched on her face beneath the ash-paint. Her eyes were cold and dark, glittering. A long spear with a black stone tip rested across her shoulder, and her garb was similar to the children’s—grey fur, ash-rubbed leather, ash in her hair to mask the rusty color of it. A bow hung across her back, an axe at her hip. She squinted at Lark, her mouth pulling into a thoughtful frown.

  “Y’carryin’?” she said, her harsh accent hardening the consonants and turning the vowels to a strident stream of ‘e’s. “Crazy kemin’ up here like that.”

  Lark smiled wanly and prodded the lump of goblin under her coat. “No, no,” she said as Rian reluctantly stirred. “This is my friend.”

  The woman stared as the goblin wriggled under Lark’s garments, but when he popped his sleepy head out she relaxed somewhat. “Well, that cinch yeh as Kheri,” she said with rough amusement. “Imperials not nearly so odd.”

  “Oh thanks.”

  “Kem on, shadowgirl.”

  The woman turned and strode from the sh
allowing canyon, the children and the horse right behind. Lark worked to keep up with them, and now that Rian was awake, he shifted under the clothes to cling to her back and keep his pointy little chin on her shoulder, watching everything. When she glanced into the woods behind them, she saw only distant gleams from the broken stones.

  With company and the promise of shelter, the pace went quicker. The woman introduced herself reluctantly as Radha en-Kanrath, and the children trailed after Lark, trying to sneak peeks at the goblin. Grins broke through the militancy of their small faces every time he peered back at them.

  Soon, the cliff Lark had seen in the vision loomed up through the screen of trees. At its base stood a semicircle of palisade wall, built on a berm of rock and earth and with no apparent gate. An eerie wail arose from beside her, giving Lark goosebumps before she realized it was Radha, calling, high and ghostly. The sound unnerved her even with the knowledge.

  Heads popped over the top of the palisade, and by the time they reached the wall, a rope ladder had been thrown down and a wooden ramp was being maneuvered into position.

  “Welcome to Kanrath-Neirai. We dun bother wi’ doors,” Radha said as the children scampered up ahead, quick as goblins. “Safer that way.” She took the reins from the last of them and gestured for Lark to go ahead.

  Rian wriggled free as she climbed up, and scrambled to the top of the wall, peering at the interior. Cresting the edge, Lark paused to look as well.

  The palisade enclosed a collection of low curve-roofed wooden buildings draped in snow. Tall poles rose from the white blanket, studded with perches and topped with carved effigies of crows—the perches themselves full of live crows nearly as large as their carved brethren. Harder to see were the stone foxes bracketing every door, but a few real ones sat like spots of fire against the white, their ears perked in interest. Beyond the buildings, at the base of the cliff, a wide cavern entrance stretched like a mouth, half-hidden by a rock wall bridged by ramps.