by Tim Stead
They taught him pain, and how not to fear it. Death itself was not to be feared, only the failure to do his best. He bore the pain, ate the food, grew strong, his remarkable memory improved, and they taught him three magic spells – all that had survived the coming of the Faer Karan.
When they judged him ready they had given him a hard staff, good clothes and a pack full of food and told him the way across the mountains.
Now he walked up the stairs behind Grand and he said to himself ‘I am the sword’, and his fear diminished.
At the top of the stair there was a great door of blackened timber bound in iron. It was twice Grand’s height. The captain looked grim, and the guardsman that was with them looked afraid. Grand drew his sword and struck the door three times with the pommel. The blows sounded very loud in the still night.
“Good luck,” the captain said. He gestured to the guard, who set off down the stairs at a trot. Grand followed him at a more dignified pace.
Serhan turned to face the door and waited.
After perhaps a minute there was a loud metallic sound, like a bolt being drawn, and the door swung inwards. He could see no sign of life, and stood for a moment gazing into the chamber now revealed.
Huge stone pillars reached up from the floor to a dimly visible arched ceiling thirty feet above. The pillars marched away from him towards another door, visible a hundred feet distant. Oil lamps floated in the air with no apparent means of support, gliding slowly between the pillars and changing the landscape of shadows moment by moment.
He took three steps and was inside the hall. It was no surprise to him that the door closed loudly as soon as he was clear of it. He waited again, sure that he was being watched, but unable to make out anything else in the dancing shadows.
Time passed. Eventually he walked towards the door on the other side of the chamber. Perhaps he was meant to pass that way.
A large shadow detached itself from the dimmer areas to his left and stalked towards him. He glanced at it, and knew it for what it was. He fell to one knee and lowered his head.
The creature that approached him was about ten feet tall, and walked on powerful, bird-like legs tipped with claws that clicked on the stone with every step. Its arms were long and thin, ending in slender claw-tipped fingers, six on each hand. The body was covered in black hair and scales, and a long, black mane framed the face and fell down its back almost to the floor. The face itself was featureless apart from two large yellow eyes, somewhere between the colours of brimstone and gold, and a mouth full of sharp, white teeth. All this he saw in a glance.
“Faer Karani,” he said. “I submit to your authority.”
“What are you?” asked the creature. Its voice was both deep and sibilant.
“Mortal man, soon to die.” It was a form of words that he had been taught; one of the things that his masters in the valley knew.
“Why are you here?”
“I am here to serve.”
‘How will you serve?”
“As the Faer Karani directs.”
Although he was watching as much as he could out of the corner of his eye, the blow still caught him unawares. The creature moved with inhuman speed and strength. He was lifted off the floor and flung across the room, fetching up against one of the pillars. A quick inventory told him that nothing was broken. There was blood on his face. He struggled to assume the kneeling posture again.
The creature approached a second time.
“Why are you here?”
“I am here to serve.”
“How will you serve?”
“As the Faer Karani directs.”
He was expecting the second blow, but that made little difference. He glanced off another pillar and heard a crack in his arm as a bone broke. The pain was severe, but he knew how to cope with pain. His right knee hurt, but he still managed to get his left knee under him again.
“Why are you here?”
“I am here to serve.”
The creature bent down and looked at him closely. It did not breathe on him, because the Faer Karan do not breathe.
“And how will you serve?”
“As the Faer Karani directs.”
The third blow was in some ways worse than the others because he had no control, and everything hurt. He crashed into another pillar, and felt bones break inside his chest. There was something wrong with his lungs.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get back onto his knee, and lay by the pillar.
“Why are you here, mortal man,” it asked.
“To serve,” he managed.
“How will you serve?”
“As the Faer Karani… directs.”
It didn’t hit him again, but bent over him and studied him for a full two minutes. Serhan tried not to look into the yellow eyes.
“Now that you are dying, is there anything that you wish to say?”
He fought to get enough air into his lungs. Most of all he wanted to spit hatred and defiance into those yellow eyes, but his training had been thorough, and he used the hatred as strength. His victory would be that the Faer Karan would never know his true purpose.
“I regret,” he said. “That my service… has been… so small.”
The Faer Karani reached out one spidery hand and wrapped it gently around his head. It spoke a series of words and he felt for a moment that his body had caught fire, then the pain was gone and he was looking up at the ceiling.
“I have made you intact,” the creature said. “I am Balgoan, the doorkeeper. You may offer your service to the great one.”
Serhan’s whole body was shaking as he stood, but Balgoan was honest, there seemed to be nothing wrong with him. He filled his lungs with air and there was no pain. He flexed his arms and legs. No pain, but he was haunted by the shadow of pain, expected it, moved carefully.
The inner door was open, he saw, and so he approached it with head bowed, stepped through.
The inner chamber was even larger than the outer. A glance around him took it all in. Tapestries hung on the walls, and rugs were piled on the floor. A great fire burned in a huge fireplace, and shelves full of books and nameless objects packed the walls. In the distance was a great window, thrown open to the warm night air. The room was a riot of colour and luxury.
“You like my room?” A voice like rolling thunder and music.
He fell to one knee at once and stared at the carpet beneath him.
“Faer Karani, I submit to your authority.”
“My name is Gerique, please call me that.”
“Great One, I am not worthy to speak your name.”
“That is something that you will allow me to decide. It is only a name. Now stand up, I want to look at you.”
He stood. He knew it was wrong to stand in the presence of such a one, but even more it was wrong to disobey. He allowed himself a glance.
Gerique was even more massive than Balgoan. He looked feline, but stood perhaps fifteen feet high, and was covered in black fur that obscured his shape slightly. His yellow eyes were huge, like moons, and the gaze that came from them almost felt warm, as though they radiated heat and light.
“You are curious,” Gerique said. “You may look upon me, if you wish.”
“I do not understand, Great One.” Serhan was out of his depth, and he knew it. Gerique was breaking all the rules. Obedience or disobedience, both were punishable by death.
“I will explain. Balgoan tells me that you were both respectful and resilient. That is good. My colonel wants you dead, which means that he fears you. My captains tell me that you are talented, able, and subtle. That is also good. I know that you are a man, that you are here to serve, and that you will serve as I direct, or at least that is what you will say. I want to know more.”
A huge black hand wrapped around his waist and lifted him into the air so that his face was held before the yellow eyes.
“You should fear me, Cal Serhan,” it said. “Balgoan fears me. The other Faer Karan fear me. But you must also s
peak to me, because I need to know that you can function in my presence.”
He looked into the yellow eyes.
“My lord, I will do as you wish.”
“Good”
Gerique put him down and retreated to a huge bed draped with furs on which he reclined.
“Tell me what you think of my people, Cal Serhan.”
“I have met only a few.”
Gerique sighed. “You may assume that I know everything but what is in your mind.”
“My lord. Captain Grand seems competent, highly respected and well liked; a good judge of character and sure of his own judgement. He is more of a leader than his colonel, who I judged to be somewhat insecure. Captain Bantassin also appears competent, though perhaps less confidant than Captain Grand.”
“So you liked Grand?”
“Yes, my lord.” He was being as honest as he could. He was very aware that Gerique was using his words not as judgements on his people, who he would know as well as he could, but on Serhan himself. Gerique was looking for insight.
“Tell me more about my colonel.”
“He is afraid, my lord; afraid of you and perhaps even more of losing your favour. He will never lie to you and never do other than you have instructed without first confirming your wishes.”
“Very good. Grand was quite correct. You are subtle.”
“I am what I am, my lord.”
“And what is that? What is a Cal Serhan? What does it want?”
“Outside the walls of this castle, my lord, life is hard and usually short. Bandits despoil the countryside, farmers struggle to survive, and tradesmen have no place to ply their trade. Here there is plentiful food, comfort and stability. Here my talents may be of some use.”
“What else?”
Serhan paused for a moment. This was a game of truth and consequences.
“If I have the power, and it coincides with my lord’s interests, I would like to improve the lot of the common people of your domains – those that live outside the walls.”
Gerique studied him without expression. It was decision time, Serhan realised. The next words that Gerique spoke would determine his immediate future, or if he was to have a future at all. The Faer Karani shifted its great bulk on the couch, but easily, as though it weighed no more than feathers, and gazed out of the window for a while.
“Tell Grand,” it said eventually,” that you have a temporary status equivalent to a lieutenant, and to house you accordingly. You will train with the guard, learning what skills they have, and how they function. It may be a requirement that you work with them. I will find a task for you to prove yourself, and I will send for you. You may go.”
“My lord is gracious,” Serhan said as he backed towards the door. Gerique did not reply, but picked up a book and began to read.
Once outside the door he turned quickly and crossed the antechamber, feeling a pricking of fear. He avoided looking into the shadows, though he felt that the doorkeeper was watching him. The outer door was open, and he passed through, walking quickly down the stairs.
One thing from their meeting had struck him. Gerique had said that Balgoan had told him things, and he was certain that they had not spoken. There was some other way they had of communicating. That was worth knowing.
Now the pain was forgotten, and he felt a growing elation. He was in, and the game had begun in earnest.
4 Woodside
Delf and Wulf had stuck it out for a few more weeks. They had even tried their hand at hunting, but neither of them was even a fair shot with a bow, and any snares that they contrived remained resolutely empty. It seemed that the wild country itself was becoming dead and deserted with the approach of winter. If they had not managed to steal most of a deer carcase from an unwary hunter they would probably have starved to death.
Delf’s mind was finally made up when they came across the body of another bandit in a gully just off the main track that led into the hunting grounds. Wulf refused to go near the body, but Delf searched it, an unpleasant job, finding not a scrap of food. The man had even chewed the leather of his own shoes before expiring. He did find a purse with a few coins in it, and took that for himself.
Joining Wulf back on the roadside he sat in silence for a while.
“Find anything?” Wulf asked.
“A few coins.”
“Nothing else?” Wulf was probably as hungry as Delf was. They had finished the venison the previous day, and not before time. It was barely edible. They had breakfasted on some bitter berries this morning – an exercise that did little more than pass the time.
“I found our future.” He gestured at the corpse below them. “Someone will be picking over our bones in a few weeks if we go on like this.”
Wulf nodded. “Farming?”
“Farming.”
It was an easy decision. They had been talking about it for weeks, ever since the strange encounter with the man who’d fed them and first put the idea into their heads. It was the presence of food that attracted them to the profession, a way of life that they had always felt to be beneath them. Delf stood up and looked around. There was fresh snow on the high slopes of the mountains and an early chill to the air. It would get pretty nasty up here in a few weeks. It was time to be gone.
They struck out for the plains almost at once, walking at a steady pace, and not talking much. It would take them more than a day to get down from the foothills, and they would have to find a suitable village – one that hadn’t been stripped by bandits.
Towards evening they crossed a fast flowing stream, and filled their water flasks. Wulf spent an hour looking nearby for something to eat, and came back with some mushrooms and a handful of pitted and shrivelled fruits that were the leavings from some insect feast. They put what seemed edible in a pan and ate it hot. It was the best meal they’d had for a day and a half.
Although it was not yet dark they rolled themselves in their coats against the cold night and Delf fell asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
Dawn found them walking again. The path now led unevenly downwards in a series of long, concave slopes, and from time to time they would top a rise and see the plain spread out before them. Most of it was covered in trees and scrub, and from up here it looked a riot of red and gold. Delf could pick out a number of villages by the field patterns that surrounded them, and in his head he made a map of where they were in relation to each other. Once down on the plains they would be harder to find.
By mid day they were down among the trees and it was noticeably warmer. They stripped off their coats and tied them round their waists. Not long after that they came to the first village that Delf had marked on his mental map.
It was deserted.
They walked down the main street to the square where the village Kalla Tree stood. There were about forty houses, all built in the same manner, a wooden frame filled in with twigs and mud – a sort of primitive plaster and lath, roofed with reed thatch. Some of them had been burned, but most seemed quite intact. The smell of the burning was still faintly detectable, so Delf guessed it had happened recently. They checked the houses, and in one of them Wulf found a sack of deerfruit that had been overlooked. It would be enough to feed them for a couple of days.
“I don’t see any bodies,” he remarked.
“No, but it looks like it was raided recently. Weeks, perhaps”
Wulf set to lighting a fire and Delf walked to the outskirts of the village, thinking to circle round and see if there was any sign of what had happened. It looked like some of the crop lay unharvested in the ground – most of it, in fact. He walked through an orchard and picked a couple of apples. The presence of so much food made his stomach ache with anticipation, and his mouth water.
There were tracks here, very obvious ones. At least fifty horses with riders had come this way. Branches were broken, and even his untutored eyes could see the round shape of horseshoes in the dried mud. He was almost back to where they had entered the village when he came
across a mound. It was a couple of feet high and about thirty feet across. He didn’t like the look of it.
On closer examination he found a place where animals had dug into a section of the mound, and pushing the dirt around with his boot he exposed what remained of a human hand – mostly bone – protruding from a sleeve. He pushed earth back on top of it again. This was a grave pit; big enough for fifty people or more.
Back in the deserted square Wulf had cut up a couple of the deerfruit and with a handful of herbs was cooking what smelt like a banquet.
“We need salt.” He said as Delf approached.
“I found the villagers. Some of them anyway. Dead. There’s a grave on the west side. Probably not big enough for everyone who lived here, but they must have killed a lot.”
“Why would they do that? The farmers make the food. No more farmers, no more food.”
“And they raided before the harvest. What kind of idiot does that? There would have been hardly anything in the village to steal.” He shrugged. “When’s that food going to be ready?”
“Five minutes.” Wulf grinned. “I found a bottle of spirit under a mat in one of the houses. It’s pretty rough.” He offered the bottle to Delf, who accepted it and took a massive pull. The stuff burned down his throat, making him cough, but quite quickly the world looked a better place.
As it grew dark they sat by their fire under the village Kalla Tree and ate, sipping at the bottle. The world seemed much more benign than it had last night. They were warm, full, and well on the way to being drunk.
“There’s a lot of food here – out in the fields. We could stay a while,” Delf said.
“Not with the dead,” Wulf replied. “Staying in a dead village is asking for trouble. We should move on tomorrow.”
Delf sighed. Wulf’s family came from the north and he was superstitious, like all northerners. It would be pointless trying to talk him round. Delf was a southerner, from a small town close to Samara. He didn’t believe in anything except what he saw with his own eyes. When people were dead they were dead, they didn’t bother the living unless they weren’t properly buried, and even then it was only the smell.
