by D. M. Murray
“Well, take these also. They are my medical assessments of the bodies. Make sure these are passed to the chief marshals and governors in Terna and Carte. They will surely know what to do next.” Olmat’s face was grave as he handed across a black leather envelope. Again, it was rolled and bound with wax.
“The governor will not see me,” Kalfinar said. “I assaulted the man in public!” And so viciously, from what the whispers say. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t throw me in the cells for showing my face.
It was this offence that saw Kalfinar being demoted and sent to the garrison at Hardalen. Many within the High Command publicly voiced their concern that it was only Kalfinar’s name that spared him the choke of the hangman’s noose.
Olmat rested a thin hand on Kalfinar’s forearm. “Harruld is a good man, and a forgiving one at that. I've told you time and again that you need not worry on that account.” A sympathetic look dawned on Olmat’s face, though it did not linger. “Now listen to me. Once you have given the dispatches to the chief marshal and governor in Carte, you must visit the physician that Capriath directs you to. I don't know who he is, but you must see him. When you do see him, give him this.” He handed them the small jar. A marked chunk of skin could be seen amidst the pink liquid.
“What is it?” Kalfinar asked, looking at the flesh.
“It’s a marking. The mark is significant, as is your ignorance. For now, it keeps you, and others, safe. Give this to the second physician you see, the one in Carte. Keep it from sight until then.”
Kalfinar’s stomach started to churn with unease as Olmat handed over one last rolled envelope. It was red leather, bound in wax and tied with several knots.
“This is also for the physician in Carte. Make sure it is passed on.”
Kalfinar placed the jar into his shoulder pack, and they clasped the old man’s hand warmly before making for the stables. From there, it would be into the mountain passes, and into the heart of the storm.
CHAPTER THREE
“Push on, men. Keep moving!” Kalfinar roared through the howling wind. The punishing early winter storm they had been travelling through showed no sign of relenting. For two days, the winds had battered them head on. The snow and hail stung with every touch.
“Kal, we must take shelter! We can’t carry on. This is hopeless!” Broden shouted, barely audible.
Kalfinar turned to the group and called out through the thick cloth that wrapped around his mouth and nose, “Thaskil, Petran, come alongside.” The young soldiers nudged their horses’ flanks and made their way towards him. “You two scout ahead for a few miles. Try and find one of the old route caves, if you can. Be back within the hour.”
They nudged their horses’ flanks once more and rode ahead. It was not long past midday, though the world around was a swirling grey maelstrom. It had been two days since they had seen the sun. Night and day became one endless dark endurance. They trudged on through the bleak weather, with their horses struggling all the way.
They travelled along the natural path of a mountain river that had been carved by a glacier in a time long since passed. Alongside this path, the forces of the Free Provinces had constructed a rough route through the mountains and forests, placing the garrison deep within the Hardalen Mountains. As journeys during winter were treacherous, the Free Provinces command had taken advantage of several natural caves along the route and prepared them as emergency shelters for small parties. Kalfinar hoped that one such cave could provide them with the shelter they so urgently required.
*
“That’s been an hour since Thaskil and Petran left,” Broden shouted through the worsening weather.
“They’ll come. Don’t worry,” Kalfinar replied without conviction. He looked around, but was barely able to see more than a horse-length in front. “They’ll need to be quick. This wind’s getting colder and the snow’s growing deeper by the minute.” Windswept swirls of snow obscured the path ahead.
“There’s something coming, Kal! Stay back for now.” Broden moved his own mount ahead and drew his sword from its scabbard.
Kalfinar winced as he switched the reins to his left hand, freeing his sword arm. I’m about as much use as a swinging bag of meat on a hook.
“Name yourself!” Broden was already lost from sight. His voice trailed out of range in the midst of the storm.
Kalfinar motioned for Arrlun and Rallik to come alongside. Each freed their weapons. Ahead of Kalfinar, a large shape coalesced amidst the swirling blur of the blizzard.
“Found them,” Broden’s familiar voice issued from the dark shape.
The fleece-lined leather coats of the three mounted men exaggerated their forms, and they appeared as one dark being.
“We’ve found a cave, Captain. It’s about a mile ahead,” Thaskil shouted through chattering teeth.
“Let’s get out of this hellstorm!” Kalfinar roared. “Thaskil, lead on.”
*
Their progress to the cave was slow and steady, but still, they almost passed by the entrance. Thaskil pointed towards a barely visible gash in the side of the mountain.
Kalfinar assessed the scene. There was a long snow-covered ramp leading to the entrance. The horses should be able to make that. He dreaded losing a horse, and knew all too well that it could mean death in these conditions. “Well then, let’s get in about it.” He dismounted gingerly. Holding lightly onto his mount’s reins, he edged up the roughhewn ramp. “Take it easy on the approach, it’s—”
The intermingled cry of man and horse broke Kalfinar off. Swiftly, he turned to see Petran and his mount twisting and turning as they tumbled down the snow-covered scree. Limbs and hooves flailed wildly before coming to rest in a heap on the drift-obscured mountain track.
“In the name of Dajda,” Broden shouted. “You alright, lad?”
The horse had already righted itself, whinnying and snorting as it flicked wetness off its coat in a brief mist. Petran, looking sheepish, regained his feet, and waved up to his companions.
“Fool of a boy,” Broden muttered. “Get that horse back up here, and be more damn careful next time! You lose your horse here, you may as well lose yourself. Remember that.”
The young man nodded, eyes set downward at his rebuke.
Kalfinar stepped in close to Broden and spoke in hushed tones. “We’ll need to check that horse. Can’t have any injuries.”
“Aye.”
Kalfinar moved to within a few horse-lengths of the cave entrance. He flexed his fingers around the grip of his sword. “Best get inside.”
“Kal,” Broden whispered from beside the cave mouth. “Let me get ahead of you. Just in case.”
Kalfinar stepped aside and took hold of his cousin’s reins. He watched as Broden pulled his short sword free and approached the cave entrance with well-practised stealth. His deep-green coat broke up his form in the darkness as he moved further, disappearing into the cave and out of sight.
A moment later, he reappeared, sword at his side. “All ours.”
“Let’s get in and get a fire started.” Kalfinar handed back the reins and moved towards the cave. His horse whinnied and recoiled as he entered, the darkness inside unsettling the tired animal. “Come girl. We’re better off inside,” Kalfinar whispered in the ear of his horse. Looking into the cave, he felt a shudder pass down his spine. The deep pitch-black ahead reminded him of the darkness within his dreams.
A few moments later, the whole troop was inside and moving slowly to avoid any invisible hazards.
“Careful where you step, lads,” Kalfinar spoke to the soldiers, his voice echoing off the surrounding cave. “Fetch torches. Broden’s afraid of the dark.” If the young soldiers laughed, he didn’t hear them.
“I can’t find my flint, Captain,” Arrlun called as he sifted blindly through his pack.
In an instant, orange light flooded the cave, revealing Broden smiling as he held his flaming torch. As each new torch was lit, they saw further into the cave. Although formed naturally, it had been
altered and carved many years before. It curved around from the entrance and opened into a large rounded area. It was equipped with a central pit for a fire, filled with dry wood and a narrow chimney pipe cored from the cave roof to the surface, allowing smoke to escape.
Kalfinar craned his neck and eyed the cored chimney. “Hmm,” he mumbled to no one in particular, “one of you lads give that a good poking with a spear. We need it clear of any debris.”
Several sleeping pallets surrounded the wall, with one side being equipped with grain and bedding for horses.
Kalfinar tied his horse to the beam running along the side of the cave and moved wearily over to his pallet. He said, “Let’s get that fire burning. Thaskil, Arrlun, check those drums over by the spare firewood. There should be a cache of preserved food somewhere in here. Let’s avoid eating our rations if we can.” The troops leapt to their tasks.
His shoulder throbbed. Shit! Forgot to take the bloody weed of Olmat’s this morning. They had been forced to make camp the previous night. The best shelter they could find had been a thin stand of scrubby pinewoods. Their waxed canvas tents provided only slight shelter from the constant advances of the wind and snow.
“There’s salted mutton, sir,” Thaskil called out. Kalfinar was pleased to have the young man along, for he appeared well equipped for such an arduous task. He had not appeared downcast or weary, and he seemed to be a hardy soldier. “There’s ale too,” Thaskil laughed as he called out.
The sight of a cask brought a smile to their faces, Broden’s the widest. “That’ll do for me. You boys aren’t yet officers, so it would be against protocol to allow you to partake alongside me. I tell you what, you can make some pine-needle tea instead,” Broden chuckled as Arrlun looked to him in dismay, his eyes wide with injury.
“Captain Broden, sir, you wouldn’t deprive us of a little ale. Would you?” Arrlun frowned.
The big captain winked at him and laughed. “Of course I wouldn’t—”
“No ale,” Kalfinar snapped from by his pallet. “No one drinks tonight.”
Kalfinar did not look up as Broden leaned towards him. “Kal, you wouldn’t deprive the lads a little—”
“No!” he barked. “No ale. Not tonight.”
“It doesn’t matter, Captains,” Thaskil called out. “It’s frozen solid.”
Broden frowned. “You all right?” he whispered to Kalfinar.
“The shoulder,” Kalfinar said as he looked up. “Now that I’m warming up, it’s starting to hurt. I forgot to take my medicine this morning. Reckon I’m paying for it now.” Kalfinar felt sweat clinging to the whiskers around his lips and jaw.
“I’ll get some water on the boil. We can get some of Olmat’s seaweed into you.”
“Thanks.” Kalfinar handed the pouch of falidweed to his cousin and sat on the pallet on the floor. He sighed with relief as he sank into the thin blankets. Within seconds, he was asleep.
The kind of sleep where dreams reside.
*
Kalfinar’s mind raced as he slept. Images of Carte flashed in his dreams, places he had no memory of visiting, people whose faces he had no recollection of. He saw himself being thrown from darkened doorways into the filth-soaked streets, and waking beside strange faces of women whose name or nature he could not recall. Some faces were more bruised than others. His memories of his last few months in Carte were muddled and confused, like watching players through stained glass, there, but obscured. His many patchy recollections had pieced together an unhappy scene. It seemed a fine tragedy for the stage. From the scenes of Carte, the dream shifted, jolting away from his home city. Once more, there was the creeping blackness and feeling of dread. Hushed words of an unknown language issued from the oily darkness. A sense of frustration and malice accompanied the speech as it grew louder, and closer. The speech changed to hideous screams and the dark erupted into bright, hot flame. Kalfinar tried to wake, but he was trapped within. The flames licked hungrily at his skin like tongues of pain lashing and creeping upwards. The flames died away as quickly as they appeared, and left Kalfinar in the midst of a thick and swirling grey fog. He could see something amidst the murkiness. In the shadowy tones before him were two figures. The miasma around him eased, and then cleared like harbour mist. A hot coil of panic tightened his throat. He was exposed.
Must run. Must hide.
Fear made his skin prickle and his breath came in quick, shallow draws. He was rooted to the ground, surrounded by a ravaged cityscape. Winged beasts circled in a darkening sky above toppled towers. Roofs had collapsed inward and wooden beams sprung from buildings like the ribs of a savaged corpse. Rubble was strewn across the streets and what appeared to be bodies lay naked and scorched all around. Kalfinar tried to move, but his feet were rooted to where he stood. He tried to compose himself, and fight the rising panic.
This is only a dream. It’s only a dream.
He focused on the form before him. One tall and wraithlike being stood above another who sat cross-legged. The tall one appeared to be questioning the other, striking it about its shadowy face. Kalfinar felt the frustration and rage emanating from the scene. The spectral being threw its head back towards the sky and roared. The sound was a rank and horrifying cacophony of voices. The howl cut short and the ghostly form thrust its hand into the chest of the sitting figure before tearing out a lustrous heart. The cross-legged figure crumpled to the ground, appearing tiny at the feet of the other. Kalfinar’s heart began to thunder and his mouth became dry as he recognised the seated figure.
“Olmat!”
Blinding light.
“Olmat!” Kalfinar shouted as he sat bolt upright from his bed pallet.
*
“Kal.” Broden whispered. “Kal, you’re fine. You were just dreaming.” You look terrible. Broden hunkered beside Kalfinar, trying to obscure him from the worried eyes of the four young soldiers. The big man regarded his cousin in the flickering light of the fire. Kalfinar’s hair, brown streaked with grey, was plastered with sweat to the side of his face and neck.
“Reckon you’ve a fever.” He felt Kalfinar’s forehead. “You’re burning up. Here, take this.” He handed him a bowl of water, boiled with falidweed.
I hope that stuff works. Looks like you need it.
Kalfinar’s eyes remained wide and wild. He took the bowl and sipped the tonic.
“I’ve had a few bad dreams lately, worse than the others,” Kalfinar spoke in hushed tones.
“Memories again?” Been with you long enough to hear you live those sorry days in your dreams.
“No, not memories. The dreams are different now. Something’s been growing. It’s new…dark. There is something, something that...” Kalfinar’s voice trailed off and he looked towards the dusty floor. “They terrify me.”
You look weak. The shifting light of the fire seemed to exaggerate the dark circles around Kalfinar’s eyes. You still need it, don’t you? You still hunger after it.
“Do you remember the way we saw Olmat praying at Hardalen? I think he was in my dream.” Kalfinar drank the tonic and grimaced.
“Probably nothing. Just nightmares.” Broden said. “Come, you’ll need something to eat. We’ve cooked up some of the old mutton.”
Kalfinar frowned at the thought of mutton. His stomach was still reeling and lurching from the falidweed tonic.
“Aye, you’re right,” Kalfinar mumbled, rubbing his bearding face briskly. “It’s likely nothing.”
“Get up by the fire and get some food into you. You’ll feel better for it.” Broden watched as his cousin gingerly moved to the fire, offering thin smiles to the troops, and receiving exaggerated ones in return. Aye, you still crave it, cousin. It’s still got a grip on you.
*
Thaskil glanced back into the cave. The flames of the fire pit, shifting light and dancing over the party as they slept. The thundering snoring of Broden echoed towards the cave mouth.
Thaskil looked back at Arrlun. “Seems unnatural. Doesn’t it?”
Thaskil laughed and then gazed out into the night.
“How far do you reckon we’ve come?” Arrlun asked quietly as he watched the snow fall in soft flurries.
“Who knows? It was so bad out there, for all we know we’ve been going around the garrison over and over.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” the big soldier laughed. Thaskil thought it sounded surprisingly high and gentle for someone so large.
Thaskil had never really known Arrlun as they progressed through their training. Both had arrived in Hardalen since the last winter broke, but had been allotted different troops. The only times they crossed paths was when their respective troops were pitted against one another on the practice field. In the short time he had spent in his company, Thaskil decided he liked the solid lad.
“I can’t see a thing through that snow.” He squinted into the night. “At least that wind’s dropped. Maybe now we’ll be able to hear something.”
“Something except Captain Broden’s snoring would be nice,” grunted Arrlun.
“I doubt there’d be many stupid enough to be out in this weather.”
Arrlun mumbled in agreement. Both young soldiers had their swords drawn and ready, resting across the tops of their thighs, in spite of their doubt.
*
As his watch wore on, Thaskil’s mind drifted back to the moment the assassin had grabbed at his wrist.
“You saw the assassin, didn’t you?” Arrlun asked.
“Aye.”
“So, what was he? Solansian?” Arrlun pressed.
“Not really allowed to say, I guess.”
“Ach, come on. It’s just a face, huh?”
“Can’t be so sure. Believe me, I’ve seen plenty of Solansian faces.”
“How so? You from one of the border cities?”
