by Simon Brown
'Charion and her Kendran aide assure me that Areava will not fail us. We can expect an army soon, maybe even before winter.'
'No,' Kivilas said. 'You are a priest and are used to believing in difficult things, but I am a farmer and depend on what I see with my own eyes. I fought in the Slaver War, and I can tell you that no army moves that fast.' He grimaced then. 'Except maybe one from the Oceans of Grass.'
Hern pushed the coins even further across the table. 'I know of your service to Hume and the Kingdom. That is why I asked you to come. Your village can raise seven soldiers for Charion's army, eight including you. There's the equal of twenty-four silver pieces, pay for a full month and in advance. Take it and join our cause.'
'We don't need the money to prove our loyalty to Queen Charion.' He said her name almost with reverence.
'Charion knows this. She is not buying your loyalty but making sure your village does not lose out by sending its best and strongest to join her. This money will keep food on the tables of your families while you are away.'
Kivilas grunted in approval. His hand hovered over the coins. 'And after the first month?'
'More bullion, captured from Haxus convoys.'
Kivilas grinned and scooped the coins into one hand. 'You'll have your eight soldiers.'
'Not me,' Hern said seriously. 'Queen Charion.'
It took the Chett force over a day to reach the gorge. They found signs of the slaughter readily enough. The road was littered with the half-eaten corpses of over a hundred soldiers. Flies hung in the air as thick as a dust cloud, and birds called and wheeled overhead waiting for the living to get out of the way so they could resume their feasting. Before anything else, Lynan ordered the dead be gathered together in a huge pyre. It was noon before the job was done, and the stinking air was almost unbreathable. Lynan himself set fire to the mound.
The Chetts spread out north and south, east and west of the gorge, looking for any and every sign of passing. It did not take them long to discover that the enemy had approached from the east and then returned that way, heavily laden with booty.
'What lies between here and Sparro?' Lynan asked Ager.
'Woods, some hills, a few towns,' Gudon answered before Ager could open his mouth. 'Remember, little master, that I used to pilot a barge up and down the Barda River. I got to know this part of the world quite well.'
'How many towns?'
Gudon shrugged. 'I don't know. They have regular fairs, so a reasonable number, and villages between them.'
'I don't like this,' Ager said. 'The enemy could disperse among any of the towns or villages, making it almost impossible to track them all down, especially their leaders.'
'Nonetheless, we'll try,' Lynan said. 'I don't want the enemy working behind my lines if I have to advance on Chandra.'
'That could take us the rest of autumn,' Ager pointed out.
'We move east until we come to the first settlement. There we get descriptions of the local area and we split in four groups to cover as many towns and villages as possible in the shortest amount of time. Ager and Morfast divide the Ocean Clan; Gudon and I divide the Red Hands.'
The others had no better idea, so the party continued east until they came to a place too small even to be described as a village. The inhabitants were small plot farmers, working land rented from an owner who spent most of his time in Daavis. Their knowledge of the local area extended no more than twenty leagues in any direction, but that did include a couple of villages and one town.
'What's the town called?' Ager asked.
'Was called Esquidion,' one farmer told them.
'Was called?' Lynan asked.
The farmer took a step back. He did not mind talking to the ugly bastard with a misshapen back, but this short, pale, scarred man scared him. 'Priest's Town, if you don't mind.'
'I don't mind,' Lynan repeated, puzzled by the expression. 'But why Priest's Town?'
The farmer looked at him as if he was stupid.
'Because a priest lives there, I dare say,' Ager suggested.
'That's right,' the farmer agreed. 'He came about ten years ago and built a chapel an' all, and does the rounds for the whole area. He could draw you a map, if you don't mind.'
'I don't…' Lynan shook his head. What was the point? 'We go to Priest's Town then. Have you seen any soldiers come this way?'
'Only yerselves.'
Following the farmer's rather vague directions they finally found a large town around noon. Leaving most of their column behind under the command of Morfast, Lynan, Gudon and Ager rode down the dusty avenue that passed for the main street. They asked a local if the place was indeed Priest's Town, and were told in no uncertain terms that it was still called Esquidion by those born and bred here.
'But there is a priest hereabouts?' Ager asked.
'In the chapel,' the local said, and pointed to a long, low building made from recently cut sandstone at the edge of town.
The three companions rode to the chapel and dismounted. Lynan moved to enter first, but Ager put an arm out and stopped him. 'Let Gudon go first. The priest will not be too surprised by a Chett.' Gudon agreed and entered, followed by Ager and Lynan. It was dark inside, and the priest would probably not have made much of any of them. There were low bench seats on either side of the large room they found themselves in with an aisle running between them. At the end of the aisle, and facing the seats, was a plain, strongly-made chair. Behind that was a wall with a doorway.
'The back entrance?' Gudon asked.
'No,' Ager said. 'The main room is not as long as the building. Probably the priest's quarters.'
Gudon went up to the door and knocked. They heard a chair scraping and then footsteps. The door opened and they were confronted by a huge man who seemed to fill the doorway. He looked down at Gudon and blinked in surprise.
'Good Father,' Gudon said in his sweetest tone, 'I hope we did not disturb your meditation?'
'Not at all,' the priest said, a little too quickly for Lynan's ears. 'How may I help you?'
'I come seeking information. I was directed to you.'
'Really? Information of a spiritual sort, perhaps?'
Gudon shook his head. 'Alas, no. We were looking for information about the area; such things as the number of towns and villages, and the number of their inhabitants.'
'I am a priest, not a map maker.'
'You are also learned and well-travelled,' Ager said, stepping from behind Gudon.
The priest did a good job of trying to hide his shock, and Lynan was sure it was not at the sight of the crookback. Working in a farming area like this he was sure to see many with permanent injury of one kind or another; it was Ager himself, and the priest recognised him.
'I recognise your accent,' Ager continued quickly, 'You come from one of the villages to the east of Kendra.'
'You have been there?' the priest asked, trying to sound interested, and to divert the course of the discussion.
'No,' Ager admitted, 'but I have a companion who comes from a village in that area.'
'Do you know the name of the vill—'
'Her name is Jenrosa Alucar,' Ager said over him. 'And before you ask, my name is Ager Parmer.'
'Truth, mine is Gudon,' said the Chett.
'Ah, yes.' Fine beads of sweat had appeared on the priest's forehead. 'I am Father Hern.' He tried to peer behind Ager. 'And your other friend?'
'Friend?' Ager asked. 'Yes, I suppose he is. And my lord. Your Majesty?'
Lynan now stepped aside so the priest could see him clearly. 'You already know who I am, don't you Father Hern?'
The priest looked as if he was about to faint. Gudon reached out and took one of his arms, then helped him retreat into the back room and into a seat. Lynan took the only other seat, on the other side of a narrow table, and nodded to Gudon and Ager. His two companions straightened the priest's chair so Hern was forced to look directly at Lynan.
'And I am?'
'You are Prince Lynan Rosetheme.'
'Almost,' Lynan said. 'I am King Lynan Rosetheme.'
'Ah,' the priest said, and looked away from Lynan's gaze.
'We need a map of the region,' Lynan went on. 'I want every town and village marked on it. I also want any other features peculiar to the area that you know of.'
'Peculiar features?'
'Well, there is a gorge, I believe, some leagues west of here. You could put that on, for example.'
'Elstra Gorge,' Father Hern said, his voice tight.
'Pretty place,' Lynan said. 'I believe.'
'Yes.'
'Have you any paper? Pens? I'm afraid I didn't travel with any.'
The priest stood up, but Ager forced him back down with some force. Everyone heard the heavy jingling come from one of the priest's pockets.
'Don't get up, Father Hern. Gudon will get them for you.'
'In the cupboard behind you.'
Gudon went to the cupboard and scrabbled around before returning with some roughly cut square sheets of paper as well as pen and ink. He placed them before the priest.
'Leave out no detail,' Lynan said. 'Even if you think it is unimportant.'
'May I ask what this is for?' Father Hern asked.
'No.'
The priest unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped the pen and started, quickly sketching in the Barda River, then the gorge and Esquidion, then filling the spaces in between with other names. He paused after a few minutes and considered his work, added a few other items, then slipped the paper across to Lynan.
Lynan blew on it to dry the ink and picked it up. He thought the scale was pretty right, judging by where he placed the gorge and Esquidion in relation to the river, but he did not know the area as well as Gudon and he handed the map to the Chett. Gudon scanned it and nodded.
'It is good work, Father,' Lynan said. 'You were well trained. Did you learn under Primate Giros Northam?'
'No. The primate did not do a lot of teaching when I was a novice. It was the time of the Slaver War, and he was involved in other things.'
'As were my friends here,' Lynan said. 'I was too young, of course.'
'Your father served valiantly.'
'You knew him?'
'Only by reputation. I saw him once with your mother… Queen Usharna.'
'Did you admire him?'
'Very much,' Father Hern said quickly, and Lynan believed him. 'No one in our Church could help admiring the man who destroyed the slavers.'
Lynan nodded, pursed his lips. 'For his sake, then, I may not kill you.'
The priest froze, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles went white. 'I'm sorry if I've done something to offend you, Pri—King Lynan—'
'Stand up!' Lynan ordered, and Father Hern stood up, 'Empty your cloak pockets!'
'My cloak pockets?'
'Empty them.'
He did; first the left, some chalk, dried fruit, flint and steel; then the right, a single leather bag.
'Open the bag and empty it.'
Gold and silver coins spilled, rolled and clinked on to the table. Lynan picked one up and studied it. 'Haxan.'
Father Hern's face went white.
'Where is she?'
'She?'
'Queen Charion. Where is she?'
'I've never seen Queen Charion. I couldn't even tell you what she looks like.'
'I see. How long have you lived in Esquidion?'
'Lived here? About ten years.'
Lynan turned to Gudon. 'Return to the column. Bring it in. Burn this town to the ground. If anyone resists, kill them.'
Lasthear took Jenrosa to a smithy she had discovered in the poorer section of Daavis, which possessed a small furnace and produced iron household goods. Lasthear asked the blacksmith if she could demonstrate to Jenrosa her magik, while he worked.
'Magik?' the smithy asked nervously.
'To speed up your work and improve the quality of the iron.'
The smithy grinned then and readily agreed.
Lasthear said to Jenrosa, 'If you try to do both—make the furnace work more efficiently and improve the quality of the iron—you will greatly increase the stress you place on yourself without necessarily succeeding. It is best to concentrate on getting the magik right for one or the other.'
Lasthear stood as near to the furnace as possible and started a chant. Whether it was the magik or simply his belief in the chant's efficacy, the blacksmith began working more energetically. In a short period he made two ladles and a cooking pot. Lasthear withdrew from the smithy to cool down. Sweat poured off her.
'Why don't you take your shirt off?' Jenrosa asked.
'What, here?' Lasthear asked, widening her arms to include the city. 'Amongst all these strangers?' She was astounded.
'But at the High Sooq—'
'At the High Sooq I was working with my people. They have seen naked magikers working next to foundries all their lives. Here everyone wears clothes all the time.'
'Maybe you could start a new fashion,' Jenrosa said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
'Or a riot,' Lasthear countered.
Jenrosa's smile broadened. 'Well, at least you wouldn't get so hot.'
Lasthear harrumphed and led the way back to the furnace. The new ladles and cooking pot had been placed on a workbench for the blacksmith's son to finish off. The blacksmith looked eagerly at Lasthear. 'What next, Madam Magiker?'
'Have you something especially difficult or expensive to make?'
The man scratched his head. 'Begging your pardon, but everything's difficult in a small furnace like this. Inherited it from my da, o'course, like most in my line, and seeing as how I'm wedged between Orvin the Baker with his oven and Milt the Tanner with his vats, there's no room left to expand—'
'Or something expensive?' Lasthear prompted.
'Well, the last big job I did was a mirror base for some cheap lady near the palace. Cheap for her, I mean. It paid off nearly all my debts—'
'But you have nothing like that now?'
'No, except for a new pan for Orvin next door who wants to try out a flatter loaf.'
'What's so expensive about that?'
'Not expensive so much as extra difficult. It can't have ribbing or beading on the bottom, and has to be the right size. I keep on putting it off until I have more time, but the time don't come and Orvin's getting impatient.'
'He's not the only one,' Lasthear said under her breath. 'Let's do it now. I'll help you.'
The blacksmith grinned and started preparing for the task.
'I'm going to be using the second kind of chant,' Lasthear told Jenrosa. 'Although it takes more concentration to get right, it's slower and more evenly paced and in the end doesn't make you as tired… or sweaty.'
Lasthear started singing, and the blacksmith, instead of setting to with urgent energy, fell in with the pattern of the chant. He worked carefully, methodically, but never tiring, and Jenrosa wondered if the chant had an effect on the blacksmith as much as on the fire.
Jenrosa moved from the side to stand behind the blacksmith, taking care not to get in the way of his swinging hammer, and stared into the furnace. The flames whipped around inside their cage, driven by nature and magik, the heat buffeting Jenrosa like an invisible sea. She found herself almost hypnotised, and without meaning to she started picking up the chant, her voice rising and falling in time with Lasthear's. After a while she noticed there was something in the furnace that was neither flame nor ingot, something that writhed with the fire but was apart from it, more substantial. She tried to focus on the shape and her voice changed without her meaning it to, becoming deeper, stronger, and Lasthear's own voice followed like a stream running into a river.
The shape inside the furnace and the flames around it started to merge, not back into the fire but into something new altogether. Jenrosa could see buildings now, and the flickering silhouettes of people fleeing, burning, tumbling in the dirt. She tried to look away, caught a glimpse of the blacksmith hauling out h
is iron and hammering it, sparks waterfalling in the air, and then found her gaze following the iron as it re-entered the furnace, saw again the terrible scene of carnage and destruction. She tried to bring the chant back to Lasthear's original song, but it resisted her. She felt as though she was pushing herself into a windstorm, and the air smelled of burning flesh. The fire got brighter and brighter and the vision was swept away, replaced with a face made up of the whitest, hottest flames, the face of Lynan peering out at hers.
She screamed, reeled back and out of the smithy. She heard a terrible oath, a hammer falling, Lasthear calling to her, and then she was out in the cool air, still screaming and falling to the ground. Rough hands caught her, let her down gently. There were more cries. Water hissing and steaming. Lasthear's voice, attenuated, whispery, in her ear.
She opened her eyes. The blacksmith hovered over her, looking frightened and angry. His son cowered behind him. The smithy was filled with smoke. Lasthear put an arm under her back and helped her to her feet.
'The pan's right ruined, Madam Magiker, and that was my most expensive piece of iron.'
'I'll replace the iron,' Lasthear said to him over her shoulder, 'and make sure the pan is done right next time.'
'I don't know what your friend did, but it sure as hell made things hot in there. I think even the furnace might be cracked.'
'My clan will pay for a new furnace, Blacksmith. A better one.'
The man nodded dumbly, not having anything more to say, and shepherded his son away.
'What happened?' Lasthear asked Jenrosa.
'You don't know?'
Lasthear breathed deeply. 'How could I know? What you are capable of is so far beyond my experience…'
'Don't say that. Don't ever say that.'
'Can you stand by yourself?'
'I think so.' Jenrosa took all her weight on her feet; she felt dizzy but did not reach out for Lasthear. 'I'm sorry for what I did to the blacksmith. Was anyone hurt?'
'No. I remember feeling a change in the song, something deeper and more powerful than anything I'd ever experienced before, then you stumbled backwards out of the smithy. At the same time the heat became too much for all of us. I heard a crack, saw the blacksmith throw something in the tub of water and get out with his son.'
