Trail of Pyres

by L. James Rice

  “Safe passage? Not even the Blooded Plain is safe passage.” Mounted archers killed a dozen Silone with lofted arrows, and a dozen Tek died with shafts from Motu Ensa, but it didn’t stop the wild barrages. The Hidreng army sat two horizons from where he stood, but Ivin swore he could feel them through the soles of his boots. An army so large could sit still only so long without growing impatient and testing supply lines. Eventually, they would strike. “No talk of surrender?”

  Meliu grabbed his arm and spun him to her, pulled her lips to his. “He wants you alone, but not like I do… I hope.”

  Ivin stood straight and hugged her into his chest. “I’ll go, and if I don’t return, I expect you to destroy him.”

  She mumbled into his chest. “I will.”

  Ivin rubbed her back and turned to the Hidreng soldier. “Semnoto.”

  Ivin’s grasp of Hidreng was still shaky, but the man turned and led him. Folks stared as they strolled through camp, and he heard feet running from behind until they settled on his shoulder.

  Solineus’ voice came soft. “Let me go with you.”

  “The writ of safety was for me, no one else.”

  “The sons of bitches are going to kill you.”

  Three strides later: “If not today, then tomorrow, or next month. I don’t think he’d bother with the writ if armored horse were soon to thunder through camp.”

  “Still, allow me to go. Let them try to kill me.”

  Ivin grinned, shook his head. “I said it more than once… You’re a crazy son of a bitch. It’s been under a week since you cut down his champion, you might want to let that fire burn out before setting foot in his camp again.”

  “We can’t afford to lose you.”

  Ivin stopped and spun. “Who can we afford to lose?”

  “The Broldun.”

  “And a wise-assed son of a bitch.” Ivin walked faster to catch up with the soldier and his determined gait. “I go alone, as requested.”

  “As you will. I’ll be here waiting.”

  In moments he knew he walked alone, and the Hidreng led him into the open plain. For more than a candle they walked, and halfway Ivin regretted the agreement barring horses riding back and forth, even if it’d been his idea.

  They crowned a hill, and atop the next rise sat a gigantic tent dyed green and flying banners sewn with golden hawks. The journey from here was short, but the strides felt as if they took forever. Fewer eyes than he expected watched his approach: two sentries. No armored horse pawing the dirt, no shields and spears banging. But when he topped the rise, glances north and south proved the army remained. Ivin berated himself, there was no need to instill fear, that emotion had already passed into hopelessness.

  The soldier kicked a brass gong sitting beside the tent’s entrance and waited.

  Flickers later Iro parted the folds of the entrance, wrapped in an ermine cloak slung to cover his missing arm. His face caught Ivin’s attention, something he’d never seen before: Stubble. The two men stared at one another; the last time they’d spoke Ivin had been a prisoner.

  “It was peculiar to see you again the other day, Choerkin. I regretted our not getting to speak.”

  “The currents of fate flow in curious directions.”

  “I should like to ask how you escaped from the tower? An impressive feat. Then, surviving Bdein and the journey to the Blooded Plain to lead your people again.” He waggled a finger in his face. “I saw your tits scrawled on the wall.”

  Ivin smiled. “I’m no artist.”

  “But a fine communicator. Yet, it isn’t your message we’re here to discuss.” He lifted the flap of his tent and gestured for Ivin to enter.

  Ivin didn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust him, despite the oath of passage, but he had little choice. He inhaled deep and stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of an overcast sky through canvas. His breath left him: Faces stared at him from the floor, circling a bed, every eye wide open. He counted a dozen heads, and a couple bore familiar frowns: Commanders in Iro’s army, Hidreng, Brotnain, Thonian. A dozen matches the Silone killed.

  He swallowed hard, a chill washing his body. “I had nothing to do with this.”

  The overseer sauntered into the room, his hand rubbing the stub of his left arm. “Do you think me a fool? Of course you didn’t. This isn’t a message sent by northern barbarians.” He poked a young woman’s head with his toe and it tumbled, wrapping into its black hair. “Recognize this lady, maybe? The handmaid of the Bishop of Sin Medor, she never leaves her lady’s side, takes bed on the floor of the woman’s room. Two hundred horizons from here, and yet, here sits her head. Put here as I slept without waking me a blink.” He pointed at various heads. “Mihok, general of the Brotna, over there his shield-bearer. That man I groomed to succeed me someday. I’ve known him since he was four years of age.”

  “Who’d do such a thing?”

  “Who could do such a thing? Your friends, the devil Edan.”

  Ivin grimaced. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s to understand? No human, no Trelelunin nor Helelindin, nor even an Ilu-Silvstro, could be doing such a thing. In a camp of thousands, in the tower of the Bishop, my tent, unseen and unheard.” He strolled to Ivin and poked him in the chest. “And it isn’t a message just for the Hidreng, it is for you as well.”

  “Me?”

  “You thought welcomes were forever. They want you to leave.”

  Ivin didn’t know if the man guessed or knew, but kept his face straight. “We’re in negotiations.”

  Iro guffawed. “A negotiation with a devil is a negotiation you already lost, as much as you’ve lost a war with the Hidreng without fighting one. You draw breath at their whim, that’s the message found in this tent.”

  “To what end?”

  “For you to leave, and for us to allow your people down the Blooded Plain so far as our border.” His hand swept the room. “These lives mark your safe passage so far as I can guarantee. My armies will turn and return to their homes, so too the Brotna and others, leaving you to march south in peace, but once beyond the realm of the Hidreng territory, my responsibility ends.”

  Since Solineus’ return from Kaludor, the reality of moving south was slow to sink in, even if some folks were already breaking camp. It made sense: Edan honor would make sure the Hidreng were no longer a threat before forcing them to travel.

  Iro continued. “For my part, I will send word throughout the nations bordering the blooded plains that your people are the enemy, and carry a plague called the Rot. The further from the Devil Wood you travel, the more emboldened the Hundred Nations become. I will rejoice when word arrives of your people’s demise and send gold to the general who wipes the last of you from this land.”

  “Being rid of us is no longer enough?”

  The man’s voice lowered to a fierce growl. “I’ve lost ten thousand soldiers to the Rot, rulers bar the gates of cities all across the Kingdom of Hidreng, and the stench of burning bodies has spread all the way to Thon! Dying in battle is better than your people deserve.”

  “Here I thought you and I were becoming friends, what with the whole tit thing.” Ivin spit at his feet. “That’s the closest you’ll ever come to having my blood again.”

  He turned and marched from the tent, half expecting a dagger or sword in his back, but a blow never came. The man’s fear of the Edan was absolute. His feet moved swift down the steep hill through waist high grasses, but he maintained a walk, stifling the urge to break into a trot. He breathed easier once out of arrow range.

  When the Edan sent messages, they made them poignant, if not clear.

  “Godsdamned sons of bitches. Godsdamn me! Every damn thing I’ve done since hitting this cursed land has been wrong headed or pointless.” He kicked at a tuft of grass. “The godsdamned Tek will hammer us to the Forges one way or another.”

  Solineus popped from the grass a stride to his side like a stalking predator rising for the kill.

  Ivin jumped back a
step, hand reaching for a sword which wasn’t there. “Godsdamn it, man!”

  “You weren’t busy cussin’ yourself you might’ve noticed me sitting there.”

  Ivin snorted and pressed on up the hill.

  “What the hells did that bastard want?”

  “To tell us the Hidreng are leaving. And so are we, or so he claims.”

  “Five days ago five nations were right keen on slaughtering us, treaty broken or no. What happened?”

  “Someone decorated Iro’s tent with heads as he slept. Commanders from the nations, and even the handmaiden of the bishop. Her body is likely two hundred horizons from here. Iro believes this is the final peace before the Edan force us south.”

  Solineus put a hand to his shoulder, spinning him to a stop before they reached the top of the hill, and overhearing ears. “What the hells does that mean?”

  “Your friends. You tell me.”

  Solineus’ muscles relaxed, but his breaths were rapid as he glanced to the sky. He huffed, then met Ivin’s gaze. “You’re taking the word of a godsdamned Hidreng. It fulfills their oath, almost. And they’d see it as doing us a favor.”

  “A favor? Ho ho!”

  “They’ve been encouraging us to leave since I got back, since the ships burned. They never promised to feed us, and we’re too many mouths for them to try. But we don’t know nothin’ yet, until we talk to Lelishen or an Edan. I don’t think they’d tan us and leave our hides to dry.”

  “First the lords of the clans must meet, this isn’t a secret to keep. That gives us a half candle to figure how to turn this rotten onion edible.”

  Solineus paced the tent’s floor as the heads of the clans and their bodyguards arrived. Ivin sat with feet propped on the table, and Solineus marveled at his ability to sit still. When everyone had arrived, Ivin stood.

  “There’s been a major shift in the winds. The Hidreng are no longer a threat, leastwise, so long as we move south.”

  Polus grunted. Twice. “How the hells is this, mmm?”

  “The Edan gifted the Overseer’s tent with the heads of several generals of the Nations, and other… important persons.”

  “They done what? Hells! I say we thank ‘em.”

  Solineus said, “As we reckon it, this means our welcome here at Winter Home might be over. Even if not, we can’t feed all our people here for long.”

  The Lady Ravinrin stood. “Dear boy, we’ve known for some time the Edan want us to move south. No small number of my people have pulled stakes to search for food and warmer weather. It well could be wisdom.” She sat.

  Polus said, “Not if we have a prayer of returning to Kaludor.”

  Solineus nodded to both, leaned against a tent pole while scanning the eyes of men and women who shouldn’t be so calm. They’d lost so much, this new threat felt tame. “The Edan will never break a vow, but the vow guaranteed our safety from the Hidreng. They achieved this promise with Hidreng blood.”

  Polus said, “So now they saved us from the Hidreng again, they’ll let us starve, or kill us themselves?”

  Solineus said, “Do you forget our guest, Limereu? Do you dare continue insulting her like this?”

  Rikis stood, the Choerkin’s feet steady for the first time Solineus had seen since his being poisoned. “No offense to our esteemed guest, but she doesn’t know the mind of her king. If they mean to drive us from Winter Home, what of New Fost? What of reclaiming Kaludor?”

  The Wolverine echoed his lord. “I live and fight to avenge the dead of our homes.”

  Limereu stepped forward, no glow. “As the Lord Choerkin states, I do not know the mind of my Volvrolan, but I know he wishes your people no harm.” Limereu unfurled a map on the table. “I have a map of the region, if anyone cares to look.”

  Solineus huffed, ignoring the Edan’s map. “I don’t know. I don’t know a godsdamned thing for certain. I need to speak with Inslok, or the Father of Ages himself.” Everyone’s eyes fell on him. “I will ride to New Fost to find Inslok, maybe to the Eleris if needs be. We have time.” Godsdamnit, we better have time.

  “We have time, you say. And what if instead of tucking tail the Hidreng attack?”

  “We die, I’d expect, and so too will the Hidreng. After that, their neighboring enemies will overrun the Kingdom of Hidreng. No, things need settled with the Edan. We need to know where we stand before we trade an old threat for a new.”

  Tedeu Ravinrin didn’t bother to stand this time. “With so many ships destroyed, what shall we do? We can’t flee by sea.”

  “We’ll know more after I have words with Inslok. Meantime, spread rumors of moving south. Encourage any folks thinking of heading that way before now to do so. Winter Home has too many mouths to feed as is, it’ll make sense to spread out, now we have peace with the Hidreng.”

  Rikis asked, “And the Teks further south?”

  Solineus glanced to Ivin and sighed. “Same as before, no one travels beyond the Ilmen River without risk.”

  Polus grumbled. “This is lunacy!”

  Bulbane Mulgarth shouted at anyone and everyone, no doubt some meant for Limereu. “Sittin’ here we’re dead, movin’ we’re dead, all cause of you sons of bitches and your treaties with wood spirits!”

  The tent erupted in hard words and accusations, a bellowing match; most folks weren’t making sense. Ivin propped his boots on the table, even as Rikis joined in the verbal fray.

  Solineus stared at the youngest Choerkin boy, even as some shouted at the both of them; they’d all might as well have been braying asses for all Ivin appeared to care. Solineus gave the commotion a few more flickers before he climbed a chair and tromped atop the table.

  “Enough! We’re alive, and a great deal of thanks for that belongs to the Edan. I will speak with them, then we’ll know where we stand.”

  Ivin stood. “I’ll travel with you.”

  “No, you’re the only cool head here.”

  Bulbane Mulgarth kept right on shouting, this time focused on Solineus. “Someone needs be with you, make sure you ain’t selling us out cheap.”

  Solineus strode off the table and didn’t stop until standing on the man’s toes. “You’re thicker than an ox’s ass, ain’t ya?”

  A deep voice bellowed from behind Solineus. “I’ll go with you, I’m not much use here anyhow, not yet.”

  Solineus shoved Bulbane from him and turned to Rikis. “You can ride?”

  The eldest Choerkin nodded. “I’d be meat come a fight, but I can sit a horse.”

  The Wolverine stepped to the Choerkin’s side. “I’ll make godsdamned sure he don’t go fallin’ out of his saddle.

  “So be it. We’ll depart come morning.”

  He stalked to the door, slapped the flap open, and left without giving them a chance to question him.

  52

  Crackling Winds

  A thousand books you’ve said you read,

  dark, light, ink, and blight.

  Lick thy thumb, perfect regurgitation,

  Spit your tongue, perfect memorization.

  Knowledge is not Power, no no and no,

  Power lies in answers unthought,

  and questions yet unwritten.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  “I want a sword.” Kinesee glared at the knife in her hand, and Maro glared at her. The hilt was polished silver and engraved with a flower motif, its blade slender steel polished to a sheen and sharpened on both edges. No toy, but not a sword.

  “When your father tells me you can have a sword, you can have a sword.”

  She snorted. “Alu has a sword.”

  “Yes, and she’s bruises and a broken finger to show for her work these weeks past… plus, she’s a knife when a sword isn’t appropriate for a lady.”

  “I never see her with a knife.”

  “She carries it hidden in… where ladies often carry knives.”

  “Her boobs?” The man’s unflinching stare told her she was right, but he wouldn’t say it. “You always have a swor
d.”

  “Quit arguing, there’re times it isn’t proper for a man to carry a sword neither.”

  She sighed, tugged at her bodice to find a suitable spot for the blade.

  Maro coughed. “Your boot, m’lady. It’s a boot knife.”

  Kinesee grinned. “Oh.” That made more sense. “Can I get a knife for my boobs, too?”

  He groaned and spoke low. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Torturing Maro was good fun, but it only lasted so long. She stepped into a mid-afternoon sun with her guardian tight by her side, and six guards fell into step around them. A cool northern breeze blew in.

  They’d arrived in Winter Home the day before, and several days after Solineus. People still straggled in from the north, but most Silone were here or already moving south to the next river. Will we ever quit moving?

  Troubling questions were all she had these days. She’d faced the woman she’d assumed wanted her dead to find her suspicions wrong-headed, but it left a deeper mystery: Who the hells are the Nesfereum? Nobody seemed to know, but nobody had the time to figure it out neither. Kinesee had only one thing: Time.

  A high priestess had the answer, but Sedut disappeared into hiding quick as she’d appeared. No, she needed to get close to another holy.

  “Maro, do you know where priestess Meliu is?” Kinesee had seen her around the Choerkin tent when they arrived.

  “Can’t say for sure, m’lady.”

  “Take me to the Choerkin tent.”

  The tents of the Seven Clans shared a ridge line since arriving at Winter Home, so the walk was a short one. Solineus stormed from the tent’s flap; she wanted to say hello, but his stomping stride and lips flapping silent curses convinced her father was busy. Besides, she had another matter to attend. Guards bowed (being Mikjehemlut had advantages) and Kinesee stepped inside the clan tent with Maro on her heel to find unexpected guests.

  An Edan woman turned her eyes on Kinesee, and she swallowed hard, stuck in a frozen stride until Maro bumped her forward, near running her over. He coughed and whispered. “Sorry.”