It was a hard place, and it bred hard people. No wonder they fought us to a standstill year after year.
We kept away from roads and other people, but the closer we came to the Catsclaws, the worse the terrain became. We soon hit a point where the 'Great North Road' ‒ an overgrown goat trail snaking through the foothills ‒ turned into the only navigable path. Around us was broken ground as far as the eye could see, steep slopes up and down, and deep pools created by the incessant rain. Two big ditches by the sides of the road channeled runoff from the mountains down into flood country. This was, after all, where the water trouble began.
The first vanguard of the Catsclaw Mountains came rising out of the mist like a battle line. Mighty, foreboding, majestic. It was a steady trek upwards, broken only by the occasional dip or bowl filled with sturdy pine trees. Somehow I'd expected the mountains to be as grey as the Aranic coast, but they were full of life, green and brown, and yellow where outcroppings of bare sandstone loomed out from the rock face. It impressed its own strange beauty on me. If only I could've appreciated it through the bitter wind and cold.
The weather hadn't done us any favours since we left Kingsport, but it turned out the time of year made a big difference in the Catsclaws, too. Gusts of icy wind rolled endlessly down the mountainsides. For every yard of altitude we gained, another bone-chilling blast washed over us. It cut right through our soaked clothing. By the time we reached the high pass, the cold was crusting our eyelashes together, numbing our fingers to the point where we could barely hold the reins.
At least the snow was thin. A light dusting coloured the road, frosted the trees, and decorated the carpet of brown pine needles underfoot. If only it could stay that way. Soon the weather would shift, more rain would fall, and everything would turn to slurry before washing away southward.
My teeth chattered. My toes ached. It was one of the most punishing rides of my life. Then the road began to turn downhill again, and I said a quiet prayer of thanks to whichever Saint would take it. From here on out the mountains in our path were lower, sheltered from the wind, until we hit Grenoke Valley. I vowed to find myself a full set of furs once we got there.
I remembered the innkeeper's warning. It made me wonder how much of our plan depended on being able to trade with the locals. We needed more supplies before braving the Edge, but what kind of welcome would we get from the mountain folk if they were on the verge of open rebellion?
I got my answer two days later, at the mouth of the Grenoke Valley.
The view took my breath away. The rain, the cold, the oppressive skies all stopped mattering as I drank in the deep, crescent-shaped valley. It squatted between two immense ridges as if it had cut a great mountain in half lengthwise. Its weapon was the massive white-capped Northfarn churning its way from one end to the other. Spreading from its swollen banks were endless numbers of pine trees and shocking, emerald-green winter oaks. Every needle and every leaf shimmered with moisture in the dim afternoon light.
On the far side of the crescent, I saw the low, stubby shapes of stone roundhouses. White smoke curled from their chimneys. I couldn't make out any people, but the place was alive.
We'd barely set off down the winding valley when a group of stout, unpleasant-looking men and women jumped into the road in front of us. Some stayed hidden in the trees, but I estimated their numbers between ten and fifteen. They had short-bows and hatchets and slings, and looked like they knew how to use them.
Shields raised. Steel whispered from oiled scabbards. Our Rangers already had their great bows out, arrows notched and halfway drawn. Even they would have trouble evening these odds, though.
The group's leader came forward. She turned out to be a young woman, twenty or less, stocky and thoroughly built. Like most of the mountain folk, her skin was pale as milk and blemished by freckles. A whirlwind of blonde hair sprouted from her head, kept in check by a red bandana. Her piercing eyes, grey as granite, lingered on each of us in turn.
When she spoke it was an angry stream of local dialect which none of us could penetrate. Our blank stares only seemed to upset her more. She repeated herself in a slow, clear voice as if we were simpletons, which didn't help.
“We don't understand your backwater drivel,” Sir Erroll explained tactfully. “Use Southern or Northern, or be damned with you!”
The warriors looked at each other with a mixture of surprise, uncertainty and wariness. They weren't expecting visitors from the Kingdom proper. Everyone kept their hands on their weapons. A tall, dark man whispered to the leader. I could tell he was their second-in-command, the leftenant to her captain. He had the starved-greyhound look of a man used to running across country, and he kept both hands on his wicked, Harari-style recurve bow. He was a grey cloak and a shave away from being the perfect Ranger.
Their discussion turned into an argument, stretching the boundaries of whispering. More like quietly screaming. She got tired of it, hissed him down and ordered him back to the trees. Then she returned her attention to us.
“I am Racha of Brunoke,” she called. Her accent was thick as a castle wall. “What do you here?”
Brunoke, I thought. Not natives then. Brunoke Valley lay a few days to the west. From their weapons, it didn't take a scholar to guess these people were up to no good.
The woman smiled pleasantly. “We are travellers from the south. We mean no harm to anyone. Our only desire is to pass through and continue our journey.”
“Where?”
“The Edge of the World.”
They must have understood her, because all the mountaineers turned their heads and spat on the ground. Racha of Brunoke was less than satisfied by the answer. She crossed her arms and glared.
“Fortune-seekers?” she asked, and I was caught by the cadence of her voice, sing-song and viscous like warm oil. “Or fortune-soldiers, maybe? Mercenaries to collect the Fat Duke's taxes? Criminals running from punishment?” A flick of her wrist made a dismissive, throwing-away gesture. “Your kind come not to make friends.”
“Yet here we are, seeking nothing but a place to rest and supply ourselves for the road.” The woman's expression turned serious, but Racha continued to stare, unmoved. “Believe me or not, it doesn't matter. Understand that if you force us to fight, your victory will cost you. How many of your men are prepared to die today?”
At a signal from her, Sir Erroll removed the cover on his shield. I pushed back my sodden cloak to show the polished bronze on my breast and my hip. Aemedd, too, appeared out from under a big hood with his helm on his head. The bronzes didn't look very practical, not in this day and age, but they helped us cut a figure like no other. The mountaineers closest to us drew back and whispered wide-eyed prayers.
Even Racha seemed shaken. Her second-in-command snarled something from the bushes, but she waved for him to shut up.
She asked carefully, “Where got you those?”
“Many places. Perhaps we can tell you the story, if we're able to continue in peace, as friends.”
“You cannot. Not here.” Racha waved over her shoulder at the valley and the utterly, deceptively peaceful town. “Grenoke is... dangerous. Theirs and ours are in disagreement. Come night, we...” Her command of language failed her. Instead she mimed cutting her throat with a finger. Her eyes kept flicking to our bronzes, as if she knew something more than she was telling us.
Sir Erroll growled, “An ambush! I should've known these savages prefer skulking about and attacking in the dead of night. Milady, we ought to warn the poor devils down there.”
“That,” the woman murmured, “may be unwise, Sir. Noble and brave, but unwise.” She fixed Racha with a penetrating stare. “Racha of Brunoke, where would you take us if we are not to visit Grenoke? To your valley in the west?”
A nod. “To my father's hall.”
“You are the chieftain's daughter.”
“I am.”
“Then on your father's honour, swear that you and yours will do us no harm, and we'll accompany
you to Brunoke. You alone. The rest of your people will stay.”
She threw another nervous glance at our bronzes. Chewing her bottom lip, she nodded. “So sworn.”
The second-in-command had a few choice words to say about that, but Racha of Brunoke went to him and punched him in the nose. He dropped in a heap, clutching the bloody mess of his face. Authority was re-established. She commanded a few things brought to her and made sure everyone knew what to do in her absence. Goodbyes were brief, and her pace was quick as she motioned us to follow.
I looked back at the warm, inviting roofs of the town and felt a deep stab of longing. Saints, to be dry again! On the other hand, even if we survived a fight with Racha and her lot, we didn't have a clue what else might be lurking between us and the town.
That, and Racha seemed to know something. Something worth abandoning her mission and her men. If her tribe kept some ancient secret about the bronzes...
So we got our first taste of going off the beaten path. The hiking trails Racha followed were even worse than the Great North Road. Any self-respecting mountain goat would've turned up its nose at them. Half the time we were pulling our horses rather than leading them, up and down the perilous slopes. It made for slow going, and we had to stop every hour or two so the exertion didn't kill us.
Even at rest, Racha kept herself apart from the group. She refused to sit down most of the time and didn't give anyone much opportunity to strike up a conversation. Whenever she left an opening, though, it was always the woman who swooped in for a pleasant little heart-to-heart.
Most of us didn't want any part of her anyway. Sir Erroll frequently muttered his opinion of the 'stone-sucking miscreants' of the Catsclaws. Faro studied her bottom with long looks of boyish fancy, which annoyed Yazizi. Aemedd stayed aloof of the whole thing. He never approached her, and in general he spoke even less than before. I couldn't get two words out of him.
Days passed. Wet oak leaves slapped me in the face half a hundred times. Rotting pine needles and water created a thousand vile-smelling, stagnant puddles to wade through. Then we came to the edge of the trees. A large dip lay ahead of us, leading into the picturesque Brunoke Valley.
If anything it was even prettier than Grenoke. The steep valley walls formed a series of natural terraces, majestic sweeps and swells of stone with gnarled, isolated oak trees that grew out of what looked like solid rock. The moss on the cliff faces was vibrant with life, more green than the shrubs and oak leaves around it. The boughs of those hardscrabble trees made a shocking contrast. A single switchback road, deeply rutted by cart tracks, climbed up and down the sheer slopes, and crossed the river via a graceful arc of wood more than fifty feet above the water.
If I'd been a painter, I probably would've erected my easel then and there.
The sight of houses and chimney-smoke was more beautiful still. They dotted the terraces above me, and I made a superhuman effort to get up there, to the warm fires which burned in those hearths. Scouts came down to eyeball us and ask questions along the way. Racha smoothed things over and made our march into town an easy one.
The capital of the Brunokes could have passed for any rural town in the Kingdom. It was a collection of roundhouses and timber halls spread out across the valley's terraces, on both sides of the river. The place of honour was toward the Chieftain's hall, where the houses got bigger, better and more ostentatious. Some were almost completely covered in painted hides and ornaments. People passed us by on their daily tasks but took care not to look at us. Even the scouts and warriors we saw averted their eyes.
All in all, I didn't feel an overwhelming sense of welcome.
The Chief's hall itself was the biggest structure by far, high stone walls and a sharply pitched roof thatched with straw. Rain poured off it and spilled into roadside gutters which carried it off to the river. As Racha promised, she took us in, stopping only to exchange a few words with the guardsman. He ducked inside in such a hurry he almost left his spear behind.
“My father is summoned,” said Racha. “We enter and wait.”
By this point we didn't need much of an invitation. Mountain men took our horses for us while we, bedraggled and road-weary, stumbled into the Chieftain's house. Only then did I realise how cold I'd been. Warmth seeped into my bones from the crackling, spitting flames in the central firepit. By unspoken agreement, we arranged ourselves in a circle around it and soaked up as much of the wonderful heat as we could. A few of us ‒ poor sniffling Yazizi, for one ‒ were a little too eager. They leaned too close to the fire when a log shifted and threw up a cloud of sparks, singing a few unhappy eyebrows.
The rest of the hall didn't interest us as much as the pit, but it was resplendent in its own right. The epitome of rural finery. Heirlooms covered the walls, ancient weapons and pieces of armour, huge sets of horns or antlers, animal skins of exceptional quality. One wall was given over to tapestries illustrated with epic tales of the Brunokes' history and legends. Almost everything was coloured red, yellow or brown. The colours of the valley and the tribe.
Racha made sure we were all situated, then left through a bead curtain at the back of the hall, promising she'd be back. We waited a long time. I was glowing warm and happy long before we saw hide nor hair of anyone else, and I began to take off bits of clothing. I laid out my cloak and boots to dry out the persistent moisture. I attacked my feet with a piece of scrubbing stone and scraped off a layer of damp-eaten skin, a little ritual we used to perform daily in the King's Own. Riding made the whole thing easier, but a wise traveller was always on the lookout for fungus and infection.
As our de facto surgeon, Aemedd seemed to approve of my efforts. He was less impressed by Sir Erroll and Yazizi. They hadn't been taking care of their feet, out of pride and ignorance respectively. The scholar tutted and forced a salve on them. He them put it on while he watched, so it got done right.
One by one we all relaxed our road clothes. The waiting was a good enough invitation for it. Descard let his uniform jacket hang open, and he came to sit next to me with a look that promised a long talk.
“Byren,” he greeted me and offered a metal flask. I sipped it, and to my delight I felt the sweet, syrupy burn of Dunbowden rum fill my mouth. I took another quick drink before he had a chance to take it back. “What do you make of that girl? Think the natives are friendly?”
“I hope so, because I'd hate to have to run off without my boots.”
“Yes. My lads and I could probably give their trackers the slip, but your group...”
“Keep your fingers crossed it doesn't come to that.”
“And the girl?” he pressed.
“You tell me, mate. She's shut tight. Probably doesn't mean us any harm, or she wouldn't have sworn on her father's honour. People up here take honour very seriously.”
He quirked a curious eyebrow. “You've known many mountaineers?”
“One. Fellow called Humber. He was my Sergeant in the Guard, a long time ago. One of a kind.”
“One of my lads was from Grenoke.” A haunted look flickered behind Descard's eyes, but he shook it off violently, raising his flask in a toast. “Absent companions.”
I echoed it, and we took turns sipping from the flask until it was considerably lighter.
A harsh, raspy laugh bubbled out of him. “Maybe it's for the best. He might've attacked these Brunokes on sight. Gotten us all killed.”
“There is that.”
Racha and her father appeared through the curtain and came to stand before the fire. Everyone instantly knew their relationship by looking at them. They shared the same strong jaw, the same grey eyes, the same sturdy build. The Chief's face showed a score of deep lines, worhy of a great-grandfather, while his salt-and-pepper hair and beard marked him as not even half that age. His costume consisted of a long cloak of bearskin and a thin iron crown on his brow.
I counted six or so armed guards behind him, with more outside the hall.
My attention was drawn to a large jewelled box in
the Chieftain's hands. He remained silent while Racha went through the complicated process of opening it, turning a tiny brass key in each of the six elegant locks. That box alone could've set me up with a mansion in Aran's Cross and a lifetime of luxury. The girl's strong, slender fingers ran over the intricate gold reliefs hammered into its front face. She opened it like a door, swinging the hinged sides outward to reveal a velvet cushion which bore several chunks of old bronze, stained green and eaten away by the passing of ages. The pate of a crested helmet. A piece of plate armour. The weathered remains of a sword-hilt.
“I know why you have come,” he said gravely. He spoke Southern in a smooth, educated accent. “It's well that you did. You may know me as Rogald of the Valley. By the old covenant, I welcome you to my hall, Bronze-Bearers.”
He gave Racha the box and came forward. Dressed in that skin, he looked like a bear himself in the flickering firelight. Placing his hands together as if in prayer, he made a small formal bow to each of us. Then he bowed a second time to Aemedd alone. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Professor. I hope you have benefited from our discussions on your last visit.”
The scholar nodded back and gave a brittle, unhealthy smile. The rest of us stared at him as if expecting an explanation. He didn't offer one.
The woman rose demurely and made a deep curtsy. She was the essence of respectful, diplomatic formality. “Great Rogald, we are humbled and gratified by the hospitality of your house, and do not wish to impose. If you'd allow us the kindness of trading in your city, we can be on our way first thing tomorrow.”
“Trade will be allowed. However, I can't let you leave so soon. We have much to discuss about your quest, and why you must abandon it.”
I felt the ripple of disbelief arc out like lightning. It ignited a low, simmering outrage in each of us, even me. Abandon the mission? After all we'd gone through to get here?
Written in Blood Page 36
