by RJ Baker
Coil the Yellower
And in my dream I am death and I wear his face.
I am a corn hobby doll wrapped in layers of material; the rags and scarves that cover my body and face hold my breath as a warmth against my mouth and nose.
Wind has taken the sourlands, and we lean into it, we push hard against it, we are two obtuse figures struggling doggedly onward. Strict, fast gusts pulls up the loose yellow earth and throw it into our faces. Our eyes ache with squinting to see through opaque air. Despite our wrappings the dust always works its way in. Even when we close our eyes it is felt, it is a reminder of the world outside: grit between our teeth, abrasive dust in every crack and crevice of our bodies. It mingles with sweat to rub away skin, making every step its own small torture.
Above it all, that extra smidgen of misery – the rotten-eggs stink of the dead land only grows stronger.
There is a third presence. It follows us through the sourland. We know it is there. It is a rasp in our throats. It feels no discomfort from the dust and has no bile in its mouth from the stink. When I glance over my shoulder I am frightened I will see it because it brings only misery and I have had enough of that – too much for my fifteen years. Out there is the hedging lord, Coil the Yellower, spirit of the sourlands, herald of ill fortune and pain.
He hunts me.
The air stills, but the wind continues to howl. The miasma of yellow dust slowly settles and I am alone. My master is gone and there is only one set of footsteps stretching behind me in the dust. A dead forest towers above me, a hundred thousand denuded trees are a black lacework against a bulging and swirling yellow sky.
The gibbet door swings shut.
Panic holds me close. Behind me is Maniyadoc.
The knife leaves tracks.
Why have I left?
And he is here, tall, bent and twisted, a figure made from swirling dust. A tarantella dance of shaking immateria, he is a dryness of mouth, he is a forewarning of misfortune and he is beckoning me on with fingers of sharp flint. On the horizon is a new land; a group of men wait and Coil laughs and dances and spins.
Animal.
No!
I lunge, blades twist through it, and Coil bends and whirls around them, his body twirling and dissolving, his voice a rasping laugh. Attack. More laughter. Sharp blades are useless against a creature made of dust and when I need her my master is gone. Where is she?
“Master!”
The leash marks my skin.
A thrust, meeting only air, and Coil is in my ear, in my airways, choking me. We twirl on, a stumbling, ungainly dance, coughing and slashing blindly at the laughing hedging lord. Then I am falling, spitting, puking up bile and grit onto good green grass, and smelling, even above the high stink of the sourlands, the thick sweet smell of death.
“This is what the high king sends us? A puking mage-bent cripple and a woman?” Around me are men, ten in pieced-together armour with pinched faces and mean weapons. The speaker is on a mount, and seeing him makes my blood run cold. A Landsman, he is smiling, he is Gosaile, and his smile is as cold and mocking as Coil’s. A gentle hand closes around my arm as he speaks. “Still, if you can fight I’ll take you. The more swords I can throw at the marchlanders, the fewer men I’ll lose.”
My master helps me up. It is her hand that is tight and warm on my arm.
The leash holds me.
“My name is Merela Karn, and this is Girton Club-Foot,” she says. “And we are here to fight your battles in the far borders for you.” The Landsman laughs at her and she speaks to me in the Whisper-that-Flies-to-the-Ear. “This is the last place any will look for us, Girton. Stand fast.”
I am numb.
I hear Coil the Yellower laughing.
Chapter 13
We had ridden for about an hour, judging by the height of the sun as it dipped behind towering black clouds. Nywulf fell into formation beside me. I ignored him and he made no attempt to talk to me, at first, but as we hurtled onward, the land a colourless blur, he shouted over, “Drop back a little, Girton.”
I let Xus continue long enough to feel like I wasn’t jumping to Nywulf’s orders before reining the mount in.
“What?”
“Will you do it?”
“Do what?”
“You know what. Will you protect Aydor?”
“Well, my king has commanded me—”
“Do not act like a child.” He did not shout, and that made it more of a slap in the face. “He is not your king, not unless you have accepted him as that. And he would not force you to do anything that conflicted with whatever you call morals, assassin.” He let the last word hang.
“I thought I would find a friend here, Nywulf, and instead I find …”
“A king?”
“No, it is more than that. Rufra is different in a way I do not understand. One moment he laughs and then he is cold to me. Maybe it is being a king, maybe it is just a burden I can never know.” I let Xus walk a little further and wrapped myself in my cloak, a cold wind had sprung up. “I will do as he asks, and as soon as my master is well enough we will move on. I should not have come here.”
“He needs you and you him, even if neither of you see it yet.”
“No,” I snapped, “he does not. He needs Heartblades and warriors and people who can keep up with his precious mount archers; he does not need—”
“Areth and Rufra had a child. He died.”
Such small and simple words, but they contained so much heartbreak and he said them in such a way that I knew Nywulf shared in the pain. Nywulf had been like a father to Rufra: he had guided him, trained him, been there for him when he was needed and protected him when the world was against him. Nywulf was unassailable, even my master had said she would think twice before taking him on, but in his voice was a shard of pain that he could not hide. The shock of it made me pull Xus to a stop.
“Died?” I said.
“Aye. A boy, they named him Arnlath.”
“For Rufra’s grandfather,” I said. It was barely a breath.
“Yes, he was born about a year and a half after you left.”
“When did he die?” I had the sudden, unreasonable belief that I had brought death with me, Girton Club-Foot, servant of Xus the unseen.
A cold rain started to fall.
“About a year and a half ago. He was a beautiful boy, full of life and smiles. He was Rufra’s joy, and then one day he sickened and no one could do anything about it. The healers failed. Rufra even asked about wise-women until the Landsmen put one in a blood gibbet. Everything that could be done was done, but Arnlath still died.”
“He never said anything.”
Nywulf stared at the ground and it was as if he was sucked dry of life.
“No. I had hoped he would confide in you, but he talks to no one about it. He will not even speak to Areth.”
“He blames his wife?”
“No, Girton.” Nywulf glanced at me as if confused by how stupid I could be sometimes. “Of course he doesn’t. Rufra blames who he always blames when things turn bad, he blames himself.”
“But no one can fight a sickness.”
“No, and no one could have won at Goldenson Copse, which happened at about the same time, but Rufra does not see that. When he sees Areth he thinks she must blame him the way he blames himself, she does not. He is in a place where I cannot help him.” I saw beyond Nywulf then, past the iron-hard warrior into a man desperate for help. “I hoped you could.”
We walked on for fifty counts of my-master.
“I will protect Aydor, Nywulf, if that is what Rufra needs me to do,” I said quietly. “And I will find this traitor, if there is one. I swear it on Xus the unseen.”
“You will do whatever needs to be done?”
“Aye.”
“Swear that too.”
“I swear it.”
“Good. Now Rufra will be wondering where I am. Be ready. We are not far from the meeting place.”
The battle was
heard before it was seen. To the casual eye Maniyadoc is a flat place, but that is an illusion; it is an undulating land, like a cloth carelessly thrown across a table. It rises and falls, creating valleys deep enough to hide a small army, creating false horizons and sudden, steep gulleys that will trick a careless rider and send them tumbling to their death. So death was hidden from us at first, but we heard the beating of spear on shield, we heard the high shouts of mettle-chanters, men or women who let out an ululating wail calling down hedgings on their enemies. When the wails finished we heard the massed troops shout. “Huh!” as they stepped forward.
Rufra pulled his Riders to a halt on the crest of a hill so they could look down on the forces below.
“Wait here,” he shouted. “I want the Nonmen to see us. Aydor too.”
The mass of Nonmen looked fierce, though many did not wear armour, only skirts, and they had their long hair spiked up with white lime, dark mud, dung or blood – all will do the job. Many had scalps hanging from their belts and their massed shields were painted with skulls and the faces of the worst of the hedgings, Dark Ungar, Coil the Yellower, Fitchgrass and Blue Watta. They shouted promises that souls would be taken in battle and tied to the land for the shatter-spirits. In the centre of their line, surrounded by a hundred or so well armoured men, I could see Chirol, or Barin as I had known him, and behind him were his standards. He flew no loyalty flags and carried no bonemount, his bearers carried sticks hung with the bones and skulls of humans and boars. Everything about the Nonmen spoke of ferocity and terror, and Rufra had been right about them coming in numbers: their force was well over three times as big as Aydor’s. But they were a rabble, a collection of the Tired Lands’ worst, who relied on fear and superior numbers to win their battles. I had seen their like before. I had killed their like before and I would do so again. The only worry was the better-equipped warriors surrounding the Boarlord.
Aydor stood in the centre of his wall of shields, shouting something as he held his stabsword above his head. For a moment I thought his cavalry had deserted him, but then I saw Captain Thian at Aydor’s side and in the distance a small group of mounts standing idle, and I knew what had happened. Aydor and his men had seen the Nonmen coming and thought this was their end. Maybe they thought Rufra had betrayed them. They must have decided there was no escape and either wanted to show the enemy they had no intention of running or simply wished their animals to live so had driven them away. My eyes strayed back to Aydor, who was shouting to his men again. Now he was pointing his sword up the hill at us.
I found I could hear Aydor, the trick of the assassin’s ear. “Rufra is here! We will survive today, Rufra is here! Let us show him we are worth tiring his mounts for!” With that his shieldwall moved forward. Usually the battle of shield on shield is a slow thing, halting, but this was a rush, a wave of men that crashed against the spears of the Nonmen. As battle was joined a freezing rain began to lash us: below someone screamed, someone cursed, someone died.
Rufra walked his mount forward and turned it so he could look each warrior in the eye. He did not seem to feel the cold or notice the rain.
“Cearis will hit their right; Nywulf will give their left something to think about. Girton and I will ride round the main force of Nonmen and join Aydor in his wall.”
“There’s a lot of them, Blessed,” said a Rider in front of me.
Rufra looked over his shoulder, glancing through the curtain of rain at the Nonmen as if he’d not given their numbers a thought.
“There is.” He grinned. “Nywulf once told me about these men who carry fear before them – they get used to easy victories against soft targets. What is it you say, Nywulf? A real warrior is like a good sword.” He drew Hope, his shining Conwy blade, letting the light dance along it, and stood in his stirrups.
In my head I had continued to see him as the boy I knew, but he was a man now, not tall but broad and thick with muscle. His armour was dull apart from the circle of brass worked into his helmet and the black flying lizard made of small enamel plates on his chest piece. He was nondescript: thick brows, broken nose, small mouth – you would not have looked twice at him in a crowd – but here there was no doubt he was a king. He radiated power and confidence. “A real warrior,” he shouted, “needs a good beating to harden them, otherwise they become brittle and break easily.” His voice seemed to swell, becoming louder. “So come! Let us raise the bonemount and break some swords!” He snapped down his visor, a grimacing face, shouted, “The bonemount rides!” and put spurs to Balance.
I had never seen mount archers before, never even heard of them, but as I watched Nywulf and Cearis lead them I realised that Rufra had not been insulting my skills when he said I was not one of them. He was right. I also saw why he was not worried about them being swamped by infantry – they never approached near enough for the Nonmen to catch them.
Cearis struck first. Although she was heavy cavalry she carried a short bow as she charged the rear of the Nonmen right, loosing arrows that tore through unarmoured backs. When the mount archers reached the range a spear could be thrown they doubled back on themselves. Cearis rode normally, but the mount archers in their lighter armour turned in their saddles to face backwards and continued shooting. On the other flank Nywulf and his mount archers were doing the same, diving in towards the enemy lines and then pulling away. Without cavalry of their own the Nonmen had no answer to this, and their shields were paltry things of hide that could not stop the arrows.
“Come Girton,” shouted Rufra. He sounded ecstatic. “I think the they are distracted.” We rode hard around the right flank of the Nonmen. Some had straggled out our way and pity to anyone who came within range of Rufra’s sword or the warhammer I carried. A Nonman in rags ran at Rufra from the left and Balance lowered her head, tossing the man aside with a vicious sweep of her antlers. Rufra’s sword cut out, slicing through the head of another man. I drew level, swinging the warhammer and smashing the arm of a woman, running at me with a club, into a useless pulp. Ahead a small group tried to arrange themselves into a shieldwall. Xus and Balance, screeching with excitement, lowered their heads to bring cruel antlers down for attack, and the Nonmen panicked. Those who stood their ground were too slow to lower their spears. Xus hit them first, scattering men like a child’s ball does hedge pins. For a moment there was a Nonman skewered on his antlers, then he threw him aside with a scream of triumph and we galloped on, our animals furious and unstoppable.
We brought our mounts in fast, skidding round to the rear of Aydor’s lines and dismounting. Rufra took his red and black shield from his mount, I grabbed a purple shield from a dead man, and we forced our way to the front of Aydor’s line. Rufra took a place by Thian, and I found myself next to Aydor. He stank of apple wine, but though he was drunk he was also strong. As I pushed my way in, two Nonmen rushed Aydor, he thrust his stabsword into the guts of the first attacker. The man screamed and grabbed Aydor’s sword arm, locking them together and making a gap for his companion to thrust a blade in.
I could let Aydor die and no one would be any the wiser. Soldiers died in battle all the time no matter how hard their comrades tried to protect them. No one would blame me.
My stabsword flashed out and parried the Nonman’s blade. With a reverse slash I opened his belly and Aydor managed to reclaim his blade. He glanced at me, giving me a nod of thanks. His eyes widened in surprise when he realised who I was. Then he put his back into his shield and shouted, “Push! We nearly have them now! One more push!”
Then we fought. It was grim work. The Nonmen bayed like dogs which set me on edge – all my life I had feared dogs. I controlled it now but it was there, in the back of my mind. Blades flashed. From my place by Aydor I could see the Boarlord; his pig-skull headdress marked him out though his face was covered. The men who surrounded him were not like the rest of the rabble, who screamed and flailed, making them easy to cut down. Chirol’s troops had discipline. They formed his second line, while he threw the rest of his me
n at us first, tiring us. I slashed my short blade underneath my shield, feeling the hit in my wrist when my sword cut into bone, seeing a face turn from one screaming in fury to one screaming in agony.
Aydor used his stabsword like a scythe, putting his strength behind his shield and pushing to create a gap, the blade coming out and drumming across Nonmen shields. By his side Thian cut out, exploiting any opening. Rufra fought like he was born to it, holding his shield seemingly without effort, sometimes using the short spike on the front, picking his moments, other times sliding his blade between shields and nearly always finding targets.
Chirol urged the Nonmen on, screaming abuse but remaining out of reach. Over the noise of the shieldwall I heard the beat of mount claws, the hissing of arrows and the shouts when they hit home. Occasionally I would see the mount archers harrying the back and sides of the Nonmen formation, killing without ever coming within reach of their weapons.
And then the Nonmen broke. Some simply ran and quickly fell prey to the mount archers, who wheeled and spun on the battlefield like hunting flying lizards, but the majority showed an unexpected discipline, locking shields around the fierce figure of the Boarlord and withdrawing in a surprisingly orderly fashion for a bunch of outlaws. Nywulf, Cearis and their archers harried them until Rufra let out a high whistle, calling them back.
“Let them go,” he shouted. “We have not the numbers to finish Chirol here and Boros would never forgive us if we did.” As his mount archers returned I watched the Nonmen retreat into the shelter of a wood and vanish, as if they had never been.
There was a strange atmosphere after the battle. Aydor’s troops had already decided they were about to die, and to be reprieved had left them in a sort of daze. They walked around smiling aimlessly and collecting trophies from dead Nonmen. Thian came over to personally thank me for saving his king, and I shrugged his thanks off quite rudely, though he did not seem to mind. I could not concentrate on what Thian was saying anyway as I was watching Rufra and Aydor, seeing something I thought I would never see and wishing I did not have to. They spoke only a few words and then they clasped arms like brothers. They smiled at each other, and it looked almost genuine. I could not believe it. This was Aydor, who had made our young lives miserable and come close to having Rufra burned to death to cover his own and his mother’s ambitions and mistakes.
