by Angus Watson
Sofi Tornado, captain of the Owsla, walked to meet the giant and the man she was carrying, each step prime with magical verve, her hand axe and knife dangling from loops of leather at her waist and bouncing off firm thighs. She said something to Chogolisa, who repeated her words in a booming voice audible to all of Calnia:
“This man will be spared if he can reach the south side of the Plaza of Innowak. He will have a head start of thirty counts.”
She didn’t need to tell the crowd that he would be pursued. They were already holding their collective breath in anticipation.
She dropped the raider. He lunged to punch Sofi, but she slinked past his fist, grabbed his arm and shoved him in the buttocks with the sole of her foot, propelling him on the first few steps of his journey to the far end of the Plaza.
Without Sofi Tornado’s support, and the support of her squad that came with it, Ayanna could never have become empress. Sofi must have known this, but had demanded nothing—no favours, no baubles, no pyramid of her own—nothing. The woman seemed to require only a simple life of exercise and killing.
“Go!” shouted Chogolisa. “Stay here and you’ll die. Flee, and you have a chance. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.”
The man fled, sprinting like a deer from a lion. The crowd buzzed. All eyes turned to Paloma Pronghorn.
Paloma was considered the most beautiful of the Owsla, which was saying something next to the likes of Morningstar, Talisa White-tail and Sofi Tornado herself, but that was not her skill. Her nickname was accurate. Pronghorns were the fastest animals in the Calnian world; had there been a faster one, Paloma would have been named after that.
“Three, two, one!” shouted Chogolisa Earthquake. The fleeing Goachica was fast. He was a good three hundred paces away, sprinting for his life.
Paloma Pronghorn did not rush at first. She linked her hands above her head and stretched at the waist from side to side. Dropping her arms, she pulled a slim wooden club from a loop on the belt of her breechcloth.
Then she rushed.
By the Sun himself, did she rush. She tore across the arena with the speed and sound of wildfire through dry scrub in a gale.
The crowd reversed Chogolisa’s count. “One! Two!”
The eight! died on their lips as Paloma caught up with the Goachica and cracked her club into the back of his head. His legs tangled and he crashed down, rolled in a cloud of sand and was still. The fastest woman—the fastest person—who had ever lived slowed and turned in a wide circle. Ignoring her dead victim, she jogged back to the other Owsla at twice the pace that her unfortunate victim had sprinted.
Ayanna had seen this format before. Each of the Owsla would display their particular skill on individual captives. She was tempted to stay and watch Chogolisa Earthquake crushing the skull of a living man with one hand, and to see Morningstar punching through a man’s torso so that her fist protruded from his back … but her desire to find out what Chamberlain Hatho’s alchemical bundle carrier could tell her about his embassy to the south overrode all.
She made a signal to Sofi Tornado, who called an order to her women. Owsla and crowd turned to their empress and bowed.
Ayanna ascended the log steps of the pyramid, buffeted by waves of cheering from the Calnians below as the next victim was freed to be slain. Her fan bearers went ahead of her, sweeping the already spotless ground and laying newly woven reed mats for her to walk on. After this one use the reed mats would be sent to worthy citizens in the provinces who’d treasure them for the rest of their lives and be all the more loyal.
Yoki Choppa was waiting in her private court. He introduced Chippaminka. The girl was dressed in a swan-embroidered breechcloth. She had a lithe torso, pert breasts and an elfin face, but the spark of mischief and wisdom in her deep, dark eyes made Ayanna wonder if she wasn’t a good deal older than she looked. Her eyes had more of a slant and her cheeks were broader than those of the typical Calnian. If the empress had had to guess, she would have said she was from the east, perhaps a Badlander.
“Sit, Yoki Choppa,” said the empress, sinking down onto a cushion herself. It was a great relief after climbing the pyramid but she resisted the urge to let out a satisfied sigh. She might be pregnant, but it was only her first child and there was no need to behave like an aged matron quite yet.
“Chippaminka, I prefer you standing. How old are you?”
“I do not know, Empress.”
“Where are you from?”
“I do not know, Empress. I was captured as a child.”
“Captured where?”
“I do not know.”
“Who brought you up?”
“Two Water Mother merchants.”
“How did you come to be in Chamberlain Hatho’s service?”
“He saw me and asked for me.”
“Do you miss your adoptive parents?”
“No.”
Ayanna liked the girl already. She appreciated honesty and despised flummery.
“Are you sad that Chamberlain Hatho was killed?”
“He was good to me and I will miss him.”
“Did you see his death?”
“I was next to him.”
“What happened?”
“His throat was slit.”
“How did you survive?”
“I ran and hid.”
“Good. Can you tell me anything about your embassy to the southern lands?”
“I can repeat Chamberlain Hatho’s report word for word. He practised and honed it by performing it to me.”
“Excellent.” This was far better than Ayanna had dared hope. “Tell me what he would have said.”
“Would you prefer a precis with the facts retained and arranged more efficiently, and superfluous embellishment removed?”
“… yes.”
“Chamberlain Hatho detected no desire in any of the southern empires to encroach on Goachica land, and saw no opportunities for Calnia to expand southwards. Taking each empire, starting from the south …”
The girl continued. The general theme was that the empires of the south were increasingly worried by the growing strength of the Badlands empire to the west of the Water Mother. This was no surprise. The Badlanders worried Ayanna, too. Calnians did not venture west of the Water Mother and the Badlanders did not come east of it. That had been the convention for decades. But, with rumours of government-sponsored raiding and dark alchemical experiments in the Badlands, how long would it last?
While the girl talked, the empress munched on crisp, salty morsels of Goachica, carried by servant boys from the sacrifices below. Yoki Choppa poked about with a bone in his alchemical bowl. It looked like he wasn’t listening, but Ayanna knew the sour-faced little warlock would remember every word.
Potentially troubling were rumours of mass upheaval beyond the Shining Mountains in the Desert That You Don’t Walk Out Of.
“Information is scant,” said Chippaminka, “due to inaccessibility of the Desert That You Don’t Walk Out Of, but it seems that the tribes have coalesced around two warring empires. The stories are from unreliable sources, but they speak of war over a great power, which is growing greater. Some claim that the recent freak weather events, which I understand have also been happening here, are caused by this power. Some say it is centred in a place called The Meadows.”
At this, Yoki Choppa looked up and raised one eyebrow, which was the undemonstrative warlock’s version of leaping up, screaming and waving his arms around his head.
Ayanna held up a finger for the girl to pause. “What are The Meadows, Yoki Choppa?”
“Don’t know.”
“Will you investigate?”
“Yup.”
The rest of Chippaminka’s report was mostly about advances in farming and building technology. The empress listened to these with half an ear.
“Repeat all the technical details to the Head of Administration. Ask any lackeys where to find him, and ask someone to send Kimaman to me now. When you have been to the admi
nistrators, come back. I will find a role for you on my staff.” And perhaps in her bed. Ayanna usually slept with men, but the girl had an appeal.
“Thank you.” Chippaminka bowed and left, her small but plump bottom dancing below a graceful, slender back. By the way she moved, thought Ayanna, she had to be older than she looked.
Kimaman, her chief lover and the father of her unborn child, entered a few minutes later. He was so startlingly attractive and well proportioned that many thought he was a god. He wasn’t. In fact he’d become a little irksome. Ayanna liked him, perhaps even loved him, but she’d seen far too much of him recently, and, more importantly, he seemed to think that impregnating her had made him her equal, or perhaps even her superior. He needed to be reminded that it had not, and that the child would be hers, not theirs.
“You will lead … how many, Yoki Choppa, four hundred?”
“Yup.”
“You will lead four hundred warriors to Goachica lands on the banks of the Lake of the Retrieving Sturgeon. You will kill all the Goachica and their pet tribe of pale-skinned Mushroom Men to their north. The latter is particularly important—none of them must be left alive and you must raze their village and any outlying structures, leaving no trace.”
“Are you sure I’m the right man to lead the …”
“Yes. Stay away from the thick of the fighting, let the captains lead the men into battle. Take geographers to help you plan the attack. You may go.”
“Will I take the elite troops? And the Owsla?”
“You will not. Goachica’s finest warriors died attacking us, and the Mushroom Men will be easy to kill. Four hundred of the standard army will be more than enough for your task.”
“It will take, what, two weeks to get to Goachica territory?”
Ayanna looked to Yoki Choppa, who nodded.
“So I could miss the birth.”
“Are you a midwife?”
Kimaman shook his head.
“Then why will you be needed?”
“I … don’t suppose I will.”
“Indeed. Now go.”
“I … I am already on my way. Consider the Goachica destroyed.”
“And the Mushroom Men,” she added.
“Especially the Mushroom Men.” He winked at her, then swept from the room.
“There is a lone Mushroom Man,” said Yoki Choppa, “exiled by the Hardworkers. He lives with the Lakchan to the west of Goachica territory.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before I sent Kimaman away?”
“Lakchan are allies. It would be counterproductive to send an army into their lands.”
“All the Mushroom Men must die! All of them!” Ayanna was losing her cool, which she hated, but she felt very strongly about this.
Yoki Choppa regarded her levelly.
Calm, she told herself, calm. “What should I do?”
“Have the Lakchan kill him.”
“Of course. Send a runner to tell the Lakchan to kill their Mushroom Man,” she ordered the warlock. “In fact, send runners to all the northern tribes, in case any Mushroom Men escape Kimaman. Any tribe harbouring a Mushroom Man will … what would be the best threat?”
“All be killed and eaten?”
“Yes, that should do it.”
Chapter 9
Bear Paw
Frossa the Deep Minded walked with Jarl Brodir the Gorgeous back to his longhouse. It had been the most dispiriting Thing in her lifetime, all because of one stupid little girl and her family.
They ducked under the low door. Frossa helped Brodir light the torches that jabbed out from sconces along the wall. The dancing light brought life to the thousands of carvings that coated every inch of the interior. The carvings were mostly animals, real and fantastic, many of which had each other’s tails in their mouths in representation of the circle of death and life. They were everywhere, even places like the underside of chairs where nobody would ever see them. Carving was a popular activity in Hardwork.
Jarl and warlock sat on two huge buffalo-wool cushions, next to the empty hearth.
“This is a crisis,” said Brodir, stress etched into his fine features. “Unless we take action it could be the end of Hardwork. So take action we will.”
“Don’t concern your fine mind with this triviality,” said Frossa, “I already have the answer. We remove the children.”
Brodir nodded. “I agree. We could discredit their claims further, but while they keep making them there will always be those who take them seriously. But we can’t kill them, can we?”
“We can’t.” Frossa held up a finger, struggled to her feet, walked over to a chest, opened it and took out a huge, white-furred bear’s paw with thick, sharp black claws, stuffed and mounted on a short pole. It was one of Olaf’s grave treasures, liberated by Brodir.
“But Tor can send a bear to kill them as punishment for false prophecy.”
“I like it,” said Brodir. “But who would do it?”
There was a heavy rap on the door.
“I’ve arranged that,” said Frossa. “Come in!”
The door swung open. Garth Anvilchin ducked under the lintel and stood, massive and powerful, the beautifully inlaid heads of his axes the Biter Twins at his hips glimmering in the torchlight. He was beardless, not because he couldn’t grow a beard, but because he’d adopted the Scrayling custom of shaving with a sharp shell. His great anvil of a chin made him look like a saga hero or perhaps even a god. Frossa could never have sex—she would lose her magic if she did—but if she ever decided to take a man, it would be this one. He would no doubt be honoured to make love to her.
Frossa handed the bear paw to Garth. “It’s for the children.”
He nodded. “Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said the Jarl. “There’s no need to kill the girl. With the boy removed she will have no credence.”
Frossa shook her head. “I’m certain she’ll continue to make dangerous claims and people might believe her. And we must remember that the little mite loves her brother so dearly. Orphaned so young, they only have each other. It would be cruel to leave one alive.”
“So be it,” Brodir sighed. “But use the claw and nothing else, Garth, then lose it where it will never be found.”
“It will be a pleasure. It’ll probably take a few days to find an opportunity. If you want it done more quickly, the bear could break down the church’s door and kill all of Poppo’s lot tonight—him, the brats, Gunnhild, Alvilda, Brenna and Boggy.”
“No.” Frossa shook her head. “I do like that idea, but we need to show that Tor is punishing the children specifically.”
“Agreed,” said the Jarl. “Don’t rush and take care not to be found out. If you have to wait a few days, so be it. You may go now. Find Chnob the White and send him to us.”
Chnob arrived a few minutes later. Despite the ridiculous beard, or maybe because of it, Chnob was so much less of a man than Garth. While Garth had dominated the longhouse with his presence, the longhouse dominated Chnob.
Chnob seemed to realise this and jutted out his beard in an attempt to compensate. It did not work.
“When and where are the plotters meeting?” Brodir asked.
“Tomorrow at dawn, next to Olaf’s grave.”
“Have they set a time to leave?”
“No. They’ve gathered a few supplies, but it’s still theoretical. They don’t have the balls to go.”
“Is it the same group?”
“I saw Keef the Berserker and Wulf the Fat talking to Finnbogi the Boggy so it’s possible they’ve asked him, but I doubt it. I think it’s still the original fools—Wulf the Fat, Keef the Berserker, Sassa Lipchewer, Bodil Gooseface, Ogmund the Miller, my sister Thyri Treelegs and, sorry, Bjarni Chickenhead is still with them.”
“That idiot boy.” Brodir shook his head. It pained Frossa to see the distress that Bjarni caused his father. When there was a suitable gap after the deaths of the children, she would have to slip some p
oisonous fungus into Bjarni’s stash of magic mushrooms.
“How will you punish them?” asked Frossa. “Wulf, Keef, Ogmund, Bjarni and Thyri are half the Hird.”
“I don’t know, yet.” Brodir sucked his teeth. “I hope I won’t have to. We’ve all gone through the stage when we wanted to leave”—Frossa had not—“but none of us acted on it—apart from Erik the Angry, of course. Besides, you never know, something frightening like a wild animal attack might happen to dissuade them.”
He looked at Frossa meaningfully and she looked back uncomprehendingly. It was dangerous to speak like that in front of Chnob.
“What will you do if they go?” she asked.
“If we don’t manage to stop them, we’ll tell the Scraylings and let them do the work for us. Would you like immunity for Thyri, Chnob, in return for your help?”
“Why would I want that?”
“Because she’s your sister?”
“She’s a traitor and I can see no reason to treat her differently from the other plotters. Will you banish them?”
What an idiot question, thought Frossa. When Erik the Angry had been banished twenty years before, it had been a totally different situation. Besides, if you banish a group of people who want to leave, it does rather play into their hands.
“I haven’t decided,” said the Jarl. “But it shouldn’t concern you. You may leave. Return to report on their meeting.”
Chapter 10
Twin Columns
The first dawn meeting by Olaf Worldfinder’s grave mound had been Finnbogi’s favourite hour of his life so far. Most mornings Gunnhild said: “He should rise early; seldom a sluggish wolf finds prey or a sleeping man victory.” For the first ever time Finnbogi had seen the sense in that particular trite spouting.
