by R. S. Ford
It had been thirty days since they’d found her in the desert. Now she was unrecognisable from the husk they’d discovered. The muscle had returned to bulk out her shoulders and her hair had grown over an inch. Despite Garvin’s subtle questioning about her past, Silver still had no recollection of where she had come from or who she really was. She had thought that given enough time the memories would return but so far they continued to elude her.
In turn, Silver had learned that Garvin lost his wife in childbirth and raised his sons alone. The pain of that loss was obvious, despite his attempts to hide it. She would catch him now and again staring toward the distant horizon with pain on his face, memories of a past that he would never regain. Silver could only envy him that. Memories of her own, no matter how painful, would have been a blessing. But there was nothing. Only her nightmares of a life she could not possibly have lived, fighting an endless battle against impossible foes.
Perhaps her memories would return to her. Perhaps not. Either way, she was happy with this life, alongside Garvin and the boys, and that would be enough for now.
The eastern outpost of Stafkarl came into view, the path gradually becoming easier to pull their cart along the closer they got. It wasn’t much of a settlement – a few ragged huts arranged in two rows, but Garvin said it was the closest thing to civilisation until Kantor, twenty miles further along the road. Once they had pulled their cart along the street and up to the trading post, Garvin dropped the strap from his shoulder and leaned back to stretch his tired muscles.
‘Nothing to it,’ he said to her with a wink.
She smiled back at him, taking the strap from her own shoulder and flexing her arm, more for show than because it ached.
He threw one of the bags of corn over his shoulder and walked up the creaky wooden steps to the trading post. Silver was tempted to take two bags, it would have been easy enough, but she had to spare Garvin. He was proud, of that Silver had no doubt, and she would never have thought to shame him by showing her true strength.
Inside, the trader and his wife gratefully took the corn, exchanging it for the essentials they’d need to see them through the next season.
Back out in the street, Garvin finished packing the cart for the return journey.
‘Longfeather,’ said a voice behind them. Silver turned to see an old man looking at them with a wry smile.
‘Hedren,’ Garvin replied.
‘Supplies for the winter?’ Garvin opened his mouth to reply but the old man was too quick with his next question. ‘And who’s your friend?’
She could see the subtle look of discomfort cross Garvin’s face. Whoever this old man was it was clear Garvin was none too keen to let him know the truth.
‘Her name’s Silver. Traveller helping out on the farm. She’s just passing through.’
Hedren nodded. ‘Just passing through?’ He stared at her and she held his gaze. ‘It’s dangerous on the road. Especially for a woman travelling alone. You must have the Fool’s own luck with you.’
She gave no answer, just stared at the old man. But then what would she have said? There was no way she could have explained her survival even had she wanted to.
‘She’s lucky for me, anyhow,’ said Garvin, before the silence became too uncomfortable. ‘Been a great help around the farm. I’ll be sorry to lose her when she moves on.’
‘I’m sure.’ Hedren gave her an appraising look up and down. ‘Anyway, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve a long walk ahead.’
Garvin tugged his forelock and Silver continued to watch the old man as he said his goodbyes and wandered off down the street.
They finished packing the cart and made their way out of Stafkarl. Silver noted Garvin’s haste as he did so, clearly none too keen to answer any more questions.
When they were halfway back, and Garvin was sweating heavily once more, she felt the need to ask.
‘What are you trying to protect me from, Garvin?’
He continued to pull the cart and she wondered if he’d heard her at all.
‘People don’t need to know our business,’ Garvin said. ‘Especially not Hedren. If the aldermen knew the truth there’d be all hell to pay.’
‘Because I know nothing of my past?’
‘And because you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever seen. Because you heal faster than anyone has a right to.’
‘If I’m causing you trouble, you should tell me. If I’m just passing through there’s no reason I can’t be gone tomorrow.’
Garvin stopped, letting go of his side of the cart. Silver still held up the load on her own. ‘There’s no reason for you to go. We need to be careful, is all.’
‘So you want me to stay?’ she asked.
He smiled at that. ‘Do you want me to say it? All right then, I want you to stay. I need you. The boys need you.’
She smiled back at him. ‘That’s settled then.’
He picked up the strap once more and they carried on the rest of the way in silence. The smile stayed on Silver’s face all the way. She was relieved. Where would she have gone had Garvin asked her to leave? Besides, she had grown fond of him and his sons; she wanted to stay with them for as long as she could. It was obvious Garvin was fond of her too, and wanted to protect her. That made her happier than anything.
The boys were eagerly awaiting them back at the homestead. Fenn ran to greet them, hugging his father tightly, then Silver, before he shook himself free of her grip and peered into the back of the cart to see if they had brought him any treats. He was disappointed with the drab supplies of dried meat, oil, fabric and other sundries, but if he had expected new books or the occasional sweet candies Garvin sometimes brought he made no complaint.
Darrick merely stood and watched as they began to unload the cart. He was wary of Silver, that much was obvious, but now he seemed much less afraid. She knew it would be a hard task to make him fully trust her.
Later they prepared dinner. Fenn filled the kitchen with his usual chatter and it took Silver some time to realise that, for the first time since she had walked out of the desert, she felt comfortable. She felt safe.
After they had eaten, Garvin read to them from a book he had procured from the market, an old tale of ancient heroes which the boys loved. As they sat, Fenn leaned against Silver, his head nodding until eventually he was asleep on her lap.
Garvin eventually finished his tale and told Darrick it was time to go to bed. Silver expected him to take Fenn’s sleeping form from her but instead he looked at her expectantly. Gently she picked the boy up and carried him to the room he shared with his brother.
After putting Fenn to bed and closing the door, she turned to see Garvin watching her in the dark. He gave her a strange look she couldn’t read before averting his eyes.
‘Goodnight, Silver,’ he said, moving into his room and pushing the door to.
She went to her own room, undressing and donning the plain linen gown Garvin had given her. It belonged to his wife, one of the few things of hers he had kept, and Silver appreciated the gift. Such a thing must have held much sentiment for Garvin.
As she sat in the dark on the edge of her bed she glanced at the door. Longing was building inside her. Garvin was a good man, a strong man. She realised how much she wanted him. How much she had become used to his boys and the protection of this house.
Silently she stood, moving to his room. The hinge creaked when she opened his door and she saw him stir in his bed as she entered. Garvin looked up as she moved forward and in the scant light of the room she stood for a moment. He made to speak and she reached out a hand, placing her finger on his lips, the other moving to slip the linen strap of her nightgown from over one shoulder.
Garvin sat up slightly as the nightgown slid to the floor and she moved forward, sitting astride him as he lay in bed. Gently she leaned forward, kissing his lips before he could try and speak again.
He reached up, his fingers tracing her lean hips and she could feel him growing harder bene
ath the covers. She kissed him firmly, her tongue sliding into his mouth and he moaned with excitement as she pushed herself against him. His hands grasped her buttocks, pulling her closer and she let out a moan of her own, pulling back from his kiss and tearing the blanket from him.
His body was lean, hardened by the desert and years of labour on the farm. She breathed faster, her hand pushing against his firm chest as she eased herself atop him, feeling him deep inside.
Garvin grasped her wrist and she realised she had raked his flesh with her nails, leaving track marks visible in what moonlight encroached into the room. It only served to stir her further as she let out a sound from deep within, grinding her hips down against him.
Red flashed in a spatter. Warm on her cheek, the taste of it coppery on her lips. Roaring in her ears, a cacophony of inhuman noise. Rage. The spear reassuring in her fist. Its song rising above the screams. The crimson thirst of battle had overcome her. A frenzy of blood hunger taking control. Her own infernal roar carried across the field, striking at the hearts of a thousand enemies.
Silver opened her eyes to see Garvin staring at her. She was breathing heavily, gasping in the quiet aftermath of her lust. He breathed deeply too, the sweat on him gleaming, and for untold moments they simply stared at each other as though neither of them could quite fathom what had happened.
Eventually she settled into the crook of his arm as he was overcome by sleep. She watched him in the dark, matching her breathing to his as he slept, her fingers tracing the scratches she had left on his flesh.
When eventually she succumbed to sleep it was unspoiled by nightmares for the first time since she could remember.
All the Thirteen went to war,
The Jackdaw and the Raven King,
Magpie with its gilded claw,
A purple stripe upon its wing.
Cormorant was quick at hand,
A golden fish within its beak,
Owl and Falcon swept the land,
Their talons drawn for prey to seek.
Carrion Crow and Vulture soared,
And stripped their meat from out the dead,
Rook came hunting with its horde,
A crown of blood about its head.
Jay and Dove and Nightingale,
Raised songs of peace to quell the fight,
None were heard above the hail,
And could not stop the fall of night.
As they fought, in secret lay
The thirteenth of them with no name,
Still it watches to this day,
Till it can soar and end the game.
‘The Thirteen’, a Canbrian rhyme
11
Canbria, 105 years after the Fall
LIVIA led the horse diligently. Ben watched her from behind the plough, his gnarled hands gripping the handles for all he was worth. Occasionally he’d glance back down to watch the share cutting a furrow in the soft earth, but Livia kept their old dray steady and straight. It made his job that much easier.
As he watched her black hair blowing in the breeze, her skirt trailing in the mud all spattered and frayed, he felt that old guilt again. She was seventeen summers. Clever. Beautiful. She was worth so much more than this. But what would he do without her? Ben Harrow was an old man now, and every year the work got harder. Work he’d been doing most of his life, which had seemed so easy in years gone by. Work he’d been suited to when he was a younger man. If she left – if he let her go and pursue some other life she deserved – the farm would collapse.
Not that she’d ever leave him. It wasn’t in her nature. She was the kindest girl he’d known in all his days, and he didn’t just think that because she was his blood.
Livia wasn’t his daughter, not even his granddaughter, but he’d brought her up as his own since she could just about walk. When the Mercenary Barons had come looking for war Livia’s father, Ben’s nephew, had answered the king’s call. He’d never returned. Livia’s mother had lasted a whole season before the grief had gotten too much and she had taken her own life, flinging herself from Cutler’s Point like so many others over the years. There was just the two of them left. Them and the farm. It was all Livia had ever known.
She turned as he watched her, face all muddy but her brown eyes big and shining out from the dirt. Her smile was warm and white in the midst of that filthy face. It filled Ben with a joy he’d never be able to express. He smiled back, his own face all cragged, teeth broken where he had them. Then she patted the dray and turned back, looking on at the horizon, leading him ever on.
In a way she’d always led him; she’d always given him hope. When she’d been a child he’d had to stay strong for her. Now she was a woman grown he needed her more than ever. More than she’d ever needed him. It hurt, but that was the reality of it. If Ben had been a braver or stronger man he’d have given her enough coin, sent her off to Gadingham or Mountgale to learn a craft, to use her cleverness for something more than farm labour. But Ben had never been much for bravery, and his days of being strong were long behind him. Best to stick to what you knew and not think too long and hard on what you couldn’t change. With the smile fading from his face, old Ben turned his attention back to his plough.
The days were growing lighter but the dark still fell far too quickly. They’d only managed half a field before it got too dark to work anymore and Ben and Livia unharnessed the horse and began to make their way back to the farmhouse.
‘Good day’s work, while it lasted,’ Ben said.
‘I know,’ Livia replied, leading the black horse beside her, running one hand along his neck and mane as though thanking him for the work he’d done.
‘We can start the sowing—’
‘Tell me one of the old stories again,’ Livia asked.
Ben smiled. As much as he wanted to talk about farm work she was always more interested in the tales he told. Ben knew the labour bored her. She was far too bright for it and it was the least he could do to humour her.
‘All right. Which one do you want?’
She pursed her lips, chewing the inside of her cheek like she always did when she was thinking.
‘The Fall,’ she said with a smile.
Ben shook his head. ‘It’s always about the Fall,’ he replied, looking at her in the hope she’d change her mind. She just stared back. There was no changing Livia’s mind once it was made. ‘All right. Which story?’
‘The Blood Lords, I think.’
‘Very well. The Mage Lords of Ramadi. Masters of the Seven Deserts. Keepers of the Eternal Eye. For five thousand years they ruled in the north, building vast cities in the sand where no city had any business to be. It was said they could eat men’s souls and talk with the dead. That each would live a span of nine hundred years before—’
‘Eight hundred,’ Livia interrupted.
‘Who’s telling this?’ said Ben, raising an eyebrow at her.
‘Last time it was eight hundred.’
Ben nodded. She was probably right; he could barely remember the details and Livia most likely knew the stories better than he did. But she liked the way he told them, so there was no arguing the point.
‘All right. It was said each would live a span of eight hundred years before they would have to be reborn in their foul blood rituals…’
At the mention of blood rituals he could see Livia smiling in the waning light. The stories used to scare her when she was younger but now they just filled her with a grim mirth.
Ben went on with his story, describing how the Blood Lords had ruled with steel and flame. How they held the northern half of the continent in their demonic fist and spread their influence throughout the kingdoms to the south. How wars were fought to stem their bloody tide and how they bred fearsome warriors to do their bidding. About how they planned to conquer all of the known lands and they might have succeeded, had it not been for the Fall, when in a single night all magic was inexplicably drawn from the world, leaving the Blood Lords powerless. Many of them crumbled to dust
, their unnaturally long lives coming to a sudden and gruesome end. The rest vied for what little power remained, starting a civil war that would be fought perpetually until the present day.
Livia listened intently all the while. How she loved Ben’s stories of foreign lands. How her eyes lit up at the thought of far-off places and grim warriors. It was no surprise – the girl had never been further from their farm than Bardum Market and the grimmest warrior she ever saw was Cabul the Blacksmith. And he was hardly the square-jawed hero of legend.
When they were within a half-mile of the farm they could hear Jake barking into the night. He raced towards them through the dark. Livia laughed as their dog jumped up between them, licking Ben’s hand and pawing at Livia’s skirts. He whined like they’d been away for weeks and not just since dawn. Their dray whickered at the excited dog.
Jake raced around them as they walked the rest of the way to the farm. Ben stabled the horse, giving him a quick brush down and some feed while Livia started a fire and put the remains of yesterday’s stew onto heat.
When Ben walked out of the stable he saw Livia had lit every lantern in the garden, as she always did. He’d already chided her about it being an unnecessary luxury, but she’d insisted on making sure he could see where he was going in the night. ‘Last thing I need is you tripping in the dark, old man,’ she’d said. He’d scowled at her for that one, but deep down he knew she had a point.
As he made his way back to the cottage he glanced mournfully down at the flower patch he’d seeded. Not a single bloom was poking through the soil. No matter how he’d tended and watered it, nothing seemed to grow. Ben had been an expert in growing crops all his life, but when it came to flowers it was like he’d been cursed. No one needed flowers on a farm, but he’d wanted something pretty for Livia to look at. The house was full of wildflowers she’d picked from the hedgerows and it might have been nice for her to have something of her own.
