by Anthony Ryan
“He’ll sleep a while,” Weaver said, turning to Frentis with a stern expression. “Freedom will not be won with cruelty.”
Frentis rubbed his jaw, feeling the bruise already beginning to form and the iron tang of blood on his tongue. “I’ll leave it in your hands next time.”
They built a pyre for Lissel’s husband in the courtyard, liberally dousing the stacked wood with oil before doing the same to the villa. She had left the owner alive, though he was barely conscious, hanging bloodied and ruined from the posts. She had borrowed a knife from Illian and a small red lump was visible in the large pool of blood beneath his splayed legs. Frentis assumed he would probably find the flames a mercy.
They moved east as the sky dimmed, the burning villa casting a tall column of smoke into the air at their backs. The stables had yielded half a dozen carts but only enough horses for ten riders. Frentis sent Master Rensial and Lekran to scout their route and set the others on either side of their small column. The freed Varitai sat in the back of one of the carts, head lolling and features drawn in a perpetual frown of deep confusion. They had managed to elicit only a few words from him; naming himself only as Eight before voicing a keenly expressed desire to know when he would receive his next dose of karn.
“It’s a mix of various drugs,” Thirty-Four explained. “Subdues the spirit, dulls the memory and captures the will. He will feel its absence tonight.”
Frentis recalled the nights Thirty-Four had spent writhing and moaning in the forest after he had discarded his own vial. His recovery had been swift but he was a man of considerable inner strength and had at least the memory of freedom, whilst this Eight had clearly been a slave since birth.
“Have we freed this man or cursed him?” he wondered aloud.
“Freedom is never a curse, brother,” Thirty-Four insisted. “But it is often a hard road.”
Frentis turned as a shout came from the rear, finding a small group of figures running from the burning villa. He tugged his horse to a halt and waited as they came into view, Tekrav followed by the clutch of girls plus a few of the younger male slaves, all burdened with various bundles of clothing and valuables.
Tekrav came to a halt a few yards away, chest heaving and staring up at Frentis with a desperate appeal. Behind him the girls and the men huddled together, not so fearful as before, but still wary.
“Honoured Citizen…” Tekrav began, falling silent as Frentis held up a hand.
“My name is Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order,” he said. “If you join us, you will be free but you will also be soldiers. I offer no protection and promise no victory.”
Tekrav hesitated, glancing back at his companions in search of guidance. They shuffled uncomfortably until one spoke up, a dark-skinned girl no more than twenty, her voice coloured by a faint Alpiran accent. “Your men will not touch us?”
“Not unless you want them to,” Draker said, quickly lowering his gaze at Frentis’s glare.
“You will not be mistreated in any way,” Frentis promised the girl.
She exchanged glances with the others then stepped forward with a nod. “We will join you.”
Frentis briefly scanned the bundles they carried, picking out the telltale gleam of gold and silver amongst the rolled blankets and clothing. “Keep hold of any weapons,” he said. “But we cannot be burdened with loot. Discard it.”
He sat and waited until they complied, tossing away their shiny cups and plates with varying degrees of reluctance, Tekrav wincing as he gently laid a small, gold-embroidered tapestry on the ground.
“Sister Illian,” Frentis called her over. “These people are in your care. Commence their training on the morrow.”
They came upon the horse breeder’s villa the next day, finding it far richer in spoils but also much better protected, boasting a complement of over thirty house Varitai. It sat atop a wide hill surrounded by enclosed fields where horses were set to grazing and mounted Varitai moved in well-organised patrols.
“Not an easy prospect, brother,” Draker said. They had crawled to the top of a rise a half mile away. “If I was looking for a likely place to steal, I’d pass this by.”
“We fight our way in,” Lekran said with a shrug.
“It’ll cost us,” Draker warned. “And we’ve scant swords to lose.”
Frentis suppressed a groan. He had resumed taking Brother Kehlan’s sleeping draught the night before and the resultant headache left him impatient to get on and tempted to accede to Lekran’s desire for a fight. He was about to order them to their mounts when Illian dropped down beside him, the Alpiran girl from the villa crouching at her side. “Brother,” Illian said. “I believe our new recruit has some intelligence to impart, but my Volarian is too poor to discern her meaning.”
The girl blanched a little as Frentis and the two men turned to her, looking down and stumbling over her first words. “What is your name?” Frentis asked her in his broken Alpiran.
She lifted her gaze, a faint smile playing over her lips and making him wonder how long it had been since she heard her own language. “Lemera.”
“Your words have value, Lemera,” he told her, switching back to Volarian. “Speak on.”
“I have been to this place.” She pointed at the villa. “The master sent me and two others. We were … amusements for the owner’s son on his birthday. That was almost a year ago.”
Frentis turned to Lekran who grinned and nodded. “We kept the Varitai’s armour.”
In the event they suffered but one casualty, one of the newly freed Realm folk displaying an over-abundance of courage when Illian led them over the wall that shielded the villa’s southern side. The main house had already fallen and the remaining Varitai were being forced back into the central courtyard, formed in a tight ring around their master and his family. He had made the mistake of coming to greet them at the main entrance, his broad grin disappearing as Tekrav’s black silk mask fell away from his face and Lekran’s axe hacked down the nearest Varitai. Despite his shock, the master’s wits were quick enough to organise a hasty defence as he fled back inside, though not quick enough to organise an escape, which should have been his first priority.
Frentis had pulled his fighters back from the dense knot of Varitai and set the archers to work when Illian’s recruits came over the wall. The young man had run at the Varitai unarmoured and armed with only a small wood-axe, his face betraying a depth of hatred nurtured over the months of his captivity. He managed to bury the axe in the skull of a Varitai before a dozen rapid sword strokes cut him down. However, he had disordered their ranks sufficiently for the following recruits to pile in and break their formation apart, the men hacking away with clubs and axes and the girls stabbing with the daggers Illian had distributed. Cursing, Frentis raised his sword and led his fighters into the fray, Lekran voicing a joyful whoop as he leapt and bore a Varitai to the ground, both feet planted on his breastplate and axe sweeping down.
It was over in a few moments, all the Varitai slain along with the master and his family. The master lay across the bodies of his wife and son, a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his father’s black silks rent in a dozen places and soaked with blood.
“I tried to hold them, brother,” Illian said, face lowered in contrition. “But the Realm folk are full of rage and the others can’t understand a word I say.”
His rebuke died on his lips in the face of her evident dismay. “Gather the weapons and armour,” he told her. “Then search the villa. Take any documents you find to Thirty-Four.”
Draker called to him from atop the west-facing wall, waving his club. “Riders coming in, brother.”
Frentis ran outside where Rensial waited, mounted with sword drawn. Frentis mounted his own horse and unhitched his bow from the saddle. “Master,” he said, trotting his mount to Rensial’s side. “Shall we?”
They managed to take two of the riders alive, both knocked senseless when they tumbled from their mounts as Rensial’s sword neatly severed
the ties of their saddles. Frentis accounted for the remainder with his bow, none of the Varitai coming close enough to press a charge and displaying a typical failure to realise the hopelessness of their cause.
As promised he gave the captives over to Weaver. Vaelin had intimated the man was possessed of a confused mind, and his behaviour during the voyage had done much to confirm it, so it was strange to witness the grim understanding on his face as he surveyed the two unconscious Varitai. “Great pain,” he said softly.
“Pain can bring freedom.” Frentis held up the satchel containing their supply of the Lonak elixir. “It freed me. It will free them, with your help.”
The screams were terrible, rising high into the night sky as they gathered in the courtyard to eat a meal of looted spoils. The freed slaves had proved even less welcoming of liberation than at the first villa, several weeping at the sight of their master’s body. “He was sparing with the whip,” Lemera explained. “Allowed the children he fathered on the pleasure slaves to live. Usually they are exposed and left to die. He would keep them until they were old enough to sell. A generous man.”
“These people are fucking disgusting,” Draker said when Thirty-Four translated, casting a dark glower at the slaves keening over the master’s body. “Shut up you simpering dogs!” They scattered as he threw a half-eaten chicken leg at them, fleeing into the darkness or retreating to their quarters, too fearful to even ask about their fate.
The Varitai’s screams ended abruptly, heralding a silence that seemed to last an age. Frentis scanned the faces of his veterans at the fire, for the first time seeing a grim understanding of the magnitude of their task. A handful against an empire was always a hopeless cause. He had known it from the day they sailed, but had they?
“Should we go after the runners?” Illian asked, breaking the silence. “They’ll no doubt spread warning of our arrival.”
“Good,” Frentis said. “We are here to cause as much fear and confusion as possible.”
“We need more fighters,” Lekran stated. “The cowards we keep finding won’t make an army.”
“Then we may be in luck.” Thirty-Four produced a large ledger, opening it to reveal row after row of neatly inscribed figures. “The master’s scribe kept excellent records. It seems he did much business with a Varikum to the south.”
“Varikum?” Frentis asked. “I don’t know this word.”
“Training school,” Lekran translated. “For the Garisai, those chosen to partake in the spectacles.”
“Slaves?”
He nodded. “But not like Varitai or Kuritai. No binding for them. Captured in war and chosen for strength, or savagery. Nearly got sent to one myself but the Kuritai quota was light that year.”
“It will be well defended,” Thirty-Four advised. “Inside and out.”
Frentis turned to Lemera, noticing for the first time the perfection of her profile, skin smooth and flawless. A few hours ago he had seen her stabbing at the master’s body, teeth bared and voicing a joyful laugh every time the knife came down. “It’s a rare man who can guard against beauty,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vaelin
Wise Bear called it The Long Night, the time when the sun vanished from the ice for a full month, its coming heralded by the shortened days and the increased brightness of Grishak’s Breath. “Must reach islands before it comes,” he had warned the first day they set foot on the ice. “Long Night kills all.”
The first week had been easier than expected, the novelty of traversing such a vast and stark environment doing much to dispel their discomfort at the ever-deepening cold. Wise Bear led the way, moving with short economical strides with Iron Claw lumbering along behind. The great bear would sometimes disappear for a day, returning with dried blood on his snout though Vaelin was baffled as to what prey it had managed to find. To him the ice seemed as barren as the Alpiran desert, a place void of life for all its beauty, fully revealed at twilight when the green-tinged fire danced in the sky and the ice became a mirror to its majesty. The Lonak would fall into a reverent hush when the sun fell, whispering thanks for Grishak’s blessing.
Wise Bear seemed to hold a similar reverence for the dancing sky lights, greeting their appearance by sinking to his knees and holding his bone-staff aloft, a lilting song rising from his throat. Vaelin had yet to hear the shaman speak of any god but it was clear the sky-fire held considerable significance.
“He’s not praying,” Kiral said one evening as Vaelin’s gaze went to the old man, her face sombre as her song related the meaning of Wise Bear’s lilting ode. “He offers greetings to his wife and the children they lost on the ice.”
Vaelin looked up at the swirling green fire, watching it coalesce and break apart in an unending dance. It might resemble flame but there was no fury to it, the constant swirl conveying a strange sense of serenity. “He thinks she’s up there?” he asked.
“He knows it. Every soul that ever lived is there, looking down on us until the world’s end.”
The Beyond made real, Vaelin mused, watching Wise Bear finish his song and lever himself upright with his staff. At least he can see the object of his faith.
They moved only in daylight at first, horses and ponies laden with supplies and dragging the sleds Wise Bear had them make before leaving the shore, simple frames of twisted gorse branches skidding along on runners fashioned from seal-bone. Scar, like all the horses, had shied the first time his hoof touched the ice, eyes widening in alarm at the unfamiliar sensation, only consenting to venture further at Vaelin’s gentle insistence. Even after several days the animal still displayed a wariness of his new surroundings, as if understanding the grim warning Wise Bear imparted when they set off: “Horses won’t last. Have to eat them before the end.”
As the days grew shorter the shaman kept them moving into the night, until the last vestige of luminescence lit the horizon, leaving only enough light to see by as they made their camp. The nightly fires were small, their supply of wood quickly diminishing and augmented by horse dung which burned well but birthed a foul stench, cloying at clothes and hair.
“What a grand adventure you lead us on, my lord,” Lorkan said one evening, his red-nosed face scarcely visible amidst the swaddle of seal fur, his misting breath leaving icicles on the hem of his hood. “Cold that cuts to the bone and the stink of shit from morn to night. If I have failed to say so before, please accept my humble gratitude for the opportunity to partake of such momentous history.”
“Shut up,” Cara told him wearily. She sat as close to the fire as she could, her face a worrying shade of white. The past days had been harder on her than any other in their company, seeing her stumble on at the tail end of their narrow line, shaking her head at Dahrena’s entreaties that she ride her pony for a while. I should have sent her back to the Reaches, Vaelin thought, a pang of guilt prickling his chest as Cara held her mittened hands to the fire, her eyes a dull gleam in dark hollows. She gave enough at Alltor.
Wise Bear appeared at Cara’s side, stooping to peer into her face with a critical frown before straightening, his expression one of hard reproach as he looked from Dahrena to Marken. “Why you not share?” he demanded.
Marken frowned at him, heavy brows bunching in bafflement. “Share what? She is welcome to my rations.”
“Cah!” Wise Bear pointed his bone-staff at the large Gifted, sweeping it round to point at Lorkan, Dahrena and Kiral in turn. “Not meat. Share power.” He laid a gentle hand on Cara’s head, his voice softening with a faint tone of regret. “She is needed.”
Dahrena leaned forward, her expression intent. “How? How do we share?”
Wise Bear stared at her for a moment then uttered a cackle of realisation. “Know so little,” he said, shaking his head. He bent down to guide Cara to her feet and took her hand, holding his other out to Dahrena. “All share.”
Dahrena rose to take his hand, soon joined by a cautious but clearly intrigued Kiral. Marken hesitated then went to take th
e huntress’s outstretched hand. Lorkan, however, sat still and stared at them with sullen reluctance until Vaelin gave him an insistent prod with the tip of his scabbard. He got slowly to his feet but kept his arms crossed, his gaze lingering on Cara as she swayed a little from fatigue. “How do we know it won’t hurt her?” he asked.
“No hurting,” Wise Bear assured him. “Only need small power from each.”
“It’s all right, Lorkan,” Cara said, smiling a little as she held out her hand. “If I trust him, so should you.”
Vaelin stood as Lorkan completed the circle, casting a careful eye over the Lonak, sensing their sudden unease. Some murmured softly and turned their backs to walk away. A few lingered, shuffling in discomfort but seemingly unable to resist the sight of the Gifted, or the palpable change in the air around them; a new warmth that prickled the skin and drew a thin mist from the ice beneath their feet. They stood in utter stillness, hands clasped and silent, their features placid, even content, a small smile appearing on Cara’s lips as the warmth deepened and they became wreathed in mist, a thin pool of melt-water playing about their fur-wrapped feet.
Vaelin found himself shamed by a sudden surge of envy, an unwelcome knowledge that such things were lost to him now. At Alltor he had thought himself the master of his song, finding a sense of completion amongst all the blood and carnage. I was still just a child, he realised, fighting a burgeoning sense of resentful despair, his gaze fixing on Wise Bear. How much could he have told me?
Cara gave an abrupt gasp, opening her hands to break the circle, her smile turning into a delighted laugh, cheeks flushed with a healthy pinkness. The others seemed similarly enlivened, Marken pulling the girl into an embrace and lifting her with a happy bellow, the others all exchanging glances rich in shared joy. Dahrena touched hands with Kiral, their faces bright with an identical expression of understanding. She caught sight of Vaelin and laughed, rushing to wrap her arms around him, her breath hot on his face as she raised herself to plant a kiss on his lips. Looking down at her wide-eyed, honest exuberance, he pulled her close, his resentment withering away.
