‘Perhaps,’ Mosolan allowed.
‘Question,’ Leoto put in, raising a finger. ‘What sources do we have on that worthless island?’
Mosolan turned to face them, clasped his hands at his back. It looked to Iko as though the Witch Jadeen’s words had affected him far more than her; the man had already been old – practically retired – before the burden of regency had fallen to him. Now he appeared positively exhausted, his lined features marked by the cares of his office. He sighed. ‘Not a one.’
* * *
The so-called ‘fortress’ at Two-River Pass occupied a wide gravel wash between the two braided arms of the river that gave it its name. After a series of falls the Two-River lost its way in the lower northern valley of the pass, and here the fortress guarded the road to Tellick on the coast.
Orjin Samarr’s troop descended the pass in the night, their way lit by a clear and bright starry sky. In the pre-dawn light they forded one arm of the river, the frigid rushing waters rising to Orjin’s waist, and marched up the gravel strand of the mid-channel island.
Vegetable plots planted in the rocky soil surrounded the fortress’s outer timber palisade. Within, peeping above the sharpened logs, rose the top of the inner tower, built of mortared river stones. He noted multiple watches on the walls pointing their way and shouting down within. The twin leaves of the palisade gate stood open, and as Orjin and his immediate lieutenants – who considered themselves something of an unofficial bodyguard – approached they were met by a cordon of Purge regulars barring the way in a shieldwall. An officer pushed through to meet with them; a tall and lean woman in a coat of leather armour, cut as overlapping scales. Eyeing them, she announced to the gate guards, ‘More survivors from the battle. You are?’
‘Captain Orjin Samarr.’
She extended a gauntleted hand, ‘Prevost Jeral.’
Orjin knew ‘prevost’ to be an ancient rank equivalent to captain. He took her hand and she nodded, then pulled off her helmet to reveal four long braids that bounced about her shoulders. She waved him onwards. ‘You are free to join us, though we are ordered to withdraw.’
‘Withdraw?’ Orjin replied, startled. ‘This is the last fortress between the pass and Purge lands …’
‘I know.’ She drew off her gauntlets and waved them towards a file of wagons, incompletely loaded with supplies and materiel.
‘Who gave the order?’ Orjin asked.
‘Two nights ago three noblemen came charging through on their way to Purage. They ordered the garrison withdrawn to help protect the city.’
Protect them more like, Orjin almost said aloud. ‘Was Baron Terrall among them?’
‘Aye, he was.’
Orjin eyed the half-loaded wagons. Two nights ago? ‘You are still evacuating?’ he asked, rather confused.
‘Oh, aye,’ Jeral answered, clearing her throat. ‘Unfortunate shortage of mules and horses. Also, a broken axle. I’ve sent a messenger to Purge to requisition adequate cartage.’
Orjin rubbed his chin to hide a smile. ‘I see. By regulation.’
She nodded, echoing his understanding. ‘All by regulation. In the meantime,’ she continued, giving him a sidelong glance, ‘if the enemy appears – we’ll just have to fight.’
This time he did not try to hide his smile. ‘If you must. Of course.’
Orjin’s troop was filing in now, and the tall leaves of the main gate were being pushed shut behind them. The prevost extended him a look. ‘And what’s your story?’
Almost wincing at what was to come, he drew a folded sheet of vellum from a waist pouch and held it out to the Purge officer. ‘We are signed with the throne.’
Jeral examined the signed sheet, the wax seals, cocked a brow. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning – by regulation – I outrank you.’
Her mouth hardened and she handed the folded sheets back. ‘Now I see. And what are your orders, sir?’
‘My intention is to slow the Quon Talian advance by any means possible, prevost.’
The smile returned to Jeral’s lips, and she saluted. ‘Excellent, sir.’ Searching among the troops, she pointed to a soldier. ‘Sergeant – unload those wagons!’
The trooper answered the woman’s smile and saluted. ‘At once, prevost.’
The officer returned her attention to Orjin and shook her head, her long braids bouncing. ‘So – your first command? Take a look.’
She led him on a tour of the fortress, such as it was. He did his best to hide his growing dismay; not only was the garrison shockingly under-supplied, but much-needed repairs were years behind. Rot in some sections of the palisade made it more dangerous to the defenders than any would-be attackers. The tower itself proved to be nothing more than a hollow three-storey stone circle, its interior flooring and joists long burned away over the decades of interminable border warfare. The installation had in fact changed hands more times than a Cawnese gambling establishment, leaving neither side interested in sinking any resources into it.
After the brief tour, Orjin and Jeral ended up at the south wall of the palisade, peering up at the steep and rocky Two-River Pass. She took hold of her long braids, one on either side of her head, and rested her arms in this manner, the way a man might tuck his hands into his belt. The gesture rather charmed Orjin, who had taken a liking to the straight-talking daughter of some minor Nom baronet. She leaned back against the sharpened palisade logs and regarded him. ‘So, your first command. Well – looks like it’s gonna be your last.’
Orjin was eyeing the steep, bare mountainsides. ‘We’ll see.’
‘There’s no way you can stop them, you know.’
He nodded. ‘You’re right. There’s no way we can stop them.’
She dropped her arms. ‘So? I won’t just throw my lads and lasses away. Perhaps we should abandon the fort.’
‘Got any locals among your troops?’
‘Locals? Yeah, I suppose. A few.’
‘Have them sent to me. I want to have a word.’ He raised his chin to the mountain slopes then gave her a look. ‘That pass – it’s damned steep. Prone to slides, I imagine.’
She glanced up and set to rubbing her chin once more. After a moment her lips crooked and her brown eyes – shot through with green – narrowed and got a sly look to them. ‘Yeah,’ she agreed, ‘all the time.’
Orjin’s lieutenants, Yune, Terath, and Orhan of Fenn, joined him and Jeral at the meeting with the local recruits – ‘recruits’ being a gentle euphemism for taxation as enforced service. These dirt-poor herders and farmers were used mainly as mountain guides and light skirmishers. Once the meeting was over, Orjin sat back from the cookfire they’d met around in the enclosed grounds of the bailey and eyed Jeral; the woman was clearly still troubled as she tapped a thumb to her lips. He cocked a brow, inviting her to speak. She let out a hard breath. ‘Okay. I get it. We hit the supply train then raid it, if possible. But what I don’t get is what about the fortress? Who’ll be down here when we’re all up the slopes?’
He nodded. ‘I will, together with a few of my picked troops.’
She snorted her disbelief. ‘Really? You’n’a few others – while I’m out runnin’ the ambush, I suppose?’ He nodded again, eyeing her steadily. ‘You’re taking a big chance.’
He just shrugged. ‘I suppose that’s entirely up to you.’
She looked away, sighing and shaking her head, appalled. ‘Crazy fucking Hood-damned lunatic.’
He poked a stick at the embers of the fire. ‘Better get going. I expect they’ll be here right on our heels.’
She stood and brushed the long leather skirtings of her coat. ‘We’ll assemble supplies and head out within the hour.’ She peered down at him for a time, her expression unreadable, then she gave a curt nod. ‘Oponn be with you.’
‘And with you.’ He waved her off.
As he’d anticipated, Terath immediately cleared her throat loudly and drawled, ‘And who’s gonna be with you on this suicidal heroic last stand?’
/>
He cast an amused look her way. ‘Why you, of course.’
She snorted her disbelief, poked a finger after Jeral. ‘Like the woman said – you’re taking a big chance. What if she decides to withdraw after all?’
Orjin shook his head. ‘She won’t.’
‘Oh? You think so? You know people so well, do you?’
He continued shaking his head while prodding the embers. ‘No. I know soldiers. And there’s no way that one would do anything that would shame her in front of her troops.’
Terath looked to the Dal Hon shaman in his robe of faded tatterdemalion rags. ‘What about you, Yune? You for this?’
The wrinkled elder shrugged. ‘It is for the captain to decide.’
Terath looked to the sky in her exasperation. ‘Why even ask a fatalist for his opinion?’ She sighed. ‘Well, it’ll be a great fight … while it lasts.’
The giant Orhan clapped her on the back and guffawed. ‘That’s the spirit!’
She mouthed curses under her breath and glared.
* * *
A lone traveller walked the sandy strand of the cliff-faced shore of south Quon Tali. He’d recently come from Horan, near to the Dal Hon border and the Forest of Horn, having been staying for many months with the priests and priestesses of the large temple to Poliel in that city.
The squat but powerfully built man travelled in a plain loincloth only, his arms, chest, and legs bare and sun-scorched, yet declaring to all his role and his calling, for tattooed upon his flesh, rising from his ankles to his shoulders and onward to his face and wrists, rode emblazoned the likeness of a rampaging boar: Fener – the god of war himself.
Though alone and unarmed he walked without fear. None in their right mind would dare accost any man or woman so inscribed, for everyone knew such an all-embracing display could only be granted by the dispensation of that very god. Likewise, the man carried no pack or other supplies; Fener would dispense all – or not.
And so the man did not flinch or cower when four robe-wrapped figures rose from the wave-splashed boulders of the rocky coast. He merely halted, crossed his arms, and waited calmly for Fener to reveal his purpose.
All four threw back their hoods, revealing two men and two women, all bearing similar boar-visage tattoos upon their faces, though, tellingly, not their arms or legs.
‘Heboric of Carasin,’ one of the men announced, ‘we are sent from your family.’
A lopsided smile crooked the priest’s heavy lips. He knew that by ‘family’ the priests and priestesses before him meant his adopted family of the faithful of Fener, not his long lost and forgotten family of birth. ‘And what word from our family?’ he asked.
‘We are concerned,’ said one of the women.
‘Concerned? Concerned for what?’
‘For your soul,’ the other woman put in bluntly.
‘And what reason have you for such concern?’
The bearded eldest of the four gestured back up the strand. ‘Your consorting with other cults! And this is not the only time, either. We know you have sought out those loyal to the damned meddling Queen of Dreams and taken consultation with them! Not to mention seeking out hermits and ascetics who affect to speak for eldritch powers, such as K’rul.’
Heboric’s thick lips crooked even deeper. ‘Heavy are my crimes indeed.’
The priest’s finger now jabbed at him. ‘Do not mock your duties to Father Boar!’
‘Enough!’ the first woman interjected – she was the youngest of the group, and was blue-hued as a native of the Napan Isles. ‘Enough, brother Eliac.’ She faced Heboric. ‘What of these charges?’
He shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘I have heard no charges – only an itinerary of my travels.’
Eliac spluttered his outrage; the young woman sighed and crossed her arms within their long loose sleeves. ‘Very well … the family is concerned that you are neglecting your sworn obligations to your god.’
Heboric inclined his head in acknowledgement of this well-mannered enquiry. He crossed his thick arms, the boar forelimb tattoos writhing and twisting as he did so. ‘I consider myself to be pursuing those very obligations with these researches.’
Brother Eliac snorted his scorn and drew breath to speak, but the young priestess raised a hand, silencing him. Heboric was impressed – for one so young to have acquired such authority spoke of great talent. She cocked her head. ‘How so?’
Heboric nodded again, pleased that the priesthood was now finally asking questions. ‘Have you not noted the disturbances among the Warrens and the gods? The strange manifestations? Ripples of power from no accountable source? A peculiar restiveness among the pantheon?’
The priestess shook her head, disappointed. ‘Heboric – none know of what you speak. Come back to the temple. A great honour could be yours among the family. Please.’
He gestured to his body. ‘I carry Fener with me no matter where I go. He may withdraw his presence whenever he wishes.’
The priestess appeared pained. ‘Do not tempt the Boar, Heboric. Withdrawal would kill you.’
‘I tempt nothing. Fener is with me. He guides my path – of this I am certain. And so the priesthood should not interfere.’
The young Napan priestess now shook her head in sadness. ‘You are determined to pursue this path …’
‘I am.’
She let out a long hard breath. ‘Very well. Who are we to intercede? May the Great Boar watch over you.’
Brother Eliac pointed down the strand. ‘This path leads only to death, fool. None return from the Isle of the Cursed.’
Heboric offered up a sideways mocking smile. ‘Know you not, brother, that those living there have another name for their home? They name it Poliel’s Isle of the Blessed.’
Eliac shuddered within his robes. ‘They are exiled. They bear the taint of the rotting flesh. Travel there and you too shall be exiled – for life.’
Heboric gave a wink. ‘I, brother Eliac, trust in Fener.’ And, bowing, he carried on his way. None shouted after him, and none pursued. Nor would they again, he knew. For though a place high within the priesthood of the Boar might have been his, it was this mission that possessed him. Let the others climb the dreary career rungs of the priestly hierarchy – he had been called. He felt it. And he would pursue it no matter what fate may await.
Chapter 5
In early winter word came to Silk requesting his least favourite duty. The bureaucrats who actually ran the day to day activities of the city, the record-keepers who granted deeds, oversaw the maintenance of roads, sewage tunnels and gutters – all the mundane administrative requirements that any large population requires – had forwarded to him a request to look into disturbances in the western caravanserai district.
Disturbances and complaints that involved an alleged local talent.
It happened once or twice a year. Either a new local talent had emerged, or someone new had come to the city who didn’t know, or was defying, the rules the Protectress had set forth. In either case, one of the five city mages had to look into it and it was his turn.
And so one chilly morning he wrapped a thick cloak about himself and set forth. Of course he was also armed, as occasionally – despite his best efforts to keep things civil – these confrontations turned violent.
Those city bureaucrats had obviously dithered over this problem until the complaints became overwhelming, because no sooner had Silk entered the district than local shopkeepers and residents came clamouring. They pointed out the business – one of the many stablers serving the caravans – and recounted stories of lost sheep and goats, missing dogs, even, some whispered, missing children, all taken by this shapeshifting winged demon child who resided, apparently, above the stables.
Silk raised his hands to quell everyone, and nodded his tired assurances. He regarded the closed and shuttered building. A shapeshifter? Hardly. No soletaken was likely to come to Heng given its ages-long feud with the man-beast Ryllandaras.
He banged on the
closed front double doors, now probably barred against the angry neighbours.
‘Go away, damn you,’ a gruff voice answered.
‘It is Silk, city mage. Here on order of the Protectress. You cannot keep me out.’
Silence, then a clatter as a smaller entrance in the broad doors was unbarred. It opened and Silk stepped in. The first thing he noticed in the slanting light cutting in through gaps in the clapboard siding was that every stall was empty. Next he took in the fellow facing him: old and beaten down in a stained leather apron. Silk merely cocked a questioning eye. The man raised his chin to the stairs. ‘The loft,’ he ground out, hands clenched at his apron.
Silk nodded at this, then climbed. A trapdoor led to the upper loft and here he found dusty old crates and bundles of tattered horse-blankets, old cracked leather tack and other equipment hanging from rafters, and amid this jumble, hunched on a box and wrapped in one of the dirty old horse-blankets, a young girl. A tiny yellow songbird fluttered about one of her hands, alighting from one finger to the next. When he drew near, the bird shot off through an open window.
He sat next to her and sighed loudly. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse – probably from crying.
‘You know why I am here?’
‘Yes.’
Her head was hung so low he could not see her face, but in the silence he carefully raised his Warren and studied her. Her strong aura told of talent – but of a strange sort. Not drawn from any of the Warrens he was familiar with. Yet it was there. Old. And wild.
No wonder she’d avoided detection for so long – this aspect was completely unknown to him.
After they’d sat in silence for some time he asked, ‘And what will you do?’
She hugged herself. ‘I will go away.’
He nodded at this, peered round. Bird feathers lay everywhere yet not one bird was in evidence. Now he remembered hearing stories of some sort of bird-tamer in town. ‘Where are your pets?’ he asked.
‘I sent them away,’ she whispered, pain in her voice. ‘People were throwing rocks at them.’
Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy) Page 8
