Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  He nodded again. ‘Ah. They’ll do that.’

  ‘They threw them at me, too.’

  ‘I’m sorry. They’re just frightened. Ignorant and frightened.’

  ‘At first it was fine,’ she said, almost dreamily. ‘I made money for Father healing and taming animals.’ Her voice hardened. ‘But then people began to whisper against me. Claimed I’d made pacts with demons or some such stupid thing.’

  ‘And the disappearing animals?’

  She made an airy gesture. ‘Hunters must hunt.’

  ‘I see. Well … best you go soon.’

  She nodded. ‘Tonight. Father will give me a cart and a mule.’

  ‘And where will you go? There are schools in Unta or Kan that may take you in. Help train you.’

  She gently shook her head at his suggestion. ‘No. There are none who can train me. I will go north.’

  Silk was surprised. ‘North? There’s nothing to the north.’

  ‘There are the mountains.’

  ‘You will not survive, child.’

  Her head remained lowered, but at one cheek he thought he discerned the hint of a secretive smile. ‘Yes I will.’

  He pressed his hands to his thighs. ‘Well … that is your business, of course. Mine is done. Remain, and we of the Five will see you out – understood?’

  She jerked a nod.

  ‘Very well.’ He stood and stared down at the young girl for a time. So tiny and frail-looking. Dare he say, bird-like? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, at length, and headed for the trapdoor. Descending, he paused, peering back, and asked, ‘Why north – if I may?’

  Her back to him, she answered, ‘I have a promise to keep to an old friend.’

  At midnight of that very evening the guards of the Westward Gate of the Dusk were shaken out of their lazy dozing by the arrival of a cloaked city mage who ordered one leaf of the broad double gate opened. Shortly thereafter they eyed one another in puzzlement as a battered cart drawn by a single mule came clattering through the gate and continued onward up the Grand Trader Road.

  The sleepy guards, Silk knew, did not notice the dark shapes passing overhead, but he did. An enormous flock of knife-winged silhouettes: birds of prey, and damned large ones, wafting westward high above the cart. He cocked a brow in acknowledgement – yes, this one would survive.

  While he watched from the wall the cart lurched off the road and headed north along a track. The shapes lazily circling above shifted to follow.

  * * *

  Tayschrenn had called a meeting of the mages who to date had enlisted with the formal mage cadre, as distinguished from the minor talents who served as battle mages. Gathered here atop a grassed hill outside Malaz were he, the short and burly Hairlock, the youthful-appearing Calot, and the woman Nightchill, who he speculated must be some type of sorceress. She no longer walked with a cane, but still held an arm pressed across her front.

  He mused that a troubadour might name such a meeting a ‘fell gathering’; a less generous observer might call them a troop of fools. Eyeing his reluctant, mismatched collection, he was tempted to name it a cavalcade of clowns.

  He did not want this task; this was Kellanved’s duty, surely. However, he had – in a moment of weakness, and much to his annoyance – agreed to stand in the man’s absence. And so he nodded a subdued greeting to all and cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he began.

  ‘Where’s the little feller?’ Hairlock interrupted. ‘Shouldn’t he be here?’

  ‘He is travelling,’ Tayschrenn answered tersely.

  ‘Travelling? What for?’

  Tayschrenn drew breath to subdue his annoyance. ‘I believe he is currently pursuing a mystery.’

  Calot raised a hand. ‘Mystery, you say? What sort of mystery?’

  Tayschrenn clasped his hands tightly behind his back; gods, could anything be worth such aggravation? What must he answer? A mysterious mystery? ‘One that he no doubt believes will lead to power.’

  Hairlock grunted at this, satisfied. ‘So, what do you want?’

  Tayschrenn let a breath out between clenched teeth. A rising wind from the south cooled his back and sent errant loose lengths of his hair blowing. He drew the hair from his face. ‘What we must do is organize ourselves.’

  ‘In what manner?’ Nightchill asked.

  Tayschrenn nodded, acknowledging the directness and perceptiveness of the question. ‘Indeed. That is what we are here to discuss.’

  Hairlock cut a blunt hand through the air, scowling. ‘I don’t work for you. It was the fellow who calls himself Kellanved who invited me to come.’

  Calot was nodding his agreement. His night-black curls blew about, and he appeared to be shivering though wrapped in a thick cloak. ‘You said my arrangement was with Kellanved.’

  Tayschrenn raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, yes. I serve only as his deputy here, head of this assembly, this cadre. The question, then, is … since we could probably never agree on any hierarchy among us … how do we organize?’

  ‘We do not,’ said Nightchill. ‘We each answer directly to Kellanved, or you as a coordinator … or,’ she added, thinking, ‘another duly appointed representative.’

  Hairlock’s thick lips curled upwards in a smug smile at that addition and Tayschrenn could almost hear him thinking: That’ll be me.

  ‘Academic,’ supplied Calot, shivering even more – he was quite slight, and seemed to be the only one of them feeling the chill wind. Or at least he was pretending to. ‘Our patron is not here.’

  Tayschrenn nodded. ‘Fine. It will do for the moment. Now we can move on to our tasks. Once we are ready we are planning to move against Nap. An invasion of the capital, Dariyal, no doubt. Therefore our duty is to investigate what awaits us there on the isles. How strong are the talents? Do any hidden powers await us? What sort of opposition should we expect?’ He cleared his throat, uncertain what reaction his next words might elicit, but continued regardless, ‘I, ah, suggest, then, that you, Calot, and Hairlock travel by mundane roundabout means to the isles to investigate.’

  Hairlock cocked a hairless brow. ‘Really? Him’n’me? Why us? Why not you or this lass here?’

  ‘I would attract too much attention,’ Nightchill supplied, as if stating a plain fact.

  Hairlock smiled crookedly, looking her up and down. ‘You got that right, lass. There’s a touch of the Elders about you …’

  She pointed to Tayschrenn. ‘And this one has announced his presence on Malaz already. Neither of you have.’

  Tayschrenn inclined his head to her – she’d already grasped that salient point.

  Hairlock’s jaws bunched as he chewed on this, unhappy. Finally, he gave a curt nod. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Calot began, raising a hand, ‘but when you say “mundane” do you mean by boat and such?’ Tayschrenn nodded, a touch mystified by the question. ‘Then I will need a fair amount of coin, my friend, as I do not travel with the common masses.’

  Tayschrenn fought the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer prosaicness of the request, and instead inclined his head in assent. ‘You will both be given sufficient funds, of course.’

  Calot shrugged within his bunched, thick cloak. ‘Very well. I’ll go ahead and nose around.’

  Hairlock flicked a hand to indicate his agreement as well.

  ‘Then this first conclave is over,’ Tayschrenn announced. Calot hurried off; Hairlock went thumping after, hands clasped at his back, head lowered, scowling.

  ‘And what of us?’ Nightchill asked.

  ‘We remain on guard in case Itko Kan or some other entity decides to strike before we’ve gathered our strength.’

  The strange, almost otherworldly sorceress had been peering southward as if distracted, but now she looked to him and extended a hand, inviting him to join her. ‘Prudent,’ she supplied. ‘And what of our patron?’

  Tayschrenn fought to keep his irritation and impatience with just that party from his face, and offered, neutrally, ‘If the
worst comes to the worst, I will reach out to him.’

  The wind plucked at his robes and thorny bushes caught at the cloth as they walked a narrow path down the hillside. The sorceress wore only thin linen trousers and a loose shirt, yet she showed no discomfort from the chill wind, though she walked haltingly, and he thought he saw her wince in pain now and then.

  ‘And where are you from?’ he asked, now that they were alone and he could focus upon the mystery that the woman posed.

  ‘From very far away,’ she answered, her voice tired and very soft.

  He cocked a brow. Fine. Be all reserved and distant, then. Yet his ruthlessly analytical self could not help but whisper in his ear: And are you irritated with her because she’s better at it than you?

  * * *

  It was Gregar’s first taste of a foot-soldier’s life and he wondered how anyone could ever be stupid enough to choose it, let alone actually like it. Of course, by now he understood that the word ‘choice’ wasn’t even in the common soldier’s vocabulary. Most of the wretched youths in this troop had no say in the matter at all: impressed or conscripted by force, or offered up by their families to perform obligatory service as taxation owed to their lords in Yellows, or Gast, or Satar, or Netor.

  And he couldn’t help glaring and clenching his pike-haft with white knuckles whenever these same lords came trotting past in their fine regalia of flowing tabards, plumes, and intricate painted heraldry. They went bantering and joking, trading comments about the deplorable state of this year’s pike-pushers, or what fun they’d have on the field of colours against the Grisian cavalry.

  Gregar didn’t know whether to stab them in their fat arses, or puke; or do both at the same time.

  Time passed and he and his fellow infantry remained standing at attention in the chilling rain. Haraj sniffed and shivered. The sun behind the clouds rose to midday and still none of the assembled knights and lords appeared from within their tents. The delicious aroma of cooking wafted over Gregar and his stomach rumbled.

  ‘How much longer are we going to have to wait?’ he complained to Leah.

  ‘Till the order to stand down,’ she answered from the side of her mouth.

  ‘But this is useless. We’re just standing here!’

  ‘Quiet in the ranks!’ Sergeant Teigan bellowed from down the line.

  ‘We serve at our betters’ whim,’ Leah murmured – not without a strong dose of sarcasm.

  ‘So we just stand here while they decide whether they want to get their expensive clothes and decorations wet?’

  Leah crooked her lips. ‘Now you’re catching on.’

  Sergeant Teigan came storming down the front rank. ‘Quiet!’ he bellowed, halting right before Gregar. ‘You hold the colours – show some dignity and respect!’

  Gregar squinted up at the wet rag hanging limp from the top of the pike. ‘Know what I think, sergeant? I think you can take this spear and—’

  At that moment Haraj fainted to the muddy ground. Sergeant Teigan gaped at him lying limp in the muck. ‘Insulting the glorious tradition of Yellows!’ he roared. ‘Get up, you worthless piece of human waste! You’ll stand all night for this!’

  ‘He fell because he can’t stand,’ Gregar supplied, and he knelt to pick the lad up.

  ‘Not you,’ Teigan snarled. He pointed to two others, ‘You and you. Stand him between you.’

  ‘But f’r how long, sergeant?’ one of them complained.

  Teigan pulled a hand down his flushed face and looked to the sky above. ‘Until the fucking Enchantress invites you into her boudoir – that’s how long!’

  ‘Now that’s a long time,’ Leah murmured aside to Gregar.

  ‘Hold him up,’ Teigan snarled, ‘till he can stand for himself, and then he’ll be out here all the night – I’ll see to it!’

  ‘He’ll die of exposure,’ Gregar asserted.

  Their sergeant cocked a brow to him. ‘And what of it? Little loss, I should say.’

  Stung by such casual cruelty, Gregar answered, ‘I’ll stand for him.’

  The bushy brows now rose, either in astonishment or sarcasm – Gregar couldn’t be certain. ‘Oh, you will, will you?’ The fat man bellied up, nearly pushing against him. They were close to identical height, yet the sergeant stood stocky and rotund, Gregar broad and muscled. ‘Well, maybe I have something to say about that!’

  ‘Which is?’

  Now the brows clenched, knotting together over the sergeant’s tiny eyes, as if the man were momentarily confused by Gregar’s direct response; clearly things were not proceeding in the usual manner. He pushed a stubby finger into Gregar’s chest. ‘Then I say you will stand! There! How do you like that?’

  Gregar nodded slowly, feeling rather confused himself. ‘Right … as I offered.’

  The sergeant sniffed loudly and peered round triumphantly. ‘That’s right! Ha!’ He brushed his hands together as if having set things well in order, and stomped off.

  Gregar cast an entreating look to Leah, who was doing her best to keep a straight face.

  The sergeant struck a position at the centre of the line and turned to face the assembled ranks. ‘Anyone else?’ he bellowed. ‘Anyone else have any pressing engagements? Invitations to dine with the chatelaine of Unta perhaps? No? Extra sets of lacy underthings to air? No?’ He set his ham-like fists to his hips and surveyed the troopers, nodding to himself. ‘Then we wait here as ordered! And we wait until the damned hillside crumbles into the sea if need be! For we are Yellows!’ Scanning them once more, he nodded to himself again, then strode onward.

  Gregar leaned to Leah. ‘You know, he’s not half bad at that.’

  ‘You should hear him when he really gets on a roll.’

  Limp between his two supporters, Haraj raised his head just enough to peer about. ‘Is he gone?’ His two supports pushed him from them, disgusted, and he stood brushing at the mud smearing the yellow surcoat over his old leather jupon.

  Gregar restrained himself from swatting the fellow. ‘So you can stand?’

  ‘Quite. Thought that rather obvious from the timing, hey? There you were about to commit a punishable crime.’ He held out his pale hands. ‘I had to do something.’

  Leah was now laughing openly, though silently. ‘Your friend’s right. He saved your skin.’

  Gregar scowled his irritation. ‘Saved me? I don’t see how – I’m gonna be out here all the godsdamned night!’

  ‘There’s worse,’ Leah supplied. ‘Far worse.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Leah’s amusement fell from her and she half turned away, squinting up at the thin cold rain. ‘Whippings. The stocks. Branding. Maiming. Imprisonment. Hanging.’ She jerked her chin to the tents now lit against the gathering gloom of the overcast sky. ‘Whatever our betters wish. We live, and die, at their discretion.’

  ‘Not me,’ Gregar growled through clenched lips. ‘Not me.’

  *

  The order to stand down only came to the ranks after each and every aristocrat and knight had ambled off the field, accompanied by their bevy of aides, squires, attendants, servants and grooms. Only then were the assembled infantry allowed to file back to their bivouacs. By then it was long after dark.

  All quit the field save one; Gregar remained, tall pike of the Yellows’ colours in hand. Soaked through and chilled to the bone, still he did not sit and huddle for warmth, for he knew that damned Teigan would pounce and he refused to give him the satisfaction.

  Standing there all alone in the broad trampled field, he eyed the pike and the limp sodden rag tied just behind its narrow dagger-like blade. It struck him then that the weapon was really nothing more than a very long stick. And he knew how to fight with sticks or staves – twinned sticks were his preferred weapons. So he began experimenting: spinning, thrusting, trying circling counters, even entire turning sideways slashes. The weapon’s arc was impressive. In fact, it looked as if he’d have the reach on any mounted foe. That made him smile, and he turned to see Leah standing beh
ind him, a bemused look on her face, and a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hand.

  ‘What in Burn’s name are you doing?’ she asked in wonder.

  ‘Experimenting.’

  She cocked a brow. ‘Right. Well, here,’ and she held out the bundle.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Dinner.’

  ‘This allowed?’

  Her answering smile was a half-scowl that held a mischievous tilt. ‘Teigan didn’t forbid it …’

  Gregar huffed. ‘That fat oaf.’

  Leah handed over the bundle and Gregar unwrapped it to find a half-round of coarse hard bread and a small portion of dried meat. While he ate, she rubbed her arms for warmth, saying, ‘Don’t be too hard on Teigan. He fights hard for us and he fights from the front – but I think yelling is the only way he knows how to soldier.’

  Gregar grunted a neutral demurral. ‘How’s Haraj?’

  ‘Sleeping like the dead. Why’s he here? This is clearly not the life for him.’

  ‘Long story.’

  She raised her hands in surrender. ‘Right. None of my business.’

  ‘And you? What about you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m all that’s left of two brothers and one sister. My parents are old. We have no money. When the baron’s officers came round demanding back rents and taxes I had no choice.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged again. ‘That’s how it is for most of us here. But not you. You’re no farmer.’

  His mouth full, he said, ‘No. Apprentice stonemason.’

  ‘A free craftsman? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Like I said – long story.’

  She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Well, you made a poor swap, that’s what I think.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Standing around isn’t so bad.’

  ‘Not tomorrow. Marching. The Grisians and their allies have moved on. We follow.’

  He looked to the night sky. ‘Wonderful. What are we even doing here?’

  ‘We’re the expendable fodder, friend. We’re just here to stand in the way of a charge, hold some piece of ground, or protect our lords if they’re unhorsed.’