Battleaxe

by Sara Douglass

  Faraday collapsed into the grass, retching and choking until she thought that she would vomit her entire stomach up through her mouth. Through her distress she could dimly hear the other three choking and retching as well. Eventually her heaving abated, and she rolled onto her back, wiping her streaming eyes with the backs of her hands. For long minutes Faraday lay still, staring at the clouds scudding across the late afternoon sky, drawing in as much of the clean air as she could manage.

  Eventually she sat up, beginning to shiver in the frigid air. The other three were also stirring, wiping the dirt from their faces then running, shaking trembling fingers through their hair to rid it of as much earth as possible. Faraday looked back towards where they had come. There was a low hill in front of her, largely covered with small rosenberry bushes. Part of one side of it looked to have collapsed in on itself and, as she sat looking towards the hill, Faraday thought she could feel faint vibrations through the ground. Jack saw her looking at her hand as it rested on the ground. “The whole tunnel is collapsing,” he rasped between dry coughs. “We got out just in time.” It was the first time that Faraday had seen him even slightly rattled by events.

  Timozel heaved himself to his feet and held out a hand for Faraday. “That we escaped with our lives from such a hole is enough. I care not if the entire Star Gate collapses in on itself. Faraday, are you all right?”

  Faraday shook out her cloak and brushed her skirt and blouse as free from dirt as she could. Timozel was strangely calm considering the events of the last few minutes. He seemed older, more certain of himself. There was some undefinable quality about him she had not seen previously. Faraday shrugged, perhaps it was simply the dirt. No doubt they all looked vastly different to what they had several days ago before they had been exposed to storm and mud and a variety of earthfalls.

  “Ah, my treasures!” Jack suddenly called happily, his voice stronger. “You have found me!”

  Faraday looked up. Trotting across the plain were Jack’s pigs, each and every one of them wearing a large grin of pleasure, their tiny eyes gleaming between rolls of fat. They heaved and grunted and rolled and ambled and almost bowled Jack over with exuberant affection when they reached him. The sight made everyone smile.

  Yr turned to Faraday and Timozel. “Well, at least Jack’s happy. But I, dear ones, could use a drink and a wash.”

  Jack stood up from petting his pigs. His face wore a huge amiable grin. “There’s a stream not far from here, and we can drink and wash there.”

  “Food?” Timozel inquired, slipping his axe back into his weapon belt from where he had dropped it in the grass.

  “Ah, well, food is a little further off. I have friends, good folk, some distance from here, who can provide us with food and shelter and, um,” Jack’s eyes slid across to Yr, “clothes. But they are some leagues distant, and we will have to walk most of the night and tomorrow morning to reach them.”

  “Isn’t there anywhere closer?” Faraday asked despairingly. She did not think she could walk through the night. Not after the interminable hours spent tramping though the earth tunnel.

  “You are going to have to get used to walking, my Lady Faraday,” Yr said dryly, “unless you want to ride one of the pigs.”

  Jack led them to a stream some hundred paces away, and they all splashed as much of the dirt from their faces and arms as they could before lying prone along the stream’s banks and slurping up great gulps of water. Jack allowed them a couple of hours to recover, but he wanted them to start moving before night fell. The wind was cold and the sky overcast. If they couldn’t find adequate shelter then the best way to keep warm was to keep moving. None of them were dressed warmly enough to spend a night on the ground.

  After they finished drinking, Timozel surprised Faraday by producing a short knife from his boot and asking her to cut his hair for him. It was too long, he complained, and the curls were flopping in his eyes. She did the best she could, hacking away at his thick brown hair with the knife, cutting it so that it lay flat against his scalp. After she finished Timozel took the knife from her hands and scraped away at his two-day-old growth of beard, but without hot water to assist him he left a dark shadow spreading across his cheeks. Sitting back watching him scrub at his cheeks with the knife, Faraday pondered that the Timozel sitting in the deepening dusk seemed vastly older and more self-possessed than the youth she had shared the long ride from Carlon to the ancient Barrows with.

  Yr also sat, chin in hand, a thoughtful expression on her face as she regarded Timozel. The experience below had changed him in some undefinable way, she mused, but, unlike Faraday, she wondered if the change was more than just the simple maturing of a youth into a man. The Halls of the StarFarers had done stranger things before than merely make a youth grow up.

  During the walk north through the night the small group were buffeted by freezing head winds which made them shiver and stumble. Jack kept them moving, striding at their head with the staff held high, his pigs trotting along at his heels. Timozel had resumed his appointed place by Faraday’s side, supporting her whenever she lost her footing, and sometimes lending a hand to Yr as well. No-one felt like talking; it took all their energy simply to keep placing one foot in front of the other.

  The plains of western Arcness were as barren of life as the plains of Tarantaise had been. Most of these southern plains were used as grazing lands for cattle and sheep during the summer months, but as winter approached the shepherds and cattlemen drove their herds closer to the scattered villages for protection. According to Jack, only a few hardy pig herds still roamed the plains, and even they would be heading for their winter shelters soon enough.

  Timozel, when he’d still had breath for conversation, had asked Jack where they were going, and how he planned on getting Faraday to Gorkenfort.

  “North,” Jack had replied tersely. “We head north in as direct a line as possible. If we can reach Tailem Bend on the River Nordra we may be able to hire horses at Jervois Landing for the last part of the journey through Ichtar. The route to Gorkenfort is well-marked and Duke Borneheld has, over the past few years, established plentiful supply stations along the way. With luck there should be few problems.”

  Timozel asked why Jack and Yr didn’t simply take Faraday to one of the major towns or forts, perhaps Kastaleon, or even back to Carlon, where they could hire the type of transport her rank entitled her to. Jack looked at him as though he were a muddle-headed youth. “Because no-one would understand her desperate desire to reach Borneheld,” he snapped. “They’d do their utmost to prevent her going any further north than the safety of Carlon.”

  Timozel nodded quietly to himself. It was the answer he’d expected. He was not at all comfortable with this lonely journey north, and not at all comfortable with the companions that he and Faraday had landed. But if nothing else, Timozel understood Faraday’s wish to be with Borneheld. Every Lady needed her Lord beside her and fretted the days while they were apart.

  They had worked out a cover story should anyone meet them by chance in this lonely spot. The Lady Faraday, her maid Yr, and her escort had been heading across the plains of Arcness towards Arcen when they had been hit by the dreadful storm of several days previously. Timozel was the only one of her escort to escape the ice spears. All their horses had been killed. Lost in the featureless rolling plains, they had been spotted by Jack, driving his pigs north to shelter for the winter in the hills of the Bracken Range. Genial good-hearted fellow that he was, Jack was leading them towards closest civilisation, the towns of Rhaetia to the north-west. It was a slender story, but it would have to do.

  Jack let them rest again just as dawn was breaking to the east. Faraday had spent the last half a league leaning heavily on Timozel for support, while Yr had started to stumble badly every forty or fifty paces, grazing the skin from her hands and knees as she tumbled to the ground time after time. They huddled together in a tight group in the lee of a small rise, pigs gathered about, trying to keep as warm as they
could in the freezing wind. Faraday clenched her chattering teeth. She would have to make the journey worthwhile; Axis’ life depended on her keeping Borneheld’s jealous temper under control. She wondered where Axis might be now, but was too exhausted to pursue the thought. Her head dropped on Timozel’s shoulder and she lapsed into unconsciousness.

  No sooner had she closed her eyes than Jack was calling for them to wake up and start walking again. Her aching body protesting, Faraday struggled to her feet. Timozel wrapped his arm about her waist, she was not sure whether to support her or to keep himself upright. Yr, head and shoulders slumped, could barely keep step behind them as they started to walk again. Once or twice Faraday heard a muffled thump behind her, but when she turned her head Yr was struggling to her feet again, a determined look on her smooth face. Jack was the freshest of them all, used to tramping these plains in all kinds of weather, though even he stumbled occasionally.

  It was close to mid-morning when Jack finally waved them to a halt. Timozel and Faraday were in such a catatonic state, their bodies and minds attuned only to putting one foot before the other, that they almost crashed into Jack. Yr likewise stumbled into their backs, and Timozel reached around and put his arm about her to keep her from falling.

  “There,” Jack said, his voice showing signs of terrible strain, his hand too tired to do more than wave vaguely before them. “There. Goodman and Goodwife Renkin’s farm.”

  Faraday peered ahead. About five hundred paces away lay a small farmlet nestled in a small dip in the plains. Tidy fields and gardens surrounded a long, low stone house, its thatched roof in good repair. A small amount of smoke came from the chimney, only to be whipped away in the gusting wind. She gritted her teeth and started walking. She hoped they had both fire and beds.

  Goodman and Goodwife Renkin had both and more to offer. Startled from their comfortable spot by the fire, they hastened to the door to find their friend Jack Simple standing there with an exhausted noblewoman, her maid and, by Artor, an Axe-Wielder as escort! Apart from Jack’s muddled explanation about finding the trio wandering the plains after the dreadful storm days before, all were clearly too exhausted to talk, so Goodwife Renkin hastened the two women to the big bed built against the far wall, while the Axe-Wielder and Jack slumped down on the wide wooden benches that ran along the wall by the fire, asleep almost before the Goodwife could throw blankets over them. For a moment the Goodman and his Goodwife simply looked at each other in amazement, then the Goodwife shrugged prosaically and walked over to the larder. She would have to bake some more bread if they were to have so many guests at once.

  Faraday had never dreamed so wonderfully before. She was so happy, so free from pain and care. She sat in an exquisite grove, surrounded by trees that stretched into infinity above her and yet, when she raised her head to look, beyond them spun myriad stars almost as breathtaking as those of the Star Gate. She looked down. She was sitting cross-legged on sweet, cool grass in the centre of the grove, wearing nothing but a soft linen shift, and at her breast suckled a newborn baby. Faraday’s lips curved in a smile and she gently stroked the soft down covering the babe’s round head. Tiny fingers, perfectly formed, kneaded at her breast. Faraday felt infinitely fortunate to be here in this place and with this babe, and she cuddled the baby as close as she dared, crooning to it as it continued to suck. A shadow fell across her lap and Faraday looked up, startled. She frowned a little at the intrusion, then smiled, for this strange beast with the body of a man and the head of a white stag was her friend. “You must leave here,” he said. Faraday’s frown returned. “No,” she said. “I do not wish to. I am free of pain and betrayal here. I can trust you—only you. “ “You will come back one day,” the man-beast said gently, his liquid-brown eyes loving, “and then, if you wish, you can stay.” “No!” Faraday cried as she saw the grove start to fade around her. “No! I do not want to go!”

  Timozel also dreamed, but his dream was far more unsettling. He was walking down a long ice tunnel, naked save for the grey trousers of his Axe-Wielders uniform. Where he was Timozel did not know, but he knew that he was walking towards certain doom. Death lay at the end of the ice tunnel. There were strange-shaped creatures leaping and cavorting on the other side of the ice walls, their forms distorted by the ice, but Timozel could not see them very clearly, nor did he want to. He wanted to turn and run, but his feet would not obey him. A force greater than his own will had enslaved him and was drawing him down the tunnel. Closer and closer Timozel walked to the death that waited for him until finally he could see a massive wooden door set into the ice wall at the end of the tunnel. His teeth began to chatter in fear and he felt his bowels loosen. He halted before the door, and his hand, unaided, unasked for, rose of its own volition and rapped sharply upon the wood. “Come!” a dreadful voice boomed from the other side, and Timozel’s treacherous hand slid down towards the door latch. He fought it with every muscle in his body, until he could feel himself sweating and trembling with the effort. Although he managed to slow his hand he could not stop it completely, and slowly his fingers closed about the metal latch. “Come!” the dreadful voice, impatient now, called again, and Timozel heard heavy steps approach from the other side of the door. He gibbered in fear as the handle began to twist open in his hand. “No!” he screamed, then everything started to fade about him as he slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

  25

  THE GOODPEOPLE RENKIN

  Faraday woke slowly, revelling in the warmth of the bed and the remaining comforting vestiges of her dream. She dozed a while, unwilling to open her eyes, feeling Yr still deep in sleep beside her, listening to the Goodpeople Renkin and their children move softly around the house. Finally the delicious smell of fresh baked bread roused her completely and she stirred and opened her eyes. Yr murmured sleepily in protest as Faraday sat up, hugging the warm comforter to her breasts as she looked about the room.

  The Goodman and his Goodwife lived in a typical one-roomed farmhouse. At one end blazed a huge fire fed by the dried peat that country people dug from the marshes during the summer. A large cauldron hung suspended over the flames, and kettles and pots simmered on a grate before it. Two toddlers, twin boys, played cheerfully a safe distance from the flames and hot pots, while the Goodman dozed against the warm stones of the fireplace. The plump Goodwife bustled between the pots and a solid table, scarred by the knives of countless generations.

  The rest of the home was virtually bare of furniture, save for the bed itself, a number of benches, a large storage cupboard and two large iron chests. Shelves along the walls held the family’s possessions. Wood, being rare and difficult to procure in Achar, was a precious item and these folk had undoubtedly had to save for many years to buy an item of furniture made from the small number of plantation trees grown in Achar. Cheeses, hams and ropes of dried onions hung from the exposed rafters of the thatch roof, well out of the way of dogs and children. On the wall a few paces from the fire a tightly swaddled baby hung suspended from a nail, lulled to sleep by the constricting linen wraps around its chest.

  The Goodwife noticed Faraday awake and, smiling and nodding, ladled out a mug of broth from one of the pots.

  “My Lady,” she beamed as she brought it over, “you and your companions have slept away most of the day.” She spoke with the soft country burr of southern Achar, more musical and easier on the ear than the harsher accents of Skarabost.

  Faraday accepted the mug gratefully, wrapping her hands around it and taking a small sip. Jack and Timozel still lay asleep on the benches by the fire, Timozel tossing a little as if his sleep were disturbed.

  “My Lady, you were very lucky to find our Jack,” the Goodwife said as she noticed Faraday’s eyes turn to the two men. “In this bad weather you would have perished had you found no shelter.”

  Faraday turned her gaze back to the Goodwife. She was in her early thirties, plump but clearly careworn by her hard life in this isolated farmstead. Stringy brown hair was pulled back into a funct
ional knot at the nape of her neck. She wore the brown worsted dress preferred by most country folk, its sleeves rolled above her rough elbows, and covered with a rough, black-weave apron. Her reddened and chapped hands twisted together above her protruding stomach.

  Faraday realised she had been staring and quickly smiled, trying to cover her bad manners. “We are all very grateful for your help, Goodwife Renkin,” she said, reaching out and touching the woman’s hand briefly. “For the past few days we have had very little to drink and no food at all. As you can see, our clothes were quite inadequate for the bitter winds and frosty nights. My, er, maid and myself were close to death until Jack led us to your door. Timozel, my escort, could barely support us himself because of his own exhaustion. Goodwife, I do not know how we can adequately repay you for the kindness you have shown us.”

  “Oh,” the Goodwife beamed, “‘tis nothing more than any Artor-fearing soul would do.” She paused, then found the courage to say what she wanted. “Oh, my Lady, you are so beautiful!” Faraday’s brief touch had emboldened the country woman and she reached out an admiring hand and smoothed back Faraday’s chestnut hair from her forehead. The Goodwife had never seen a noblewoman this close and she marvelled at the softness and whiteness of Faraday’s skin. Among those of her rank women had weather-lined faces by the time they were twenty, courtesy of the long months spent either in the field or helping their menfolk herd the livestock to pasture.

  Faraday finished the broth and grimaced a little. “Goodwife, we are all so dirty. May I stretch my good fortune further and ask if perhaps we might have a wash? And if you have some clean clothes while we brush out our dirty ones…my maid has no clothes at all. She,” Faraday improvised quickly, “was caught by the storm as she was washing in a stream and her own clothes were blown away. If you could spare her one of your work dresses I will repay you well for your trouble.” Faraday wore a thin gold chain strung with five pearls about her neck that would more than adequately repay the Goodpeople Renkin for any food or clothes they might give them.