Battleaxe

by Sara Douglass

  Belial looked from the assembled and mounted Axe-Wielders to the garrison of Sigholt as he waited for Axis to come out of the Keep. They had stayed only long enough to reprovision and rest and water the horses. Axis had brought almost all of the Axe-Wielders with him from Smyrton. Despite the vocal fears of the villagers Axis had told them shortly that they had almost nothing to fear from the Shadowsward, and had left them only thirty men to protect them from whatever ghouls their own fears might engender. Belial smiled as he remembered the looks on the faces of those thirty men left behind. They had been livid that they were left to guard a flock of superstitious peasants when the rest of the Axe-Wielders were off to fight the forces of Gorgrael at Gorkenfort.

  It was fortunate, Belial mused, not only that the story of the Prophecy had spread so quickly among the men but that they had also so quickly accepted it. With the tacit consent of Axis, Ogden and Veremund had spent a good deal of time among the Axe-Wielders, speaking of what they knew about the Icarii and Avar. They did not directly reveal themselves to the Axemen as the Sentinels of the Prophecy, but the understanding grew among the Axe-Wielders that the two old men were more than they had originally appeared. On the journey from Smyrton to Sigholt the Axe-Wielders had asked myriad questions about the Icarii and Avar. Gradually, at first in their own minds and then openly about the campfires at night, the men had begun to question the prejudices the Seneschal had instilled in them. While the Seneschal had preached hatred of the Forbidden for the past thousand years, the Acharites, Icarii and Avar had lived in harmony for thousands of years before the Wars of the Axe. Ogden and Veremund, using their own gentle arts and the stronger enchanted powers of the Prophecy, appealed to the ancient memories that all three races shared.

  Whether it was the efforts of Ogden and Veremund, the brief glimpses of long repressed race memories, or the power of the Prophecy itself, by the time the Axe-Wielders reached Sigholt they clearly understood that they rode to face Gorgrael and his Ghostmen. The Icarii and Avar—and the Axemen no longer even referred to them as the Forbidden—were in as much danger as the Acharites. Many were already openly discussing the identity of the mysterious StarMan who was supposed to lead them to victory against the Destroyer. That was good, Belial thought. That meant that, when the time was right, they would the more readily accept Axis in his new guise. Axis had always been different and perhaps a brilliant commander because of that.

  Belial turned away from the Keep and surveyed the Axe-Wielders. For the three days they had stayed at Sigholt they had camped in the wide depression that lay at the foot of the garrison. Sigholt was situated at the mouth of the HoldHard Pass in the Urqhart Hills; the Pass itself led to the southern WildDog Plains and, eventually, to Smyrton as it lay on the banks of the Nordra. The garrison had been built many centuries previously, some said it was the oldest fortress in Achar, and the Keep was by far the most ancient part of the fortress. It sat on the rising slopes of the HoldHard Pass above a deep depression which stretched in a westerly direction. After three thousand men and more horses had trampled all over it for three days and nights the snow was packed hard, and to Belial’s curious eye it looked as though this had once been the bed of a wide lake at the foot of Sigholt Keep and HoldHard Pass. Perhaps a long, dried-up tributary of the Nordra had once flowed through the pass into a lake in the basin of the Urqhart Hills. Belial had seen Ogden and Veremund staring at the depression one day, muttering darkly to themselves, and he assumed they were as curious about the depression as he was. But Belial had paid the two Sentinels little attention; like Axis, he had grown somewhat used to their mutterings. Turning from the assembled Axe-Wielders before him, Belial’s eyes focused further afield. Several leagues away lay Hsingard, the main city of Ichtar and the official residence of the Dukes of Ichtar. Axis planned to ride straight by it.

  The ride to Gorkenfort from Sigholt was straight forward if hard. Snow and ice lay thick on the ground in Ichtar, and, if you listened to the locals, had remained all the previous summer. Gorgrael was indeed spreading his ice clouds further south. Yet Borneheld had been moving troops north for months, and once the Axe-Wielders hit the main trail leading north from Jervois Landing to Gorkenfort the going would be faster. Borneheld had established regular provisioning stations along the trail so the Axe-Wielders would not have to burden themselves with added supplies. Barring misfortunes, they should be there in about two weeks.

  Belial rubbed his arms in the frosty air. Where was Axis? They were all ready and waiting, and for once the BattleAxe himself was late. Ogden and Veremund patiently sat their white donkeys to one side, Ogden’s cherubic face and Veremund’s ascetic one showing no sign of their true identity and powers. Belial snorted under his breath. How many other faces about him held mysteries that he could only guess at? He wondered for a moment about Azhure and where she was. There was a pretty face that held hidden depths of determination. Belial smiled ruefully and rubbed the back of his head. Even now he still suffered biting headaches when he got too tired.

  A movement caught his eye and he spun around towards the Keep. Axis was striding down towards him, face relaxed, pulling on gloves to keep the cold out, his black cloak billowing out behind him.

  “Is everyone in formation, Lieutenant?” he asked mildly, swinging into Belaguez’s saddle and nodding his thanks at the stable boy holding the stallion’s head.

  Belial kept a straight face. “All cohorts are in formation, sir. In line. Packhorses loaded. Supplies accounted for. Geared up, fed, watered, weaponed, and ready to go.” He paused. “As they have been for the past half an hour.”

  Axis smiled down at him. “Then what are you doing still on your feet, Lieutenant? Mount up.” He swung Belaguez around to face his Axe-Wielders. “Axe-Wielders, are you ready?” he cried in a clear and penetrating voice.

  From the basin below him rose a single shout. “We follow your voice and we are ready, BattleAxe!”

  “Then let us ride!” Axis cried, and a shout rose from his men as they swung their horses’ heads towards whatever fate awaited them at Gorkenfort.

  39

  RIVKAH AWAKES

  The group travelled north through the Avarinheim for over ten days, tracing the forest paths that ran beside the Nordra as it wound its way south from the Icescarp Alps. Grindle and his son had cut a lightweight but strong sled from dead branches of a Timewood tree floating down the Nordra river, and Raum was packed in every morning atop the folded leather tents. During the day Grindle and Helm, strong even at his youthful age, shared the work of pulling the sled through the Avarinheim.

  The going was made easier by the smooth paths and calm weather. The Clans kept the paths they travelled clear of dead wood and leaf litter for those who followed. When Azhure asked why the unseasonable bitter cold and winds that swept Achar did not penetrate the Avarinheim, GoldFeather smiled enigmatically and said that the trees of the Avarinheim kept the Avar people safe from all but the worst winter weather. “The trees have their own power,” she said, “even though in these times it mostly lies quiescent.”

  As they travelled Pease and Fleat instructed Azhure in the uses of the plant life of the Avarinheim: the bark of the Alefen tree could be boiled for a stimulating and refreshing tea, while the bark of the Bearfoot tree, if shredded and dried, could be woven into baskets and mats and long-wearing soles for leather boots. Under the shelter of the evergreen trees grew a vast variety of bushes and herbs that assisted the Avar in their daily life. Azhure, so used to the Seagrass Plains that supported nothing but grain and vegetable crops, was constantly amazed and delighted by the new discoveries she made around each turn of the forest path. The Avar collected their daily food from the variety of berry bushes, malfari shrubs, small wild fruit and nut trees and even, whenever one draped low enough for the more agile of the children to reach, the great vines that roped between the treetops of the forest canopy. The pulp of their leaves provided a sweet additive to malfari bread and, although she knew the Avar children were skilled climbe
rs, Azhure would watch with her heart in her mouth as Skali and Hogni scaled the great trees for upwards of thirty or forty paces to reach the prized vines.

  Both Fleat and Pease were fascinated with Azhure’s soft blue dress woven from sheep’s wool. The Avar kept a small number of goats and sheep for their meat, milk, and skins, weaving their clothes from goat hair and sheep wool. But Azhure’s dress had a different feel and a different weave than the Avar were used to, and Azhure quickly arranged to swap her apron and full-skirted dress for an Avar tunic and leggings, much more comfortable and suitable for the trek through the forest. As she slipped on dark red leggings and a thigh-length grey tunic with the Clan pattern of intertwined branches about its hem, Azhure felt as though she were casting off what remained of her life as a Smyrton villager. Fleat and Pease were more than pleased with the swap as the blue dress would provide them with the material for a tunic each and some items of clothes for the children. Only Barsarbe and GoldFeather among the females of the group wore long skirted robes of pastel shades.

  GoldFeather spent most of the day walking beside Azhure, only talking when Fleat and Pease darted off to assist Grindle or Helm, or to collect some leaves or berries they’d spotted growing away from the path. She carefully explained the Prophecy of the Destroyer to Azhure, as well as some of the Avar practices and beliefs that had puzzled Azhure during her first days with the GhostTree Clan. Although Azhure was fascinated with the story of the Prophecy of the Destroyer, she was more enthralled with GoldFeather herself. Ever since she had known GoldFeather Azhure had been curious about her past, but previously there had never been the time or the opportunity to question her closely about her origins and life.

  GoldFeather told her nothing about her youth in Achar, but she did explain something of her life with the Icarii and Avar. “I am fascinated by both races,” she said one evening as they set up camp in a small glade. “Originally I spent time with the Avar simply to familiarise myself with their way of life. But soon I realised I could help with the struggle to take their chosen children to be bonded to the Mother. For many years now I have helped take the children through the Seagrass Plains.” She shrugged. “Some years I spend more months with the Avar than with the Icarii.”

  “Do you always travel with the GhostTree Clan while you are in the Avarinheim?”

  “Over the past three or four years, yes, although I have lived with other Clans.”

  Azhure switched her line of questioning to the as yet mysterious Icarii. “Who do you live with among the Icarii?”

  GoldFeather smiled at Azhure’s persistent questions, but she did not resent them. “Why, with my family, of course.”

  “You have a family?” Azhure asked.

  GoldFeather smiled. “A husband and a daughter. Listen,” she said softly. “Do you hear that bird?”

  Azhure paused from stretching leather hides over the supports of one of the tents and listened. In the distance she could hear the beautiful song of one of the forest birds. “What is it?” she asked.

  “It is the Evensong lark,” GoldFeather said, her eyes distant with memory. “I think it is one of the most beautiful songsters of the Avarinheim forest.” She turned to Azhure and smiled a little. “I named my daughter after the bird—EvenSong.”

  Azhure smiled back at the woman. “What a lovely name. Do you have other children?”

  GoldFeather’s face clouded over. “I had two sons, but I lost them both,” she said shortly, turning away from Azhure.

  “I’m sorry,” Azhure said softly, but GoldFeather had walked over to Fleat to help prepare the evening meal and did not hear. Azhure watched her for a moment. Obviously the loss of two sons still hurt her deeply.

  That evening about the fire the conversation returned to the puzzling BattleAxe.

  “Azhure,” Raum said. “What do you know of the man?”

  Raum was growing stronger day by day, his colour now healthy, and was starting to insist that he could spend part of each day walking with the aid of crutches to relieve Grindle and Helm of the burden of pulling him on the sled. But Barsarbe still insisted that he protect his leg as much as possible.

  “I know relatively little about him,” she said slowly. “He only rode into Smyrton the afternoon before I managed to free you and I did not have very much to do with him.”

  “You know nothing about his past?” Raum asked.

  Azhure shrugged, taking a sip of Alefen bark tea. “Only the old scandal that is repeated by some of the Brothers of the Seneschal.”

  “What is that?” Barsarbe asked impatiently, carefully turning over leaves of the waxflower shrub to dry before the fire. Waxflower leaves, when dried and powdered, made a good stimulant for aged and weak hearts. Barsarbe knew a woman of the FootStrong Clan who had need of such powder.

  “That he is Axis Rivkahson, born of the shame of the Princess Rivkah.”

  “What is the shame of…” Raum began, but stopped immediately, appalled by GoldFeather’s low wail of distress.

  GoldFeather sat, her hands pressed to ashen cheeks, staring at Azhure, her grey eyes huge and shocked. She had gone so pale that her thick silver hair had more life in it than her face. Her lips moved soundlessly and she had to try again and again before she could force any words through.

  “What?” she whispered. “What did you say?”

  Azhure looked across to Raum and Barsarbe for a moment, but they looked as mystified as she felt. She turned back to GoldFeather. What was wrong with her? Pease moved over to GoldFeather and put her arms about her shoulders trying to comfort her. GoldFeather hardly noticed.

  “The BattleAxe, Axis, is the son of Rivkah, sister to King Priam,” Azhure said again. “GoldFeather, what is it?”

  “But he died,” GoldFeather whispered around her fingers. “He died!”

  No-one else about the fire could understand what had upset GoldFeather so much. Barsarbe leaned forward and spoke firmly. “GoldFeather—what is it?”

  GoldFeather blinked her eyes and seemed to refocus on the group about her. She lowered her hands and clenched them in her lap. “I am Rivkah,” she said bluntly. “And my son died at birth. They told me he died!”

  “But it is said that you died,” Azhure said slowly, beginning to understand. No wonder GoldFeather had always appeared so courtly and gracious, so sure of herself.

  “They tried to murder me,” GoldFeather said, her voice becoming harsh, “but they did not succeed. But they told me he was dead!” Her voice cracked with grief again.

  Raum turned to Azhure. “Azhure, we do not understand. What is this story of Rivkah?”

  Azhure told them what she knew of the story. Of Searlas’ young bride who fell pregnant to an unknown lover. Of the birth in Gorkentown that left the mother dead and the son barely alive.

  Raum spoke very quietly to GoldFeather…Rivkah. “GoldFeather, was StarDrifter your son’s father?”

  GoldFeather nodded. Pease tightened her hold about GoldFeather’s shoulders and whispered comfortingly into her ear.

  “So,” Barsarbe said softly, “now we know how the BattleAxe carries Icarii blood. StarDrifter is of the oldest and strongest line of Icarii Enchanters, the SunSoars.”

  “He was dead when they carried him from the chamber,” GoldFeather whispered. “He was so blue, so still. They told me he was dead! Azhure,” she raised her eyes to the Nors woman. “Who raised my son? Who cared for him?”

  Azhure thought for a moment, remembering the gossip she’d heard when the Plough-Keepers of neighbouring villages visited Hagen. “Why, Brother Jayme, I think. He is Brother-Leader now.”

  GoldFeather took a sharp intake of breath and her eyes glittered. “Jayme and his comrade Moryson were the two who abandoned me in the Icescarp Alps to die,” she said bitterly. “And now I find that they not only tried to murder me, but stole my son as well.” Her face crumpled again. “How could I stand so close to him and not know,” she whispered, her voice losing all its strength. “How could I have raised my hand and
stopped before I touched him? How could I not have known he was my son?”

  GoldFeather lowered her face into her hands and began to cry.

  “Our need to reach the groves for Yuletide is now even greater,” Raum said quietly to Grindle. “We must share this news.”

  GoldFeather heard him. “I must tell StarDrifter,” she said, “I must tell my husband that our son lives.” A great sob wracked her body. “How could I have stood so close and not known that he was my son?”

  40

  GORKENFORT

  Gautier drove his troops north as fast as he could, keen not only to deliver Faraday to Borneheld personally, but also to reach Gorkenfort after months of delays. They stopped only the minimum time needed to prevent complete exhaustion of both horses and riders, to warm a thin meal of gruel and the stale bread they carried with them, and to reprovision and feed the horses from the supply depots along the road to northern Ichtar. First and foremost a fighting man, Gautier could almost smell the approaching battle as they rode closer to Gorkenfort.

  His sharp face pinched and whitened by the cold, light grey eyes peering out from above his scarf, Gautier spent much of the day spurring his flagging horse up and down the column of troops, cursing and shouting at them to push their horses just that little bit faster. Any horses that were plainly too exhausted in the morning to go any further were slaughtered on the spot. His troops, witnessing Gautier’s treatment of the horses, made sure that they never looked too exhausted to go on when their lieutenant rode by.

  The weather, cold and snowy since southern Skarabost, had now degenerated into the worst weather Faraday had ever seen. The blacksmith travelling with Gautier was forced to screw thick spikes into the horses’ shoes so that they could grip the icy road more easily and, when she rose in the mornings after another night spent shivering sleepless beneath her covering of blankets, Faraday could hear the outer layer of blankets crack and splinter with the thin film of ice which spread over her during the night. Few spoke during the day as they rode, their faces wrapped in thick woollen scarves to keep the frozen air from searing their lungs raw, their eyes almost squinted shut against the snow glare whenever the sun managed to struggle through the thick and low cloud layer. But no matter how many layers they wrapped about themselves the wind managed somehow to pierce right to the very marrow of their bones, and the horses’ heads hung low as they trotted like automata along the road, long ropes of ice hanging down from their muzzles and tangled through the thick hair of their manes.