The Fire Sword

by Colin Glassey

  The lands were as Sandun remembered from his brief visit to Hutinin: flat, good soil, with farms in all directions. Many trees lined the road, providing shade. As the sun climbed the sky, the road become more crowded. Polta blew his horn often, and the travelers all went to the sides of the road and watched as the governor’s messengers galloped past.

  As Polta had expected, they met one flock of sheep, and Polta cursed the shepherd with all manner of overwrought oaths as they slowly picked their way through the bleating animals. At first, Sandun was grateful for the enforced delay. He was sore already, although the journey was barely begun. But soon the torrid air rising from the horse beneath him became very unpleasant; it was good to gallop again and have the wind carry away the animal’s furnace-like heat.

  They arrived at Hutinin in late afternoon. Polta looked like he could go another sixty miles easily. Sandun and Basil were weary and needed a break to recover. The Hutinin station was near the center of town, hard by the river. Sandun picked up a bucket of water and poured it over his face in a blessed stream while the horses were led into a green-water pond. The Hutinin station was sizable, as befitting the second-largest city of Kunhalvar. There were fifteen or twenty horses ready and bunks for riders, as well as a kitchen. While Sandun and Basil ate soup and fresh bread and drank lemon water, they talked about the road ahead with the stationmaster. He was a small man, perhaps a former courier, wearing a dusty blue robe. After they showed him their document and told him their destination, he brought out two maps and sat down beside them.

  “If you wish, you can push on and reach Nikawsa well before midnight. It’s an easy road until the last five miles. The next day, you leave his lordship’s domain and pass the last of our stations.” The stationmaster idly lashed his thigh with a small riding crop. “I fear you will be in some danger when you ride through Torsihad in haste. At this moment, we have peace enough betwixt us and the independent cities. Our lord has not claimed his authority over them, and they in turn have resisted the efforts by the Iron King to gain their allegiance. Ordinary pilgrims make the trip to the Towers of Heaven throughout the summer months, but you, you will attract notice if you ride as if devils were hard upon your heels. Bandits will greedily imagine the choice goods you carry, whilst spies will think you bear documents of grave import. And yet, your mission requires all speed.

  “My lord has not authorized an escort of cavalry, which methinks is wise. Twenty or thirty cavalry might be taken as a prelude to war.” He stood up suddenly, as though he was eager to ride the road himself. “I will ask the messengers for their thoughts and send with you a private note for mine brother, the stationmaster of Nikawsa. He will have a better feel for the best route inside Torsihad. Someday the tribes must bend their knee unto the lord of Kunhalvar, but not this year.”

  Polta volunteered to continue on with Sandun and Basil, but the stationmaster held his hand up and shook his head. A fresh rider would escort Basil and Sandun to Nikawsa.

  They left at four bells after the noon. By sunset, they were into the forest lands that surrounded Hutinin. The road remained wide and well cared for as it curved between hills, still following the Okanka River eastward. They met one courier just after sunset, heading the other way, towards Hutinin. He gave a cheerful shout and blew on his horn as he raced past. Sandun had never in his life experienced such a combined speed; it was terrifying and exhilarating. If two couriers crashed into each other while galloping at night, he doubted anyone would survive.

  At the next station, he asked their new guide how they avoided collisions.

  “We have a simple rule: keep to the right. It works for the main chance. The rider who passed us, I know him well. He is thought by all to be moon touched. No courier is faster, but will he live to see the next year?” The courier pulled himself easily onto the fresh horse and laughed. “Let us be away. We have miles to go before we rest.”

  The remainder of the ride was slower; Sandun was exhausted, and the road was too dark for anything faster than a brisk canter.

  They finally rode into Nikawsa before midnight. Sandun, more tired than any time since the night he fled from the Seopolis temple guards, gave the stationmaster the documents he carried and laid himself down on what seemed to be a heaving floor. It seemed but an instant later when he was awakened and shown to a tiny room with a bed. He pulled off his boots and leather jacket and lay down on the cot, asleep before the lamp was blown out. He had traveled 250 miles in twenty-four hours, and there was still 120 miles to go.

  Six hours later, he was woken by the stationmaster at dawn. His every muscle ached. His rear was sore, his hands were blistered, his feet were swollen so that he could barely pull on his boots. Yet he and Basil, grim as death, stood and looked at each other.

  “Two more days of such riding,” Sandun said. “Our sworn companions depend on us.”

  “Aye. We must eat and then depart.”

  The man in charge of the couriers in Nikawsa did not look at all like the stationmaster of Hutinin. He was heavyset and spoke with an accent unfamiliar to Sandun. He introduced himself as Reko.

  “Hear me, lords, and see me through.” Reko spoke to them in a gravelly voice. “Two riders will attend with you to the Great Sage Temple: Filpa and Zaval. Both are of Torsihad born; between the two, the best trails are not hidden. To the fort town of Anessa you must fare, as it controls the river crossing, but if you heed me you’ll stay not there. Ill governed it is, home to unruly men and worse. Speed you on to Omot, where Filpa has family by blood. Tis a long day’s journey, but others have done the same afore you.” He nodded and smiled at what Sandun guessed to be an old remembrance. “From Omot, on a boat you can adventure along the Tilsukava River to mighty karst’s foot. Or else, fleetly ride twisted path between karst hills of that domain. Either choice will consume all daylight hours, but no swifter route exists. So say I; such is my rede.”

  Sandun and Basil looked at each other. “Two more days. Let’s get started,” Basil said.

  Filpa and Zaval were summoned by the stationmaster. To Sandun they looked very much like common folk of Kunhalvar, a little smaller and lighter of build but otherwise similar, with the same pointed ears. Zaval was holding the reins for four horses, patting their heads one by one. Filpa held four more horses as he smiled at the Keltens.

  “Eight surefooted horses I send with you,” Reko said. “You must change between them throughout the day. Follow Filpa and Zaval; they know the trick of it.”

  Unlike the previous couriers, who carried only daggers, Filpa and Zaval carried light bows and shortswords and wore light leather armor painted with green stripes. Sandun and Basil had carried nothing with them except concealed pouches filled with silver cats. They outfitted themselves identically to their guides and made ready to depart.

  Reko nodded in approval. “Let Filpa and Zaval speak, and few will suspect your foreign origin. No offense, lords. Even here we have heard of your deeds defending Tokolas.”

  Four horsemen and eight horses set out from Nikawsa. The main street was already becoming crowded as they left the station and followed Filpa east. The town had a frontier feel and an uneasy air, with lots of evident strangers looking around. Many warriors, dressed like Filpa, gazed sharply at the strangers who passed by.

  Once out of the town, they picked up the pace and at times were going almost as fast as they had the day before. But the road was narrow, and it climbed up and then down again. Travelers and merchants occasionally blocked the way and were in no special hurry to make way for the horsemen. They passed through the alert guards at the border with little more than a word from Filpa, who they recognized, after the briefest glance at their document.

  The day’s ride was long but easier than the previous day’s. It was cool in the hills. They stopped often at streams and switched horses every hour. Filpa and Zaval told jokes and laughed often; rarely did Sandun understand what their jokes were about. Whe
n they stopped for lunch beside a lovely rocky stream, Basil strung his bow and brought down a small deer that had been upslope, hidden to Sandun’s eyes. But they had no time to dress and cook the deer, so Basil left it hanging from a bit of rope beside the trail. “Old habit,” he said. “Dog would have liked this.”

  “Basil, didn’t you use to name your dogs?” Sandun asked.

  “True, I used to, till Lakkon. He was killed by an elk. I felt terrible for a month. Worse than when…well, worse than anything. So I haven’t named a dog since. But, Dog, he’s been with me for three years now. Perhaps I’ll name him Toki. It’s late to give him a new name.” He nodded back and forth like a child’s toy. “But little Niksol should learn that dogs have names, like his parents.”

  They passed several towns at a distance, riding around small farms cut out of the forest. Finally, in the late afternoon, they rode over a steep ridge and down a switchback trail. At times, they could see over trees, and a sweeping valley was spread out before them. Occasional flashes of light reflecting off water told Sandun there was a river that had carved the valley. “That must be the Sukanea River down below. We are near Anessa.”

  “Sandun,” Basil said with some irritation in his voice, “doesn’t the Sukanea River join the Mur right next to Tokolas?”

  “Yes, it’s the same river.”

  “Then why didn’t we sail up the Sukanea instead of suffering on horseback for two hundred miles?”

  “I looked at a detailed map of Serica some time ago, when I was traveling to the east army with Jori,” Sandun explained. “The Sukanea River inscribes a vast semicircle before it reaches Anessa, and parts of the river are marked as rapids: too rough for a boat. It would be near double the distance had we followed it, and to boot, much of the Sukanea is not under the control of Lord Vaina’s men. So our route to this point was the shortest and safest.”

  As they rode down into the Sukanea’s valley, Filpa took the lead, and Zaval held the traces for the extra horses at the rear. They both looked serious, and now Filpa passed travelers on the road without any greeting. Despite his weariness, Sandun was interested in the city ahead. The people in this valley looked unmistakably poorer than any he had seen before in Serica. The few farmers who were still out in the fields were nearly naked and malnourished. The occasional cow standing beside a fence was invariably skeletal, with folds of skin hanging down over prominent ribs and shoulder blades. Many travelers they passed were glum, with worry-etched lines of care on their faces.

  A group of eight soldiers stepped out from under the shade of tall green-bark trees, and their leader, a coarse, round-faced man who had clearly been eating well, spoke in what Sandun thought was a mangled version of Serice. Filpa replied in the same manner. The soldiers were listless and, as Sir Ako would say, slovenly. It was evident they didn’t care. After a minute, the round-faced commander waved them on.

  Out of earshot, Filpa explained that he had invented a new story for them. They were heading not for the Temple of the Great Sage but to a different temple, the Temple of Rulon Mors. Zaval agreed that this was for the best.

  “What is the Temple of Rulon Mors?” asked Sandun.

  “Temple of strong warrior, god of battle. Men go there, learn top way of fighting. Those who crave admittance must already skilled fighters be. Respected, and no Anessa soldier will think, ‘These easy men to steal from.’ No and no. Temple of Rulon Mors close to Great Sage Temple. Is excellent story.”

  Sandun shrugged. “I trust you. But why are there many temples in this area?”

  “You will see. Mountains like…” Filpa put his hand high in the air. “Like spires, very tall, straight as trees, no branches. Tops not sharp like normal mountains but rounded, like bald man’s head. Many buildings at top. Very kapistok.”

  Filpa saw Sandun did not understand the word, and he tried several other words, which also made no sense to Sandun. He appealed to Zaval, who offered up, “Strength?”

  “Yes, much strength in land. So many temples all nearby. Flame Iris Temple fifty tik farther up river, very famous.”

  They approached the town of Anessa from the southwest. A mile before the town, a large tributary river split away and headed in a more easterly direction.

  Filpa said, “That river: the Tilsukava. My town of Omot, seventy-five tik upstream. River twists and bends like running snake. Faster to go by road north, but we must cross using toll bridge in Anessa. No other crossing for many miles north or south.” He spat on the ground. “Anessa townsfolk greedy.”

  There was a crowd of people waiting at the gate, so Filpa rode ahead while the others rested in the shade provided by a stand of spreading willow trees. Sandun and Basil dismounted and lay down, gratefully, on the soft ground. It was late afternoon, and the air was filled with marsh bugs flitting about. Many birds were chirping in the trees.

  Anessa was surrounded by a wooden wall made of sturdy logs pounded into the ground. Tall watchtowers made of massive pine trunks stood on either side of the gate. Archers could be seen standing under tarpaulins, looking down at the travelers below them.

  “Quite a contrast from the walls of Tokolas,” said Sandun.

  Basil looked over at the city and rubbed his knees. “True. Tokolas has the most impressive walls of any city I’ve seen. I’ve heard tell of the mighty walls of Pella, before the monstrous earthquakes knocked them down. My ancestors left Pella hundreds of years ago. Family tradition has it that they fled after the first great quake and so did not see the collapse of the walls of the Imperial Capital.”

  Filpa returned and told them it would cost a silver cat to cross the river for their eight horses. “I said, visitors to Rulon Mors are we four. Not traders, not made of gold. But one silver cat, it is acceptable, yes?”

  Sandun nodded.

  “We have time to eat here before going on? Anessa cooks make river fish with tasty spices. Even people of Omot agree; one thing Anessa folk do good.”

  They rode up to the gate. Filpa made a show of complaining about the travel cost but paid. They were given a token to show at the other side to prove their payment, and then they entered the city. They rode with their hats pulled low and their clothes covered in dust from the road; few paid much notice to four travelers.

  The weary wayfarers found a fish house beside the bridge that spanned the Sukanea River. Inside they ordered eleven fried fish. Sandun liked what was brought to them: fat, smoking river fish. His hunger was well satisfied after he ate not two but three trout, fried in oil and served with lemons and yams.

  “We need to continue our journey,” Basil said with an air of finality. Sandun nodded. Filpa and Zaval were finishing up glasses of watered-down liquor. The two young riders were content with the food and ready to continue the day’s journey on to Omot.

  As they exited the fish house, with no warning, a group of about ten bearish men approached threateningly. Each of the men held a fighting staff about six feet tall, and they were dressed in black-and-gray robes. They began calling out invectives at Filpa and Zaval, insulting the Rulon Mors temple as a school for drunkards and sexual perverts. “Telihold Tanul is the true school of fighting,” they shouted angrily.

  These partisans of Telihold Tanul looked reasonably fit and belligerent to Sandun, and he did not relish the thought of getting into a street brawl with them. However, Filpa was not one to let an insult go unanswered, even if it was directed at him in ignorance. The alcohol made his tongue quick as he accused the Telihold Tanul of being home to weak cowards that bowed to whichever government had the most horses. His indignation fed on itself as he accused them of belonging to a school that had learned nothing new in five hundred years and had nothing to teach.

  The townsfolk of Anessa moved away from the angry confrontation; however, Sandun noticed one observer who didn’t move away. He was broad shouldered, wearing a faded blue traveling cloak, and he appeared to be following the argum
ent with some interest.

  After several more rounds of insults, in which Filpa proved remarkably inventive with his vitriol, two Telihold Tanul men took action. Swinging their sticks, they attacked the young man. Filpa dodged backward out of range and drew his sword. Zaval, with a slight hesitation, drew his sword as well, glancing back at Basil and Sandun.

  The two Keltens exchanged looks, but what choice did they have? Abandon their guides and run away? Basil bent down and deftly strung his short bow and then nocked an arrow and drew, ready to fire. Sandun drew his shortsword and dagger. He had no desire to kill anyone here, but neither was he going to let these bullies with sticks beat him.

  The fight, having begun, now proceeded under its own logic. With swords drawn against them, the Telihold Tanul adherents could only back down if they were willing to lose face, and since they outnumbered the supposed members of the Rulon Mors school, they clearly saw no reason not to follow the path of violence.

  Sandun was hard put to defend himself from a series of blows aimed at him from one of the tallest Telihold Tanul stick men. Splinters of wood flew about him as he blocked the stick with his sword and dagger together. Basil disabled one man with an arrow fired into the man’s thigh.

  Zaval was knocked down by a swift blow to his left ankle; it sent him sprawling to the cobblestone road. Filpa, agile and inventive, leapt onto a cart of wicker baskets and kicked them at two men who were jabbing at him with their fighting sticks.

  Sandun gave thanks to Sho’Ash when the man he was fighting suddenly tripped on a loose board. The stick man lost hold of his staff and fell forward onto his face. Sandun gave his prone opponent a taste of his boot, and then he turned to face another Telihold Tanul man just in time to block a hard blow with the hilt of his shortsword.

  The man in the blue cloak now drew a concealed sword and, to Sandun’s surprise, attacked the Telihold Tanul hoodlums from behind. Sandun was too busy dealing with his own opponent and avoiding the bodies of men now prone on the ground to see much of the what the man in blue did. Sandun saw an opening and slashed his enemy across his forearm with his left-hand dagger. He put less force into the blow than he could have, but it was sufficient to convince the man to drop his fighting stick. While Sandun held a defensive pose, the Telihold Tanul man, seeing so many of his companions down, turned tail and ran away, pushing through the crowd that had gathered some twenty feet away from the brawl.