War of mist, p.3
War of Mist, page 3
part #3 of The Oremere Chronicles Series
Water. A fine vein of fresh water coursed through the red desert. A narrow brook wet the scorched earth and beckoned him to follow. He started after it, the stream’s source and destination utterly unknown. The hot wind of the Janhallow Desert kissed his clammy brow as he continued to follow the path the water cut through the sand. On and on it went. There was a dip in the terrain, and Swinton followed the trickle up over a crest. There, just beyond, lay a village, torchlight flickering within. But it wasn’t just any village. Swinton had been there before.
The next morning, as they saddled their horses and readied themselves for another parched journey, Swinton turned to Fi.
‘Erostey village,’ he said. ‘They have water.’
Fi’s brows shot up. ‘No.’
‘Fi, we’re desperate.’
‘Do you know what they’d do to us? To you?’
‘We helped them.’
‘Helped them? You mean after we flung sacks of desert vipers into their stronghold and shot their men down with fire arrows?’
‘This is different,’ Swinton argued.
‘Yes, it’s different. They have the power this time.’
‘Soon, the only ones with power will be Arden and Ines.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘We don’t just need their water, we need their men.’
Fiore gaped at him. ‘Have you lost your senses?’
Swinton shook his head. ‘Tell me I’m wrong, Fi. But we need all the able bodies we can muster. War is coming. We cannot fight it alone.’ He considered the vast desert plains that sprawled before them and glanced at the princess.
‘It’s our only hope.’ As he muttered the words, the truth of them sank like a heavy stone in the pit of his gut. Much longer and they would die. All of them. Traitors side by side with the prince and princess. It didn’t matter out here. The scorching sand and dry, hot winds would claim them all the same.
Swinton watched as that realisation dawned on Fi, the kiss of defeat dragging the light from his golden eyes.
‘Is there something we should know, Commander?’ Despite her fatigue, Princess Olena’s voice was as sharp as ever.
‘The captain and I were just debating the best course of action from here, Your Highness.’
‘And what is the best course of action?’ Prince Nazuri asked.
Princess Olena turned to them, clearly noting the edge to the prince’s tone. A week on the road had taught Swinton that Olena didn’t need her eyes to read the tensions between the men.
‘I believe we should seek shelter and assistance from a nearby village,’ he told the royals.
‘The village of Erostey?’ Olena asked.
‘Yes.’
‘The same village the two of you obliterated during the Janhallow rebellion?’
Swinton’s response died on his lips. It wasn’t the first time that the extent of Princess Olena’s knowledge of history had caught him off guard.
‘The very one,’ Fi answered. ‘I advise against it, Your Highnesses.’
Prince Nazuri shifted uncomfortably.
Fiore continued. ‘Your father —’
‘Treated them harshly,’ the prince said. ‘I know.’
With a glance in Swinton’s direction, Princess Olena reached out for Prince Nazuri, and Nazuri closed the gap between them. He took her gloved hand.
‘Maybe it’s time we changed that?’ she said.
Another night fell as they approached the village of Erostey. Swinton had argued that the prince and princess stay behind, hidden by the crest in the dunes. But Princess Olena was stubborn. She refused to part from them, no matter how many times Swinton and Fi detailed the dangers to her.
‘We are bound together now,’ she said. ‘It’s not up for debate.’
As much as Swinton wanted to protest the matter, Princess Olena was his monarch, the one he had chosen. Not the one he’d served out of fear and guilt. He bit back another retort. He would do as she commanded.
Fear licked up the column of his throat as they approached the village. He’d insisted that they approach the gates openly, as trying to sneak inside would only put them in more danger. However, they were not to announce the presence of the prince or princess until they knew more about the loyalties of the Erostey clans. For now, they were nought but weary travellers looking for shelter. The princess tugged her veil across her face again, shielding her clouded eyes as much as possible.
‘No doubt word will have spread that the blind Princess of Ellest is on the run,’ she explained. ‘Best if we can hide my … ailment, I think?’
‘As you say, Your Highness,’ Swinton replied, bowing his head.
The guards at the gates were simple foot soldiers, but upon seeing Swinton and the others with their horses, more men arrived, holding gleaming scythes and swords.
‘Who goes there?’ a voice boomed from within.
‘Four travellers,’ Fiore called back. ‘We need fresh water, old friend. The road has been long. Can you help?’
‘Where do you hail from?’
Fiore stepped forward. ‘I am from Belbarrow originally, though I have travelled far in recent years. My good companions are from all around the realm.’
The guards eyed the group suspiciously, but their attention to Fi was different. Scrutiny sought recognition, and Swinton didn’t miss his friend tugging his sleeve firmly over the tattoo on his forearm before their critical gazes fell to the flames inked there.
The guards glared at Swinton, making him all too aware that he did not share the bulky physique of a native Battalonian like Fi. Although, nor did the prince, and yet the guards paid him no heed.
‘Leave your weapons at the entrance,’ the voice finally said.
Swinton unbuckled his sword belt as he approached the gate with Fi. All his instincts were screaming run, and his magic churned like a storm within. A guard took his sword and patted him down for more weapons, swiping the dagger Swinton kept in his boot. They were ushered inside, where torchlight illuminated a sprawling, low-lying village and a dozen or so curious faces.
‘My name is Taakeem,’ said the guard holding Swinton’s sword. ‘Follow me.’
They had no choice but to do as he bid. Swinton stayed by Princess Olena’s side, hoping that his close proximity offered some semblance of reassurance. Taakeem led them down a narrow passageway, taking them deeper into the village. It was hard to attain the scope of the community in the flickering torchlight, but from what Swinton could see as he squinted past curious clan members, it was vast. Dwellings, shops and archways had been built into the rockface, with the whole village sitting low in the earth, likely to escape some of the desert’s unforgiving heat.
Clansmen and women stared at them as they passed, taking in their ragged clothes and dust-covered faces. Unease squirmed in Swinton’s gut, and one glance at Fi told him that he was right to be worried. His brawny friend’s usually relaxed demeanour seemed strained, as though he expected the worst to happen here. As though he knew something Swinton did not.
Taakeem led them down yet another path, their figures casting long shadows across the sand. Swinton could still feel the heat of the day pulsing up from the ground, but knew it was only a matter of hours before the night’s chill gripped the plains. He mopped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and at last followed Taakeem into a large hut in the heart of the village.
‘Wait here,’ Taakeem told them.
Swinton shifted from foot to foot, stealing another glance at Fiore. His friend’s expression was unreadable. Swinton wondered if he was thinking of the last time they’d come here. They’d been under the orders of King Arden and King Roswall to bring the rebels to heel. It had been Fi’s plan that had won them the victory.
‘Never underestimate the hardiness of those who live in the Janhallow Desert,’ Fi had once said. ‘It takes a certain kind of people to flourish out here.’
Prince Nazuri eyed the guards blocking the exit, while Princess Olena remained still at his side.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ a rich voice boomed. An enormous man entered the hut, his frame taking up the entirety of the doorway. Taakeem was right behind him.
‘These are the travellers, Chief Yaridha,’ he explained to the man.
Chief Yaridha scrutinised their tattered appearances. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Fi, but didn’t linger as he surveyed the rest of them. Surely they simply looked like a handful of weary vagabonds and nothing more? Swinton struggled to keep still, his stomach in knots as the chief took a step closer. There was something familiar about him. The sheer size of him was one thing, but his stance was different to that of the other clan guards. His was one of training, of discipline, someone who was once perhaps a trained champion. Someone whom Swinton had crossed paths with before.
‘Take the youths to the elder tent,’ Chief Yaridha ordered.
Before Swinton could protest, Prince Nazuri and Princess Olena were whisked away by the strangers. Then, Chief Yaridha’s gaze met his, and slid to the thick scar that ran from Swinton’s cheek to chin, and his newly shaved head.
A pair of ornate fighting knives flashed in Swinton’s memory.
‘That is no traveller,’ Yaridha growled, his eyes not leaving Swinton. ‘That is the former Commander of King Arden’s Army. Seize him.’
Panic swarmed as half a dozen hands grabbed him, and half a dozen more restrained Fi. Their grip was bruising, and Swinton felt his face flush as he was dragged out of the hut and into the orange glow of the village square. Onlookers gawked as he was forced to his knees before Chief Yaridha. He could hear Fi’s desperate protests, but the sounds faded as he locked eyes with the clan leader. Swinton remembered how his axe had hurtled across the sand, how the chief’s blade had sunk into his face, causing his blood to spurt and gush down his neck, before the chief had toppled over with a cry, the point of a sword protruding from his middle. Stefan, Swinton’s young squire, standing behind him, grinning roguishly. Now, the two men stared at each other. No doubt both recalling the events that had led them, angry and scarred, to this very moment.
‘I thought you were dead,’ Swinton managed.
Around them, the guards and villagers looked to Yaridha for answers, unaware of what had transpired between chief and commander all those years ago.
‘I very nearly was dead, thanks to you.’ He lifted his shirt, revealing a jagged scar through his middle. ‘I was fortunate enough that a great healer had been amongst us. Ethelda is known for her talents all over the realm.’
Ethelda? The same healer who’d stitched Fi only weeks ago? Knees aching, Swinton steadied himself. He needed to divert the chief’s attention well away from the elder tent where Olena and Nazuri were being held. Who knew what he’d do with such valuable captives were he to become aware of their status. The longer Swinton could give them, the better; perhaps they’d have a chance to escape.
Swinton lifted his chin in defiance. ‘It was thanks to my squire, actually,’ he said. ‘He was promoted shortly after.’
Chief Yaridha’s nostrils flared and he turned to face his people. ‘Commander Swinton was the one who led the viper attack against us over a decade past,’ he told them.
Swinton didn’t see the blow coming. Yaridha’s fist smashed into his face in a blink. His nose cracked as pain exploded across his vision, and hot blood gushed.
‘No! Stop!’ Fi somehow broke free of his captors and rushed to Swinton’s side.
‘Leave it, Fi,’ Swinton hissed under his breath, spitting the blood that had leaked into his mouth. ‘There’s no need for both of us —’
‘But —’
‘Take him to the others,’ Yaridha snapped. ‘The commander will be punished for his misdeeds by the clan. The traditional Erostey way.’
Swinton clenched his jaw as Fi was also hauled out of sight. But he felt a flicker of relief. Whatever awaited him now would not be pleasant, but Fi would be with the royals and he was grateful that none of them would be here to witness —
Without warning, the wind was knocked out of him with a fist to his gut. He doubled over, wheezing. He looked up, eyes watering, and staggered to his feet. Gloved knuckles smashed into his nose again and he saw stars as pain burned across his whole face. He swung back blindly, but another fist collided with his lip, his teeth grinding. All there was now was the cold, brutal deliverance of the clan’s retribution. A kick to the ribs sent Swinton sprawling across the dust with a moan. The blows kept coming and he spat blood into the dirt, dry-retching on all fours. His eyes were already swelling, making it hard to judge the blurry shapes of his attackers. Dizziness already had a hold on him and his defence was sloppy. It didn’t matter. There were too many of them. Too many seeking vengeance for the horror he had wreaked on their village.
The whispers of the villagers around him sounded like the hiss of desert vipers.
‘It’s him … He’s here … I saw him with my own eyes …’
He gasped, fresh pain rippling through him as a boot connected with his kidney. He’d sworn to protect Olena, to protect them. He couldn’t let them down. He couldn’t … He couldn’t breathe. He was —
‘Enough!’ someone roared. The word rang in Swinton’s spinning head. He tried to crane his neck to see, but his eyes were too swollen, his vision too blurred. He rested his forehead in the sand, panting.
‘This will stop at once. Unhand him.’
There was a collective intake of breath from around Swinton. The onlookers muttered a title he didn’t recognise, and he squinted from where he lay in the dirt. The entire clan had bowed their heads.
It was Fi who stood before them, his sleeve rolled up, revealing the lick of fire tattooed on his forearm.
What? How could he have any say here?
Prince Nazuri came into view as well, having been released. ‘Clean up the commander at once,’ he ordered. ‘We have much to discuss.’
Swinton was too dizzy to understand what was going on. Why had the royals been released? Who had authority here, in a village that had been in open rebellion against the crown? Why hadn’t they said sooner? The questions pummelled his rattled mind. Fi appeared at his side, and lifted him to his feet.
‘Can you stand, brother?’ he asked quietly.
Swinton swayed.
‘I’ve got you,’ Fi said, allowing Swinton to lean into him, supporting most of his weight.
The whispers started again as his Battalonian friend carried him, but Swinton was too battered and bruised to care.
Later, seated at a round table inside the main hut, Swinton gulped down his second goblet of wine to ease his pain and humiliation. Everything hurt. Dry blood caked his face, and his skin was stretched tight over all the swelling. Sitting rigid in his chair, he was covered in dirt and sand from head to toe. They’d provided Fi with a basin of water and a washcloth to clean him up, but Swinton needed a healer more than anything. Wiping the grime from his face would only reveal the extent of the damage the clansmen had done, so he had left it. Fi wouldn’t look at him now. The guilt he felt for Swinton’s beating was written plainly on his face.
Prince Nazuri, however, had somehow managed to get cleaned up and appear presentable in front of the clan. He wore the stern expression of a disappointed king-to-be, and was staring down everyone at the table.
‘He’s been in talks with them for months,’ Fi whispered in his ear, following his gaze.
‘So he just let them carry out a beating?’ Swinton muttered.
‘He didn’t know if he should reveal himself, didn’t know if he could trust them.’
‘Well, I wish he’d had his realisation a little sooner.’
Fi grimaced. ‘It wasn’t just that.’
‘What, then?’
‘Nazuri knew people killed in the viper attack. In Battalon, even allies accept punishment for their actions. Justice always prevails.’
‘Does it?’
Princess Olena sat beside Prince Nazuri. She’d washed the dirt from her face, but the rest of her remained unkempt. Swinton had to hide his anger at their treatment of her. She deserved just as much respect as the prince. He made a mental note to talk to Nazuri about it. Later. Tensions were already high; he wouldn’t risk fracturing the fragile truce between them now. He downed the rest of his wine, wincing at the pain that throbbed at his broken nose. He’d lost count of how many blows had found their mark on him.
Clearing his throat, Chief Yaridha bore down on the table surface. ‘Your Highness. Respected guests,’ he addressed the prince and then Fi and Olena. ‘Your arrival is unexpected, to say the least.’
‘Did our correspondence lead you to think that we’d abandoned our people?’
Swinton stared. He still couldn’t get his head around the fact that the prince had been in contact with Yaridha. And that Fi had some kind of sway with the villagers.
‘Of course not, Your Highness. At your request, the refugees from the capital have been accepted with open arms here in Erostey, despite the strain it’s put on our resources.’
‘The refugees are here?’ Fi’s deep voice carried across the table. All eyes snapped to him.
Yaridha nodded. ‘Yes. King Roswall has forsaken the old gods and has declared a new goddess for Battalon. Ines, Rheyah incarnate. The refugees have fled the clutches of those who are under the false queen’s trance in Belbarrow. Tomorrow we will gather them and the clan together for a formal address, if His Highness agrees?’
‘Yes,’ Nazuri said. ‘We have much to tell the people.’
Swinton suppressed a shudder; the statue in the maze at Heathton was seared onto his mind. He had only heard her name in whispers, but he knew her, knew of her treachery and influence. He also recalled the mosaic mural from Olena’s chambers in the shiprock palace. The witch had sunk her talons into both monarchs, it seemed.
‘Your Highness,’ Yaridha addressed the prince. ‘I would ask that the princess leaves before we delve further into the delicate matters at hand.’
‘Princess Olena is your future queen.’ The thick words had left Swinton’s mouth before he could stop himself.
