Orb sceptre throne, p.48
Orb Sceptre Throne, page 48
Sall greeted her. ‘We are leaving.’
She couldn’t help looking to the sky. ‘Yeah. I guessed.’
‘Where will you head?’ he asked.
She shrugged, indifferent. ‘I dunno. Mengal, I guess. Thanks for the lessons.’
He gave a sign she recognized as meant to dismiss the subject. ‘It was nothing. You were a conscientious student. That is all a teacher can ask for.’
She knew Sall to be her age but sometimes he talked so stiffly, like he was some old guy of thirty or something.
The fellow Lo had challenged stepped forward. Sall inclined his head to the man and, incredibly, so did Lo.
So … Lo just indicated that he considers the man higher ranked. Even though the man refused his challenge. He doesn’t want to take the rank that way. Just as Sall said. Hey! I’m starting to understand these crazy people!
But abbreviated bows only seemed to make the man’s already pained face tighten even more. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing,’ he growled, his voice hoarse. ‘But when you get to Cant, give my regards to your Second. I’ve heard good things of him.’
Sall turned his masked face to Lo. Something passed between them. Sall turned back to the man. ‘Slayer of Blacksword, we are not returning to Cant.’
Something almost like panic seemed to claw at the man’s face. ‘You’re not?’ The lines bracketing his eyes and mouth tightened into an angry suspicion. ‘Tell me where you are headed.’
‘We travel to Darujhistan to join our brothers and sisters. The First has called and we have answered.’
Yusek stared. Darujhistan? They’re going to Darujhistan!
The man was shaking his head, appalled. ‘All the scheming gods – you mustn’t go there. Don’t you see?’
‘See … what?’
‘Don’t make yourself a weapon,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Take it from me. Weapons get used.’
Sall tilted his head a fraction. His eyes behind the mask appeared troubled, but he answered, ‘It is our duty. Our defining purpose. It makes us Seguleh.’
The man blinked as if fighting back tears. Every word Sall spoke seemed to strike him like a blow. ‘Gods, you people have backed yourselves up to the very Abyss …’
Lo moved slightly – a motion Yusek would never have caught before, but she understood it now as a gesture of impatience.
Sall said: ‘Thank you for your words, Slayer of Blacksword. But we must go.’
‘I’m going with you,’ the man said.
Even masked, Sall’s shock was obvious. He glanced at Lo who answered with a gesture Yusek had seen him use in regard to her very often: the It’s her life sign.
‘If you wish,’ Sall said. ‘You are free to travel where you will.’
‘Fine.’ He motioned to the hut dwellings. ‘Just let me pack a few things.’
After the man had gone, Yusek faced Sall. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to Darujhistan!’ And she couldn’t believe it when the answering shift of his shoulders said, How is this is relevant?
‘How come we ain’t shootin’ at ’em?’ Bendan said, chin on his arms as he leaned against the top of the palisade of sharpened logs. He was watching the encircling lines of Rhivi cavalry encamped so close to the hilltop fort he was damned sure he could throw a stone and hit one.
‘Short on crossbow bolts and such, ain’t we?’ Hektar said, strangely cheerful. ‘And they know it.’
‘How do you know they know it?’ Bendan accused.
‘’Cause they’re camped so close – that’s why.’
Bendan returned to glaring at the tribesmen and women. ‘Well, don’t matter. Not like they need to do anything. I mean, we’re trapped, ain’t we? Got nowhere to go. Encircled. Brilliant piece of planning from these Fists, hey?’
The sergeant rubbed a hand over his bald nut-brown pate. ‘From the city, aren’t you?’
‘Uh-huh. That’s right. Darujhistan.’ He didn’t bother clarifying that really he was from a rubbish heap next to it. ‘Why?’
‘Well then, you’d know that if we ain’t going anywhere then neither are these fellows. And that’s all to our advantage, isn’t it? We just have to wait them out. They got herds to mind, families, territory to patrol. And they only go to war a few months out of the year. My guess is we’re already far past that season, right?’
Bendan blinked, his mouth open. ‘Yeah. That’s right … damned right.’
Bone joined them on the catwalk behind the palisade. At least, the fellow was the right height for Bone. The man was smeared head to foot in green-grey clay that was drying and cracking even as they watched. The old saboteur winked at Hektar and cracked a smile. Even his teeth were gummed with the clay.
‘You fellers done playing in the mud?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Yeah. We’re all done.’
‘’Bout time. Now go get cleaned up.’
The bemired figure straightened to strike a parade-ground formal salute then grinned, his clay-caked cheeks cracking.
Bendan watched him go. ‘Why’d he have to get so dirty?’
‘All that mud keeps you warm at night. Didn’t you know that, lad?’ Hektar wandered off.
Bendan eyed his retreating back. ‘Yeah – I knew that!’ he called. ‘I know things.’
That night officers went round all the sergeants, whispering to each to rouse his squad. Outside the tall walls of the palisade the night was bright with blazing campfires that encircled the fort. Bendan’s squad was one of the ones positioned at the base of the palisade where they waited, tensed. Others jammed the catwalk, hunched down behind the sharpened log ends, shields at the ready.
One fellow signed from atop the catwalk. ‘Here it comes,’ Hektar murmured. He peered up the lines of squads jamming the camp. ‘Ready shields.’
Bendan gaped at the huge Dal Hon. ‘What? What’s comin’? Ready shields? Why?’
Then a great roar shook the ground from beyond the palisade wall. A rushing and thrumming and hissing that sounded like a hungry beast lunging for them. The night sky blossomed as bright as day as a ring of fire-arrows arced up above the fort as dense as hail.
‘Mother of all the gods!’ was all the time Bendan had before something slammed his shield down on to his head, making him stagger.
‘Don’t look up, you damned fool,’ Little snapped.
Something struck him in the chest, sloshing frigid water all down his front. ‘Take it, quick!’ someone shouted. ‘Let’s go!’
Dazed, he grasped a small wooden barrel and passed it on. Next came a leaky leather bucket already nearly empty. One-handed, Bendan passed it up the line to the squads atop the catwalk where it was emptied over the timbers and tossed back down. The troopers worked in pairs, one emptying, one holding his shield high over them both.
For what seemed half the night Bendan passed along a bizarre collection of barrels, large and small, leather satchels, earthenware jugs, even leather boots. Most held barely any water at all by the time they reached him, but on they went to contribute to maintaining the palisade wall. Meanwhile, behind him he caught glimpses of flaming tents and the infernos where their remaining wagons and carts had been left to burn. What few horses they’d kept were slaughtered that night – mostly out of mercy, as the encircling fires drove them insane with terror.
Bendan’s squad was relieved before dawn. For cover they hunched under their shields at the base of the palisade. The salvos were nothing like as dense as before, but a steady fall of harassing fire was being maintained. Incredibly Hektar still carried his idiotic bright smile. Bendan was soaked and frozen, his arms and back ached as if mattocked and he hadn’t gotten a wink all night. He wanted to smack the grin from the man’s damned face.
‘What’s to smile about?’ he snarled.
‘Outrun ’em again, didn’t we?’ the man laughed. ‘They thought they’d hit on the answer but ol’ Steppan, she was one step ahead. Ha! Get that? One step.’
‘Yeah. Ha, real funny. Now what?’
The sergeant raised his great rounded shoulders. ‘Whatever. We’re still in here and they’re still out there. That’s all that counts.’ He sat up straighter to yell: ‘Another day’s soldiering and another of the Emperor’s coins, ain’t that right lads?’ Laughter up and down the walls nearby answered that. ‘Now get some sleep.’
Sleep? How could the man sleep knowing that at any instant thousands of these Rhivi tribals could come storming this pitiful wall? And laughter? How could anyone think this was funny? Still, that laughter … it had been that dark sort that if he’d heard it in a bar would’ve sent him reaching for his knife.
Midway up the scree slope of a mountain shoulder a lone rider halted his mount to swing himself from the saddle. His boots crunching on the bare rocky talus, Torvald Nom eyed the ever-steepening valley side then rested his forehead against horses flank. Shit. Didn’t look so quite so precipitous from the foothills. Cursing the fates, he set down his pack, undid the bridle, and unbuckled the girth to let the saddle fall to the ground. He poured out the last of the feed into this hand and let the horse finish it, then gave it a slap and waved it off. He watched it make its way back down the slope heading for the valley floor, then shouldered his pack and started up the loose rocks.
The view from the ridge revealed yet another valley in front of him and he let his head hang for a moment. Me and my stupid ideas. Still … He eyed the valley head where the talus gave way to naked rock which sloped back to a higher ridge and beyond that, far beyond that, a snow-capped peak. The Moranth occupy these high mountain valleys? What do they eat? Snow and mist? Ye gods, I’ll starve before reaching them. He started down the slope, sideways, one hand catching at rocks and low, wind-punished brush.
Come dusk he reached the thin creek of melt that ran down the centre of the valley. It was loud amid its rocks and so cold it numbed his hand when he drank from it. He set down his pack and started searching for fuel. Night came swiftly in the upper valleys and he was surprised when the sunlight was cut off so soon in the west. All he had for kindling was dry moss and a few handfuls of duff. He took out his tinderbox and set to work.
The fire he coaxed to life did little thaw his bones. He huddled over the smoky smudge and thought of home. Tis throwing pots – and not necessarily at him. Warm dinners from her hands. He hadn’t appreciated that as much as he should have. A lot to be said for that. Even more than warm embraces afterwards. Not that he could remember those; still, there must’ve been some, certainly. Once. Consummation of the union and all that. Winking friends and a great deal of liquor. He remembered being terrified that Rallick would show up and shove his knife into his back; which hadn’t exactly helped his performance that night either.
Shivering, he decided he’d had enough of climbing. He could tramp from one end of this mountain range to the other and not turn them up. If they were here it was up to them to come to him. That he’d settle tomorrow. Having reached a decision on the matter, Tor gathered his blanket about himself and lay down to sleep.
In the morning’s chill he shivered awake, stretched, emptied his bladder, and shocked himself with a splash of the frigid meltwater. He prepared for a march, but left one object out of his pack: one of the Moranth Blue globes given to him long ago when, as a much younger man, he’d saved a life. And without expectation of any payment, too. Yet the gift was offered, and it would have been gauche to reject such gratitude, wouldn’t it? At least that had been his thinking at the time.
Now, he hefted the sapphire-blue ovoid and eyed the stream. It was a gamble; possibly a criminal waste. Yet how else to get attention quickly? If they had eyes out watching these high valleys, which he assumed they did.
Very well. Enough dithering. The sun is up, visibility is clear. I may be throwing away a fortune – my nest-egg, so to speak. But here goes.
He threw. The globe splashed into the streaming flow, which was hardly deep enough to cover it, and cracked against the rocks. Tor did not know what to expect, but certainly not the explosive report that echoed and re-echoed across the valley.
At the same time, for as far as he could see, all movement in the water suddenly ceased. As did all sound. Leaning closer, he saw that the stream was frozen – frozen solid where it had eddied, splashed and curled. A monstrous icicle that ran the entire length of the valley and on for who knew how far.
Well, that was … impressive. If this didn’t get their attention, then he had no idea what might.
He sat leaning back against his pack and waited. Eventually, running water came trickling down from the heights over and around the streambed and the ice floe that choked it. Eventually, Tor imagined, this unnatural manifestation would melt.
Towards mid-day, when the sun had breasted the opposite valley side, an eerie whirring noise entered the valley. Tor stood. He knew he’d heard that sound before but for the life of him he couldn’t quite place it. He peered about in growing unease. It was a sort of rhythmic humming or thumping, like a horse’s distant gallop, only infinitely faster.
Something roared over his head, fanning up great clouds of dust, and he threw himself to the ground. The sound returned, circling around, and Tor hesitantly climbed to his feet to see one of the monstrous Moranth mounts, their quorl, settling down not far away. Its four wings fluttered in a shimmering rainbow blur. The bulbous faceted eyes regarding him seemed empty of emotion; yet perhaps they were not, as he’d heard that these beasts, like their diminutive dragonfly cousins, were carnivores.
A Moranth dismounted from the intricately carved leather and wood double saddle that hugged the beast’s thorax. Tor was astonished to see that it was a Moranth Silver. He wondered if he should bow. The Silver and the Gold were aristocracy among the Moranth. Few ever saw them.
But he was now an emissary, was he not? If sub-rosa. And so Tor merely inclined his head in greeting. Closer, it was actually rather difficult to look directly at the Silver. Its chitinous armour reflected the light like a perfect mirror. The effect was quite dazzling. Also engraved swirling patterns covered each plate, adding to the confusion of the shimmering.
‘You are Darujhistani,’ the Silver said in accented Daru. ‘What are you doing here on our border marches?’
‘I come as an emissary of the Legate of Darujhistan.’
That gave the Silver pause. Its armour grated as it looked him up and down. ‘In truth? You come as an emissary of this … Legate. All alone. Carrying stolen Blue alchemicals.’
Tor’s stomach seemed to loosen. ‘Stolen? Accusations? Does this pass as manners among you Moranth? I carry those items as gifts.’ Unless that Blue stole them in the first place …
‘Gifts? From whom? Name him or her.’
Tor forced himself to gesture casually even though he felt as if chunks of the ice from the stream were now slithering down his back. ‘Not for you. I am here to negotiate in the name of the Legate.’
The Silver cocked its helmed head. ‘Negotiate?’ A chuckle escaped it and from its high timbre Tor recognized that he faced a female Moranth.
And that chuckle made him damned uncomfortable. But he’d travelled with far more intimidating presences than this Silver and so he raised his chin. ‘Yes. Negotiate. What of it?’
The Silver answered with a wave of her own while she continued to laugh quietly. ‘Very well. Attend me and we will see what will come of these negotiations.’
She returned to the quorl. Tor threw on his pack and followed. He stepped gingerly around the great shimmering translucent wings to reach the long thorax. The Silver had already mounted. She gestured to the rear saddle seat, pointing. ‘Use the long sheaths here for your feet,’ she shouted over the loud whirring of the twitching wings. ‘Push them down all the way. Wrap these straps around your forearms. Cinch them tight. Then hold these sunken handles here on either side.’
Tor nodded. Right. Push down. His slid his booted foot into the leather sheath. It took his leg up to the knee. He swung his other foot over the beast’s back and down the other sheath. Like stirrups, but with broad boots attached. Sitting, he examined the mishmash of strapping before him. Which ones do I wrap?
He’d opened his mouth to ask when the Silver snapped the jesses and the quorl leapt into the air.
Tor found himself gaping down at the receding valley floor, his arms dangling and flailing. A hard gauntleted fist gathered up a handhold of his cloak at the neck and dragged him upright. The Silver shouted something that was lost amid the roaring hum of the wings and the rushing air. Tor quickly took hold of the handles sunk into the leather of the saddle.
Well, whatever that had been it must have been pretty insulting.
He was immediately frozen in the punishing constant wind. He hunched down behind the cover of the Silver’s back. The wind hurt his eyes, too, so it was through the barest slits that he watched a mountain ridge slip drunkenly beneath them as the quorl arched, turning.
Gods … I’m going to puke all over this Silver’s back. How embarrassing.
At the last instant Tor realized he had to but turn his head and the lashing wind would do the rest. His stomach was almost entirely empty anyway and so the gorge that came rushing up in a gagging acid heave hardly amounted to anything. As they swung over the next valley Tor sensed more than heard the Silver’s continuing laughter.
Here Tor was surprised to see square fields of green and the shimmering of irrigation canals. The Silver guided her quorl over a walled settlement that hugged the naked rock of the valley head. Beneath him Moranth of every hue went about their work. Tor marvelled. Never had he ever heard of such a thing. No traveller that he knew of had ever penetrated the Moranth’s borders.
The quorl began to circle in an ever narrowing spiral that brought them alighting on the broad flat roof of a tower. The Silver dismounted. Tor struggled to free his legs, feeling stiff and queasy with what seemed a curious analogue to seasickness. After much yanking he managed to release himself and staggered free of the quorl. A detachment of Moranth Black had climbed the rooftop. Tor shouldered his pack, eyeing them. The Silver gestured to the Black guards, speaking in the Moranth tongue. The Black encircled him. One motioned for him to drop his gear. Tor looked at the Silver. ‘What’s this?’
