The eaters of time, p.31
The Eaters of Time, page 31
“I know, but you’ve seen more of the River than I. You’ve seen more of Thorion than I, too. I need to know where at least one of these places can be found.”
She nodded. “Snow will fall, my lord. My not caring for it doesn’t make it any less likely to happen. Nor does it make it any less necessary.”
Methias grinned. “It does not.”
“If it’s necessary,” she shrugged. “So be it. Snow will fall.”
He gave a nod, setting his bright hand upon her dim side shoulder. For a moment, he was tempted to summon a shield of his own. They were in step as if they stood in a shield wall, after all. He resisted the urge.
“Sleara?”
As when Sleara had shown him Rímhril, the room’s sights and sounds transformed between blinks of the eye. The pair found themselves standing a dozen or so feet back from the river that marked Dereek khn’s southern border. He knew they stood near its northern bank based on the direction of the current—westward out of the swamp surrounding Yrxa Castle. Other than what side of the River they appeared on, he’d been unable to ascribe any special significance about this, or any other place The Cage’s prisoners had shown him.
All things concerned, Daephone Ironbane took the sudden shift with surprising ease. She stiffened, but adapted readily to the new sights and sounds. She was from Nausha, of course, just as Methias was. And she’d seen her share of the Weave worked both there and here in Dereek khn. Still, he was genuinely impressed by the calm with which she comported herself.
“I don’t think I’ve been here before, Lord. The clarity is … staggering!” Her voice was a harsh whisper—a distant crow’s caw in autumn rain.
“It is, indeed.” He let her look around for a moment longer. When it was clear there had been no sudden realization, he spoke again. “There are two more sites—one on either side of the River. Are you ready?”
She nodded.
He heard the familiar creak of leather as her demi-gauntlet’s strap flexed. She’s tightening her grip on the heater shield. That’s the only outward sign that she’s on edge, and even that might signify nothing. It could be exactly what it sounds like—an adjustment of how her shield’s bar sits in her dim-side fist.
He lifted his chin and called Sleara’s name again. This time, the world shifted to an area south of the River. Based on the current, he was almost certain they’d moved farther east, back toward the swamp that surrounded Yrxa Castle. The water’s movement was slow and sweet here. They were in the shadow of a small, bluish banyan. It was likely a relatively young thing, given its overall size. He’d seen some in Thorion and further south that were the size of farmhouses.
Daephone saw nothing here that struck her as familiar, other than a vague recollection of seeing the tree before.
“In truth, though, I may be thinking of another tree entirely. There are a few of the blue ones on the Thorion side of the River. Only a few, though.” She shook her head as if to ward off an insect—sudden and sharp movements that caused Methias to wince and lean away. “Forgive me, Lord. I know that isn’t much help. I’m no scout, as you know.”
“True, but you were among those looking for additional fords when we were preparing for the Long Moon.”
She nodded. “We need more scouts and striders.” Her voice was only a murmur, but she’d clearly meant for him to hear it.
“Well, with luck, we’ll soon have some. The Lansel was hoping to recruit other Eodenth on the way to or from Shesh. Beyond that, he hoped to find some among the desert tribes, or within one of the cities. In the meantime, we bide with what we have.”
She brightened. “That’s Farin’s plan? I hadn’t heard that. Good. I’ve been thinking more than a bit about how he wanted the army structured.” She blanched, then amended, “How the throne wants it structured.”
Methias chuckled. “Peace, Ironbane. I knew you meant nothing by it. Shall we move on to the final location?”
Her ears pinked a touch, but she nodded just the same. Sleara brought the final site to life without Methias having to ask.
Daephone fetched a sigh of frustration. “No, Lord. There are familiar pines here, but…”
“But they’re pines. We have them all over the realm.”
“Exactly. This might be near Kowmor, but it might just as easily be to the far west for all we know.”
“NlorNo, it’s closer to Enroff Alifehv than that. The River’s slower here. Kor Kowmor might be right, actually. Well spotted, Lankaajh.” Enroff Alifehv—Future Dawning—was the name given to the ford nearest the swamp’s edge; the place where the River exited its muddy mirk, meandering westward. The place where the final battle of the Long Moon had begun. “The first site was further west. The second was closer, and this one is closer still. The current moves more slowly at each place, in turn. “
She blinked, giving an accepting nod. “I… hadn’t noticed that, Lord.”
“Perhaps not, but you did notice familiar pines. That may be enough. There is something more, though.”
“Lord?” The question was perfunctory. It only seemed to signify acknowledgement of his shifting topics.
The ghost of a grin crept across Methias’s face. “I wanted this part sorted first, so as not to cloud the matter any further. This entire situation is shrouded in quite enough mental mist already, I think.”
She quirked a wry smile at that.
Wry, yes, but genuine. Good. That’s something.
“I will have each one speak in turn. Speak, mind. Not gibber. I have a rough translation, but cannot quite place the languages. They sound… well, no. Let me not poison the well. Best you draw your own conclusions. Are you ready?”
She gave a dip of her chin that served as a nod.
“In order, then… Sleara?”
The image shifted to the first location. As it did, a voice spoke in either fear or excitement. As with all of the imprisoned folk, the voice sounded young. Its vowels were somewhat rounded, with an undercurrent of upward inflection. In the same manner in which Sleara had spoken on Rímhril, this voice seemed as if it were coming from behind, and just overhead.
“De kommer! De marsjerer! De kommer fra elven—de kommer fra elvens bunn!”
It repeated twice more before Methias raised his left hand in token of peace. Sleara must’ve silenced the poor speaker. That, or the speaker had seen what is as common a gesture as you could hope to find. He rolled his eyes, dipping his chin in self-recrimination.
“Is it familiar to you?”
“It’s Venzene, Lord. I’m almost sure of that much. I couldn’t say more than that, though.”
He waited a few beats to ensure she had no more to offer, then made a beckoning gesture with that same hand. The scene shifted to the second location—the one with the banyan. Another voice spoke up. This one gave the warning in a lilting, musical tone. The speaker shortened his or her tongue on certain letters and flattened the pronunciation of certain vowels.
“Wo aaye! kia! Wo darya se aaye, wo pani k neeche se aaye!”
Again, he let the voice repeat its message of warning several times before signaling for silence.
“That comes from Thorion. I know that much for certain. I’ve heard it in the market among some of the darker-skinned folk. Not those of Sheshik stock. Their skin is more… golden brown? Light brown? Come to that, I’ve seen some that are light-skinned enough to call them pale, and others dark skinned enough to simply call them brown.” She paused, shaking her head. “It’s hard to separate people by skin color when it gets down to it. A single person is one thing. Easy enough to compare one to another. An entire culture? An artist could do it, I expect, but…” She sighed. “I’ve seen folk who sound like this. And I’ve seen them in Thorionden. That much I can say.”
Methias let her run out of words before speaking. “That will do, Lankaajh.” He offered a warm smile, stepping forward to face her more directly. “It’s a start. We’ve one more. Are you ready?”
She nodded.
The voice that accompanied this third site was crisp and precise. It made a trill of its Rs, and gave the impression of a young scout reporting danger, rather than a frantic flood of warning words.
“Graf! Graf—bitte! Sie kommen! Sie kommen—Nebelblut, Herr! Sie marschieren! Sie kommen aus dem Fluss—sie kommen von unter dem Wasser!”
She didn’t wait for the phrase to repeat. “Gerstealunth, lord. I’m sure of it. I recognize the word Graf.”
Methias beamed. “I agree with all three assessments, but once more, you’ve proven invaluable. I only know Kovalunth and some Eodenth. And the heraldic words to blazon arms—all of which are in Havalunth. I’d hoped you might recognize at least one of them. Thank you largely.”
“I can do better than that, Lord.” She flashed a thin little smile. “I’d wager there’s at least one or two folk with Fyken Presh that are from Venzene.”
“Oh? That’s excellent, Lankaajh.” He flashed a grateful grin at her, then lifted his brows in sudden realization. “And Fyken has one, at least, from Thorion—the bachelor knight Morakogunn is grooming for service in the Yebu ke.”
Daephone blinked, then bowed her head. “As you say.”
“Well, that will do, then. We’ve seen what we need to.” He lifted his chin. “Sleara?”
The image faded, replaced with the grim sight of staring skulls. Daephone’s fists tightened, producing that creaking leather sound again. “We’re done here, then, my lord?”
“We are.” He turned to escort her from the chamber. “And I need to ride for Fyken’s fortress.”
“Now, my lord?”
“Now,” he agreed. “I need the translation more directly rendered if I’m to address its warning.”
They exited, but not before Methias turned to the room and said, “My thanks. I’ll return once I’ve sorted this. You’ve my promise.”
When the door was closed at last, Methias turned to find Tharus had already started up the stairs. He fought back the mild disappointment and started up with the Lankaajh just behind.
Daephone finally decided to ask the question she’d clearly been holding back. “My lord, you said you had a rough translation?”
“I did, and I do.” He lifted his chin, then spoke in the voice of someone reading aloud. “They come. They’re coming from the River.”
Daephone stopped just before they’d reached the small chamber at ground level. “They?”
He grinned, though there was no mirth in it. “Ah, you see the problem. I’ve seen the memory of the moments tied to that warning. I’ve seen water move, vegetation move… all as if something were walking through it. I’ve seen no thing doing the walking, however. I need a better translation. That means I need a native speaker of at least one of the languages we’ve heard.”
She nodded. “So you’re bound for Kor Kowmor.”
“I am.”
He opened the door and entered the smallish sitting room. A lanky youth of Sheshik stock was just sitting down. He wore raiment that marked him as a member of Daephone’s order, the Ban’ze Ruun. His hair had been pulled back in innumerable braids. Each was small and tightly woven so that his locks appeared to have been combed by something with impossibly thick teeth. His beard was close and neatly trimmed. A brindled mastiff sat at his feet, looking up and appearing to smile at the newcomers.
Methias resisted the urge to focus on the dog. Instead, he offered the man a warm smile and a nod to indicate him. “And Tharus will accompany me.”
Tharus nodded, reaching down to stroke the massive dog’s great head. His voice left the auditory impression of beard stubble. “Dannus deliver me… Finally.” He twitched a smile. “When do we leave?”
-VI-
Venzene Duchy of Kovalun
County Jižní Pochod
Barony of Hartscross–Jižní Lov
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Vlk leaned his bright arm along the top of the barbican’s wooden wall. This part of the barrier had been flattened, though he could see poniards of sharpened wood and pitted, perhaps even serrated iron sticking out just below the alure.
“You’re saying those vill keep men from climbing the valls?”
Waltyr grinned sidelong at him from his left, but it was Jastrab who answered.
“Well, no. We will keep them from climbing the walls. But if things go poorly, those will slow them down, at the very least. They’ve been here since the count first ordered the palisade stood up. You live here and I’d bet you’ve never noticed them before, have you?”
Vlk shook his head.
“See? If you were to climb the outside, you’d have to contend with them. They stick out too far to just ignore or hope to miss. They’re left out in the rain and snow, sure, but they’re also kept sharp enough to draw blood. They’ll cut through a rope as that rope is jostled, slice a hand trying to grip them without knowing where or exactly how to grip them, and they’ll make a ladder sit uneven against the wall. It’s not perfect, of course. No defense ever is. They have their uses, though.”
Vlk gave a slow, sage nod. What the captain said made a certain amount of sense.
“Then there’s the matter of the magic.” This was a new voice—rolling and full.
Vlk turned to find a tall man with thick ginger hair and a well-groomed beard to match. A sword rested over his right shoulder. It was held in place by a leather baldric as black as his kontusz. As the man cleared the stairs, Vlk could see a gleaming steel helm dangling from his right hand.
Jastrab looked back at the younger man, grinning. “There is that.”
“Magic?” Vlk tried not to show how much of his awe was born out of fear. Like most, however, the very thought of magic called up images of… well, of monsters like those who were massing outside… somewhere. He knew they were there. He could hear their stomach-churning chants. He simply couldn’t see them anywhere.
But vhere are they hiding?
The land all around was full of grasses that the animals found good to eat, and little else. There were trees within sight, but they formed a sort of natural border around the great field. Vlk could find nothing that would protect an enemy from an archer’s eye. And the voices seem somehow closer than the trees.
“Jastrab, didn’t you tell the boy about the magic?” The bearded man quirked a smile, then shot his brows up in sudden realization. “Oh! Hells, I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t realize you meant to use him to fuel our magics!”
Vlk blanched, then stepped back, scanning his surroundings. He felt his bright fist clenching, and had just drawn breath preparatory to doing … something, when the redhead laughed.
“Look at his fist!” More laughter, this time joined in on by both Waltyr and Jastrab. “This one’s ready for a fight! Are we keeping him?”
Jastrab reached down to squeeze Vlk’s shoulder. “Not up to us. He’s alright, though.” As Jastrab finally found Vlk’s eyes, he spoke again. “No magic here. Other than the magic of knowing what to do in a fight like this. Training and trust, Vlk. That’s the magic that matters. I’d take it against sorcery any day.”
“And you’ll take it today,” said Waltyr. “We all will. Still, we’ve fought worse.”
“You have?” Vlk shivered. Why was it so cold? He resisted the urge to rub his own upper arms to warm them. He didn’t want to show the nerves bubbling inside his belly.
“We have.” This was the ginger again. “Hells, at least the walls here are in good repair.”
Jastrab and Waltyr both grinned.
“Thinking of Eoalun?” Jastrab sounded wistful. “Now that was a battle.”
“Ekburg, aye captain. That ruin was nearly our ruin.” The ginger man grinned over to Waltyr. “You’d shot your stores completely dry, da. And when they’d started coming through the breach where the wood had rotted away…”
Vlk blinked, and hard. He wanted to hear about the battle, of course. What boy wouldn’t? But he was struggling with the realization that this man was Waltyr’s son!
“Oh, I remember it all too well.” Waltyr turned to Vlk, grinning. “Ulrek,” he indicated the other man, “earned his name that day. Three men came through the wall—a Eoalunth warlord and two men who may as well have been giants. Havoc’s Horn, they were as tall as you seated on the captain’s shoulders.”
Vlk’s eyes were huge. He leaned in toward Waltyr, but not out of being caught up in the tale. No, it was just becoming harder to hear his voice clearly over the chanting. Thus far there had been nobody along the grasses… nobody still living and moving, at any rate. Still, the voices sounded as if they were getting closer. Added to that, he was growing colder.
“We’re stood on the grand building’s weather-chewed parapet—up perhaps twice the height of a man? And Ulrek sees them breaking through. He shouts Odvážna krv! Then he leaps down and lands with his knee on the warlord’s shield.”
“My knee cop was padded. That, and the battle blessing was on me by that point.”
“Battle blessing?” Vlk turned to Ulrek, but his body language made it clear that he was asking all three of them.
It was Jastrab who answered. “Battle fever, battle blessing, the red curtain, the war fire—it’s all the same thing. When the fight’s happening here and now? When you’re in the fight, instead of the fear before the fight?”
Vlk nodded as if he understood. He thought he did, but…
Jastrab must’ve seen his uncertainty. “The idea of pain, or fear, or anything outside of whatever thoughts keep you alive? Those things drop away. Training gives your body the tools to—hopefully, at least—get you through. You don’t think about women, wine, or where your next meal is coming from. You fight until the fight is over… one way or another.” He grinned. “There’s always time for pain after.”
Walter’s voice came rolling out past a wide smile as he took up the tale. “So, Ulrek knocks the warlord back into his absurdly large men, pushes off of the shield, then shik-shik-shik! He stabs all three of them somewhere above their shoulders, then steps back through the breach, calling for a wagon, or something else to block the hole.”
