The eaters of time, p.35
The Eaters of Time, page 35
Jastar cocked his head to one side as if in thought. “Not one I speak… but it’s familiar to me.” He paused, then shook his head. “If we may, Lord, I’d like to circle back to it in a moment. Let me try and unknot the memory.”
Methias nodded. “Fair. I can do that.”
“Lord?” Tharus’s beard stubble voice lilted upward at the word’s end. Once Methias had turned his attention that way, he continued. “I’ve heard it. At the Last Bell, actually. It’s from the other folk of Thorion—the first people of Thorion.”
All eyes turned to regard Tharus, who shrugged a pauldron-covered shoulder.
Sir Jastar snapped his fingers, face brightening. “That’s it!” His eyes danced, “And we’ve someone in this very fortress who speaks at least some of the tongue.”
Methias waited for a name that appeared not to be coming. Finally, Fyken drew breath in obvious preparation to force the matter. Whether deliberate or unconscious, Jastar chose that moment to speak once more.
“I don’t know whose lance he’s in. Katxsel? I’m speaking of Pallith.”
Apiné turned to Kujin. “If you would?”
The Viper nodded, bowed to Methias and Fyken, and waited for permission to depart. Fyken gave it, and Methias turned back to Tharus and Jastar.
“You’ve my thanks.” He then turned back to the book he was still holding and read the final warning. “Sie kommen—Nebelblut, Herr! Sie marschieren! Sie kommen aus dem Fluss—sie kommen von unter dem Wasser!”
“It’s … Gerstealunth, Lord. I can tell you that much, but not much more.” This was Yarisan. He shook his shaggy head of black hair and pooched out his lower lip. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Methias offered a grin. “Yarisan, you remind me of someone I recently met on the road. A boy who made his home near the Obserwatorzy Zmierzchu.”
Yarisan brightened visibly. “I was born in sight of those mountains, Lord. You’ve a keen ear. Though Lanbachsel Gurin grew up far closer to them than I—Auburg, if memory serves.”
“I’m surprised he isn’t here with you, then.”
“I know for a fact that Lanbachsel Gurin only speaks the Trade Tongue, Calyari, and Kamienalunth, Lord. When Katxsel Fyken asked for Yarisan…” Tharus trailed off.
Methias made a gesture of acceptance. After a moment of thoughtful silence, Fyken spoke up from his left.
“Lord? My Gerstealunth is still serviceable. Do you still want the translations kept in abeyance?
“If you please…” Methias did his best to hide his surprise. It was common enough for folk to know two—sometimes three languages. But most stopped after learning the Trade Tongue and whatever other language was in common use where they lived. Fyken hadn’t come from the duchy of Gerstealun, but rather that of Lesalun. He’d also learned a good deal of Calyari over the last year. His familiarity with yet another tongue wasn’t astonishing, but it was worthy of note.
Kujin appeared with Pallith in tow. A few moments later, the new arrival confirmed that he did, indeed, understand the words of the second warning.
“My father insisted on it, Lord. It was important that the old ways weren’t lost.”
When the entirety of all three warnings had been read aloud, and translated into the trade tongue, they made a grim proclamation, indeed.
“They come. They are marching—the mist-bloods. They come from the River. They come from beneath the River.”
Methias turned to Fyken and … froze. Ramud Ayumbra was seated in mid-air, floating just over Fyken’s shoulder.
“Ask,” said he. His voice was as frustratingly neutral as ever.
“And what, or who, are the mist-bloods? Do any of you know?”
One by one, they all shook their heads. When Methias looked at Ramud Ayumbra, the meoli gave a solemn nod. “In this anguish-ed age, Meth-hyoos Ar-thod, the empty-eyed world of man uses the word goblin … to name them.”
“Goblins,” said Methias. “Mist-bloods are goblins.”
Pallith and Jastar exchanged a look with one another, then turned back to Methias.
“Lord, they come from the mountains to trouble the unwary or unguarded at night. They live in the deep places, not the River.”
Thorion has lived with these Nebelblut on one side of the River and the Shivering Song on the other? I don’t know whether to pity them or parade them about as heroes.
“The warnings say otherwise.” Apiné shook her head. “If they’re wrong, so be it. Can we afford to take that risk?”
“A good question,” said Methias. “Another might be—do they have anything to do with the coming war?”
“We could send messengers.” This was Edani. “That, and send out mounted patrols along the north side of the River… With the two-two here on a training rotation, surely we can afford to send a lance or two of Foakhuleek, no?”
Fyken gave a slow, considering nod at that idea.
Methias hadn’t seen it happen, but the meoli had winked out of existence at some point in the last few heartbeats. Well, the goblins almost have to be related to the larger war. Their proximity to Yrxa castle, their apparent change in action, if Pallith and Jastar are correct… And the largest proof of all is the appearance of the old meoli himself. He came without warning or preamble and volunteered the translation. No, this has to play some part in the larger conflict.
He shook his head, then turned to Jastar and Pallith. “What’s the nearest settlement,” he looked up, found the sun, and pointed to the southeast, “along that path?”
The sons of Thorion looked at one another again, though this particular silent conference was mercifully brief.
Pallith delivered their conclusion. “Wick, Lord.”
Jastar then took up the tale. “It’s a good place, Lord. Well-fortified and well-peopled.”
Methias nodded. “Good.” He adjusted his stance to include Fyken in his regard. “Katxsel, I mean to take some of your charges.”
Fyken nodded. “How many?”
Methias saw Jastar looking confused, and perhaps unhappy, but paid it little mind. “I shall take Apiné’s lance, and the sons of Thorion, here.”
“Pallith is in my lance, Lord.” Apiné was grinning—clearly delighted with the situation.
“Good. That makes this simpler. Is… Who else is here from the Yebu Ke?”
“Cr ke Ibhroth.” Fyken’s voice had a comfortable, this is all just business to me, Lord, tone.
Methias sighed, grinning in spite of himself. He liked Ibhroth, though he had no idea why. Everyone seems to like him. And everyone seems to find him irksome.
“Well, no help for it. He’ll have to do. Sir Jastar? If you’d be good enough to fetch him?” Turning to Apiné, he spoke again. “Full kits. Gather your lance, help Sir Jastar and Cr ke Ibhroth, should they need it. I want everyone ready for field duty in half a bell.” Turning, at last, to Yarisan and Edani, he offered a brief but genuine smile. “Thank your commander for me. It’s… Denythis, now, isn’t it?” When they nodded, clearly surprised and gratified at the recognition, he continued, “Thank him for your loan, and thank you for the help.”
“The Gilsel made a fair point. I’m going to send out a mounted patrol, Lord. Best we not be blindsided.”
Methias nodded, then stepped back. As he did, he saw Fyken step forward, dismissing the assembled men and women. Tharus remained. He was, after all, at Kor Kowmor with Methias.
“May I speak my mind, Lord?” Fyken turned to face him.
“I think you’d better.”
“Is it wise to walk into Thorion with armed men—even if it’s only an oversized lance? Nobody who lays eyes on you will think you’re sellswords.”
Methias nodded. “Necessary. Jastar has the credibility to get a message through to whoever rules that town, but I can’t risk sending him alone. Not against a foe that can hide from even the weave.” He gave another nod in response to Fyken’s look of surprise. “I saw the places associated with the warnings. I saw the River part, as if many creatures moved through it toward the southern shore. I saw foliage part in much the same way. I neither saw nor heard them, though. If I cannot detect them at range, even when I know and am looking at where they are affecting the land around them…”
Fyken cocked his head to one side, then nodded. “Then you can’t leave it up to hope and faith that a lone rider can get a message through.”
“Exactly.”
He paused to look down at Ire, who had begun snoring. As he looked up again, he caught Tharus’s thin grin. He turned back to Fyken Presh, smiling.
“I’ll need one more thing from you, Katxsel. Find me a place in the courtyard that can be guarded, but won’t be in a place folk are likely to walk.”
Fyken arched his brows, grinning. “I know just the place. What are you planning?”
“Luck is a garden, Fyken. You have to select the right location, sow the right seeds, and protect them while they grow. Otherwise, you’ll be left with nothing to harvest.”
-V-
Venzene Duchy of Kovalun
County Jižní Pochod
Barony of Hartscross–Jižní Lov
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Vlk had spent what seemed like an age on his feet. He’d passed news, called targets, fetched more ammunition, and contorted himself into nearly every position he could think of. This last was more than an effort to make himself a less obvious target. It was also the need to react to the allied archers as they slipped sideways, struck by enemy fire. They might fall forward or backward off the alure or to either side as they were struck. Then there were those on the walls who’d simply panicked, fleeing deeper into Jižní Lov and paying as little attention as possible to anyone or anything they knocked down along the way.
He’d watched a young Bluemark archer fall, and the man next to him simply go mad. His eyes had grown huge and glassy, his mouth dripping spittle. The madman dropped his bow, drew his sword, hacked at his dead friend’s body twice, kicked it, then turned, making a sound somewhere between laughter and tears. He bounced off the other archers, slicing into the arm of one before slipping in the rain and crashing down the nearby stairs.
They’re like untrained horses smelling blood for the first time. Vlk had been too awed to do much more than stare. They’re vild, angry, and terrified—as much a danger to themselves as anyone else.
For all of that, he thought the battle was going well. The enemy kept sending men to the walls in an effort to make what Waltyr called a breach. Even to his unpracticed eye the idea seemed pointless. The walls were stout, after all. Even if that weren’t the case, Waltyr and his men felled foes until they either faded away into nothing or lay stacked against the wall like cordwood for a bloody winter to come.
Then came a thing that froze his heart. He saw the war leader on his stormcloud steed, his boy seated before him. The nightmare mount reared, then leapt forward … and upward. As Vlk stared, the beast ran on the very air, racing toward the roof of the barbican.
Horrified, Vlk began to run toward Waltyr at the far end of the platform, shouting his name. Before he’d made it under the wooden canopy’s near end, he saw the storm rider’s boy leap down to the peaked roof.
As he ran, Vlk saw Waltyr turn to him, follow his gaze, then step back to aim his crossbow upward. Most adults seemed to willfully ignore or outwardly disdain boys his age. They certainly didn’t listen to them. Not so with Waltyr Wachfeld. One grown man in thrice a thousand was Waltyr.
The sergeant loosed a bolt which passed right through the damned horse. The quarrel nearly struck Laagi—the gnoerkish boy—as he stalked toward Vlk’s side of the barbican.
At that point, Vlk’s run carried him beneath the canopy. He’d made it five feet further before it happened. The storm rider floated down. He no longer rode his monster steed. Instead, it was as if his entire lower body were surrounded by its own storm cloud.
Vlk found himself in an ecstasy of indecision… and panic. Should he race to help Waltyr? Should he focus on the gnoerk boy he knew was moving toward where he himself had just been?
He was spared the pressure of decision. The storm rider fell on Waltyr like a living tine of lightning. As Vlk watched, the monster brought his axe down with both hands, striking the left side of Waltyr’s skull with a canted hammer shot that was audible even at that distance. He heard himself scream. Waltyr fell, and all he could do was scream.
The storm rider’s arm rose high, as if in triumph. Lightning split the clouds, thunder cracking just behind. Then he hurled his axe over the wall, deep within the fortress’s courtyard. The storm began to swirl, wind spinning faster and faster, swallowing his screams. Then… the rain was gone. The sun was setting, but the sky was full of ordinary golds and pinks.
Vlk’s screams caught in his throat when he saw Fetinba. She turned to the enemy chieftain and loosed what looked like a perfect shot toward his neck. The storm cloud that was his lower half seemed to rise all around him before the arrow struck home. He turned to face her, but she was already in motion.
As the other Bluemarks moved westward—away from Waltyr’s killer—Fetinba dropped her borrowed bow and ran at the scarred storm rider. Just before she reached him, she jumped out, off the barbican, grabbed the nearest upright, and swung herself feet-first toward the monster.
He caught her in mid-career with a massive backhand, striking her out of the air and over the edge, toward the courtyard.
Again Vlk screamed, but this time it was a roar of rage as much as it was a cry of horror. Still making that strange, guttural noise, he reached down and pulled one of the Bluemark dead’s short swords free from its scabbard. The thought that this particular Bluemark was more useful in death than the score or so that were still retreating westward along the alure was brief, but powerful.
“Odvážna krv!” Jastrab’s clarion voice preceded him as he stalked up the stairs. He bore an oval shield and a gleaming sword. A helm of bright steel crowned his head above his wind-ruffled black kontusz.
A figure moved down the stairs in Jastrab’s wake—something swathed in white. The realization that Fetinba was alive, that the captain had likely caught her as she fell, was enough to keep Vlk’s horror at bay, at least for the moment. He watched as Jastrab squared off with the storm rider, willing the man to do what he could not… willing him to avenge Waltyr’s death.
Movement to his right, down in the courtyard, caught his eye. He saw a figure in a red kontusz knock a Bluemark aside, then bolt into a tent.
Coward, he thought, but that was all he had time for. He heard an oof a few paces behind him. Spinning, he saw the gnoerkish boy walking with purpose toward him. He unslung the weapon from his back—a battle axe inlaid with a reddish-gold metal. As he walked, he pulled the leather caps off the weapon’s edges.
The gnoerk boy—Laagi—met his eyes and shook his head. He gestured with his right hand, indicating that Vlk should run.
Probably a wise idea. This was no tournament—no babe’s lyst. Yet here was an opponent he had a chance of defeating. The gnoerk was about Andrej’s size, after all.
Vhy else have I been training, if not to do my part vhen the time comes? Vlk hefted his borrowed blade, shaking his head as he readied himself.
-VI-
Kastan stood behind Andrej with her arms around his chest. His head was bowed, his hands wrapped tightly around her forearms. His breath held a tiny shake buried within it, and she felt a few stray drops hit her wrist where his silent tears had fallen. Still, he was holding up far better than she’d feared he might. Grief was natural, especially in a situation like this. Debilitating grief was apt to get all involved hurt, if not outright killed for their trouble, at least until the battle was ended.
Rákos had slipped sideways minutes earlier. Andrej had been with him, as had Kastan, much to Olga’s obvious, if silent, consternation. Now, far earlier than was the custom, Rákos would be brought down to the crypts and laid to a hasty rest. He would be left there until the battle’s end. When the hourglass had been righted again, and there was time, Kastan had assured the boy that they would give him a proper ceremony. For now, this would have to do. Leaving the dead man in Edmund’s command tent was both unkind and unwise. The dead left out in the open ran the risk of making the living ill or calling Skolf’s vermin out from their hidden holes. Questions of health be damned, leaving him out in the open like a sack of old meal would have been a sign of utter disrespect. It would also have been monstrously cruel to Andrej.
She watched as Hajvarr moved the body onto a bier. When Radek had done his best to arrange Rákos’s limbs in as natural a semblance of sleep as he could, Hajvarr looked to Andrej.
“It’s time,” he said, and said no more.
Andrej gave Kastan’s arms a brief, tight squeeze, then released her, nodding.
Hajvarr gestured to Pavel, the baker’s son and his new… page? Protégé? Armsman. We’ll call him Hajvarr’s armsman until something else presents itself. The big lad drew in a breath to steady himself, and both he and Hajvarr took the ends of the bier in hand, lifting it and beginning to move toward the back of the tent.
As Rákos’s sad form disappeared through the canvas, she and Andrej had a moment alone. She stepped back, turning him to face her. He was pliable, offering no resistance. She leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his brow, then smoothed back his blond waves.
He gave a weak, little laugh, then looked up at her through glassy eyes. “I don’t…” He blinked, causing a few tears to carve their way down his face. “I don’t know what to do now.”
