Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 16

In Dariyal, Cartheron watched while events unfurled as Surly predicted, or perhaps enforced: Tarel ceded power to the Napan Council of Elders and Nobles and retired to the family’s private island, while the Council – suitably chastened – heeded most suggestions from Surly herself, who remained hidden from pretty much everyone else.

Since generations of bloody rivalry could not simply be brushed aside, the navies were not officially merged, remaining independent and separated into two task forces.

For the marines, however, Cartheron deliberately pushed for no distinctions whatsoever. Despite this, or because of it, recruitment and training was proceeding with remarkable success. Privately, Cartheron was under no illusions, as everyone was eager to serve the man who had no formal rank, but was known simply as the Sword.

This evening Cartheron sat in the Anvil, a waterfront inn – though, in truth, almost all taverns and drinking houses in Dariyal were waterfront. It had become something of an unofficial rendezvous for the officer corps – if it could be called such.

His brother was with him, back from raiding. In fact, almost all vessels were in harbour as pickings were particularly thin this season. Fighting almost everywhere on the continent had merchants going to ground.

He sipped his watered beer and reflected that this raised the salient point so plaguing the conferences with Surly: what next?

Also at the table this evening were Dujek and his second in command, Jack, like Urko back from raiding, and the cadre mage Hairlock, who, though not pleasant company, apparently loved to talk and drink and so showed up uninvited all the time.

Urko nudged his brother, gestured round the table and observed, ‘We’re the only Napans left.’

Cartheron grunted his agreement. ‘We’re getting thin on the ground these days.’

‘Where is Tocaras, anyway?’

‘Mainland. He proposed some kind of mission to Surly and went.’

Urko nodded. ‘Hunh. Never was comfortable at sea. Born on the mainland, right?’

‘Yeah. His family’s related – but we’re all related here, hey? Damned small island. Anyway, a trade delegation, I believe. He’s half Napan.’

Urko peered down at his tankard. ‘That’s the Old Crew, then. An’ Choss is in Malaz.’

His brother, he knew, could sometimes slip into melancholy, and so to change the subject Cartheron looked to Hairlock. ‘What of our glorious leader?’

The mage stroked his wide jowls and nodded solemnly. He peered right and left then leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘Been poking round. All indications are he’s still alive. Don’t know just where he is, though.’ The squat and sun-darkened mage raised a blunt finger. ‘But, here’s the kicker.’ He paused to glance about again and Cartheron realized that here was a fellow who loved to be ‘in the know’, dispensing juicy bits of gossip; he’d have to warn Surly and Tayschrenn about that. ‘Jadeen had a whole organization in south Itko Kan, right? Found out it’s now in complete disarray. Word is, she’s dead.’

Despite his disapproval of Hairlock’s smugness and gossiping, Cartheron was impressed. The Witch Jadeen, dead? Could the little runt really have … He shook his head.

‘I didn’t think he had it in him,’ Urko announced, and thumped the table. Cartheron winced.

‘Perhaps it was Dancer,’ Jack murmured, keeping his voice low.

Urko jabbed a blunt finger to the young officer. ‘That I’d believe.’

‘That’s enough about that,’ Cartheron warned, and he sipped his beer.

Hairlock just grinned and tapped a finger to the side of his nose.

Dujek cleared his throat and leaned to Cartheron. ‘Got a request, if you don’t mind.’

‘What is it?’

Dujek gestured to Jack. ‘The lad here has a far better head than most for runnin’ things, so has pretty much been doin’ all the work without the rank. So, I request he formally has command.’

Cartheron studied the young officer, who in fact was no younger than many of them – he just had kept his youthful looks for longer. He was even trying to grow a beard, perhaps to compensate. He nodded. ‘I’ll draw the papers up tomorrow. Congratulations, Jack. You’re now command rank.’

‘Drinks!’ Urko called out.

A young servitor came to the table and Cartheron asked, ‘What would you like to celebrate, Jack?’

‘Whisky.’

Cartheron raised a brow. ‘Well, well. Whisky, Jack?’ Then he slapped a hand to the table. ‘That’s it. Whiskyjack – the cunning bird. There you go.’

Urko’s forehead furrowed. ‘What?’

Cartheron pointed to the thin ropy fellow. ‘His name. Whiskyjack.’

The lad actually looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know about this …’

But Dujek was nodding. ‘I like it. It has – whadyacallit – panache.’

Cartheron ordered the round, then spotted a slim dark figure slipping into the tavern and frowned. One of Surly’s dark birds, her Claws. This one, a young woman, approached the table and bowed, murmuring, ‘Your presence is requested.’ She looked to Hairlock as well. ‘And you, mage.’

Hairlock appeared surprised. ‘We’re ready?’

The young woman slipped away without answering. When the round arrived Cartheron drank his swiftly, saluted the lad in his new command – and name – then rose. Hairlock accompanied him.

They crossed the waterfront to the ancient pile of stone that was the harbour garrison, armoury, and informal palace of Dariyal.

‘You’ll like this,’ Hairlock chuckled. ‘If it’s what I think it is.’

They passed through numerous guarded entryways and doors, and were directed towards a small side room, a private meeting chamber. Two of Surly’s Claws guarded this door, and when they opened it Cartheron saw Surly at a table flanked by two more Claw bodyguards, the boyish-looking cadre mage Calot, and their ‘High Mage’ Tayschrenn.

The table held some sort of glowing object, not unlike a lantern, except that the pale light was constant, not flickering.

‘Hairlock,’ Tayschrenn called, ‘if you would please …’

Grunting, the burly mage went to the table and raised his hands to the globe.

‘Been working on this for a while,’ the High Mage explained to Cartheron. ‘This is our first trial.’ He raised a questioning brow to Surly, who nodded her assent.

‘Ap-Athlan,’ Tayschrenn called to the table. ‘I would speak with you.’

Everyone waited in silence. Cartheron couldn’t help cocking a sceptical eye to Surly; her attention, however, was steady upon the single bluish light in the darkened room.

Something flickered in the glow, a blurry shape, and a voice whispered faintly, wavering in and out, ‘Who would speak?’

‘I am Tayschrenn. I speak for the ruler of Malaz and the Napan Isles.’

A long silence followed this, until the weak voice answered, ‘Very well. Speak.’

‘I wish to propose an agreement to our mutual benefit.’

Silence again, until a whispered, ‘I see … I shall take your request to my mistress.’

‘Agreed. We shall speak again – one day hence.’

‘Agreed.’

A collective gasp of relief burst from the mages as the glow snapped out, plunging the room into darkness. Light blossomed from a lantern Surly now held, its sliding panel raised. Cartheron saw other shielded lanterns and opened them as well. The light revealed the three mages clinging to the table like shipwreck survivors. Their faces gleamed with sweat and they were gasping for breath.

‘One day?’ Calot complained to Tayschrenn, when he could speak. ‘You’re optimistic.’

* * *

Orjin cleaned his nicked and gouged two-handed blade as best he could, then eased himself down on a rock to rest. He was exhausted, famished to his core, and hadn’t had a proper drink since a mouthful of muddy rainwater someone had kept too long in a goatskin gerber.

At least the numerous bruises and cuts up and down his body weren’t serious enough to slow him down – yet. He was lucky in that. Many were down one good arm, or had leg wounds that meant they were barely able to keep up when the troop was on the move.

He gathered up a handful of dirt and rubbed his hands together to scrape off the dried blood.

Soon. It would have to be soon now. The decision he’d been putting off.

If it wasn’t already too late.

One by one the other principals of the troop came limping up to sit with him at his fire in the traditional dusk gathering. Not that there was anything to discuss these days. They were surrounded, and the ground was disappearing beneath their feet. At some point ahead – not so far off at all – things would settle into an informal siege, with Renquill starving them out.

At least, that’s what he’d do.

He nodded to Orhan, Terath, Yune and Prevost Jeral as they either sat or squatted down, inviting any ideas. This night the Wickan Arkady was with them too, back in camp between his contacts with the hill tribes.

Orjin looked from one haggard and drawn face to another, Terath and Jeral with eyes downcast as if unable, or unwilling, to meet his gaze, and decided then that now would be the time. He drew breath to speak, just as Prevost Jeral raised her hand. He lifted a brow. ‘Yes?’

She extended a sealed scroll. ‘Another message from Renquill.’

Orjin took it, commenting, ‘Downright chatty, our pursuer.’ This raised a few half-smiles.

He broke the seals and read the message, then tossed the vellum roll into the fire. ‘As expected – my head for the lives of the troop.’

‘As I said before,’ Terath cut in, ‘he may mean it, but we cannot trust Quon and Tali. They want everyone’s head.’

Orjin pulled a hand down his face, as if he could draw the exhaustion from his spirit and flesh; how hard it was to concentrate when just standing was an effort! ‘An exchange could be arranged,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps right at the Seti border. You could all make a run for it there.’

‘No more talk of that,’ Jeral growled.

‘But that pretty much is my proposal,’ Orjin explained. ‘We break out to the north, then east along the Purge border – that may slow Renquill down – then part into small companies and spread out. Some of us will make it.’ He didn’t say that if it came to it he would offer himself as a diversion to allow as many as possible to get away.

Orhan and Terath were shaking their heads. ‘Not good enough,’ Terath answered. ‘It’s all or none.’

‘There’s nothing else.’ Orjin eyed everyone in turn. ‘Unless anyone else has a better idea?’

Heads turned as the group looked at one another; but no one spoke.

Orjin nodded. ‘Very well then. Tomorrow at dawn. We strike north, then dash east.’

Terath threw a handful of gravel into the fire, saying, exasperated, ‘But Renquill will be expecting just such a move.’

He held out his arms in an open shrug. ‘What choice do we have?’

At this point Yune raised a skeleton-thin hand. It shook with a terrible palsy, and Orjin knew the ancient had been driving himself harder than any of them, keeping tabs on as many of their pursuers as he could. He nodded for him to speak. ‘Yes?’

The elder cleared his throat. ‘We may have nothing to say, but there is one present who is very eager to speak indeed. And has been for some time, though he has held himself back as he is afraid of how he will be received.’

Everyone was puzzled. ‘Who, and why?’ Terath demanded.

‘Well,’ said Yune, ‘you see … he is a spy.’

Both Terath and Jeral surged to their feet, hands going to weapons. ‘What?’ Jeral snarled, glaring about at the surrounding encampment.

Orjin gestured for them to sit; he wasn’t surprised. Many states kept hired informants and even infiltrators in their neighbours’ armies – or should, if they were smart enough. ‘And he or she is eager to come forward now? Has a proposal?’

Yune shrugged. ‘Let us hear from him.’

Orjin nodded his compliance and the Dal Hon elder crooked a hand to the night.

A short, sturdy figure rose from one of the nearest campfires and approached, hesitantly. It proved to be a youth, in simple rags, not even armed. Orjin raked his memory, but couldn’t recall seeing the lad before. He eyed him narrowly. ‘And you are …?’

The lad gave an uneasy shrug. ‘Names can change, yes?’

Terath pointed a finger. ‘I know you! You claimed to be a runaway from a Quon estate.’

The youth nodded. ‘That much is true.’

Orjin waved for silence. ‘Never mind. Who do you speak for?’

‘An interested third party.’

Orjin was unimpressed. ‘Interested in what? Watching us get run down?’

The youth flushed, showing some measure of inexperience, but nodded to Orjin. ‘You said you had no options … I am empowered to offer one.’

Orjin rubbed his jaw, still a touch puzzled. ‘I believe my tactical evaluation to be pretty damned accurate.’

The young lad flushed anew. ‘It is. The picture changes, however, when you consider that while the party I speak for might not possess an army, it does possess a great number of ships.’

Everyone save Yune and Orjin jumped to their feet, all speaking at once.

‘How many ships?’ Terath demanded.

‘How soon?’ Arkady asked.

‘And from where?’ Jeral growled.

Orjin raised his hands for silence. ‘Quiet!’ He looked round. ‘Our friend here might not be the only spy in our camp.’

They sat once more, Jeral grudgingly. She extended a finger to the newcomer but spoke to Orjin. ‘I don’t like it. This one may be an infiltrator from Renquill sent to lure us to the coast with some cock and bull story of ships. At the coast we could be cornered and slaughtered.’

‘Yune?’ Orjin asked, a questioning brow raised.

‘Our friend is telling the truth when he says he speaks for a distant party.’

‘Who?’ Terath demanded.

The old shaman almost winced as he confessed, ‘The ruler of Malaz and the Napan Isles.’

Orjin’s hope soured; he’d heard the rumours regarding the powers there. Some sort of sorcerer who could summon demons, and his right hand a murderer who everyone believed had slain King Chulalorn the Third.

In the silence following Yune’s admission, the giant Orhan murmured, ‘Perhaps we cannot be so choosy.’

Orjin nodded. Orhan was right. If there was any chance at all to save his people he had to take it. ‘How soon can the ships get here?’ he asked the lad.

‘Three to four days.’

He rubbed his stubbled cheeks, thinking. So they just had to last another four days or so, and make it to the coast. He looked at Arkady, who was being his usual silent self. ‘Speak to our hill-folk guides, yes?’

The Wickan padded off.

Orjin regarded the agent. ‘Looks as though we have a deal. But if the ships don’t arrive – you die with us.’

The fellow nodded. ‘I will send word.’ Bowing, he departed.

A short while later Arkady returned with two of their guides in tow. Orjin couldn’t quite read their impassive and set faces as they joined the group round the fire, but to him they appeared troubled.

Arkady blew out a breath. ‘The west is where they’re thickest. The most forts. The most patrols. And the mountains peter out. We lose our cover.’

Terath was frowning. ‘But the ravine choking the coastal road where this whole campaign started …’

Orjin looked to their guides. ‘Uh-huh. What of that?’

The two eyed one another, clearly reluctant. Finally, one cleared his throat, murmuring, ‘Yes. Hidden River.’

‘And?’

‘They say there is a way,’ Arkady put in. ‘But there’s a problem.’

Orjin gestured, inviting them to speak. ‘Please. What is it?’

Clearly uncomfortable, one shifted, uneasy, then began, ‘It is a series of caves, and a river that goes underground. It comes out at a cove between cliffs on the shore. Our elders speak of it, but our people have not travelled its full route in generations.’

‘Why not?’

The young fellow made a sign against evil. ‘It is … guarded.’

Jeral made to rise, as if this was all a waste of time, but Orjin bade her sit. ‘Guarded? By what?’

‘Generations ago the earth shook. It was the goddess’s anger. After that the river’s route changed, and something barred the way.’

‘Something? You don’t know what it is?’

Once more the two exchanged uneasy glances. The one speaking finally confessed, reluctantly, ‘A dragon.’

Jeral openly rolled her eyes; Orjin did feel his brows rise in scepticism, but he nodded, accepting the information. ‘I see. Well … will you guide us there regardless? You need not go all the way. Just point us there.’

They grasped at leather pouches strung round their necks; amulets, or charms perhaps. ‘We are not cowards,’ the speaker said. ‘We will show you the way. That is land we once walked. You lowlanders may think it is yours, but it is still ours.’

‘And perhaps this, ah, dragon, has left,’ Terath suggested.

The two eyed her, dubious, and the spokesman nodded solemnly, clearly not believing it for a moment. ‘Perhaps this is so.’

* * *

Ullara had to leave her loyal companion Bright behind when the way became too steep. She stuffed her few remaining sacks and skins of supplies into a pack that went on to her back, threw two thick horse blankets, rolled and tied, over her shoulder, took up a tall sturdy staff cut from a branch, and felt her way onward.

It was slow going. Her guides were leaving her alone for longer and longer periods. A fall now would be deadly – any serious enough injury would be deadly. Sometimes she had to feel her way with her hands, or tapping the stick, or sliding her feet about.

At least thirst was no problem, as she was high enough now to find snow clinging in shadows and cracks; she would gather up a handful and melt it in her mouth. As for food, she’d actually been eating far better than she had in Heng – meat almost every day. So hunger wasn’t a problem either, as yet.

And the bare rocky slopes of the Fenn Range were remarkably uninhabited. She hadn’t met another human being since taking leave of her Seti guides. Rugged wild sheep and mountain goats were her companions now.

But she wasn’t completely safe. Once she was startled by what sounded like a sudden fight nearby: hissing and squalling and the crashing of huge flapping wings. She was then given an intimate glimpse of a bloodied dead mountain cat, clutched in Prince’s talons as he proceeded to eat it.

She was not too shaken; she knew that she’d have been dead a hundred times over were he not watching over her.

No, her greatest worry was that she was forced to follow what could only be described as a thin trail, deeper into the range. A trail meant her kind – the kind she least wished to meet. She hoped it was a hunting trail, or supply route, the sort of path travelled only once or twice a year.

So she was not entirely surprised when she followed a curve in the steep path – it zigzagged upwards day after day – and the vision taken from a nearby soaring raven revealed an upright human figure where the way levelled ahead, awaiting her. She paused to collect herself, then continued onwards.

She closed within hailing distance then paused again, mostly because her vision had slipped away with the haphazard twists and turns of the raven. From what she had glimpsed, it was a man wrapped in a dark cloak that snapped around him in the fierce winds. Gathering her resolve, she brought to mind the story she’d decided upon, straightened her back, and called out bravely, ‘Greetings! I am merely passing through as a pilgrim. I ask for no charity – I only ask to be left alone.’

‘Greetings!’ the man answered over the winds, his accent sounding as if he were from the south, the Itko Kanese coast, perhaps. ‘You are fortunate to have found us. We are, I believe, the only people between here and the empty ice wastes of the north.’

‘And may I ask who you are?’

A rather long silence followed this request. Then the man called back, his voice revealing amusement, ‘I thought you knew. But perhaps that’s vanity on my part.’ She heard him advancing. ‘I thought the red cloak would be known – but no matter. We are of the Crimson Guard. Welcome to our last redoubt and refuge, the Red Fort.’

Ullara was quite stunned. She’d heard the minstrel tales and songs of the famed Guard, of course; their champions and their battles. And of the hidden Red Fort, though most thought it didn’t actually exist.

Closer, she heard his breath catch as he made out the holes where her eyes once had been. ‘By the Seven!’ he exclaimed. ‘How did you manage this?’

‘I am not without help,’ she answered.

‘You are not alone, then?’

‘I have talents.’

Silence, then a spoken, ‘Ah! I see – that is … I mean …’

She waved a rag-wrapped hand. ‘No matter. I did not come this way to seek you out. I travel north and do not mean to intrude.’

‘Intrude?’ the fellow echoed, shocked. ‘I insist you join us! We can’t have you wandering around these wastes.’

Ullara frowned at that; she did not like the way it sounded. ‘I am not wandering,’ she answered, a touch testily.

A laugh from the man, and this troubled her as well: it was too dismissive. But then, she’d heard so many such laughs from men. ‘Well, be that as it may,’ this one said. ‘Please, let us feed you and offer you a warm bed for the night … I’m sure it has been a long time since you’ve slept in the warmth.’

This was true, and the offer did sound tempting. She felt now the bone-weariness that she’d grown used to all these weeks. She sighed. ‘Very well. Thank you for the offer.’

‘Thank you. This way – that is, how …?’

She gestured forward. ‘You lead. I’ll follow.’

‘Ah … of course. Very good.’

Her vision returned as they neared the fort. Ravens, it seemed, liked its crenellations. It was quite large for its isolated location, or so it seemed to her. Tall stone walls looked to meld into natural rock cliffs. A square inner stone tower filled most of the enclosed space. From what she could see it appeared that very few cloaked men and women walked its grounds or paced its walls.

The mercenary guided her through the open timber doors, faced in iron, and along an enclosed tunnel to the grounds. When they entered the tower and the heavy door closed she immediately lost her vision. The relative heat of the building – the greatest heat she’d felt in months – struck her like a heavy blanket and she suddenly felt her exhaustion.

‘I am Seth,’ the guardsman introduced himself. ‘I command this installation.’

‘Oh!’ She was startled that such a high officer would be out patrolling the paths, but then she’d heard such things of the Guard’s strange organization – or lack thereof. ‘Ullara.’

‘This way.’

Blind, she did not move. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, but within doors without my helpers I cannot see.’

‘Ah. Sorry.’

A hand, large and rough, took hers but she pulled free. ‘Let me hold your arm, please.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He guided her hand to his forearm and she followed his lead up a long hall. After a few more turns and doors they came to an even warmer room; a fireplace crackled here and chairs scraped as a number of people rose.

‘Our guest,’ said Seth. ‘Ullara.’

‘Greetings,’ a number of men and women answered.

She bowed her head. ‘Thank you.’

Seth guided her forward to a chair. She sat and now found herself so close to the fireplace that she imagined if she reached out she’d burn herself. A table was scraped across the stone flags until she felt it in front of her. ‘Soup is on the way,’ Seth said. ‘And bread. And watered wine.’

‘You needn’t go to all this trouble …’

‘Nonsense. When we had word of your approach we couldn’t believe it. I myself had to meet you – so you see, our encounter was no chance.’

‘Word?’ she asked, suddenly feeling troubled once more.

‘Yes, our—Ah, here he is.’

Someone sat at the table opposite her. She could not see him, but she felt him immediately. A powerful aura. A mage.

‘So … Ullara is it?’ a new voice asked.

‘Yes. And you are?’

‘Gwynn. My name is Gwynn.’

‘You saw me, did you?’

‘Felt you, more than saw. Yes.’

A fragrant bowl of something arrived before her. She gingerly felt for it.

‘Careful,’ Gwynn said. ‘It is hot.’

‘My thanks.’ She found and sipped from the bowl. Some sort of vegetable and drippings soup.

A yawn overtook her then and she almost dropped the bowl.

‘Finish and I will show you to a bed.’

She nodded her thanks, sipped more of the oh-so-good hot soup.

Later, she almost fell asleep in her chair, but the mage, who seemed to have the manners of a youngish man, guided her hand to his arm and led her through more halls and rooms to a small-sounding chamber containing a low straw pallet.

‘There are blankets,’ Gwynn said.

‘Yes.’ She’d felt them.

‘I will shut the door, but only for your privacy, I assure you.’

She frowned anew, slightly puzzled. ‘Thank you – of course.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Yet he’d paused there, as if meaning to say something else. She was so warm and drowsy, however, that the bed pulled at her and she thumped down on to the straw.

She barely heard the door rattle shut.

Seth convinced her to stay two more days. During this time they fed her constantly, had her clothes mended by the servants who did the cooking and cleaning, and even gave her new warmer wraps, and a thick woollen cloak – one not crimson, they assured her.

She began to learn her way around the keep. At times she would be startled by flashes of vision – of mountainsides, the fort’s exterior – and she knew then that she’d chanced upon a window.

On the third day she sat at dinner with Gwynn, as was typical.

He told her of his youth and upbringing, which was as different from her own as could be imagined, and fascinated her. Of rich privilege in Unta. Of tutors and schools. Of great prospects all thrown away by youthful foolishness. Of exile and much wandering – the young man had even visited the near mythological Seven Cities.

While she had never before been out of Heng.

After dinner he guided her back to her room, as was their routine. ‘Well,’ she said, at the door, ‘I will continue on my journey tomorrow.’

A long silence followed, and she tilted her head enquiringly.

‘About that,’ Gwynn began, slowly. ‘I am so very sorry, but Seth will not allow you to leave.’

At first she laughed. ‘Gwynn! That’s absurd. You can’t keep me prisoner here.’ He did not answer; she imagined him knitting his fingers in front of him. ‘I am not one of your company – I am a free woman. I can go when I choose!’

‘I’m sorry—’ he began.

‘Where is the commander? Where is Seth? I demand to speak to him!’

She imagined him shaking his head. ‘Speaking with him will make no difference. It is decided. You will stay.’

‘You will not keep me prisoner,’ she answered, and was surprised by the power in her voice.

‘In three months’ time our relief will arrive. A mule train out of New Seti. They will come by a much more circuitous route than the one you found. We will then escort you back to the lowlands. You can go anywhere you choose after that.’

‘Let me go,’ she fairly snarled. ‘I must go.’

‘Oddly enough we are in agreement in this, you and I. I argued against keeping you back. It seems to me that your arrival here was nothing short of a miracle. That it was almost as if you were being guided, or watched over – and that therefore we ought not interfere. Seth, however, believes that sending you on your way would be the equivalent of murder by negligence. And that we cannot do. Therefore, you must stay.’

She gaped, utterly at a loss. Imprisoned! How dare they! Yet there was nothing she could do. She bit her lip – mustn’t cry! ‘Leave me,’ she managed, all in a gasp.

‘Of course,’ he murmured, and the door groaned shut.

This time she heard it lock.