Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 18

It all started with someone shoving a sum chalked on a slate piece in front of her. Iko threw it aside to shatter on the floor. It appeared again and she blinked; she thought she’d gotten rid of the damned thing. She threw it away again and took another drink to celebrate.

Someone was now tapping her on the shoulder; she ignored the pesky irritation. The tapping became an ill-mannered resolute jabbing. She grabbed the hand and twisted and was rewarded by the snapping of bones.

She was allowed to drink in peace for some time after that.

Then some fellow appeared sitting opposite her. She blinked at him and decided to ignore him, hoping he’d just up and disappear as quickly as he’d appeared. Unfortunately, the fellow did not go away. In fact, he had the temerity to speak to her.

‘We were wondering,’ he said – or she thought he was saying, ‘when you would be good enough to cover the bill?’

She waved the impertinent fellow away and refused to look at him. That should serve him right. However, when she next sneaked a glance, he was still there.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘you appear to be a cultured woman. But I must let you know that if you do not pay you will be removed from the premises.’

She laughed, and even slapped the table. ‘That I would like to see you try.’

He looked up past her and that was his mistake. She lurched to her feet, elbow rising, to smack meatily into someone’s nose. A hand grasped her shoulder from behind and she turned under it, raising a knee into the fellow’s groin.

Both bravos were stunned, staggering backwards, but she could not press the advantage as her sudden movements now drove her stomach to come surging up into her mouth and she clasped a hand to the table, vomiting painfully.

She clutched the table as if drowning, groaning and gasping. Then, straightening, she realized she was in some sort of shipboard bar as everything tilted one way then the other. She pointed to a group at a nearby table, four of them gaping up at her, and shouted, ‘Stop all this damned moving!’

They all promptly scrambled away.

She turned, blinking anew, and squinting. A huge number of bravos now faced her though their number kept changing. She waved at them too. ‘Stop all this damned changing!’

Someone grasped her arm from behind. She slammed her free palm into that person’s nose, and turned in time to find someone else charging her; she planted her foot into his stomach. Two grabbed each arm. She kicked each in turn in the head.

Then she had to pause to hold her own head. It was throbbing as if a knife had penetrated it. And everything kept wobbling from side to side – why wouldn’t it just stop?

Someone took her in a bear-hug. She threw her head back, smacking into his or her nose with a crunch. A kick to her leg brought her down to her knees. She grabbed her assailant’s crotch and pulled him down with her.

A blow to her head darkened her vision momentarily. She leaned down to her hands and lashed out with one leg, taking that attacker in the stomach. Another blow to the head and she grasped that foe’s shirt to pull herself up, taking him in a headlock and driving his head into a timber post.

She spun to face any others, but that was a mistake as the inn would not stop spinning and spinning, faster and faster, and she blinked, her vision darkening, until the floor hit her face and that was all she knew.

She awoke in a bed. A bed that stank of sweat and puke – unless that was her – in a room decorated garishly with hanging silken wraps and paintings of nudes. Rather like, well, a bordello. Her head ached abominably and her mouth tasted vile.

A carafe of water sat next to the bed, along with a glass. She sat up, gingerly, and gulped down a glassful of water. Her clothes were dirty and sticky with sweat, and her knuckles were crusted in blood. She felt her head – her hair too was matted in blood, over the lumps.

She staggered to the door, opened it, found a narrow hall lined by numerous similar doors.

She was now certain that, yes, she was in fact within a bordello.

A door opened across the hall and she was surprised to find herself facing not a woman but a slim young male, his eyes heavily shadowed, his lips painted. Caught in mid-yawn the fellow nearly choked, staring. ‘Burn’s mercy, lass, but you’re a mess!’ he exclaimed.

‘Thank you so very much. How the fuck do I get out of here?’

He pointed up the hall. She went, thinking, well, they must cater to everyone here.

She found stairs that led down to a sort of salon, or parlour, call it what you would. Here the girls and boys were gathered, relaxing, clearly off duty. All conversation stopped and everyone stared.

‘I’m leaving,’ she announced. ‘Where’s the door?’ Several pointed. ‘Thank you.’ She headed that way and found another hall leading to a sturdy exterior door.

‘You owe me!’ came a harridan’s screech. Iko paused, her hand inches from the latch. ‘Or shall I call the authorities?’ She turned. A bent ancient, as garishly made up as the premises, faced her.

‘I have no coin to pay you,’ she said.

The old woman gestured impatiently. ‘I know. I had you searched.’

‘So?’

She crooked a bent finger. ‘Come. Let us talk business.’

She was led through a series of narrow, private staircases to what proved to be a verdant roof garden. Here Iko shielded her eyes, blinking; it had been some time since she’d been outside. The ancient picked up a jug and began watering large, oddly shaped flowers of a sort Iko had never seen before. ‘Very rare, these,’ the old woman told her. ‘I sell them for a good price – not unlike those downstairs.’ She gestured to chairs round a low table. ‘Sit.’

Iko did not move. ‘Why?’

‘Because you have nowhere else to go.’

She crossed her arms. ‘And how is it you know so much about me?’

The ancient sighed, set down the jug and crossed to sit in one of the chairs. She picked up a long-stemmed pipe from the table and began the rather laborious process of preparing d’bayang powder for smoking. Doing so, she gestured to a pot. ‘Tea.’

Iko dropped her arms and sat. She poured herself a cup and sipped – quite good. An expensive cut. ‘I’ll not serve in your whorehouse,’ she said.

The woman gasped on a lungful of smoke. ‘Gods no! I should think not! That would not end well for the client, I imagine.’ She shook her head. ‘No. Not that.’ She relit the pipe with a long sliver of wood from a brazier on the table. ‘You may call me Wen. I am quite old and have seen many people come and go. I know your type. You are from the military – an officer perhaps. But now you are out, discharged or otherwise. Some scandal no doubt.’

Iko drew breath to object but the woman waved for silence. ‘I care not. All that matters is that you have talents. Gods, you can fight, girl! Those are the talents I want.’

She curled her lip. ‘Bloodsports.’

A shake of the head. ‘Goddess, no. A waste, that. No, keeping the peace. Sometimes there is trouble and I need someone who can quietly, and efficiently, restore order.’

‘I’m sure you have all sorts of bravos and arm-twisters available.’

Now Wen curled her lip. ‘Thugs. Dullards. Brutes. They can handle the usual riff-raff. No, in this establishment I specialize in sophisticated and exotic … wares. And, my dear, that description fits you so very beautifully.’

‘And if I refuse?’

Wen’s painted lips drew down round the tortoiseshell mouthpiece. ‘There is still the matter of all that coin, because I own the inn you nearly wrecked.’

Iko nodded, finished the tea. This roof garden was atop a relatively tall building, and she saw it afforded a view of the royal palace compound’s curving rooftops, less than a handful of leagues distant across the city centre. She nodded once again. ‘I have two conditions.’

A raised brow, plucked and painted. ‘Oh?’

‘That I be allowed access here in my free time. And that I wear a veil – or a mask.’

The old madam exhaled a lungful of smoke. She studied Iko, her narrowed eyes taking on the dreamy sleepiness of the d’bayang stupor. ‘A mask, I think, my dear. Very exotic.’

*

Iko was given a mask; a small one, which covered half her face. Wen also dressed her in a rather plain costume of a simple tunic and trousers and insisted she go barefoot when on duty. Why this particular get-up she had no idea, but Mistress Wen seemed to think it a very funny joke. Iko merely shrugged and played along; it certainly helped her anonymity, for no one would ever recognize the former Sword-Dancer in this costume. And nothing ever came of it except when members of a foreign trade delegation from some distant land visited. These people nearly jumped out of their skin when they saw her.

And her instincts concerning her anonymity were correct: twice already she’d come face to face with high officials from the palace who she was certain could have identified her. As for the vices and habits of off-duty bureaucrats and officers of the capital – she was quite shocked.

By day she walked the streets of Itko Kan, sans mask, of course. She had used to esteem her native nation as the most civilized people on the continent of Quon Tali, but now, seeing the poor being kicked aside in the streets, the contempt of the privileged for the oppressed, and the constant naked pursuit of the god of greasy gold, she wondered. Her compatriots were beginning to strike her as a rather hard-hearted and cruel lot.

As for the ‘exotics’ who populated Wen’s establishment, she’d treated them with her own contempt at first. But now she was beginning to pity them. Some were foolish, shallow creatures, to be sure. And indeed some were as truly venal and selfish as venal selfish people everywhere. To her mind, however, most were simply victims. Victims of a callous human marketplace. A marketplace that had set her value, as well.

It was, as they say, a job.

Her solace was climbing the narrow staircase at dawn, at the end of her duties, to spend her free hours gazing at the tiled rooftops of the palace compound and wondering what a young lad was up to, how he was doing … and who, if anyone, truly had his best interests at heart.

* * *

When Heboric set out for the Valley of Hermits east of Heng, famed as a place of quiet retreat and meditation, he’d assumed it would be relatively uninhabited and, well, serene. Instead, he came upon the noise and crowds of some sort of religious festival.

Campfires and makeshift lean-tos and yurts crowded the valley floor. Celebrants of Burn chanted in a large circle round one bonfire, while crowds sat at others listening to multiple speakers exhort and preach. Banners and flags hung in the weak wind. It reminded him of the fete of Gedderone’s Return, but without the public orgies.

‘Brother!’ a celebrant welcomed him. ‘You are come in propitious times! A miracle! A Kynie has come to us! Witnessed by many.’

Heboric frowned. A Kynie was a legendary messenger of the gods, usually one of fury and fire. And usually not a welcome omen. His informant, in filthy robes, with wild dirty hair and rather wild-eyed, took him by the arm and pulled him along. ‘Brothers and sisters!’ he called to the crowd. ‘Look! Fener is with us!’

Heads turned and a great cheer went up. The crowd closed round him, men and women reaching out to touch the tattoos – this, at least, was familiar to Heboric. During the holy days of Fener it was quite common for strangers to reach out to the Gift of the Boar.

He was drawn along towards the front of the main press, cries of ‘Fener!’ rising all about. At the head of the crowd, in front of one particular cave opening crowded with candles, garlands and offerings, sat four aged men, all alike in dirty loincloths and tangled ropy hair. One of these straightened, waving him forward. ‘Come!’ he invited. ‘Grace us with the Boar’s wisdom.’

Quite bemused, Heboric found himself urged along to sit with the four. He nodded a greeting. ‘I understand you have been blessed with a visitation …’

The four ascetics nodded vigorously, calls and shouts to the gods echoing from the crowd. ‘A Kynie has come to us,’ one of them pronounced. ‘Never in my lifetime did I expect to be so blessed.’

‘Fire and rage accompanied her,’ another put in.

‘The ground shook with her wrath,’ said a third.

‘It is a warning,’ said the fourth.

‘A warning of what?’ Heboric asked.

‘False gods!’ a woman shouted from the crowd.

The first of the four raised a hand to silence her. ‘We cannot be certain—’

‘It is no coincidence that the Kynie should appear here – not two days’ journey from Heng!’ the woman continued regardless.

‘And what is in Heng?’ Heboric asked.

The woman rose, pointing west. ‘A false goddess is suborning the people! This Protectress would pose as goddess of Heng! Not to mention the many new cults seducing worshippers.’

The first of the four now raised both hands for calm. ‘Some have lost their way and turned to her, this is true. But she herself has made no claims.’ He turned to Heboric. ‘What says Fener on this?’

Heboric pulled a hand down his face – a religious debate was the last thing he’d been expecting to have thrust upon him here in the valley. Fortunately, however, he was no stranger to such discussions. ‘Curiously, I too have been troubled of late,’ he began, and the four nodded sagely. ‘Disquiet among the pantheon worries me. Troubling rumours of unrest among the devoted of D’rek, on Kartool. A certain tension in the still airs of the Temple of Poliel. All this suggests to me that we are entering a time of trial, a time of instability.’

The four bowed their heads. ‘It is an exhortation, then,’ said the second.

‘To greater faith.’

‘To greater devotion.’

‘To an end to backsliding!’ added the woman from the crowd.

The first raised his arms, calling, ‘Thank you all! That is enough for today. I ask that we turn to quiet prayer, devotion and contemplation now. Bless all of you.’

Heads bowed. The ascetic drew Heboric aside. ‘Your presence here is an unlooked-for blessing as well, brother. I am Sessin. Thank you for answering the call.’

‘Actually, I was on my way here regardless. I knew nothing of this.’

Sessin raised his eyes to the sky. ‘The gods work in mysterious ways. You will be of great help.’

Heboric rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Well, in truth, I, too, am a seeker.’

Sessin gave another knowing nod. ‘Of course, brother. We are all seekers in our own way.’

Heboric resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Yes, well, imagine that. No, I came because of the unease I spoke of. Do you not sense it as well?’

Sessin nodded vigorously. ‘Yes indeed, brother. Sister Hav is not so far from the truth in this.’

‘Sister Hav? The one in the crowd?’

‘Yes. Once a high priestess of Burn. Anathematized for her, ah, enthusiastic practices.’

‘Enthusiastic?’

‘Yes. She instituted tests of purity of faith to weed out the inconstant. The holding of red-hot rods, for example. The branding of the unfaithful.’

Heboric shuddered. ‘I see. And she was in Heng?’

‘Yes. Heng has become a breeding ground of nascent cults, this cult of the Protectress among them. Even among the devoted of Hood some are turning to his champion, the Mortal Sword. And then there is this worship of the so-called “Shadow Throne”.’

‘The Shadow Throne? What in all the Realms is that?’

Sessin peered about as if wary. He whispered, ‘No one knows. I’ve only just heard of it myself.’

In truth Heboric was not overly concerned. New cults came and went every day. No doubt this one too would go the way of its countless ilk. He crossed his arms. ‘I had hoped to take counsel with you holy men and women here on this matter.’

Sessin nodded his understanding – Heboric was beginning to suspect that the man simply nodded to everything in order to appear knowledgeable. ‘And yet you find us in turmoil. I am sorry. But, perhaps I may suggest the very exhortation the Kynie sent to us. Perhaps one must face the unrest. Perhaps one must journey to Heng itself. The city many here name the Whore on the Idryn.’

* * *

Gregar knew he was no officer-trained military genius, but the disposition of the Bloorian League’s lines left him rather puzzled. It seemed to him that the weakest troops occupied the most vulnerable positions, while the strongest troops – the armoured heavy cavalry – held the least vulnerable points.

The Yellows contingent for example, all four companies, held a length of line near the end of the left flank just where Gregar would expect to see a cavalry troop – positioned to strike to any opening near the centre. Meanwhile, the various nobles’ personal cavalry units dominated the centre of the League’s lines – poorly positioned, it seemed to him, for manoeuvrability.

When Leah next passed by inspecting the troops, he caught her eye and gestured her over. ‘What are we doing way out here?’ he whispered. ‘We’re infantry.’

Their newly promoted sergeant peered round to make certain none nearby were listening, and answered, low and fierce, ‘What we are is unimportant, okay? Nobodies. The lords choose pride of place, right?’

‘But that’s not effective.’

‘Says who? That’s the way it’s done. Remember your place.’

Gregar clenched his lips against saying any more – it wouldn’t get him anywhere. After one last warning glare Leah continued on her tour.

‘These kings and knights, they have a lot of experience at this sort of thing,’ Haraj assured him.

He nodded, rather sullenly. ‘Yeah. At fighting on and on just for the fun of it. And nothing ever gets settled – sounds like great job security to me.’

Haraj cast him a quizzical look. But he’d returned to waiting, leaning on his tall spear with its limp colours. It was a chilly winter’s morning; a mist was burning off and everything glistened with a melting overnight frost. Gregar stamped his feet for warmth; cloth covered them up to his knees and over this went leather wraps. A thick padded leather haubergeon hung down below his waist, belted, its leather sleeves laced with iron lozenges down to leather-backed gloves. As colour-sergeant this was his promotion in armour – making him one of the most well-accoutred members of his company. Which said a lot about Baron Ordren of Yellows’ resources. To make things even worse, he’d not yet managed to scrounge any sort of cap or helmet.

Haraj, for his part, wore only a plain leather jerkin. But then he could prance naked through both lines and no one could touch him, so that didn’t matter.

Across a lightly rolling field of dry stalks, fallow fields, and pasture, lay a treeline where the Grisian forces were making final deployments. This field of battle had been mutually settled upon after some degree of jostling and skirmishing between the forces’ scouts and advance light cavalry.

No ambush or surprise attack by either side was even a possibility, as both forces knew this region well. In fact, lords on both sides pressed long-standing claims to this border area, and several earlier wars had been fought over it.

Though distant, the Grisian lines appeared thin to Gregar. He imagined they must be quite spread out over there, both to disguise their poor numbers and to match the wider front the League could muster. That would only invite a cavalry charge from Vor or Bloor, he was certain. And there across the fields they must know that as well, and have planned for it. At least that’s what he’d have done.

Drums rolled then, announcing an advance, and Gregar straightened.

Light skirmishers and crossbow units advanced to harass. These would be met by similar forces from the Grisian allies and they would probe and press one another for some time while the lords watched and searched for weaknesses in the opposing lines.

Squinting into the gathering light, he made out the pale blue favours of Gris, the green of Bloor, the burnt orange of Vor, and the dark blue of Rath. These favours were sometimes nothing more than armbands, or ribbons on chests. Some knights wore no discernible heraldry at all – usually the hireswords – and he understood this often led to a great deal of confusion as to just who was on what side.

It all seemed too much of a free-for-all to Gregar – but again, he was no expert. The lords and knights obviously preferred this system, or lack of system, as each no doubt considered her or himself the equal of any other lord present, and aimed to prove it by bashing their heads in.

After a few hours of skirmishes and light contact, the manoeuvring began. Troops of cavalry came thundering back and forth as lords sought advantageous positions, or angled to match up against a perceived soft target, or long-standing enemy. The lords of Nita and Athrans, for example, were great rivals, and each asserted ancient family claims to Jurda – however tenuous. These two troops now faced off.

Gregar caught sight of the flowing red cloaks of the Crimson Guard as they went cantering towards the extreme left flank and again he was frankly rather puzzled. Why send them so far from the main action? Perhaps the lords Vor or Rath were loath to share any of the glory of victory with mere mercenaries.

The ground shook then as a massive charge suddenly broke from the Bloorian League lines. It looked like a collection of the lesser barons and knights hoping to win some distinction before the total chaos began.

It was premature, as it was met with a withering fusillade of arrows and crossbow bolts from the opposing lines, and they reined aside before being completely decimated.

Gregar was then surprised as the entire Crimson Guard contingent, which had been trotting parallel to the lines for the left flank, now dived in straight for the Grisian front – a feint! They made contact with the opposing position, an unlucky contingent of medium infantry from Fools, and appeared to be delivering ferocious punishment.

Down the distant treeline, Gregar noted columns of crossbowers running double-time in support. One such large unit wore black tabards, which surprised him mightily; no one had dared wear black since the hated Talian hegemony.

Seeing a possible opening, the Rath heavy cavalry – including King Styvell of Rath and his personal troop of sworn bodyguards – went thundering for the opposing lines.

At that commitment of forces, the Abyss itself seemed to open up across the entire valley as every unit now surged into sudden movement. Gregar lost track of who was going where and he gave up any hope of knowing who was winning or losing. Orders came down the Yellows lines to double up and that at least made good sense to him. He levered his spear outwards to signal that he was expecting a charge any time through the flying mud and churning ground mists.

Complete disorder only increased as broken bands of cavalry now came charging back and forth, all but destroying any idea of set lines – it was now a milling melee of massed cavalry circling and shouldering one another. And to Gregar’s gathering horror the main bulk of the press was now heaving their way.

Yellows infantry peered about in a panic for instructions as the wall of horseflesh came lurching towards them. ‘Lower spears!’ Gregar bellowed, but the command was lost under the cacophony of clashing weapons and screaming wounded horses.

The melee was so disordered that knights actually unintentionally backed over the Yellows line, presenting their mounts rump-first to the flinching infantry who frankly did not know what to do, as the chaos included lords and knights from both sides all milling together and bashing away at each other.

Gregar was not so discriminating as he jabbed at any horse that came close. The Yellows lines were effectively cut in two as the melee rolled over them, and Gregar wanted to throw down his spear in impotent frustration. Once the main scrum passed, he called in the surviving Yellows troopers to form a small defensive circle. From here, colours still raised high, he watched in growing confusion as through the chaos he perceived Gris cavalry pursuing Nitan forces across the field – though they were supposed to be allies.

This left the rest of the opposing allies in utter and complete disarray. Even to Gregar’s inexperienced eye the immense gap it opened among the enemy forces was glaring. The largest remaining cohesive body of knights and nobles, the main Vorian contingent including King Gareth, now commanded the centre of the field. But instead of pressing the advantage and scattering the disordered Grisian allies once and for all, to Gregar’s complete disbelief horns sounded a recall and the entire mounted force curved round and charged in the opposite direction, abandoning the field.

He watched them go with his mouth hanging open, completely stunned.

Next to him, even Haraj grasped the significance of this betrayal. ‘We are so fucked,’ he announced.

‘We have to retreat,’ Gregar answered. Frantically peering round, he spotted a copse of woods to the south and pointed in that direction. ‘South!’ he half bellowed and half screamed. Urging, shouting, clapping shoulders, he managed to get the defensive circle of remaining Yellows lights lurching that way.

Their path took them over a trampled portion of their original position and here he had to step over the broken remains of Sergeant Leah, among so many others. He gently pressed closed her wide staring eyes, and crossed her hands over her bloodied breast. As to the fate of Master-sergeant Teigan and the rest of the far distant Yellows lines, he had no idea.

As they went they gathered up stragglers from other broken elements, a few unhorsed knights, stray skirmishers and such, and gradually, from these sources from distant disparate portions of the field, a picture slowly emerged of just what in Hood’s name had actually happened.

It seemed that out of nowhere Nita had suddenly turned on other Grisian allies positioned next to them, opening up a section of the lines that Bloor surged through. Yet it seemed that Gris was not entirely surprised, as they immediately abandoned that flank and surged round to take Bloorian allies on the opposing side. From then on it was complete and utter chaos.

Gris heavy cavalry sought out the Crimson Guard across the field, trampling every force in their way, friend or foe. Nita kept after the Duke of Athrans, pursuing his personal mounted troop entirely off the field, while for some inexplicable reason Rath elements lost all direction and order and became field ineffective.

And after all this, when Vor, as the last remaining even slightly cohesive force, was poised to win the day, at the decisive moment King Gareth sounded the recall and the Vorian cavalry and supporting infantry suddenly, and unaccountably, abandoned the field.

Crouched in the woods, Gregar, Haraj and a surviving Yellows sergeant watched the mopping up. Word came to them then, via survivors, explaining the inexplicable twists and turns of the engagement. It seemed that in the middle of the battle Baron Ranel of Nita had gone over to the Bloorian forces – and his price was Athrans, whom no one did anything to defend. On top of this, Styvell, the king of Rath, was very nearly mortally wounded by a crossbow bolt and everyone blamed Nita, which made no sense to Gregar but meant that that noble was now reviled by both sides of the dispute, and everyone wanted his head.

The worst news, however, came last, explaining the otherwise bizarre behaviour of King Gareth of Vor. Word had come at noon that very day that some damned pirate force out of Malaz had besieged and taken Vor itself by stealth two nights ago. Gareth, of course, immediately withdrew his forces to return with all haste.

‘I can’t fucking believe it,’ another Yellows sergeant kept repeating, over and over, where they crouched at the treeline. ‘We’ll have to surrender.’

‘Surrender?’ Gregar asked, astonished.

The man held out his hands in a shrug. ‘What choice do we have? Gris has the field. It’s five days’ march to Yellows. We’re outnumbered. No food. What are we going to do?’

Gregar motioned to the west. ‘Then get started, damn you.’

The sergeant looked Gregar up and down, sneering. ‘To Hood with you, fool. I’ll not end up with my head split open because of your pride.’

Gregar tossed him the spear with its colours. ‘Take this with you, then. It suits you.’

The man raised his fingers in an insulting gesture and waved the troops to him, withdrawing west. Gregar and Haraj watched them go.

The pale mage rubbed his hands up and down his stick-thin arms, shivering. ‘What’re we gonna do? There’s nowhere to go. I don’t want to be captured’n’sent to the tin mines, or the galleys.’

Gregar peered to the north, the last direction in which he’d seen the Crimson Guard withdrawing, and drew a heavy breath. ‘There’s one place we can try.’ He waved Haraj down. ‘We’ll wait till dark.’