Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 21

What Orjin and his remaining troop were doing now could no longer be described as fighting. Fleeing was more like it. Whenever they encountered a column of Quon Talian soldiers they ran westward, and the enemy commander Renquill, no fool, was happy to drive them onwards towards the coast.

The word ‘remaining’ was the one Orjin adopted as his force dwindled before his eyes. Understandably so, as exhaustion and hunger became unbearable, and injuries worsened. Desertions increased as well, admittedly, as hopes faded.

Still, those remaining jogged onward, and Orjin constantly checked in with the hill-tribe guides, who would shake their heads, rather embarrassed. ‘Found it?’ he constantly asked, and they would look away, lowering their gazes.

‘It is a very narrow opening. Difficult to locate.’

‘Well … keep looking.’ And they would nod and run off to search anew.

That night, the western ocean in sight from the slope occupied by Orjin and his troops, word came of the sighting of the gorge entrance. He signed for everyone to move out.

Word also came that the rear elements were in running contact with Talian forces. Orjin and Orhan both jogged for the rear, but Prevost Jeral intercepted them, urging them forward and running ahead. Cursing, Orjin turned for the front.

He found the Wickan, Arkady, together with the guides guarding a slash in the steep slope less than two paces across – more of a hole than any sort of gorge.

‘This is it?’ he demanded of the hill youths, incredulous.

‘No one ventures here any more,’ one explained.

‘Fine! I’ll go.’ Orjin started forward.

But Arkady edged down ahead of him. ‘We will explore – wave down the troops.’

Orjin snarled his frustration, but complied, waving the men and women forward. Below, Arkady struck a torch and its light blossomed. Orjin urged the stragglers onward.

Arrows now came flying out of the darkness surrounding them, and he hunched. More and more of his remaining troops emerged from the dark and he pushed them on and down, clapping shoulders, pressing them forward.

Last of all came Prevost Jeral with a band of some twenty. ‘The Talians are hot on our heels,’ she announced, panting, her blade bared.

He gestured her down the crevasse. ‘Get going!’

‘After you.’

‘No. No rearguard. They won’t come chasing after us into this cave. They’ll think us cornered. Now go on!’

‘Fine.’ She waved her band down among the brush-choked rocks.

Torches now waved about them and Orjin caught the glint of starlight from blades and armour. He pushed Jeral down and followed, backwards, feeling his way.

Within, the ground continued downward in a slope of loose broken rock. He could hear it clattering and sloughing underfoot as the men and women descended. Torches shone below, showing a narrow stone throat.

After some stumbling and sliding on the loose debris, he reached the bottom to end up standing ankle-deep in frigid water along with everyone else. Arkady was waiting here, together with one of the hill-tribe lads.

‘This is an old underground riverbed,’ the lad explained. ‘We follow this for a time.’

Orjin nodded. ‘Fair enough. Let’s take the van.’ He turned to Jeral nearby. ‘Will you watch the rear now?’

She nodded – a touch sourly, as both knew the danger now resided ahead. Renquill would no doubt take his time above, calling for them to surrender, perhaps even tossing combustibles down.

Orjin now passed the long file of his surviving troops to the fore, where three of their guides waited together with the giant Orhan. He was uneasy to see these habitually sombre and guarded youths appearing nervous. He nodded a greeting, took a torch, and advanced up the narrow course of the waterway.

The bone-chilling water rose at times to their waists, while at other times the chute lowered or narrowed to the point where Orjin had to slide along sideways, or hunched double. Poor Orhan had to crawl nearly on his stomach through these choke-points. The way continued ever onwards, however, without any dead end or impassable barrier – so far.

Eventually, they did come to something of a dead end: a cliff where the waters cascaded over, arching downwards into misted darkness.

‘How far?’ Orjin asked over the roar of the falls.

The youths appeared uncertain. ‘We do not know. Beyond is the cavern of the … of it.’

Orjin looked to Orhan. ‘Throw a torch.’ The huge fellow tossed down his torch and everyone watched it tumble to land amid rocks. Some ten fathoms, Orjin reckoned it. ‘Do we have any rope?’ he asked of the troop at large. Heads turned, peering round, but no one spoke up. Wonderful, he thought. No one held on to any rope. ‘Fine. I’ll try climbing down.’ He handed Orhan his weapon and knelt at the edge, feeling down over the cliff.

At least it was solid rock and not rotten crumbling sandstone or shale. He found handholds and slowly, his way lit from above, he felt his way down the cliff face to piled fallen detritus, the talus slope. ‘Not too difficult!’ he shouted up. ‘Did you see that?’

‘Yes,’ Arkady answered. ‘We will follow. Do not move!’

Orjin remained where he stood – feeling rather foolish standing unarmed in the lair of some sort of reputed eldritch horror.

When perhaps half of his troops had descended, Orjin turned to the hill-tribe youths. ‘Thank you, but you needn’t go on from here. Just tell us the way.’

‘No one alive knows the way from this point onward,’ one said. ‘We will come.’

Orjin nodded his gratitude. He glanced to Orhan and Arkady. ‘Let’s take a look.’

They explored the cavern. At one point starlight streamed downwards from some hidden crack above. The bones of animals that had tumbled into the gap above lay broken amid the rocks here. Listening, Orjin thought he could almost hear the surf rolling against the rocky shore. The cavern narrowed here, the water rising to their knees.

He might have been fooling himself, but he thought he saw the glint of light just above the water level far ahead. ‘Is that an opening?’ he asked Arkady.

The Wickan did not answer. Glancing at him, Orjin saw the fellow staring aside, hand white on the grip of his curved long-knife.

What Orjin had taken for a pile of pale rocks off to one side now shifted, rising, climbing ever higher until he found himself staring upward at a great upright lizard standing at some four fathoms of bones and withered flesh. Yet it stood awkwardly, tilted, and he saw that the bones of one thick leg were broken.

The hill-tribe youths all gaped, frozen.

Yune came, pushing forward. ‘Not a dragon!’ he yelled. ‘Though I understand the confusion. A K’Chain Che’Malle warrior.’

Orhan had given back Orjin’s two-handed sword and now he drew it. ‘I don’t give a damn what it is – can it be killed?’

‘It appears preserved against rot somehow. Undying. Perhaps it fell from above ages ago,’ Yune told him. ‘It will have to be dismembered.’

‘Dismembered!’ Orjin snarled, appalled. ‘Fine. Orhan, you distract it and I’ll go for the other leg.’

Prevost Jeral had pushed forward. ‘No! All at once! Too many targets, yes?’

The creature struggled to advance upon them, dragging its shattered rear leg.

Orjin cursed again. ‘Right! All at once – we overpower it.’ He raised his sword overhead, bellowing, ‘All who would dare … draw your weapons and attack!’

He did not wait to see how many actually took him up on his challenge and charged in. The creature took great wide sweeps with its forelimbs, knocking soldiers flying aside. With his two-handed sword and brute strength, Orjin managed to deflect one such sweep, but it took far too much out of him to be worth it, and he ducked from then on. Some few managed to reach the good leg and they hacked at the bone and withered dried ligaments. The beast brushed them off, and too many of the tossed men and women did not rise again from where they’d fallen among the rocks.

Incensed by these losses, just on the cusp of escape, Orjin charged in for that side. He ducked a sweep and hacked with all his strength, chopping deeply. But the blade caught and he could not dislodge it. The next thing he knew he was flying through the air, the wind punched from him. He crashed into rocks and was sure he heard and felt ribs crack.

Gasping, rising, he staggered in once more, meaning to retrieve his blade from where it stood jammed into the main joint of the beast’s leg. It was pawing at the blade now, and from the opposite side the giant Orhan came charging in, two-handed mattock raised high above his head. He brought the weapon down on the creature’s skull with a bellowing yell that echoed from the rocks around. There was an audible crunch and the creature staggered, but not before turning upon Orhan, snapping its jaws round him and tossing him aside.

Orjin saw his chance. The beast seemed stunned, its skull crushed, and he darted in, rolling, to grasp hold of his blade. He yanked it up and down, severing ligament and tendon, and the creature came tumbling, nearly crushing him as he threw himself backwards.

Down, thrashing amid the dust and broken rock, the thing could hardly defend itself and all the troops piled in, chopping and hacking. Orjin limped to where Orhan lay, Yune cradling his head.

‘No beast too large for us, hey, Orhan?’ he said.

The huge fellow chuckled, blood at his lips and chin. ‘Indeed. No beast too large.’

‘We’ll carry you out.’

But Orhan shook his head. ‘No. I am all broken inside. Leave me here with my defeated enemy.’

‘Yune here will fix you up and then we’ll be off.’

Prevost Jeral came to Orjin’s side. ‘It’s done,’ she murmured, her eyes on Orhan.

‘Very good. Explore ahead. Is there a damned way out?’

The woman nodded. ‘At once.’

Orjin caught Yune’s eye and the shaman shook his head. He nodded then, holding his side. ‘A fight to remember,’ he told Orhan, who nodded his mute agreement.

He mouthed what might have been A fight to remember before his head fell slack.

The gods were not so fickle this time as to deny them an exit, and the hill-tribe youths found a gap in the rocks that one could reach in neck-deep water to emerge beneath starlight and a gathering pink glow to the east. Wincing, holding his side and swimming one-handed, Orjin emerged to be helped up by nearby troops. Arkady was already with others, waving torches towards the ocean where answering lights flickered far out at sea.

Cradling his side, Orjin eased himself down on to a boulder draped in dry seaweed and wished he had a flask or a skin of wine to raise.

As the light of dawn gathered over the cliffs behind them, launches appeared amid the waves, oaring in towards the shore. Orjin rose and limped out to join his troops wading into the surf.

The launches brought them to merchant cargo vessels that had been converted into troop-carriers. Orjin couldn’t climb the netting and so a sling was lowered for him. On board, he peered round, rather bemused to see armed marines wearing black jupons.

‘Who commands you lot?’ someone called from the stern.

Orjin limped over to the bearded Napan captain. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

‘Choss,’ the fellow said, extending a hand. ‘Admiral Choss.’

‘Orjin,’ he answered.

‘That’s Greymane,’ Prevost Jeral said, now at his side. ‘Commander Greymane.’

‘Very well,’ Choss said, shrugging. ‘Welcome to service with Malaz, Greymane.’

* * *

Gregar and Haraj made their way through the mixed forest and farmlands north of Jurda. They hid from soldiery from all sides roaming the woods and fields. Some of these units pursued legitimate orders from Gris or Bloor, hunting deserters, or harassing the enemy. Others were plain broken elements or bandit bands, intent on raiding hamlets, or each other, and disappearing. Uncertain which was the case, Gregar hid from everyone. On wooded paths they did occasionally come across locals; these he questioned for news of the Crimson Guard.

Contrary stories reached them via these crofters. It seemed no one was certain what happened that day on the field east of Jurda. Regardless, everyone agreed that Gris and its allies had won the day. The Bloorian League was in complete disarray; King Gareth of Vor had withdrawn to attack the pirate raiders who occupied Castle Vor, while Styvell of Rath was dead – assassinated, so everyone said, at the orders of Baron Ranel of Nita.

This struck Gregar as a particularly foolish action as, having deserted the Grisian lines, the Nitan forces now found themselves hunted on all sides with all hands raised against them. A few elders Gregar and Haraj spoke to speculated, like Gregar, that just because a Nitan weapon was used to kill the king, that didn’t mean it was done at the baron’s orders. In any case, Ranel did not make himself available for questioning, and now it was too late, as reportedly two days ago his forces were run down by King Hret of Bloor and exterminated to a man and a woman.

Meanwhile, Gregar and Haraj kept northwards, trudging through the chill rains and sleet along muddy cart-trails through woods and fields. After five nights farmers directed them to a military encampment in a fallow meadow just shy of a large northern forest. They tramped onwards, Haraj having long given up complaining about the cold, the rain, and his hunger.

Here, in the darkness and icy rain, they were met by two pickets in oiled cloaks.

‘Move along,’ one told them.

Gregar lifted his chin, drops of chill rain falling from it. ‘We’re here to join.’

The guard – one Gregar didn’t recognize – waved them on. ‘Cadge a meal somewhere else, deserters.’

‘We’re mages,’ Gregar said. The pickets exchanged looks beneath their hoods. ‘Get Red. He knows us.’

The spokesman raised an arm, as if to cuff him. ‘We don’t take orders from some damned—’

But his companion reached out and lowered his arm. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and disappeared into the driving sheets of rain.

Some time later the guard returned with another figure in a shapeless oiled cloak, his mussed dark hair flattened wet: the mage, Red. He looked them up and down then nodded to himself and motioned them to follow.

Once more Gregar found himself in the wide central tent of the Crimson Guard that, he supposed, passed as their mobile main hall. Within, a long central trench glowed with a blazing fire, while at the head of the main table Courian sat as before – almost as if no time had passed at all.

But it wasn’t entirely the same. Gregar noted how the commander sat slumped in his chair, quiet now, and that he used only his right hand to drink and eat while his left lay immobile on his lap. Red approached Cal-Brinn, on Courian’s left, and they spoke in low tones. Then Cal-Brinn waved them forward.

Rather reluctantly, Gregar approached, Haraj in tow.

Cal-Brinn leaned in to whisper to Courian, who cocked his head, listening. Closer now, Gregar noted how one corner of the man’s mouth hung slack, and how his one good eye now drooped half open.

Courian looked them up and down, blinking, then snorted. ‘You two. So, reconsidering our offer, hey?’

Gregar made an effort to straighten beneath the man’s glower. ‘Yes, m’lord. Yellows was destroyed in the battle.’

Courian nodded. ‘I understand. Well … your timing is impeccable. We, too, endured unacceptable casualties in that fiasco. So we are recruiting. Therefore, remember, I am no lord. I am your commander.’ He waved them off. ‘Now get something to eat.’

‘Thank you, sir!’ Haraj gushed.

Gregar nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you indeed.’

Courian waved them away. ‘Yes, yes. Go on with you.’

Later that night Cal-Brinn showed them to a tent. Inside lay a change of dry clothes. ‘As mages,’ he explained, ‘you get private quarters. Now rest. We’ll speak tomorrow.’

Both Gregar and Haraj started babbling about how thankful they were, but the Dal Hon mage raised a hand for silence. ‘Tomorrow. Rest now.’

Gregar nodded and sat on one of the pallet beds. Almost immediately, he fell backwards and closed his eyes.

The next day K’azz welcomed them and introduced them around. They ate in the main tent, along with all the other guardsmen and women who were off duty at the time. Listening to the talk, Gregar gathered it was true that the Guard had suffered a great number of losses in extricating itself from the chaos of the field of Jurda.

Courian, however, that evening at dinner was more jovial, though his arm remained immobile. He spoke of more recruits expected, and winked his one half-lidded remaining eye.

Two days later the recruits arrived. It started with the noise and tumult of a great number of horses arriving at the camp: the stamping of hooves and the jangle of equipage. Everyone within peered up, surprised, save for Courian who straightened eagerly, motioning to the guards at the wide tent-flap. ‘They are here! Let them in!’

The flap was pushed aside and in came a tall, powerful-looking fellow in a long mail coat, belted, with a two-handed sword at his side. His hair was a dirty blond, long and thick, and curled, as was his thick beard. He looked round, and Gregar thought his expression a touch too self-satisfied and smug as he approached the main table.

Courian struggled to his feet to reach out for his hand. ‘Skinner! Welcome! You are most welcome indeed.’

K’azz appeared quite puzzled. ‘Father,’ he asked, ‘what is this?’

‘Recruits!’ Courian announced. ‘Four hundred swords! Skinner here has agreed to join under my command.’

Gregar was surprised; whenever anyone wished to condemn mercenaries out of hand it was always Skinner’s troop they pointed to; the worst of the worst, was the common perception. Nothing more than hired bloody-handed murderers and killers.

K’azz rested a hand on Courian’s arm. ‘Father, a word, please …’

Courian shook him off. ‘No. There’s nothing to talk over. Open war is upon us. We must gather strength to survive. Skinner has the swords, but most importantly the will to use them. That is what we need now.’

The blond mercenary commander inclined his head – a touch sardonically, it seemed to Gregar. ‘Four hundred blades are yours, Courian,’ he said.

The commander nodded, giving a battle-grin, but the grin turned to a grimace as he clutched his side, kneading it. ‘Excellent, Skinner,’ he gasped. ‘You are welcome. Cal-Brinn! See that they settle in!’

The Dal Hon mage bowed, rising. ‘At once.’ He motioned to the entrance. ‘This way.’ He and Skinner went out.

Gregar, however, noted the troubled expression upon K’azz’s face, which he tried to hide by lowering his head, and the now hardened features of Surat, sitting at the far end of the table. Then he recalled: Surat was the Guard’s champion, while Skinner was regarded as a champion himself.

Courian, it seemed, had nearly doubled the Guard’s strength. But at what price?

Then he almost shook his head himself; in joining the Guard he thought he’d left behind all such concerns. Growing up, he had always held the mercenary company to be the paragon of merit and reward: be good enough, and you will be rewarded. Now it seemed that even here personalities and politics played their roles. Well, human nature, he supposed. We drag it with us wherever we go.

He looked to a worried Haraj at his side, now coughing mutely into a fist in a way that bespoke his anxiety, and whispered reassuringly, ‘Well … at least we joined before they did, hey?’

* * *

Once the novelty of her new position as chief bouncer in a high-class bordello wore off, Iko became bored. Guiding drunken nobles down halls and into carriages was, frankly, not a challenge to her abilities. Neither was arm-locking rowdy young bravos who thought they were tough.

Still, it was an engagement that allowed her to remain close to the palace, and she spent every spare hour haunting the roof-top garden, peering out across the city to the precincts now forbidden to her.

She was, she knew, an odd bird in a menagerie of exotics and misfits, and she was, rather against her better judgement, getting to know them. The lad she met the first night went by the name of Leena and preferred to be addressed as a woman. Fair enough. Likewise, there were women who catered only to women – it was a come one, come all establishment. Iko didn’t judge, because, after all, she was perhaps the oddest of the lot.

She was in the kitchens having breakfast, on call as usual, when Leena came rushing down the narrow servants’ stairs to announce breathlessly, ‘There’s fighting in the palace.’

Iko set down her tea. ‘Fighting? What do you mean?’

Leena pulled her dressing robe more tightly about herself. ‘Talk on the streets. The gates and doors closed. Perhaps even fires!’

Iko surged to her feet and charged up the stairs. She did not halt until she gained the roof and here she gazed, shading her eyes. There was indeed smoke over the palace grounds, and there was a much louder than usual clamour rising from the streets and markets all about. She stormed down to the exit and headed straight for the walled palace grounds. Citizens were milling about, talking of the clash of weaponry from beyond the walls, and seeing new, unfamiliar armed guards in the grounds. Iko ran even faster.

She charged for one particular stretch of wall, a low section that sided on the wildest portion of the gardens. Here she cast about and found what she needed: a street-hawker’s cart. Marching up, she yanked it from him and drove it against the wall, climbed on to it – ignoring the yelling owner – and jumped to grip the top of the wall. From here she pulled herself up and over, and dropped down.

That, she congratulated herself, went well. But then in her thoughts she’d been rehearsing just such an action for several weeks. She ran for the Sword-Dancers’ quarters.

A column of marching troops forced her to take cover behind a pavilion. She was astonished to see that they wore gold and black favours – the colours of the Fedal family, who had held the throne before the Chulalorn dynasty. And with them was a detachment of Dal Honese, armoured, but showing no colours. An alliance.

A dread such as she’d never before known gripped Iko now, and an iron band closed around her chest. She ran on, not able even to breathe.

The smoke was thickest around the Sword-Dancers’ quarters, and rounding a building on the square Iko saw why: the barracks still burned, collapsed, timbers still in flames. She slowed then, as if in a daze. A heap of the fallen lay before the smouldering ruins of the main doors: her lifeless sisters. Some in shifts and trousers only, many with their hair burned away, their flesh seared, but one and all pierced by countless arrows.

Bending, she took the whipsword from the still warm hand of one, and turned her head to the palace. She tightened her two-handed grip and ran for the nearest entrance.

A knot of Fedal troops guarded the door. Hardly one yell of surprise left their mouths before she was upon them, slashing and spinning. All fell in an instant. Then she was in, running for the king’s private quarters. Here the rooms showed the wreckage of a sacking. Fine ceramic vases lay shattered, desks overturned, sheafs of vellum records everywhere. And, here and there, fallen royal guards.

Passing one entrance she paused, and returned. Here lay a great number of Fedal and Dal Hon troops; they’d met strong resistance from a knot of Kan family guards. And among the fallen lay the Kan of family Kan himself, Leoto. He lay panting shallowly, his chased-iron hauberk only half done up, but sword in hand. Iko knelt next to him and his rolling eyes found hers.

He shook his head, chuckling. ‘So … couldn’t walk away, hey, Iko?’

‘Who?’ she asked.

An effort at a weak shrug. ‘The Fedal – and allies.’ He chuckled again. ‘It’s never where you’re looking, hey?’

‘The king?’

He nodded, his teeth clenching in effort. ‘Save him,’ he snarled, then slumped back, limp.

Iko pressed his eyes shut then ran for the throne room.

Entering, she found a press of Fedal family troops and Dal Hon allies, probably elite infantry. Before the empty throne stood a heavy-set woman Iko knew from official functions. The woman wore her long black hair piled high on her head in a complicated arrangement and favoured loose flowing silk robes; the Marquessa of family Fedal.

‘Who are you?’ the marquessa called, one thick black brow arched.

Iko turned and calmly locked the doors behind her, then retightened her two-handed grip, readying the weapon. ‘Where is the king?’

‘Do you really know how to use that blade?’ the marquessa enquired sceptically.

‘Where is the king?’

The marquessa merely waved her troops forward. ‘Oh, please kill the fool.’

Iko charged to meet them all.

They closed on all sides – which was exactly what Iko wanted as she spun, the blade whirling about, spinning with her. Fighting now, she became suddenly quite calm as she eased into her so-familiar battle presence. Blood splashed the walls as the whipsword slashed and lashed about her. In moments all were down, the Fedal troops and the Dal Hon elites, though these were the last to fall. The marquessa stared dumbfounded as Iko closed upon her. Backing away, the woman tripped over the raised dais and fell.

‘Where is the king!’ Iko bellowed.

‘Taken away,’ the marquessa stammered.

‘Where?’

Her eyes flicked north – the river – and Iko straightened. Taken by boat, no doubt.

‘You cannot kill me!’ the marquessa almost squeaked, a hand at her breast.

Iko peered down at her. ‘Yes I can.’ And she slashed her throat.

She charged straight for the riverfront where naval vessels docked, and the royal barges and pleasure-craft could be found. She scanned the docks, spotted one such royal craft readying to depart, and ran for it.

The lines had been slipped and a mixture of sailors and troops on the broad deck were poling away from the pier. Some stared, pointing.

Running, Iko leapt and slammed down hard on the stern-piece. The barge’s pilot reached for her, one hand on the tiller. She slashed his arm and he stared, gaping, at his severed wrist. Releasing the tiller, he clamped the stump between his legs, screaming.

The sailors flinched from her but the troops closed, drawing their weapons.

As the barge lazily curled its way downriver towards the harbour, Iko stalked the deck, killing. These men and women proved the most resilient. She could tell they were veterans – probably cashiered or deserted Itko Kan infantry. They parried and counterattacked, but her own training was that of an expert and these veterans, though competent, fell one by one as Iko advanced upon the bows.

Here the obvious leader awaited her, shortsword held negligently in one hand, no doubt an officer herself. The barge spun rudderless now, as most of the sailors had jumped ship.

‘Who are you?’ the woman called.

‘Where is the king?’ Iko demanded. ‘Tell me, or I will kill you!’

The woman nodded as if considering, then drew back a tarp at her feet, revealing the lad, gagged and wrapped in chains. Chulalorn the Fourth stared up at Iko, his eyes huge.

‘Don’t worry,’ she told him soothingly. ‘It will be all right.’

‘They told me to get rid of him,’ the veteran officer said. ‘No trace. No burial site. No cairn or tomb for remembrance … and now you want me to give him to you.’

Iko nodded, her whipsword held ready. ‘Do that and I will let you live.’

‘I can think of a third option,’ the officer said. And she took hold of the lad’s chains and raised him up to set him on the edge of the barge. ‘I think that you will let me live … if I do this.’ And she pushed the boy over the edge, where he disappeared with a splash into the river.

‘Nooooo!’ Iko dived off the barge.

The waters of the Itko river were dark and silty. Abandoning her whipsword, Iko felt about, grasping at the muddy bottom until her screaming lungs forced her to surface for one desperate gulp of air before submerging once more to search again.

Again and again she did so, her breathing ragged, coughing on the dirty water, squeezing mud between her fingers as she searched on and on. But she found nothing. The weak current had drawn her some way past where the lad had fallen and she just floated now, almost unconscious, limp, pulled along towards the harbour.

She lay staring up at the cloudy sky as she drifted along. Then, resolutely, she threw her arms back and ducked her head under, exhaling all her breath. Holding herself under, lips clenched, eventually she could resist her body no longer and her lungs convulsed, drawing in a great spasm of water. She flailed then, her body clawing towards the surface where sunlight rippled so close above, in a last desperate bid to save itself against her will.

But her vision darkened. Her arms weakened. And she hung motionless under the surface and knew nothing more.

*

She awoke amid nets on board a small fishing vessel. It was night, and two old men peered down at her, a lantern between them. One was scratching his head, the other stood with hands on hips.

‘You are perhaps a mermaid?’ one asked, rather hopefully.

Iko just let her head fall back.

‘She is, I think, one of those sad suicides,’ the other said. ‘A lover betrayed her, perhaps.’

Iko threw herself for the side, but she was so weak that even these two scrawny elders were able to pull her back.

‘By Chem!’ the first said, ‘I think you are right!’

‘Bind her,’ the second said, and the first did so.

‘Let me die,’ Iko croaked, and she could not help it or resist it – she started to weep.

The second elder patted her shoulder. ‘Later,’ he said, as one might soothe an infant. ‘Plenty of time for dying later.’

* * *

Once there was no more wood for fires – or bare rock to set them on anyway, only ice – Ullara was beginning to suspect that she’d pushed her luck past the breaking point. That night she sat wrapped in blankets in the lee of a crag of ice, trying to gnaw a portion of dried meat from a frozen strip. Chewing, she decided she’d gone too far to turn back now, and she lifted a portion of the blankets to study Tiny in his wicker cage and feed him a few bits of seed from a dwindling pouch.

In the morning she set out northward once more. The only birds she could reach inhabiting these icy wastes were large snow-white owls, and these she drew near her occasionally to serve as her eyes. Other than these broader views, it was Tiny who provided her vision.

So it was a blow when she awoke to find she could not see. Whether it was the cold, the improper feed, or perhaps plain loneliness, she wasn’t certain. She couldn’t help but sit and cradle the basket, thinking that it was now fairly certain that it would not be long before she followed.

And if that were to be the case, she decided, then she might as well get a move on. Feeling about, she grasped her long probing stick and stood, sensing about. She found a hunting owl not too far off and urged it her way. After a short wait she was peering down at herself, and she set off.

With the aid of the hardy snow-owls, she crossed many more leagues of the wind-scoured ice wastes. Now she began to despair. Was there nothing here to come to? Why the drive for such a journey? To what end? Was it all just a delusion, or childish wilful foolishness, as that Crimson Guard commander Seth had suggested?

Yet there was no turning back now, so she hunched her shoulders against the driving wind with its stinging jabbing needles of ice, and struggled on.

As the days passed, the owls became more and more difficult to find or call. Eventually, one morning, she found herself blind, her allies gone. She knew she couldn’t just sit still and freeze, so she set out, probing the ice and crusted snow before her, advancing one step at a time.

Later that very day, the sun’s heat sinking where it touched upon her cheeks, she pushed her stick down before her, testing, and relaxed her grip momentarily, only to have the stick slip from her hands and disappear. She heard it, for a few moments, banging and rattling as it fell hundreds of paces, striking the edges of whatever deep crevasse of ice lay before her.

Now she did find herself fighting back tears, but they flowed anyway, freezing to little beads of ice upon her cheeks. She sat hunched. Now what? Who knew how far across this canyon was, or how far to either side? What could she do now, other than just sit?

She decided to send out as strong a call as she could, for who knew? Perhaps one of the snow-owls, or some other bird, would answer before it was too late.

She called and called as she sat, wrapped in blankets, rocking. Night came, then day, and as she sat, her legs and hands now numb and useless, she thought she sensed some sort of answer. But no doubt her imagination, desperate for life, was playing tricks upon her, for it was too late. Her head was drooping for longer and longer. Her face was completely numb, and she couldn’t feel anything. In fact, it was becoming rather pleasant – she wasn’t feeling any pain at all.

But she could still hear, and what she heard over the constant howling of the winds alarmed her: the crunching of footsteps on crusty snow. She struggled to rise – and hands aided her to her feet. And suddenly, like a blessing, she could see.

Four individuals faced her, squat, wrapped in furs, with wind-darkened wrinkled features and narrow slitted eyes. One held a cage that contained a large bird of prey of some breed unfamiliar to her. The four bowed to her. ‘Welcome, priestess,’ one said – a woman by her voice.

‘Priestess?’ Ullara mumbled through her numb lips. ‘I am no priestess.’

‘Our last priest is old, dying. He cast forth a summoning for new blood and you have answered.’

‘Answered? But who are you? I don’t know you.’

‘We are the Jhek. The beast-blood is strong in us, and you have been called to be our new priestess.’

Ullara’s head sank in exhaustion and she struggled to hold it up. ‘But I don’t …’

‘No matter, come.’ The woman gestured to some sort of sledge they’d brought with them. ‘You are welcome. We thank you for answering our call.’

She sank then into the layered warm furs, just happy to be out of the punishing winds.

* * *

Sitting on the gilded throne in the audience hall of Heng, Kellanved shifted uncomfortably. He drummed his fingers on the gilt armrests, sighed loudly, and slumped as if exhausted. Standing next to the throne, arms loose at his sides, Dancer listened as the local official guild of merchants presented their greetings, their authorizations, and began probing Kellanved as to the status of prior agreements and other such understandings.

Finally, Kellanved waved a hand, interrupting, to sigh, ‘Yes, yes. All old arrangements shall be honoured – for now. Thank you.’ He waved the contingent away. ‘Thank you!’

The merchants eyed one another, confused and uncertain, but all bowed and backed away. Once they were gone, and the hall was empty but for guards, Kellanved set his head in one hand. ‘The duties and obligations of rulership are crushing, Dancer my friend,’ he complained. ‘How I long for our old carefree times.’

Dancer cocked a brow. ‘It’s only been two days.’

‘None the less! Every throne is an arrowbutt! Uneasy rests my bottom! Everyone is plotting against the emperor!’

‘Of course they are.’

The wrinkled and spindly mage waved a hand. ‘Oh yes. Of course.’

The doors at the far end of the hall opened and in walked Surly, accompanied by Dassem. They stopped before the throne and Surly crossed her arms. ‘We need to talk privately.’

Kellanved rolled his eyes but waved away the guards. The walking stick appeared in his hands and he leaned forward, resting his chin upon its silver head. ‘Yes?’

‘Strategy,’ she answered, nonplussed. ‘What is our next move?’

Kellanved nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is to our advantage that this city is used to being ruled by a cabal of mages. We will merely replace it with our own – for the time being.’

Surly nodded her agreement. ‘And beyond that?’

Kellanved looked to Dassem. ‘Then we recruit and train for as long as our neighbours will give us. Consolidate.’

The Dal Hon swordsman nodded his agreement.

‘And the neighbours?’ Surly asked.

He glanced significantly to Dancer, then back to her. ‘We’ll need good intelligence as to their moves and intentions.’

Dancer eyed Surly and she inclined her head in agreement once again. ‘Do we have a target?’ she asked.

Kellanved sat back, tapped his fingers on the armrests. ‘I was thinking south first. There is much unrest currently in Itko Kan. We can exploit that.’

For an instant the woman appeared quite startled; then her eyes narrowed as she regarded him, and Dancer could imagine her wondering how he could possibly know such things. ‘As I have heard as well,’ she finally admitted, a touch resentfully.

Kellanved slapped the armrests. ‘Very good. That is a plan.’

‘Can we count on your … allies?’ Dassem asked.

The mage shook his head. ‘No. We cannot. They come and go of their own accord. However – that needn’t leave this room.’

Dassem gave a knowing smile, and nodded. ‘I understand. Deception is the first weapon of any duel.’

‘It’s my main one,’ Kellanved muttered, and Dancer saw Surly tilt her head at that, as if filing the offhand comment away for future reference.

Now the mage raised his hands and waved them as if shooing everyone off. ‘Very good. You know your duties. Get to them.’

Surly drew a hard breath, but bowed, if shallowly. Dassem gave a curt bow from the waist.

Once the two had left and the tall ponderous doors banged shut, Kellanved slumped back in the throne and pressed a hand to his brow. ‘Gods! It’s exhausting! Endless duties and obligations. It will be the death of me, I tell you, Dancer.’

Now the assassin couldn’t help but crook a teasing smile. ‘And just how long has it been? Twenty years? Seventy? Over a hundred? I get confused.’

The mage pressed both hands to his hanging head as if in despair. ‘Oh, shut up.’

However, as Dancer knew it would, the moment passed. Suddenly, Kellanved raised his head and turned to him with a certain impish glint in his eyes. ‘Don’t you think, my friend,’ he said, ‘that it is high time we explored Shadow?’