◆ ◆ ◆
Two more days’ riding brought them to the first settlement, a stockaded clutch of dwellings in the shadow of a ridge-back mountain, the southern slopes marked by numerous mine-works. They were greeted at the gate by a North Guard sergeant and a greatly worried town factor.
“Any news, my lady?” the factor asked Dahrena, sweat-damp hands clasping and releasing. “How long before they fall upon us?”
“We’ve seen no sign of them yet, Idiss,” Dahrena assured him. There was a tightness to her voice that spoke of a palpable dislike. She gestured at Vaelin. “Do you have no greeting for your Tower Lord?”
“Oh, of course.” The man gave Vaelin a hurried bow. “My apologies, my lord. Welcome to Myrna’s Mount. We are very pleased to see you.”
“Any word from the other settlements?” Vaelin asked him.
“None, my lord. I fear for them.”
“Then we’d best not linger.” Vaelin turned Flame away from the gate, pausing as the factor reached out to clutch at his reins.
“But surely, my lord, you can’t leave us. We have just two hundred miners with swords, and only a dozen North Guard.”
Vaelin looked at the man’s hand on his reins until he removed it. “A good point, sir.” He raised his gaze to the North Guard sergeant. “Gather your men. You ride on with us.”
The sergeant glanced at Adal, receiving a nod in response, then marched off to collect his men.
“You leave us defenceless!” Idiss cried. “Naked before the Horde.”
“Then you have my leave to make for North Tower,” Vaelin told him. “The road behind us is clear. But if you care for this place and its people, perhaps you would prefer to stay and fight for them.”
Idiss, it transpired, had a fast horse, raising a sizeable cloud of dust in its wake as he galloped south.
“The head of the Miners Guild has agreed to take on the factorship,” Dahrena advised, emerging from the gate an hour later. “At my urging they’ve armed the womenfolk too, which gives them over three hundred and fifty swords to hold the wall.” She mounted her mare and met Vaelin’s gaze. “Idiss is a cowardly, greed-shrivelled soul, but he was right. If the Horde come, this place will fall in an hour, at most.”
“Then it rests with us to ensure they never get here.” He waved a command at the ranks of horsemen behind him and spurred towards the north.
◆ ◆ ◆
They called at the three settlements north of Myrna’s Mount over the next two days, finding only fearful miners and no word of the Horde. Thankfully, these were led by hardier souls than Idiss and their defences were well prepared. Vaelin offered each the option of making for Myrna’s Mount where greater numbers might offer more protection, but they all refused.
“Been hewing stone from these hills near twenty years, m’lord,” the factor at Slade Hill told him, a burly Nilsaelin with a large axe strapped across his back. “Didn’t run from those frost-arses last time, not runnin’ now.”
They pressed on into the plains where the wind swept down with a chill that seemed to cut through clothing like a steel-tipped arrow cuts through armour.
“By the Faith!” Orven cursed through clenched teeth, blinking away tears as the wind lashed at his face. “Is it always like this?”
Adal laughed. “This is just a balmy summer day, Captain. You should try it in winter.”
“There are no more mountains between us and the ice,” Dahrena explained. “The Eorhil call it the black wind.”
They halted after ten miles and Vaelin ordered scouts sent east, west and north. They all returned by late evening, having found no trace of the Horde.
“This makes no sense,” Adal said. “They should be well into the mountains by now.”
Dahrena suddenly straightened, her gaze switching to the west, eyes bright with expectation.
“My lady?” Vaelin asked.
“It seems we have company, my lord.”
It came to him then, a faint rumble of thunder, but constant, and growing.
“Saddle up!” he barked striding to where Flame was tethered, sending men scrambling for their horses.
“There’s no need,” Dahrena called after him. “The Horde don’t ride. We have other visitors.”
The dust-cloud grew in the west, coming ever closer, the thunder rising as it neared. The first riders came into view, mounted on tall horses of varying colour, each carrying a lance with a horn bow strapped to every saddle, more and more resolving out of the dust until Vaelin lost count. They reined in a short distance away, the dust settling to reveal what must have been over two thousand riders, men and women. Their pale-skinned faces were an echo of the hawk-faced Seordah Vaelin had met years ago, their hair uniformly black and tied into braids. Their clothing was mostly of dark brown leather decorated with necklaces of bone or elk antler. They sat waiting in silence, not even a snort rising from their horses.
A lone rider trotted forward, making unbidden for Vaelin. He halted a few paces away, looking down on him in stern appraisal. He was not a tall man, but there was an evident strength to him, his face lined but possessed of the kind of leanness that made guessing his age difficult.
“What is your name?” the rider asked in harshly accented Realm Tongue.
“I have a few to choose from,” Vaelin replied. “But the Seordah call me Beral Shak Ur.”
“I know what the forest people call you, and why.” The man reclined in his saddle a little, his features taking on a frown. “Ravens are rarely seen on these plains. If you want a name from us, you must earn it.”
“I will, and gladly.”
The rider grunted, reversing the hold on his lance and throwing it into the ground at Vaelin’s feet. Despite the hardness of the earth the steel point was buried up to the hilt, the lance shuddering with the force of the throw. “I, Sanesh Poltar of the Eorhil Sil, bring my lance to answer Tower Lord’s call.”
“You are very welcome.”
Dahrena came forward to welcome the Eorhil chieftain with a broad smile. “I never doubted you would find us, plains-brother,” she said, reaching up to clasp his hand, their fingers entwining.
“We hoped to find the beast-people first,” he replied. “Make you a gift of their skulls. But they leave us no tracks to follow.”
“They elude us also.”
This seemed to puzzle the horseman. “Even you, forest-sister?”
She shot a guarded look at Vaelin. “Even me.”
◆ ◆ ◆
That night they ate dried elk meat with the Eorhil. It was tough but tasty fare, improved by a few seconds over the fire, washed down with a thick white beverage possessed of a pungent aroma and a palpable kick of spirits.
“Faith!” Orven exclaimed, wincing after his first taste. “What is this?”
“Fermented elk milk,” Dahrena said.
Orven suppressed a disgusted shudder and handed the fur-covered skin back to the young Eorhil woman who had appeared at his side as they gathered round the fire. “Thank you, lady. But no.” She frowned then shrugged, saying something in her own language.
“She wants to know how many elk you’ve hunted,” Dahrena translated.
“Elk? None,” he replied, nodding and smiling at the young woman. “But many boar and deer. My family has a large estate.”
Dahrena relayed his reply, provoking a puzzled exchange.
“She doesn’t know what an estate is,” Dahrena explained. “The Eorhil have no understanding of how one can own land.”
“Or even that the plains they live on are owned by the crown,” Adal put in. “One of the reasons they saw no need to fight the first Realm settlers. You can’t claim something that can’t be owned, so why fight over it?”
“Insha ka Forna,” the young woman said to Orven, patting her chest.
“Steel in Moonlight,” Dahre
na said with a small smile. “Her name.”
“Ah, Orven,” the captain said, patting his own chest. “Orrvennn.”
This provoked another exchange with Dahrena. “She wanted to know what it means. I told her it’s the name of a great hero from legend.”
“But it isn’t,” Orven said.
“Captain . . .” Dahrena paused to smother a chuckle. “When an Eorhil woman chooses to tell a man her given name, it’s a considerable compliment.”
“Oh.” The captain gave Insha ka Forna a broad smile, finding it returned. “Is there a suitable response?”
“I think you just gave it.”
A short while later Dahrena bade them good night and rose from the fire, making her way to the ingenious contrivance she had carried with her since leaving the tower. Seemingly little more than a bundle of elk-hide and wood, a few minutes’ work formed it into a small but serviceable shelter, equal to any of the tents used by the King’s Guard. Some of the North Guard carried similar items, though most were content to sleep in the open clad only in a wrapping of furs.
Vaelin waited for a time before going to speak to her. His questions had been mounting over the course of their journey and he had delayed long enough in seeking answers.
“My lady,” he greeted her as she sat outside her shelter.
She didn’t reply and he noticed her eyes were closed, her hair fluttering across her face in the chill wind with no sign she felt it.
“You can’t talk to her now, my lord.” Captain Adal appeared next to the shelter. His ebony features were outlined in red from the fires and tense in warning.
Vaelin looked again at Dahrena, seeing the absolute stillness of her face, the way her hands sat in her lap, absent of any twitch. The blood-song rose with a familiar note: recognition.
He gave the captain an affable nod and returned to the fire.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Steel Water Creek,” Dahrena said the next morning. “It’s about forty miles north-east of here. It’s the only supply of freshwater large enough to service so many this far south of the ice. It seems reasonable to assume the Horde will be camped there since they don’t appear to be moving.”
“Just a reasonable assumption?” Vaelin asked. “Is there no other source for this intelligence, my lady?”
She avoided his gaze and bit back an angry retort. “None, my lord. You are of course free to discount my advice.”
“Oh, I think it would be churlish to ignore the words of my new First Counsel. Steel Water Creek it is.”
They rode in a three-group formation, Vaelin with the North Guard and Orven’s men in the centre and the Eorhil on both flanks. He had heard many tales of the horsemanship of the Eorhil and saw now they were well-founded, each rider moving in concert with their mount in an unconscious reflex, like a single animal forged to range across these plains. He was aware they were limiting their speed to keep pace with the Tower Lord’s men, and one had opted to join their company for the ride. Insha ka Forna rode at Orven’s side on a piebald stallion a hand taller than the captain’s own warhorse, her braids streaming back from a face wearing a faintly smug expression.
It was late in the afternoon by the time they came upon them, a large camp on the eastern bank of the creek, numerous fires seeping smoke into the ice-chilled wind. Vaelin called a halt two hundred paces from the camp, signalling for both flanks to spread out and ordering his own men into battle formation. He took the canvas bundle from where it was lashed to his saddle, placing a hand on the largest knot. One tug and it’s free. He knew it would shine very bright today, the sound it made as it cut the air would be another song of blood, one he sang so well. It had remained sheathed and bound since the day he faced the Shield of the Isles. He hadn’t liked the way it felt when he drew it that day, the way it fit in his hand . . . so comfortable.
“My lord!” Captain Adal’s shout brought his gaze back to the camp, seeing a solitary figure walking towards them. A cluster of people had gathered at the fringes of the camp, it may have been an illusion of the light and the distance but they all appeared thin to the point of emaciation: gaunt, flesh-denuded faces poking out from their furs, staring at their enemies with numb expectation free of any anger or hate.
“I see no weapons, my lord,” Orven said.
“A trick, no doubt,” Adal replied. “The Horde always had a thousand tricks.”
Vaelin watched the lone figure continue towards them. He was squat but thin, like the rest of his people, and considerably older, walking with a slow but purposeful gait, aided by what seemed to be a large gnarled stick but soon revealed itself as a long thighbone from some unknown beast, covered all over with intricate carvings and script.
“Shaman!” Adal hissed, unlimbering his bow. “My lord, I request the honour of first blood.”
“Shaman?” Vaelin asked.
“They command the war-beasts,” Dahrena explained. “Train them, lead them in war. We never learned how they did it.”
“He doesn’t appear to have any beasts,” Vaelin observed as the squat man came to a halt twenty yards away.
“More fool him,” Adal said, raising his bow.
“Stop that!” Vaelin commanded, his voice snapping through the ranks, absolute in its authority.
Adal gaped at him, his bow still drawn. “My lord?”
Vaelin didn’t look at him. “You are under my command. Obey my order or I’ll have you flogged and dismissed.”
He angled his head as he studied the squat man, ignoring Adal’s choking fury as Dahrena sought to restrain him. The shaman took hold of the bone in both hands and held it out before him, trembling and swaying in the black wind.
Vaelin felt it then, the blood-song’s note of greeting to a gifted soul. Dahrena stiffened in her saddle, her calming hand falling from Adal’s shoulder. Vaelin inclined his head at the shaman. “It seems we are called to parley, my lady.”
Fear made her eyes wide and her face white, but she nodded and they trotted forward, halting to dismount before the shaman. Up close his emaciation was a painful thing to see, the bones of his face white under skin that seemed no more than wet paper wrapping a butcher’s leavings. A black-and-grey tangle of hair grew from his head to his shoulders, a few talismans hanging unpolished in the unkempt tresses. The tremble was not just fear, Vaelin saw, but hunger, bringing a harsh realisation: They don’t come for war, they come to die.
“You have a name?” Vaelin asked him.
The shaman gave no response, planting the bone on the earth before him, both hands resting atop it, his gaze taking on owl-like focus as he stared into Vaelin’s eyes. The gaze fixed him, drew him closer. There was a moment of concern as something stirred in his mind. A trick, like Adal said. But the blood-song was unwavering in its welcome and he let the stirring continue. It was like a memory, a forgotten vision of another time, but it was not his.
People, clad in furs, and beasts. Bears, huge white-furred terrors, all labouring through a blizzard. Many are wounded, many are children. Riders appear out of the blizzard, dressed all in black, swords and lances stabbing and slashing . . . blood on the snow . . . so much blood . . . The riders wheel and turn, laughing as they kill, more and more charging out of the snow as the fur-clad people scatter. A man raises a great bone-staff and his bears turn on the riders, mauling and rending, killing many . . . but there are more . . . there are always more . . .
The vision faded, the shaman’s face still and unspeaking above the tip of his bone-staff.
Vaelin looked at Dahrena, noting the horror on her face. “You saw it?”
She nodded, hiding her trembling hands within her furs and drawing back a little. He could tell she wanted to flee, that this squat old man with no weapon save a length of bone, terrified her. But she stayed, drawing breath in gulps, refusing to look away.
Vaelin turned back to the shaman. “You flee thes
e men, these riders?” It was clear from the man’s frown he didn’t understand a word. Vaelin sighed, glanced back at the ranks of guards and Eorhil, then sang. It was just a small note, unlikely to call forth any blood, conveying the sense of his query, coloured by his memory of the shaman’s vision.
The old man straightened, eyes widening, then nodded. He met Vaelin’s eyes again and soon another vision filled his mind.
A dark mass of people trekking across an ice field, the backs of their great white bears rising and falling amongst the throng as they flee, always westward, always away from the riders . . . no time to rest . . . no time to hunt . . . only time to flee . . . or fall out and die. The old people are first, then the younger children, the tribe bleeding its life away as it moves across the white expanse. The bears grow maddened by hunger, rending them from the shamans’ control. Hardy warriors weep as they cut them down and share out their meat, for without their bears, what are they? By the time the plains are in sight, they know their nation has died . . . They ask for nothing save a peaceful death.
Dahrena wept as the vision faded, gasping as tears streamed down her face. “What callous fools we are,” she whispered. Vaelin sang again, filling his song with the image of the battle tapestry from the tower; the Horde and its terrible beasts.
The shaman gave a disgusted grunt, replying with a vision of his own. The battle is fierce, no quarter is given, cats and bears tear at each other with mindless fury, the spear-hawks blacken the sky as they meet in a roiling cloud above, birthing a rain of blood and feathers, the warriors fight with spear and bone-club. When the red day is done the Bear People have shown the Cat People the folly of war on the ice. They see them no more, for they take themselves off to the southern plains, soft and cowardly in their desire for easier prey.
Bear People. Vaelin raised his gaze to the camp, seeing only starving men and women, a few children, no old folk, and no beasts at all. They lost their bears, they lost their name.
He looked again at the shaman, singing for the final time, recalling the image of the riders in black and ending the song with a questioning note, feeling the familiar wave of fatigue that told him he had sung enough for now.