“Didn’t know they grew so large,” Vaelin commented. The bear must have stood perhaps five feet tall at the shoulder, meaning its full height would be nearer ten. Although its pursuit of Lorkan appeared laboured, it covered the ground with deceptive speed thanks to the length of its stride.
“Kill it, for Faith’s sake!” Lorkan yelled, sprinting towards them, the bear now only a few strides behind.
“Don’t!” Vaelin said to Kiral as she raised her bow, his eyes picking out a figure among the ruins, small and familiar with another at its side, only slightly taller and holding aloft a long stick of some kind. The bear skidded to an abrupt halt, scattering gravel, a mournful growl issuing from its snout. It bounced on its forelegs, claws digging into the rocky ground, continuing to stare in challenge at Lorkan who was now on all fours behind one of the guardsmen, panting and clearly on the verge of losing his breakfast.
Scar, like the other horses, had begun to rear at the sight of the bear and was now on the verge of outright panic, tossing his head in protest as Vaelin hauled on the reins. “It’s all right,” he said, dismounting to smooth a hand along the animal’s flank. “He won’t hurt you.”
The bear snorted again, shaking its great head from side to side as if gathering strength for another charge, but then stiffened, became near as still as a statue. “He still young.” A small, fur-clad man holding a bone as long as a staff appeared at the bear’s side, his voice holding a note of apology. “Friend and enemy smell same.”
“Wise Bear!” Vaelin came forward to clasp hands with the shaman, heartened by the strength of his grip. “You are far from the Reaches.”
“You go on the ice,” Wise Bear replied with a shrug. “I show you how.”
“He was very insistent.” Dahrena stood a short distance away, smiling tightly. “Could hardly let him come alone.”
Vaelin went to her, pulling her close, the realisation of how much he had missed her provoking a harsh ache. I will send her back, he thought, knowing himself a liar. In the morning I will send her back.
They shared a meal of spitted goat, apparently the victim of the great brown bear’s hunting skill judging by the deep rents in the carcass. “Iron Claw brings good meat,” Wise Bear said. “Only keeps insides for himself.”
When the meal was done Vaelin followed the old shaman as he toured the ruins, peering at the shattered statuary and occasionally jabbing his bone-staff at weed-covered rubble. The bear roamed nearby, displaying equal scrutiny as he poked his large snout into the various nooks and crannies, sometimes using his dagger-like claws to pull the stones apart.
“Iron Claw wants bugs,” Wise Bear explained. “Bear belly never full.”
“How did you know to come here?” Vaelin asked him.
Wise Bear gave him a quizzical look, as if the answer were obvious, raising his eyebrows when Vaelin failed to discern his meaning. “Big…” He frowned, fumbling for the right words. “Big power, big…” He made a wide, flailing gesture with his arms, blowing air through his lips.
“Disturbance?” Vaelin asked, adding, “Storm?” at the shaman’s blank gaze.
“Storm, yes, big storm in the … sea. Power sea.”
Power sea. He sees the Dark as a sea of power. “You can see the power sea?”
Wise Bear barked a laugh. “None can see it all. Just feel storms, feel those touching it, hear songs if they sing. Felt the storm brewing, heard the girl’s song, followed it here with Flies High Woman.” His frown returned as they came to the great stone head Vaelin recalled from his first visit here, the bearded man with a troubled brow.
“The storm is coming here?” Vaelin asked, watching him tentatively touch the tip of his staff to the stone face.
“Storm came here before.” Wise Bear lowered his staff to place a hand on the bearded man’s forehead, closing his eyes. “Now just echo.”
“Of what?”
“What was, what will be.” The shaman removed his hand from the stone head, sadness dominating his wrinkled face.
“I thought he might be a king, a chief,” Vaelin said but Wise Bear shook his head.
“No, wise man, keeper of many stories.”
“But not wise enough to stop the city falling?”
“Some things nothing can stop. He build this place, shamans filled stone with power to sing its song.”
Filled stone with power? Vaelin recalled Wisdom’s tale of how she had gained her name, the stone given to her by the shade of Nersus Sil Nin, and she but a memory preserved in the stones in the Martishe and the Great Northern Forest. “They could place their memories in stone?” he asked.
Wise Bear nodded. “More than … memory. Feeling.” He raised his staff and swept it slowly around, tracking over the remnants of a city that must once have been wondrous. “This place, filled with power.”
He moved on, eyes bright with scrutiny, scanning the ruins with a near-predatory intensity. Vaelin followed him through the maze of rubble, past the rare intact building Brother Harlick had fancied a library and onto what appeared to have been some kind of raised platform. Vaelin judged it might have stood ten feet high when intact, but the supporting pillars were shattered and the stone surface had tumbled to be cracked from end to end. Wise Bear paused, his limbs betraying a spasm of discomfort before he stepped onto the platform, moving to the centre where he touched his staff to the bare stone.
“Something here,” he said. “Something … black.”
Vaelin found he didn’t like the confusion he saw on the shaman’s face, his features sagging a little, making him seem even more aged. “Something black?” he prompted as the old man crouched to touch a tentative hand to the stone. “You mean Dark? Something that had the power?”
“Black,” Wise Bear stated in an emphatic tone before straightening. “Gone now, far away. Taken.”
“By who?”
Wise Bear turned, meeting Vaelin’s gaze. “You know,” he said. “We go across ice to find him.”
“I left Ultin in charge,” Dahrena said, settling next to him and pulling the furs across them both. “I doubt he relished the honour but there wasn’t anyone else halfway capable.”
“The gold?” Vaelin enquired.
“The first shipload should dock in Frostport within the month, much to Lord Darvus’s delight I’m sure.”
“He won’t be the first or the last to profit from war.” He paused, enjoying the feel of her pressed against him, regretting the necessity for his next words. However, she evidently read his intent and spoke first.
“I’m not leaving.” She raised her head to press a kiss to his lips then settled back. “How is Alornis?”
He recalled Alornis’s rigid face the morning he left, her valiant attempt at holding back the tears, falling to ruin as she collapsed against him, only drawing back at Lyrna’s gentle but insistent tug. His final glimpse of her lingered like a guilty stain, her head on Lyrna’s shoulder as she turned her face, refusing to watch him ride away. “She does good service in the queen’s cause,” he told Dahrena. “Her talents are even greater than we knew.”
She shifted a little, turning her gaze to the sky, clear of cloud and offering a fine view of the stars. “It’s faded,” she murmured. He knew the star she spoke of; Avenshura, from which Sanesh Poltar had taken his Eorhil name. It’s said no wars can be fought under the light it brings. Now it was just a small pinprick of light amongst many others.
“We’ll see it shine again,” he told her. “We just have to live a very long time.”
She turned back to him, her voice sombre. “I do not like this place.”
“Terrible things were done here once. Wise Bear says the stone carries the memory.”
“Not the city. The mountains, the home of the people who birthed me…” She trailed off but he knew the words she left unsaid.
“And killed your husband.”
Her head moved in a faint nod.
“What was his name?”
“His people named him Leordah Nil
Usril, Lives in Dreams. I just called him Usril. The Seordah thought him a quiet soul, seldom given to speech and often lost in thought. He rarely joined war parties against the Lonak though in the battle with the Horde he had proved himself brave and skillful. One summer the Lonak came in larger numbers than usual, raiding deeper than they had before. I was visiting with my father when word came of the raid. I flew to the forest, finding his body amongst many others, a dead Lonak lay atop him. I remember how peaceful they looked, as if they had fallen asleep together. I searched far and wide for his soul, but he was at least a day gone.”
She fell silent, her breath soft on his chest as he held her even tighter. When she spoke again her voice was barely above a whisper and coloured with suppressed fear, “I did my best to die that day, Vaelin. I hung above the forest and watched over his body, knowing my own would soon lose its warmth, hoping I could join his endless hunt in the shadows … Father brought me back, somehow I heard his voice pleading with me to return. I barely felt the chill when I slipped back into my body, in truth for weeks I barely felt anything. Then I went to the stone and sought counsel with Nersus Sil Nin. She told me something, something I didn’t want to believe.”
She rose, bringing her face level with his, staring into his eyes. “She told me I had much still to do. That great trials lay ahead and a lifetime of grief was not a luxury I would be permitted. And she said she had once gifted a Seordah name to a man, a man I would come to love.” She gave a laugh, her breath soft on his lips. “I thought she was mad. I was wrong.”
They returned to Orven’s company two days later, finding them all mounted and drawn up in battle formation. The reason was easily found, at least a hundred Lonak on their stout ponies plainly visible on the crest of a hill a quarter mile to the north.
“They appeared this morning, my lord,” Orven reported as Vaelin rode up, greeting Dahrena with a surprised bow. “Very good to see you again, my lady.”
“My lord. I hear congratulations are in order.”
Orven gave a small grin before casting a wary glance at the Lonak. “I fear they’ll have to wait.”
Vaelin raised an eyebrow at Kiral who looked upon her fellow Lonak with steady gaze. “They come at the Mahlessa’s bidding, though not without misgivings.”
“Then we’d best say hello.” He told Dahrena and the others to wait with Orven’s men and rode forward with Kiral. They approached to within a few yards of the base of the hill, halting when one of the Lonak spurred his pony down the slope, a hulking man with a bearskin vest and a mazelike tattoo covering his shaven head. His face provoked a rush of recognition as he halted his pony a few yards away, regarding Vaelin with a baleful glare and greeting Kiral in terse Lonak.
“This is Alturk,” she told Vaelin. “Tahlessa of the Mahlessa Sentar.”
“We’ve met,” Vaelin said, nodding at the big man. “Your son is well?”
Alturk’s face spasmed with anger and Vaelin resisted the urge to reach for his sword as Kiral tensed beside him.
“My son was varnish,” Alturk said in harsh Realm Tongue. “A worthless life well ended.”
Vaelin wondered if he should voice some word of sympathy but guessed it would only be taken as further insult. “The Mahlessa has granted us passage,” he said. “What is your purpose here?”
Alturk gritted his teeth, speaking in slow controlled tones as if worried his anger might choke him. “The Mahlessa commands one hundred of the Sentar follow you. The finest blood of the Lonakhim, to be spilled at your word.”
“You know our course? We travel across the ice to the lands of our enemy. The dangers are many.”
“Word from the Mountain is not questioned.” Alturk tugged on his reins, turning the pony. “Follow our track, do not stray from it. There are few here who welcome your coming and I give no promise of safety.”
They covered thirty miles by nightfall, the Sentar setting a punishing pace through myriad canyons and valleys. Vaelin noted they rode with weapons ready, many holding bows with arrows notched, eyes constantly scanning the surrounding hilltops. His eyes also picked out a few riderless ponies among them and noted some warriors sported recently bound wounds.
“The Mahlessa asks much of our people in allowing your passage,” Kiral explained, following his gaze. “The False Mahlessa may have fallen but her words still linger in many ears.”
“But you are … were the False Mahlessa,” Vaelin said. “Won’t your presence among us discourage them?”
Kiral smiled sadly. “When the Mahlessa freed me I went forth from the Mountain with my sisters, telling my story at the fires of every clan. It’s a story welcome at any fire, being so rich in incident. Most believed it, some didn’t, thinking me somehow turned from my true course by the Mahlessa. The thing that held me had a way with words, an ability to plant the seeds of doubt in the hearts of those already versed in malice and cruelty. It’s easier to hate when given a reason, and she had many.”
They encamped amidst the crags of a low plateau some hours later, Alturk posting a heavy guard on all approaches. Most of the Sentar seemed content to stay away from the Merim Her but not all were so wary, one stocky woman approaching to peer at Dahrena as she unsaddled her horse, speaking in rapid Lonak.
“I don’t know your language,” Dahrena said, clearly discomforted by the scrutiny.
“She asks if you belong to the Arrow Glass Clan,” Kiral explained. “Your face reminds her of a cousin she lost years ago.”
Dahrena offered the stern-faced Lonak woman a cautious frown. “Lost how?”
“A raid,” Kiral related. “An entire village was wiped out, her cousin died along with her sisters and their children. They thought it the Seordah but the tracks were wrong, and the Seordah never kill children.”
Dahrena’s expression became more intent and she laid down her saddle, stepping closer to the Lonak woman. “Did her cousin have a name?”
“Mileka,” Kiral translated. “It means Owl.” She paused as the Lonak woman spoke on. “She asks if you have a story for the fire.”
“Yes.” Dahrena gave a reluctant nod. “I have a story.”
The Lonak woman brought a dozen or so more Sentar to hear the story, squatting around the fire as Kiral translated Dahrena’s tale. The presence of Wise Bear and Iron Claw was an obvious source of discomfort but apparently not sufficient to assuage the desire for a new tale. They sat, clearly fascinated as she related her dim memory of the destruction of her village. Some became agitated when she mentioned the wolf that had borne her through the forest, but they all stayed until she finished, relating how Lord Al Myrna had found her and made her his daughter, nodding and grunting in appreciation as she fell silent.
“They liked it,” Kiral said, a note of relief in her voice. “A good story means much to my people.” She tensed somewhat as Alturk stepped from the shadow of a nearby crag, arms crossed and gaze fixed on Dahrena.
“You lived as Merim Her,” he said. “But your arms are adorned with Seordah trinkets.”
“I am both Merim Her and Seordah,” she replied evenly. “In soul if not in blood.”
Alturk grunted something that might have been a laugh. “Lonak blood doesn’t weaken so easily. You may feel it swell again before this tale is done.” He growled something at the onlooking Sentar and they quickly scrambled to their feet before disappearing into the shadows. “Be sure to wake before dawn,” he told Vaelin, stalking back into the night.
The first attack came the following day as they traversed a deep canyon half a day’s march from the plateau. A group of some two dozen Lonak appeared out of a cave mouth to launch a volley of arrows before hurling themselves at the Sentar, clearly intent on fighting their way through to the hated Merim Her. Only one managed to breach the cordon, the others being clubbed down or speared in short order, seemingly without any loss to the Sentar. The lone warrior ran directly for Vaelin, screaming madly with war club raised, then skidding to a halt as Iron Claw lumbered into his path. The Lonak stared,
eyes wide in horror as the bear bellowed his challenge, rising to his full height. The warrior dropped his club, apparently now unreasoned by terror and numb to the arrow that punched through his chest a second later. Kiral walked to the corpse, bow in hand, kicking his legs to make sure before kneeling to reclaim her arrow.
They were attacked again three nights later, though this time their assailants were content to linger in the shadows and loose arrows at the campfires, claiming the life of a Sentar who had stepped in front of the glow at the wrong moment. Alturk gathered together twenty warriors and led them into the darkness, returning a little while later with bloodied clubs and lance points. Their efforts seemed to have been enough to ensure an untroubled night and a group of Sentar soon appeared at their fire in search of a story in what was becoming a nightly ritual.
“I’ll take a turn,” Orven said. “The Tale of Lord Vaelin’s Charge at the Battle of Alltor.”
Vaelin got to his feet with a groan. “Spare me.”
“But they want a story, my lord,” Orven said with a small grin.
“I, however, do not.” He walked away from the fire as Orven began the tale, moving through the camp where the other Sentar greeted him with cautious eyes or studied indifference. He found Alturk sitting alone, wiping a buckskin rag over his war club, a recently sharpened knife placed close to his side.
“I come to ask more of your son,” Vaelin said. “I hope my actions had no part in his death.”
Alturk didn’t look up, grunting, “Your hope is wasted.”
“You killed him for disobeying the Mahlessa?”
The Lonak’s eyes rose from his work, bright with warning. “My clan killed him. His death was right and just. And I’ll speak no more of it.”
Vaelin moved to the fire, squatting down to extend his hands to the warmth. The nights grew ever colder, the northerly winds stiff with ample warning of what lay ahead. “My queen told me men are forbidden the company of your Mahlessa,” he said. “You have never met her, yet you follow her word without question.”