“You’ve seen them?”
He took a puff on his pipe and nodded. “Captain’s privilege, once you get your own ship, you go to the caves to pay homage to the old gods. Since they were there first, seems only polite. And there are stories aplenty about the ill fates of captains who failed to make the pilgrimage.”
“So, they’re statues found centuries ago.”
“More than statues, scribbler.” The captain’s gaze darkened at the memory. “Statue doesn’t make you sweat the moment you lay eyes on it, doesn’t make your head ache when you get near, nor put images in your head when you bow to touch its foot.”
My quill stopped its track across the parchment and I concealed a sigh. I had seen enough by now to fully appreciate that what I once thought of as superstition was all too real, but still the inherent skepticism lingered. “Images in your head?” I asked in a passive tone.
“Just for a second. I touched her foot and … I saw the Isles, but not our Isles. There was a city, standing where our capital now stands. But so beautiful, gleaming marble from end to end, the harbour filled with ships, longer than ours and mostly driven by oarsmen. And they were not pirates, I could see that. Not a single sailor carried a weapon. Whatever time it was, it was a time of peace.”
He fell silent, face now clouded with memory as he took the pipe from his lips, barely stirring when I prompted, “Her foot? The old gods are female?”
“One is. The other two are men, one a great bearded fellow, the other younger and handsome of face. I didn’t touch either of them, for the visions they impart are only for the bravest eyes. They say the Shield touched all three though, the only man ever to do so.”
“There’s a story, about a man who couldn’t die. It says he came to the Isles in search of the old gods.”
The captain huffed a laugh and returned to his pipe. “Urlan. My old gran used to tell me that one.”
“The version I have says he offended them by asking for an impossible gift, so they cursed him to walk the ocean floor for all time.”
He frowned, smoke billowing and a faint dullness creeping into his eyes. “Gran’s tale was different, but the old stories often change depending on who tells them. She said Urlan was driven from the Isles, set adrift in a boat and warned never to return. And not because he had offended the old gods, but because having heard his words, the people feared one so young who knew so much.”
He watched me writing down the tale, extinguishing his pipe and tapping the remaining weed into a pouch. “Time I imparted my tidings, scribbler,” he said.
“More grave news from the war, I take it?” I replied, glancing around at the grim-faced patrons.
“No, from Alpira.” I saw that the dullness had faded from his eyes and he regarded me with a steady, regretful gaze. “Emperor Aluran died a week ago. Before passing he named his successor as Lady Emeren Nasur Ailers, to be known forever more as Empress Emeren I.”
CHAPTER ONE
Vaelin
Dahrena called her war-cat Mishara, the Seordah word for lightning, and took great delight in training her. Every morning she would spend an hour or more in the forest, smiling as the beast leapt, ran or climbed trees at her command. “I had a kitten when I was little,” she told Vaelin, throwing a ball fashioned from walrus-hide for Mishara to catch, leaping high to snatch it from the air with a fast snap of her impressive jaws. “I named her Stripes. One day she went missing and my father told me she must have run away. I found out later he didn’t have the heart to tell me she’d been crushed by a cart-wheel.”
She frowned at Vaelin’s vague nod, sending Mishara off into the trees with a flick of her wrist before coming to sit next to him, taking his hand. She asked no question, as ever much of their communication was unspoken. “In the Order,” he said, “they told us prophecy was a lie, like a god. The province of deluded Deniers mistaking madness for insight. Yet all the while the Seventh Order laboured in secret pursuit of its own prophecies.”
“You recall what Brother Harlick told us,” she said. “All prophecies are false.”
“You saw their wall.”
“Pictures painted countless years ago and only visible now because these people maintain them with such devotion.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “The visions of Nersus Sil Nin gave the Seordah centuries to prepare for the coming of the Marelim Sil, but still they were driven into the forest. The future is not pigment daubed onto stone, we make the future with every breath and every step. Our mission is vital, you know it. We cannot allow ourselves distraction.”
“Kiral tells me her song swells with warning whenever I talk of moving on. For now, it seems this place is our mission.”
She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “Well, at least it’s started to thaw.”
He inspected Orven’s guardsmen in the afternoon, mainly to assure the Lord Marshal of his appreciation for returning them to martial readiness with such alacrity. Throughout the Long Night he had maintained the stern discipline and rigid adherence to routine that characterised the Mounted Guard, the beards grown on the ice soon sheared off and every breastplate scraped clean of rust.
“How goes the training?” Vaelin asked Orven after surveying the ranks and exchanging ritual pleasantries with the men. They spoke up readily enough, all veterans of the march from the Reaches and Alltor, regarding him with an implacable respect he knew might never fade. Even so, despite the generous fare offered by their hosts, many retained the gaunt aspect of those exposed to the worst extremes of climate.
“Fighting on foot is hard for those accustomed to the saddle, my lord,” Orven replied. “But it can’t be helped. The Lonak sometimes join in with practice. I think they find it amusing, or have little else to do.”
Vaelin glanced over to where a cluster of Sentar stood watching one of the Wolf People skin a recently caught walrus, taking note of the fact that Alturk was not among them, nor had he been for much of the Long Night.
“Concentrate on close-order drill,” he told Orven. “You’ve seen how the Volarians fight, whole battalions moving as one. I’m sure it’s a feat the guards can match.”
Orven straightened, his fist going to his breastplate in a customarily perfect salute. “Indeed we can, my lord.”
Astorek found him grooming Scar in the small stable the Wolf People had allowed him to construct near the shore. As usual a gaggle of children had gathered to watch as he led the warhorse from his makeshift home, apparently fascinated by the strange four-legged beast, bigger than a moose but without antlers. They seemed to have no inclination to shyness, or awareness that Vaelin might not understand their babble of questions as they clustered around, small hands playing over Scar’s coat, occasionally retreating with delighted giggles at the horse’s irritated stamps and snorts. One little boy was more insistent than the others, tugging at Vaelin’s furs and repeating the same question with a puzzled frown.
“He wants to know why you don’t eat him.”
Vaelin turned to find Astorek standing nearby, watching the scene with faint amusement. Two of his wolves sat a short distance away, a male and a female of disconcerting size, their scent provoking Scar to a fearful shudder.
“They’re too close,” he told the Volarian, nodding at the wolves.
Astorek inclined his head and the wolves rose in unison to trot towards the ice, their usual placidity evaporating as they began to leap and nip at one another in a playful dance.
“He’s for riding,” Vaelin said, turning back to the boy as Astorek translated. “Not eating.”
This seemed to puzzle the child even more, his small features creasing into a scrunch of bafflement, so Vaelin lifted him onto Scar’s back, taking the reins and leading him on a slow walk towards the shoreline. The boy laughed and clapped his hands as he bounced along, the other children following in a clamour that didn’t need much translation; they all wanted a turn. After an hour or so of entertainment Astorek finally shooed the children away with a few short words. Although the Wo
lf People’s discipline of their young folk seemed lax, the instant silence that descended on the children told of an underlying authority that brooked no dissent and they had soon scampered off to find other amusements.
“His description of you was not wholly accurate,” Astorek said when the children had gone. “He said you would be fierce.”
“Your prophet’s words? You talk as if you knew him.”
“Sometimes I feel as if I did, I’ve heard his words so many times. Our people write nothing down but all shaman are taught to recite his message without fault.”
Vaelin led Scar back to the stable, fixing a feed-bag over his snout. The islands were poor in grain but rich in root vegetables and berries, harvested in the summer months and preserved through the winter. From his contented snorts and noticeably less denuded frame, it seemed Scar found the mix just as appetising as any bag of corn.
“My mother and father,” Astorek said, “bade me ask as to your intentions.”
“Intentions?”
“The Wolf People have awaited your arrival for as long as they can remember, knowing it would herald a time of great danger. And yet you spend every day tending your horse, whilst your companions play and the big man drinks his way through our stocks of pine ale.”
“Alturk is a … troubled man. And we have lingered here because Wise Bear advised venturing forth during the Long Night meant death. We are, of course, grateful for your hospitality.”
“You talk as if you intend to leave us.”
“We came in search of a particular man. Kiral’s song will guide us to him. When she hears a clear tune we will move on.”
“Leaving us to our fate, whatever it may be?”
“You put great stock in ancient paintings and long-told stories, especially since you cannot have been born to this life.”
Astorek gave a bitter laugh. “Is that it? You deny my people aid because you still distrust me?”
“Your people require no aid, as far as I can tell. As for you.” Vaelin took the bag from Scar’s snout, scratching his nose. “I’ve yet to learn how you came to be here, at this time, speaking our language without fault.”
“If I were an enemy, would not the huntress’s song warn you?”
Barkus, that night on the beach, the mask slipping away in an instant. All those years and the song had told him nothing. “It should, but I know to my cost how well the servants of our enemy can evade detection.”
He put the feed-bag aside and hefted a seal fur over Scar’s back, the warhorse voicing a rumbling snort of welcome at the increased warmth, then turned to Astorek, eyebrows raised in expectation. The Volarian’s gaze became downcast, his response a reluctant murmur, “I was guided here … by a wolf.”
“My father was a wealthy man.” Astorek’s face was bathed yellow in the firelight, his gaze fixed on the flames. Vaelin had called the others to the great dwelling they shared to hear his story, the Lonak sitting with their customary attentiveness when promised an interesting tale. The Gifted sat on either side of Vaelin, Orven and his guardsmen arrayed in neat rows behind. Only Alturk was absent, something that provoked a sharp exchange between Kiral and one of the Sentar, a veteran warrior who shifted uncomfortably at her terse enquiry. From her disgusted expression Vaelin divined she found his answer less than satisfactory.
“A merchant to trade,” Astorek went on. “Like his father before him. The great port city of Varral was our home, where I grew up in my grandfather’s fine house surrounded by fine slaves and fine toys. Most of grandfather’s trade came from the Unified Realm and we often played host to merchants and captains from across the sea. Keen to ensure his legacy, my grandfather insisted I be taught all the principal languages of commerce, so by the age of twelve I was fluent in Realm Tongue and Alpiran, and could even converse adequately in the two main dialects of the Far West. I remember being a happy child, and why not? As long as I remained attentive at lessons for a few hours a day, every whim would be indulged, and my grandfather did like to spoil me so.”
Astorek’s smile of fond remembrance faded as he continued, “It all changed when Grandfather died. My father, it seemed, had once nurtured youthful aspirations to be a soldier, quickly discounted by Grandfather of course, who had little interest in things military beyond trade in weapons. All Volarian males are supposed to serve a minimum of two years in the Free Swords but Grandfather knew whom to bribe to deny his son a chance at military glory. And so, as the years passed, my father nursed his grievance and fed his secret ambition, an ambition given free rein with Grandfather’s passing.
“Volaria tends to frown on amateur soldiers, the sons of the wealthy can purchase commission to junior officer status but thereafter promotion is granted strictly on merit. However, my father also knew whom to bribe and soon after securing his commission, and providing funds to equip and recruit a full battalion of Free Sword cavalry, found himself quickly elevated to the rank of commander. But rank wasn’t enough, his thirst for glory hadn’t abated. Varral, like all Volarian cities, is rich in statues, long rows of bronzes commemorating heroes, ancient and new, and Father badly wanted a plinth for himself. A sudden upsurge in campaigning against the northern savages provided him his opportunity, and, as is custom for the wealthy in Volaria, sons of sufficient age are required to follow their fathers to war. I was thirteen years old.”
“Your mother raised no objection?” Vaelin asked.
“Perhaps she would have, had I ever known her. Grandfather told me she had been cast out after revealing herself a faithless whore and Father never said a single word about her. But there was a slave, an old woman who worked in the kitchens, so old she was losing her mind. She caught sight of me once, stealing cakes as I often did, and started screaming, ‘Elverah’s spawn. Elverah’s spawn.’ The other slaves quickly dragged her away and I never saw her again. That was the only time my grandfather ever punished me, thirty strokes of the cane, and after every stroke he made me promise never to speak of my mother again.”
“She was Gifted,” Dahrena said. “Like you.”
“I expect so. It’s the same among the Wolf People, only mothers with power pass it on to their children. As I journeyed north with my father’s battalion the soldiers would sometimes exchange stories of strange folk spirited away by Council agents, never to be seen again. Though they always spoke softly of such matters, for Father was zealous in enforcing discipline, flogging several men in the first week of the march. I suppose he was trying to compensate for a complete absence of any military talent.
“Poor old father. He was a terrible soldier, quick to tire in the saddle, prone to sickness, lax in ensuring sufficient supplies for his men. By the time we joined with the rest of the army his dreams of glory had faded amidst the truth of a soldier’s life, which, from what I could tell, consisted mainly of discomfort, bad food and the constant threat of flogging, enlivened only by an occasional wine ration or game of dice. I suspect he had resolved to extricate himself from his new-found career, and might well have done so with a judicious bribe, but for General Tokrev.”
The Realm folk all straightened at the mention of the name, causing Astorek to blink in surprise. “You know this name?”
“He committed many crimes in our homeland,” Vaelin said. “He’s dead now.”
“Ah. News I had long hoped to hear. I always suspected he was not destined for a long life, though, like some of red-clads, it was rumoured that he was already far older than he appeared. We knew his reputation, a commander of tactical brilliance, it was said, but also stern discipline. When we first joined with the army he was in the process of hanging three officers for cowardice, one a battalion commander guilty of voicing defeatist sentiments. Tokrev’s orders were to concentrate his efforts on the mountain tribes, the slave quota for the year being only half-filled, but he nursed ambitions to go farther, into the frozen north where legend spoke of wild tribes who lived on the ice, said to be far richer in Gifted blood than any people on earth.
??
?Many of his officers, my father included, were less than happy with this plan. However, Tokrev’s demonstration was enough to silence any dissent and north we marched, being obliged to fight our way through the tribesfolk on the way. They are a fierce people, born to a warrior’s life, and make a formidable enemy. Luckily, they also take as much delight in warring among themselves as in fighting the hated southron invaders, so never possessed sufficient numbers to pose a serious obstacle.
“Our battalion was given the task of patrolling the flanks, a tricky business for the most experienced commander, and one far beyond my father’s abilities. Suffice to say our first engagement was a predictable disaster, Father leading us into a narrow ravine to be assailed from above by archers and slingers. His chief sergeant had enough wit to order a charge that carried us into open ground but they were waiting on the other side, a thousand or more screaming tribesmen charging down from the surrounding hills. I saw my father unhorsed in short order and charged towards him, for all his faults he was my father after all. I managed to get to his side but a tribesman’s axe cut through my horse’s foreleg, leaving us both on foot and surrounded. Father was wounded, a deep gash to the forehead, barely aware of what was happening, screaming horror all around as his battalion was torn to pieces. The mountain folk were laughing as they came closer, laughing at the boy trying to ward them off with a shaking sword whilst his father staggered about and shouted orders to corpses. That was the first time it happened.
“I saw a group of horses being gathered a short way off, the tribesmen have few of their own so they are a great prize. I knew if I could just get us to a horse we could ride free, knew it with all certainty. I stared at them, willing them to hear my desperation … And they came, all of them at once, breaking free of the tribesmen and stampeding through those surrounding us, stamping and kicking. Two halted at our side, both standing still as if frozen. I managed to get Father into the saddle and we rode away, every surviving horse following at our backs. We rode blindly for an age, until I too began to slump, realising I was also bleeding, from my nose, my eyes, my mouth. I remember falling from the horse then all was blackness.