Trull strode up to stand behind Rhulad. Sudden rage took him with the realization that his brother slept. He lifted his spear into both hands, then swung the butt end in a snapping motion that connected with the side of Rhulad’s head.
A muffled crack that sent his brother pitching to one side. Rhulad loosed a piercing shriek as he sprawled on the hard-packed snow, then rolled onto his back, scrabbling for his sword.
Trull’s spear-point was at his brother’s neck. ‘You slept on your watch!’ he hissed.
‘I did not!’
‘I saw you sleeping! I walked right up to you!’
‘I did not!’ Rhulad scrambled to his feet, one hand held against the side of his head.
The others were emerging now from their tents. Fear stared at Trull and Rhulad for a moment, then turned to the packs.
Trull was trembling, drawing deep, frigid breaths. For a moment, it struck him how disproportionate his anger was, then the magnitude of the risk flooded through him yet again.
‘We have had visitors,’ Fear announced, rising and scanning the frozen ground. ‘They left no tracks—’
‘How do you know, then?’ Rhulad demanded.
‘Because all our food is gone, Rhulad. It seems we shall grow hungry for a time.’
Theradas swore and began a wider circuit, seeking a trail.
They were among us. The Jheck. They could have killed us all where we slept. All because Rhulad will not grasp what it is to be a warrior. There was nothing more to be said, and all knew it.
Except for Rhulad. ‘I wasn’t sleeping! I swear it! Fear, you have to believe me! I simply sat down for a moment to rest my legs. I saw no-one!’
‘Behind closed lids,’ Theradas growled, ‘that’s not surprising.’
‘You think I’m lying, but I’m not! I’m telling the truth, I swear it!’
‘Never mind,’ Fear said. ‘It is done. From now on, we will double the watch.’
Rhulad walked towards Midik. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’
Midik Buhn turned away. ‘It was a battle just waking you for your watch, Rhulad,’ he said, his tone both sad and weary.
Rhulad stood as if in shock, the pain of what he saw as betrayal clear and deep-struck on his face. His lips thinned, jaw muscles bunching, and he slowly turned away.
The bastards were in our camp. Hannan Mosag’s faith in us…
‘Let us strike the tents,’ Fear said, ‘and be on our way.’
****
Trull found himself scanning the horizon in an endless sweep, his sense of vulnerability at times near overwhelming. They were being watched, tracked. The emptiness of the landscape was a lie, somehow. Possibly there was sorcery at work, although this did not – could not – excuse Rhulad’s failing.
Trust was gone, and Trull well knew that Rhulad’s future would now be dominated by the effort to regain it. A lapse, and the young man’s future path awaited him, deep-rutted and inevitable. A private journey beset by battle, each step resisted by a host of doubts, real and imagined – the distinction made no difference any more. Rhulad would see in his brothers and friends an unbroken succession of recriminations. Every gesture, every word, every glance. And, the tragedy was, he would not be far from the truth.
This would not be kept from the village. Sengar shame or not, the tale would come out, sung with quiet glee among rivals and the spiteful – and, given the opportunity, there were plenty of those to be found. A stain that claimed them all, the entire Sengar line.
They moved on. Northward, through the empty day.
Late in the afternoon, Theradas caught sight of something ahead, and moments later the others saw it as well. A glimmer of reflected sunlight, tall and narrow and angular, rising from the flat waste. Difficult to judge its size, but Trull sensed that the projection was substantial, and unnatural.
‘That is the place,’ Fear said. ‘Hannan Mosag’s dreams were true. We shall find the gift there.’
‘Then let us be about it,’ Theradas said, setting off.
The spar grew steadily before them. Cracks appeared in the snow and ice underfoot, the surface sloping upward the closer they approached. The shard had risen up from the deep, cataclysmically, a sudden upthrust that had sent wagon-sized chunks of ice into the air, to crash and tumble down the sides. Angular boulders of mud, now frozen and rimed, had rolled across the snow and ringed the area in a rough circle.
Prismatic planes caught and split the sunlight within the spar. The ice in that towering shard was pure and clear.
At the base of the fissured up-welling – still thirty or more paces from the spar – the group halted. Trull slipped out from the sled harness, Binadas following suit.
‘Theradas, Midik, stay here and guard the sleds,’ Fear said. ‘Trull, draw your spear from its sling. Binadas, Rhulad, to our flanks. Let’s go.’
They climbed the slope, winding their way between masses of ice and mud.
A foul smell filled the air, of old rot and brine.
Binadas hissed warningly, then said, ‘The spirit Hannan Mosag called up from the ocean deep has been here, beneath the ice. This is its handiwork, and the sorcery lingers.’
‘Emurlahn?’ Trull asked.
‘No.’
They came to the base of the spar. Its girth surpassed that of thousand-year-old Blackwood trees. Countless planes rose in twisted confusion, a mass of sharp, sheered surfaces in which the setting sun’s red light flowed thick as blood.
Fear pointed. ‘There. The gift.’
And now Trull saw it. Faint and murky, the smudged form of a two-handed sword, bell-hilted, its blade strangely fractured and mottled – although perhaps that effect was created by the intervening thickness of ice.
‘Binadas, weave Emurlahn into Trull’s spear. As much as you can – this will take many, many shadows.’
Their brother frowned. ‘Take? In what way?’
‘Shattering the ice will destroy them. Annihilation is demanded, to free the gift. And remember, do not close your unguarded hand about the grip, once the weapon comes free. And keep the wraiths from attempting the same, for attempt it they will. With desperate resolve.’
‘What manner of sword is this?’ Trull whispered.
Fear did not answer.
‘If we are to shatter this spar,’ Binadas said after a moment, ‘all of you should stand well clear of myself and Trull.’
‘We shall not be harmed,’ Fear said. ‘Hannan Mosag’s vision was clear on this.’
‘And how far did that vision go, brother?’ Trull asked. ‘Did he see our return journey?’
Fear shook his head. ‘To the shattering, to the fall of the last fragment of ice. No further.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘This is not a time for doubt, Trull,’ Fear said.
‘Isn’t it? It would seem that this is precisely the time for doubt.’
His brothers faced him.
Trull looked away. ‘This feels wrong.’
‘Have you lost your courage?’ Rhulad snapped. ‘We have walked all this way, and now you voice your doubts?’
‘What sort of weapon is this gift? Who fashioned it? We know nothing of what we are about to release.’
‘Our Warlock King has commanded us,’ Fear said, his expression darkening. ‘What would you have us do, Trull?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned to Binadas. ‘Is there no means of prying the secrets loose?’
‘I will know more, I think, when we have freed the sword.’
Fear grunted. ‘Then begin, Binadas.’
They were interrupted by a shout from Theradas. ‘A wolf!’ he cried, pointing to the south.
The beast was barely visible, white-furred against the snow, standing motionless a thousand or more paces distant, watching them.
‘Waste no more time,’ Fear said to Binadas.
Shadows spun from where Binadas was standing, blue stains crawling out across the snow, coiling up the shaft of the Blackwood spear in Trull’s hands, wh
ere they seemed to sink into the glossy wood. The weapon felt no different through the thick fur of his gauntlets, but Trull thought he could hear something new, a keening sound that seemed to reverberate in his bones. It felt like terror.
‘No more,’ Binadas gasped.
Trull glanced at his brother, saw the pallor of his face, the glistening sweat on his brow. ‘They are resisting this?’
Binadas nodded. ‘They know they are about to die.’
‘How can wraiths die?’ Rhulad demanded. ‘Are they not already ghosts? The spirits of our ancestors?’
‘Not ours,’ Binadas replied, but did not elaborate, gesturing instead towards Trull. ‘Strike at the ice, brother.’
Trull hesitated. He looked round over his left shoulder, searched until he found the distant wolf. It had lowered its head, legs gathering under it. ‘Daughter Dusk,’ he whispered, ‘it’s about to charge.’ Below, Theradas and Midik were readying their spears.
‘Now, Trull!’
Fear’s bellow startled him, so that he almost dropped the spear. Jaw clenching, he faced the spar once more, then slashed the iron spear-head against the ice.
Even as the weapon whipped forward, Trull’s peripheral vision caught motion on all sides, as figures seemed to rise from the very snow itself.
Then the spar exploded into blinding, white mist.
Sudden shouts.
Trull felt a savage wrench on the spear in his hands, the Blackwood ringing like iron as countless wraiths were torn free. Their death-cries filled his skull. Stumbling, he tightened his grip, striving to see through the cloud.
Weapons clashed.
An antler clawed for his face, each tine carved into a barbed point tipped with quartzite. Trull reeled back, flinging the spear shaft into the antler’s path. Trapping it. He twisted the spear round, reversing grip, and succeeded in forcing the attacker into releasing the antler. It spun away to one side. An upward slash with the spear, and Trull felt the iron blade tear through hide and flesh, clattering along ribs before momentarily springing free, to connect hard against the underside of a jaw.
The scene around him was becoming more visible. They were beset by savages, small and bestial, wearing white-skinned hides, faces hidden behind flat white masks. Wielding claw-like antler weapons and short stabbing spears with glittering stone points, the Jheck swarmed on all sides.
Fear was holding three at bay, and behind him stood the sword, upright and freed from the ice, its point jammed into the frozen ground. It seemed the Jheck were desperate to claim it.
Trull struck at the closest of Fear’s opponents, iron tip punching deep into the savage’s neck. Blood sprayed, jetted down the spear-shaft. He tore the weapon loose, in time to see the last of the Jheck in front of Fear wheel away, mortally wounded by a sword-thrust.
Spinning round, Trull saw Binadas go down beneath a mass of Jheck. Shadows then enveloped the writhing figures.
Rhulad was nowhere to be seen.
Down below, Theradas and Midik had met the wolf’s charge, and the huge beast was on its side, skewered by spears, legs kicking even as Theradas stepped in with his broad-bladed cutlass. Two more wolves were closing in, alongside them a half-dozen Jheck.
Another score of the savages were ascending the slope.
Trull readied his weapon.
Nearby, Binadas was climbing free of a mound of corpses. He was sheathed in blood, favouring his right side.
‘Behind us, Binadas,’ Fear commanded. ‘Trull, get on my left. Quickly.’
‘Where is Rhulad?’
Fear shook his head.
As Trull moved to his brother’s left he scanned the bodies sprawled on the snow. But they were all Jheck. Even so, the belief struck him hard as a blow to his chest. They were going to die here. They were going to fail.
The savages on the slope charged.
Antlers flew from their hands, dagger-sharp tines flashing as the deadly weapons spun end over end.
Trull shouted, warding with his spear as he ducked beneath the whirling onslaught. One flew past his guard, a tine clipping his left knee. He gasped at the pain and felt the sudden spurt of blood beneath his leggings, but his leg held his weight and he remained upright.
Behind the flung weapons, the Jheck arrived in a rush.
A dozen heartbeats on the defensive, then the Edur warriors found openings for counter-attacks almost simultaneously. Sword and spear bit flesh, and two of the Jheck were down.
A shriek from behind Trull and Fear, and the savages recoiled, then in unison darted to their right—
—as Rhulad leapt into their midst, the long, bell-hilted sword in his hands.
A wild slash, and a Jheck head pitched away from shoulders to bounce and roll down the slope.
Another chop, a gush of blood.
Both Fear and Trull rushed to close with the combatants—
—even as stabbing spears found their way into Rhulad from all sides. He shrieked, blood-slick blade wavering over his head. Then he sagged. A shove toppled him onto his back, the sword still in his hands.
The surrounding Jheck darted away, then ran down the slope, weapons dropping or flung aside in sudden panic.
Trull arrived, skidding on the blood-slick ice, the wound in his leg forgotten as he knelt at Rhulad’s side.
‘They’re withdrawing,’ Fear said between harshly drawn breaths, moving to stand guard before Trull and Rhulad.
Numbed, Trull tore off a gauntlet and set his hand against Rhulad’s neck, seeking a pulse.
Binadas staggered over, settling down opposite Trull. ‘How does he fare, brother?’
Trull looked up, stared until Binadas glanced up and locked gazes.
‘Rhulad is dead,’ Trull said, dropping his eyes and seeing now, for the first time, the massive impaling wounds punched into his brother’s torso, the smear of already freezing blood on the furs, smelling bitter urine and pungent faeces.
‘Theradas and Midik are coming,’ Fear said. ‘The Jheck have fled.’ He then set off, round towards the back of the rise.
But that makes no sense. They had us. There were too many of them. None of this makes sense. Rhulad. He’s dead. Our brother is dead.
A short time later, Fear returned, crouched down beside him, and tenderly reached out… to take the sword. Trull watched Fear’s hands close about Rhulad’s where they still clutched the leather-wrapped grip. Watched, as Fear sought to pry those dead fingers loose.
And could not.
Trull studied that fell weapon. The blade was indeed mottled, seemingly forged of polished iron and black shards of some harder, glassier material, the surface of both cracked and uneven. Splashes of blood were freezing black here and there, like a fast-spreading rot.
Fear sought to wrench the sword free.
But Rhulad would not release it.
‘Hannan Mosag warned us,’ Binadas said, ‘did he not? Do not allow your flesh to touch the gift.’
‘But he’s dead,’ Trull whispered.
Dusk was swiftly closing round them, the chill in the air deepening.
Theradas and Midik arrived. Both were wounded, but neither seriously so. They were silent as they stared down on Rhulad.
Fear leaned back, having reached some sort of decision. He was silent a moment longer, slowly pulling on his gauntlets. Then he straightened. ‘Carry him – sword and all – down to the sleds. We will wrap body and blade together. Releasing the gift from our brother’s hands is for Hannan Mosag to manage, now.’
No-one else spoke.
Fear studied each of them in turn, then said, ‘We travel through this night. I want us out of these wastes as soon as possible.’ He looked down on Rhulad once more. ‘Our brother is blooded. He died a warrior of the Hiroth. His shall be a hero’s funeral, one that all the Hiroth shall remember.’
****
In the wake of numbness came… other things. Questions. But what was the point of those? Any answers that could be found were no better than suppositions, born of uncerta
inties vulnerable to countless poisons – that host of doubts even now besieging Trull’s thoughts. Where had Rhulad disappeared to? What had he sought to achieve by charging into that knot of Jheck savages? And he had well understood the prohibition against taking up the gift, yet he had done so none the less.
So much of what happened seemed… senseless.
Even in his final act of extremity, Rhulad answers not the loss of trust under which he laboured. No clean gesture, this messy end. Fear called him a hero, but Trull suspected the motivation behind that claim. A son of Tomad Sengar had failed in his duties on night watch. And now was dead, the sacrifice itself marred with incomprehensible intentions.
The questions led Trull nowhere, and faded to a new wave, one that sickened him, clenching at his gut with spasms of anguish. There had been bravery in that last act. If nothing else. Surprising bravery, when Trull had, of his brother Rhulad, begun to suspect… otherwise. I doubted him. In every way, I doubted him.
Into his heart whispered… guilt, a ghost and a ghost’s voice, growing monstrous with taloned hands tightening, ever tightening, until his soul began to scream. A piercing cry only Trull could hear, yet a sound that threatened to drive him mad.
And through it all, a more pervasive sense, a hollowness deep within him. The loss of a brother. The face that would never again smile, the voice that Trull would never again hear. There seemed no end to the layers of loss settling dire and heavy upon him.
He helped Fear wrap Rhulad and the sword in a waxed canvas groundsheet, hearing Midik’s weeping as if from a great distance, listening to Binadas talk as he bound wounds and drew upon Emurlahn to quicken healing. As the stiff folds closed over Rhulad’s face, Trull’s breath caught in a ragged gasp, and he flinched back as Fear tightened the covering with leather straps.
‘It is done,’ Fear murmured. ‘Death cannot be struggled against, brother. It ever arrives, defiant of every hiding place, of every frantic attempt to escape. Death is every mortal’s shadow, his true shadow, and time is its servant, spinning that shadow slowly round, until what stretched behind one now stretches before him.’
‘You called him a hero.’
‘I did, and it was not an empty claim. He went to the other side of the rise, which is why we did not see him, and discovered Jheck seeking the sword by subterfuge.’