Iron Skins and Stone Hearts

By Nathaniel Firmath

Book Two of the Onidai Saga finds Ralph of Meadrow in Sangholm, land of the savage Hjarrleth. There, he must find Hroaht Hall alone, his path a long abandoned road. For generations, that path has been the haunt of fierce creatures and vile madmen.

Should he survive, his trials have only begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathaniel Firmath
• Release date: Oct 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310334276

Nathaniel Firmath

I write novels.

Book preview

Chapter One

At Fault

I agonized over my offering from the moment I learned of the custom, and as we journeyed to Venibrek to announce our victory and honor the slain, I considered my options carefully.

In Meadrow, the Farmers are buried in their own fields, though the next of kin often leaves the cadaver in a hayloft or cellar until the end of the current crop cycle. A Farmer's grave is always cut deep, that he might rest beneath the ruinous influence of the many irrigation channels; this is not a sentimental act, for the Farmers have long believed slow decomposition to be a benison to future crops.

The majority of Guardsmen are buried in the small family plots found near gardens and behind barns. There is only one true graveyard in all of Meadrow, reserved for Guardsmen that have been slain in battle, and only they are granted a marked headstone. The military budget of a farming Banner is tight, but as a final honor, the spears of slain Guardsmen are retired, planted headfirst behind the gravestones, so that the ancient cemetery resembles a dead forest in various stages of decay.

Of course, my own need to honor the slain was greatly amplified by feelings of guilt. If I had been just a bit faster—if I had thrown my knife or hurled my sword, if I had found my tongue and called out to Sigmund, Boers might still be alive.

But Boers had died protecting his master, and I knew he would have felt no shame in the manner of his death.

So powerful had been the shot of that iron-limbed lockbow that its dart had passed cleanly through Boers's armored body. His heart was rended only in passing.

But my mind was wounded by more than the sight of his own.

As I write this now, I recall those sights with trepidation, for how could any man—father, brother, son, or husband, bear witness to the slaughter of fair women, and feel no pain thereafter? And yet it was more than that, for I had danced with those women, labored beside them, traveled among them, and treated many of them as friends.

In battle, my escort sought Brenna and her women in the treeline, leaving Sigmund to mourn his servant, and in that place we found ample cause for grief. The thunderers and lockbowmen had been set in ambush against the Men of Brek, but it was the enemy warriors, brought near—concealed by unknown means to defeat the cunning eyes of those women—that brought the battle too close for their bows to aid them.

Some few at the rear thought to scale their clever mobile platforms, that they might loose downward upon the aggressors and aid their sisters in an unequal fight. In unified battle those tall frameworks permit the loosing of arrows in straight line to aid the men fighting on the ground; that day they had been brought for use as watchtowers, two dozen only, where fully two thousand enemy warriors fell upon them.

Outnumbered, the women did not hesitate to respond with the mechanical discipline brought about by their many years of training—the further half fell back, leaving around five hundred women to face the attack. Even with the support of their far-ranging sisters, the Initiates fighting close had time only to loose a single arrow before casting their bows aside.

When I found the site of battle, I bore witness to an impressive spectacle, even as I charged into the fray. With broad knives and curved swords, the Women of Ashad gave their male counterparts cause for envy. I had first seen their strange weapon in training, more scythe-blade than sword in appearance, the edge curving forward of the grip, and elongated, so that its curve was not so pronounced as that of the farming implement it resembled. It was light, made for slashing, and Brenna's Initiates employed them as talons.

The style of combat favored by Lior and his men had impressed me, but there, inside that stand of beeches, I saw the practical use of an Ashad dance I had seen but once before. Every movement was graceful, and I watched as they feinted against the attacks of the enemy warriors, side-stepping and bringing around their long iron talons to fall upon throat and inner thigh, armpit and temple. They were fast, and by the time of my arrival, the other five hundred were aiding them well, with the front line felling men already in combat, and the others launching volley after volley into the enemy center and rearguard, thinning the onrush, so that the ladies in melee would not so easily fall to overwhelming numbers.

Brenna did not hesitate to join her women in close combat, though she had been at the left flank, far from the conflict when the warriors fell upon the right. And yet she won forward with even strides, loosing arrows along the way before ever she drew her iron talon. When she closed near to the fighting she cut her bowstring, then streaked into the melee, silver bow now a curving cudgel in an agile left hand.

Paired with the sword in her right hand, Brenna had her own tools of offense and defense, though truly, they appeared more like extensions of her body. The talon slashed through neck and thigh as cleanly as through open air, while the bow battered, falling heavily upon head and collarbone, and with the curves of that iron stave she redirected the thrusts of pikemen, often turning their attacks into the bellies of their own comrades.

The thrill of that woman in combat was little enough to hold my gaze for long, for the ground was littered with corpses, and far too many were small and fair of face. The foreigners showed no mercy, and killed indiscriminately. The sight of those still, graceful forms inspired the renewal of a battle-rage even more frantic than I had known before, and tinged with bitter hate. Then later, after all was quiet, I saw those who had been wounded.

Though many bore their pain stoically, others wept as inconsolable children, and I was unmanned in an instant. For their part, Brenna's Initiates were no less redoubtable than the men, and many men will weep at the battle's end, and many more bawl at the sight and pain of their wounds—few men are unreachable.

Lior's battle was brief. Most of the weapons brought to bear against them were common lockbows. They stayed behind their shields. Protected by two layers of bronze, and three of boiled leather, Lior prepared for a lengthy wait, and a short battle thereafter. Few fell to the common lockbows, and fewer still to the thunderers, for Lior ordered hurling by lines between the volleys of the enemy, that the report of thunder was silenced in the first few pulses of the conflict.

It was when the High Priest heard the battle ahead that he found cause for haste, and finally understanding the absence of enemy warriors, he ordered full volleys of his remaining javelins. The charge that followed sent their cowardly foes into immediate flight.

The Men of Brek fight defensively, and rarely have they fought at all without the aid of their women. Yet there, hearing the battle ahead, and knowing their own wives and lovers were in danger, they leapt forward at a panicked pace. The enemy had relied too much on the power of range against melee, and Lior's men were the faster, that few of them escaped to tell of their defeat.

I fought beside Brenna, using Sequiduris for thrust alone, and together with the seven men remaining in my escort we formed a wide front of defense, allowing the fatigued women to rest behind us. The ten women of my retinue picked their targets carefully, defending the men with each shaft and doubling their effectiveness.

When I heard Lior and his men charging through the trees, I knew that the day had been won, though I felt no joy in the victory.

Brenna had warned me of the price of glory at the time of the Orinsos. Had I understood her meaning, I would have lingered in Meadrow, with shame as my only burden. That was my first true battle—my first lesson in the value of life, the pain of loss, and the weight of responsibility. The sight of those corpses lingers still at the edge of my troubled dreams, though I learned my lesson well, that never again would the lives of fair women be needlessly lost.

* * *

Within hours of the man's death, Boers's cart had been transformed into a mobile tomb. Overlapping planks of oak and a mixture of tarry pitch and clay sealed his remains from the open air, and runes had been carved to protect the spirit of the great warrior from the demons feared by his people.

The cart was heavy, for many gifts had been offered to comfort Boers in the afterlife. The sword cuts of his common Hjarrleth blade were easily identified upon the bodies of his slain foes, and their weapons and armor were included in the cart—proof of his valor, and the price of admission to the halls of his ancient gods.

The offerings of the Initiates expressed well their affection—a shield, unmarked, of bronze and white hide, and a bow and quiver yet unused—the gifting of equipment crafted within the Trathnonan Wall violated one of their most ancient laws, though none saw fit to voice complaint. Such generosity spoke well of their tribe, the most reclusive by far of any upon Foundation. Lior and Brenna matched their subordinates with soft furs and bolts of the lightest silk, that in death he might know the comfort that hard-packed earth and unforgiving stone had so often denied him in life.

L'mah's gift was perhaps the most touching, for it was her only real possession. Her flute, carved from the petrified pulp of an ancient reed, had brought joy to her family for many generations. Boers had once complimented the beauteous depth of the instrument's song, and without a moment's hesitation she tucked it beneath Boers's left arm.

The Piebald Council, diplomatic opportunists that they were, had thought to appeal to the Hjarrleth love of poetry. Nine thick tomes of Trathnonan song and fable were piled at Boers's feet, a gesture that seemed to please Sigmund greatly, for such a wealth of art would grant his servant great prestige in the afterlife.

Comfort and protection, music and rhyme, the gifts already piled in the cart appealed to nearly every aspect of Boers's personality. What then, could I, a simple tavern boy, offer to compare with such cleverly chosen gifts? I was a tavern boy no longer, and yet I had known Boers two days before the time of the Orinsos—even if he hadn't been aware of it.

It was then that I saw my way clear to offer what Boers loved most, at least from Ralph of Meadrow, though from the Onidai, and from the tavern boy, he was owed gifts of gratitude as well. It was to his genius in dealing with clever machinery, after all, that the Onidai owed the recent victory, and it was to his inquisitive nature that the filthy tavern boy, a fugitive from the cruel justice of his people, owed the clues that had led him to claim Rorik's ancient title.

Lior had informed me that we would linger in Venibrek no more than five days. I sought out a goldsmith on the male side of Brek, and with a bag of heavy coins and a pile of heavy parchment, I put the man to work immediately. The moment I found the item I required among the curiosities of a Trathnonan vendor, I called upon the goldsmith's competitor, a far kinder and much older man, and he understood my designs almost immediately. Finally, from the pile of valuables liberated from the cave at Eagle's Clearing, I chose the gift of the Onidai—the most valuable and least meaningful of my offerings.

Lior and Brenna knew well of the Hjarrleth—all Phulakoi were required to know the customs of the other Banners, with the possible exception of Edam. And so, on the day of our departure, a ceremony was held outside the wall. It was neither Sun Day nor Moon Day, and many wished to pay their respects. We stood far afield, fully half a mile from the protection of the wall, though still within its shadow, and before the ceremony began, I offered my gifts, explaining first that I was, in fact, three people.

Though Proved by the Orinsos, I was but a tavern boy when first we fought side-by-side. He was a mighty warrior, fighting with the sword and shield of his people, and I was a filthy stripling, fumbling with the spear of a fallen Guardsman. When I was wounded, he cared for me, and if not for his knowledge of northern herblore, I would be dead. From the tavern boy, I offer this gift of gratitude.

At Boers's elbow, I placed an ox horn, richly overlaid with gold and lined with an alloy gold and silver, before turning again to the gathering crowd.

Though his eyes were red and quickly welling with tears, Sigmund's mouth was smiling.

"The Onidai cannot lay claim to our recent victory, for to my mind it was far too costly to be viewed as aught but disaster. Far too many died, from both sides of the Dividing Wall, but many more might have fallen if Boers had not charged with my escort in an effort to silence the powerful weapons of the enemy. He slew many, and then gave his own life, that his master might live on to lead his clan in battle. Boers was not of Sigmund's clan, and so his sacrifice is a testament to the unity of his people—and to the great heart of the man himself.

His clan is not wealthy, though many are the songs of the Hjarrleth that praise the deeds of his forefathers. From the Onidai, I offer this gift of recognition, that he might be known by his ancient gods as a great warrior; a man renowned among nations, and a hero loved by his people.

I raised high my second gift, a heavy wrist band of gold, a handsbreadth wide and studded with amethyst, pearl, and amber, the three stones most highly prized by the Hjarrleth. It was deeply engraved with illustrations of serpents and eagles, so that I knew it to be the ornament of some ancient Hjarrleth warrior; a victim of Eagle's Clearing, or perhaps slain long before.

Thousands of years earlier, the Hjarrleth were few and wealthy. Boers had been from a common family, but that heavy band of stones and solid gold would have been the envy of some of Sangholm's loftiest noblemen.

Though his lip trembled and his cheeks were streaked with tears, Sigmund's countenance had brightened.

"Boers was my friend. If I could say nothing else about him, I could say that. He was loved by all who knew him. And yet, I fear I knew less of him than I might have wished, for I learned of his greatest love only days before his death.

When the scouts of Ashad captured one of the enemy steam carts, Boers was the first to master the strange machine. So eager was he to learn of the vehicle, he could scarcely contain his excitement. He loved machinery, and his was a mind suited to gear and steam—we will miss his genius in the coming years. From his friend, Ralph of Meadrow, I offer this gift of friendship. May the gods marvel at the wonders made possible by lesser minds than his.

I then held high my final gift, a perfect working miniature of the enemy vehicle, formed completely of precious metals. The body was hepatizon, chased with ornaments of silver, while the spokes of the wheels shone in pure gold.

In the other hand, I held Boers's drawings, the schematics he had drafted detailing the construction and function of every moving part of the new conveyance. In less than two days, Boers had reverse engineered a highly complex and totally alien piece of machinery, and the costly model I held in my hand was proof of his genius. I had spent the five days prior to the ceremony copying his notes exactly, and I entrusted the duplicates to Sigmund, for it was his servant's accomplishment, and it was the right of his people to profit from it. I placed the original schematics at his feet atop the books of Trathnonan poetry, then adjusted his right arm, tucking the model steam cart safely beneath it.

As I exited the wagon, I took note of Sigmund. His tears had dried, and though his expression had sobered, the pain of sorrow had been replaced by something else. My gifts had achieved all that I wished and more, for though I did not believe in the gods of the Hjarrleth, I had given Sigmund the same peace of mind that he had given me the moment he had unwrapped my father's helmet. Boers was at peace, and so too was his master.

Together, Sigmund and I sealed the wagon and carved the runes, and when Lior's ceremony had finished, we mounted and made our way north in silence. He could not communicate by spoken word, and I could not understand his silent language of gesture, and yet I felt for the first time since his servant's death that we had reached an understanding.

* * *

Maekara, the Ashad scout who had halted a steam cart with a single arrow, had been ordered by Brenna to remain always by my side. The High Priestess herself had been required to remain behind, and though the nights had been far colder and lonelier without her, I understood the necessity of her absence.

With the Trathnona preparing for war, one of the High Priests would be required at home. Brenna, far less diplomatic than her loquacious cousin, would see that general recruitment and the crafting of new equipment would take place in a timely manner, and as the High Priestess of Ashad could only address the elderly Council by night, she would catch them off balance, and find them far more pliable.

With the need for haste, even in that tangle of unclaimed wilderness, my escort had to remain small—at least by the standards of Venibrek. One hundred and twenty Men of Brek and sixty Ashad scouts traveled with us, and only thirty of the men were mounted, the balance riding in bench-lined wagons behind Boers's sealed cart. Behind the troop transports and between outriders, the commissary wagons—with L'mah perched somewhere among them—brought up the rear, and the heaviest of these was guarded by no less than two dozen mounted Initiates. Within that wagon were the items I would use as evidence to confirm my formal boasts—the trophies I retained from my adventures following the Orinsos.

Though I still knew little of what to expect in Sangholm, it was clear that I would have to prove myself in some substantial way. The formal boast was tradition among the Hjarrleth, and before the Matriarch would even consider granting entry to the Gifting Pool of Sangholm, I would be expected to impress her with the story of my deeds. Luckily, Lior had informed me that I could appoint a herald to sing of my exploits, and, as the High Priest was no stranger to the spoken word, I had chosen him to act in that capacity.

Eight carts and more than one hundred horses can make a great deal of noise. I could not help but marvel at the Trathnonan talent for over-complication. As I saw it, we needed only the cart containing Boers's body. With fewer than twenty we might have moved with greater celerity, making up in speed what we lacked in the security of numbers, and we might have passed then without peaking the interest of opportunistic locals. Still, we had only a few minor disturbances, mostly poorly armed bandits brandishing clubs. In each case, a show of force and discipline prevented bloodshed on either side.

We had been cutting our way north for nearly a month when winter finally gave way to spring. The weather had been warming, in spite of our northerly travel, but there had been no indication of the changing of seasons. And then, one morning as I exited my tent I discovered that the barren fields surrounding our encampment had yawned to life, the new buds stretching their fragrant limbs to bask in the warmth and light of a virgin spring. As we rode from field to field, I noted a range of vibrant colors I had never seen in the forest glades of the Meadrun valley.

Maekara, ever my faithful watchdog (in behavior alone) rode beside me, and when she took notice of my wonder, she saw fit to educate me. For days on end we rode through fields of white and yellow aster, bright red poppies, and flax blooms so startlingly blue that my eyes ached at the sight of them. Many more of the names were new to me, and the distraction was sufficient that the remaining miles between the wilderness and the southeastern border of Sangholm melted into insignificance.

I was completely unaware of the passing of time, but when the source of vibrant colors shifted from fields of newborn flowers to alien lichen covering boulders and the trunks of ancient trees, I knew that I had passed well beyond the lands of the Trathnona. I knew then that I was in the land of the warlike Hjarrleth.

Chapter Two

Broken Silence

Sigmund led us along a well-trod path for three days. The going was easy and the weather fair, and by midmorning of the fourth day we were riding at a steady trot upon a stone road between green hills and forests of birch and elm. Here and there, I saw tiny bogs nestled within clusters of willows, and later we passed one of fair size at the bottom of a stone cliff—I could just make out the outline of a cave entrance at its base. On each occasion, Sigmund would goad his horse to a full gallop, and always he hugged the edge of the road, riding as far from the marshland as possible.

Truly, I had thought the bogs of Sangholm long drained in search of iron-bearing peat. Why Sigmund should fear the places so prized by his ancestors I could not guess, but at length we passed beyond sight of all marshland and the giant youth calmed; his mood lightened with every heartbeat as we approached the inhabited borders of his homeland.

He had followed my example and gone about unarmored for much of our long journey, but on the morning of our sixth day of travel within Hjarrleth holdings he emerged from his tent in full array, leaving only his helmet to hang upon the hilt of his sheathed sword. He had washed his hair the night before, and it shone as pale gold in the light of that clear morning.

The following day I dressed in full armor, following Lior's suggestion. I must admit that even with Rorik's legendary sword slapping against my thigh from within the flawless white housing of the Coiling Sheath, my armor of hepatizon over iron made me look like a gaudy child when viewed beside the warlike splendor of Sigmund's ancient gear.

Though his armor was peerless in make and function, it was also beautiful, and in a far more subtle way than my own harness. White iron, treated through some ancient process made the metal nearly impenetrable, and gave it the glossy finish that I can only compare with the appearance of water in a deep stone well. His sword Starkdrepa did not slap against his thigh, for its housing had been fitted to form, and it hung from his waist diagonally, ensuring a fast, even draw.

When the boundary markers proclaimed that we were less than ten miles from the nearest settlement, Lior ordered the caravan to a halt, and the Men of Brek were finally called upon to march.

I rode at the head of our party, centered between Lior and Sigmund, and behind us, sixty mounted Initiates followed in two formations of three abreast. We moved forward at the walk, that the orderly block of ninety men behind us might keep pace. They marched in full armor, resplendent with their javelins gripped through heavy round shields of bronze and white hide. At the rear, thirty mounted Ashad scouts rode behind the line of wagons, protecting them even on friendly terrain.

The Initiates displayed such unyielding discipline on the march that I felt compelled to follow their example—I spoke little and rode with perfect posture, and for once, Lior did not break the silence.

We had been traveling along a path carved directly between two mountains of gray stone, formed by generations of toil or the weathering of a long-dry riverbed, and I had grown accustomed to the confinement, and to the gradual incline, though it must have been torture for those ninety armored men. In any case, I was unprepared for the scene that met my eyes as we reached the apex of our climb.

The road ahead passed through the center of a fertile valley, perhaps a mile wide, and every square pace of the terrain had been cultivated, the recently planted fields stretching in even lines, the divides between crops barely discernible, and the herds of sheep and cattle ranged about at the eastern and western borders. But that six hundred acre farm, a hobby farm by Meadrow standards, was not the source of my fascination. Sigmund signaled us to a halt.

At the edge of the valley, beyond a sizable log-walled village, I could see clearly a line of tall, spindle-thin watch towers bordering a wall of gray stone blocks. Either the towers were shorter than my estimation, or the forest beyond was truly massive, for the lowest boughs at the edge of the treeline rose to no less than twice their height. So strange were the dimensions and proportions of those sights that I felt myself in a dream, though I tried to convince myself that it was only a trick of the distance.

I looked to Sigmund, and, far from the smiling anticipation I had expected, I saw that his face had grown pale, his features grim. Did he fear the reaction of Boers's family? Perhaps he feared the reception that awaited me. His people had not yet been informed of my success at the Reaping Festival, though news had been relayed to his sister, Reya. Aside from the new Hjarrleth Phulako, and my beautiful Rowan, only the enemy knew of the Orinsos, and as their warriors, assassins, and saboteurs had not lived to relay any news, my Proving between Brek and Ashad would have remained a secret, as well.

I saw the Hjarrleth giant's shoulders slump, and long tufts of pale gold obscured his face as he tilted his head to the ground. He was either staring intently into his saddlehorn, or he was deep in thought. Finally, he raised his head to look again upon the distant village. He took a slow, deep breath. Then, without turning to look on either Lior or myself he signaled for the column to resume the march. He rode with a straight back and a set jaw, and the High Priest and I endeavored to follow his example.

* * *

We were not long into the valley before the alarum was sounded. In Sangholm, warning gongs are seldom used. Instead, our ears were assailed by the deep, brazen booming that I later learned was wrung from the efforts of three men, for their giant, thick-walled horn of copper and iron, known in Sangholm as a gjalhorn, is shaped with three mouth-pieces.

From the distance of a mile the call was heard, and farmer, shepherd, and cattleman alike abandoned field, flock, and herd immediately, leaving only their lupine hounds to restore order and return the livestock to the relative safety of the pens nearest the village wall. I had thought the actions of the farm-folk cowardly and foolish, for not only had they abandoned their charges to the possibility of death, they had taken shelter in a large farmhouse: the only construction between the village and mountain pass.

They might easily have won to their village and hidden behind its walls, but they had all, without a moment's hesitation, gathered at the nearest building. I tried to convince myself that farmers could not be expected to act as warriors, beneath any Banner.

I was mistaken.

Within moments of the arrival of the last of the workmen, the first of them began to file out at the run, and immediately they made to block our passage. I was most astounded by their savage discipline, for though they did not march to the defense in lockstep, they each knew the position they would fill, not according to predesignated assignments, but to the position that would most strengthen their battle line. This was not a carefully rehearsed dance, but the result of the collaboration of many minds well-suited to combat.

It was clear that each of these men had hurried to the defense the moment he had donned the minimal gear that time allotted to circumstance, and they filed out at the run in twos and threes. There were nearly forty of them, and each wore an iron cap and bore a wide shield of wood and hide, bossed and rimmed in iron. All were equipped with a spear, but wore also a belt and baldric weighted with dagger, short sword, hatchet, and short-hafted axe. And these were only the farmers.

Before we had closed half the distance between the mountain pass and the waiting warrior-farmers, the tall gates of the village opened without a sound. Thirty mounted men made for us at a full gallop, and I could tell by their gear that they were warriors by occupation, for they were covered from knee to neck in mail, with helmets, pauldrons, vambraces, and greaves shining brightly against the late morning sun. A swarm of footmen hurried on behind, and as we grew closer I saw that many were equipped as the farmers, while some fifty or more were mailed and armed with swords and axes of incredible size.

We did not increase our pace.

By the time we had closed within earshot, Sigmund signaled the column to a halt—he made no attempt to hail his countrymen. And so, we waited. At length, three of the horsemen made their way to our position at the trot. Sigmund pointed to myself and Lior, indicating that we should ride forward, then motioned to the others and lowered his palm: 'We will ride to meet them alone'.

The leader of their party, a man with a long, well-formed face and stubbly white beard was better equipped than most, and his broad belt of thick hide, common equipment for all Hjarrleth, was studded with plates of silver. His shield was wide and heavy, all iron, just as Sigmund's had been before he had claimed his armor. This was the shield of a Hjarrleth chieftain, a sign of his rank; with the ironskin of his house upon the back of his eldest son, it was also necessary for his protection.

The chieftain spoke for a time in the tongue of the Hjarrleth. Then, after he'd scanned the scene behind Sigmund, he tried the common tongue. Apparently, he was unaware of Lior's fluid command of their language, or perhaps they had never met. In any case, they continued in Vulgar Kenalkan.

Honored am I by the presence of the Olinbrand Chieftain, and by his companions—but from whence have they ridden, and whither do they ride?

Lior turned to Sigmund, who nodded his assent.

"Honored are we, as well, my lord jarl. I am Lior, High Priest of Brek, and I must beg pardon in advance for my presumption, but I fear that I must speak in the Olinbrand Chieftain's stead. We have ridden from distant Venibrek to speed the news of the Onidai's return. We ride for the great stone seat at Harkona, and will resume our march in peace—when the Claimant has passed beneath the shadow of the trees."

The chieftain looked to me. He made his appraisal from head to toe, and when he had finished, he continued, without any indication of surprise. His voice betrayed no trace of irony or disappointment.

Joyous news, indeed. But why must it be received through foreign speech?

This time, Lior did not wait for Sigmund's consent.

The Chieftain has lost his Voice, brave jarl. Boers fell in battle, defending his master. His blade took many lives, but his own was lost before the battle's end. We bear his body, and so we must make haste, for I fear that it has been absent the pyre far too long already.

That is too easily remedied, Your Eminence. We will bear his body home ourselves—if you will permit it.

Again, Lior looked to Sigmund. This time, the response appeared to be prearranged.

That is well, but the Olinbrand Chieftain will wish to light the pyre himself, and he must linger with the Claimant, to prepare him for the dangers ahead. He asks that your servants bear Boers's body, and also that they bid his people wait for the Chieftain's arrival.

Agreed. And if the Claimant is to be prepared by the Olinbrand Chieftain—a great honor, even to the Onidai—he will need a new Voice. With his permission, I will send a rider to summon a worthy kinsman.

Sigmund nodded, slowly and deliberately.

Very well, then. I invite the three of you to dine at my table, though I fear that our larders will be hard-pressed by your escort.

Fear not, wise jarl, for we have with us all that we require. I would ask only a likely spot for our tents and horses.

Throughout their long exchange, I could not but wonder about Lior's mention of the trees. Was I to travel alone?

* * *

At the chieftain's table we were treated with the same deference as the man himself. In the outer provinces of Sangholm, common courtesy is the only form of courtesy, and so we were treated no differently than any of their warriors—a practice I found comforting. No questions were asked concerning my Proving, the Orinsos, or our sudden appearance, though much was asked of the manner of Boers's death. As I had been there, I was asked often if he had died 'with heavy hands'. This is the Hjarrleth way of asking if a warrior fought bravely at the time of his death, and they treated the question with the same reverence that some cultures treat the names of their gods.

I told the story many times, and noted that even those who had been within earshot on some previous occasion were wont to ask me to repeat the story. I later learned that this was their way of proving that my words were true, for repetition is to the Hjarrleth the surest test against falsehood. My story never changed, and by the tenth or twelfth recitation they stopped asking.

Sigmund communicated with Halga, the chieftain of the Laufgandr clan, with chalk and slate, and as the chieftain responded in the native tongue, I could not discern the nature of their conversation, though I suspected that Sigmund was starved for news of his family, and particularly for word of his nephew, who would by then be nearly a half-year into infancy.

The food of Halga's house was common fare in Sangholm, and though it was not the well-spiced, carefully prepared repast to which I had grown accustomed in the company of Lior and Brenna, it was nourishing, suited to the muscular frames of the Hjarrleth. While bread was made available, most of the warriors ate only meat and cheese, of which there was ample variety. Fish is prepared by the Hjarrleth almost always in the form of a stew, usually with small pickled onions and root vegetables, and I surprised myself by enjoying it, for it did not look in the least appetizing. Pork, venison, mutton, beef, and poultry were all present on a side table, and again I was surprised—the table manners of the Hjarrleth were impeccable.

Each dish was carried around the board from place to place by a male servant, whereupon the diner would either nod his assent or cover the plate with his hand, indicating that he would wait for the arrival of the next course. If he approved of the dish, a serving girl would cut the desired portion and move on to the next diner. In this way, order was maintained, and the diners could request a second helping only if any remained. Bread, cheese, and jugs of mead and ale were left to public domain, and no leave was required to partake in them.

The women dined with the men, and did not ask for the leave of the men to take their places—they simply chose their seats, and sat. It was in this way that I became acquainted with many of Halga's daughters and nieces, a few of whom were my age, and as I learned later, my age—just shy of seventeen at the time—was considered ideal for the purpose of marriage. The ladies of Sangholm are not at all uncomfortable with flirtatious banter, and even in the presence of their chieftain (to mention nothing of father and uncle), they made many lewd and suggestive comments.

I can still remember fearing for my life when Halga, on hearing a particularly clever and thoroughly filthy remark uttered by Ulla, his favorite daughter, ceased his conversation with Sigmund immediately. Somehow, the entire hall took notice, and all present were instantly silent. I was sure that I was about to be beheaded, but before I could string the words together to apologize for I-know-not-what, the aging graybeard broke into a loud, appreciative laughter. The entire room shared his appreciation. Ulla was proud. I was relieved.

She was a beautiful young girl with red-gold hair, pale blue-green eyes, and rosy cheeks, but she was trolling for a husband, and though the Nalbans have been known to practice polygamy, the tribes of Tahlrene and Sangholm do not. I slept alone that night—and all the nights that followed.

A week after Halga's rider left, he returned with a dun-headed youth, and the man broke instantly into a bright smile the moment he laid eyes on Sigmund. His name was Hod, and he was Sigmund's favorite cousin. They fell to work immediately, and I could tell that Sigmund's hands were not moving fast enough to suit his racing thoughts. Much to my relief, Hod spoke as his chieftain signed, so that Lior and I gained the sense of Sigmund's urgency.

My first trial would be to find the high hall of Hroaht, within Harkona, the seat of the Hjarrleth Matriarch, and I would be required to make the journey without guide or escort. My route would be through the Vithrauth, or 'Red Forest', and the path I would seek was known as the Hlifgat, or 'Shroud Path'. The names alone were enough to convince me that this would be no mean feat, but Sigmund had not finished. By way of explanation, he told me of the Vithrauth, and of the cruel justice of the Hjarrleth in bygone days.

When Malmheith, the last king of the Hjarrleth ruled over Sangholm, he did so without mercy. Any infraction of the law was met with swift punishment, though death was by no means a certainty. There is no death penalty among the Hjarrleth, nor has there been at any time in their history. Murder or rape can be answered with challenges of single combat to the death, and the winning of one duel did little to ensure the safety of the victorious criminal, for further challenges were almost always posed until vengeance was granted to the slain or violated.

Little enough was done to answer lesser crimes, but when Malmheith saw the need to remove lawbreakers from society, he banished them to the Vithrauth, a forest of ancient age, and almost completely surrounded by a ring of impassable mountains.

With only two entrances—one of which fell under the charge of the Laufgandr chieftain—the king had found the perfect place of banishment: a natural prison. This was the coldest edict in the history of the Hjarrleth people, though the cruelty was not in the sentences themselves, but in the indiscriminate coldness with which they were passed. Any crime, from the smallest infraction to the most foul and heinous atrocity, was met with the same sentence. Trespassers were outlawed alongside murderers and rapists, and in cases of delinquent taxes or theft, entire families were banished together. Thus, the Shroud Path earned its name.

Though the practice of banishment for minor crimes had long ended, the worst of Sangholm's criminals were still sentenced to walk the Hlifgat. Hjarrleth legends warn that the path is haunted by foul serpents, the spirits of the wrongfully accused, and of course, the maddest and most dangerous killers of a tribe of dangerous killers. The only exit was ninety miles from the entrance, and that only if I could fly above the trees.

Ulla's proposition grew more inviting by the moment.

I planned and trained for weeks, and under the wise counsel of Halga and Sigmund, and the tutelage of Ashad archers, my confidence rose with each dawn. By day, and even before dawn, those Trathnonan ladies fought hard to teach me the basic principles of archery.

Ashad archers employ three types of arrows, placed in their quivers in three neat rows of eight. The first, shorter than the rest, with a shaft of white ash and narrow fletchings, has a wide, barbed head, sharpened until its edge can shave the hair from a man's arm. This is the arrow for quick-shooting, intended for use when the target is within middling range, so that it may fly fast and strike hard upon unarmored portions of the body, and the barbed head inflicts far more damage than any other.

The middle row contains arrows of similar construction, though the ash shaft is a handsbreadth longer, the flights slightly wider. The arrowheads are three-sided points, capable of piercing mail, and even plate, provided the shots do not arc in flight—though even a highly angled strike rarely fails to pierce leather or common ring mail.

The final row of an Ashad quiver contains eight even longer arrows, and these vary greatly from the other two varieties. The flights are wide, the shaft formed from a very thin rod of tempered iron. The rod is wrapped in leather, then coated with white enamel and sanded smooth. The head, though similar to that of the second row, is a handspan in length, tapering evenly to a hardened, needle-sharp point. These the women employ for targets at very long range, the shots always angled high. The long shaft flexes gently in its arc through the air, the wide flights ensuring a fast, stable spin during the descent. Even at very great distances, these arrows never fail to penetrate mail, and often pierce even thin plate—this I have seen with my own eyes.

The discipline of the archers, their reflexive selection of arrows and unusual technique are not suited to hasty instruction, and when I failed to hit stationary marks that their children could pierce blindfolded, those long-suffering ladies turned to a much simpler weapon.

The Hjarrleth hunting bow, only occasionally used in combat, is formed from a wide flat stave of birch heartwood, a laminate of two equal lengths joined in reverse, so that the wood grain will flex in opposition. It tapers from the grip to the 'horns' upon which the string is mounted, and when unstrung it stands almost perfectly straight. When drawn, it can be anchored, allowing the archer to sight along the arrow, that he may release his shaft only when ready.

By contrast, the Ashad bow is crafted from white hide, dark wood, and sinew. It recurves gently, and the release is not smooth or even, requiring the archer to employ a reflexive draw and release. Though it takes many years to master the bow of Ashad, the Hjarrleth hunting bow can be mastered by a stout child in half the time.

And yet, my ancestors were never archers, for the bow has never been prized by any but a hunting people—few wild herds have ever braved the Nowhere. From day to day, the frustration of the Women of Ashad and Hjarrleth huntsmen grew to exasperation. They tried to remain patient, and often repeated what I had known from the beginning: 'Archery takes years to master.'

Within two weeks, I was ready to give up and take my chances in the woods armed only with Sequiduris, when inspiration led me to the wagon that Lior had filled with the spoils I would present to the Matriarch. The weapons of the Banners took years to master, while the weapons from beyond the Central Sea seemed to be made specifically for the purpose of arming and training large armies as quickly as possible.

The Thunderer was too loud, and required a lit length of rope to function. It was also inaccurate, and required lengthy preparation. Their lockbows, however, were fairly accurate within middling range, and in the forest, where there was little possibility of an unobstructed target at long range, the lockbow presented an ideal alternative to a weapon I could never hope to master in the time allotted.

There were nine lockbows in the wagon, and one of the heavier iron variety that had slain Boers; the latter was a powerful weapon, but slow, and it required a strange pulley with a hand crank to draw the string. The smaller variety had a bow of horn, sinew, and hide; one of those had been fitted with silver trappings, and the plain wooden body had been replaced with a deeply glossed hardwood—probably an attempt to impress the Matriarch, for none of their soldiers armed with lockbow or thunderer had been of acquisitive means.

I chose a plain lockbow of sturdy construction, and three short, rectangular quivers, of which there were twelve. With a shorter quiver, and shorter projectiles within, I could now carry additional darts in my pack.

By the end of my first week, I was able to strike moving targets at fifty paces three out of five times. The Ashad scouts were unimpressed, but they failed to remember that with a bow I had missed stationary targets four out of five times at half the distance. Progress with the weapon bolstered my confidence, and I became so absorbed in training that all apprehension over the likelihood of my death faded into insignificance.

By night, Sigmund and Halga regaled me with tales of Sangholm's most notorious criminals. They went back no more than thirty years, and yet their recital continued for a matter of weeks. I began to worry that my supply of lockbow darts might run short, and when I voiced that genuine concern, Halga laughed and clapped me on the shoulder, saying that such courage would be sorely needed within the Vithrauth.

I had traveled too far to turn back, but I had no illusions about the possibility of survival. I had even tried surrendering Sheathed Sequiduris to Lior, along with the Key, and asked him to keep them safe until my arrival at Harkona. At least, I thought, if I failed to win to the other side of the forest, Lior might appoint a hardier man to the cause; but he would have none of it. The High Priest simply slapped the Sheathed Sword back into my hands and smiled the smile I knew all too well.

You and I have traveled beyond the point of fraud. This weapon is yours now, as much as it was Rorik's. If you fall, we will have no Onidai—but only because the Onidai will be dead. Besides, you have your new lockbow, and with Sequiduris sheathed you need not fear the same death you will be capable of dealing. Move quickly, and you may even reach Harkona before we do. After all, your route will be far more direct.

In truth, it was not. The road through the Vithrauth was not cut in a straight line. Before Malmheith's heartless innovation, the forest was the source of all lumber used by the Hjarrleth for the construction of weapon hafts, bow staves, and arrow shafts, but also for the building of houses, and especially ships, for the Hjarrleth galley was constructed from the wood of no less than nine trees. The road wound from thicket to thicket, though Halga swore that it ran more or less straight for the first thirty miles.

When I suggested that I might simply travel in a straight line, avoiding the road entirely, Halga grew pale, and made me swear that I would not allow the path to pass beyond my sight.

Many are the dangers of the Vithrauth, and madmen are not the most deadly, for you at least have knowledge of them. Fix one eye upon the path, and keep the other peeled always for signs of danger. You need not stray from the path if you wish to find death. It will seek you out in time. I will pray that you are the bolder, for only the true Onidai could survive such a trial.

I slept with less ease on the nights that followed.

Lior would hear nothing more of my traveling without the implements of the Onidai, and so I considered the matter settled. But the following day, he proved me wrong rather suddenly.

I had offered him a jest, in reference to the Key, hinting at my knowledge of its origin. It was a thoroughly forgettable remark, something about the danger posed to the investment, that in the event of my death he might not be able to recover it, and that such an expensive counterfeit need not go to waste on my account—the High Priest did not accept my words in the spirit intended.

What makes you so certain that it is anything but original?

Nothing really, only an assumption. The true Key must have been lost—Sequiduris would have been claimed long ere now, had the Key been left in the custody of a single Banner.

His response was a blend of exasperation and humor.

"And what of the Arch? Could we—Brenna and I—have so easily constructed that little item? Singing stones that meld as one—are such sights common in Venibrek?"

No, I suppose they aren't, but as you never saw to fit explain its origin, I was forced to make an assumption—just as I have done many times in recent months.

For a time he was silent. I had been on my way to another day of training with my new lockbow, and though he pointed to the weapon, his eyes were far away.

"Think you have the mastery of that thing—that you might adjourn until midday?"

I nodded, and though he was still staring beyond me, he seemed to take notice.

Good. Find Sigmund, will you? Leave the lockbow, and meet me in my tent. He will probably have need of his cousin.

The Olinbrand Chieftain was reading, and Hod was doing the same nearby, though it seemed that Sigmund was more engrossed, for while he had been reading long-neglected correspondences, his cousin was reading from a thin, leather-bound volume, and apparently not for the first time. Sigmund was a bit reluctant, but required no goading to follow me, while Hod fairly leapt at the suggestion of some new diversion.

In Lior's tent of white and gold, I saw that he had cleared the wide round table that always seemed to be covered with various dispatches. There were three large mugs and two pitchers at the center of the table, as well as a few fresh loaves and a platter of cold sausage and cheese at the sideboard. Lior was already seated, and was almost as attentive to his guests as he was to the contents of his mug.

When we were in Meadrow I bought a few small casks of the local barley brew. It's been months, so we'd better finish it soon. Please, sit.

He drained his vessel, then filled ours. With his own refilled, he continued, and would brook no interruptions. Nor did I care to interject, as the brew in my mug was the very same as that which had made Meadrow famous. But remembering his past habit of softening difficult discussions with the effects of the finest beverages upon Foundation, I drank