Betrayer Of Dreams

By Paul Taffinder

Betrayal is the worst of deeds. Betrayal is a curse upon your fellows. Betrayal is akin to the opening of the four doorsof the sealed earth: it is an invitation to the in-betweenand, thus, to Echrexar. It is sacrilege.

The Book of the Dead - 'Dogmata': lines 7777-7779

More than ever, the exarchs of the Faith fear the in-b

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xiphax Press
• Release date: Jun 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781838090241

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It is said of people that their past predicts their future. This may be so. But the Faith instructs us that dreams, unembellished and illuminated by the intercession of the exarchs, are the true lodestone.

The Book of the Dead – ‘Dogmata’, lines 5111-5112.

I cannot with confidence assert that I have been met everywhere with trust. More communities than perhaps one might expect adhere to a guest obligation and will, though needy, go out of their way to share food and shelter. On the other hand, my experience, for what it is worth, is that those peoples richer in resources and assets incline much more to suspicion and, at best, grudging welcome.

The Traveller, Kerl Adressi, from his book ‘The Wanderer’ at the end of the 1st millennium, surviving in a modern translation.

***

Snow. Snow everywhere. Thick white, like a soft pelt across the hills. The trees, imposing and crowding the roadway, were traced in heavy layers as if by a giant’s icy brush. Under a pink overcast, pale, delicate light imbued the world with a silvery softness; even the horses and their leather harnesses and the snorted tendrils of vapour. Skava liked snow. She loved its purity, the perfection of gentle undulations, the way it made everything easier on the eye, like a white velvet that smoothed angles into curves and edges into unbroken, limitless horizons. It was new. And the world was new. And filled with possibilities.

Maki edged alongside, his knee nearly touching hers. He was swathed, like all nine of them, in a heavy coat, long in the shanks so that it hung down to his stirrups. A woollen hat pulled down over his forehead and a thick grey scarf across his mouth made his nose look more enormous than usual. And red. Not a pretty sight.

Jez, he said quietly, pointing with his chin, thinks it’s just ahead.

Skava nodded. A hundred strides along the roadway the trees thinned, making a likely clearing. The air was still. And it was quiet, sound muffled by last night’s heavy snowfall. To Skava’s left the hoary forest rolled up along the hills, branches bare and therefore easy enough to see through, although the white blanket made perspective and distance tricky to judge. At her right, where Maki sat his mount and had not ceased to scan their surroundings, the forest tumbled downslope. Somewhere, just out of sight, was the cliff face and the vastness of the Bour Ocean. She convinced herself she could smell salt on the air.

They were a hundred and fifty kems south of R’Man and maybe two hundred from Lord Isharri’s citadel, Uvaol, hugging the rocky northern shores east of Kemae Swift. If all went well today, here in Allpo, she might have secured the beginnings of an alliance with some of Isharri’s nobles and, ultimately, Clan Gournai itself. Behind her, four mules carried strongboxes with gold, an initial payment to ease the conscience of those men who might bring influence to bear on Isharri and persuade him to an accommodation with the new Lord of Strath, if not with Clan Ouine quite yet.

Her spies had been working on this for months, ever since the summer and the announcement of Mathed’s choosing. Yes, the poor lad had lost his bride to suicide, not two weeks ago, but he would recover. Duty to Clan Ouine and his new obligations to Strath would see to that. He might, Skava thought with a wry smile, even take a new bride. Who’d have thought?

Maki, she said, still looking ahead at the clearing. Get Jez up here.

Boss, he replied, and looked over his shoulder to gesture. Then he nudged his gelding to a trot, aiming to get ahead of their small column and check out the clearing.

Another rider took his place at Skava’s side. Jezael pulled her scarf down from her mouth, rubbing at her jaw where the wool had made her skin itch. Boss?

Skava liked her. She had promise. And she had worked this business up here in Allpo with cleverness and dedication.

You know our man, Kerez, by sight? Skava asked.

Yes, boss. A thick curl of black hair had fallen loose from her cap. She stopped rubbing her jaw, pushed the curl back and flashed a grin. He’ll be here.

Confident. She reminds me of me, Skava reflected. Hmm. And the three principals? They going to be alone? Nobles did not travel on their own. They would have bodyguards.

We agreed ten – no more.

And Skava had nine, including herself. Good odds, if there was trouble. Up ahead, Maki had reached the clearing and was stopped, looking slowly and systematically to all sides. Skava drew up her mare and the whole column followed her example. To her right, downslope, she could see one of her troop, scouting out a hundred paces or so. He also stopped. She had another upslope, tracking through the trees, remount in tow. At that moment, he reappeared, sixty strides away, and made a hand signal: all good. But it would probably be heavy going off the road in the deeper snow. Skava hitched herself sideways to check behind. Four mules, three other riders, one leading the pack animals, the other two spread properly either side. No sign of Yan. He would be way back, her most distant outrider, out of sight, circulating deep and wide and swapping between his two saddled mounts because of the greater distance he had to cover.

When Skava turned around again, Maki was making a sign, gloved hand gesturing in rapid movements: company, as expected.

Jezael grunted. On time. That’s good.

Skava pursed her lips. Her face was covered, apart from her eyes, and she wore a broad-brimmed stiff leather hat on top of the woollen cap. She was warm, clothes layered nicely, but still she undid the front ties of her coat. Access to weapons. All her crew would do the same, three with crossbows to hand. They had discussed this the day before and while they did not want to be waving steel around and offending the delicacy of the nobles, it paid to be prepared.

Beyond Maki, motionless on his gelding at the edge of the clearing, a clot of riders had walked slowly into view, approaching down the same road. Ten. Skava peered at them as they began to spread out. Nothing untoward. From the fine set of their harness and winter furs, three did look like nobles. Still, it would be good to see more closely.

She turned to Jezael. Well, Jez, she declared. It’s your show. Go set it up.

Again the grin. Skava was quietly comforted. If the young woman enjoyed this game in the shadows, she had a bright future. Jezael urged her mount forward and Skava backed up, turning her horse in its own length and trotting back down the column, past the mules and the troopers.

Eyes peeled, she muttered as she passed the two men, and then drew abreast of the hindmost soldier. Hold still, she said to him. I want to take a closer look at our new friends. With that, she pulled up just behind the last mule, unfastened her hip bag and withdrew her telescope. Being at the rear of the column gave her distance and some cover. No need to alert the party up ahead. She leaned in behind the trooper as she snapped it open, trained the glass and focussed, got the back of Jezael and the rump of her horse as they trotted into the clearing. The image was a little too big at a hundred paces, but it helped to see the faces in detail. Trouble was they were mostly wrapped up. Except for the lead man, who was dismounting, a swarthy bearded fellow with a white streak cutting his right eyebrow, probably a knife scar. He raised a hand to Jezael, then nodded. This was her contact. So far, so good.

Skava swung the lens slowly across the others. Six were armed, but only one that she could spot with a crossbow and that strung from the saddle. No one seemed twitchy. The nobles sat unmoving. Maybe they had weapons, but nothing more than short swords and maybe knives. Vapour curled sluggishly off the mounts. They had been riding a while then, as expected. Good, again. Skava tracked wide, scanning the clearing off the roadway. Snow. Deep and crisp and even. No disturbances to the pure white mantle for as far as she ranged, just some lumps and bumps from fallen branches and maybe tree stumps. She examined the surrounding woodland, skeletal branches frost-rimed and still. Further back along the roadway: nothing, just the lines of tracks from the horses. Fine. She closed the glass and secured it.

Time to make new friends.

As planned, she came in with the mules and two troopers. Her rearguard man stayed back at the edge of the clearing in the middle of the roadway, and the two outriders edged twenty paces closer but remained well beyond the two parties. Maki had dismounted, taking a spot to the left where the hillside gradually sloped upwards. His coat was open, sword pommel sticking out, but that was show: in both hands he would have throwing knives.

Skava’s role was to look like the hired help, inconsequential and all but invisible. Jezael would do the talking. She and her contact were already deep in conversation, and then the nobles edged forward on their mounts. Jez affected a decent enough bow – noble etiquette and all that – and got three nods in return. Jezael’s contact, Kerez, was saying something, half turned towards the nobles. The to and fro of discussion proceeded. Then Jez swung round and gestured to Skava and the trooper leading the mules.

Time to make the down payment, the fulfilment of long planning.

Skava glanced at the trooper as he walked his mount into the clearing, the mules following tamely, possibly on the expectation of something to eat. They were going to be disappointed.

Kerez stepped up with something of a swagger, brushed snow from the tarpaulins covering the first of the strong-boxes and flicked the cover back. The lids had been unlocked that morning, so all he needed to do was flip the hasp and push back the top. He looked inside, fondled the heavy oblong coins, closed the lid, and made to walk around the other side to check the next box. Skava looked up, stared at the nobles where one of the horses was stamping and fretting. Its rider, mouth and nose covered by a heavy cowl, was staring straight back. The eyes, like razor flint, shrieked imminent violence.

Something wrong.

She kicked her mare and the beast leapt forward then aslant as Skava dragged the reins. Simultaneously, a crossbow quarrel flicked her heavy collar. She was passing Kerez just as the bastard slammed a heavy knife into Jezael’s throat. Red blood gushed over the mule and the snow and she staggered off the roadway like a drunk, a look of astonishment on her face, fingers clutching at the cascade of crimson. The blood spray across the white snow looked impossibly vivid.

Skava was wheeling her mare and didn’t see her fall, just grabbed at her sword and swung down wildly into the air across the neck of her mount, hoping to catch Kerez and failing. The horse picked up speed, plunging into the snow at the edge of the clearing. But there were men everywhere, throwing off snow-covered tarps and hides made from branches, and armed with crossbows, swords and javelins. No time for thinking. She kicked viciously at her mare and she leapt again, extending powerful legs and blasting straight at three of the bastards, who scattered, except for one with a javelin who tried for Skava’s midriff with a practised thrust, the point scoring the ribs of the horse, catching in the saddle skirt and then snapping, a splinter gouging Skava’s shin.

Then she was clear and risking a look behind where she could spot Maki, one leg over his mount, two men prone in front of him, victims of his throwing knives maybe. He was getting the gelding moving but couldn’t seat himself properly. The gelding responded anyway, smelling the blood and the violence and obedient to Maki’s urgency. They broke away, swinging round in the roadway and barging one of the mules, which staggered and set up a wild braying, scattering his fellows and snapping tethers as they all milled about. Smart, was Maki. He had had the presence of mind to cause some confusion. Now he was pushing the gelding to a gallop, off back up the roadway – except that three of their ambushers were covering that route, spears ready, a riderless horse to one side and Skava’s rear trooper lying sprawled in the roadway, run through by a javelin. Fuck!

Maki did the same as Skava, barrelling straight at the three men. They were good, though, crouching in a firm stance to the flanks, two thrusting spears at the gelding’s ribcage, the third at Maki. He had not had time to pull his sword blade, but his right leg was free of the stirrup and he kicked, probably in the hope of distracting his would-be killer than doing any damage. The gelding burst through. Crossbow quarrels from the clearing snapped in pursuit, but Maki was retreating fast.

Skava followed, aiming to cut back upslope and onto the firm surface of the roadway to make better speed. To her left, forty strides away, her outrider was heading her way, sword out, small round cavalry shield on his arm. He had cut the tether on his remount to make haste. Good man! Then she saw the closing group of horsemen, three of them, heavy lances couched. They would intercept him before the roadway. Evidently, he came to the same conclusion, and urged his horse nearer a couple of trees, thinking to use them to negate the reach of the lances. His odds were piss-poor.

Muffled drumming of hooves behind Skava. She flicked a look over her right shoulder as her mare made the edge of the roadway and, sure enough, three more riders had bypassed the mules and were bearing down on her, ten horse-lengths back, lances out, ready to stick her. But the mare was fresh and strong and laid her ears back and ate up the ground as they raced through the forest.

Can’t run forever, a coolly critical inner voice accused her. You were complacent. A fool.

Jez with her throat opened. Probably four of her crew down. Her outriders would have no chance, single and surrounded by lancers, unless they ran. Someone was very astute. Allpo’s master-intelligencer, the cunning shit.

But she could see Maki ahead nearing a curve in the roadway, his gelding a dark smudge and snow flying from his hooves. Moments later she reached the same spot, and her mare was breathing hard, and the horsemen were behind her, one of them nearer now, on a powerful stallion maybe with more stamina. There was simply no way to defend against three lances behind you. The muscles in her back were involuntarily tensing, as if that might ward the steel of a lance point. Abruptly she glimpsed a horse and rider on her flank, standing quite still behind a big tree. Shock coursing through her, she jerked the reins. The mare responded by darting left. Behind her, sudden shouts, and the unmistakable rolling thud of a rider unhorsed. A sharp scream, prolonged and agonized, until it was cut off.

Skava hauled up and brought the protesting mare to a halt, the beast turning circles to stay upright on slippery snow. Behind her there was Yan, stationary on his mount, crossbow levelled at a lancer escaping diagonally off the roadway into the forest. A dull snap from the bow and the lancer fell across the neck of his horse as the heavy quarrel entered his back. Moments later he keeled over, slid sideways and disappeared into the snow, still alive and flopping about but a goner. All three pursuers were down, two crumpled shapes on the roadway, their mounts cantering aimlessly into the woodland. Yan was cranking and reloading a double crossbow. A second bow was across his lap. Loading complete, he gestured downslope, the signal to head that way. Skava spared a glance for the roadway: more riders, perhaps six. How many did they have? Time to go. Not a word had passed between her and Yan, who was now heading up the hillside, leading their pursuers away.

Skava felt a surge of gratitude. In this big catastrophe of a venture, something had gone right. If she ever got out of this, she promised to kiss Yan, anywhere he liked. Then she was leaning back into the cantle of the saddle to help the mare downhill at best speed, throwing a look over her left shoulder to establish where the chasing horsemen were going. Yan meant to either lead them all away, or split them.

They split. She heard the calls and their bellowed instructions. So, three on her tail now. Odds were improving. A hundred and fifty strides into the deep woodland, she eased the mare to a route between the trees roughly parallel to the roadway and allowed herself to check the animal’s flanks. Blood. Lots of it. The lance had ripped a long diagonal wound from the mare’s right shoulder, across the ribs to the thick saddle skirt, the point having left a jagged tear in the leather. The brave horse was tiring, from the run and the wound.

Skava could see blood on her breeches where a finger-long javelin splinter was embedded in the flesh to the side of her shin. She counted herself lucky: without the saddle, the javelin would have gone through her groin or hip. Instead, it had snapped. As the mare gamely coped with the snow-covered slope, Skava reached down, gripped the splinter and pulled. It came out, stinging, and blood flowed. She knew it would cease, so it was one less thing to worry about.

Her tracks were the real problem. Even if she got ahead and they lost sight of her, in the snow it was the same as leaving a deliberate trail to follow. Like Yan, she would have to stand her ground with the odds evened up. Crossbow. She reached down to her saddle wallet and the realisation struck hard like a kick in the crotch: it was gone, leather ties sliced clean by the head of the javelin; that’s why she could see the bleeding wound on her mare’s ribs. Skava cursed in several languages. Attached on the other side of the saddle was her quiver, fifteen bolts nestled within. Great. Maybe she could throw them at the bastards...

Change of plan. She reckoned she could get ahead a bit, dismount and send the mare on her way at a gallop. Then they might follow the mare. Might. Except that, in the real world, riderless horses were wont to stop – especially tired, wounded horses. That idea dismissed, a different plan pressed at her attention, like a puzzle coming together suddenly.

Decision made, she changed direction at once, back downslope, towards where she anticipated the cliff face and the winter fury of the Bour Ocean must be. A glance to the left and behind: three dark shapes, spread wide to maximize their sight lines, were about two hundred and fifty paces away. Worse luck...it seemed they’d spotted her.

She kept going, pushing for speed but worrying about the mare breaking a leg in some hole or on a fallen branch hidden under the snow. Apart from the odd stumble, they sustained a good tempo, but no cliff face materialized. Maybe she had messed up her sense of direction? The slope steepened and she sat right back, letting the mare find sure footing and her way down in her own time. Tension and fear rose like a wave, but she quelled it. Should the mare fall, trying to fight on foot against riders with lances would be like a squealing pig against hunting dogs. Moments later, a hundred strides ahead she saw flatter ground and what she had been hoping for: exposed rocks, fallen trees, great roots exposed, a tangle of forest on the edge of the cliffs, chewed up by the endlessly advancing ocean – and troublesome terrain for horses.

Right, she thought. Now we even things up.

The mare reached the flatter basin below the ridgeline she had descended and immediately plunged girth-deep into a wide snowdrift, the product of strong winds off the ocean and the steep bank. Skava used her heels, spurring the exhausted animal to a last burst of effort. Might need to abandon ship. But, after a struggle, they were through and the mare was stepping gingerly amongst the rocky scree, only part covered by a white overlay here where a steady wind brought the tang of salt and refused to let the snow settle. Twenty paces away the blank grey of mid-morning light extended into infinity, sky meeting ocean without distinction. The cliffs themselves were marked by a fractured, treacherous landscape where, in places, the high precipice had slipped in wide ravines to the crashing sea below. Tangled trees leaned away from the edge or had collapsed where their roots could find purchase no longer.

The mare had nearly stopped, uncertain if not unwilling to go further on the difficult ground, but equally spent, shuddering in her attempt to breathe. Skava dismounted, looked back uphill where the pursuing men were picking separate routes down the steep descent, then grabbed the quiver of crossbow bolts and, sword still in one hand, scrambled towards the cliffs and the concealing tangle of the crags and fallen trees. She ducked down to stay out of sight. If she was lucky, the bastards behind her would be distracted by the tricky descent and the surprise of the snowdrift. She had moments to get some distance, then circle back on their flank or, if that wasn’t going to work, outrun them on foot where their mounts were unable to move. Fifty paces along, she took off her hat and dropped it in a crag. Its shape was distinctive. Nearby she found a fallen tree, got under a gap beneath and squirmed through. She was on the cliff-side, hidden from view, a dozen feet of the bluff at her back. She headed west, then stopped, ventured to raise her head behind twisted roots.

There they were, and one had come up close to her plucky mare where it stood trembling from fatigue. They were all scanning the rocky scarp. She might get lucky. They might head back east together. They might dismount and give her better odds taking them on foot. They might give up and go home.

They didn’t.

Careful to pick a safe route, they came on towards her, two horsemen trailing back, one a few paces ahead. Now and again they poked at the scree with their lances, or into the upended roots. The lead man stopped, dismounted, walked a few steps into the scree and leaned down to recover Skava’s hat. Brilliant. And he wasn’t even close enough to give her an opportunity to take him out. Time to work a plan. She studied him as he remounted. Average height. Looked bulky in his fur coat. Cowl around his mouth. He had not released the lance, but what encouraged her was that, because it was heavy, he held it couched at a comfortable forty-five degrees, high enough that she might get inside its reach. And she wanted that lance.

Her hiding place behind the tree roots might enable her to spring an ambush, if he stayed on his current course, parallel to the cliffs and the barrier of the fallen tree but favouring the more even ground. She eased around the bole of the tree, careful to avoid snagging the roots. Then she stepped down a couple of feet into the cavity where the roots had torn loose. Sword ready, no dagger: she needed her left hand free to get the lance off him. She had discounted trying for the horse. The terrain was too uncertain, and the other two would most likely stick her in the time it took to mount up. And one of them was bound to have a crossbow.

It was taking too long. She risked another look around the roots. They had stopped. Number two did have a crossbow. The odds were tumbling again. But she had no alternatives. Now or never. Aggression and surprise. They were expecting her to hide or run.

Muttered conversation. Then they came on again and Skava drew back, readied herself. She had studied the ground she would have to cross. It was rock-strewn but there was a path through. Timing was everything. If she went too soon, he would be far enough back to bring the lance to bear; too late, and she would be exposed to the crossbow.

Shod hooves clinked on scree. A piebald muzzle appeared and, smelling Skava or the blood on her shin, the horse whinnied in alarm. Skava did not wait. She ran out, sword point down near her left knee, hopped six paces through the rocks and swung upwards as the rider made to bring his javelin down from forty-five degrees. He was too late. She was inside his reach and her blade sliced through the muscles of his thigh while she reached overhead with her left hand, grabbed the lance stock behind the heavy steel point and heaved. Initially he held on; then, as the pain hit and he started to fall forward from her tug, with a piercing howl he let go, trying to back his horse but panicking now because of the massive rush of blood from his thigh. Skava pivoted the lance up, swung it the right way around, released, let it fall, got a better grip halfway down its length and then immediately danced in front of the horse. She could see the second horseman, crossbow up ready to fire, but his wounded mate was in the way as Skava advanced. The mount refused to back up fast, nervous on the rocks and loose scree, while its rider pressed a gloved hand to his thigh, caught between needing to control the horse, stop the bleed, or go for his sword. In the end it didn’t matter. Skava thrust overhand past the head of the horse and caught him in the neck. He curled up, both hands clasping at his throat and, as his mount stopped backing, Skava let go of her sword, point down, swapped the lance to her right hand and grabbed the bridle. Crossbow man was trying to go wider to get a clear shot, but his only option was to his right, away from the rocks and collapsed tree. Skava pulled on the bridle, stepping sideways to keep the horse between them. The third rider, a couple of lengths behind crossbow man, was cursing as he edged forward on the awkward ground. His lance was low, couched behind a small round shield.

Get ’im, Spikes! he yelled in the guttural twang of eastern Allpo.

Push round! From Spikes. Flank. Get in ’is fuckin’ flank!

Time for a risk, reckoned Skava. Just as the lancer crossed behind his mate, she let the horse back up some more, exposing enough of herself to tempt Spikes. He loosed at once, but Skava had skipped right again. The bolt shattered on a rock at her feet. In an instant she released the bridle and dodged around the terrified horse with its slumped owner. Again overhand, she drove the lance at her foe, aiming for his midriff. An accomplished rider, Spikes was turning his mount with his knees and avoided her first thrust, but had forgotten his comrade coming up behind. As he dropped the bow and reached for his sword, the horses got fouled and Skava was in again, both hands on the lance and, with greater reach, ran him through the ribs. Trouble. The lance was jammed between the bones and she was pulling hard and worrying that the stock would snap as Spikes was reeling in the saddle, yelling and spewing blood. She needed the lance. Her sword was way off in the rocks.

And then the third rider bolted, breaking off and turning, making straight for the bank and the forest uphill. Skava watched him go, hands still firm on the lance. Spikes was looking at her, bleary and panicked, pleading in his eyes, blood down his chin and over his chest. Seemed he couldn’t breathe properly – probably pierced lung. Not long for him. He tried to speak, coughed up some gore, and slowly sagged backwards as Skava let the lance go.

Both remaining mounts were skittish, but still cautious on the rough ground, so they didn’t run. Skava surveyed the two of them, getting a sense of which one was least fatigued and in the best condition. She made calming noises, wishing that Yan was here, with his weird equine bond and his preternatural facility with horses. Still, whatever she murmured seemed to work: they stayed calm, maybe because they wanted the dead men off their backs. Skava obliged, tugging boots out of stirrups and tipping the bodies over onto the rocks. She wanted to be away at speed, but resisted. She needed both mounts and weapons, especially the crossbow and quarrels, all of which she collected and secured, including her own blade.

Suddenly she felt tired and found herself wiping perspiration from her face. Her shin hurt, and the calf muscle felt taut and uncomfortable, but there was no more bleeding. From Spike’s flask she took a long swig of the contents – water mixed with cider by the taste of it. Getting liquid inside her was a welcome blessing, but the morning’s events took their toll: an overwhelming urge came to sit down and curl up and sleep. She banished it with an iron will. Near at hand, for the first time, she could hear the rolling breakers against the high bluffs, the roar and burst and retreating hiss of the mighty ocean below. The mortal danger of pursuit had so fixed her attention that she had been blind and deaf to the wider world. She mounted up, the second horse tethered behind. A hundred strides away, her own mare was trying to follow, picking a route towards her. Even at this distance, Skava could see the black, weeping haemorrhage from shoulder to girth. Nothing to be done. With a final glance, she turned, got her mount going at a fast walk and aimed for the better ground nearer the bank of the hillside.

It began to snow, in flurries. Better news. Even a light dusting would cover tracks, particularly when she needed to cut back into the forest to try to throw off the chase. Right now, she aimed to stick to the coast, as near to the rocks and ravines as was safe. That would make it harder to track her, even if they guessed the probable direction from the report of the rider who had bolted.

A quarter cycle passed and she was making good time, she guessed. No sound or sign of the bastards behind her, just the incessant complaint of the waves, muted below the scarp. Then a new noise intruded. She stopped at once. It was ahead, or perhaps upslope: someone calling. But she couldn’t make out the words, so she steered the horses closer to the steeper bank and away from the rumbling of the ocean. Definitely a voice, a single male voice, but it did not make sense somehow, the tone was wrong.

Skava peered through the falling snow. The trees were blurred now, insubstantial, many-fingered dark shapes, but no sign of anyone among them. She rode on, keeping the same cautious pace, concerned not to fatigue the mounts. She knew she would, with certainty, need their speed and stamina in due course.

The voice was nearer. Skava drew up again. She pulled out her telescope, still secured in her hip bag. Trained on the slopes above, she ranged gradually farther out, slow and systematic, refusing to be rushed by the nagging little girl’s voice in her head that had started pestering her: Get out of here! It’s a trap! Run!

There, a black shape in the white distorted smear of the snowfall. It was a horse, a big one, probably a gelding, moving slowly through the trees, limping it seemed. She recognized something in the symmetry, the set of harness. Maki’s mount. But he wasn’t on it. Dead? Another shape in the circle of the telescope. She had missed it, so tracked back, picked him out: Maki, about two hundred strides away downslope from the gelding, back to a tree. Skava sharpened the focus of the telescope. Maki, alright, even if the image jumped and quivered with her breathing and the stamp of the horse. Had it been him calling out? No. She heard it again, and Maki hadn’t moved. He looked all-in and he was holding his leg – probably a wound.

The call came again, and this time Skava heard it clearly:

Skava!

She narrowed her eyes. Who was this, then? Kerez? One of the horde of soldiers they’d had waiting in ambush under the fucking snow?

Sklavin!

She lowered the glass. The snow was heavier, the forest disappearing now in the whiteout. But she could still see the tree where Maki was hiding. It appeared he had abandoned the gelding and headed downslope, maybe trying to confuse those hunting him.

Skava!

She raised the telescope again, scrutinizing the higher woodland, near the gelding. Yes, some dark outlines through the trees. She could make out a dozen or so. Bad news. It meant they had probably got the rest of her squad – even Yan – and had then converged, chasing down Maki and his wounded gelding, exhausted, cornered, unable to run.

As if to mock her thoughts, the voice called out again, They’re all down, Skava! You are quite alone. We could talk, you know. No need for your noble sacrifice.

Skava searched the slopes again for Maki, found him, upright and moving slowly down the hill, dragging a leg and struggling with the descent, like an old man. Poor bastard.

All that gold, Skava! the jeering voice exclaimed. You could take a share. Take all of it. The good Lord of Ouine Clan won’t miss it.

Skava put the telescope away, peered at the vague shape of Maki shambling down the hill. He fell, floundering, then dragged himself to another tree. Finished.

Skava cursed. The voice was nearer. They had located the gelding and were narrowing their search. Not long now. They would find Maki. But if she got the timing right, because of him she could slip by, leaving them too far behind to catch up. It would be simple. There was a perfect logic to it. Like fate. The alignment of the fucking stars. She took a breath, urged her new horse forward, past where Maki had taken his last refuge.

Skava!

She kept moving, drawing further away with every stride of the horse. She was invisible now, too far away to be seen in the blizzard.

Eslin!

Her blood ran cold. For a moment, she did not react; then she pulled up and the horses snorted and fretted. They were unhappy with the thick falling snow and the rapidly deteriorating visibility and were suddenly alert to the other mounts, whose smell they recognized with its promise of the warm assurance of the herd.

Come, on, Skava! Or Sklavin. Or is it Eslin? We know who you are...

Shock had become a numb understanding. The little girl was squealing like a mad piglet, filling her head with terror and the impulse to flee: They know my name! They know it. Move. Go on. Leave. Leave him, just as you left the mare.

It would be simple. She could do it. It was right.

A calmer, angrier voice cut through, speaking words robbed of meaning, but rational and clear like the insane emotional lucidity constructed in a dream, where everything crazy makes sense.

Skava cursed again, aloud, and found herself putting heels to the ribs of her mount, turning to head up the hill, directly towards Maki. The little girl screamed even more, protesting, writhing, aching to flee. Skava quelled the little bitch with a growing fury. Her horse and its companion pushed and leapt through the snow, reached the top of the steep bank, moving more quickly now. Ahead was the tree she was aiming for. A bulky shape detached itself, seemed to jerk and struggle upright. Closer, she could see Maki clearly, back to the tree trunk, sword sliding from scabbard, convinced the approaching horses were his end.

In moments she was near.

Maki took a guard, sword outstretched, poniard in his left fist.

What are you waiting for, you prick? she called out. Get on the damned horse!

And, quicker than she might have expected, he hobbled over, secured his weapons and wrestled himself onto her remount. She turned back downhill instantly, pushing a little, but reluctant to go faster than was sensible. The whiteout was dangerous. Ground, air and forest were merging to uniformity in the squall. She feared a misstep, or being spotted by the gathering pursuers on the higher slopes.

They reached the margin of the cliffs again, forcing a path through accumulating drifts until Skava could see the leaning trees and the sharp steely planes of exposed rocks. Not too fast now. She set a steady pace, winding along the ridgelines and around the intruding ravines where the land had fallen away into the ocean, looking back now and again and attempting to listen and all the while hoping against hope that they had got away.

Shouts.

Muffled by the snowfall but ringing with urgency, they came from her right, parallel to her course. She squinted through the flurries and, sure enough, there were the hated shapes again: three riders. And they had alerted their companions. More shouts, this time from behind. And a horn, summoning everyone for the kill. Skava upped the pace to a little short of a canter, knowing the hazard of one of their mounts breaking a leg, but oppressed by the imminence of capture. Her ruse to stay close to the cliffs meant they were hemmed in, nowhere to go but forward. She pressed on, snow blowing into her eyes, the cold biting now with all the stinging ferocity of icy wind straight off the Bour Ocean.

No way out. No way out.

Her fury was turning to bitter despair. Every time she got on top, she got knocked back. She had been outplayed by Allpo’s spymaster at every turn, for months; Kerez securing Jez’s confidence; the credibility of the nobles; the right backstories of their disenchantment with Lord Isharri, and their willingness to listen, but reluctance to act. A beautiful balance. Then the demand for gold. So convincing, even to a sceptic like her. And the simplicity of the set-up in the forest clearing. How in all the shitty world had he concealed two dozen men under the snow without leaving tracks? But, as she ruminated on it, she saw the plan and the shrewdness of its shape, and the ingenious understanding of how to draw her in, to move patiently and wait.

He knew her name. Eslin, the mocking voice had taunted. How? Who knew that name? The questions burned. Her fury boiled up again and the cold and despair were forgotten. She needed a plan. Her own plan to screw this bastard now...and for good.

Scouring the land ahead, she discerned a screen of trees to her right, banked snowdrifts creating a barrier to the riders upslope. She knew the lead pursuers would not care to close yet. They wanted the security of their fellows, crushing odds, a tight ring of steel so no one could get away. Skava could use that. So she angled in close, certain they were now concealed by the trees and the high drifts, then pulled up and dismounted. Maki had taken the hint and was doing likewise, only slowly, favouring one leg. He looked bad.

While he made the best of staying upright, Skava gave her attention to the saddle bags, collecting a couple of satchels of food and canteens and slinging them around her neck. Crossbow last, with the quiver and she was laden like a mule. Still, mules were stubborn. And there was a symmetry to that, she reckoned, so she grinned fiercely and stomped over to Maki.

Down there, she gestured, jerking her thumb at the cliffs. Can you make it?

His face was close and his features were pinched, not just from the cold but the pain of the injury he was carrying. She saw it now. Blood down his right trouser leg, a mess, sticky with snow and ice, a javelin head through his thigh probably.

Yes, boss, he grunted, then, Sorry. I should’ve spotted the ambush. Right on top of ’em. Should have seen. Then, in a stronger voice: Should have left me. Maybe I could hold ’em here—

Skava drew her hunting knife, jabbed the lead horse in its hindquarters, and was delighted to see it take off, its tethered companion equally spooked and likewise determined to run.

Maki was staring at her. She didn’t have time for this, so she growled, Yep. I should’ve left. You’re no good and you’re the world’s ugliest bastard. Now fucking hop that way.

They got moving, and Skava could have sworn she saw him smile. Idiot.

Wind in their faces, they made slow progress into the tumble of the collapsing cliff edge, crossing behind tattered branches and eroded boulders. Skava crept as close as she dared, squinting down to the pounding waves a hundred feet below. Then she turned to Maki. Eyes on our friends, she instructed him. Let me know if you see ’em.

He nodded, leaned on a rock and got himself positioned to look uphill and back east. Almost at once, he called out, Down, boss. Riders behind.

She ducked, crawled on hands and knees behind the rock next to Maki. Slowly, she started unwinding the saddle bags and canteens from her neck, placing them on the ground, so she could free her arms for the crossbow. Needed to check it wasn’t iced up or the bow string soaked and stretched...her hands were frozen and clumsy. Hopeless. She rejected the idea, felt for her sword grip instead, and watched Maki, who was keeping very still. He would know where the riders were, how close, when they might pass. She thought she heard horseshoes on stone, but wasn’t certain. Then Maki put his hand on her shoulder, their usual close-in signal to stay put. She turned her head, looked along the bluff heading east and, there, emerging into view was the retreating outline of four riders. Maki removed his hand.

No more, boss, he breathed, close to her face, smelling of coppery blood and dried sweat.

No more.

But they would be back. Her recently acquired mounts would stop soon enough and then the hunting party would find them and would return, scouring the cliffs, throwing a screening force over the uphill slopes. She stood up, looked back the way they had come, spotted one of the deep ravines they had skirted and turned to Maki.

That way, she said, loaded up the saddle bags, canteens, crossbow and leather quiver, then headed out with Maki limping along behind.

The landslip was deep, forming a collapsed V-shape running all the way to the ocean below, a hundred feet or more. Snow was accumulating in crevices, but not very much, owing to the strengthening wind and the salt spray. It was rock-filled and slick. Tricky. But...be bold in every enterprise, as the bard said.

Maki shuffled up to the narrow gorge and looked at it.

We’re going down there, she told him. Find a cranny to hide out. She made no promises and gave no assurances and Maki asked no questions; they both knew their chances of getting out of this were slim. But it was a plan.

She set off, scrambling a bit here and there, but moving slowly, giving Maki time and aware she might need to take his weight if he fell. He didn’t, but she guessed he must be in agony. The only saving grace was that the cold would limit the bleed. They got halfway, and the thrown spray was salty on their lips. Fifty feet below, the waves surged along the rocky shore, rolling west into the bay and thirty kems to Strath. Might as well be the other side of the planet.

Skava paused, felt Maki pressing up behind, his left leg propped against her thigh. She took some time to check their surroundings. Not much cover, that much was evident, even through the swirling flurries of snow. This might be a very bad idea, she was starting to concede, when a bird flew out twenty feet away, banked sharply and flapped into the sky downwind. It was a seabird of some type, a petrel maybe; and petrels, she knew, nested in crevices and caves.

Stay here, she ordered Maki.

Then she set off again, picking her route carefully crabwise towards the spot from which the bird had emerged. Still couldn’t see anything, but she kept going, balancing precariously between slick rocks, the weight of the swinging saddle bags an additional peril as she clawed her way along. If she fell, it was an unbroken slide straight into the sea.

There was an opening between the rocks, narrow, guano-stained at the entrance. Skava leaned on the edge, her boot braced against a narrow ledge beneath. She got her head inside, then pulled her torso in. A cave. Dark, silent and big enough. Beautiful.

She clambered in, felt her way around on all fours, nose wrinkling at the stale, musty smell. Her cheeks instantly felt warmer, and prickled with returning sensation now she was out of the reach of the wind. As her eyes adjusted to the half-light, she could make out plenty of nesting material – twigs, pine needles, leaves from the last days of autumn. She sighed. It was dry. It would do. It would do very nicely.

Now for Maki. She sighed again.

After a hair-raising return trip to Maki, and an even more hair-raising balancing act back to the cave, Maki with one arm around her neck for support, she tied off a bandage on his thigh. Each of her squad carried bandages and a small flask of alcohol for scratches and wounds. It was one of her rules, proven countless times. Between the pair of them, she had enough to clean him up and maybe stop infection. Maybe. Now she had to contrive a way of staying warm overnight. Fortunately, the cave was not too big, so the heat from their bodies didn’t dissipate fast. But their coats and breeches were damp from melted snow and perspiration. So tonight...

Boss, Maki started.

Skava grunted, separating out some dried meat for the two of them and a couple of hefty oatmeal biscuits. She reckoned they had enough for three days, courtesy of the Allpo soldiers’ saddle bags. Water was less of a problem, with all the snow around.

Boss, I...

She stopped what she was doing, looked at him lying back at the rear of their new home in the fading light from the cave mouth. It was late afternoon. He still seemed pinched and wan. Needed food and sleep.

Well? she demanded.

Thank you...

She gave him a puzzled frown. The leg? Be fine.

No, boss. For coming back.

She frowned again. He had struggled to get the words out, choking up a bit. She jerked her chin. Don’t be stupid, she snapped. Get some grub down you and stop talking like an old woman.

He nodded. And smiled, a distorted sort of twitch of his lips.

She handed him the dried meat cuts and an oat biscuit. It was still awkward between them, so she turned her head, chewed on her portion and stared out at the fading grey-pink overcast in the narrow doorway of their new world.

***

Two days. The smelly fug of their cramped abode had become familiar. Sleeping side by side and sharing body warmth will do that. So will eating, pissing and shitting in company. At least Skava had been outside a few times, drinking in the fresh air. Maki had no such perquisites. But he had slept, a lot. And the wound seemed uninfected, so far.

When he wasn’t asleep, they talked. Skava had a lot to say and Maki was a good listener. Mostly she revisited the ambush, with a word or two of regret for the squad members they had lost face down in the snow, seven of them it might be, a sizeable loss. Even Yan, always so capable and seemingly indestructible.

But losing comrades was not a theme over which they ever lingered. There was no room for brooding misery for people who worked for her. They understood the odds. You were going to lose a few. The end. Better to stick with the living and the problems of the living. Doggedly they took turns pinpointing the painful lessons leading up to the ambush, the likely errors they’d made. Critical but not blaming. They were too long in the game for that.

We underestimated him, Maki was saying, meaning the spymaster.

Skava nodded in the darkness. "Mm. Him and Lord Isharri both. Smart sons-of-bitches, the two of ’em. And Clan Gournai as a whole. They’re so out of the way here in the wilds of the east, we don’t really know them."

Got loyalty too, put in Maki. Nothing leaked. Spymaster has his network sewn up tight.

Skava nodded again. It was infuriating. She had been utterly complacent. Suspicious, yes. Careful, yes. But the bastard had played her so well it pointed to real understanding of her methods and goals. And then there was this: He knew one of my names...Eslin... she muttered through her teeth.

Aye. Seems so. Maki had not heard the name before. Yet here she was saying it out loud. She trusted him. She needed to trust someone right now.

How? she asked, not expecting an answer, but knowing Maki would give it some thought, maybe twist and tweak the thing with a question or two of his own.

Someone from your past...?

It was true; it was that damned obvious. He had nailed it in one. But who?

When last did you use the name? he pushed, hesitant because he knew her past was always shrouded; his own too, for rather different reasons.

Awkward. She could not tell him the truth, no matter how much she trusted him. She could not admit that it was lifetimes ago. She did not speak of those things. Ever. But the interchange was useful. She saw faces in her mind’s eye, intruding with the spectral opacity of times long buried. They were gone perhaps. On another continent? Dead more likely. But some, some might still be around, still be her enemies. She sniffed, dismissing the ghosts. Nothing to be gained by this line of thought.

An old name. Long time, she deflected. But you’re right. And it means we need to rip up the plan.

Their conversation had triggered a wholly new perspective, one she wanted to explore, because it was still vague and conceptual, a set of ideas that seemed in her head to be linked in a delicate ethereal web of people and places – and consequences, if she moved precisely, if she pushed here and pulled there. She could almost see it.

Maki, she said, sharply, as a conclusion formed in her thinking, whole and clear, an answer floating in the wash of insubstantial ideas and threads. We’ve been aiming in the wrong direction.

Silence from the dark outline of head and shoulders. He was waiting for her to make at least partial sense.

I thought it was Clan Gournai here in Allpo where we needed to push, she went on in a rush of excitement, but that’s just a trigger – no, not a trigger, a domino. You know what a domino is?

Tiles, he responded into the flood of her monologue. Call ’em tiles in Donira.

Yes, tiles. There are five big tiles that matter and they’ll all fucking fall if we push the right one. Which is the right one?

The first one? he offered.

Oh, yes, she laughed. "The first one! I’ve been playing the small stuff...the tiles that don’t matter. When they fall, you make a small advance and they hit you with a counter. I’ve been getting us ambushed and stabbed and...bloody robbed – the loss of the gold really rankled – and it was a sideshow. It was the counterstroke. Just a local counterstroke. We aim at the only tile that matters..."

She trailed off as a hundred implications, decisions and necessary actions filled her head.

Which tile, boss? Even Maki, lying silent and uncomplaining in pain and discomfort,