The Last Bastion (12 page)

15

SCARS

G
allow and Mirrahj lost themselves in each other’s skin. The night passed and then another day. They fingered each other’s scars and stroked each other’s hair and touched one another’s faces. Gallow’s lovemaking was angry and insatiable; Mirrahj was hungry and fierce. In between, lying naked around the fire, Gallow licked the salt off her skin and she drew his eye to the longest scar of all, a slice low across her belly. She’d had a child once then, and they’d cut her to get it out. An Aulian birth.

‘I had a son and I had a husband. I lost my son not long after he was born but I lost my husband on the day they cut me and he came out. They said I’d never carry another child, and what use is a woman who can no longer make sons? He left me to go and serve with the Weeping Giant, and I followed because I could fight as well as any man I knew, and we went with the ardshan to the disaster of Andhun and there he vanished. I suppose some forkbeard killed him but maybe he ran away. By then I could beat him at everything by which a man measures himself. I learned to wrestle among the warriors of his ride. I learned ways to beat men who were bigger and stronger than me. It was to humiliate him after what he did in leaving me behind. He tried to throw me away and I wasn’t going to have that. I don’t know why the ardshan raised me to become a bashar after Andhun but I was a good one. You’ve been wondering
that since the day we met – how is it that a woman leads men into battle?’

‘But I watched and I learned the answer.’

‘As no man’s wife I could never have another Vathan. If I gave myself to a man then I would have belonged to them. So I didn’t, because I wanted my ride, and men laughed at me and eyed me askance but they did what I said. Several tried to take what they couldn’t freely have. A rightful challenge of my strength, they said, and so it was equally rightful when I killed them with their own knives. Josper was the first one I let live. I beat him to within an inch of his life in front of the rest of the ride. When I was done with him he could barely move for days, but I was careful not to break him. It was a lesson to the others. Mostly it stopped after that.’ She pulled Gallow closer and clutched his head. ‘You’ll take me to the sword, forkbeard. You will. And then I’ll take my people home.’

‘I’ll take you to where I left it.’

‘Why is it that a bashar who is a man can take as many women as will have him and be admired and envied by his ride, yet I could not take even one man to be mine? Where’s the justice in that?’

‘A woman’s place is raising children.’

‘And a man’s place is in the fields, flapping his arms to scare away the crows.’ Mirrahj bit his ear. ‘I carried one child, Gallow of the forkbeards. I know that pain. I’ve had an arrow through my arm and I can tell you that hurt a good deal less. Remember that when you go back to your Marroc wife.’ He tensed and she laughed. ‘Oh you will, forkbeard, and she’ll have you too. You’d be stupid not to and so would she. Stay alive, do what you need to do, go back to her and never leave her again.’

They knew each other a little better by the time they left the farmhouse. A day and two nights out of the wind and the rain lifted their spirits, as did warm food, even if it tasted
of mould. Even their horse seemed to feel better. The storms had lessened to a breeze and drizzle now, and they made good time to the edge of the hills and through them to the fringes of the Crackmarsh. For a while Gallow turned south until the Ironwood closed in and forced them to choose between the trees and the water meadows. Mirrahj eyed the wood with uneasy suspicion. ‘I never heard of a ride who ventured far into any forest. I forget, is it a giant spider the size of a horse or an enormous snake that lives in this one?’

She spoke with scorn, as if laughing at such foolish superstitions, but her words carried a nervous edge. Gallow raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d heard it was shadows and trees that came alive. The shadows start to move and frighten their prey and herd them towards groves of Weirtrees in the forest’s heart. The groves close around you and the roots and branches wrap you up and the trees themselves devour you. Then too I’ve heard there’s a race of people who live there, as old as the world itself. Small like children and dark like an Aulian. They were here before any Marroc.’ As Mirrahj’s eyes darted nervously about, Gallow laughed. ‘The Marroc have their stories, but that’s all they are. One day I’ll tell you some Lhosir ones about the mountains of the Ice Wraiths.’

They sheltered on the fringe of the forest for a night and lit a fire and slept warm and dry under the branches, and perhaps Mirrahj slept with one eye open but no trees or shadows came alive and no fey-folk tried to eat them, and the next day they rose early and moved with the dawn as Gallow guided them into the water meadows of the Crackmarsh. He walked ahead and Mirrahj rode behind, but before the sun reached its peak she stopped him and pointed back the way they’d come, and when he followed her finger with his eyes, he saw riders, six of them, some half a mile away. He squinted, trying to work out who they were.

‘Forkbeards,’ said Mirrahj with a touch of wonder. ‘They’ve crossed the river.’

Gallow climbed up behind her. ‘They did that back in Andhun. Let’s get away from them.’

‘They’ve been behind us a while and they’re following us. But I’ll try if you like.’ Mirrahj set off at a canter. Gallow wondered how she could be so sure they were Lhosir but then a horn blew and he knew she was right. Gallow looked back now and then. The riders chasing them were gaining, slowly but surely.

‘Cover.’ Gallow pointed out an island of trees rising out of the marsh a mile ahead of them. Mirrahj rode for it, but as they came close she suddenly veered away; a moment later their horse stumbled and fell and threw them both into the water. The horse thrashed and then found its feet and bolted and Gallow saw an arrow sticking out of its rump. He caught a flash of movement in the trees and a second arrow hit him in the shoulder, biting through his mail far enough to draw blood. He roared as he yanked it out of his arm. The Lhosir were still after them, gaining quickly now. Another arrow zipped from the trees. Gallow lifted his shield to cover himself as best he could and Mirrahj ran close behind him as they raced for the land. Another arrow hit his shield and then another, and then they were out of the water and into the trees and Mirrahj had her sword drawn with her own shield in front of her. She pulled one of the arrows from Gallow’s shield and waved it in his face. The tip was nothing more than a narrow metal spike, no barbs or blades. ‘This isn’t a Marroc arrow; this is a Vathan war arrow. From close up it’ll go right through mail, deep enough to kill.’ She bared her teeth. ‘We make them for hunting forkbeards.’

‘Why are there Vathen in the Crackmarsh?’

‘I don’t know!’

They pressed close together, covering each other with their shields, crouching low and moving fast, deeper into the trees. The Lhosir on their horses weren’t far behind but now they too were being peppered with arrows. Then the
swish of a branch made Gallow freeze. He spun round in time to lift his shield and catch an axe flying at his head with an angry Marroc on the end of it. He stepped back, ready to lash out with his spear.

‘Gallow! There are more!’ Mirrahj had her back against his in a flash, always lightly touching him so he’d know where she was, so he could feel her movement.

‘How many?’ He caught another blow and jabbed his spear, trying to keep the Marroc away. ‘I don’t want to kill you, you idiot! You must be one of Valaric’s Crackmarsh men. Leave us be and let us pass.’ He felt Mirrahj push hard against him as she caught a blow with her shield. ‘I fought with the Wolf at Lostring Hill and at Andhun against Sixfingers. I fought with him at Witches’ Reach when the iron devil had it under siege. I was in Varyxhun when the castle fell. I’m not your enemy!’

The Marroc paused. One of the men facing Mirrahj shouted over their heads, ‘Don’t listen! He’s just another filthy forkbeard.’

‘Do these names mean nothing to you? Sarvic? Achista the Huntress? Addic? Oribas of Aulia? We fought together, all of us.’

Another shout came from deeper in the trees and now the Marroc facing Gallow backed away. ‘You want to fight for Valaric, forkbeard? Now’s your chance.’ He circled them and then was away, bounding through the trees with his friends. The Lhosir riders had come. There were five of them now and Gallow wondered whether the sixth was dead but then caught sight of him cantering through the water meadows back the way they’d come. The horn sounded again. Mirrahj started as if to run but Gallow shook his head. He pushed her down, crept behind a tree and put a finger to his lips.

‘Fan out and find the Foxbeard. Never mind the sheep.’ The Lhosir began to move into the trees, slow and cautious. With luck the first pair would die quickly and then it
would be three on two and he’d finally find out whether this Vathan woman could fight as well as she said.

Find the Foxbeard
. So they knew who they were chasing. Had they followed him all the way from Andhun? He pressed himself against the bark, letting the trunk of the tree shield him from the Lhosir. They’d do what they always did, fan out until they were a dozen paces apart and walk in a line, scaring up everything in their path. In the dead of night you could still hide when a search line like that came past, but not in the middle of the day.

Only one way to find out how far they’d come. Cripple one instead of kill him and then ask.

He could hear them getting closer, each careful pace. The
swish
of a caught branch as a man tried to duck beneath it. The crack of a dead twig, the squelch of a boot in the soft earth, the
clink
of a careless shield on mail. He waited until a Lhosir was about to step past the tree where he hid, then struck low and fast and hard, spinning out from where he crouched and slashing with his axe. Legs and feet, they were the weakness he’d learned in his years in the battle lines. His axe hit the Lhosir below the knee, snapping his shin and slicing it in two. The Lhosir screamed and dropped like he’d been hit by a stone, but Gallow was already up and moving, racing at the next; and even as he did he heard a second scream from behind. Mirrahj, and it was a scream of bloody fury.

He had two Lhosir in front of him. He charged at the nearest but the man was quick and had his shield round fast. They smashed into each other and staggered apart, and then the other Lhosir was at the first one’s side and Gallow was facing two, shields overlapped, closing on him with the length of their spears against his axe.

‘Forkbeard!’ He didn’t dare look back but he heard the rush of footsteps. ‘On your knees, forkbeard!’ He dropped to a crouch and then fell forward as a weight crunched into
his back and sprang over his head, and there was Mirrahj, in the air between him and the other Lhosir, and for a moment they were too surprised to raise their shields. She rammed her spear into one of them, straight into his face. ‘Behind you, forkbeard!’

He picked himself up. The second Lhosir jabbed at Mirrahj as she levered herself away from the first. Gallow saw the metal blade of his spear flash past her knee but by then there was another warrior almost on him. He stayed low, flicked his axe in an arc and let it go to fly at the Lhosir’s legs and then sprang at him. The man jumped, letting the axe spin past him, and lunged. Gallow caught the thrust on his shield and turned it, and then he was inside the man’s guard with a sword in his hand and a moment later he had it jammed through the Lhosir’s throat. He let his eyes linger on the face for a moment in case it was someone he knew, but no: a young face, barely old enough to have a proper beard.

When he turned back again, the fourth Lhosir was running. Gallow let him go. Mirrahj was limping but she still held her shield and her spear high. When he looked for the last of them, he found the body close to where she’d been hiding, a great bloody pool over his chest. She’d stayed exactly where she was and waited, and then rammed her spear up under his chin, straight into his skull. Another face he didn’t know.

‘Medrin sends children to kill us.’ He spat and went back to the Lhosir whose leg he’d shattered. That one would talk. One thing was answered already, though: the Vathan woman could fight.

16

SOUTHWARD

U
p in their tree neither of them got much rest. They were cold and sodden and miserable and sorry for themselves when the sun rose but at least they weren’t dead. Reddic almost had to force his legs to move again when the light finally drove the ghuldogs away. They weren’t happy about it but slunk off, often looking back, sniffing the earth around the trees as though remembering who he was. Reddic watched long after they were gone before he finally jumped down. He landed hard and fell, and the jolt sent such a shock of pain through his arm that he cried out and for a moment couldn’t move. His elbow was so swollen he couldn’t bend it at all without feeling like he was being stabbed by hot needles. Jelira was little better. She could hardly keep her eyes open, and when she let herself slide out of the branches, she fell more than jumped. He tried to catch her and they sprawled among the mud and the hard roots of the trees, knocking his arm again. He lay there curled up, cradling his elbow for a while. When the pain finally died down enough for him to think again, he eased himself out of his furs and looked. Half his arm from shoulder to wrist was bruised. His elbow was purple and swollen to almost twice its proper size. Even touching it burned. There wasn’t any blood though. As far as he could see, the ghuldog’s teeth hadn’t punctured his skin.

He made himself a sling, then slowly and painstakingly pulled on his furs again and turned to Jelira. ‘Can you walk?’

She nodded and so they set slowly off back the way they had come. Jelira leaned on his spear more and more but they were almost halfway back to the caves before she stumbled and fell and couldn’t get up again and Reddic had to carry her the rest of the way. It was hard enough getting her over his shoulder with his damaged arm, but it was either carry her, leave her or stay out with her for another night with the ghuldogs. Besides, she was lighter than he’d thought, and carrying her did a strange thing to his heart, as though her very presence gave him strength.

‘Why did you leave?’ he asked as he carried her, and she murmured this and that and none of it made much sense, but it wasn’t like they had much else to talk about and he got it out of her in the end. Yes, she’d gone looking for the forkbeard she’d called her father and yes, she’d been stupid, and yes, she was almost more afraid of the scolding she’d get when they got back to the caves than she’d been of the ghuldogs.

They stopped a lot. He made her drink water and fed her what food he had. Later she managed to walk again for a while, but never for long, and by the time they reached the caves it was almost dark. He staggered across a line of grey sand that someone had laid inside the cave mouth and fell to his knees and dropped her. The other villagers from Middislet were gone, but Arda and Nadric and the children were still there, and the two old Crackmarsh men. They fussed over Jelira and barely noticed Reddic was even there, and it was Arda who finally brought him a bowl of warm water and a pot of beans and barley boiled soft and flavoured with slices of onion and a pinch of Aulian salt. It was the best food he’d had for a long time.

‘You found her. I owe you a debt, boy.’

He laughed. What he should have been thinking about was that he’d saved Jelira’s life, how scared he’d been, whether his elbow would ever heal or that there were ghuldogs not
far away and more than one pack of them too – not to forget the shadewalkers either – but what he was actually thinking was that it wasn’t right that she still called him
boy
now that they’d lain together.

Arda backed away with a snort. ‘Funny, is it?’

Reddic shook his head. But it was.

‘I’ll give you something else to laugh about then. There were shadewalkers here in the night. Two of them. Came right into the cave.’

The smile dropped off his face like an apple off a tree. ‘Where did you run?’

‘Didn’t.’ She went back to the line of grey sand and started poking at where he’d scuffed it, and he suddenly knew that it wasn’t sand but salt.

‘Did it work? Your wizard’s salt?’

Arda nodded. ‘Won’t say we weren’t all shaking scared it wouldn’t. They walked right up to it and looked right at us. Stayed there staring for half the night but they never crossed it. Then they just went.’

‘It does have magic then.’

‘It’s salt, Reddic. Just salt. I put a bit in that stew you’re eating. Nice. Used most of it up on the entrance though.’ She finished with the line across the cave floor. ‘Them two useless old men went out after you did, after I poked and kicked and hid all their spirit and made it plain they’d get no peace from me until they did something useful. Came back screaming their heads off. Shadewalkers. Dozens of them, they said. All heading straight south.’

She looked pleased with herself. Reddic sat straighter. ‘They’re going away from Middislet then. You can go home.’

‘Maybe, but not tonight. We’d best take it in turns to keep awake in case they come back. Make sure they don’t get past.’

Arda stamped away, deeper into the caves and back to Jelira, and when Reddic hauled himself to his feet and went
looking for her, she barely seemed to notice him and he couldn’t think of what to say. He found himself following her from place to place like a lost sheep. As the darkness drew in she turned on him and told him he should get some sleep. ‘Long day tomorrow.’

There were no shadewalkers that night after all and Reddic slept until late in the morning, the first good night of sleep he’d had since Stannic’s farm. He woke and found Jelira sitting beside him, watching, and as soon as he moved she pushed a bowl towards him. ‘Marsh deer stew,’ she said. ‘Morric made it.’ One of the old men, and Reddic wondered whether he’d told her what a ‘marsh deer’ actually was. Probably not. There were no deer in the Crackmarsh. Hardly any animals with any good eating on them at all. What there was was plenty of ghuldogs.

He tasted it. Nodded. ‘Good.’

Jelira smiled at him. ‘Thank you for coming after me.’

There was a part of him that wanted to tell her how stupid it was to run off like that. But even as he was thinking it, he was looking at her and he couldn’t. She wasn’t that much younger than him. A couple of years, that was all. As he watched her, she watched him back and he felt himself blush and looked away. ‘I suppose everyone’s already had a right good time telling you how you shouldn’t have gone off like that.’

The smile wavered. ‘But I want to find him. I know he’s not my father, but he was my da.’

‘It was only a few ghuldogs.’ Which was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever said and Valaric, if he’d heard it, would have hit him. He shuffled across the stone floor of the cave and sat next to her, wanting to be closer. ‘It was a brave thing you did.’ And Valaric would have slapped him for saying that as well. A
stupid
thing, and idiotic and outright selfish perhaps. But brave?

Jelira shook her head. ‘It was stupid.’

And yet here he was, taking her hand and holding it in his and squeezing. ‘Well, maybe a bit of both, but no harm done in the end. We’re all still alive.’

She touched his arm. ‘How is it?’

‘Not so bad.’ By which he meant it still throbbed and ached and was more swollen than before and he certainly didn’t dare move it, not unless he wanted to double up in agony. But not too bad if he simply let it be.

She hugged him and held on to him a while. ‘Thank you.’

‘Jelira! Girl!’ Jelira jumped like she’d bitten by a snake. Arda was staring at them from the mouth of the cave. ‘Finish your eating and bring your walking legs. You too, boy.’

Reddic bristled as Jelira hurried away and left him to finish his stew – and it
was
good, and if you were a Crackmarsh man and you knew what was in it, you soon learned not to let it trouble you when your belly was rumbling. When he finished they were waiting for him outside. Arda looked him over. No smile or anything. ‘Well then,’ she said. ‘Lead the way.’

‘Lead the way where?’

‘Varyxhun. That’s where you’re taking these mules, isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Right then. You’ll be getting some company.’

He wondered why but he didn’t ask. Maybe it was the shadewalkers. When he looked at the two old men they shrugged and looked away as if to say they thought she was mad, that he was mad too and they’d be having nothing to do with it. He ought to be saying something, he knew that, something about how it was a bad idea to cross the Crackmarsh with an old man, a woman and four children, but there was Arda staring at him, waiting for him to get on and do something, and he found he couldn’t move or talk.

‘Or are we waiting for night again and the ghuldogs and the shadewalkers? I know there’s both about but I know
there’s places that are safe too.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Must be, and I reckon you know them, even if these old dodderers say there’s no such thing.’

There were places. Little shelters that the Crackmarsh men had built. He looked about. Glanced at Jelira. Didn’t know why.

‘Well?’

‘What happens after? What happens in Varyxhun?’

‘After?’ Arda’s eyes bored into him. ‘Valaric will pay well for those arrowheads I’m bringing him, that’s what happens in Varyxhun.’

He couldn’t read her face. Couldn’t read it at all.

The crippled Lhosir had a shield with the mark of the Crimson Legion on it – Medrin’s men. He was pale and he’d lost a lot of blood but he was alive. Gallow picked him up off the ground and slammed him against a tree. ‘Where’s Medrin?’

‘You’re the Foxbeard?’

‘Some call me that. Heard of me, have you?’

The Lhosir’s eyes flickered and he glanced at Mirrahj and spat. ‘The
nioingr
who lies with the sheep.’

‘You have my name. What’s yours?’

‘Forris Silverborn. For now.’

Gallow smiled. The Lhosir was young like the rest and hadn’t yet done anything worthy enough to earn a name of his own. Silverborn meant he had riches in his family, that was all. Plunder from the Marroc, most likely. ‘Were you even born when the Screambreaker first crossed the sea, Forris Silverborn?’

‘
Nioingr. Nioingr. Nioingr
.’

Said three times, which meant they had to fight, and Silverborn could barely hop, which made it nothing more than a rude demand to die. Gallow slapped him. ‘You don’t end that easily, Silverborn. And is that truly what you want?
To bleed out in the middle of this swamp where no one will ever find you except maybe a Marroc who’ll laugh and piss on your corpse? No one to speak you out?’

‘I know what I’ve done, Foxbeard. I don’t need a reminder.’

‘Do you now? And what
have
you done, Forris Silverborn?’ He let that hang between them. ‘Where’s Medrin? Still in Andhun? I bet he isn’t. On his way to Varyxhun yet?’ Silverborn shook his head but there was a look about him as though he’d seen the king not so long ago, as if Gallow was close to the mark. And then there was the shield. Gallow hit him. ‘The Maker-Devourer has no place for lies, Silverborn.’

‘He’s looking for you, Foxbeard. If you want to find him, all you have to do is stand in one place for long enough.’ Silverborn stopped and looked up, suddenly staring into the trees behind Gallow. Gallow craned his head around. Away among the shadows stood two Marroc with bows drawn back and arrows ready.

‘Turn round and face me!’ snapped the closer of the Marroc. ‘Hands where I can see them, and keep still or I’ll poke your liver with my iron.’

Gallow glanced at his shield, leaning against a tree. These were the Marroc who’d shot him once and made him bleed through his mail, the Marroc with the Vathan arrows, and they were closer now, much closer. Beside him Mirrahj gripped her spear. She was limping from the slash on her knee. Gallow gave a little shake of his head. The first Marroc took a few cautious steps closer and slowly lowered his bow. ‘You were the forkbeard at Witches’ Reach. You’re the one who killed the iron devil.’ He waved to the other and sniggered. ‘Gallow Addlewits, that’s what Valaric called you.’ He looked at Mirrahj. ‘Why is there a Vathan in the Crackmarsh?’

‘We’re after Sixfingers.’

The Marroc shook his head. ‘No Vathan in the
Crackmarsh.’ He lifted his bow again and Mirrahj moved like a pouncing cat. She threw herself sideways and rolled behind her shield just as the Marroc’s arrow struck it, quivering in the wood. She crouched behind it with her javelot poised, hidden except for her helm, ready to spring. Gallow jumped between them. ‘No!’

The Marroc both had their bows drawn back. ‘No Vathan in the Crackmarsh. Valaric says.’

‘He’s just another forkbeard,’ snarled the other archer. ‘Shoot him and I’ll do the woman.’

‘Shut your hole, Remic! No one shoots anyone.’ The first Marroc narrowed his eyes.

The second laughed, and as he did, Mirrahj sprang. The first let out a startled cry but all there was to see of Mirrahj was her shield. His arrow struck wood and then she landed on him, knocking him flat. Gallow leaped forward as the second loosed his shaft. Mirrahj’s head jerked sideways and she stumbled a moment, then she had the tip of her javelot pressed to the throat of the archer on the ground. Gallow crouched behind his shield as the second Marroc trained yet another arrow on him. ‘Forkbeard! I don’t care what anyone says you did, you’re all the same!’

‘Move and your friend’s blood feeds this swamp,’ hissed Mirrahj.

Gallow kept his eyes on the Marroc with the bow. ‘Remic, is it? Weren’t you with Valaric at Witches’ Reach? We mean to cross the Crackmarsh, nothing more.’

‘No.’

There was a moment before he let the arrow go. Gallow saw it in his eyes, the slightest narrowing in the set of his face as a resolve and a belief settled there. Even as his fingers slipped off the bowstring, Gallow ducked and raised his shield. The arrow thudded into its rim exactly where his eyes had been a second ago. The Marroc on the ground let out a piercing cry of anguish, cut off as soon as it started into
a lingering dying gurgle. The archer reached for another arrow. Gallow turned his head, caught in indecision, looking at Mirrahj, but the Marroc on the ground was already bleeding out from where her javelot had ripped his throat.