The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (55 page)

‘Fuck me,’ said Glenwood from the other side of the fire. The forger had obviously fallen asleep, despite being on watch, and now he looked at his companion with disbelieving eyes. ‘What are you, Rham Jas?’

The Kirin didn’t answer and let out a wail of pain as his wrist began to take form. He was grasping the forearm so tightly that his fingers were turning the new flesh red and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘I’d try to relax and let it happen,’ offered Dalian, unable to think of any sensible advice. ‘Perhaps pray for an end to your pain. Jaa wouldn’t listen to a godless Kirin, but the One is more... provincial in his outlook.’

Rham Jas glared at the old wind claw and was about to retort when another wave of pain took him and his hand began to reappear.

‘F u c k...’ he said, spluttering out the expletive and elongating each letter. ‘This really hurts.’

Glenwood leant in closer, transfixed by what was taking place in front of his eyes. ‘It’s growing back,’ he said, as if he couldn’t believe it. ‘Your arm is actually growing back... That’s... really strange.’

Rham Jas wriggled and convulsed uncomfortably on the grass as his fingers began to appear. Each digit was black and strangely textured for a moment, before turning into a red-raw version of a normal human finger. When his hand was fully formed, he tried to flex it and doubled over in pain again, wailing like a trapped animal.

‘How is this even possible?’ asked Glenwood, half to the Kirin, half to Dalian.

‘I’ve seen enough of the world to know that I haven’t yet seen everything,’ responded the wind claw. ‘But the simple answer is, I don’t know.’

Rham Jas was breathing heavily and trying to get his newly healed limb to move. He acted as if a bad cramp had gripped his limb and every slight movement caused him agonizing pain.

‘So, does this mean he can’t die?’ asked Glenwood, amazed that he should be asking the question. ‘You’re a religious man, you should have some kind of divine insight into this, Karesian.’

Dalian frowned at the forger and was reminded that the common folk of Tor Funweir had a very different relationship with the Gods than he was used to. ‘My name is Dalian. Please address me as such,’ he said sternly. ‘And I have no insight, divine or otherwise, to give you.’

‘And that risen man, Nanon or whatever he’s called?’ continued the forger.

‘I don’t think he knew the extent of the assassin’s healing abilities either,’ replied the Thief Taker.

‘My name is Rham Jas. Please address me as such,’ mocked the Kirin when he had stopped wailing in pain. He had an exhausted smile on his face, as if he had just awoken from an uncomfortable sleep. Smoothing back his greasy black hair, he panted with a degree of relief. ‘I’m not sure I can convey quite how happy I am to be a whole man again.’ There was a broad grin on his face and he looked much more like the jovial assassin that Dalian remembered.

‘I share your happiness. You wouldn’t be able to kill Saara the Mistress of Pain with only one arm,’ said the Thief Taker, thus reminding the two men of why he had been pursuing them in the first place.

‘When you’re happy, you should smile,’ said Rham Jas cheekily.

‘Silence, boy,’ barked Dalian. ‘Do not mock a man who has recently saved your life.’

Rham Jas hung his head and replied, in the manner of a scolded child, ‘I’m sorry, Dalian.’

‘That’s better. It’s good to know that spending time with my son has not completely robbed you of your manners.’ Dalian needed the assassin, but he wasn’t prepared to tolerate rudeness from the younger man.

‘Yes, Dalian,’ said Rham Jas, with a shallow nod of his head.

Glenwood looked confused. ‘Is there something I should know about you two?’ he asked with a wry sneer. ‘Are you ex-lovers or something?’

The assassin winced, trying to convey just how unwise it was to insult the greatest of the wind claws. ‘Sorry, Dalian,’ he offered. ‘He doesn’t know who you are.’

‘I am far too old to beat a young man of the One God simply for rudeness... though your clerics have a lot to answer for if they allow you to address your betters in such a disrespectful way.’ His dark eyes cut into Glenwood.

A sound from the darkness alerted all three of them and Dalian quickly stood up.

‘Their god is... changeable, compared to yours,’ said Nanon, stepping into the firelight.

The forest-dweller was smiling and was evidently none the worse for having stayed behind in Leith. How he had caught up with them so quickly was anyone’s guess, but Dalian couldn’t discount the possibility that the strange creature had merely taken another shape that allowed swift pursuit.

‘How’s the arm, Kirin man?’ he asked Rham Jas.

The assassin returned the smile and wiggled his new fingers. ‘All better... bizarre as it may sound,’ he replied.

‘You’re a dark-blood, so it can’t be totally unexpected,’ said the forest-dweller, retrieving a curved scabbard from his hip ‘You’ll probably want this back.’ Nanon threw the sheathed katana across the small camp to land in Rham Jas’s lap. ‘I had to go back for it. After all, it was a present from your wife.’

CHAPTER 9

He slept fitfully, waking each hour or so in a clammy sweat to soaking bed sheets and total darkness. Each time the dreams forced him from sleep he hoped that morning would come, and each time he was disappointed. The hall of Tiergarten was kept warm by fire-pits and flaming braziers that dotted the stone corridors, but the warrior needed peace as well as warmth for a restful sleep, and he felt he would know little peace until Timon the Butcher returned.

Tricken Ice Fang, the chain-master, estimated that the lordling Kalag Ursa and his battle-brothers would reach Tiergarten in a day at the most, leaving little room for error in Alahan’s plan for their defence. There were still tough and loyal men, and no few axe-maidens, ready to die on the walls of their city, but he wanted to achieve more than a glorious last stand.

As he dreamt, the voice of Magnus’s shade echoed through his mind. ‘You are troubled, exemplar,’ said the shade, a strange and seamless melding of his uncle and something else.

‘I worry that there are many unknowns,’ replied Alahan, uncertain whether he was asleep or awake. ‘I worry that Tiergarten will fall.’ He paused and thought about Timon and the task he’d been set. ‘And I worry that I’ve sent my friend to his death.’

He felt the enormity of the shade’s presence step into his consciousness, and a strange, light-headed sensation suggested the apparition was thinking on Alahan’s words.

‘Death is the only thing of which you can be sure,’ was the cryptic reply.

‘That isn’t enough,’ said the stubborn young warrior. ‘I don’t accept that we all have to die... not here, not now, not while I’m still alive and can swing an axe.’

‘And your allies?’ asked the shade.

Alahan had grown more accustomed to the strange presence in his mind, but his head still throbbed whenever he beheld the incorporeal image of his uncle.

‘I have few,’ he responded.

‘You have more than you know, exemplar.’ The words were spoken knowingly and were slightly barbed, as if the shade had inherited some of Magnus’s impatience. ‘The Ice Father can no longer commune directly with his followers, but their stubborn refusal to lie down and die has brought you loyal and hardened battle-brothers... and sisters. Even now they try to contact you.’

‘Unless they’re hiding somewhere in Tiergarten, they’re of little use to me.’ The comment was glib and Alahan regretted it as soon as the words had formed.

In a show of annoyance, the shade stood tall in the young thain’s mind. ‘Think not only of the instant, exemplar... you are a soldier of the Long War,’ boomed Magnus.

‘What do you want from me?’ replied Alahan. ‘I have no army and no hall. I’m an errant thain at best.’

‘You are the exemplar of Rowanoco,’ roared the shade, causing pain to erupt in Alahan’s mind.

He awoke sharply. The thick, bear-skin blanket was wet with sweat and he was panting rapidly. A quick look at the outer window showed the barest glimmer of blue cresting the horizon. He had spoken with the shade of Magnus a number of times over the past few weeks and each time the exchange had left him with more questions than answers. All that was clear was that the Ice Giant had lost the ability to contact his followers directly and was roaring his instructions from somewhere in his halls beyond the world. Rowanoco’s anger had been sufficient to prevent Father Magnus Forkbeard leaving the lands of men entirely, and he now functioned as a sort of interpreter, trapped between worlds, passing on advice to the exemplar.

The empty space on the floor where Timon had slept made Alahan feel the weight of what he had asked his friend to do. That the berserker of Varorg had not questioned the plan, but had acted with absolute trust, made him feel worse, as if he had manipulated the simple man of the Low Kast into a course that could mean his death. He’d had no other option, but he would greatly regret Timon’s death.

Dressing quickly in his moulded leather armour and heavy wolf-skin cloak, he retrieved his weaponry and stepped into the cold and empty corridors of Aleph Summer Wolf’s hall. He placed his two hand-axes on his belt and slung his battleaxe across his back, instantly feeling better for being armed and armoured.

There were no guards in the corridors and the large stone building was cavernous and empty. The walls were bare, without tapestries or trophies of war. The winding passageways functioned as living quarters for the city’s lords and Alahan wondered whose bedroom he had borrowed. As he made his way to the great hall, he felt a tingle at the back of his mind and stopped walking. He had come to accept the pain that accompanied talking to the shade, but this sensation was different, softer somehow, and he turned sharply. He headed towards Oreck’s Spire, the tower that contained the cloud-stone of Tiergarten.

He passed no one on his way and had only the sound of his armour and the whistling wind for company. Beyond the master suite, used by the city’s thain, was a winding stone staircase that led directly upwards. As he stood at its foot, he was greeted with a biting chill that travelled sharply downwards and reminded him that winter in Fjorlan was as harsh as a grumpy troll. The realm of Summer Wolf was considered the least inhospitable part of Fjorlan and it contained more farms and livestock than the other realms put together, but even here the winds were unforgiving.

Pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders and placing his hands across his chest, Alahan began to walk up the steep stone steps. They circled round a central stone column that rose from the back of the hall. The spire itself was not visible from the rest of the city and was accessible only to the thain of Tiergarten and his axe-masters.

The wind continued to bite as he ascended Oreck’s Spire and the temperature dropped even further once he had emerged at the top. The platform was circular, protected against the wind by nothing more than low walls and arches, which left the top completely exposed. In the middle of the small space was a plinth upon which sat the cloud-stone of Summer Wolf, and an ever-burning torch provided the only warmth and light.

A figure huddled next to the torch surprised him. A pipe protruded from the hood that covered the figure’s face. Whoever it was, was small and frail, with gnarled hands shivering against the cold as they touched a small taper to the bowl of the pipe.

‘Greetings, young man,’ said a female voice from under the grey hood. ‘I am Runa Grim, cloud-mistress of Tiergarten. How may I help you?’ The old woman raised her head to reveal sparkling blue eyes and a face that couldn’t be much less than a hundred years old.

‘Cloud-mistress?’ queried Alahan. ‘I thought all of your order were dead and gone.’

Runa chuckled and took a deep puff of her pipe. ‘We will be when I am gone. I’m the last.’

‘There hasn’t been a cloud-mistress in Fredericksand for fifty years or more...’ He had heard stories of old women tasked with interpreting the visions received through cloud-stones, but had not expected to find one residing in Tiergarten. ‘Well, mother Grim, I am Alahan Teardrop Algesson and I need to use the stone.’

‘A thain, no less?’ said the frail old woman, her blue eyes scanning his face. ‘That explains the visions.’

‘The visions...?’ he began, stepping closer to the torch.

‘A one-eyed maiden and an enraged axe-man seek your counsel. They are far away and desire to speak to you for very different reasons. Step closer to the stone, Alahan Teardrop,’ she said with a smile.

He turned away from her and approached the cloud-stone of Tiergarten. It was milky white in colour and the size of a man’s head. Its surface shifted and pulsated in the manner of waves crashing against rocks. Deep within it, Alahan glimpsed far-off places and people, some dead, some not yet born, and he sensed that the stone was one of the oldest in all of Ranen. As he peered into its white depths, he saw faces come into clearer focus and the unmistakable skyline of Jarvik, the city of Ursa.

The cloud-stone whirled and spiralled, pulling Alahan further and further into it, until he could make out a specific face. Bearded and battle-worn, he saw the comforting face of Wulfrick, axe-master of Fredericksand.