Lyrna folded her hands into her gown, unwilling to let him see how they clenched in suppressed anger. “If you have intelligence on the enemy’s designs, I would hear it.”
“She would come to me sometimes, down in that cavern of horrors where they carved their binding into my flesh. She asked questions mostly, testing my knowledge of history, my experience of command. I expected her to force from me every secret I held regarding the Faith and the Realm, but it soon became apparent she knew more than I did. It also became apparent that she is quite mad, an inevitable consequence of centuries spent in service to the Ally.” He lowered his head for a moment, eyes closed and breathing suddenly shallow. “Even a brief exposure is the harshest trial.”
“What will she do next?”
“Formulate another plan to kill you, I expect. She seems to find you greatly irksome. ‘I have birthed a thousand vengeful souls, but none so troublesome as this fire-breathing bitch.’”
“How many more Arisai does she have?”
“Perhaps seven thousand. Plus another eighty thousand Varitai and Free Swords.”
Lyrna glanced at Verin’s hands, confirming he gave the sign for truth. Though she has hidden lies in truth before, and I failed to see it. She said, “I had assumed there would be more.”
“The war in the Realm swallowed the bulk of their best troops and discord grows in every corner of the empire. New Kethia has fallen to a slave rebellion, inspiring revolts across the provinces. She also seemed preoccupied with some mission to the north. She had me execute a senior general for questioning the wisdom of sending more troops there.”
A mission to the north . . . Vaelin. He made it across the ice. A small smile played over her lips. Of course he did.
“Tell me more,” she said, “of this discord.”
CHAPTER THREE
Vaelin
The tribesman’s name was either Hirkran or Red Axe; they seemed to be interchangeable given the frequency with which Erlin used them. “He’s lost three sons to the Volarians,” he reported. “One taken as a slave years ago, the other two in the last week.”
“He’s chieftain of these . . . Othra?” Vaelin asked.
Erlin shook his head. “Red Axe is an honorific, a title given to the tribe’s principal warrior. ‘Champion’ would be a better translation. And the Othra are but one of six tribes sheltering here. Every chieftain died in the fighting. He doesn’t speak for all.”
“Does he know if the others will fight with us?”
Erlin related the question to Hirkran, who cast a stern glance back at the cave where the gathered tribesfolk lurked in the shadows, all eyes apparently intent on this meeting.
“He isn’t sure,” Erlin translated. “Some won’t simply because the Othra will. Some will stay here and piss themselves forever.”
“Can he guide us to the Volarians?”
Hirkran gave a long pause before answering, his gaze fixed on Vaelin. “He will but first he insists on being named leader of the army.”
Lorkan, who stood nearby with his cat, gave a derisive snort provoking the tribesman to a snarl, starting forward with an upraised axe. Vaelin stepped deliberately between them as the cat crouched, teeth bared in a hiss. He had noticed Lorkan’s courage had increased considerably since acquiring the beast.
“He has a reason for asking this, I assume?” he asked Erlin as Hirkran continued to glower.
“These people respect only strength. If he is not named leader, they will see him as merely vassal to a foreigner, meaning he’ll face an instant challenge from a younger rival. You could call it a ceremonial title if you like. These are their lands, Vaelin. Diminished as they are, they still deserve your respect.”
Vaelin looked at the ragged figures shifting in the gloom of the cave, younger folk clutching weapons whilst the children gathered around the elderly. Each half-shadowed face bore the dirt and grime of days spent fighting for life; many were plainly exhausted and slumped by the pain of recent wounds. But he saw there was still a defiance in their eyes, even the youngsters. They might have been beaten, but were hardly defeated.
“Tell me what to say,” he told Erlin.
• • •
Hirkran tracked a winding course southward along a tall ridge, six of his warriors scouting ahead. Vaelin followed with Erlin, Kiral and Astorek. The scouting mission could have been avoided if he had agreed to let Dahrena fly once again but one look at her still-wan features caused him to voice a stern refusal.
“I would remind you, my lord,” she grated, “I hold no formal rank in this army and am, in fact, free to do as I wish.”
“And I am free to employ any one of the several methods at my disposal to render you unconscious without injury,” Vaelin replied. “You will stay here and rest, my lady.”
She had scowled and walked away, Mishara providing clear illustration of her feelings with a brief hiss before bounding off to pad alongside.
They had covered perhaps eight miles when Hirkran called a halt, Vaelin noting how Astorek’s wolves had taken on a more cautious gait, keeping low among the craggy spine of the ridge and pausing frequently to sniff the air. They were clearly a disconcerting presence for Hirkran and his people, though from their carefully observed indifference, he discerned outward displays of fear were seen as a great disgrace.
Hirkran lowered himself to a crouch and made for the edge of the ridge, Vaelin crawling alongside. Below them the ridge fell away in a steep cliff, affording a fine view of the valley ahead. It was broad with a flat plain in the centre perhaps a half mile wide, divided by a shallow river. The Volarian host was encamped in a circular perimeter of dense pickets and neatly arranged tents. It seemed the Witch’s Bastard was an efficient general.
Hirkran said something in a terse murmur which Erlin translated as an obscene curse involving the invocation of various ethereal entities as well as an inventive and cannibalistic form of genital mutilation.
“Why would they eat those?” Kiral asked with a distasteful grimace.
“To absorb the strength of an enemy,” Erlin said. “And symbolise the end of his line. The tribes put great stock in having children. An infertile man or woman is seen as a curse and subject to exile, or worse if they’re unwise enough to linger.”
The huntress cast a disgusted glance at the surrounding warriors, muttering, “Savages.”
Hirkran spoke again, gesturing at the Volarian encampment.
“Our leader demands the army be brought here for an immediate attack,” Erlin said. “One he will lead personally. This must be done quickly or the spirits will judge us weak and refuse to help.”
“They expect their gods to help?” Vaelin asked.
“They don’t have gods, as such. They believe these mountains are possessed of souls of their own, either kindly or vindictive according to whim. When the storms come they are angry, when the winter is kind they are pleased. But they always take a dim view of cowardice.”
“And we will be happy to honour them with our courage. But first I must ask what he has seen of these invaders. Particularly those that lead them.”
Hirkran’s face darkened and he looked away before voicing a series of short, grunted answers. “When they came we thought it would be as before,” Erlin related. “They come, we fight them, they steal children, they leave. Sometimes the children can be bought back for copper or fire metal. Mostly not. This time they took children and killed them. They killed everything, even the wild goats and elk. We fought . . .” Hirkran’s face took on a mask-like quality, as if the horrors he had witnessed were beyond expression. “We fought so hard . . . But they were so many, much more than had come before. We did not see who leads them, though the Rotha spoke of seven red men with powers that rivalled the spirits, but they are notorious liars.”
Powers that rivalled the spirits. “Are there any Rotha here?” Vaelin asked, gesturing to the other warriors.
Hirkran spat and made a disgusted noise. “Back at the cave. Their stench dishonours us.”
Vaelin nodded and moved back from the edge, causing Hirkran to bark a question at Erlin. “Where are you going?”
“To muster the army for our mighty leader’s attack. Where else?”
• • •
The Rotha were led by a stocky woman of middling years with a deep matrix of decorative scars carved into the flesh around her eyes. “Mirvald,” she stated when Erlin asked her name, going on to add a few other titles which apparently indicated her status. “She’s a mix of counsellor and shaman, said to have the ability to hear the word of the spirits.”
“She saw the seven red men?” Vaelin asked.
Mirvald eyed Vaelin closely for a second before replying. “The Rotha were the first to feel their wrath. The Seven came to their settlement alone. Because they were strangers the warriors tried to kill them, but were themselves killed. The Seven are not like other men. They move and fight as one, as if each hears the thoughts of the others. Even so the Rotha would have prevailed had they not had other powers. One could kill with a single touch, another had the power to freeze a man’s heart with fear. They killed many Rotha, and then their army came and killed many more.”