T’riss reined in. ‘I smell blood.’
The words chilled Faror. The men she could see were all dressed in light grey robes, hitched up round their legs to reveal supple sheaths of leather armour cladding their thighs, knees and shins. The bulk of their upper bodies hinted at more of the same beneath the thin wool. Single-bladed axes hung from rope belts at their hips. The men were bareheaded, their hair shaggy, wild.
A dozen or so were busy digging graves, while others slowly converged upon that impromptu burial ground, dragging corpses splashed in blood.
T’riss pointed at one of the dead bodies. ‘Outlaws?’
Faror Hend nodded. Two robed figures were approaching. The larger of the two by far was thick-limbed, the muscles of his shoulders slung down as if by their own weight. His nose, twisted and flattened, dominated his weathered face, but the blue eyes were bright as they fixed on T’riss’s mount. Lying across this man’s broad back was a two-handed axe, single-bladed and spiked, over which he rested his hands.
His companion was almost effete in comparison, his skin pale and his features watery in the manner of the oft-ill. The short axe tucked behind his belt bore a shattered haft, and the man’s forearms were almost black with blood up to the elbows.
‘Death rides their breath,’ T’riss said in a cool voice. ‘Are these your kin?’
‘Monks of the Yannis Monastery,’ Faror replied. ‘We are within the demesne of Mother Dark. This is Kurald Galain.’
‘They took no prisoners.’
Close to thirty slain outlaws — men, women and children — now lay beside the gravediggers. Off to one side of the pond, a makeshift village pushed through the trees, shacks like open sores, doorways gaping, possessions abandoned. Woodsmoke drifted.
The smaller of the two monks spoke to Faror, ‘Warden, your arrival is well timed. Had you come here yesterday, you’d be the sport of little boys by now. I am Lieutenant Caplo Dreem, commanding this troop of Yan Shake. And this drooling fool at my side is Warlock Resh.’
Resh addressed T’riss, his voice melodious, like water on stone. ‘Welcome, Azathanai. That is a fine horse you’ve made, but I wonder, can you hear its screams?’
T’riss turned to Faror Hend and her expression was grave. ‘It seems that I shall be delayed somewhat in my journey to Kharkanas.’
‘Not too long I should imagine,’ the warlock said. ‘Yan Shake is on the way to the Wise City, after all.’
Faror Hend straightened. ‘Excuse me, but this woman is in my charge. I will deliver her to Kharkanas, and without delay.’
Caplo cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. ‘Your pardon, but you must be Faror Hend. Calat has fifty Wardens out looking for you, not to mention Kagamandra Tulas, who happened to be visiting your commander’s camp. Your presence is required by your commander, at once. To any who might come upon you, such was the message you were to receive.’
‘This guest,’ said Resh, with little in the way of welcome in his eyes as they held unwavering upon T’riss, ‘is now under the protection of the Yan Shake.’
‘I will convey my protest to Calat Hustain,’ said Faror Hend, furious — but it was the best she could manage, so confounded were her thoughts. Kagamandra Tulas? Has he come for me? How dare he! I am a Warden of the Outer Reaches, not some wayward child!
T’riss spoke to her. ‘My friend, it seems that we must part. For your company, I thank you.’
‘This sits well with you?’ Faror asked her, hands tight on the saddle horn to still their tremble.
‘If I tire of their company, I will continue on to Kharkanas, to meet Mother Dark. With respect to my person, I am safe enough. This warlock thinks much of himself, but he poses no threat to me.’
Caplo coughed. ‘Excuse me, but please, there is no threat in any of this. We are returning south, and without question Mother Sheccanto Derran will wish to meet this Azathanai, thus requiring a brief stay in Yan Shake. It is but a courtesy, I assure you.’
‘You’d best keep it so,’ Faror snapped.
T’riss was now studying the lieutenant. ‘I see you are well acquainted with blood, sir.’
‘I am, Azathanai. This band of cut-throats have well earned their fate, I assure you. Unpleasant tasks-’
‘And the children?’ T’riss asked. ‘Were they too cut-throats?’
‘Clay in twisted hands,’ Caplo replied. ‘They fought alongside their kin. The newborn were slain by their own, when we would have welcomed such waifs into our monastery.’
‘Despair raises high walls,’ Resh said, shrugging. ‘Lieutenant, the Azathanai spoke in truth. She has immense sorcery within her, like a child waiting to be born. Best not twist her hands.’
‘We shall display the utmost courtesy.’
‘Then I shall ask of you a favour,’ T’riss said to Caplo. ‘Provide Faror Hend with an escort, and perhaps a fresher horse. I would no harm come to her now that she must return to her camp.’
‘Unnecessary,’ Faror said. ‘But thank you, T’riss-’
‘T’riss!’ grunted the warlock, eyes widening. ‘No gift from the Vitr, this woman!’
Faror Hend sighed, ‘And in your denial you reveal what?’ She faced Caplo again. ‘Lieutenant, in the message you received from the Wardens, was there word of Captain Finarra Stone?’
‘Yes. She will recover. But if there is cause for concern now, it must be for your betrothed, who rides with haste to the very shore of the Vitr itself.’
‘That is his decision.’ Even as she said it, she saw Caplo’s brows lift.
‘Be assured that he does not do so alone,’ the lieutenant continued, once again looking embarrassed. ‘A troop of Wardens accompany him, as does Sharenas Ankhadu.’
‘Sharenas Ankhadu?’
‘Your commander entertained guests — I am sure I mentioned that, did I not? No matter. We met Captain Hunn Raal upon the road, as he rode with three spare mounts for Kharkanas. Of his mission, alas, we know nothing.’ But now his innocent gaze settled upon T’riss, and then he smiled.
Abyss take all these games! ‘Was there word of Captain Finarra Stone’s companion?’
‘Safe and sound, I understand, though physically restrained from riding out in search of you.’
She thought she hid well her reaction to that, but then Resh said, ‘A cousin, yes? This thickness of blood so inspires.’ In his tone there was both amusement and faint derision.
Caplo cleared his throat. ‘In any case, do rest with us this night, Warden. I see you are near to collapse-’
‘I am well enough.’
‘Spare pity for your horse, then, who so quivers beneath you.’
She studied him, but his innocent expression did not waver, not for an instant. ‘I dislike sleeping in a place of close death.’
‘As do we all, but our warlock here will see to the quelling of despairing spirits. None of us will succumb to fevers of the soul-’
‘No matter how stained your hands,’ T’riss cut in, dismounting and, ignoring them all, walking towards the water. ‘It flows quiet,’ she murmured, ‘does it not?’ Throwing off her makeshift garments, she strode naked into the water.
Faror Hend asked, ‘Must you gape so, lieutenant?’
The shacks were torn down to provide firewood for the cookfires. Meals were prepared while monks went in twos and threes into the water, to bathe away the day’s slaughter. None seemed too concerned if there was blood in the water they then drank. With a young monk attending to her horse, Faror Hend accepted the offer of a spare tent and made her own camp a short distance from the others. She had not yet decided if she liked Caplo Dreem. Warlock Resh, on the other hand, was a man used to his size. There were people, men and women both, who lived awkwardly in their selves, whether timorous of the space they took, or imagining themselves other than what they were and so prone to colliding with or breaking things. In the manner of walking was revealed a host of truths.
In the outlier camps of the Wardens, where so many misfits found a home, Faror often took note of their diffident first arrival, carrying with them the wounds of isolation, ridicule or social neglect; only to see that frailty gradually fall away as each, in time, found welcome. Confidence was a seed that could grow in any soil, no matter
