‘Major!’ the young soldier called as he moved between the Menin and his comrades, his hand still on his sword. ‘You are paroled under honour — stow your weapons.’
‘The only word you’ve had,’ Amber said slowly, ‘is that of some fucking necromancer. I got no honour left.’
His escort hesitated; he hadn’t been part of the discussion Nai had had with his captain.
Amber began to slip one scimitar from its scabbard, planning his first strike and parry in his mind, when one of the locals at the bar spoke up.
‘Give him a damn beer.’ The speaker was a good decade or two older than Amber, and not from these parts, by his accent. The whole room stared at him in surprise until he lifted his head and looked back at them. Amber saw a weathered face and a white collar to his tunic; there was no fear in the man’s eyes, just irritation and weariness. He had his jacket draped over his shoulders and when he shifted round Amber saw the left sleeve of his tunic hung empty.
‘You hear me? Put your bloody swords away and give the man a drink. I’ll even pay if you children start playin’ nice.’
Amber glanced at the barkeep and saw him deflate. He lowered his sword and grabbed a mug instead. The Menin nodded and relaxed his own grip, slung the baldric back up on his shoulder and took the nearest stool. He grunted as a mug of beer was dumped in front of him and reached into his jacket, but the older man had already tossed a coin onto the bar.
‘I can pay.’
‘Said I was payin’, friend.’
Amber took a long drink and turned his head. ‘I ain’t your friend.’
The old man snorted. ‘Reckon I’m the best you got right now. Unless some necromancer counts.’
Amber tried to think of a real friend who might still be alive and felt a fresh ache blossom behind his eyes. He put his elbows on the bar and hunched over his beer, running a hand over his tangled hair to cover the pain on his face.
‘Aye, as I thought.’ The old man pulled out a tobacco pouch and set it on the bar, removed a battered wooden pipe from it and tried to fill it one-handed. The pipe slipped from under his hand and scattered shreds of tobacco over the sticky bar top.
‘Mind helping an old veteran?’ he said, waving the pipe at Amber, who scowled, but took it and quickly filled it. ‘Thanks, friend.’ The old man jammed it in the corner of his mouth and lit it with a taper.
‘I ain’t your friend.’ Amber finished the beer and gestured for another one. When the barkeep took the mug off him he glanced at his companion’s. It was nearly empty, so he pointed to that too.
‘I know you’re not,’ the old man said quietly. Amber felt a familiar flicker in his gut, but the old man did nothing more than take a swig of beer before continuing, ‘Truth be told, I hate you fucking Menin, and if I find my way t’Moorview I’ll piss on your lord’s grave there.’
Amber’s hand clenched. ‘One word more and you’ll never make the journey.’ There was murder in his voice.
The old man recognised it sure enough. He went still, but his demeanor was not that of a frightened man; Amber recognised it only too well: this was a man with nothing more to lose.
‘Reckon you’re right there,’ the old man said carefully. ‘Don’t expect me t’sing his praises, though. Man took my boy from me, sent him straight t’the Dark Place.’
There was something in the way he said it that made Amber hesitate. Veterans weren’t prone to theatricality, but it was a strange expression to use idly.
‘Your boy?’
‘Aye.’ The old man’s hand shook a little as he drew hard on his pipe, but the smoke seemed to help him recover. ‘Not by blood, but I raised him.’
‘White-eye?’
The old man nodded.
Amber shook his head in disbelief. ‘I heard about that — didn’t see it myself; I’d been knocked out by then. Way I heard it, he went defiant to the last, goaded my lord even when he was beaten.’
The old man smiled sadly. ‘Aye, that’d be just like the little bastard. As wilful as the storm he was sometimes, as great as any God at others.’
Amber was silent for a while, unable to think of what to say to the man who’d loved Isak Stormcaller as a son. He finished his drink and bought another round, feeling the tension in his head slowly start to ease as alcohol softened the jangle of his thoughts.
‘What brings you this way then?’ he asked eventually. ‘I didn’t see a Farlan army out here and you’re no nobleman. Why’d you travel all the way out here?’
The old man gave a bitter laugh. ‘There’s nothing for me back home. My closest friends are out this way; joined up with King Emin, or dead. Those back home are only interested in keepin’ out of any war. I’ve seen too much to hold my tongue around cowards like that.’
‘So you’ve got nothing left,’ Amber said with empathy.
The old man snorted and raised his mug in mock salute. ‘Here’s to the broken, you and me both. Ain’t nothing can help us now, ’cept drinking our way to an early grave, mebbe.’
‘Aye. Strange that.’
‘Eh? What’s strange?
Amber rubbed a hand over his face, stubble rasping against his palm. ‘Me, all broken. There’s a man back home, got wounded in the head years back. Man was frightened o’ his own shadow before that day, but when he came round he was changed. Forgot who he was-’ He shuddered, and screwed his eyes up tight shut. It took a while to pass, but the old man waited it out patiently, and when Amber at last blinked away the stars he saw under standing in his eyes.
‘He forgot where he’d come from,’ Amber recommenced hoarsely, ‘forgot everything about his life ’cos of that injury, and he forgot how to be afraid too. He got called Frost after that — his hair had turned as white as snow. Every time he went to sleep he forgot everything that’d happened to him the previous day — he could remember places and things, but not who he’d met, where he’d been or what he’d done his whole life. He needed a protector, so he got assigned a veteran who’d seen one too many fights.
‘Turned out they helped each other, so when the veteran recovered, Frost got another broken protector assigned, and he helped him too. The man’s got a quiet way about him, they say. He’s almost a myth back home these days. Supposedly you can’t lie to Frost; he’s so innocent he walks with the blessing o’ the Gods.’
Amber sighed and shook his head, exhaustion suddenly catching up with him. ‘Somehow my lord knew I’d end up this way. He trusted me with some o’ his most dangerous missions — he thought me strong enough for that — but something told him I’d end up broken, so he said there’d always be a place for me with Frost. If I ever get home, I’ll go and find him, maybe. Make sure my lord’s promise to him is kept.’
The old man stared away into nothing.
Amber concentrated on his beer, but he could see the glowing embers of the veteran’s pipe wavering uncertainly in his peripheral vision. Another round was bought, but the old man just stared at his drink, not touching it as Amber raised his in silent toast.
At last the old man turned in his seat and offered his hand.
‘Name’s Carel. Marshal Betyn Carelfolden of Etinn, properly, but that’s all just so much piss, between you an’ me.’
Amber nodded and took the man’s arm. ‘Amber,’ he said. ‘Just Amber now.’
To Lord Fernal it looked like the stone walled town had been breeding in the night. A pair of staggered defensive earthworks now stood on either side of Borderkeep, the southernmost of Helrect’s major towns, and a small fort at the western end of the town commanded an uninterrupted view of the vast grassy plains to the south and, more importantly, the roads that cut through them. Behind each set of earthworks was a village of tents for the soldiers stationed there, brightly coloured banners marking the territory of each suzerain and count in attendance.
Since the collapse of the White Circle, Helrect had suffered a chaotic struggle for power among the noble families. With many of the most powerful tainted by White Circle associations or weakened by the fall of Scree, those unable to defend their positions had been murdered or cowed into submission and their lands stolen.
