chest and watched as it shed off him with tiny sparkles of blue. Wherever it splashed against the slow-running surface, the froth burned with the same ghostly light before it faded away; the strange effect of Calhalee’s Tears, legendary figure of Simmer Lake to the north, from which these waters gained not only heat but these enchanting, eerie properties.
He’d stood in this river once before, as a boy, when his father had brought him here with his younger brother at the insistence of their mother. Then as now, Bull had felt invigorated by the cleansing waters of the sacred river, but nothing more. Perhaps its spiritual properties were all nonsense; or perhaps whatever it was that tainted his spirit was too deep to be washed away by what little faith he possessed.
To the north, on the other side of the river, the forest could be seen as a wall of trees standing black and still beneath the stars. Sharp knocks of woods were sounding from within the tree line, like giant birds pecking holes in their trunks. They were the alarm signals of the Contrare, the free-spirited hunter-gatherers and occasional brigands of the forest. Bull imagined them standing there with their goad faces and their clothes of woven bark, watching them cautiously.
His mother had been one of the Contrare, before she’d married his father, a skins merchant from Bar-Khos, and had moved with him to the city to start a family. Bull had known little about her people, save for the tales told to him at his bedside, and the songs she’d sung when bathing him, and the little superstitions she’d carried with her from her previous life in the forest – like the sign of protection she made at the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightning. Still, his accent bore some of his mother’s voice in it, and his skin was particularly swarthy and his eyes were narrow above high cheekbones. As a boy, people had known what he was – a bark-beater – and many had treated him like a dog because of it.
He was reminded of those hard, painful days of youth as he turned and saw how the soldiers were avoiding the flow of the river directly downstream from him. Now it wasn’t because he was a dirty barkbeater. Now it was because he was the slayer, the killer of their hero Adrianos.
Bull didn’t mind, or so he told himself anyway. Since an early age he’d raged against the jests and cruel indifference of his peers. He’d fought tooth and nail to gain the respect of these Khosians, first as a street brawler and then as a soldier in the Red Guards. Now at least they no longer looked down on him. Aye, now they feared him.
Besides, he was free at last, and that was all that Bull cared about just then. In truth he’d been ready to lose his mind in the confines of that buried cell. Yet here he was, standing thigh-deep in the Chilos river, with the stars bobbing on its surface and Calhalee’s Tears glowing all around him, the scents of the deep forest strong in the night air. If these were to be the last days of his life, Bull could hardly ask for more than this.
He sluiced a last handful of water over his face and shook his hands dry, his disfigured knuckles cracking loudly, ruined after all those years of pit-fighting. For a few moments longer, his eyes lingered on the distant forest. He’d never ventured further than the trading posts along its fringes, yet it was part of him. It was in his blood.
What’s stopping you? Bull asked himself, and could not fathom the answer.
The men of his chartassa file sat around the fire, talking amongst themselves and passing around a skin of wine. Bull said nothing to them, for he knew they wouldn’t heed him. Indeed, as he stood there against the heat of the fire, sweeping his skin dry with his hands, they ceased to talk entirely, and none would look his way.
Bull scowled and wandered off to one of the nearby wagons, his bundle of equipment under an arm and his backpack over his shoulder. Away from the warmth and light of the fire he dressed quickly, though he left his armour balanced against the wagon next to his sheathed shortsword. He pulled the cloak about him and sat with his back against one of the wheels, then searched around in his pack until he found the small vial of mother’s oil. He dabbed a little on his finger, and ran it around his gum where his back teeth were throbbing again, all the while eyeing the men huddled around the fire.
They’re frightened, thought Bull to himself. They know they march to their slaughter.
He thought of the battle that lay ahead at the end of their march, and felt the fear of it inside him too. The sensation thrilled him; made him feel that he was alive.
Bull drew his new sword from its sheath, and inspected the watermarks along the gleaming steel of the blade. It was Sharric steel, cast here in Khos, the finest in all the Mideres. He contented himself with sharpening the edge of it with the finer side of his whetstone.
In the light of a nearby campfire, he spotted General Creed walking past, conversing with the colonel of the Greyjackets. Bahn followed a few paces behind, looking as pensive as he had the first day Bull had ever met him, all those years ago on the cold marshalling grounds between the walls, with the first two walls of the Shield already fallen, the third likely to be next, the men shattered, their morale lower than any time before or since.
Bahn saw him now and gave a curt nod of his head, though Bull noted how he did not pause, did not share with him a few words.
Bull stared coldly back as the man walked beyond the light of the fire.
Behind the departing figures, young Wicks came stumbling towards him as the lad guzzled wine from a flaccid skin. Wicks tripped and rolled on the grass, then climbed to his feet again as though nothing had happened. He was alone too, though that seemed a matter of choice for Wicks more than anything else.
He noticed Bull in the shadows and flopped down next to him. ‘Hey, champ,’ Wicks panted as he offered Bull the wine. Bull shook his head. He no longer trusted himself with alcohol, not since the day he’d gone to the home of Adrianos and butchered him like a stag.
Wicks settled himself with exaggerated care by his side, resting his back against the wagon wheel. ‘All this bloody marching,’ he muttered as he massaged a foot. ‘My soles are killing me.’
‘This is nothing. You’re lucky we’re not pushing even harder.’ Even as Bull spoke he felt the ache of his own feet and back, and knew they would only worsen before they got better. He was in poor condition after a year in the cell, never mind that he’d tried to maintain his condition.
‘Nothing, he says. And me with my feet in tatters.’
In the distance Bull heard a roar of men, the second time now he’d heard them.
‘What is that? Is there a fight?’
‘Aye. They’re at it again, the Greys and the Volunteers. Two bareknuckle champions this time.’
Wicks looked about him with his large eyes sparkling in the firelight. He was bored, Bull could see. The lad wanted some mischief to occupy himself for a while. It reminded Bull of his own restless boredom.
He sighed, and took the skin of wine from the young man; allowed himself one long satisfying pull from it before tossing it back.
‘You know, I saw you fight once. The time you became champion of Bar-Khos.’
‘I hope you bet on me to win.’
‘I wish I had. But I thought you were just another contender like the rest of them. You lost me a full purse of stolen coins that night. Though I’ll say it was worth it, just to see you fight. I thought you were going to kill him in the end.’
‘I was. If they hadn’t stopped me.’
‘I can’t believe it’s really you. The real thing, right here in front of me. The greatest fighter in all of Khos. Unbelievable.’
Bull swept the whetstone along the edge of the blade, ignoring the lad now. It had been a long time since a stranger had offered their admiration to him. Once, he had relished such praise, had felt validated in every way by the respect of so many.
Now it was only a reminder of how fickle most people really were.
‘They’re talking about us again,’ said Wicks casually with a nod to the fire. The men around it were trading words in low voices. Old Russo, the veteran of Coros, cast a one-eyed glance in their direction.
His accusing stare caused Bull to grind his rotten teeth together. He felt the satisfying throbs of pain deep inside them.
‘Find yourself a whore yet?’
‘No,’ Bull admitted. ‘None of them will touch me.’
‘They probably think you’ll strangle them where they lie.’ Wicks laughed drunkenly at the thought of it.
‘Don’t laugh at me, boy. I’ll have your eyes out if you laugh at me.’
The lad seemed to sober up for a moment; his grin faltered. Wicks sprawled onto his back, surprising himself with a belch. ‘You can’t take a joke, champ. That’s your problem.’
Bull felt momentarily chastened by his words. He knew the young man was right.
