The Cry of the Marwing Page 4

  ‘A fall. The plain’s wetter than a Caru woman’s . . .’ Jonred stopped, cleared his throat and peered about. ‘What have you done to the stables, Lady?’

  ‘Made them into a place for healing the injured.’

  ‘We need to take him to the bone-setter in the Illian Quarter,’ said Jonred.

  ‘Best he stays here,’ said Kira. ‘You don’t want to make the pain worse by carrying him through the city. What’s his name?’

  ‘Patrolman Sarim.’

  Sarim shivered and Kira found a cover and gently tucked it over him.

  ‘We need the fire set, Jonred, so Sarim will be more at ease – and we need fewer of your men here,’ she added, busy with the injured man’s arm.

  Jonred moved away, quietly issuing orders.

  ‘I’m going to take the pain away, then set your arm,’ Kira whispered to Sarim, putting her hands over his chest.

  The journey into the burning tunnel never got any easier, and Kira gritted her teeth to hide her sickness as Jonred returned.

  ‘His horse went down south of the Breshlin, and he’s had a hard ride since,’ the Patrol Leader said.

  ‘Is the horse all right?’ asked Kira, probing for breaks and carefully bringing the bones into alignment.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonred. ‘You’ve given Sarim something for the pain?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How many breaks?’ asked Sarim hoarsely.

  ‘Three,’ said Kira.

  Sarim blanched and groaned.

  ‘It’s his sword arm – he’s left-handed,’ explained Jonred.

  ‘It will mend the same,’ said Kira.

  ‘More than one break, another living you’ll make,’ quoted Jonred. ‘His sword arm will be useless.’

  ‘He’ll have full use of his arm, Jonred.’

  ‘That’s not what the bone-setters say.’

  ‘It’s what Healers say and know,’ said Kira.

  A fire now burned in the grate, the Haelen already warming, but Kira fetched another cover for Sarim.

  ‘At dawn I’ll ensure Patrolman Sarim is escorted to his home, Lady. We stay two days to rest the horses, then return south,’ said Jonred.

  ‘I’ll visit Sarim there to ensure the healing goes well,’ said Kira. ‘Do you know which part of the plain the Tremen are on?’

  ‘The Feailner’s message is for the Keeper of the Domain,’ said Jonred, and paused, before saying carefully: ‘I must go to him now, for we’ve been delayed by Sarim and by the long journey from the west of Mendor Spur.’

  Mendor Spur, thought Kira, aghast. It was where the slaughter of Tain men, women and children had been at its worst. ‘I thank you for your help, Patrol Leader Jonred,’ she said, managing a smile, but inside she felt as cold as Silvercades snow.

  7

  On the Sarsalin Plain, deep in the south-west, the last of the scouts came in, and Tierken and Caledon listened in tense silence as Adris received his report. It was the same as the others; the plain was empty of Shargh.

  ‘The Shargh have either gone north or turned east to Uthlin,’ said Caledon, staring at the cold campfire.

  ‘And, given the staleness of the filth they’ve left, they have a two-day start on us,’ said Adris, kicking at the pile of charred bones. ‘The Ashmiri have already gifted them horses and food, so comfortable lodgings will no doubt follow. What think you, Feailner?’

  Tierken’s belly had been churning since they’d escorted the last of the herders to Maraschin. Now he knew why. When in doubt, trust your guts; they’re a long way from the excuses of your head, Poerin used to say. The Shargh couldn’t breach Sarnia, he thought, but then his blood congealed. ‘The Shargh could burn out the Rehan Valley,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s Sarnia’s main food source.’ Had the Shargh’s murderous exploits in the south simply been a ploy to drag him away from the defence of his own lands? Even with Kalos’s speed and endurance, he couldn’t catch them now!

  ‘We must split our men,’ said Caledon quickly. ‘With your leave, Feailner, take those with the swiftest horses north. King’s Guard too, if Adris allows. Delay the Shargh until Adris arrives with the rest of those mounted. I’ll bring the remainder on foot. If the Shargh have gone east, the threat’s delayed not eliminated. They’ll force the Ashmiri to decide between honour and treachery. All we can do is prepare for the outcome.’

  Tierken galloped away with the Terak and Adris’s King’s Guard. They rode through the day and freezing night, stopped at dawn to rest the horses and snatch some sleep, then sped on. The Shargh trail was easy to follow: cold campfires, burned bones and an Ashmiri pony with a fractured leg. Their quarry took the easiest route, avoiding the slopes and stonelands, but Tierken couldn’t afford to. They travelled in silence, the Terak knowing what was at stake, the Tain having seen the destruction of The Westlans.

  It wasn’t till dusk of the fourth day that they reached Cover-cape Crest.

  ‘They’re less than a day ahead, Feailner,’ said Vardrin, poking at a derelict fire.

  Even that might mean carnage. But Tierken’s men still had to rest themselves and their horses. They tossed down their sleeping-sheets and crawled into them. Tierken remained standing, grimly contemplating the possibility that Caledon had been right after all – the fighting would be in the north. He should have understood what the Shargh’s long hatred meant. He’d been wrong to let his jealousy of Caledon cloud his judgement.

  Vardrin approached. ‘Derkash says the weather changes, Feailner. He smells snow.’

  Tierken’s heart leapt. Derkash was Kir and Kir were herding folk; weather-wisdom flowed in their veins. Tierken’s half-Kir mother had explained the Kir’s weather-wisdom, saying that people took careful note of the things that stole food from their belly. A plain’s storm could take half a herder’s animals in a single day, and wolves the other half.

  Snow would slow the Shargh, Tierken reasoned, and his men would make up time – until the snow reached them. Then the gap would widen again – unless Irid sent wind too. In that case, the Shargh might be forced to seek shelter. The nearest was at Ember Keep, and they’d be safe there from the weather and from Tierken’s men.

  Tierken resisted the urge to wrench Derkash from his sleeping-sheet and demand more information. The best a Kir could offer by way of explanation was to speak of feeling frost, smelling snow and seeing cloud, even when the sky was empty. Tierken would just have to wait. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was stopping the Shargh reaching the Rehan Valley.

  In Sarnia, Kira’s pressing need for fireweed found her back in the Wastes again. The ground was treacherous with the recent rains, but she couldn’t afford to delay her search any longer. The messengers Laryia had sent to Kessom hadn’t found any fireweed there, but they’d brought back other useful herbs that were now stacked or hanging drying in the Haelen’s Herbery. The Haelen also had a store of lamps, lamp oil, flints and burning wood. If it only had fireweed too, Kira would be able to sleep at night.

  Despite the filth from the taverns and gambling houses, the earth breathed and Kira realised with a wash of surprise that if more of Sarnia were like this, she might even be happy here. In the first Kiraon’s time, the air in the Wastes would have been filled with spice from the alwaysgreen, and each of the Wastes’ terraces fragrant with herbs and bright with their blooms. And it could be like that again – if Sarnia accepted healing.

  ‘Lady!’

  It was Guard Leader Tharin, gesturing urgently. ‘The Keeper of the Domain requests your presence in the Meeting Hall,’ he called.

  Stinking heart-rot, she thought, not moving. This was her first real opportunity in days to search for fireweed. Perhaps she wouldn’t go.

  ‘Immediately, Lady,’ said Tharin, his voice hard-edged.

  As Kira reluctantly made her way towards him, she wondered whether Farid had discovered just how many precious things Laryia had traded for the Haelen. But when they reached the Domain, she saw that Ryn was busy rubbing down a mud-spattered ho
rse and realised that her summons was related to something more serious than Laryia’s trades.

  Farid and Laryia were waiting for her in the Meeting Hall with a white-faced messenger, who bowed and offered Kira a leather cylinder.

  ‘The Feailner of the Terak Kirillian sends message to Tremen Leader Feailner Kiraon of Kashclan,’ he said formally. ‘He requests you send your response back with me. My escort leaves at dawn, two days hence.’

  He bowed again and the door closed behind him, but Kira didn’t open the cylinder. At least Tierken was alive, or had been when he’d sent the message, she reasoned, but it could only mean someone else important to her had been wounded – or killed.

  ‘You don’t have to open it now . . .’ said Laryia.

  ‘With respect, Lady, you do,’ said Farid. ‘If there’s something the Feailner requires, preparations must be made.’

  Kira slid out the single sheet of paper, read it and sat down heavily. ‘Tremen Commander Pekrash is dead,’ she whispered. ‘The Feailner requests that I name a replacement.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kira,’ said Laryia, going to her side.

  ‘Perhaps I should name myself instead of skulking behind walls, wasting the lives of others,’ said Kira.

  ‘No! You’d risk everyone,’ said Farid. ‘The Shargh would use you against your people and us. If you have any love for those who fight, you’ll remain here.’

  Kira and Laryia stared at him.

  ‘The Feailner and I discussed why the Shargh might hunt you, Lady,’ he went on. ‘They’d know from the Ashmiri that a gold-eyed Feailner rules the north. The Shargh believe that unusual things portend ill for them, and they’d see a gold-eyed woman coming together with the hated Northern Leader as a very evil thing indeed.’

  ‘Why didn’t they kill me when they had the chance, then?’ challenged Kira.

  ‘You’re more use to them alive,’ said Farid. ‘Alive they can use you to extract all sorts of concessions from your people and from us. The Feailner would trade his own life before giving yours.’

  There was a strained silence.

  ‘Perhaps I’ve said more than I should,’ said Farid. ‘If so, I beg your pardon now, Lady, and I’ll beg the Feailner’s on his return. In the meantime, it’s important you remain here – for all our sakes.’

  Kira made many attempts over the following two days to compose the message that must be sent back, but she had no idea who to appoint as Commander, nor what words to use. Tierken’s message to her had been brief and impersonal: The Terak Feailner regrets to inform Tremen Leader Feailner Kiraon of Kashclan that Commander Pekrash has been lost in battle. The Terak Feailner requests the name of the new Tremen Commander.

  He’d written nothing about forbidding the Haelen, or missing her, or loving her. In fact, the more Kira thought about their time together, the more blurred and uncertain it became. She remembered their arguments more clearly than any words of love, and although Tierken had asked her to marry him, he’d refused to bond in the Tremen way.

  Such musings weren’t helping her complete the task, she thought in irritation, taking another sheet of paper, and dipping her pen in the ink again. Tremen Leader Feailner of Kashclan asks that . . . By the ’green! She spent her life asking the Terak Feailner for things, hanging on his permission, living her life according to his commands.

  Kira tossed down the pen and strode out onto the balcony. The sky blushed pink and the last of the sun caught the coloured-glass window, reminding her of her first night in the Domain. Since then she’d come to know Farid’s kindness, Laryia’s sweetness and . . . Tierken. It seemed to her that in some ways she and Tierken mirrored the paradox of the insignia blazing in the window: the slow growth of the alwaysgreen and the speed of the running horse, two things that could never be in harmony.

  Yet, Tierken loved her, it was plain in his face. But perhaps it was time that his commitment to her people was tested too. Then, even as she watched, the sun shifted and the fire died from the glass. Unsettled yet resolved, she turned back to her rooms. At least she knew now what she must do.

  8

  The Weshargh and Soushargh were north of Cover-cape Crest when they encountered the snow. Orbdargan pulled his collar closer and scowled up at the sky, then had to wrench his horse sideways to avoid a collision with Yrshin, who had suddenly halted. Orbdargan ground his teeth as the Soushargh warriors milled about like leaderless ebis. This was just the latest in a long line of irritations that included Yrshin’s need to fill his belly several times a day, and the failure of Arkendrin and Yrshin to forge the sort of friendship needed to meld their warriors into a single force.

  As the wind sharpened, Orbdargan wiped the snow from his eyes, still determined to press on, not waste time here.

  ‘We need shelter,’ said Yrshin, swatting at the snow as if it were blackflies.

  ‘This is little compared with the far northern plains. Snow can be as hard to see through as sorcha walls there,’ said Orbdargan, urging his horse forward.

  But Yrshin didn’t move and, cursing under his breath, Orbdargan halted again. ‘It’s likely to be clear ahead,’ he said. ‘The Ashmiri say storms travel quickly on the Sarsalin. They’re severe sometimes, but short. We need to continue – the Northerners are likely on our heels.’

  ‘The snow will catch them too, then,’ retorted Yrshin. ‘There are caves west of here – the Yaragars. They’ve water and good shelter, big enough for horses. We go there.’

  It was bad enough to have the Cashgar Chief far to the southwest, still refusing to ride – now Yrshin wanted to go his own way too, thought Orbdargan.

  ‘I’ve heard of those caves,’ he said. ‘If the Northerners catch us, we’ll be trapped like scuttle-lizards.’

  ‘The caves are high and all three give good views. We’ll not be trapped.’

  ‘Three? There’s two, with a third collapsed,’ said Orbdargan.

  ‘There’s three,’ growled Yrshin. ‘Your Weshargh knowing is poor.’

  The snow thickened rapidly, turning the air as white as the sky. The Soushargh warriors muttered, and their horses tossed their heads, infected by their riders’ unease.

  Yrshin still glared at Orbdargan, who nodded briefly. ‘These must be different caves,’ he said grudgingly, not wanting to split their strength further. They might as well go home, he thought, if the Soushargh acted as the Cashgar did. ‘You go first, as Soushargh knowing is truer.’

  They turned west, and after a while the wind lessened and the sky reappeared.

  Orbdargan urged his horse level with Yrshin’s again. ‘The weather smiles once more, Soushargh Chief. We should turn back and resume our way north.’

  ‘If the weather’s as you say, it will still be fine on the morrow,’ said Yrshin.

  ‘But we waste a day for no gain,’ said Orbdargan.

  ‘We? I lead the Soushargh. Turn back if you will, Weshargh Chief.’

  ‘We’ve already left a third of our strength behind. Do the tales of our defeat in seasons past mean nothing to you?’

  ‘Our forebears died with honour in battle. They didn’t freeze to death,’ retorted Yrshin.

  The Soushargh had formed a rough semi-circle around their Chief, and Orbdargan bit back a retort. ‘Our forebears also honoured their blood-ties,’ he said instead. ‘If west is the way you would go, Soushargh Chief, then your blood-ties go that way too.’

  Yrshin didn’t reply, simply urged his mount forward. But Orbdargan let the gap between them widen. Let the mighty Soushargh go bravely towards a snug bed in a stone sleeping-room, but he would be in no rush to follow.

  Night fell and the wind increased to a roar, forcing Orbdargan to wrap his spare shirt around his frozen ears. Then wolf howls joined the darkness and his men closed in around him. Despite the thickness of the night, Yrshin had increased his pace, the smudged outlines of the trailing Soushargh now barely visible in front. Orbdargan hunched down in the saddle, his anger increasing.

  Then a wraith flickered on the
edge of his vision. It was a wolf, he realised, whirling and grabbing his spear.

  ‘Wolves!’ he shouted, as the howls began.

  He’d killed many wolves in his time but they’d all been solitary ones. He remembered the Ashmiri Chief telling him about how wolves pack-hunted on the stony places of the north, when the weather favoured them. The howls were all around them now, joined by the shrieking of horses and the screams of the Soushargh ahead. The pack had attacked!

  Orbdargan spurred his mount forward, only to see the dim outline of the Soushargh horse directly in front disappear into blackness. He jerked his horse to a stop and dashed the snow from his eyes as another Soushargh horse staggered, its eyes wild as its hoofs gouged the snow. Then it, too, was gone. Somehow its rider managed to claw his way back out of the darkness and lay gasping on the snow.

  ‘Get back!’ screamed Orbdargan to those behind him. ‘Get back!’ Where in this filthy night were the rest of the Soushargh, he wondered. And where was Yrshin?

  ‘Form a circle, keep your faces outward, ’ware wolves!’ he yelled.

  Jumping from his horse and tightening his grip on his spear, he crept forward, using the spear to probe the snow. It had been churned to slush by the mounted Soushargh, then ended. There was nothing. Orbdargan took another careful step, and his spear stabbed into air.

  Groping around for a stone, he tossed it forward, hearing nothing but the empty howl of the wind. The third cave was a massive hole in the ground.

  ‘Yrshin!’ he bawled with all his strength.

  The wind answered him with a high-pitched keening and he turned and stumbled back to his warriors.

  There was blood on the snow, a dead wolf, and the surviving Soushargh in a huddle to one side. Orbdargan counted swiftly. Of nearly two hundred Soushargh, only fifteen remained. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  ‘Are Yrshin’s blood-ties among you?’ he demanded hoarsely.

  The Soushargh warrior who’d gouged his way back onto solid land gestured with a bloody hand. ‘Aukran rode next to the Chief, as did Irmrin, his sister-son. There’s no one else.’ His eyes were as empty as the night.