Néit nodded, eyes on the caravan now mustered close together along the trail, all the crew on board one or other of the high-sided wagons, looking grim faced, their weapons drawn, the guard arrayed in a wide semi-circle at the rear of the train, facing outwards, spear levelled, and shields raised. At the centre of the grouping, Zigor appeared to be holding an impromptu meeting with Biisay, Tulio, and Bakar Dair. The two companions stepped within the broken wall of shields and Néit handed Zigor the arrow he had plucked from the wagon.
“Zaindari hunting party, judging by the sign,” offered Néit, handing the arrow to Zigor. “None left alive up there. The wagons are both empty, and they drove off four Muskies. They left two alive, but they will need calming before they can travel, I would say.” He looked hard at the red-faced Zigor.
If anyone needed calming, he considered, as the veins in Zigor’s neck jumped and pumped, it was Zigor.
“Empty?” queried Zigor quietly.
“Yes, empty,” replied Néit easily.
He could see sweat rolling down the side of Zigor’s face from beneath his helmet, his jaw working hard to keep his mouth closed, and took more than just a few heartbeats for the trail boss to calm down enough to speak, and even then, they could all clearly hear the wrath in his voice, despite his subdued tone. Zigor passed the arrow to Lechog.
“Can you tell who they are from this?”
“Long, long way from our people,” replied Lechog, examining the arrow closely. “Things change. Maybe they came east, maybe not; there are many tribes, many chiefs.” Lechog shook his head. “But this…” he added, “this is very…heavy.”
He turned to Gorgasal and they spoke briefly in his own tongue. Gorgasal shook his head, his expression set hard, gesturing Darkwards with his chin. He said something that seemed to pale the others and they set to a harsh exchange of words between them.
“Speak to me,” demanded Zigor. “Stop jabbering and speak to me.”
Lechog turned, nodding back to Gorgasal as he spoke. “He says something we don’t like, so we say Zaindari, of the Far-Shore Tribe…yes.”
Zigor looked about his crew; saw the fear in their eyes and the grief at the loss of their own, and made his choices. “Biisay, I want all the Ker-Baecodán jars loaded onto my wagon.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Zigor turned to Tulio. “I want your men lined up in two files, one either side of my wagon at all times. Their job from now on is to protect those jars. I don’t care if the Old Hag herself comes down on us, if you leave this wagon unprotected for one moment, I will replace you as company lead, do you understand?” he asked, looking straight at the leader from beneath his anger-dark brow.
“Your will,” saluted the Sabrosi.
He turned back to the noble. “So, lord Kerdhu, you tell me you’re a tactician; will they come back, or have they got what they came for?”
“A Wandering party,” replied Néit, ignoring the insult Zigor seemed to imply. “Sixteen to twenty strong, so if it’s just them, they won’t return; it’s a good haul, worth a song or two back at the fires. But normally I doubt they would have even tried. If they are Far-Shores, they’re a long way Dawnwards, far from the traditional hunting grounds that I know of. We outnumber them, so in truth whoever they are I think they were waiting, watching for the right moment. Maybe they grew impatient, or, more likely, saw an opportunity and just took it; that slope, the fog down here in the hollow, the caravan strung out, all meant disadvantage; the opportunity was too inviting, so they made their move.” He gave Zigor a humourless smile, “Good tactics, if you’re asking.”
Lechog shook his head. “In winter wolves rule…and there are worse than wolves in the Wilds,” he added with a pointed glance towards Néit. “There are more, somewhere close, one, two days travel, not less. The hunters lost nothing and took much. They will come again, but it will be all of them.” He looked around at the small group. “I would do this, so would they.”
Tulio snorted derisively but said nothing further as Zigor shot him a look of clear annoyance.
“Then they will attack us again?” queried Bakar, his face slack with worry.
“For sure,” said Lechog. He seemed to search for a word but not finding it, he held up both hands, palms outwards. “Two hunting parties, each with a Koed-Whisperer, yes.” He slapped them together with a resounding clap, making Bakar start. and laced his big fingers together to form a massive club fist. “These two Whisperers will fight, and the survivor is named Koed-Caller and they will raid as a War Party.” Zigor was nodding his head as though he had heard it all before. “One fist,” said Lechog, shaking the club-fist, then flashed both hands open and shut four times.
“Forty?” queried Ximo.
Lechog and Mika both nodded, “Yes…maybe more,” advised Lechog. “They kill us all and give our hearts to the Queen of the Wildwood.”
Bakar made the sign of the bull above his head at the mere mention of the Hag and began muttering a hurried prayer under his breath.
“Like wolves,” said Mika. “Nipping at us,” he slapped one thigh then the other, “until we fall…” he looked around at the various expressions on the faces in the group, a smile slowly spreading across his face, “and then…they eat your balls!”
The other Zaindari nodded in clear agreement with the assessment, all except Gorgasal, who was still facing Darkwards, his eyes closed and none of the assembled crew uttered a word, the words of the Zaindari echoing in their minds, as the full realisation of the threat became apparent.
Zigor spat at the ground and cursed, turning as he did so to Néit. “From this point on my free-blade friends, the second clause of our contract is in effect.”
“Your choice,” said Ximo without hesitation, holding out his upturned palm. “Our payment up front, as agreed.” The hint of a smile on his lips.
“Yes, yes,” replied Zigor with no small amount of irritation.
Ximo’s smile widened considerably, but he dropped his hand back down to his side, just to show a little respect. He was after all about to receive a considerable sum, one that he had bargained hard for, and it wouldn’t be good for business to appear too self-satisfied. Néit, on the other hand, had no such compunction and actually chuckled quietly, unconcerned if any took offence or not. Zigor, muttering darkly to himself walked briskly over to his wagon, threw back the hide cover, pulled a metal bound box from between two Ker-Baecodán jars, unlocked it using a small key he drew from around his neck, flicked open the lid and drew out two weighty looking leather pouches. He tossed them, one after the other to Ximo, and stowed the lockbox away again.
“Lovely job,” said Ximo eagerly, testing the weight of the pouches in each hand as though he were a set of scales as Zigor climbed up onto his wagon, taking up the pose Ximo had first seen him in, still wearing his kilt.
Ximo turned away, rolling his eyes, and Néit laughed quietly.
“Lads,” said the trail boss in a voice that rang around the hollow, “listen to me now.”
All along the caravan, grim-faced crewmen turned to look at him; their faces anxious, yet by their stances resolute. Even the Bloodbeards turned away from their watchful guard of the gloom between the trees and looked up to listen.
“Out there,” rumbled Zigor, pointing into the fog, the menace in his voice unmistakable, “is a Far-Shore War Party…and they want what’s ours.”
“Let ’em fucking try,” someone muttered darkly.
“The boys up top are dead,” he stated loudly, his eyes on the crew. “Jenaro and Manu put up a good fight,” he added to the guards, “but there was too many of them, and they fell trying to save Tońa and Yago,”
The Bloodbeard guards raised their spears and at a signal from Tulio, all struck their shields hard with their hafts, the resounding crack echoing off the mist bound trees.
Zigor nodded. “They’re coming for the rest of us,” he continued. “They want to leave us cold on the ground, with none to burn us, none to mourn our passing.”
“Not fucking likely!” cried Bikendi.
“Never!” cried another, punching his fist into the air.
“That’s right, lads, not today, not tomorrow…not never!” swore Zigor. “We’ll make it to Dinasdúr, even if we have to fight our way through every tribe in the Wilds!”
They cheered Zigor then and clashed their weapons on the rim of their shields or their wagons, the clamour filling the hollow, echoing into the Wildwood beyond; a sound of defiance. Lechog and Mika joined the clamour and lifting their weapons high they began to howl, a high resonating note that cut through the mist and raised the hairs on the necks of all present. Sturm and Kasas took up the wolfen cry as Lechog and Mika trailed away, their breath failing them, the ululating howls joining with the uproar of ringing bronze-on-bronze, and crack of wood-on-wood, setting up a discordant rhythm, all taken up by the spontaneity of the moment.
Ximo shot Néit a puzzled look, but Néit’s face was turned to the sky, his short horns tilted back, eyes closed, his expression intent, like a hunting-cat, listening for its prey. His head snapped sharply Daywards, and a mere moment later Mika held up his fist, the hunters signal for silence and everyone froze. For a moment, there was total silence in the hollow, and even the Muskies were still.
Then, in the near distance, the trail crew heard an answering call above the rise; a single howl, accompanied by an odd reverberating sound that seems to bounce off the nearby trees. It lasted only for a short while but as soon as it stopped, a faint echo of the same carried on the wind over the snow-covered treetops far away to the Darkwards, ahead of the caravan.
Lechog spoke, his voice low, almost a rumble, “Tonight one Koed-Whisperer dies. They will eat his flesh, burn his bones, yes?” He placed his right fist on his left palm and pressed the first into, trying to express the word he didn’t have.
“Grind, like the mill,” offered Bakar flatly.
“Just so,” nodded Lechog. “They will grind his bones for their paint. Then, they will come.”
“So, tomorrow then?” asked Tulio.
Lechog shrugged, “They will hunt. If you want to live…work hard,” he said, ending with a nod to Zigor. He turned away and walked back to his brothers and they fell to talking in their own tongue.
Zigor turned to Bakar, “The Koed-Caller will be your responsibility when they come.”
Bakar looked startled for a moment but then nodded his agreement slowly, as though he was deep in thought. “I can keep him, occupied, if I can see him.”
“Good, that might be all we need to tip a fight in our favours,” said Zigor looking up and down the remainder of the caravan. He turned to Biisay. “Bring Tońa’s wagon and the remaining Muskies down here and get them harnessed up to it. Strip all the timber from the wrecked one and bring it down here as well.” He grinned without mirth as an idea began to form in his head.
“Biisay, my old mate, you’re going to make me the strongest, heaviest wagon ever made,” he said, slapping a rough palm against the side of his own wagon. “If those Far-Shore bastards want to hunt us like wolves then let them try. They will find men, not prey, waiting for them.”
Duskwatch had long since passed and the sweet odour of slow cooked meat permeated the chill air of the haven, filling the nostrils of the assembled crew. Though they knew that beyond the circle of light and warmth their enemies were even now planning their deaths, their spirits were high as they drew closer to the fire, shared its heat and the fresh roasted meat. Once they had all eaten, smoking pipes were brought out, and the crew began to talk in quiet tones. Ximo, who had been looking on in fascination turned to Néit sat by him at the main blaze, picking some unseen spec of dirt from the already immaculate spear.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“The Zaindari, what are they doing?”
Néit looked up from his thoughts.
The caravan had pushed hard all through the rest of the day, leaving the site of the attack leagues behind them, finally reaching the next haven just before the last of the days light. Grateful for the halt, and the relative safety, the crew set straight to clearing the area of scrub and snow-tangled briars, making it as secure as possible, cutting stakes, and driving them into the ground as a first defence; the three remaining wagons corralled in a rough triangle around a fire. Biisay and a few of the older hands had set to work remodelling Zigor’s wagon, hoping to make it as strong as they could with the tools to hand, the rest, Sabrosi and Asqueri alike, were now gathered around the crackling flames of a high blaze, weapons to hand, the guards posted all around, facing the darkness.
The Zaindari had slipped away into the forest the moment they arrived at the haven, amidst many a thrown curse; accusations of traitorous intent suddenly commonplace, running back and forth around the ring of men, growing more damning with each circuit. However just before Duskwatch, all five Zaindari entered the haven with a hunger-thinned Elk strung on poles between them and, greeted with hearty, and in some cases very contrite cheers, Kasais and Stirboi had begun butchering the carcass, preparing it for the fire. Gorgasal, carrying a great gobbet of dark, wet clay, had arrived last, escorted by Lechog and Mika, and he was now opposite them, ladling elk blood over the clay, whispering quietly in his own tongue all the while, as the others finished erecting their Kota.
“I think Gorgasal is a Koed-Whisperer,” replied Néit.
“Really?” said Ximo, his curious tone mixed with a little concern. “You’d never know.”
“He’s been hiding it; at least until now. He’s getting ready for the coming fight, they all are.”
“Why do they need all that…stuff?”
The Doriànni lord looked at his companion with an expression of patient amusement, “You really haven’t learnt much have you?” he asked rhetorically. “They are Zaindari, born of the Blood Guard — the Overseers — from the time before the Great Reckoning.”
Ximo shook his head, “Sure, I know that,” he replied quickly, “who doesn’t? Don’t explain why they need clay, and blood and stuff.”
Néit rested the spear on his lap. “A Koed-Whisperer is much like a Naguali,” he said, with a nod to Bakar Dair, who sat glaring at Gorgasal with unguarded contempt, “they use similar powers — Charms and Runes given by the Foe — though particular to the role for which they were…ah, trained.” Ximo spat into the flames. “I think Gorgasal will make the Blood Wash, a paint they cover their bodies with, as a charm to keep them from the blades of their enemies.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes such things have power, sometimes they have none, it very much depends on the witch. But, if you’re faced with a dozen Zaindari, clad in nothing but the Blood Wash, all believing they’re invulnerable, chances are you won’t live long enough to find out either way.”
Ximo nodded. “Fair point…a bit like picking a lock that might be trapped. By the time you find out whether it is or not, you’re either dying or a richer.”
Néit gave Ximo a sidelong glance. “If you say so…” he said, examining the fine-edged blade in the firelight, “but whatever you do, when they come out tomorrow covered in their colour, don’t go near them. I’ve heard they have some very peculiar…err, taboos, when wearing the Blood.”
“Oh,” remarked Ximo. He sounded a little disappointed. “Like what?”
“Well, let’s say you offered one of them a drink. He might accept it, much as you’d expect, but if he’s wearing the Blood, he might lop your head off at the shoulders.” Néit shrugged, “There’s no telling, until it’s too late of course.”
“Are you telling me I’ve got to watch out for this lot, as well as the others out there?”
Néit breathed on the cheek of the blade and buffed the spot with a much-used strip of doeskin.
“The Zaindari are a people of many tribes,” said Néit quietly. “Ever since the Great Reckoning the Blood Guard, that’s what the Zaindari were called, lived beyond the reaches of Adelanti, their strength splintered into isolated groups that grew slowly into the tribes we know today; from what little I know, the Far Shore folk have been fighting Lechog’s people for generations.”
They both watched on as the Zaindari moved into the Kota, carrying flame and hot rocks from the fire, a bucket of snowmelt, and the blood-soaked clay inside. A pale hand reached out, flipped over the door flap and they disappeared from sight.
“They’ll fight with us, or at least not against us, but my advice is to stay clear of them entirely; a gutter runner like you would be wise to avoid ancient feuds such as that.”
Ximo looked at Néit with a sceptical smile. “It’s a bit late for that isn’t it? I’m already up to my neck in your family feuding…why get picky now?”
Néit scratched at his arm. “Fair point. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Ximo pulled at his scraggly beard, looking back to the fire; the folk of his own kind, his own caste gathered around it, and found the witch, Bakar Dair, looking directly at him. Bakar Blinked.
“Lord Kerdhu?” the witch said, his reed-thin voice for once strong, sounding clear over the sounds of wet stones scrapping blades, the napping of arrowheads, and the clop, chop, bang of the slow work of reconfiguring Zigor’s wagon. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhear your conversation regarding the Blood Guard, and I thought I might…comment further?” All eyes snapped to Bakar as instantly as all sound on the work stooped, and a slow, somewhat self- gratified smile turned Bakar’s cold-bitten lips.
Néit didn’t look up. “By all means, go ahead,” he replied, deliberately polishing away another imagined speck of dirt.
The witch nodded his thanks, leaned forward, his smoke-reddened eyes sweeping the faces of the assembled crew to finally come to rest again on the face of the Doriànni lord. He took a deep breath, just as the wind switched, choked on thick smoke and a sudden, violent fit of coughing took him. One of the crew barked an involuntary laugh and he got an elbow in the ribs for his disrespect, and the men waited as Bakar tried to recover, holding his hands over his mouth until he got his breath back. He cleared his throat and lapsed into silence, as though unsure about continuing. Ximo shifted uncomfortably on his barrel sear and made to say something, but the Naguali spoke first.
“As an apprentice…I learnt herb lore, and the making of some of the Lesser Charms. As a witch, I learnt the rites of Mi’Ra, and the history of Adelanti, so that I could better understand its people; the trials that have grieved them, the nature that has formed them. I leant many of the Ways, the tales of my folk, and of yours, and there is one that begs the Telling…a Way that speaks of the Zaindari — the Blood Guard, and of the Avetazh — the White Guard, and…the Foe.”
Several of the crew near him spat hard into the fire and every Asqueri caste crew including Ximo shook the sign of the Bull at the ground. Néit looked up.
“The Battle of Twin Peak Pass the Way is named, and I thought perhaps it might have some relevance — in light of our present situation, perhaps offer aid to better understanding, for those amongst us that have not had the tutoring of the Naguali, or indeed, a Doriànni lord?”
Néit nodded and settled back against his pack, stretching out his long legs before the fire.
“Very well,” he said, “I have not heard a Way with that name spoken before. It will be good to hear something old and, untold.”
“Yes!” affirmed Zigor enthusiastically. “An old Way to warm the hearts and bring the ancestors to the fire, keep the shadows of the forest at bay while the meat roasts.”
The old witch nodded slowly, “…Indeed, indeed.”
He took a sip of water from the skin by his side, as Néit took his pipe from its pouch and began to pack it. Many of the crew followed his example as Bakar, perched on a bail of wool, tucked his legs under his thighs, and drew a dirty brown blanket close around his shoulders like an old owl settling into watch for easy prey. He cleared his throat.
“The Way then…” he began, speaking directly to Biisay, nearest him to his left, “of Dinasdúr, of its bright rise to power…” he said, turning to those on his right, “and its fall, stained dark with the blood of the noble Doriànni, and the Huwan Castes.”
Some of the old Asqueri leaned back, content to listen, at ease with themselves and the knowledge of years already walked, but the younger amongst them, Ximo included, came forward, eyes bright with curiosity, eager for Ways of past glory and of woe.
“Dinasdúr,” ventured the witch, “that once great city sat astride the mighty Dol Dun River.” Néit simply nodded as crew and guard alike turned toward the fire and the old Way Teller. “Just as the ports of Porthán and Porhwynn act as Dawnwards shields, so Dinasdúr acted as the Duskwards spear, bringing more of the Greenwild into the Domain, opening up new trade, new lands, and new wealth; expanding the reach of Adelanti far beyond the expectations of her new masters, the merchant houses of free Huwans, and the noble Ker-Doriànni.” A round of clattering taps and murmured approvals interrupted him and he turned to Zigor. “Why, even Gearlynn owes its existence to the founding of Dinasdúr,” he said, once the noise had subsided. “With the trade from Dinasdúr, Gearlynn grew rich, became a power in her own right, controlling all the trade routes along the Flow and out into the Wash. For many generations of our people, Adelanti owed much of its prosperity to Dinasdúr, through Gearlynn.”
He eased forward, drawing a little closer to the fire, fingers splayed before the flames, like the claws of an old crow.
“And yet…” he crowed ominously over the crackle of fire, “with great prosperity comes great envy, and, it would seem, bitter hatred. So, it was for Adelanti when the Black Armada sailed from dark Dinmore, over five hundred years ago.” At the mention of the Fleet, most of the Huwans clicked their tongues in disgust. Néit looked up from his pipe.
The witch nodded sagely, “As the snows of winter retreated and the ice that bound the Wash began to fracture, the Black Armada blockaded Porthán and Porthwynn in preparation for the Sacking of Adelanti. This much we all know. But what many do not know…is that at the same time, an army made its overland, intent on taking Dinasdúr, and the Domain was caught between two fists.” He brought his knuckles together for emphasis with a bony slap.
“Whose army?” demanded Néit, his eyes flickering like two green-gold discs in the light of the fire.
“The Army of the Eighth Clade,” stated Bakar.
Several of the older Sabrosi at the fire spat into the flames and Tulio muttered a quick prayer beneath his breath.
“Fómora? That cannot be!” scoffed Néit. “Except for the Black Fleets admiral, they were all slain in the Great Reckoning. This Way is false, surely?”
“Perhaps, and yet, perhaps not. As we now know, Dinasdúr itself was forgotten; indeed, the whole of the Dol Vale had become lost to all until recently. Perhaps this Way suffered the same fate, being so closely connected…who can say? Whatever the reason, the Way is quite specific on many things, except that is, on the name of the Master who led the army. It would seem it was never known to the Song Weavers of the time, which I very much doubt.
“And this Master came Darkwards, by land?” asked Néit, clearly troubled, albeit by ancient news.
“Yes, from over the mountains,”
Néit shook his head. “It seems, incredible.” He sat back, deep in thought as he puffed on his pipe.
Bakar Dair smiled, “So lord, shall I continue?”
Néit nodded, “Absolutely, I would hear more of this Fómoran who strides mountains long held by the Doriànni.”
“Good, good,” acknowledged Bakar.
He looked around the assembled faces, all dark eyes, bar the flashing wolf yellow of the Doriànni lord, now on him and him alone. He settled for a solemn expression, looked up into the night sky, fixed his gaze upon the Bright Star to speak his tale aloud to, and continued.
“As the first light of winter’s end fell upon the land, the Army of the Eighth Clade came down upon Dinasdúr to strike a deadly blow, aiming to break the spear and leave the Domain undefended Duskwards.”