“Take your hands off him!” demanded Néit, the warning tone to his voice cutting through the tumult of aggression all around Ximo.
Ximo couldn’t see Néit, there were too many bodies close in, but he felt the grip on his arms slacken and he planted both feet on the ground.
Bless you, Néit, he thought, as all eyes turned from him.
Shrugging free a hand, he reached for the dagger under his coat and peered past the elbows and fists, hoping to catch sight of Néit if only to see the first one of these bastards die screaming. Néit stood just beyond the line of wagons, dressed in nothing but wet breeches and fur overskirt, his skin slick with sweat, dark hair plastered across his face and chest, his leather coat thrown over one shoulder like a cloak.
“Who in Yam’s name are you?” growled the incensed boss, turning to face the newcomer.
“His Lord,” claimed Néit, loud and clear, pointing a long finger at Ximo still pressed against the wheel. “Release him and live, don’t…and die.”
The Sabrosi caste soldiers wrapped up warm in fine woollen cloaks and high-collared hauberks, their red beards neatly trimmed and oiled as though for inspection — all of whom had been standing around the fire, content to merely look on — sprang into action. Seizing up their spears and shields, they came rushing over the mud and snow, their weapons and armour shattering the sudden silence apart. Two went over in the mud in their haste, cursing loudly, but the rest came on.
The crowd looking on might have been hoping to see a little blood spilt when the crew took hold of Ximo, adding more interest to the proceeding; a proper tale to tell in the taverns and inns later. However, the arrival of an unfamiliar, semi-naked Doriànni Lord, and Bloodbeards running around with spears and shields, meant more than a little blood spilt, and some of it quite likely to be their own. A good many turned away, hurrying towards the open gates as best they could, those with hoods pulling them over their heads, those without walking faster. Even some of the crew turned back to their own business, obviously wanting no part in whatever transpired next. The rest looked on, unsure of what to do or what to expect; anything was possible now, it could snow flaming mud or rain iced blood for all they knew.
The boss stood his ground as the soldiers fell in behind him, line abreast, spears levelled, shields up, just waiting for the word. He looked from Néit to the soldiers and Ximo saw the comfort and courage he took from them.
“This is a Baecodán affair, lord,” warned the boss, his anger-bright eyes on his men, as though contemptuous of Néit’s presence. “You’re not of Ker-Baecodán, so you have no business here. Besides,’ he said with an arrogant wink and nod to one of the soldiers, “you’re not armed. What chance do you think you have?”
Ximo’s smile fell back into place as Néit’s coat slipped from his shoulder, revealing Foe Bane.
One of the crew pointed across the field at Néit, “He looks fucking armed to me, Boss.”
Everyone not with eyes already on Néit turned to look. The sun was at its winter zenith, Daywatch passing: the light falling bright across the frozen Mirror Mere, the dark palisade walls, the folk hurrying away, the crew, the wagons, the backs of the Sabrosi soldiers, into the yellow-gold eyes of the Doriànni lord standing alone in the cold light as he brought the spear point up to his face, the light playing along the shaft, flickering orange and red, like flame in a forge, and a certain kind of calm descend on the field, one in which options were weighed. Most of the caravan crew had already pulled back with the arrival of the soldiers, the rest quickly trying to gauge a course that avoided unemployment or injury, and preferably both.
The soldiers arrayed against Néit had not moved, but he could see uncertainty in their stance, though the overseer was plainly enraged and whatever had transpired here, the high-breed Sabrosi too far engaged, the loss of face too great to contemplate backing down now. Néit let the tip of the spear fall, the shaft pivoting over his hands and settled into a guarding stance, weight on the back foot.
The Muskox nearest bellowed in apparent fear, stamping the ground and twisting its head as it tried vainly to pull away from its tether.
“Please,” said a voice from behind the line of spears and shields. “There’s no need to fight on my account, this is my fault.”
It was Ximo, holding up a placating hand as he drew breath. The Sabrosi boss scowled and turned his head.
“Really,” said Néit sarcastically. “How is all this…” he said, dipping his head at the line of soldiers facing him, “your fault?”
“Well, it’s a little hard to explain,” replied Ximo, looking around at the remaining crowd and the crew. “I reckon I’ve insulted this man,” he said, indicating the still seething Sabrosi, “though without…err, malice.” Ximo faced the overseer. “I meant no insult. I saw something that…well, as you leaned forward, over the wagon, I…” he pointed at the boss’s kilt, took a deep breath, and just came out with it. “I got a wide eyeful of your tackle, alright. What can I say?” he said, holding up an open hand, the smile back across his face. “I’m sorry I laughed, truly, but I just couldn’t help it.”
“Ha, happened to me only last week!” barked the crewman flanking Ximo on his left. “Horrible, makes me shudder just to think on it.”
“Me ‘an all,” said the other, on Ximo’s right. “Been askin’ him for an age to buy some decent breeches, but he don’t listen to the likes of us,” he looked to the overseer, “and now see where it’s got us.” He looked away, suddenly aware of over-stepping the mark a little, the overseer glaring at him, “Sorry, Boss,” he said, head down.
The boss stepped forward, parting the file of soldiers with a broad hand, and came to stand practically nose-to-nose with Ximo, his great red whiskers eclipsing Ximo’s own raggedy wisps of growth completely.
“So you saw my tackle did you, lad?” he said quietly. Ximo nodded. “Well, in that case…you might as well see the rest of me!” And so saying, the overseer span around, bent right over his own toes, lifted his kilt, and mooned his backside at Ximo, jiggling his arse and balls in the cold air for all to see and farted, long and loud.
Ximo staggered back against the wagon, hands over his nose and mouth, eyes wide with shock and disgust, the two others ducking away, and suddenly the entire field of crew and crowd were roaring with laughter, the women exclaiming outrage, averting their eyes, but laughing nonetheless, all tension evaporating in an instance. Even the porters were smiling, though the soldiers did not move at all, still facing the threat posed by Néit; the crew were slapping each other on the back, pointing at either their boss’s arse or the shocked expression on the stranger’s face, clinging to each other or the wagons as they struggled to stay on their feet in the slick mud underfoot.
The overseer stood, turned, smoothed down his kilt, clapped a heavy hand on Ximo’s shoulder, and walked him like a scolded child over to where Néit stood waiting, spear still in hand, though no longer raised.
“My lord, I return your man to you…unharmed. And, though he did insult me, it is easily forgiven.” He looked back at his men, still laughing and joking, their faces flushed and happy. “They had a little fun, and that alone is worth more than a petty grudge to me, so all is forgiven…yes?” he offered, shoving Ximo forwards.
Ximo turned around and looked at him in disgust. “I reckon you owe me.”
The big Sabrosi raised a thick eyebrow in mock surprise. “Do I now?”
“I’ve the picture of your balls and arse in my head now,” complained Ximo. “That’s got to be worth some return, surely?” he said with a sly smile, his right hand still deep inside his coat pocket.
“No, friend,’ said the boss with a smile, “such glorious sights normally demand a high price, and you got it all free of charge.”
“But I’m near blind…” protested Ximo.
“Aye, it can have that effect,” replied the overseer with a soft chuckle.
“I still reckon —
“Enough….” interjected Néit. “Who are you?” he asked the overseer. “What is all this about?” indicating the field, the caravan, its crew and the profusion of unloaded goods lying all around.
The overseer followed the gesture, contemplated his own works for a moment before turning back, and with an apologetic nod, introduced himself.
“My name is Zigor Sendoa, son of Sendoa Qilak, son of Qilak Usan, in service to Ker-Baecodán.” He bowed low. “Will you honour me with your Clann, my lord?”
It was a customary request, Sabrosi caste to noble Doriànni; the traditional opportunity to proudly reel off the name of his Clann, his mother’s ancestry, the title of his father, loyalties within the List, and the myriad other pleasantries demanded of more formal occasions, all tailored to engender the respect and reverence due such high status.
However, Néit knew that to reply in the prescribed manner would mean handing their pursuers an easy tell to follow. Already too much time had been spent in Gearlynn to feel safe for much longer, and now, standing here on this snow-covered field, facing the soldiers of a Clann long known for its more…mercenary attitude toward allegiance than most, he felt sure revealing his Clann could only warrant disaster. And yet, despite his long held fears, no preparation had been made for this day, for this request, and the silence between him and this Sabrosi, still bowed, made for an uncomfortable situation. He felt the cold prickle his sweat-slickened skin now that he was standing still, felt it begin to dig its way into his flesh, and he clenched his teeth on a shiver.
I need a bloody name! Yam’s teeth! Here I am, a warrior of my line, a Clann Stalker, and this Sabrosi is making me a fool.
He glanced at Ximo, looking for inspiration, but Ximo was looking back eyebrows raised, his expression one of anxious expectation. The only thing he could think of was the image of Ker-Caevàl burning on the cliff top, stones blackened in the flames. A black tower. Black Tower. Yes! Kerdhu — Black Tower in Doriànni.
“Call me Kerdhu. There is no Clann name with which to honour your greeting,” he added, “but you have my respects.”
Zigor rose and nodded politely, and Néit thought he saw a glimmer of contempt in those shining eyes, but then it was gone as Zigor turned enquiringly to Ximo.
“And this is Ximo Iluak, son of Iluak Aga, my companion.”
Ximo tapped his hand to his heart and Zigor mirrored the gesture. The company of Ker-Baecodán guard, seeing an accord struck, brought up their spears, and stood at ease, though they didn’t move from their station at Zigor’s back.
“So,” asked Néit, “why all this? The Wandering Season hasn't been called yet, the Festival is still being planned; we checked the trails only yesterday and they are all still closed. Gearlynn is snow bound, so…where do you intend on going?”
“Dinasdúr,” replied Zigor, his eyes narrowed.
Néit shot Ximo a questioning glance, but saw no refute of the claim in the young man’s face, the name echoing in Néit’s mind, holding his tongue in place. He looked at the two Zaindari, one on either side of Ximo, dwarfing him. They were looking straight back, expressionless. He looked at the faces of the arrayed soldiers before him, still grim, professional, not a smile amongst them. He gaze settled on the Sabrosi in the kilt, this Zigor Sendoa, in service to Ker-Baecodán.
“I see…” said Néit, “and what, err, route will you take?”
Néit didn’t see at all, indeed the knowledge threatened to overwhelm him and it was all he could do to keep his voice calm as he spoke. He needed to focus on something else, to give his disordered thoughts chance to catch up, to encompass the scope of the revelation and the implications, which were growing with every passing moment; these fools were traveling to a place consigned to myth and legend by all the Ker-Clanns, and considered to be nothing more than a fireside fantasy by the Huwan castes.
“We travel The Old Way, my lord, to Cadan and then onwards, under the boughs of Old Man Daebh himself and eventually, to Dinasdúr.” Zigor smiled broadly, a proud look in his eyes, “We will be the first to open the Old Way in generations. It’s an honoured opportunity.”
Néit looked Darkwards, his gaze tracking the river’s course and the trail that followed alongside, up the narrow valley, his thoughts simultaneously clouded by uncertainty and yet illumined by possibility. Inclusion within the ranks of a trade caravan and its team could not have been a better solution to their present difficulties, at least for the short term. However, the fact the caravan headed Darkwards to lands long lost made Néit question his own judgement, let alone the sanity of all those assembled, apparently all ready to leave.
“When do you leave?” he asked.
“Daywatch tomorrow.”
“And…how long will the journey take?”
Zigor ran a thick-fingered hand over his baldpate and regarded the Doriànni with a certain suspicion before answering. “The Ker-Baecodán Coven tell us two months, may be less, if this weather holds, and Old Man Daebh isn’t too rough with us.”
Néit cast a critical eye over the caravan and its crew gathered just within earshot.
“Your crew?” he ventured.
Zigor shot him a querulous look. “They are seasoned men,” he replied with some pride and no hesitation whatsoever. “Most have worked with me for years, and the few new boys we do have,” he continued, casting a baleful eye at the two by the woodpile now walking slowly towards the fire, “will pick it up as we move on. Why?”
“The Old Way, you say?” asked Néit, ignoring Zigor’s question. Zigor nodded. “To my knowledge nothing has been heard of, or from, Dinasdúr in my lifetime, and indeed a good deal longer.”
Zigor spread his arms. “And yet, here we are…”
“Yes, so I see…but why?”
“We have had word.”
“From Dinasdúr?” asked Ximo, his eyes suddenly wide. Zigor nodded again.
“How? From whom?” asked Néit.
“With respect, lord, that is First Lady Baecodán’s business, not yours. Now…if we are done here there is much to do before we strike out, and my men grow impatient to be on the way.” Zigor gave a short bow and turned away.
“There is no telling who or what might be on the trail waiting for you…” warned Néit quietly. “It would be tragic if the expedition failed for want of a sword arm or sharp eye, no?”
Zigor gave a scornful chuckle and a nod to the soldiers. “As you can see, Ker-Baecodán has seen fit to attach a company of it’s elite guard as escort. I think we’ve strength enough to fight both trail and any that might try their hand against us.” He turned back, one hand drifting to the hilt of his street-sword. “Should I call them?” he asked his tone low and threatening. “Shall we see if you can make good on your threat, my lord?”
Néit held up a hand, “You have nothing to fear from us, Zigor, far from it in fact; I have a proposition for you, one that could be to our mutual benefit.” Zigor raised a questioning eyebrow, but said nothing. “Shall we say a mercenary matter?” suggested Néit. “Why don’t you leave your quartermaster to finish the loading,” he added, retrieving his coat from the ground and slipping it over his shoulders, “We can get out of this cold; discuss the matter further over a drink and a hot meal, say?” He let the offer hang like a sweet scent in the chill air for a moment before adding, “I will be buying, obviously.”
“A proposition, you say?” muttered Zigor. He turned and considered the caravan and its works for a few moments before turning back, “And you’re buying?” Néit nodded. Zigor gave Néit and Ximo the same appraising regard and seemed to reach a decision. “Very well, lord. Wait here. I won’t be long.”
He span on his heels, reaching for his whip, “Get back to it ‘ya lazy bastards!” he cried, sending his crew scattering in all directions. “Do you think these things load themselves?” he bellowed as he strode back through the wagons, the guards following in his wake. “You two, what did I say about that fucking fire! Get back to those poles or by the gods, you’ll spend the rest of the day standing naked up to your balls in snow! Biisay? Where’s Bis — ah, there you are. Come over here, mate,” said Zigor, pulling himself up on the tail of the centre wagon, “let’s have a look at that tally; I got a slight change of plan for you.”
Ximo let his hand off the dagger beneath his coat and breathed a sigh of relief.
“That was a close thing,” he muttered quietly, coming to stand beside Néit.
“What did you think you were doing?”
Ximo shrugged, “I guess I just got a little excited; forgot my place, you know?”
“No, you idiot, I don’t,” spat Néit. “You just managed to bring us more attention than we have had the entire time we’ve been here! Gods! You couldn’t have made a more public scene if you tried!”
“Yeah, sorry about that, but I really didn’t mean to, what with his kilt —
“You damn near got us killed, and for what?”
“Got you talking with the Bloodbeard there, didn’t I?”
Néit rounded on Ximo. “Stop fucking talking!”
“But —
“Stop!” insisted Néit, pulling his coat around his body. “Not another word!”
Ximo stuffed his hands in his pockets and the pair stood there, silent and unmoving as the loading of the caravan swung into full motion again, the crew picking up the pace to beat off the cold, racing the slave-porters to clear the ground before they filled it again. The guards had returned to the fire, though one or two still had eyes on the pair, and as the noise of the loading increased, so the silence between the two companions stretched.
Ximo kicked at a lump of snow.
“Néit?”
“…Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Néit nodded. “It was a close thing,” he agreed.
“I thought the Bloodbeard was going to burst with rage.”
“He doesn’t like being laughed at.”
“No doubt about that.”
Néit turned. “Or perhaps he just doesn’t like you?”
Ximo nodded, a hand going to the place at his throat where Zigor’s dagger had pierced. His finger came away with a single spot of red.
“So, Darkwards, is that it?” he asked. “To this Dinasdúr place, that none here have been to in an age…with that mad bastard?”
“Yes, if he’ll take us.”
“Sounds like fun,” replied Ximo. His smile had dropped, and he shot Néit a cynical glance.
“Hmm, I doubt it, but it will at least get us out of this shit-hole,” replied Néit, “and that has to be for the best. If we can persuade this Zigor that he needs us, I think he’ll take us along.” He smiled at Ximo, “You never know, he might even pay for the pleasure of our company.”
“Now that would be good,” replied Ximo seriously, his mind already thinking on the possibilities.
Néit reached out and placed a long-fingered hand on Ximo’s shoulder, “And you must call me Kerdhu, even in private. From this point on, it is my name.” He held Ximo’s gaze. “Do I make myself clear? I am Kerdhu: no family, no Clann name, no Adelanti, no nothing more than us, here, now.”
Ximo nodded, “Sure, Kerdhu it is. If that’s what you want, I get it.”
“Be sure you do…our lives may depend on it.”