Authors: Sara Douglass
Tags: #Fiction, #Imaginary wars and battles, #Brothers, #Stepfamilies, #General
“StarDrifter,” she whispered, running her tongue along the split skin of her lips.
The snow that had been drifting down for the past few hours was now falling heavily, and she roused from her reverie to find she could hardly see the tree line through the driving snow. She must hurry. His child dragging her down, she stumbled a little as she tried to move faster.
His hands had been strong and confident on her body, and she was not surprised that her womb had quickened with his child. A
child of his would be so amazing, so exceptional. But although both peoples accepted the excesses and the drunken unions between the races on Beltide night, both also insisted that any child conceived of such a union was an abomination. For most of her life she had been aware of the women who, some four to six weeks after Beltide, went out of their way along the dim forest paths to collect the herbs necessary to rid their bodies of any child conceived that night.
Somehow she had not been able to force herself to swallow the steaming concoction she brewed herself time and time again. And finally she had decided that she would carry the child to term. Once the child was born, once her people could see that it was a babe like any other (except more beautiful, more powerful, as any child of an Enchanter would be), they would accept it. No child of his could be an abomination.
She’d had to spend the last long months of her pregnancy alone, lest her people force the child from her body. Now she wondered if the child would be as wondrous as she had first supposed, whether she’d made a mistake.
She clenched her jaws against the discomfort and forced her feet to take one step after another through the snowdrifts. She would manage. She had to. She did not want to die.
Suddenly a strange whisper, barely discernible in the heightening storm, ran along the edge of the wind.
She stopped, every nerve in her body afire. Her gloved hands pushed fine strands of hair from her eyes, and she concentrated hard, peering through the gloom, listening for any unusual sounds.
There. Again. A soft whisper along the wind…a soft whisper and a hiccup. Skraelings!
“Ah,” she moaned, involuntarily, terror clenching her stomach. After a moment frozen into the wind, she fumbled with the cumbersome straps holding the bundle of wood to her back, desperate to lose the burden. Her only hope of survival lay in outrunning the Skraelings. In reaching the trees before they reached her. They did not like the trees.
But she could not run at this point in her pregnancy. Not with this child.
The straps finally broke free, the wood tumbling about her feet, and she stumbled forward. Almost immediately she tripped and fell over, hitting the ground heavily, the impact forcing the breath from her body and sending a shaft of agony through her belly. The child kicked viciously.
The wind whispered again. Closer.
For a few moments she could do nothing but scrabble around in the snow, frantically trying to regain her breath and find some foot or handhold in the treacherous ground.
A small burble of laughter, low and barely audible above the wind, sounded a few paces to her left.
Sobbing with terror now, she lurched to her feet, everything but the need to get to the safety of the trees forgotten.
Two paces later another whisper, this time directly behind her, and she would have screamed except that her child kicked so suddenly and directly into her diaphragm that she was winded almost as badly as she had been when she fell.
Then, even more terrifying, a whisper directly in front of her.
“A pretty, pretty…a tasty, tasty.” The wraith’s insubstantial face appeared momentarily in the dusk light, its silver orbs glowing obscenely, its tooth-lined jaws hanging loose with desire.
Finally she found the breath to scream, the sound tearing through the dusk light, and she stumbled desperately to the right, fighting through the snow, arms waving in a futile effort to fend the wraiths off. She knew she was almost certainly doomed. The wraiths fed off fear as much as they fed off flesh, and they were growing as her terror grew. She could feel the strength draining out of her. They would chase her, taunt her, drain her, until even fear was gone. Then they would feed off her body.
The child churned in her belly as she lurched through the snow, as if intent on escaping the prison of her poor, doomed body. It flailed with its fists and heels and elbows, and every time one of the dreadful whispers of the wraiths reached it through the amniotic fluid of its mother’s womb, it twisted and struck harder.
Even though she knew she was all but doomed, the primeval urge to keep making the effort to escape kept her moving through the snow, grunting with each step, jerking every time her child beat at the confines of her womb. But now the urge to escape consumed the child as much as its mother.
The five wraiths hung back a few paces in the snow, enjoying the woman’s fear. The chase was going well. Then, strangely, the woman twisted and jerked mid-step and crashed to the ground, writhing and clutching at the heaving mound of her belly. The wraiths, surprised by this sudden development in the chase, had to sidestep quickly out of the way, and slowed to circle the woman at a safe distance just out of arm’s reach.
She screamed. It was a sound of such terror, wrenched from the very depths of her body, that the wraiths moaned in ecstasy.
She turned to the nearest wraith, extending a hand for mercy. “Help me,” she whispered. “Please, help me!”
The wraiths had never been asked for help before. They began to mill in confusion. Was she no longer afraid of them? Why was that? Wasn’t every flesh and blood creature afraid of them? Their minds communed and they wondered if perhaps they should be afraid too.
The woman convulsed, and the snow stained bright red about her hips.
The smell and sight of warm blood reached the wraiths, reassuring them. This one was going to die more quickly than they had originally expected. Spontaneously. Without any help from their sharp pointed fangs. Sad, but she would still taste sweet. They drifted about in the freezing wind, watching, waiting, wanting.
After a few more minutes the woman moaned once, quietly, and then lay still, her face alabaster, her eyes opened and glazed, her hands slowly unclenching.
The wraiths bobbed as the wind gusted through them and considered. The chase had started so well. She had feared well. But she had died strangely.
The most courageous of the five drifted up to the woman and considered her silently for a moment longer. Finally, the coppery
smell of warm blood decided it and it reached down an insubstantial claw to worry at the leather thongs of her tunic. After a moment’s resistance the leather fell open—and the one adventuresome wraith was so surprised it leapt back to the safe circling distance of its comrades.
In the bloody mess that had once been the woman’s belly lay a child, glaring defiantly at them, hate seeping from every one of its bloodied pores.
It had eaten its way out.
“Ooooh!” the wraiths cooed in delight, and the more courageous of them drifted forward again and picked up the bloody child.
“It hates,” it whispered to the others. “Feel it?”
The other wraiths bobbed closer, emotion close to affection misting their orbs.
The child turned its tusked head and glared at the wraiths. It hiccupped, and a small bubble of blood frothed at the corner of its mouth.
“Aaah!” the wraiths cooed again, and huddled over the baby. Without a word they made their momentous decision. They would take it home. They would feed it. In time they would learn to love it. And then, years into a future the wraiths could not yet discern, they would learn to worship it.
But now they were hungry and good food was cooling to one side. Appealing as it was, the baby was dumped unceremoniously in the snow, howling its rage, as the wraiths fed on its dead mother.
Separated by the length of the Alps and still more by race and circumstance, another woman struggled through the snowdrifts of the lower reaches of the western Icescarp Alps.
She fell badly over a rock hidden by the snow and tore the last fingernail from her once soft, white hands as she scrabbled for purchase. She huddled against a frozen rock and sucked her finger, moaning in frustration and almost crying through cold and sad-heartedness.
For a day and a night she had battled to keep alive, ever since they had dumped her here in this barren landscape. These mountains could kill even the fittest man, and she was seriously weakened by the terrible birth of her son two days before.
And despite all her travail and prayers and tears and curses he had died during that birth, born so still and blue that the midwives had huddled him away, not letting her hold him or weep over him.
And as the midwives fled the birthing chamber, the two men had come in, their eyes cold and derisive, their mouths twisting with scorn. They had dragged her weeping and bleeding from the room, dragged her from her life of comfort and deference, dumped her into a splintered old cart and drove her throughout the day to this spot at the base of the Icescarp Alps. They had said not a word the entire way.
Finally they had unceremoniously tipped her out. No doubt they wished her dead, but neither had dared stain their hands with her blood. Better this way, where she could endure a slow death on the dreaded mountains, prey to the Forbidden Ones which crouched among the rocks, prey to the cold and the ice, and with time to contemplate the shame of her illegitimate child…her
dead
illegitimate child.
But she was determined not to die. There was one chance and one chance only. She would have to climb high into the Alps. Barely out of girlhood and clad only in tatters, she willed herself to succeed.
Her feet had gone to ice the first few hours and she now could no longer feel them. Her toes were black. Her fingernails, torn from her hands, had left gaping holes at the ends of her fingers that had iced over. Now they were turning black too. Her lips were so dry and frozen they had drawn back from her teeth and solidified into a ghastly rictus.
She huddled against the rock. Although she had started the climb in hope and determination, even she, her natural stubbornness notwithstanding, realised her situation was precarious. She had stopped shivering hours ago. A bad sign.
The creature had been watching the woman curiously for some hours now. It was far up the slopes of the mountain, peering down from its
heights through eyes that could see a mouse burp at five leagues. Only the fact that she was below his favourite day roost made the creature stir, fluff out its feathers in the icy air, then spread its wings and launch itself abruptly into the swirling wind, angered by the intrusion. It would rather have spent the day preening itself in what weak sun there was. It was a vain creature.
She saw it circling far above her. She squinted into the sun, grey specks of exhaustion almost obscuring her sight.
“StarDrifter?” she whispered, hope strengthening her heart and her voice. Slowly, hesitatingly, she lifted a blackened hand towards the sky. “Is that you?”
T
wenty-nine years later…
The speckled blue eagle floated high in the sky above the hopes and works of mankind. With a wingspan as wide as a man was tall, it drifted lazily through the air thermals rising off the vast inland plains of the kingdom of Achar. Almost directly below lay the silver–blue expanse of Grail Lake, flowing into the great River Nordra as it coiled through Achar towards the Sea of Tyrre. The lake was enormous and rich in fish, and the eagle fed well there. But more than fish, the eagle fed on the refuse of the lakeside city of Carlon. Pristine as the ancient city might be with its pink and cream stone walls and gold and silver plated roofs; pretty as it might be with its tens of thousands of pennants and banners and flags fluttering in the wind, the Carlonites ate and shat like every other creature in creation, and the piles of refuse outside the city walls supported enough mice and rats to feed a thousand eagles and hawks.
The eagle had already feasted earlier that morning and was not interested in gorging again so soon. It let itself drift further east across Grail Lake until the white-walled seven-sided Tower of the
Seneschal rose one hundred paces into the air to greet the sun. There the eagle tipped its wing and its balance, veering slowly to the north, looking for a shady afternoon roost. It was an old and wise eagle and knew that it would probably have to settle for the shady eaves of some farmer’s barn in this most treeless of lands.
As it flew it pondered the minds and ways of these men who feared trees so much that they’d cut down most of the ancient forests once covering this land. It was the way of the Axe and of the Plough.
Far below the eagle, Jayme, Brother-Leader of the Religious Brotherhood of the Seneschal, most senior mediator between the one god Artor the Ploughman and the hearts and souls of the Acharites, paced across his comfortable chamber in the upper reaches of the Tower of the Seneschal.
“The news grows more disturbing,” he muttered, his kindly face crinkling into deep seams of worry. For years he’d refused to accept the office his fellow brothers had pressed on him, and now, five years after he’d finally bowed to their wishes and accepted that Artor himself must want him to hold supreme office within the Seneschal, Jayme feared that it would be he who might well have to see the Seneschal—nay, Achar itself—through its greatest crisis in a thousand years.
He sighed and turned to stare out the window. Even though it was only early DeadLeaf-month, the first week of the first month of autumn, the wind had turned icy several days before, and the windows were tightly shut against the cold. A fire blazed in the mottled green marble fireplace behind his desk, the light of the flames picking out the inlaid gold tracery in the stone and the silver, crystal and gold on the mantel.
The younger of his two assistants stepped forward. “Do you believe the reports to be true, Brother-Leader?”
Jayme turned to reassure Gilbert, whom he thought might yet prove to have a tendency towards alarm and panic. Who knew? Perhaps such tendencies would serve him well over the coming months. “My son, it has been so many generations since anyone has
reliably spotted any of the Forbidden Ones that, for all we know, these reports might be occasioned only by superstitious peasants frightened by rabbits gambolling at dusk.”
Gilbert rubbed his tonsured head anxiously and glanced across at Moryson, Jayme’s senior assistant and first adviser, before speaking again. “But so many of these reports come from our own brothers, Brother-Leader.”
Jayme resisted the impulse to retort that most of the brothers in the northern Retreat of Gorkentown, where many of these reports originated, were little more than superstitious peasants themselves. But Gilbert was young, and had never travelled far from the glamour and cultivation of Carlon, or the pious and intellectual atmosphere of the Tower of the Seneschal where he had been educated and admitted into holy orders to serve Artor.
And Jayme himself feared that it was more than rabbits that had frightened his Gorkentown brethren. There were reports coming out of the small village of Smyrton, far to the north-east, that needed to be considered as well.
Jayme sighed again and sat down in the comfortable chair at his desk. One of the benefits of the highest religious office in the land was the physical comforts of the Brother-Leader’s quarters high in the Tower. Jayme was not hypocritical enough to pretend that, at his age, his aching joints did not appreciate the well-made and cushioned furniture, pleasing both to eye and to body, that decorated his quarters. Nor did he pretend not to appreciate the fine foods and the invitations to the best houses in Carlon. When he did not have to attend to the administration of the Seneschal or to the social or religious duties of his position, there for the stimulation of his mind were thousands of leather-bound books lining the shelves of his quarters, with religious icons and portraits collected over past generations decorating every other spare space of wall and bringing some measure of peace and comfort to his soul. His bright blue eyes, still sharp after so many years spent seeking out the sins of the Acharites, travelled indulgently over one particularly fine representation of the Divine Artor on the occasion that he had
presented mankind with the gift of The Plough, a gift that had enabled mankind to rise above the limits of barbarity and cultivate both land and mind.
Brother Moryson, a tall, lean man with a deeply furrowed brow, regarded his Brother-Leader with fondness and respect. They had known each other for many decades, having both been appointed as the Seneschal’s representatives to the royal court in their youth. Later they had moved to the royal household itself. Too many years ago, thought Moryson, looking at Jayme’s hair and beard which were now completely white. His own thin brown hair, he knew, had more than a few speckles of grey.
When Jayme had finally accepted the position of Brother-Leader, a post he would hold until his death, his first request had been that his old friend and companion Moryson join him as first assistant and adviser. His second request, one that upset many at court and in the royal household itself, was that his protégé, Axis, be appointed BattleAxe of the Axe-Wielders, the elite military and crusading wing of the Seneschal. Fume as King Priam might, the Axe-Wielders were under the control of the Seneschal, and within the Seneschal a Brother-Leader’s requests were as law. Royal displeasure notwithstanding, Axis had become the youngest ever commander of the Axe-Wielders.
Moryson, who had kept out of the conversation to this point, stepped forward, knowing Jayme was waiting for his advice. “Brother-Leader,” he said, bowing low from the waist with unfeigned respect and tucking his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his habit, “perhaps it would help if we reviewed the evidence for a moment. If we consider all the reports that have come in over the past few months perhaps we might see a pattern.”
Jayme nodded and waved both his assistants into the intricately carved chairs that sat across from his desk. Crafted generations ago from one of the ancient trees that had dominated the landscape of Achar, the well-oiled wood glowed comfortingly in the firelight. Better that wood served man in this way than free-standing on land that could be put to the Plough. Thick stands of trees were always
better cut down than left standing to offer shade and shelter to the demons of the Forbidden.
“As always your logic comforts me, Brother Moryson. Gilbert, perhaps you could indulge us with a summation of events as you understand them thus far. You are the one, after all, to have read all the reports coming in from the north.”
Neither Jayme nor Moryson particularly liked Gilbert; an unbrotherly sentiment, they knew, but Gilbert was a rather pretentious youth from a high-born Carlonite family, whose generally abrasive personality was not helped by a sickly complexion, thin shanks and sweaty palms. Nevertheless, he had a razor-sharp mind that could absorb seemingly unrelated items of information from a thousand different sources and correlate them into patterns well before anyone else could. He was also unbelievably ambitious, and both Jayme and Moryson felt he could be better observed and controlled if he were under the eye of the Brother-Leader himself.
Gilbert shuffled back into his seat until his spine was ramrod straight against the back of the chair and prepared to speak his mind. Both Moryson and Jayme repressed small smiles, but they waited attentively.
“Brothers under Artor,” Gilbert began, “since the unusually late thaw of this spring,” both his listeners grimaced uncomfortably, “the Seneschal has been receiving numerous reports of…unusual…activities from the frontier regions of Achar. Firstly from our brethren in the religious Retreat in Gorkentown, who have reported that the commander of Gorkenfort has lost many men on patrol during this last winter.” The small municipality of Gorkentown, two hundred leagues north, huddled for protection about the military garrison of Gorkenfort. Centuries previously, the monarchy of Achar had established the fort in Gorken Pass in northern Ichtar; it was then and remained the most vital link in Achar’s northern defences.
“One shouldn’t expect every one of your men to come back from patrol when you send them out to wander the northern wastes during the depths of winter,” Jayme muttered testily, but Gilbert only frowned slightly at this interruption and continued.
“An
unusual
number of men, Brother-Leader. The soldiers who are stationed at Gorkenfort are among the best in Achar. They come from the Duke of Ichtar’s own home guard. Neither Duke Borneheld, nor Gorkenfort’s commander, Lord Magariz, expect to get through the winter patrols unscathed, but neither do they expect to lose over eighty-six men. Normally it is the winter itself that is the garrison’s enemy, but now both Duke Borneheld and Lord Magariz believe they may have another enemy out there amid the winter snows.”
“Has the Duke Borneheld seen any evidence for this with his own eyes, Gilbert?” Moryson asked smoothly. “Over the past year Borneheld seems to have preferred fawning at the king’s feet to inspecting his northern garrison.”
Gilbert’s eyes glinted briefly. These two old men might think he was a conceited fool, but he had good sources of information.
“Duke Borneheld returned to Ichtar during Flower-month and Rose-month, Brother Moryson. Not only did he spend some weeks at Hsingard and Sigholt, but he also travelled to the far north to speak with Magariz and the soldiers of Gorkenfort to hear and see for himself what has been happening. Perhaps, Brother Moryson, you were too busy counting the tithes as they came in to be fully aware of events in the outside world.”
“Gilbert!” The Brother-Leader’s voice was rigid with rebuke, and Gilbert inclined his head in a show of apology to Moryson. Moryson caught Jayme’s eye over Gilbert’s bowed head and a sharp look passed between them. Gilbert would receive a far stronger censure from his Brother-Leader when Jayme had him alone.
“If I might continue, Brother-Leader,” Gilbert said deferentially.
Jayme angrily jerked his head in assent, his age-spotted fingers almost white where they gripped the armrests of his chair.
“Lord Magariz was able to retrieve some of the bodies of those he had lost. It appears they had been…eaten. Chewed. Nibbled. Tasted.” Gilbert’s voice was dry, demonstrating an unexpected flair for the macabre. “There are no known animals in either northern Ichtar or Ravensbund that would attack, let alone eat, a grown man in armour and defended with sword and spear.”
“The great icebears, perhaps?” Jayme asked, his anger fading as his perplexion grew. Occasionally stories filtered down about man-eating icebears in the extreme north of Ravensbund.
“Gorkenfort is too far inland for the icebears, Brother-Leader. They would either have to walk down the Gorken Pass for some sixty leagues or shortcut across the lesser arm of the Icescarp Alps to reach it.” He paused, reflecting. “And icebears have no head for heights. No,” Gilbert shook his head slowly, “I fear the icebears are not responsible.”
“Then perhaps the Ravensbundmen themselves,” suggested Moryson. Ravensbund was, theoretically, a province of Achar and under the administration of the Duke of Ichtar on behalf of the King of Achar. But Ravensbund was such an extraordinarily wild and barren place, inhabited by uncouth tribes who spent nearly all their time hunting seals and great icebears in the extreme north, that both the King of Achar, Priam, and his loyal liege, Duke Borneheld of Ichtar, generally left the place to its own devices. Consequently, the garrison at Gorkenfort was, to all intents and purposes, the northernmost point of effective Acharite administration and military power in the kingdom. Although the Ravensbundmen were not much trouble, most Acharites regarded them as little more than barbaric savages.
“I don’t think so, Brother Moryson. Apparently the Ravensbundmen have suffered as badly, if not worse, than the garrison at Gorkenfort. Indeed, many of the Ravensbund tribes are moving south into Ichtar. The tales they tell are truly terrible.”
“And they are?” Jayme prompted, his fingers gently tapping his bearded chin as he listened.
“Of the winter gone mad, and of the wind come alive. Of ice creatures all but invisible to the eye inhabiting the wind and hungering for human flesh. They say the only warning that comes before an attack is a whisper on the wind. Yet if these creatures are invisible before attack, then they are generally visible after. Once they have gorged, the creatures are slimed with the blood of their victims. The Ravensbundmen are afraid of them—afraid enough to move out of their homelands—and the Ravensbundmen, savages as they are, have never been afraid of anything before.”
“Have they tried to attack them?”
“Yes. But the creatures are somehow…insubstantial. Steel passes through their bodies. And they do not fear. If any soldiers get close enough to attack them, it is generally the last thing they get to do in this life. Only a few have escaped encounters with these…”
“Forbidden Ones?” Moryson whispered, his amiable face reflecting the anxiety that such a term provoked in all of them. None of them had wanted to be the first to mention this possibility.