By Gerald O’Donovan
THE RETURN
Grey clouds were coming
unfurled where the steppes transitioned into hills. Like many banners of dirty
silk, they unfolded into the sky in an endless billowing. They stretched from
horizon to fuzzy horizon. In their shadow the rolling, undulating steppe broke
on a shore of stony knuckles, pushing up out of the earth.
A ruthless wind was rising
here, and the drab apparel of a lone rider snapped and rippled. His cloak, its
creases lined with dirt, rose flapping in the air, like the great wings of a
monstrous bird. His attempts to flatten the rogue garment were futile and the
wind was picking up on the high outcrop.
Beyond the outcrop,
scrawny trees took up residence in the crannies and nooks amongst sudden
boulders. The first escarpment of many descended into a valley of stone and
lengthening shadows. Grunting through a face-full of fabric, the rider kicked
in his heels and allowed his horse to carry him down the slope.
The wind roared, the
leaves of the gaunt trees shivered, and the rider’s cloak fought valiantly to
tear free. The man shifted his face in a half-grimace, the lines of his bearded
face wrinkling.
The rider’s name was
Tario. Not the name of one native to this Kingdom of Vorne.
Tario was here on a
‘diplomatic appointment’. Appointed over three years ago, he’d been dispatched,
with encouraging platitudes from his superiors, to what had seemed an
impossibly difficult situation. A Kingdom broken, an Empire at war, a Prince in
rebellion and a country teetering between war and peace. This was the state of
the Kingdom of Vorne, in the Year Four-Hundred and Ninety-Nine, Anno Domini.
Tario’s cloak was still
snapping at his back when, peering out from behind a shoulder of limestone
boulders, a tumbled-down cottage welcomed him. Despite the place’s decrepit
appearance, a ruddy glow emanated from within, promising warmth.
Hopeful thoughts begun
to stir in Tario. Surely they would’ve sent one of his few friends to welcome
him back to Vorne. He hardly dared to hope … but perhaps Verin, the Prince, had
decided to wait for him?
But mounds of broken
slates were heaped beneath the eaves, the patchwork roof grotesquely
reminiscent of decaying skin, shrinking off a ribcage. Hardly a place for a
prince, even for the prince of country as desolate as Vorne.
Embers swam from the
crooked windows, brilliant sparks of light illuminating the gnarled roots that
had overrun the yard. Large, stout trees fenced the cottage’s paltry garden and
constituted some form of boundary against the wilderness.
Rumbling in the sky
encouraged Tario to pick up speed. He kicked in his heels and urged his weary
horse to hurry past the rustling leaves.
He wasn’t quick enough.
The grey clouds gave one last resounding groan before relinquishing their
burden. His cloak was heavy with water and the bottom of his boots squelched as
he dismounted to lead his horse through the rain and into the safety of the
cottage. He made care not to trip over the roots.
The watcher waited
within. Beside the watcher, hulking sleepily in the corner, was a grey horse
with a dark streak running along the centre of its face. An eyelid flipped open
at Tario’s entry, then slid lazily back down again when no danger was apparent.
“Punctual again,” the watcher observed, his
voice dry. “I do wonder if you’ve ever been late in your life, Lord
Terrace-man.”
“Malak,” Tario said
tightly, thinking that he’d come all the way back only to be greeted by this
dour lout.
Tario pulled his horse
inside the cottage, bringing it over to an overgrown corner, as far as he could
get from the doorway. After an uncomfortable examination of the dubious mould
that creeped from a darkened corner, Tario pressed the bunched-up reins in a
gap between two of the cottage’s old stones.
Tario turned to regard Malak,
still slouching where he sat, staring into the hearth. A log burst, the chunks
hissing and crackling as they hurried to escape the flames.
“Well,” Tario began, a little impatient.
“What’s been happening while I’ve been gone?”
When no reply was
forthcoming Tario pressed further.
“The war, Malak, how
goes the war? The Prince, is he well? And has Lord Osword kept his word-”
“Yes, yes,” Malak
interrupted, waving a hand to clear away some stray smoke. “Our Prince’s in the
capital. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make it here to welcome you back … he’s a
little busy with, well, you know, matters of state and such.”
Malak poked the logs
with a stick.
“But how did your
mission go, good news I hope? Will the horse-lords rally to us?”
Tario thoughts
flickered to the letter that lay in his saddlebag. His only prize after a month
of politicking abroad, in a land of harsh tongues and friendless faces.
“The results of my
mission are for the Prince alone.”
Malak’ mouth twitched.
“Of course they are.” He rubbed his knuckles, his jaw working before he uttered
his next sardonic comment. “How did they refuse, politely or did they hurt your
pride?”
Tario raised his chin.
“It takes little to be more courteous than you, Malak.”
He dragged over a chair
and joined the soldier in front of the fire. The flames pulsing, he pulled off
his gloves and gingerly aligned them next to the fire.
Malak shrugged,
produced an apple from a satchel he’d deposited next to the hearth and seemed
to admire it for a moment. It was glowing in the firelight, so bright you’d
imagine it’d burn to touch. He turned it over in his fingers before taking a
crunching bite. Juice ran from the craterous wound.
Inexplicably, Tario
found himself disgusted. Malak saw his expression, the chunk of apple still
bulging in his mouth, and laughed.
Malak wiped his face
and stood up. He gestured out to the rain.
“I apologise, Tario.
I’ll extend an olive branch to you and take the first watch. Mind the horses and
yourself. Soon you’ll be back to the Prince.” He took another bit of his apple,
shrugged on his hood and plunged into the night.
Tario’s eyes, now
accustomed to the meagre light of the hearth, lost Malak as soon as he ventured
beyond the slanting doorway. The snuffling of the horses as they kneeled to
rest turned his gaze back inside. Tario watched his own horse rest on her
knees. Her inky eyes reflected an image of the burning hearth. Tario, his brow
furrowing under the weight of expectant troubles, nodded at her. He glanced
outside and caught a glimpse of Malak’ silhouette flitting across a window,
already bowed against the rain.
I ought to sleep. There’s still weeks of travel
ahead. He stroked his
burgeoning beard. I need to shave, take a
bath and food. Tario had adapted to the Vornese cuisine well, to the point
that he’d begun to prefer the packed Oswordian pies over the light pastries of
his home city.
Although it’s been too long since I’ve eaten the
food of my own fair city. The flames
exploded in the hearth and ashes were blown over his drying gloves. His distant
eyes rested on them, thinking of home. It’s
been too long since I went back and presented myself. Letters hardly suffice to
ease the ache of a missing son. Tario bit his lip. He did not relish the
prospect of returning home. Even returning to a virtual warzone fretted him
less. While his mother had maintained as close a contact as she could manage,
his awkward father had always been embroiled in professional matters, either
absent in the halls of administration or faceted away in his study.
A thin-legged spider
spun down on its web and floated between Tario and the fire. It swung there, on
its slender rope, and seemed to stare at him with its multitude of tiny beady
eyes. Tario frowned, and made to bat the thing away. His hand lingered in the
air a second and then the fire rumbled as it consumed another log, exploding
detritus onto his gloves. When Tario had blinked the ashes from his eyes the
spider had disappeared.
He collected his
gloves, dusted them of the ashes and put them into his saddlebag. Outside, the
rain had dissipated into a misty drizzle. Malaks’ footsteps made soft squelches
as he patrolled. Then they began to fade, as he moved away from the cottage.
He didn’t say how long he’d give me until I have to
take over his watch, Tario noted. I’d better get what sleep I can.
Sleep did not come
quickly nor easily for Tario. He lay on his side some distance from the fire,
on the driest patch of earth he could find in the cottage. He stared at the
flames and it seemed to him that the slim, fiery dancers were taunting him as
they pirouetted and twisted in the dark.
***
Water gurgled in the
roots and grass of boggy fields as the two rebels made their way north. They rode
on their horses along narrow bands of dry soil that made a twisting route
through patches of stagnant puddles. Ahead, another ridge of windswept hills
loomed.
And then more lowlands and after those, more ridges,
Tario thought wearily. He’d come
this way months ago, had already seen these dull sights once, which he felt was
enough. The water sucked at his horse’s hooves.
The bony legs of
Tario’s horse were splattered by the time they escaped the waterlogged field. Malak’
brooding stallion had suffered similarly, breeches of brown muck now rose up
the horses’ legs. Fortunately, the ground beneath the horses’ hooves was
becoming firmer and the air fresher. Tario glanced back at the bog-lands they’d
just traversed and saw curling mists prowling the watery trails.
He thought enviously of
a proper bed and a warm meal. Vague, half-remembered fragments seemed to
suggest that there’d been a village somewhere nearby.
The morning sun still
hung low in the east.
Turning back he examined
the view in front of him. Dull clouds blotted out any view of the sky to the
north and it seemed to Tario that something malignant was lurking on that
horizon, beyond those hilltops. A smell was being carried on the air, and it
wasn’t his own unwashed scent.
“There’s a village
near, isn’t there?” Tario asked Malak in an attempt for conversation. As they
approached the apex of the hill he hoped that talk would dispel his sudden
foreboding.
Malak craned his head
back to look at him with one eye.
“Very good,
Terrace-man. You’ve an eye for our gloomy geography.”
“It’s Lord Caryn that
rules here, isn’t it? When I passed through I had to avoid Caryn’s men. Has he
chosen a cause yet?”
Malak sniffed and
repositioned himself in his saddle.
“Our Prince has, indeed,
managed to persuade Lord Caryn to join us,” he said in a sour tone.
Tario frowned. “Caryn.
They call him careful. He wouldn’t abandon the winning side.”
Malak grunted. “He’s
cowardly, not careful.” He hesitated. “There’s been talk recently among the
well-off folk, the scholars and the merchants that the Prince’s the winning
side.”
Tario was watching Malak
carefully. He urged his horse to hurry up a bit.
“What do you think?”
Malak shot Tario a
questing glance. He sighed and pushed greying locks from his forehead. “The
Governor here, Tenebreve, isn’t called the ‘Butcher of Voyrnestod’ for nothing.
You know his reputation. He’s defeated a Vornese army in the field more than
once. Now the clergy preach that our young Prince, only a boy, can defeat this
monster.” He spat over the side of his horse. “I don’t believe it. Tenebreve
has the men, the numbers. All he needs is for us to slip up once, then he’ll
crush us.”
His voice was laden
with contempt.
“The surviving lords
are getting reckless now. They forget our history, the Surrender and Regrant,
the Submissions, the Battle of the Novaryn. They’ve forgotten how our King was
slaughtered. You know what I think, Tario? I think that the Governor, old man
he is, can still hear them kicking in the stalls.”
Tario didn’t reply to
that. But he was inclined to agree with Malak for the most part. Their cause
had come so far in the past few years but they still needed more time. They
couldn’t hope to beat Tenebreve, the Imperial Governor, right now. Not when two
consecutive generations before had failed.
The country holds its breath and waits to see who’ll
outlast the other. Verin needs a cool head at times like these. As Malak said,
only Tenebreve would benefit from a reckless assault.
They crested the
hilltop. Tario’s breath caught. Malak’s whole body shot up in his saddle and he
let out a cry of dismay. His back arched as taut as a bowstring, one of his
hands fumbled for his sword.
The village below had
been mutilated. It was an ugly, but strangely irresistible sight. Tario found
he could not look away from the devastation. The houses, workshops and taverns
had been turned into gutted shells of their formers selves. The village commons
had been scorched to black ash. Jumbled, blackened timbers and billowing plumes
of smoke greeted them back to Vorne.
The river that coursed
through the village was choked with debris. The ruins of smashed jetties leaned
into water until they disappeared in the foaming torrent.
Tario’s thoughts
flicked to the image of bodies bobbing, bloated and discoloured in that water. He tried to crush this involuntary premonition
but he couldn’t banish the dread that was settling on his soul.
Beside him, Malak was
quiet for a long moment, his body tensed. His jaw had clamped together like a
bear-trap.
When he finally spoke,
his voice was a whisper, barely audible beneath the cawing of the circling
crows.
“Whatever you think of
me, stay close, Terrace-man-” he swallowed and Tario swore he heard his voice
waver. “You picked a bad time to return.”
He drew his sword, steel sighing as it parted
from the leather scabbard.
