I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER Read online

  I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER

  CF WELBURN

  Copyright © 2021 by CF Welburn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Otis

  “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

  * * *

  -Confucius

  Contents

  Part 1

  1. BLACK WINGS, DEAD THINGS

  2. FLASH OF THE SILVER SPEAR

  3. NORTHERN IRON, SOUTHERN STEEL

  4. FROM THE MOUTHS OF BEASTS

  5. THE MARK OF ISHRAL

  6. TALIS IN THE DARK

  7. A FEAST OF FRIENDS

  8. IN THE COURT OF THE ONE-EYED MAN

  9. INTO THE WHITE

  10. LEGEND OF THE THUNDER-BLADE

  11. ON THE SHORES OF LUCK

  Part 2

  12. THE ENEMY’S ENEMY

  13. THE INSUFFERABLE GUEST

  14. HARVESTING THE SHADOW FIELDS

  15. SPITE AND RESPITE

  16. THE SWAN ROAD

  17. QUEST FOR THE GIANT’S BANE

  18. THRELWICH IN SPLINTERS

  19. JUSTICE UNLOOKED FOR

  20. A FATE FORETOLD

  21. FLIGHT OF THE CONDUIT

  Part 3

  22. STRANGER’S HOMECOMING

  23. GHOSTS AT THE GALLOWS

  24. OLD FLAMES AND NEW

  25. BROTHERS-AT-ARMS

  26. BY TRUTH OR TRICKERY

  27. A STABLEMASTER’S SON

  28. TEMPLE OF BLOOD AND JADE

  29. AS WRITTEN IN FEATHERS

  30. WINTER’S RETURN

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by:

  Glossary

  Part 1

  OF PROPHECY AND REVENGE

  1

  BLACK WINGS, DEAD THINGS

  On the fourth day he found their trail.

  Oben had come far on his farmhouse provisions, but that morning he had set a snare next to some warrens and later risked a small fire to cook his catch. He ate sparsely and stored the rest in his saddle bag. Further north, the weather would be colder and the game scarcer.

  He was cleaning his knife when he noticed a cloud of black birds, circling half a mile to the east. Such a sign could mean but one thing: black wings, dead things – a phrase Ma Rallier had been fond of uttering even when it was clear the crows were merely after the crops. There were no crops here.

  He tied Justice to a tree, and approached on foot, keeping low and vigilant. He imagined it would be little more than a dead sheep, but caution was healthy, particularly if the birds were an omen.

  He found them feasting in a small clearing and watched from behind a bush. At first, he thought they were eating a bear, though bears didn't normally venture this far south until autumn. It turned out he was half right. It was a man clad in bearskin, facedown on the stones. He stepped into the clearing, setting the birds squawking skyward. The axe-wound in the man's back glistened with fresh blood. The Skalgs were not far off.

  He flipped the body over. Grey eyes, ripe for the plucking, stared vacantly at the sky. The man had a thick beard, like all Skalgs. His skin was pale, his teeth yellow, his earlobes stretched long by thick bone rings. He had black symbols painted on his face, but whatever they once were, they were now too smudged to discern. Gladbrook had been right to dub these men heathens, and it was small wonder Oben had mistaken the bearded, fur-clad man for an animal.

  Still, he was in the wilds now, where one man’s loss was another’s gain. He quickly set to stripping the corpse of its leggings and cloak. The man had nothing else of value; his weapons had been taken with his life. As Oben returned to Justice, the heavy cloak bundled in his arms, the birds descended on the corpse again. The fleetest alighted on his face and plucked a strand of goo from its eye.

  The tracks he had been following lead eastward through a forest. No doubt they were from the raiding party that had left northern Edale smoking. The names of those responsible had drummed through his head for the past week: Gulmorgon, Mascal, Grinchell, Kai. It had become his mantra, and he chanted it to the rhythm of Justice's hooves. Gulmorgon, Mascal, Grinchell, Kai. His knuckles were white on the reins.

  * * *

  As dusk fell, he stopped at a stream to let Justice drink. The ground was a carpet of dry needles and would serve well as bedding. He was entertaining the idea of a small fire when he heard laughter, deep and booming, not far off through the trees. He dropped to a crouch and waited, legs trembling, and thanked the Sower he had not kindled a flame. The Skalgs held no such concerns; the scent of wood smoke drifted to him on the westerly breeze.

  He contemplated retreating, but quickly chided himself. This was an opportunity. If they had come from Edale, then one of the clan chiefs was certainly with them. He’d not get a chance like this once they reached a village. If he could not grow a spine now, he may as well turn back. He deliberated a moment before tethering Justice and donning the fusty furs. Then he waited for the sun to set, silently praying to the Trinity for courage and luck.

  * * *

  When only the glow of the enemy’s fires shone through the trees, he crept nearer. Their coarse banter and harsh laughter swelled as he circled wide and climbed up a rockfall to get a good look. There were two fires: two warriors were stirring a huge pot over the closer one; six men were drinking and talking in their guttural tongue around the other. They appeared to have set no watch, assuming quite correctly that only a madman would dare sneak up on them.

  Even from a distance the aroma of stewed goat made Oben's mouth water. That, and hints of the pungent mela weed Skalgs were known to smoke.

  A few of them started to sing. A brute next to the far fire stood and growled, and the music stopped. Oben swallowed. He knew the man. The fierce blond-haired boor, whose bare, knotted muscles bunched in the firelight was Mascal. His lower half was clothed in bearskin, but his torso bore only tattoos and scars. He had a thick beard, and feathers tattooed on his temples. A war axe lay on the ground at his feet. He barked something and the other men took up a different tune. Then he raised his wineskin and sat down again.

  Oben shuffled back down the rock. His thighs ached from the climb. What had he been thinking? Delia had warned him, but he’d been too stubborn to listen. He was a farmer; these men were… beasts. He walked back through the woods to Justice and considered abandoning his foolhardy mission. It would be better to slink back with his tail between his legs than not to return at all. But his sister’s screams haunted him; and quieter, yet more ingrained in his psyche, his father’s and brother’s condescending voices taunted him; even Justice seemed to snort in derision. He stood and paced, wringing his hands, cursing, muttering. Then he heard snoring coming from the camp, and he knew it was now or the tail between the legs.

  He circled north again and descended slowly, aware of every scraping stone and rustling needle, freezing when a twig snapped beneath his foot. The Skalgs' fires had burned low but still illuminated the surrounding trees and sprawled, sleeping bodies. He looked at Mascal’s barrel chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep, and though plunging Vengeance into it had been his intention, such heroic fancies suddenly seemed absurd. He wasn’t sure if it was the thought of the metal sliding into the man's sleeping chest or the fear of Mascal waking and seizing his wrist, but he couldn't fathom the act. Instead, he approached the pot and emptied the small pouch of hemlock he’d brou
ght with him from Gilden’s trampled garden. He’d harvested and ground close to a hundred leaves. He hoped it would be enough. He sprinkled the crushed leaves on the surface of the stew, took the ladle from its hook, and stirred. Whether they thought he was trying to kill them or merely attempting to steal their food, he expected the punishment would be the same. He held his breath as he rested the ladle with a dull clunk against the rim. When he stepped back from the pot, a big, bearded Skalg lying next to the fire was staring at him. Oben's knees buckled, and he almost toppled into the embers, but the man let out a shuddering snore and rolled over.

  When he’d made it back to Justice, he stroked her mane and whispered, “I did it.” Justice nuzzled his chest. He felt terribly alone. He rested his head on hers and may or may not have slept.

  * * *

  A chirping bird woke him. He heard some coughing through the woods, but it was more than just a cough. It was the sound of suffocation, the sound of men dying.

  He crept back through the trees and peered down at the camp. The Skalgs lay writhing, gasping, raking the cold earth with desperate fingers. He saw Mascal slumped against a tree. They had broken their fast early; the camp had been all but struck. The pot had been drained and was strapped to a malnourished mule. Likely one of the men had fallen first, muscles cramping, lungs failing, skin turning the mottled yellow of a cane toad’s belly. When the others began to suffer, a grim realisation would have crept in. Too late by then, of course. Nothing to do save watch your comrades die and wait your turn.

  Oben retched drily. How could he look Bayron in the eye after this? What story could he invent to explain it to Delia? He had been so bent on making the Skalgs pay, he’d not considered the consequences. Mascal let out a long, terrible roar, scattering Oben's thoughts. The giant Skalg was staring up at him. The hatred that Oben felt shone even fiercer in his enemy’s eyes. Had he not consumed enough hemlock for his thick frame? Mascal rolled to a tree behind him and began pulling himself up. Oben knew he could not run. They would just track him down. He drew Vengeance and rushed in, stabbing wildly. Mascal fell back, swatting Oben's sword with bleeding, lacerated hands.

  “You worm!” the Skalg coughed in accented Edalian. He reached for his axe, but it was beyond his grasp, and in that moment the realisation he was going to die entered his eyes.

  “This is for Mara!” Oben cried, plunging Vengeance into the clan chief’s stomach. Mascal seized Oben's forearms, pulling himself up the blade until the hilt was against his skin. He spat in Oben’s face then slid back down and died.

  Oben let go of his blade and stumbled away, blinded by tears of rage. He sank down, his shoulders trembling, his heart thundering in his ears.

  2

  FLASH OF THE SILVER SPEAR

  After several hours had passed, he went back to the Skalgs’ camp to pilfer what he could, which included some food and Mascal’s axe. When he returned to Justice, she was drinking from a stream. She turned her head to him and he showed her the axe. “Don’t look at me like that.” he said. He was doing this for the both of them. They needed the food to survive, and the axe was but proof. He was not like the Skalgs.

  He must have repeated this in his mind a score of times throughout the morning’s hard, silent ride.

  He shouldn’t have come alone. Too much time for thinking. Too much time to relive the sound of men fighting for breath. But there had been no one else. All were dead, or gone, or just too bloody sensible.

  His guilt was assuaged by the memories of what those dead men had done. What they would have done again if he hadn't stopped them. Gilden’s gate had sagged like a dead man’s jaw, when he had ridden out. A final acrid breath of wet ash and burnt blood filling his nostrils.

  He realised he was muttering to himself. Justice regarded him with a look of pity. If the killing didn’t turn him mad, maybe the solitude would.

  But he was not completely alone. Not if he kept the Trinity with him, as he must in this godless place. They would understand. The ridding of heathens was as the ridding of weeds. All else must surely grow better without them.

  He’d not use poison again. Not for his enemy’s sake—any death was too good for them; but he was doing this for Mara, for Peli, for Old Gurney, for Ma Rallier. He wanted his enemies to know that. He wanted them to regret what they had done. He wanted them to scream.

  In his twenty-nine years he’d only ever killed a horse when it had broken its leg in Stag’s brook. His father, Brintok, had made him do it; Kyrion, his twin brother, had caught him crying in the barn afterwards, and laughed. Oben’s cheeks had burned and they had fought. Childish, fists, teeth and the pulling of hair. Nothing now that he had bloodied his sword.

  They left the river and continued north-east, passing through the trees as the ground steadily rose. It had been the direction Mascal had been heading.

  * * *

  At dusk he made a fireless camp. The land had risen enough to command a view all the way to the south, where the winding river Weaver marked the border between Edale and Skaligar. He chewed mirthlessly on some cold meat the Skalgs had carried. His normally smooth cheeks were rough with a week’s growth; his nails were dirty, he hadn’t bathed, and he sat hunkered down in the trees like a fugitive. Like a Skalg. He looked at the bear furs and laughed grimly. Justice glanced over at the strange sound.

  * * *

  Noon the following day saw him breach a bleak plateau with only withered heather, hard snow and solitary boulders to break the monotony. Occasionally he heard the trickle of water hidden beneath loose stones. The air was crisp and he was glad for the bear furs. He managed to forage some unfamiliar berries before the light had completely faded.

  He awoke with a start. His first thought was that someone had dropped an armful of clattering pots. A moment later a blue flicker painted every crag and stone. The stars were gone, replaced by a black murk. Justice whinnied. He tried to comfort her, but his voice was lost beneath the hissing rain and hail. The sky cracked. White light bled through the clouds.

  “Shhhh, girl!” He grasped her reins, but she snatched them from his hands and bolted. “Justice!” he yelled, as another deep rumble shook the earth. He ran after her, tripped, and slammed his head on rock. The next blinding flash showed Justice racing down the hill. He cradled his throbbing head and trudged back to his bags. He had no choice but to wait this out. But in the next flash of lightning, he saw a figure, someway off, standing on the hill. No, it was a tree stump. Nothing more. Still, he awaited the next flash with trepidation. When it came, he saw it again. It was a woman, still someway off, facing in his direction. He stared, waiting for another flash, icy rain dripping over his eyes. When the lightning flashed again, she was closer. Tall, slender, long hair billowing behind her. She seemed to be staring back at him. He touched his head; his hand came away a watery red. Another flash. She was just a few feet away, white eyes burning into him. He shuffled back. It was all he could do not to turn and run.

  Another flash, and she stood towering over him. Her eyes were incandescent, her hair wild, her skin flawless and blue in the storm light. She raised a long silver spear. He turned and scrambled back, crawled away, pathetically. Then he twisted his neck and saw the spear descend, felt it slide into his shoulder, tear and burn. A white-hot lance searing and hissing. He screamed into the night. Then it was dark and she was gone. He writhed in agony on the muddy ground, his face in the dirt, sobbing into the muck. When the lightning flashed again, he was alone. He touched the wound on his shoulder, and pain burst through his arm and neck. He fell onto his side, panting, as the flickering and flashing storm retreated toward the horizon.

  3

  NORTHERN IRON, SOUTHERN STEEL

  When Justice returned and nudged him, her skittishness and the pain that spread from his shoulder, across his back, up his neck and into the base of his skull was proof that he hadn’t gone insane. He pulled his wet shirt open. Instead of finding it red with blood, it was burnt black. The pain reminded him of when he'd kno
cked over a boiling kettle as a child and scolded his leg. That he had not physically been lanced by a spear did not lessen the agony, though at least it meant he would not bleed out. After some thought, it seemed he had been struck by lightning. The woman must have been the a result of a hard knock on the head or perhaps the berries he had eaten.

  He stood and leant wearily on Justice. They had to get going. Not only did he fear spending another night on the stark hilltop, but they’d need water before the day was done. He slowly gathered his belongings. Their best bet was to follow the ridge east and descend. It took him three attempts to clamber up into the saddle.

  * * *

  At dusk he was still skidding and sliding on loose slate down the hill.

  His fever had worsened. He needed a river. Ice cold water to soothe his blistering back.

  The stars came out and the evening darkened, he was beginning to despair when he heard a distant trickle below a stony incline. He let Justice lead the way. When they finally reached the water, she lowered her head and he slipped and staggered from the saddle. Justice paced about disturbing the mossy slate that lined the banks of the stream.