I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER Read online

  Despite the chill night he bathed his face and back. He chewed on a strip of meat that tasted like no animal he had ever eaten. He curled up in his bloody furs on the ground. The night was to be a restless one; full of fretful thrashing and thoughts of fire on flesh.

  * * *

  Come dawn his fever had broken, though lack of sleep had left him gritty-eyed and irritable. His back was scabbing over and each movement tugged at the knitting skin.

  “Morning.” he grunted. It was the first word he’d uttered since the storm. Justice twitched her ears. “You haven’t brought breakfast, by any chance?” He was famished, and though Justice could eat moss, Oben was reluctant to. He looked in his bag and found a few withered mushrooms in the bottom. At least the day appeared brighter; it was warmer down amongst the scattered trees where the wind didn’t rake its claws. “Let’s keep going east,” he decided, having heard rumour of villages along the coast. Justice nodded. He almost fancied they had an understanding, even if she’d been fickle in the storm.

  Then a movement caught his eye. Skalgs. Three of them. He shrank back into the bushes, wiped the partially chewed mushrooms from his mouth, and drew his sword, though he was in no condition to fight. They were pushing through the bracken, just wide of where he crouched, but then he saw more behind him, five or six at least. Justice stirred, and he glared at her to keep still. It didn’t matter, they were heading for the river; there was nowhere he could go. If they didn’t spot him, they would see their clear tracks in the moss. He cursed himself for not having been more cautious. He promised the Sower that if she got him out of this, he would go home. He had learnt his lesson. He vowed to the Tender that he would never leave Delia again, that he would be a better father to Bayron. He told the Harvester that he would leave the reaping to him. Just get me out of this.

  But the Trinity did not heed him, and the lead Skalg’s eyes widened in surprise and then glee as he spied the wounded southerner inexplicably slumped in their path. In his harsh tongue he beckoned his companions.

  Oben waved Vengeance threateningly as ten savages crowded in. One of them spoke, and when Oben did not respond, the Skalg walked up and kicked him in the ribs. He swiped his sword at the man's legs, just a threat, not a suicide attempt, but they just laughed. The man stomped a boot on Oben's wrist, pinning his forearm and another Skalg stepped up and stamped on his hand, crunching it until the sword came loose. Oben howled as his fingers audibly broke. One of the Skalgs seized the sword and swung and hacked at a tree with it. Then he held it aloft, examining its mangled form before tossing it into the trees. That was it, Vengeance was gone. It hadn’t been much of a sword, and was unworthy of the name he had given it. Then the Skalg warrior loosened his axe, snarling something Oben couldn’t understand, but it didn’t sound like an invitation to breakfast. His companions nodded and he raised his weapon. At least his death would come swiftly. Not like it came to Mara, who had screamed eternally, nor Old Gurney, who'd been trapped beneath a burning beam. Oben didn’t beg for his life. There was no point. There was no mutual understanding here, and to the Skalgs, his death would be as meaningful as killing a rabbit. He screwed shut his eyes and prayed to be delivered to the Garden.

  But one of the men cried out. Oben opened one eye. They were riffling through his bags, not even waiting to kill him before they robbed him. The Skalg who had shouted held Mascal’s axe aloft. The others peered up at it and a heated discussion broke out. When it simmered down, one of the northmen strode over, hauled Oben up and slammed him against a tree, his feet dangling a foot above the ground. The Skalg said something then shook him so violently he felt his head might come off.

  “I... don’t understand,” Oben said.

  “Mascal,” he growled.

  Oben forced a pained smile.

  “Yes. Mascal.” he said. The back of his head was wet and warm, the edges of his vision growing dark. “I killed him.” A mad, unsettling laughter ensued. He realised it was his own.

  The big Skalg frowned and dropped him to the ground, and the savages began to argue again in their garbled tongue. Oben continued to laugh. A final spit in the face of his enemies. One of them strode over to him, not with an axe this time, but a fist. He didn’t remember anything after that.

  4

  FROM THE MOUTHS OF BEASTS

  Oben blinked, crackling the congealed blood on his eyelashes. His nose felt like someone had stuck a turnip to his face. It took him a moment to realise that he wasn’t dead, and another to make out he was strapped to Justice’s back bouncing along through the trees surrounded by his captors.

  He how no idea for how long they had been travelling, but the discomforting gait of his horse—if she were still his—told him they were descending.

  For three more days they journeyed thus, stopping only at dusk when he was dumped on the ground like a hay bale and made to eat whatever raw meat they had caught that day. If he vomited, they forced him to eat it a second time, so he quickly learned to keep it down.

  On the afternoon of the third day Oben smelt the briny sea, a smell he recognised from the handful of times he’d attended Gladbrook’s audiences in Blanbury.

  They passed through an outer wall of sharpened timber and entered a settlement. It was a humble affair with compacted dirt streets and warped wooden abodes. It was the first proof that the Skalgs were anything other than nomadic. He had to wonder at the defences and who the Skalgs were protecting themselves from. Wild animals, perhaps? Great packs of wolves and bears were still abundant north of the Weaver.

  The smell of seawater was stronger here. It mingled with the scent of roasting meat and smoke. A few urchins gathered around him, jeering and goading him. Fortunately, he didn’t have to endure it for long before he was bundled into a dark building, still trussed like a prize pig.

  They dumped him on the earthen floor, and a wooden gate slammed and locked behind him. He heard laughter from the shadows. Though bound at the wrists and ankles, he still managed to shuffle back at the sight of the huge Skalg sitting across from him.

  “Ishral! Thought I was done with surprises,” the man said.

  Oben’s jaw dropped. Not merely because he’d not heard anyone speak his tongue for a fortnight, but because it came from the mouth of a savage.

  “You speak Edalian?”

  “Poorly, I’m told.”

  The prisoner was almost as big as Mascal. His red hair was wild and his red beard looked like an abandoned swallows’ nest. He flashed Oben a gap-toothed grin.

  “By the Trinity…” Oben said, shaking his head.

  “They’ll do you no good round here, boy.”

  “Who are you? How do you know Edalian?”

  “Name’s Rak. And you’re not the first southerner I’ve met.”

  “You’ve been to Edale?”

  “Once.”

  Oben clenched his jaw.

  “I’ve seen what you Skalgs who cross the border do.”

  Rak shrugged.

  “Edalians ain’t so pretty, either.”

  “We’re farmers.”

  “And the Persuasion you serve?”

  “We serve only the Trinity.”

  “Tell yourself that, if it helps.”

  Oben bristled. He had little love for the Persuasion and feared them to a degree, but he’d not hear them slandered by a Skalg.

  “Kill some of your friends, did they?”

  “Aye. At Tristleton.”

  Oben had heard of the infamous treaty. Everyone had. Another of Gladbrook’s bad ideas.

  “Well, you got what was coming to you.”

  “We were slaughtered.”

  “Then perhaps you should stay away.”

  “Not all who cross the border want war.”

  Oben curled his lip and looked away, but curiosity got the better of him.

  “Tristleton was five years ago. Why are you here?”

  “The treaty was never authorised. We went against the Bearn’s wishes. On top of that, I decided to stay
in Edale.”

  Oben snorted.

  “You stayed in Edale? For five years? I suppose you visited Corwen, too. Got anointed at the Jade Temple.”

  “Nothing so fancy. A village in the north.”

  “Which?” Oben asked, certain to catch him out.

  “Nettlegate.”

  He’d heard of it. Never been.

  “I think I’d have heard of a Skalg living in Nettlegate for five years. Besides, the Persuasion would never have stood for it.”

  “Not all Edalians are closed-minded. And not all Skalgs hate Edalians. Most do. But not all. Also, I’d keep the term Skalg to yourself. It’s offensive.”

  “Why would you hate us? And what else should I call you?”

  “I don’t know… For your fertile lands. For the Persuasion. For Tristleton. For the Grim Cages. For the mines on Penn. I could go on. And we are Taliskans. This place is cursed. Look around! We don’t belong in Skaligar, and neither do you.”

  “My farm was attacked by Skalgs! My sister was killed by Skalgs! Don’t tell me where the fault lies.”

  “Be careful, boy.”

  Oben straightened as much as the ropes allowed.

  “I’m not a boy. I have a son. I run my own farm.”

  “Should have stayed there then.”

  “And wait for more attacks?”

  “So, you’re here for what? For revenge? Ha. That's funny. I spent enough time around farmers to know they don’t come marching into Skaligar for revenge!”

  “Killed Mascal good enough.”

  “Horseshit!”

  Rak’s amusement riled Oben, poked at a fresh wound, yet it made him seem more relatable. He chewed his lip for a moment, considering.

  “Look, we’re both prisoners here. Perhaps we can help each other?”

  “Forget it.”

  “But—”

  “I said forget it. There’s no way out. Not for you, not for me.”

  “I need to get home. My wife and boy—”

  “You ain’t going home, lad. Less the crows carry ye back in their stomachs and shit you out over your fields.”

  “My name’s Oben, not lad, not boy.”

  “Well, Oben. You’re gonna die here. But you knew that, right? Moment you crossed the Weaver. And me, I’ll be on the first boat to Eisalhelm, and will die there. That’s all. If you ask me, you’re the lucky one. Bloody hate boats.”

  “Eisalhelm?”

  “Taliskar. The homeland.”

  “I thought—”

  “Aye, I know what ye southerners think. That we drink our own piss and lie with she-bears. Well, I’ll not judge you for your ignorance. You’re not the first, and’ll not be the last.”

  “What am I supposed to think? The Skalgs burnt our horses! All of them, save one.”

  Rak raised a brow.

  “Keep calling me a Skalg and I might lose my famous patient streak.”

  “Taliskan, then. All the same to me.”

  “I’m an outcast. Clanless. I’ll be brought home in chains to atone.”

  “For going to Edale?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Oben waved his good hand about.

  “We seem to have time.”

  “You don’t. You’re in Lanoc, boy.”

  “So? One place in Skaligar is as bad as another.”

  “I’ll not argue that. But Lanoc has one more thing going for it – Grinchell.”

  Oben’s head jerked up.

  “You know the name.”

  Oh yes, he knew the name. He’d chanted it for miles. Gulmorgon, Mascal, Grinchell, Kai.

  “He’s here?”

  “Will be tomorrow. He’ll probably want to meet you. Can’t think why else they’re keeping you alive.”

  “I already told you. I killed Mascal.”

  “And I went to your temple, remember. Danced a jig with the High bloody Priest.”

  “They found his axe on my horse. That’s why they didn’t kill me.”

  Rak’s smile faded.

  “You’re serious, ain’t you?” he said, sitting up.

  “Deadly.”

  “Oh boy,” the big Taliskan laughed. "You’re a mad one.”

  “I came to avenge my family.”

  “And if you’re not shitting me, you have. Mascal was a Ferra chief. Not well liked, but respected. You can die content.”

  But Oben did not want to die, content or otherwise. Not now. Part of him still wanted to escape, but knowing Grinchell was on his way changed things. Vengeance and Justice were lost to him, but his anger remained.

  “I’ll fight Grinchell.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “He means to kill me anyway. I’ll challenge him. He won’t be able to refuse in front of his men.”

  “How hard did they hit you, boy? You look half crippled from where I’m sittin’. Bet you can’t even wipe your arse with that hand. And fuck knows what happened to your shoulder. A stiff breeze would do for you.”

  “I’d rather die fighting.”

  “Take the easy way. Let ‘em sacrifice you. The death is clean, over in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m no goat.”

  “Aye. A goat’s nimble. You can barely stand.”

  “Translate for me. Tell Grinchell what I want.”

  “He’d split my tongue just for speaking.”

  “What made you stay in Nettlegate? I’m sure it wasn’t the smell of manure... Help me, and I’ll deliver a message when I return. Anything.”

  Rak stared off for a moment and sighed.

  “You ain’t going back, boy, but aye, I might as well get one last bit of entertainment.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ll not be thanking me tomorrow. Grinchell will accept. Mascal and he hated each other’s guts, but they were brothers-in-law.”

  “Good. They killed my family. I’ll kill theirs.”

  “Can’t believe I’m biting, but if you did kill Mascal, the Kazra will absorb the Ferra. Grinchell will be expected to make Mascal’s murderer suffer. He’ll take you piece by piece just to appease the Ferra.” Rak looked him over and flashed that gap-toothed grin again. “I hope he starts with that shitty hand.”

  5

  THE MARK OF ISHRAL

  Oben couldn’t sleep. The floor was hard and thoughts of the morrow harder. Rak’s snoring, and the scurrying of starving rats made it a restless night. By the time the glow of dawn crawled up the corridor, he felt utterly exhausted. The thought of facing Grinchell was ridiculous. He’d struggle fighting a child in his condition. He pictured Mara, the day they had hidden in the wheat after being caught scrumping, the day she had sided with him against Kyrion and protected Oben from his brother’s fists. Then he remembered the screams, the wails. Memories he had buried the past two weeks rose to the surface. They became bellows to turn the embers of his ire white. He closed his eyes and saw the flicker of flames dancing on his chamber wall.

  “Take Bayron” he had hissed, dressing, tripping over his trousers in his haste. “Get to the cellar!”

  “Don’t go out there, Oben.” Delia had said, peering through the window.

  “Just hide!” he had snapped. “Don’t answer the door for anybody.”

  He hadn’t heeded her after that.

  The night sky was orange from the blazing stables. He ran, thinking only of saving the horses. He’d been working there just a few hours before, a normal shift at the end of a routine day. He'd left no lamps lit; he’d made sure of that. He saw men running between the buildings. Large men. Skalgs, and many of them. He ducked behind the manure cart. From here he could see several houses on fire. Ma Rallier cried from an upstairs window as smoke enshrouded her. He looked back to his own house to see several Skalgs approaching the door. Shit! Where were the Persuasion when you actually needed them? The Jade Knight that was always on duty? There was a body lying near to where the knight was normally stationed. Oben ran a hand over his face. Gilden was on its own now. He hesitated, then headed back, but
two northmen blocked his path. He turned and fled. They laughed, but did not give chase. He prayed Delia had gone to the cellar like he'd told her, and was safe. If he tried to join them, he’d be killed, or worse, draw attention to their house.

  Only half the stable was burning. He slid in through the backdoor. The horses were screaming and stamping. He opened the first stable door, a nameless, grey mare bolted out past him and into the night. The only one he'd be able to save. She, whom he would call Justice. He'd opened another stall when the stable doors banged shut behind him. The Skalgs dragged the cart up against it. He was trapped. He ran to the doors and pounded on the thick wood, but the Skalgs just laughed at him.

  Part of the roof collapsed. The horses bucked furiously in their stalls, flames flickering in their big brown eyes. Then he noticed a body pinned beneath an old beam. Shielding his eyes from the blaze, he crept forward. He had told Old Gurney not to sleep in the stables anymore, but the drunkard had clearly ignored him. Only then did he think of his sister and brother-in-law in their house.

  Old Gurney wailed as the flames licked up his legs toward his torso. Oben considered trying to lift the timber, as ridiculous as it seemed, but another beam collapsed, and he jumped back in a shower of sparks. The old drunk was lost in a billow of black smoke. Oben scurried to the farthest stall and huddled as the horses’ shrieks of pain crescendoed and died. He turned his face away from the unbearable heat, dug down into the damp straw to some rotted wood that he'd been meaning to fix. He pushed his face against it, sucking in the night air. He couldn’t see much, but he heard voices from the square. He grasped the edge of the wooden boards with both hands and pulled. Sodden bits came away and he fell back. He tried again, bracing his feet against the wall. The board bent, creaked and snapped in half. The gap was just big enough. He lay on his side and wriggled out onto the muddy ground. Silhouettes stood black against the blazing inn. There was nothing he could do to help anyone. He sneaked out of the gate, across a field and lay in a ditch, shivering and sobbing. At last the Persuasion arrived with their cracking fire lances, forcing the Skalgs to depart. The surviving villagers emerged slowly from their homes as disorientated as insects whose nest had been kicked.