I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER Page 3

  * * *

  Oben opened his eyes. They were wet. A distant drum was beating.

  “I hope you got your strength back,” Rak said, yawning. “Grinchell’s here.”

  The Kazra chief had arrived and was evidently not wasting time. The gaoler appeared and unlocked the door.

  “Quick, tell him, Rak.” Oben said. A fat man with brown teeth picked him up and hauled him into the passageway. For an instant he thought Rak had changed his mind, but at the last, he said something Oben couldn't understand. The gaoler stopped to hiss at him.

  “What did he say?” Oben asked as the fat man dragged him away.

  Rak laughed. “He said sacrifice was too good for you, anyway.”

  Before Oben could say more, the man shoved him through the door.

  “Die quickly, farmer!” Rak shouted.

  * * *

  The man threw Oben down on the hard-packed earth in the centre of a jeering ring of Skalgs; men, women, and children scowling, shouting, spitting. Grinchell stood over him. His mouth was a hard line, lost in the thickness of a braided beard. He must have been nearing forty winters, but stood stocky as a bull, dark-skinned and black haired. The bear fur over his leather armour made him look even bigger than he already was. Oben remained on the ground as Grinchell listened to the gaoler. His expression did not change, but he drew his axe and held it up. The crowd erupted and the drums started up again. It was only when the huge man kicked him in the chest that Oben realised the duel had begun. He fell back and slammed his head on the hard dirt. A gruff voice addressed him, but he didn’t understand what was being said. Grinchell kicked him again, to his ribs this time, and he felt something crack. He clutched his side and gasped, clambered to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the ground. Grinchell barked something and after some moments, the crowd parted.

  Someone shoved Rak into the circle; his bloodied nose suggested he was regretting his decision.

  Grinchell spoke.

  “He says get up.” Rak grudgingly translated.

  Oben stood up one foot at a time. The atmosphere was akin to a celebration as the spectators prepared themselves for a short, brutal spectacle. He met Grinchell’s eyes. The huge Skalg towered over him. He must have been seven feet or more. His thick arms looked like they could tear a tree up by its roots. Oben glanced down at his broken hand. He could try to run, but the baying circle was tight, and he wouldn’t make it ten paces.

  Grinchell spoke again; Rak translated.

  “He says there would be no honour in the fight. There is no challenge.”

  “Tell him—” Oben wheezed and clutched his ribs “—tell him, if he forfeits, he must let me go.”

  Rak winced but repeated the words. The Skalgs whooped and cheered. This was just a game to these men. They’d forget about him after breakfast. Would the Harvester even be able to claim him here? Would he make it to the Garden?

  “Choose your weapon,” Rak said, pointing to a rack of axes next to the prison. Oben examined them, but in truth one would be as little use as another.

  “Tell him I would fight with my axe.”

  “What axe?” Rak asked.

  “The one I took from Mascal.”

  Rak relayed the words. Grinchell looked like he would disembowel him there and then. Instead, he punched Rak square in the face, with a sharp smack. Rak took it well, straightened his head and spat out a tooth. Nevertheless, Grinchell could not deny Oben the weapon of his choice.

  Grinchell nodded and Oben approached the weapon rack, choosing the axe he had taken from the dead Ferra. Oben felt its weight as the steady beat of the drums filled the morning air.

  The circle widened, leaving just the two combatants facing each other.

  Grinchell surged forward and kicked him into the crowd. They shoved him to the ground, laughing and stomping on him. He saw Grinchell’s axe descend between them; he rolled and it thudded into the earth an inch from his ear. The big Skalg could have finished him then, but decided to pace the circle, shouting to the crowd and the sky as if even the washed-out sun needed to bear witness to his greatness. Oben stood shakily, gripping the haft of the unfamiliar axe in his sweaty hand.

  Oben took one step back into the circle, and Grinchell lunged and swung his axe. Oben dropped to his knee, and the blade sailed over his head. Then he charged into the large man’s groin. Grinchell grunted but did not move. He brought a knee up into Oben’s ribs. Oben fell to the ground, coughing and choking. Grinchell still clutched his groin, spat, and attacked again. Oben scrambled up and parried with his axe, shuddering his entire body, rattling his teeth. But he did not let go. He quickly sidestepped and gripping his axe with both his good and bad hand, swung at the back of Grinchell’s thigh. The big man jumped aside, and the blow merely ruffled the fur of his leggings. Oben stepped back, cursing. At least he’d not gone without a fight. Grinchell stepped in again, both hands grasping the wooden shaft of his axe, and cleaved it down, ripping Mascal’s axe from Oben's grip. Oben staggered, looked for a gap in the crowd and ran for it.

  But the onlookers grabbed him. Grinchell watched, smiling grimly as the mob pushed Oben, punched him, tore his clothes, and yanked his hair. He pulled free of their snatching hands, fell down on his knees. Grinchell’s raised axe blotted the sun.

  A cry came from the crowd. They were pointing at his back where his shirt had been torn. He looked at Rak hoping he would tell him what was happening, but even the big Taliskan was staring at Oben’s burnt skin.

  Grinchell was overcome with fury. He headbutted the unsuspecting man next to him, howled at the sky, then hurled his axe into the side of the prison wall. He argued with someone in the crowd, then he stormed off.

  The crowd was deathly still as Oben and Rak were escorted back to their cell. Once the door had been shut, Oben squinted up from the floor, every bone, sinew and fibre on fire.

  “What… happened?”

  Rak looked down, his red beard slick with blood.

  “You’ve been marked, boy.”

  “Marked? By who?”

  “Ishral.”

  Oben frowned, but Rak just eyed him as though he was locked in the cell with a venomous snake.

  “I was wrong,” the Taliskan said, shaking his head. “Looks like we’ll be going to Eisalhelm together, after all.”

  6

  TALIS IN THE DARK

  Sometime later a woman came to tend to his hand. The re-breaking and straightening of his fingers made him vomit. He doubted his hand would ever be as strong as before, but with the splints, at least it would not mend crooked. Old Gurney had had a deformed hand, and Oben and Kyrion had joked about it. He regretted it now. It had been a reason the old man had not worked, why he had turned to drink, why he had slept and died in the barn.

  The fat gaoler grudgingly spread damp straw across the floor of the cell to make it moderately more habitable, and a fresher breeze wafted into the cell where a window along the corridor had been unshuttered. Such generosity was strange when just a few hours earlier a quick death had been too good for him.

  Rak appeared to appreciate the benefits of the unexpected change, and gradually his scowl softened.

  “Who’s Ishral?” Oben asked.

  “The goddess,” Rak said, stirring on his mound of straw. “You know, I might almost forgive you for my lost tooth for this bedding. Let’s see what else we can get. Ask for a skin of wine.”

  Oben ignored him.

  “There’s no such goddess.”

  “Course not. You got your own gods, ain’t you. Growing stuff and shit.”

  Oben scowled.

  “The Trinity are not just our gods, but those of all Erindal.”

  “Weren’t them that just saved your hide though, was it?”

  “They determine all things. Mind how you speak of them.”

  Rak snorted and stretched out on the bedding.

  “I guess I should thank them for growing this straw then.”

  Oben shook his head and stared off through
the bars, but curiosity and boredom eventually prevailed.

  “So, you believe in other gods?” He knew he was mocking the big Taliskan, but he wanted to see how the man would react.

  “Goddess. Ishral. There’s only one.”

  “And all Ska—Taliskans, believe in her?”

  “Aye, and we need no Persuasion to empty our pockets and keep us in check.”

  “The Trinity are ever present. They are birth, life, death. They are the planting, the growing, the reaping. You joked about that straw, but all life is indebted to them. This Ishral probably came from smoking too much mela.”

  If he’d hoped to offend Rak, he was disappointed.

  “Mela. That’s what you should ask for! And I’ve heard one of your Jade Knights spout the same tripe as you just did. Saw him string a man up by his neck for taking food for his family. Pleasant lot.”

  “Stealing from the gods is a crime. Life is hard, but faith will see you rewarded in the Garden.”

  “Stealing from the Persuasion is a crime. The gods don’t give a shit.”

  “What would you know. A Skalg would steal from his own mother.”

  “I know what I see, boy.”

  “Oben.”

  “Even I, outcast that I have become, recognise the sigil of Ishral on your back. Now, either you’re a scheming little swine who knows more than he’s letting on, or there’s more to it. I ain’t decided which yet. After seeing you fight, I’m certainly not convinced you killed Mascal.”

  “I got struck by lightning.”

  Rak sat up.

  “A coincidence, then? Tell me, when has your Sower sent you such a sign?”

  “Each year in spring. The Rebirth.”

  Rak shrugged.

  “Your lands are fertile. Skaligar is frozen. I see no sign. The earth is simply richer, less riddled with rock. Your summers are longer and your winters less cruel.”

  “And I see no sign in being struck by lightning on a hilltop. Stand on the highest point and sooner or later you’ll be hit.”

  “Well, that lightning just saved your skin. I wouldn’t go spouting off too much about storms. You know they’re saying you’re the bloody Conduit. Ha.” Rak’s laughter turned into a cough.

  “Conduit?”

  “Aye. As written in feathers!” he said, spreading his hands dramatically.

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “None of this makes sense. A bloody southern farmer! Ha! Oh, I’d love to see Seringil’s face come autumn. Will almost be worth getting executed for.”

  “Seringil?”

  “The Bearn in Eisalhelm. If this is some sort of hoax or fluke, you’ll not withstand his scrutiny.”

  “I’m not going to Eisalhelm. It’s all a mistake…”

  “I agree. But a mistake that stopped Grinchell from eating your heart.”

  “What did you mean by written in feathers?”

  “The prophecy. The Black Swan of Deriath, Ethra… Never mind.”

  Oben shook his head. Whatever nonsense had kept him alive would surely not last. He needed to escape. He’d promised to be back by winter. Bayron would turn seven this season; Delia would not wait for him forever.

  He strode to the bars and shook them as violently as he could with one hand.

  “Easy lad. They’ve spared you, doesn’t mean you’re beyond a beating.”

  Oben stopped. He would like to put a few days healing between now and his next injuries. He hissed, kicked the straw and sank down to sulk in the shadows.

  * * *

  A few hours of silence passed before he had the urge to break it.

  “What’s your language called?”

  “Talis.”

  “I need you to teach me.”

  “I ain’t no teacher.”

  “What else are we going to do in this hole? You said we’ll leave in autumn. It’s still midsummer.”

  “I speak Edalian, that’s enough.”

  “You’d still have your tooth if I spoke Talis. You think they’re not going to want you to interpret when we reach Eisalhelm? Unless this Bearn speaks Edalian, too?”

  Rak groaned.

  “If I teach you, they won’t have a need for me. Perhaps I can delay my execution for as long as this… farce lasts.”

  “Just teach me a little. Enough that I can understand what they say. Maybe I’ll hear something beneficial to us both. Their tongues will be looser if they think I cannot understand. I’ll claim to still need you. I owe you.”

  “You owe me a tooth,“ he said. “But I suppose we could start with the basics.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  Rak growled. When Oben didn’t respond, he made the noise again.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your first word.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Bastard.” Rak said, and Oben smiled.

  * * *

  The dark days turned into weeks. Oben’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and his wounds healed. Their language lessons got off to a shaky start, but word by word he built up his vocabulary and could even string a few sentences together. Rak was not a patient teacher, and their frequent arguments often led to days of silence. In the lull Oben would drill the things they had learnt and eventually they’d pick up where they left off.

  Talis wasn’t the only thing he learnt. Oben asked about Taliskar and Eisalhelm, Ishral, the Black Swan and, when he was feeling reckless, about Rak’s own story. The story, which was often a precursor to one of their arguments, and after a time Oben stopped asking. He learnt that Taliskar, the land from which they truly hailed, lay some ten days east across a choppy sea. Rak confirmed the rumours Oben had heard in the south, that the clans had united in Skaligar, and the Ixna, headed by Gulmorgon, held the power.

  “Bitch has got Grinchell eating out of her hand,” Rak grumbled.

  “Bitch? Gulmorgon’s a woman?”

  “Course, boy, you think a man could pull this shitshow together?”

  Oben could scarce believe it. It was unthinkable a woman should ever hold such power in Edale, neither High Priest Golmin nor the Persuasion would allow it—despite Delia always having the final say in his household.

  “All have united with her?” he asked.

  “Not all. There are some who think they could do better. The Tanda are a thorn in her side. But you’ve helped.”

  “Me?”

  “With Mascal gone, the Ferra now look to Grinchell and work alongside the Kazra, both of whom support the Ixna’s claim.”

  “It sounds complicated.”

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “And to which do you belong?”

  “An insignificant one. And did, not do.”

  “Because you left?”

  “Aye.”

  Oben learnt that Threlwich, Gulmorgon's current residence, was the most important settlement in Skaligar, and where the main force was assembled.

  They discussed and often argued about religion, and finally agreed to disagree. Neither would ever change his mind.

  Ethra, the Black Swan was supposedly Ishral’s steed, and the prophecy of the Conduit was allegedly scribed by one of its black quills.

  “Do you think I’m the Conduit?” he asked, on one occasion.

  “I think you’re an idiot.” Rak had said, and that had ended that conversation. They both agreed that as long as it kept them alive, the speculation surrounding him was not a bad thing.

  Rak would often colourfully proclaim his hatred for the Persuasion and ramble about slavery in the mines on Penn, an isle off the southeast of the peninsula. Oben took it lightly. Any invaders got what they had coming to them, and he would have known if they were keeping slaves on Penn. It was likely Taliskan propaganda to inflame their jealous hatred of the south.

  * * *

  After a month had passed, the gaoler thrust a woman into the cell with them. Taliskan through and through, her dark, braided hair was pulled back revealing a shaven undercut. Her eyes and lips we
re painted black, lending her a decidedly skull-like appearance. She was slim and pale, and might have been attractive were she not so intimidating. She spat and cursed as the gaoler left.

  “What have we here?” she asked, when her eyes fell on Oben.

  Oben remained silent, and she kicked his foot.

  “Leave him.” Rak said.

  “Or what, Red? You his protector?”

  “He don’t need one.”

  “Is that right? Then he won’t mind if I crawl on over there next to him then.”

  “Be it on your head.”

  She looked at her countryman, brow raised.

  “What ain’t I seeing?”

  “He’s important to Grinchell. Mess with him at your peril.”

  She hissed.

  “I’m sure he’d rather be my plaything than that oaf’s. Wouldn’t ye, rabbit? Look at his heart beatin’ fast an all.”

  “I’m nobody’s plaything,” Oben said. Rak glared at him for revealing their supposed secret at the first opportunity. Oben shrugged. If she was going to be sharing the cell with them, she would find out sooner or later.

  “Well, aren’t you full of surprises. Little southern rabbit up here, protected by Grinchell and speaking Talis? What else don’t I know?”

  When no one spoke, she snorted and took in the small enclosure for the first time. Then she fixed her eyes on Rak.

  “What are you, some Ferra?”

  “I ain’t nowt.”

  “I can see that,” she said and winked at Oben. “Hope you ain’t been listening too much to Red here. He ain’t nowt.”

  “You gonna shut up, or am I gonna have to shut you up?” Rak growled.

  “Oooh,” she said. “I like it! Maybe I will. When I get some answers. Why’s a rabbit so important?”