Keys of Awakening
The Wages of War

The two Kroeni warships still capable of pursuit continued to give chase, but theirs was now a hopeless task. They had their chance, and having missed it, were falling behind, unable to keep up with the Diamantine’s greater speed. Behind them, the prow of the enemy ship they had collided with lifted out of the water. Illiom watched as the water around it surged and foamed and, in a few scant moments, the entire vessel was sucked beneath the waves, leaving the surface calm and indifferent once more.

Seagulls, forever hopeful, circled overhead, and beneath in the waters, the Kroeni who survived clung to whatever debris still floated.

Illiom, marvelling at the ship’s rapid demise, noted that neither of the two pursuing ships made any attempt to pick up their stranded companions, nor did they offer any aid to their sail-damaged sister ship, now no more than a distant speck far to the south.

Illiom realised that it was not their enemy’s futile pursuit that held her in thrall; rather, it was the wreckage of lives on the deck of their own vessel that she was desperately trying to avoid.

She forced herself to turn around and look.

This is what we are up against, she reminded herself. This is our true quest, to bring all of this madness to an end.

The Diamantine had become a ship of death: peppered with corpses, littered with discarded weapons, the decking splattered and stained with blood. Death was something the Kroeni, Evárudani and Albradani all shared in common: and the stains of their violent demise made a mockery of their perceived differences. Death equalised them all.

Mercifully, the strong westerly cleared the deck of the smell of slaughter, but the pained cries of the wounded continued to rise from below.

Tarmel tore his gaze away from the sailor whose eyes he had just closed, and stared at Illiom. His clothes were also splattered with blood, though mercifully none of it appeared to be his own. Perhaps it was something in her expression that made him go to her and draw her into his comforting embrace.

With no will to do otherwise, she leaned into him and found herself shaking uncontrollably. Even when Argolan called out for the Rider’s assistance, he did not release her immediately, but waited until she stilled. Then, gently pulling away, he looked into her eyes for a long moment, before turning away to do the Shieldarm’s bidding.

Something had finally come unstuck in Illiom’s chest. She looked around at the carnage, at the now quiet form of Scald cradling his Rider. A realisation like fire and ice lanced through her core: it could just as easily have been Tarmel.

She moved to offer comfort to the scarred Chosen. Scald did not turn at her touch, but continued to caress Wind’s face. Sensing that he wished to be left alone, Illiom walked slowly across the deck, moving from corpse to corpse, looking for signs of life, looking for something, anything, useful to do.

One of the Kroeni men stirred, coughed, and spluttered a fine spray of blood. Illiom did not care that he was an enemy; she had found one who was still alive. But before she could reach his side, Argolan stepped between them.

The Shieldarm glanced at Illiom and held her attention with a firm look; she tore the man’s shirt open and showed her what lay concealed beneath it.

The taint.

Illiom fixed her eyes on the small black acorn embedded in the Kroeni’s chest.

She nodded then and turned away, knowing now that even the Kroeni in the ships left behind were all already as good as dead.

Others had joined in the grim task of clearing the mess. Kroeni corpses were thrown unceremoniously overboard. Those still alive soon stopped breathing and followed their companions to their watery grave.

The crew of the Diamantine laid their fallen near the starboard railing. Some were so wounded that it was clear the number of casualties would swell before they reached the sanctuary of the Evárudani isles.

If we ever reach the isles, Illiom thought grimly.

It was not just Wind’s death that was afflicting her; it was this manner of death, inflicted by humans upon other humans. To what end? Whom, and what purpose, did any of this serve? She too had been instrumental in delivering death. Despite the distance that had separated her from the act of firing an arrow and its effect upon a target, she remembered watching her victims fall over the railing and into the eager waves; she also recalled the thrill of excitement that contributing to this fight had aroused in her.

Nine of the Diamantine’s crew of thirty-six lay dead, five more were missing and were most likely dead. Another five were seriously wounded. Wind was dead. Dozens of Kroeni lay at the bottom of the sea, and all for what?

The clean-up had begun. Most of the arrows had been gathered up from both decking and corpses, with weapons and armour forming a second pile. Crew scrubbed away at the blood that had stained the timbers of the deck. Illiom could hear other crew members below deck, clearing the damage caused by the harpoons. The Diamantine was a hive of activity and Illiom longed to be a part of it.

With sudden resolve she sought out Grena Sarp to offer her assistance. The captain, at a loss as to what task to give her, ended up suggesting that she keep a look out for more enemy ships. This was not the kind of activity that Illiom had hoped for, for it did not engage or distract her mind. It did have one benefit, however, in that it kept her gaze away from the reminders of battle, and out towards their destination, the horizon directly ahead.

Standing there at the prow, the breeze in her face served to blow away her more macabre thoughts and self-recriminations. The gleam of something in the water caught her eye. There, just ahead of where the Diamantine’s prow parted the waves, a flash of dark green just below the surface. She had been staring at it for several moments before she remembered what it was: the ship’s ram.

Of course.

That was what had caused the Kroeni vessel to sink. She had completely forgotten about it until this moment.

Illiom remained at the prow for a while longer, now searching the horizon, now watching the ram plunging through the waves. She only abandoned the task when everyone else on board gathered together to consign the bodies of the fallen to the sea.

Each crew member was lowered gently to the water before being released. For each one the captain murmured a few words of farewell. The girl Gita was also among the dead.

When it came to Wind, the captain looked at Scald; but the Chosen, his eyes red and filled with shadows, simply shook his head. Elan touched the dead Rider’s hands where they had been arranged around the pommel of her sword.

“Fare well, brave little sister,” she intoned softly. “You are gone, but where your spirit now soars, there is no more pain and no more longing. Fly home, sweet one. Fly free.”

The priestess stepped back and Mist came up beside her and draped his arm across her shoulders. She leaned her head against his.

At a nod from Grena, Wind’s body was also lowered into the waves. The water caught the Rider’s white hair and for a moment it seemed that the Rider had come back to life, her hair flowing about her face as if stirred by a gentle breeze. But then her features blurred and grew murky as she sunk beneath the waters and was embraced by the deep.

Illiom returned to her watch and shed quiet tears for Wind and for the emptiness that she felt in her heart.

The next day, the fourth of the journey, saw the Diamantine within view of the Sunstone Cliffs.

Illiom found Undina with Angar, her Rider, standing on the port side of the prow. They were both gazing at the girl’s homeland as it drifted slowly by.

“Undina!” she exclaimed, surprised to see the girl up and about.

“Thank Sudra, you healed overnight.”

Illiom still found it surprising and miraculous that these healings continued to take place. Whatever the magic that sustained them, she would never take this gift for granted lest fate be tempted to take it from them.

The tribal girl turned slowly to meet her gaze.

“Pain only memory now. No scar, no mark. Like nothing happen.”

“Oh, Undina, I am so glad!”

But Undina did not return her smile.

“They not think so,” she said, nodding in the direction of a few crew members nearby.

Glancing at them, Illiom saw how some cast dark looks back at the group.

“What is wrong?”

“My guess is that they are not happy with Undina’s miraculous recovery,” Angar murmured, glowering in the crew’s direction. “They are a very superstitious lot.”

“They more happy if Undina dead,” the Pelonui spat, turning away from them and looking with longing at the towering cliffs.

When Undina and her Rider moved away, Illiom stayed behind to keep watch. Her thoughts kept going around in loops, revisiting certain events until they became as vividly present as the palm of her hand.

One such event was Scald’s reaction to Wind’s death. Another was the fire that had consumed the sails of the Kroeni vessel. A third, and one that she revisited more than the rest, was the mystery of her Altran arrows.

Illiom held one such arrow in her hands now, seeking its secrets.

None showed any sign of wear. Were they the same arrows that kept returning to her or were they new ones that appeared in her quiver after each firing? Why had they been given to her?

There were no answers to the questions that kept arising and yet she was strangely reassured by the mystery the arrows concealed. She felt that they contained their own power and was comforted that for once it was a power that had nothing to do with her.

Night on board the Diamantine eased her. Watching the wheel of stars spin ever so slowly in the darkness of sky, and watching Sudra rise from bathing in the deep waters; these were balms that soothed Illiom’s soul.

Later, she was lulled into a deep and dreamless sleep, cocooned in her hammock, rocked gently by the ship’s sway, lullabied by the groans and creaks of timber and rope, and by the swishing song of the waves.

She awoke on the fifth morning of their journey feeling refreshed and replenished. Somehow, during the night, she had reached a decision about her arrows.

She removed all the yellow-fletched ones from her quiver and added them to the collection of weapons and missiles on the deck. She kept only the seven Altran arrows.

Afterwards she sought out Tarmel.

“I have a new mystery to add to your list,” she confessed.

Her Rider looked at her blankly, waiting.

She told him about the seemingly inexhaustible supply of arrows. He looked at the quiver thrown over her shoulder.

“You are sure about this?”

She shook her head.

“I am not sure about anything, Tarmel, but what I do know is that I fired arrows all day. Some of them were Altran, others were not. I had seven Altran arrows when I started and I still count seven in my quiver now.”

He nodded, pulled one of the arrows out, and studied it closely for a time before replacing it.

“What happened to all the others?” he asked casually.

“I threw them on the pile,” she indicated with a nod, without turning.

Again he nodded. He looked down at the deck for a moment and then back into her eyes, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“What do you want from me, Illiom? You are stalked by mystery; your entire life is riddled with secrets. I know you wish it were otherwise, but it is not. Yours is not to be a normal life. But at least in this you may not be alone; it seems to me that each of the Chosen has a kinship with mystery …”

This perked her interest.

“What do you mean?”

“I have been talking with the others – the other Riders I mean. I have heard what they have to say about their charges. You are not the only one to have confided in her Rider …”

Appalled, Illiom cut him off.

“Have you spoken to the others about the things I told you?”

He looked at her, taken aback by the accusation in her tone. His eyes searched hers for a moment.

“No,” he said, evenly. “That is not something I would do. But I have heard what the other Riders are saying, their observations about their charges …”

“And what about your observations?” she snapped. “Have you felt free to share those?”

“Illiom, stop this!”

His hand came to rest on her arm; she pulled away, shrugging it off. He looked down at his empty hand.

“I am not your enemy,” he said softly.

She glared at him for a few moments longer and he stared straight back. Finally her fury dissipated and she closed her eyes with a sigh.

“No,” she admitted tiredly. “Of course you are not.”

She shook her head.

“I am so sorry, Tarmel.” She took a breath and opened her eyes. “I am tired, I feel sad, and I am …” Her teeth suddenly bared, her voice turned into a snarl. “… and I am so angry and so filled with hatred!”

She had been on the verge of adding ‘frightened’ to the list, but was glad that she had not; the last thing she wanted to do was capitulate to weakness.

Her brooding had brought her to this. She now wanted nothing more than to replace those responsible for all this suffering and pain, for this growing trail of ruined lives. She felt a furious blood lust that demanded nothing less than to replace them and destroy them.

But she said nothing of this to Tarmel.

“So, have you gleaned anything interesting from these discussions?” she asked instead.

Tarmel’s eyebrows arched with uncertainty.

“Nothing specific,” he answered cautiously.

Illiom wondered if he was already regretting broaching the subject at all.

“Mist said something a while back about chancing upon Elan while the priestess was discussing something … only there was no one else with her.”

Illiom looked at him askance.

“Talking to herself? That is no mystery…”

“Well, that is precisely what I said – I have seen others do just that on many occasions, especially when they think they are completely alone. But no, he said it sounded like she was really talking to someone; you know, having a conversation, with questions and answers, that sort of thing.”

Illiom frowned.

“Elan does not strike me as someone who would converse with ghosts,” she concluded.

“Hmm, nor I,” conceded Tarmel.

“She might have been talking to Sudra. I mean, she is a Daughter…”

“Yes, that is possible.”

Illiom tilted her head.

“What else have you heard?”

Tarmel shook his head and gave a derisive snort.

“Pell,” he said, as if that was an answer in its own right. “Although to tell the truth, for as long as I have known him, he has always had an inclination to see portents in everything.”

“What does he say?” Illiom pressed, leaning closer to her Rider, watching him intently.

“Remember when we left Kuon, and Sereth played that harp of his for the first time? Well, Pell is adamant that once he woke up during the night and found Sereth making the fire dance …”

“What do you mean?” Illiom asked, with a small laugh.

“With his music: he said that the flames were moving and swaying this way and that, you know, like they were dancing to the tune he was playing.”

“Pell might have dreamt it …”

“Not according to Pell. He says that he pretended to be asleep and watched him for some time. He swears that Sereth was amusing himself with the fire while he thought everyone else was sleeping ...”

Illiom gave her Rider a dubious look.

Tarmel shrugged.

“I suppose it is just like Pell, to see something where there is nothing; he has always been like that. Even when we sailed past Gost, he swore then that he saw shadows moving around, among the ruins. Like all the crew of this ship, he is very superstitious …”

Despite his reasoning, Illiom knew that Tarmel was not fickle; he did not speak to spread gossip or rumours about anyone. Something about Pell’s account had stirred him enough that he felt the need to report it to her.

The next obvious step would be to speak to Sereth himself about the matter, but the cautionary words of the Firebrand came back to her: this was not yet the right time to speak openly.

It would have to wait.

Illiom released a sigh of resignation.

“Waiting is the hardest thing,” she said. Then, seeing Tarmel’s questioning look, she elaborated. “Waiting for the time to be ripe for action. Timing seems to be so important …”

The Rider looked sideways for a moment then nodded.

“Aye, waiting for the right time is a tricky business,” he agreed. “In all matters …”

Something about his tone made her look into his eyes and search for a deeper meaning.

She found it almost immediately and quickly turned away.

Later she decided to seek out Scald, to see how he was faring. She found him below deck, lying in his hammock.

Azulya, sitting on a nearby chest, stood up at Illiom’s approach. She took Illiom by the elbow and steered her away.

“He does not want to speak with anyone,” she confided in a whisper. “He says there is nothing to speak about. I know that is not so, but I do not know how to make him see that this silence is not helping him.”

Illiom could scarcely believe that Scald was taking Wind’s death so to heart. She had believed him incapable of any true or deep feelings, but the man’s grief showed her that she had sorely misjudged him.

“Maybe he just needs more time …” she suggested. “Do you think he blames himself?”

The Kroeni nodded.

“It certainly seems that way, but until he allows himself to talk about it … there is nothing I, or anyone, can say or do.”

The two stood silent for a time by the ladder.

“It is so strange,” Illiom mused. “I did not know Wind very well at all, and yet I feel as if I have lost something important.”

Azulya nodded.

“I know what you mean. The worst thing for me is that until now I had not considered the possibility of losing anyone. And now … now I ask myself how I would fare if Argolan were to die. How would you fare if Tarmel was killed?”

Illiom stopped breathing.

The thought filled her with rage. She stared hard at Azulya. How could she even suggest such a thing?

Illiom wanted to speak, to say something that would banish that possibility from her awareness. But nothing she could say would achieve that.

Azulya was looking at her and she responded to Illiom’s unvoiced sentiment with a nod of sympathy.

“Yes. That is exactly what I mean, and how I also feel. So, you see, I am not really that surprised by Scald’s reaction. But perhaps you are right, Illiom, and time alone can mend this. We should respect his wishes and give him the space he needs …”

It was the morning of the last day of Fallowmoon and Argolan roused everyone early, Chosen and Riders alike.

The pale wash of dawn was barely more than a promise in the east, and yet the vista that met them as they climbed up onto the deck was worth a thousand early rises.

The Diamantine was gliding quietly through waters so still that they mirrored perfectly the wan glow in the eastern sky. The air was brisk; Illiom wrapped her arms about herself and looked beyond the ship’s rigging onto a dreamy landscape.

The ship floated as though suspended upon glass-like waters, surrounded on all sides by steep-sloped islands with rounded peaks. Every isle was lush with dark green growth that claimed it entirely, clinging even to the sheer slopes, climbing the peaks as high up as it dared.

Down by the shore the forest grew right up to the water’s edge. Here the trees overhung the tranquil sea, their fronds dipping low to meet and touch their own reflections.

From the top of the nearest island a single fire blazed, solitary in the receding darkness.

Evárudas was even more beautiful than Illiom could ever have imagined, and much more captivating than anyone could have described.

A waterbird’s distant cry reached them across the still, cold morning air like the ringing of a crystal chime: sharp and faint and hauntingly repetitive. The only other sound to punctuate the enchanted silence was the gentle, measured rhythm of the oars as they rose and dipped, easing the ship towards her destination.

Sails furled, the Diamantine glided through this dreamscape as if she had accidentally sailed into an otherworld. Illiom saw that the elegance and harmony of the ship’s own lines were in complete harmony with the land’s graceful and ethereal beauty: she belonged here.

Even the crew, whom Illiom would have thought to be immune to such considerations, looked on, spellbound.

Up ahead, an imposing promontory appeared and towered over the waters. Beyond it, a secluded inlet opened up gradually to reveal the harbour that nestled there, completely protected by the land’s emerald embrace.

“Is it not an exquisite sight?” Shrian asked at Illiom’s side.

Illiom glanced at the scholar, a smile her reply.

“It might be exquisite,” mumbled Pell, “but today is the last day of the moon, the day out of time. Nothing good ever comes of anything that happens on this day.”

Tarmel looked at Sereth’s Rider with a frown.

“We have just survived being attacked by four Kroeni ships,” he said. “And we are arriving into a safe harbour. Where is the misfortune in that?”

Pell’s jaw twitched. His eyes acquired a set look as he continued to watch the forested island drift past.

“The attack that we survived did not happen today. The only good thing to do on the last day of any moon is to get drunk and then sleep the rest of the day away …”

Illiom smiled at the exchange but watched avidly as the inlet opened up further and revealed more than a score of vessels anchored within. Though many were smaller than the Diamantine, others were similar, and a few even greater in size. Six ships in particular, though shorter from bow to stern than Grena’s ship, towered in height over the rest of the fleet. Three rows of oar ports lined the flanks of each of these giants.

Beyond the anchored and moored ships a cluster of wharves, docks, and piers huddled together upon the shoreline. In turn, these were dotted with cranes, dangling pulleys, sheds, warehouses, and all manner of stores. And beyond these, a dense stretch of dwellings spread and climbed up the cove’s steep slopes.

“Holack Harbour,” Shrian announced proudly, as if she was displaying something that she had built with her own hands. “The largest and most efficient harbour in Theregon.”

Illiom nodded.

To her mind, Flax, Calestor’s harbour, was now relegated to the status of a fishing hamlet, for she could replace no comparison between the two.

“I had better go below and get myself ready.”

Illiom nodded absently at the scholar’s words.

She was consumed by what was happening and watched avidly as the Diamantine glided across the mirror-still waters, circled around the anchored ships in the centre of the harbour, and headed for one of the three stone piers that thrust straight out from the shore. Ships and boats were berthed along their entire length save for one long, empty space, near the end of one pier. This seemed to have been set aside for them.

As the Diamantine approached, she reduced speed. Four women emerged from a small building closer to the shore. They caught the mooring ropes cast by the crew and secured them deftly to the nearest bollards. Illiom watched as the Diamantine’s crew worked smoothly with the women on the wharf, securing the ship fast against the wooden buffers.

“Where is Shrian?” Argolan asked.

“Here,” the scholar answered, as she climbed up through the trapdoor and onto the deck, lugging a large cloth bag behind her. Argolan turned towards her as she dragged her burden and deposited it by the gangplank.

“Shrian, I understand that you come to Evárudas regularly. What is the best way to get to Cevaram from here?”

The scholar looked around at the gathered passengers. She pulled a dubious face.

“With this many people? Either on horseback or by carriage … carriage would be the simplest solution.” She paused and nodded towards the shore. “Unless the Legion is about to offer you a ride …”

Illiom turned and saw that a chariot drawn by three horses had veered onto the pier. It bore three women dressed in red-brown quilted garments covered with light chainmail. Plate armour protected their chests and shoulders and gold-plumed helmets were fastened to the chariot’s sides.

The chariot came to a stop alongside the gangplank. One of the women leapt to the ground and approached the ship, while the other two remained on the chariot, looking straight ahead, taking no interest whatsoever in the Diamantine or those upon it.

The warrior who walked up the gangplank had blond hair and a long, equine face. She nodded at Grena Sarp, but her interest was clearly with the Diamantine’s passengers, not with the crew.

“Welcome to Evárudas,” she said, addressing everyone in general. “Your Wardmaster sent word of your impending arrival so we have been expecting you.”

She paused for a moment before continuing.

“I am First Lance Selsa Faleh. Your arrival was noted in the wee hours by our lookout in the south. A contingent from the Legion will arrive shortly to escort you to Cevaram. I would ask that you please remain on board until they arrive; this will help speed your journey to our capital.”

“There you are, it seems that you will have all the transport you need,” Shrian said, producing one of her inimitable smiles and then disappearing once again down the trapdoor.

Illiom noticed Azulya staring at the Evárudani soldier.

Suddenly, the Kroeni moved forward.

“Well, I for one have a need to stretch my legs! Anyone care to join me on the pier?” As she spoke, Azulya made to step onto the gangplank, but the warrior placed a restraining hand against her chest.

“Forgive me, Iolan, but we are at war. It is not safe for foreigners to wander about the isles at this time.”

Azulya – and in this instance Illiom had no confusion about her identity – looked down at the restraining hand. She looked up from it slowly, a dangerous glint in her eye.

“I assure you, First Lance, that I have no intention of ‘wandering about the isles’.” She smiled, but her tone was gelid. “I just want to stretch my legs on solid ground … that is all ...”

“And I fear that I must insist, Iolan. You will be able to stretch your legs to your heart’s content when you reach Cevaram.”

Illiom tensed. It was not like Azulya to be so insistent, but it served to highlight the other woman’s irrational and utterly uncompromising stance.

Illiom turned to look at the other two warriors in the chariot.

They had not moved once since arriving. They simply continued to stare down the length of the pier, seemingly oblivious to the confrontation between their commanding officer and the Iolan.

Something is wrong here, she realised.

But Azulya was still not done.

“Oh, come now,” she insisted. “We have been at sea for days, we have retched more than we have eaten, and to make matters worse, we were attacked by Kroeni ships … why is it so important that we now remain on board?” Her eyes slowly narrowed with suspicion. “Are we your prisoners, perhaps? Is that it?” Then almost as an afterthought, she added, “Or is it simply that you have no heart?”

The woman’s expression remained blank, but her hand moved towards the short sword sheathed at her side. She stopped short of reaching it, however, her thumb hooking casually into her belt, within easy reach of her blade.

“I have my orders,” she answered at last. “You are to wait here until the detail arrives.”

Azulya appeared to relent; she nodded and turned aside and started to walk back towards their luggage.

As she passed in front of Argolan, Azulya addressed the Shieldarm without looking at her.

“Shieldarm, what do we do in Kuon to people who have no heart?”

Even as understanding dawned upon Illiom, the First Lance took a step towards Azulya, a vicious snarl replacing her previous indifference; but a crossbow bolt stopped her, ending her life before she could take a second stride. She fell to the ground without as much as a whimper from her shattered throat.

Her two escorts back on the chariot flew into action. They turned as one and leapt towards the gangplank, swords drawn. They were allowed to reach the deck before being cut down by a volley of bolts.

“Are you completely mad?” screamed Grena from the stern. “What in Hel are you doing?”

She and several of her sailors ran towards them, weapons drawn, horror and disbelief transfixed upon their faces.

“Wait!” Argolan shouted back. “They are not Legion, they are not what they seem. Allow me to explain before you do something you are bound to regret!”

It took a bit of convincing, but when Grena saw the stones embedded over the dead warriors’ hearts she nodded slowly.

“Then none of us is safe,” she concluded.

“That is the wisest assumption you could possibly make,” Azulya confirmed.

The captain looked at the Kroeni but of course saw only her Iolan guise.

“But how did you know?” she asked.

Illiom was wondering precisely the same thing.

“Just a feeling,” Azulya answered dismissively. “A very strong, very sickening feeling.”

Grena nodded.

“What’s important now is that we need to get away from here as quickly as possible,” Argolan said, her tone compelling. “That detail that is coming for us is not going to take us to Cevaram; it will take us to the Otherworld if we do not act immediately.”

She turned to the Riders.

“Grifor, Mist … do something about that chariot; get it away from the ship. Pell and Angar, get those bodies out of sight.”

As the Riders sprang into action, Azulya turned to Shrian.

“You said earlier that you travel to Cevaram by carriage?”

“Yes, I did,” the scholar confirmed.

“Can you secure some in a hurry? How many do we need?”

“Three, to carry all of us. I will go and secure the carriages we need; I am known to many here, no one will be surprised to see me.”

Argolan shook her head.

“You are not going alone ... I will come with you. How far is it?”

“Half an hour on foot.”

“Not good enough,” the Shieldarm exclaimed. “We will need to move faster than that! We can untether the horses from the chariot ... can you ride bareback?”

The scholar beamed at Argolan.

“It was the only way I ever rode, as a child …”

“Good!” the other said, and turned towards Tarmel. “Drop what you are doing; go and tell Grifor and Mist to untether the horses and bring them back here, on the double!”

Illiom watched as her Rider swung into action at the Shieldarm’s command, hurdling the railing onto the pier.

“I do not like the idea of breaking us up but I cannot think of a better alternative,” Argolan commented. She turned to Grena Sarp.

“Captain, get your crew ready to cast off those moorings. If that Legion detail arrives before we return, I want you to get away from the pier. If we become trapped here, we will have another battle on our hands and this time I do not much care for the odds.”

As soon as Argolan and Shrian were gone, Grena Sarp took the Shieldarm’s advice and, in a very short time, only two lines held the Diamantine secured to the pier. She placed a sailor at each one with orders to cast off immediately upon her command. Similarly, she ordered the rest of the crew below deck, poised to push the ship away from the pier with their oars at her signal.

After that, there was nothing left to do but keep a vigilant watch of the shore, either for the carriages’ arrival or for the Legion’s detail to descend upon them. While they waited in silence, Illiom felt the tension on board the ship tighten, like the skin of a drum set too close to a fire.

“See what I mean?” Pell asked Tarmel.

He looked puzzled for just a moment before recalling their earlier conversation.

“Oh, for Iod’s sake, Pell!”

But the other just shrugged eloquently before turning away.

When Illiom spotted the three carriages approaching along the foreshore, she sighed with relief. They quickly bid Grena and the crew farewell and exchanged good wishes, while the Riders carried their packs and saddlebags down the gangplank and into the waiting carriages.

As Illiom farewelled Grena Sarp and thanked her for the safe passage, she found a surprising measure of respect in the eyes of the Evárudani captain, a respect that had certainly not been present when they had first boarded the ship.

In no time at all they were ready, and Illiom found herself climbing into the last of the carriages before she had time to catch her breath. As they pulled away she heard the Shieldarm’s voice call out to Grena from the lead carriage.

“Thank you, Grena Sarp! Now cast off and be gone!”

Then, with a lurch, their carriage leaped forward and they were under way.

Illiom looked at her fellow passengers. Malco and Grifor sat opposite her, both peering out through the wooden crosshatch of the windows. Beside her, Scald sat slumped, staring at the floor. Tarmel had climbed up on top to sit next to the driver.

Illiom looked out the window as the carriage reached the end of the pier and slowed down to turn onto the foreshore. The harbour town was rife with industry and activity: people were hoisting bundles of nets and sails, boats were raised up in dry-docks while workers scraped their hulls clean, and wains laden with all manner of goods in cases, barrels, and sacks, were being loaded or unloaded.

They passed a blacksmith’s shop where, amidst showers of sparks, a glowing piece of iron was being forged into a new shape. Under another roof a tanner was stacking skins into manageable bundles, making them ready for transportation, and for a long moment the acrid smell of urine stole Illiom’s breath.

But this was only the first of many intense smells: of fish being cooked, coal burning, hot pitch, and barrels of ale, not to mention the smoke from at least a dozen fires. All these mingled to assault the senses as the carriages bore the group through the harbour town.

Illiom watched it all file past in a daze and she did not see the contingent of chariots until they careened right past, headed in the opposite direction, towards the pier and the Diamantine.

She craned her neck to see them rein in at the base of the wharf. The warriors dismounted and ran the length of the pier to where the Diamantine had been berthed. Illiom peered past a forest of masts, but could not tell if the ship was still moored or had already cast off.

She felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach. That safe and welcoming harbour had now become a trap.

Their carriages continued to move along at an unhurried pace, now passing larger stores and warehouses. One side of the street became cluttered with bundles of rope, folded sails, and stacks of oars. On the other side, the sea side, a neat row of small fishing boats lay overturned, awaiting repairs.

To all appearances, Holack looked like a normal harbour town; people were going about their business as ordinary people do everywhere. There was no sign of disharmony or danger, nothing to show that anything was seriously amiss. But if the taint had reached the town, Illiom knew better than to go on the strength of appearances alone.

The carriage now turned onto a new road, one that climbed gradually, weaving its way through a marketplace lined with inns, hostels, and a variety of smaller shops. Beyond all these, the road continued to ascend.

As the vehicle made its way gradually higher, Illiom found herself gazing down on the shingled roofs of weathered houses that clustered upon the hillsides. Beyond them, she was now able to look down upon the cove.

They did not get far, however, before their vehicle pulled up quite suddenly. Filled with apprehension, Illiom opened her door enough to stick her head out. She saw Argolan stand up on the bench next to the driver of the first carriage. Her voice carried loud and clear.

“We need to reach Cevaram in a hurry,” she said, addressing the drivers. “There will be five gold florins for each of you if you can grow wings and get us there as fast as you can and in one piece.”

No time was wasted after that.

Almost immediately, the carriage leaped into motion again and Illiom watched the harbour town fly past. The view of the buildings and the street scenes changed rapidly as they picked up speed, and in no time at all Illiom could see nothing bar the receding tiers of rooftops, until the road finally shook itself free of the last houses and they careened into the open air of the surrounding hills.

Slowing down only to negotiate the tightest bends, the carriage drivers gave their passengers the ride of their lives. Argolan’s offer had whetted their appetites and brought out a skill that could only come with the familiarity of travelling the same route repeatedly over countless years.

Looking down at the cove, Illiom saw the ships anchored there. One, sails still furled, was moving lazily out towards the open sea, her bank of oars rising and falling purposefully, unhurriedly. She could not see how Grena Sarp could have managed it, but Illiom prayed to Sudra that the ship was the Diamantine, and that she had managed to get away before those warriors reached her.

The road was evenly paved and well maintained so the carriages continued to speed along. Even so, the ride became quite bumpy as the drivers pushed their vehicles to the limit in order to gain the exorbitant prize that Argolan had dangled before them. Illiom and her companions were jostled against one another as their vehicle barrelled along the road towards Cevaram and – Illiom reminded herself – towards the unknown.

Outside, the view of the harbour was suddenly replaced by an uninterrupted wall of dense foliage that flashed past at great speed. As they rose higher and gaps in the vegetation began to appear, Illiom caught fleeting glimpses of the receding cove, now a long way beneath them, diminished by the distance they had already covered.

The sky was overcast and grey, but in the distance, near the horizon, was a bright band of sunlight. There, an impeccable sky met the deep blue mantle of the sea, and Illiom took comfort in the clear, pristine line that confidently divided the two.

The crazy ride continued relentlessly. Gently, but constantly rising, the road meandered.

A thump sounded in the wood behind Illiom’s head. She paid it no particular heed for it was just a single noise among a barrage of many, but when it was followed by another, she looked at her companions with concern.

“What was that?” she asked.

The carriage suddenly swayed crazily to one side before righting itself and then banking dangerously the opposite way.

Illiom searched her companions’ faces. Scald, leaning against the side of the carriage, looked up momentarily but then slumped back down again, disinterestedly. Beside him, Malco looked out the side window with a concerned frown and made to stand up in order to look outside, but Grifor’s hand restrained him.

“Allow me,” she said, standing up instead.

She leaned out the window and craned her neck to look up and then behind them, then back up. Illiom heard her shout something and a muffled voice replied, before she pulled back into the carriage.

“We are being pursued,” she announced simply, without alarm or concern. “Tarmel has the reins.”

A mantle of cold descended on Illiom as Grifor’s words sunk in.

“The Legion?” Malco asked.

“Two chariots, apparently,” Grifor replied.

Two more thumps in the back of the carriage and Illiom felt the blood drain from her face.

“Are those …?” she started.

Grifor nodded.

“Arrows,” she confirmed. “That is how we lost the driver.”

And Tarmel is up there by himself?

If she did not do something, he might end up with an arrow in his back. Before anyone could stop her, Illiom was on her feet and at the window. The wind swept her hair back as she craned her neck out as far as she could; but the window was too small for her shoulders so she was forced to pull back and put one arm through, then follow it with her head.

She looked up.

Tarmel looked back at her disapprovingly.

“Illiom! Get back inside!” he commanded.

“What are you going to do?” she shouted, ignoring his instruction. “Besides getting yourself killed.”

Something swished past her.

“Illiom!” Tarmel screamed. “Get back inside!”

From the inside, someone began pulling at her arm. She stubbornly braced herself against the side of the carriage.

“No!” she shouted back. “You are going to get killed …”

Tarmel cast a glance behind him before turning back to her.

“Only if you distract me!” he snapped back.

Illiom turned to look behind them and saw the two chariots following. The first carried a driver and two archers. She knew that their skill with the bow would be severely hampered by the conditions under which they were trying to fire, but she also knew that it would be just a matter of time before luck would strike in their favour and then …

She yielded to the hands pulling her back into the carriage.

“Take your hands off me!” she shouted into Grifor’s face. “If I do not do something soon, it will be too late … for all of us!”

Fortunately, Illiom had not stowed her bow and quiver with the rest of their gear. She retrieved them now and pushed them carefully out the window. The window was far too small to allow her to fire from there, but she had a plan: it was probably a foolhardy one, but a plan was a plan. As she had done before, she pushed herself out of the window as far as she dared and then extended her weapon towards Tarmel.

He glared at her for a moment, and then reached across and took them. Illiom studied the road ahead.

A bend in the road was approaching fast. She waited until the carriage slowed down enough to negotiate it and then, as the vehicle turned to resume its climb, she pushed herself out and up.

The turn meant that she now faced towards the sea and there was less chance that she might be struck by a branch. Yet, even as she had that thought, the frond of a palm whipped against her face, stinging her cheek.

With a tremendous effort, she hauled herself free of the window and climbed onto the seat beside Tarmel. Without a word, he handed the bow to her.

Wasting no time, she drew out an arrow and notched it.

The chariots were gaining, which in a sense was a good thing for, as they got closer, the women driving them became better targets. The converse, however, was also true.

Illiom drew back the bowstring and aligned the shaft with the pursuing vehicle. She was aiming for the archer on the left, and was beginning to feel, rather than hear, the hum of her bow when she checked her decision. She shifted her aim slightly, towards the driver.

The ride continued to jostle Illiom, offering her cause to constantly realign her aim. Waiting for the moment to feel right, she missed two chances to fire, but on the third she released and watched as her arrow sped towards its target. The driver toppled over backwards and fell straight under the wheel of the vehicle coming up behind. The collision caused the second chariot to careen sideways and the three warriors standing inside were catapulted onto the roadside. The chariot overturned, slammed into a tree and shattered in an explosion of splinters and wheel spokes.

Meanwhile, even driverless, the first chariot continued the chase.

“Kill one of the horses,” Tarmel said.

Illiom gaped at him, appalled.

“I cannot,” she said.

One of the remaining archers was trying to retrieve the reins while the other continued firing. Quickly, without thinking, Illiom fired two consecutive arrows and slew them both.

The empty chariot did not stop, but without a driver to spur them on, the horses gradually slowed down and soon fell behind.

Heart thumping in her throat, Illiom watched until they vanished from sight.

Tarmel gave her a sharp nod, all the approval she was going to get, and then turned his full attention back to the task of driving. She sat to one side of him, just beneath the driver’s bench, facing to the rear. She was still worried about further pursuit and watched the road behind them, but nothing else came.

They were riding along a rapidly rising ridge, high up on the mountain’s flank. For the most part the forest obscured her view but when it parted she saw how high up they had climbed and how precipitous the slope alongside them truly was.

Soon the road rose out of the forest altogether and they sped along the elevated ridge, the straightest tract that they had so far encountered. On the left was an unobstructed view of the vast eastern ocean, while on the other side a cluster of peaks, higher even than the one they were on, rose in tight formation, brooding in their dark green cloaks. The road continued to follow the ridge’s contour, and favoured now one side of the mountain, now the other. She turned to look forward, in their direction of travel, and saw the road descend towards a gently sloping but otherwise flat area. Beyond that it plummeted once more into dense vegetation.

Even though the leading carriages were a fair distance ahead, the air that blew into her face still bore the dust of their passing.

They were forced to slow down when the road began a weaving descent on the inland side of the mountain and Illiom, now confident that they were no longer being pursued, turned around and sat on the driver’s bench next to Tarmel.

He shifted to accommodate her, with a glance that was at once pleased and preoccupied. The bench had not been designed for two, so her hip and shoulder were pressed against his. She could not help but notice his proximity and, after a moment, simply yielded to the temptation to put her arm around his waist.

This time the smile he gave her had no reservation.

Endless and constantly changing, the road continued to wind and to follow the dictates of the terrain. They travelled over ridges and spurs, down gullies and steep slopes, the forest now crowding both sides of the road. They descended and then rose, only to descend again. Iod, the only consistent marker of the directions the road took, continued to lower himself slowly in the west.

They were halfway down a long, straight stretch that, having reached the bottom, continued straight up the hill opposite, when there, at the crest of the hill opposite, a contingent of chariots and warriors on horseback awaited them. Moments later these were racing headlong down the slope, making directly towards them.

Beside her, Tarmel let loose a volley of colourful curses, which, under different circumstances, would have caused Illiom to flinch. Ahead, the first of their three carriages had already reached the bottom of the gully, but instead of continuing to climb up the opposite slope, it suddenly disappeared amongst the trees to the right.

“There must be a side road there,” Tarmel said, inciting the horses into a full canter.

The second carriage soon reached the place where the first one had vanished. Whoever was next to the driver – Angar? Pell? – was turning and gesticulating wildly in their direction, but whatever he was trying to communicate was lost on Illiom.

“We will never reach the turnoff before the Legion do. Hold on, Illiom!”

The warning came just as Tarmel pulled on the carriage’s brake lever simultaneously with the reins. With a strident squeal of brakes, and whinnies of complaint from the horses, the carriage rattled to a halt in a cloud of dust.

Tarmel leaped from the driver’s seat just as Grifor’s head emerged from the window.

“What is happening?” she asked.

“Everybody out! Quickly!” Tarmel commanded.

His sword was already in his hand.

Grifor complied without question and the others followed. Illiom looked towards the charging warriors. They had also reached the turn-off, and there had split into two groups; the first disappeared in pursuit of the leading carriages while the second group was coming up towards them, at speed.

“Clear the road!” Tarmel barked, as he slapped the nearest horse’s flank hard with the flat of his blade.

With a neigh of complaint the horse lunged forward. The other horses, alarmed, followed suit, and the carriage plunged forward again, speeding driverless down the hill.

“My luggage!” Scald complained, but there was no strength in his voice.

“Scald, clear the road!” Tarmel repeated.

There was not much choice but to go down the slope on the right, for the other side was a near vertical drop that offered no protection at all.

Illiom followed Tarmel, while Grifor and Malco dragged Scald into the dense growth. Illiom held her bow tight and high but after a dozen steps the ground gave way beneath her and she fell down the slope. She broke her fall by grabbing onto a sapling, just short of a plunge into a rivulet of fast-flowing water. Ahead of her, Tarmel fell in and vanished. When his head broke the water’s surface he turned and yelled at her.

“Jump, Illiom! Jump in!”

“I cannot swim!” she countered, terrified.

“Just jump, Illiom!” he repeated, as he made a grab for a fallen log. “Do not think, just jump. I will catch you …”

But he could not get a proper grip on the slippery wood and, after a short struggle, the rushing waters pulled him down and under.

Illiom saw Scald, Malco, and Grifor all leap into the rushing waters, and watched as they were swept downstream towards Tarmel. She had lost sight of her Rider but heard him call out one more time for her to jump.

Behind her she heard a rustling sound.

She turned just in time to see the face of a warrior coming towards her. Within the woman’s eyes she saw the mindless insanity that she now associated with the tainted.

The woman thrust against the tangle of vegetation in order to get to her. The blade in her hand, as cruel as death itself, slashed avidly forward, hungry for her flesh.

Illiom gasped and pushed herself away from that insatiable hunger. Her bow became caught in something and was wrenched from her grasp as she fell backwards.

Her scream became a gurgle as she plunged into the water’s cold embrace.

She struggled uselessly for what felt like a small eternity, and then finally broke the surface, coughing, spluttering, and gasping for air.

She had just enough time to see that she was being swept towards a stone bridge. As the waters bore her beneath it, two women leaned over the parapet with their crossbows trained upon her.

The tumbling waters sucked her under once more and she swallowed more water. Her leg hit something and she flailed her arms, trying to replace some purchase. She broke the surface one more time, just long enough to splutter and gasp a mouthful of air. Then something slammed hard against the side of her head and she was swamped by darkness.