Stands a Shadow (27 page)

Ash marvelled at an army that did not feed its own men. He wondered how it could possibly work, until he overheard an exchange between a soldier and a bored prostitute, in which the man was trying to pay her in rotten apples. His wages were too low to sustain him on the march, he explained, and so he was already in debt to his superior officer. Once they sacked a town or won a battle he would be on his feet again, for plunder and slaves were divided amongst the men after the officers received their cut.

It was profit, Ash came to appreciate, that drove many of these men onwards, much like the camp followers themselves, for those few followers he exchanged words with told of similar tales: bad debts to landowners and moneylenders; an inability to find anything but seasonal work in regions clogged with slaves. They were desperate, and in their desperation had sold what they had left and had paid to come here in droves.

Ash mainly walked alone during the long marches through the hill country. He went by his original cover story of a bodyguard whose employer had drowned during the storm. He seldom needed to use it, though. Mostly, he came and went throughout the baggage train as he liked, always making certain to keep his distance from Mistress Cheer and the girls, but it wasn’t difficult in such a multitude, and he saw them only once during the first days of the march. Mistress Cheer had hired a new man, a rangy youth in a brown woollen cloak who used his sword to chop wood.

Ash kept to himself, speaking to few but listening to many. All the while, his eyes hungered for a glimpse of Sasheen.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Juno’s Ferry

The settlement of Juno’s Ferry lay to the south of the Windrush forest, that myth-wrapped woodland that spanned the central region of Khos. In the summer months, the boughs of the trees would sway in the warm
asago
that blew in from the east bearing sands from the far Alhazii desert, and in the colder seasons would clatter instead in the occasional storm of the
shoné
, gusting across the breadth of the Midèr
ē
s all the way from the northern continent; a wind said to cause depression and madness for those who lived in its path.

To the east, the great swathe of the Windrush was naturally bounded by the mighty Chilos, the sacred river of Khos. Known for its cleansing properties of mind and spirit, the Chilos was also renowned for never freezing over even in the depths of winter. Its source came from the hot springs of Simmer Lake, site of the ancient floating town of Tume, and as its waters wound their slow way south towards the Bay of Squalls, they cooled only gradually.

On a widening stretch of the Chilos, the twin settlements of Juno’s Ferry sprawled along both banks like inverse reflections of each other. On the western bank could be seen the fort and encampment of the Khosian elite reserves, the ‘Hoo’, named after their battle cry, two thousand heavy infantry in all. Next to them ranged the temple complexes with their stone bathing areas and their bronze bells that rang out the hour; deep tones that rolled across the flat waters of the river. Countless camps sprawled between the temples. Thousands of devotees washed away their transgressions in the turgid flow.

In contrast, the eastern side was a ramshackle place of smoky tavernas and zel dealers and wagon shops, a staging post for travellers and merchant caravans, a place of commerce. It was here, on the eastern bank, that the Khosian army had camped for the night, bedding down on the edge of the civilian settlement. The flat-bellied ferries continued to ship men and equipment across the river in darkness.

Like many of the men, Bull stood naked and thigh-deep in the river, his feet sunk into a sandbar as he scrubbed himself clean. Men were whooping all around him from the chill of it, though the water was hardly as cold as it should have been. A few of the army’s monks washed alone in devoted silence, the silent cloud-men of the Dao who would bless them before battle in the name of the Great Fool. Bull threw a handful of water over his bare chest and watched as it shed off him with tiny sparkles of blue. Wherever it splashed against the slow-running surface, the froth burned with the same ghostly light before it faded away; the strange effect of Calhalee’s Tears, legendary figure of Simmer Lake to the north, from which these waters gained not only heat but these enchanting, eerie properties.

He’d stood in this river once before, as a boy, when his father had brought him here with his younger brother at the insistence of their mother. Then as now, Bull had felt invigorated by the cleansing waters of the sacred river, but nothing more. Perhaps its spiritual properties were all nonsense; or perhaps whatever it was that tainted his spirit was too deep to be washed away by what little faith he possessed.

To the north, on the other side of the river, the forest could be seen as a wall of trees standing black and still beneath the stars. Sharp knocks of woods were sounding from within the tree line, like giant birds pecking holes in their trunks. They were the alarm signals of the Contrarè, the free-spirited hunter-gatherers and occasional brigands of the forest. Bull imagined them standing there with their goad faces and their clothes of woven bark, watching them cautiously.

His mother had been one of the Contrarè, before she’d married his father, a skins merchant from Bar-Khos, and had moved with him to the city to start a family. Bull had known little about her people, save for the tales told to him at his bedside, and the songs she’d sung when bathing him, and the little superstitions she’d carried with her from her previous life in the forest – like the sign of protection she made at the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightning. Still, his accent bore some of his mother’s voice in it, and his skin was particularly swarthy and his eyes were narrow above high cheekbones. As a boy, people had known what he was – a bark-beater – and many had treated him like a dog because of it.

He was reminded of those hard, painful days of youth as he turned and saw how the soldiers were avoiding the flow of the river directly downstream from him. Now it wasn’t because he was a dirty barkbeater. Now it was because he was the slayer, the killer of their hero Adrianos.

Bull didn’t mind, or so he told himself anyway. Since an early age he’d raged against the jests and cruel indifference of his peers. He’d fought tooth and nail to gain the respect of these Khosians, first as a street brawler and then as a soldier in the Red Guards. Now at least they no longer looked down on him. Aye, now they feared him.

Besides, he was free at last, and that was all that Bull cared about just then. In truth he’d been ready to lose his mind in the confines of that buried cell. Yet here he was, standing thigh-deep in the Chilos river, with the stars bobbing on its surface and Calhalee’s Tears glowing all around him, the scents of the deep forest strong in the night air. If these were to be the last days of his life, Bull could hardly ask for more than this.

He sluiced a last handful of water over his face and shook his hands dry, his disfigured knuckles cracking loudly, ruined after all those years of pit-fighting. For a few moments longer, his eyes lingered on the distant forest. He’d never ventured further than the trading posts along its fringes, yet it was part of him. It was in his blood.

What’s stopping you
? Bull asked himself, and could not fathom the answer.

The men of his chartassa file sat around the fire, talking amongst themselves and passing around a skin of wine. Bull said nothing to them, for he knew they wouldn’t heed him. Indeed, as he stood there against the heat of the fire, sweeping his skin dry with his hands, they ceased to talk entirely, and none would look his way.

Bull scowled and wandered off to one of the nearby wagons, his bundle of equipment under an arm and his backpack over his shoulder. Away from the warmth and light of the fire he dressed quickly, though he left his armour balanced against the wagon next to his sheathed shortsword. He pulled the cloak about him and sat with his back against one of the wheels, then searched around in his pack until he found the small vial of mother’s oil. He dabbed a little on his finger, and ran it around his gum where his back teeth were throbbing again, all the while eyeing the men huddled around the fire.

They’re frightened
, thought Bull to himself.
They know they march to their slaughter
.

He thought of the battle that lay ahead at the end of their march, and felt the fear of it inside him too. The sensation thrilled him; made him feel that he was alive.

Bull drew his new sword from its sheath, and inspected the watermarks along the gleaming steel of the blade. It was Sharric steel, cast here in Khos, the finest in all the Midèr
ē
s. He contented himself with sharpening the edge of it with the finer side of his whetstone.

In the light of a nearby campfire, he spotted General Creed walking past, conversing with the colonel of the Greyjackets. Bahn followed a few paces behind, looking as pensive as he had the first day Bull had ever met him, all those years ago on the cold marshalling grounds between the walls, with the first two walls of the Shield already fallen, the third likely to be next, the men shattered, their morale lower than any time before or since.

Bahn saw him now and gave a curt nod of his head, though Bull noted how he did not pause, did not share with him a few words.

Bull stared coldly back as the man walked beyond the light of the fire.

Behind the departing figures, young Wicks came stumbling towards him as the lad guzzled wine from a flaccid skin. Wicks tripped and rolled on the grass, then climbed to his feet again as though nothing had happened. He was alone too, though that seemed a matter of choice for Wicks more than anything else.

He noticed Bull in the shadows and flopped down next to him. ‘Hey, champ,’ Wicks panted as he offered Bull the wine. Bull shook his head. He no longer trusted himself with alcohol, not since the day he’d gone to the home of Adrianos and butchered him like a stag.

Wicks settled himself with exaggerated care by his side, resting his back against the wagon wheel. ‘All this bloody marching,’ he muttered as he massaged a foot. ‘My soles are killing me.’

‘This is nothing. You’re lucky we’re not pushing even harder.’ Even as Bull spoke he felt the ache of his own feet and back, and knew they would only worsen before they got better. He was in poor condition after a year in the cell, never mind that he’d tried to maintain his condition.

‘Nothing, he says. And me with my feet in tatters.’

In the distance Bull heard a roar of men, the second time now he’d heard them.

‘What
is
that? Is there a fight?’

‘Aye. They’re at it again, the Greys and the Volunteers. Two bareknuckle champions this time.’

Wicks looked about him with his large eyes sparkling in the firelight. He was bored, Bull could see. The lad wanted some mischief to occupy himself for a while. It reminded Bull of his own restless boredom.

He sighed, and took the skin of wine from the young man; allowed himself one long satisfying pull from it before tossing it back.

‘You know, I saw you fight once. The time you became champion of Bar-Khos.’

‘I hope you bet on me to win.’

‘I wish I had. But I thought you were just another contender like the rest of them. You lost me a full purse of stolen coins that night. Though I’ll say it was worth it, just to see you fight. I thought you were going to kill him in the end.’

‘I was. If they hadn’t stopped me.’

‘I can’t believe it’s really you. The real thing, right here in front of me. The greatest fighter in all of Khos. Unbelievable.’

Bull swept the whetstone along the edge of the blade, ignoring the lad now. It had been a long time since a stranger had offered their admiration to him. Once, he had relished such praise, had felt validated in every way by the respect of so many.

Now it was only a reminder of how fickle most people really were.

‘They’re talking about us again,’ said Wicks casually with a nod to the fire. The men around it were trading words in low voices. Old Russo, the veteran of Coros, cast a one-eyed glance in their direction.

His accusing stare caused Bull to grind his rotten teeth together. He felt the satisfying throbs of pain deep inside them.

‘Find yourself a whore yet?’

‘No,’ Bull admitted. ‘None of them will touch me.’

‘They probably think you’ll strangle them where they lie.’ Wicks laughed drunkenly at the thought of it.

‘Don’t laugh at me, boy. I’ll have your eyes out if you laugh at me.’

The lad seemed to sober up for a moment; his grin faltered. Wicks sprawled onto his back, surprising himself with a belch. ‘You can’t take a joke, champ. That’s your problem.’

Bull felt momentarily chastened by his words. He knew the young man was right.

He couldn’t help but like this lad. Wicks reminded him of his younger brother: feckless and afraid of no one. He’d been one of the few to approach Bull and converse with him during the march so far; a thief playing at being a soldier, he’d told Bull, as he showed him the branding scar on his wrist, told him how he’d been released from a military stockade on the day the army had marshalled outside Bar-Khos.

Bull looked at the wineskin in his hands and said, ‘I thought you were skint. Have you been thieving again?’

‘I went swimming,’ he told Bull. ‘Over by the temples. If you go when the sun’s still up you can see the coins lying along the riverbed.’