Brian Ruckley - Winterbirth

Two warriors climbed atop the Breaking Stone and, using ropes of plaited grass tied around his chest, raised him up its face. They held him there while a third reached down and manipulated the willow stakes until they slotted into the sockets in the stone. They slid in, the stone welcoming them as it had dozens of their like before, and the na’kyrim hung there, crucified upon the Breaking Stone.

Hunching down against the rain, Orisian and the others crossed the long boardwalk across the mouth of the River Dihrve. Weed and barnacles coated the walkway’s supports below the waterline; rot was at work on the parts above. It felt safe enough—the Dihrve was a sluggish, unthreatening thing here at its mouth—but Orisian wondered how much of a life it had left to it.

They had woken to dark skies and miserable rain that gathered strength with every minute. When Orisian said that he was going to find Ess’yr and Varryn, he had half-hoped he could go alone; instead Yvane, Anyara and Rothe all accompanied him. He did not feel he could refuse them.

As they made their way along the shore to the river crossing, he had asked Yvane if an unannounced visit would cause a problem. The na’kyrim dismissed the idea.

‘They’re not so stiff about such things here,’ she said. ‘There’d not be so many na’kyrim around if they were.’

‘Ten, Hammarn said,’ Orisian remembered. ‘We haven’t see any. Are they hiding?’

‘It can’t have escaped your notice that everyone keeps themselves to themselves around here. They’re all on edge now: everybody’s nervous, smells trouble on the wind.’

She was right about the ease of entering the vo’an . No one tried to stop them as they came off the rickety bridge and walked amongst the tents. It was not, in fact, as disconcerting a place to enter as Koldihrve had been the day before. There was none of the boot-sucking mud that greeted a visitor to the human settlement—rush matting was spread in broad pathways—and none of the dark glares or muttered asides. It felt safer than the human town, at least to Orisian. The feeling did not last for long.

There was a crowd gathered in the centre of the vo’an , in a space where the bare earth had been trodden over countless years into the consistency of rock. As they approached the back of the crowd Yvane nudged Orisian with her elbow and pointed discreetly at a pole planted a few paces away. It was bedecked with horns, strings of threaded teeth and animal skulls. The bones looked fresh and unweathered.

‘That’s bad,’ Yvane whispered. ‘A war pole. Means they’re expecting deaths.’

The Kyrinin crowd stirred gently at their arrival. There was a foul smell, Orisian realised, foul enough to make him almost gag. The crowd thinned a little before them; it let them see what stood at its centre.

A wooden frame was there, of the sort used to suspend a carcass while it was butchered. Upon the frame was bound a naked, lifeless Kyrinin. His head hung forwards and his white hair had fallen across his face like a shroud. From shoulder to hip, long thin strips of skin had been peeled back, wound on sticks. The flaying had left livid, gory bands of raw flesh exposed. He had been disembowelled, so that his entrails spilled forth to pile upon the ground beneath him. His groin was a bloody mess. An ordurous stench hung suffocatingly in the air and Orisian felt bile in his mouth as his stomach twisted itself. He heard Anyara’s faint moan of disgust even as he turned away. Three young Fox children were standing close by. They watched him with bland curiosity. One had a bow and quiver—little more than toys—in his tiny, fine hands.

Then Ess’yr was coming around the edge of the crowd. Her brother was a little behind her.

‘You should go,’ said Ess’yr.

‘We’re leaving,’ Orisian told her. ‘On the ship. I wanted to say goodbye.’

‘We will come to you.’

‘It’ll have to be soon. We’ll be gone today.’ He felt a sharp pang of apprehension. He could not leave her behind without talking to her. To him, if not to her, it was a parting that needed to be marked. He saw that Varryn was regarding him with unreadable eyes.

‘Soon,’ Ess’yr said, and he heard a promise in her gentle voice. ‘But not now.’

‘We’d better go,’ Rothe said quietly. ‘I don’t think this is a good place to be now.’

Reluctantly, Orisian agreed. Ess’yr was already turning away, and he was suddenly afraid that he might not see those beautiful features again. He might have tried to call her back, but did not.

Yvane had been talking quietly with a Fox woman, and now rejoined them, her face troubled.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

The four of them walked together out of the camp and over the bridge into Koldihrve. The rain was soaking. It churned up the surface of the river.

‘They really are savages,’ Anyara murmured.

‘They are,’ agreed Rothe, and then to Orisian’s faint surprise added softly, ‘but I’ve seen worse things done by humans.’

‘They caught that White Owl not far from here,’ Yvane said as they stepped back on to the human side of the river. ‘From the sound of it, there’s a lot more where he came from. Very close. There’s going to be a good deal of blood spilled.’

‘Today?’ Rothe asked.

‘Probably. They say there’re scores of White Owls. And your friends from Horin-Gyre too.’

‘Wait, wait,’ hissed Orisian, slowing suddenly.

The others looked questioningly at him, and he nodded down the street. Four or five men were standing in the sheeting rain. They were indistinct figures, shapeless cloaks hiding any detail, but nothing about them suggested goodwill. Yvane squinted at them, flicking rainwater from her brow.

‘I thought you said you didn’t upset Tomas yesterday,’ she said.

‘I didn’t,’ Orisian muttered. ‘We parted on the best terms I could manage.’

He was casting about for another path to take. Every instinct told him this was something more than the simple observation Tomas had kept them under since they arrived in Koldihrve. Already, the men were moving, coming towards them. He could see weapons: staffs and cudgels.

‘I’ll deal with them,’ Rothe growled. There was something close to relish in his voice.

‘No,’ Orisian said. ‘No fighting unless we have no choice. We’ll go around them, get out to the ship.’ Inside, the thought was ringing in his head that he should have called Ess’yr back when she turned away from him. But it was too late for that.

‘Down here,’ he said and led them into a side street. ‘Yvane, can you find the way to Hammarn’s house?’

‘I should think so.’ She brushed past him to take the lead.

The alley narrowed, so that they had to trot along in single file. They passed the backs of small houses and shacks. There were no doors, and the few windows were shuttered. Water was spouting from the roofs, drenching them. The ground was slick mud, constantly treacherous, and littered with broken bits of wood, empty barrels and discarded pots.

‘There’s a street up ahead,’ Yvane called. ‘It’s easy from there.’

They burst out on to the road, splashing through puddles. The mud was viscous and clinging. Rothe slipped to one knee and Orisian helped him up.

‘Oh, dear,’ Yvane said.

Tomas stood facing them, no more than a dozen paces away. Ame was with him, and three other men of his Watch. The First Watchman wore a thick woollen cloak and held a longsword.

‘The very folk we sought,’ Tomas rasped.

‘I see you’ve taken that sword down from your wall,’ Orisian said. ‘Why is that?’

Rothe was stepping forwards, but Orisian put a restraining hand on his arm without taking his eyes from Tomas.