Andrea Höst: The Silence of Medair

Medair’s oath had been to the Empire’s heartland, Palladium, and to the people who had, over the centuries, mixed blood with their invaders. She could not let herself be involved in Decian plots, when Decia intrigued against Palladium. She could not use the Horn without killing the descendants of true Palladians. Perhaps – perhaps she should return the Horn to the place she had found it, deep in a maze beneath the far northern mountains, out of the reach of anyone searching for her.

Medair nodded to herself. Yes, it would be safest to put the Horn and everything else out of the reach of these Decians and whoever had sent them. And, just maybe, she would go to sleep there again and dream away another five hundred years, until the world had become wholly unrecognisable, and not quite so painful.

Or she could sleep forever and be done.

Dramatic thoughts of suicide were nothing new to Medair. Waking early, she set about packing in the relative cool of dawn. The pile of saddles and bags she had taken from the other horses would mark the place she’d spent the night, but she didn’t think it worth the effort of hiding them. She would do better to simply stay ahead of her Decian pursuers.

The bay had almost chewed through his tether overnight and eyed her sidelong as she approached. He knew she wasn’t his usual rider and didn’t seem as indifferent to the fact as most horses she encountered. She offered him a dry biscuit, which he lipped eagerly, consenting to stand still long enough for her to heave the saddle onto his back. Then, when she was distracted trying to tighten the girth-strap, he stood on her foot. Her boot saved her from more than a bruise, but it was hardly endearing. Cursing, she gave an admonitory jerk on his bridle, and he blew his ribs out in retaliation. Now she could barely get the girth fastened, let alone safely tightened. Nasty creature.

She considered continuing to wear the ring. Animal control was not a quiet magic, and the ring would act as a small beacon for any mages in the area. But she had no wish to fight her mount for the entire day. After a moment’s hesitation, she used it long enough to get the bit and saddle properly settled and herself securely on the bay’s back. The gelding snorted and surged a few paces down the road when she slipped the ring back into her satchel, but, though his ears were back, he didn’t buck or bolt. That would be enough.

Bariback was a forest of low, dark trees: tight, close and secretive. It had never been a friendly place and, beneath the tallest mountain in Farak’s Girdle, it felt crushed and sullen. The road was well supplied with fallen logs and encroaching saplings, and on top of that it was an awful day for any sort of travel. The air was treacle, buzzing insects pestered, crawling over sweat-soaked skin and making determined attempts to fly up her nose. The bay’s tail flicked in constant punctuation to their progress and Medair spent half her time pulling at the collar of her greying shirt, which was sticking to her in the most uncomfortable manner imaginable. She made a note to cut her straggling hair, plastered with sweat past her nose and down the back of her neck. A year’s untamed growth, when she’d once kept it almost daily trimmed.

Despite the circumstances and the heat, Medair was feeling almost cheerful. Her tentative decision to return to the cave where she had found the Horn was now a definite goal. Whether she would stay to sleep was another matter, something she doubted she could decide until she was there. But giving up the burden of lost hope which was hidden within her satchel was something she was certain was a good idea.

Late morning, and the bay’s head suddenly came up, ears pricked forward. He stuttered to a halt and sidled sideways when Medair tried to urge him on, nearly dislodging her on a low branch. Pacifying him by agreeing not to go anywhere just yet, she stared along the overgrown road, wondering what had set him off, and spotted a dozen thin streamers of smoke dissipating in the muggy air to the north. Camp fires? A forest fire? It was big, but didn’t seem to be getting any bigger.

She couldn’t go back. Nor did she want to leave the road and risk getting completely turned around in the forest. It was important to get to Thrence quickly, so she could lose herself in the crowd and try to find a solution to the Decians' trace spell. The bay made his opinion clear by backing down the centre of the road.

Exasperated, Medair hauled out the silver ring again. Enough was enough. If it were an early summer fire, she needed to be past before it really caught. If it were more strangers, then she could always try and outrun them.

Under the control of the ring, the bay went forward, jerky and reluctant. By the time they were close enough for the smoke to be making her eyes sting, he was inching down the road, sweating and blowing. The ring gave him no choice but to go on, but his extreme resistance was making Medair wonder if going around might be the better option. It wasn’t just burning wood she could smell. It was the rank, sickly odour of scorched meat.

Then she saw the bodies. A fat man dressed in comfortable robes lay on the road in a position which spoke eloquently of attempted flight. The back of his skull was a black depression. A short distance away lay an armswoman with a red snake insignia on her shield and flies rioting in the blood drying around her. Medair had seen death before. She had witnessed the slow defeat of the Palladian Empire, stood impotently on the sidelines of too many battles. Toward the end there had been heavy losses. Dead people still made her sick to the stomach.

Dismounting, she led the bay carefully around the bodies. His ears were flat back and his eyes showed white, but the ring held him. She wouldn’t try its control by taking him directly toward whatever was up ahead. Instead, she led him off the right side of the road and made a short, arduous journey through the trees until the smoke streamers were behind them and the air untainted. Then, leaving her slightly less frantic horse securely tethered, Medair went back.

She had stumbled onto slaughter. There were bodies in all directions, centred around a circle of char about a hundred feet in diameter, intersecting with the road along one edge. It looked like a prelude to the Conflagration and had probably been burning merrily yesterday afternoon or evening while she slept at the roadside. It was fortunate that the fire had not spread far outside the blast area, or she would have woken to a more pressing problem than a fractious mount.

Dotted among the fallen trees and charred remains of shrubs were blackened lumps. Large ones for horses, smaller for people. Medair made a complete circuit of the ashes first, a cloth held over her face as she worked to keep her stomach under control. An adept had done this: killed so many so quickly. An adept of immense power, for the blast to have been so large, which likely meant an Ibisian. What had she stumbled into? What were the White Snakes planning now?

A pale, mask-like face turned to look at her out of every corner of her memory. She could almost hear that soft voice make some particularly hateful comment about unfounded assumptions.

Shaking distractions out of her head, Medair looked about for a key to this carnage. Half out of the circle of char lay a man wearing a familiar outfit of grey cloth and sturdy leather, no insignia visible. Bariback seemed to be infested with Decians. She had to force herself to check the body over for identification, but found only his hawk-nosed profile to proclaim his allegiance.

Reviewing the uncharred bodies, she found Decians, Kyledran guards, the badge of a merchanter house, and more snake-shielded fighters. Mercenaries. The mercenaries were probably connected to the merchants, hired swords. But here was another, this time with a silver horse on his shield. Very well, four or five distinct groups, out here in the middle of nowhere, fighting. Over what?