Battleaxe (34 page)

A movement caught his eye and he spun around towards the Keep. Axis was striding down towards him, face relaxed, pulling on gloves to keep the cold out, his black cloak billowing out behind him.

“Is everyone in formation, Lieutenant?” he asked mildly, swinging into Belaguez’s saddle and nodding his thanks at the stable boy holding the stallion’s head.

Belial kept a straight face. “All cohorts are in formation, sir. In line. Packhorses loaded. Supplies accounted for. Geared up, fed, watered, weaponed, and ready to go.” He paused. “As they have been for the past half an hour.”

Axis smiled down at him. “Then what are you doing still on your feet, Lieutenant? Mount up.” He swung Belaguez around to face his Axe-Wielders. “Axe-Wielders, are you ready?” he cried in a clear and penetrating voice.

From the basin below him rose a single shout. “We follow your voice and we are ready, BattleAxe!”

“Then let us ride!” Axis cried, and a shout rose from his men as they swung their horses’ heads towards whatever fate awaited them at Gorkenfort.

T
he group travelled north through the Avarinheim for over ten days, tracing the forest paths that ran beside the Nordra as it wound its way south from the Icescarp Alps. Grindle and his son had cut a lightweight but strong sled from dead branches of a Timewood tree floating down the Nordra river, and Raum was packed in every morning atop the folded leather tents. During the day Grindle and Helm, strong even at his youthful age, shared the work of pulling the sled through the Avarinheim.

The going was made easier by the smooth paths and calm weather. The Clans kept the paths they travelled clear of dead wood and leaf litter for those who followed. When Azhure asked why the unseasonable bitter cold and winds that swept Achar did not penetrate the Avarinheim, GoldFeather smiled enigmatically and said that the trees of the Avarinheim kept the Avar people safe from all but the worst winter weather. “The trees have their own power,” she said, “even though in these times it mostly lies quiescent.”

As they travelled Pease and Fleat instructed Azhure in the uses of the plant life of the Avarinheim: the bark of the Alefen tree could be boiled for a stimulating and refreshing tea, while the bark of the Bearfoot tree, if shredded and dried, could be woven into baskets
and mats and long-wearing soles for leather boots. Under the shelter of the evergreen trees grew a vast variety of bushes and herbs that assisted the Avar in their daily life. Azhure, so used to the Seagrass Plains that supported nothing but grain and vegetable crops, was constantly amazed and delighted by the new discoveries she made around each turn of the forest path. The Avar collected their daily food from the variety of berry bushes, malfari shrubs, small wild fruit and nut trees and even, whenever one draped low enough for the more agile of the children to reach, the great vines that roped between the treetops of the forest canopy. The pulp of their leaves provided a sweet additive to malfari bread and, although she knew the Avar children were skilled climbers, Azhure would watch with her heart in her mouth as Skali and Hogni scaled the great trees for upwards of thirty or forty paces to reach the prized vines.

Both Fleat and Pease were fascinated with Azhure’s soft blue dress woven from sheep’s wool. The Avar kept a small number of goats and sheep for their meat, milk, and skins, weaving their clothes from goat hair and sheep wool. But Azhure’s dress had a different feel and a different weave than the Avar were used to, and Azhure quickly arranged to swap her apron and full-skirted dress for an Avar tunic and leggings, much more comfortable and suitable for the trek through the forest. As she slipped on dark red leggings and a thigh-length grey tunic with the Clan pattern of intertwined branches about its hem, Azhure felt as though she were casting off what remained of her life as a Smyrton villager. Fleat and Pease were more than pleased with the swap as the blue dress would provide them with the material for a tunic each and some items of clothes for the children. Only Barsarbe and GoldFeather among the females of the group wore long skirted robes of pastel shades.

GoldFeather spent most of the day walking beside Azhure, only talking when Fleat and Pease darted off to assist Grindle or Helm, or to collect some leaves or berries they’d spotted growing away from the path. She carefully explained the Prophecy of the Destroyer to Azhure, as well as some of the Avar practices and beliefs that had
puzzled Azhure during her first days with the GhostTree Clan. Although Azhure was fascinated with the story of the Prophecy of the Destroyer, she was more enthralled with GoldFeather herself. Ever since she had known GoldFeather Azhure had been curious about her past, but previously there had never been the time or the opportunity to question her closely about her origins and life.

GoldFeather told her nothing about her youth in Achar, but she did explain something of her life with the Icarii and Avar. “I am fascinated by both races,” she said one evening as they set up camp in a small glade. “Originally I spent time with the Avar simply to familiarise myself with their way of life. But soon I realised I could help with the struggle to take their chosen children to be bonded to the Mother. For many years now I have helped take the children through the Seagrass Plains.” She shrugged. “Some years I spend more months with the Avar than with the Icarii.”

“Do you always travel with the GhostTree Clan while you are in the Avarinheim?”

“Over the past three or four years, yes, although I have lived with other Clans.”

Azhure switched her line of questioning to the as yet mysterious Icarii. “Who do you live with among the Icarii?”

GoldFeather smiled at Azhure’s persistent questions, but she did not resent them. “Why, with my family, of course.”

“You have a family?” Azhure asked.

GoldFeather smiled. “A husband and a daughter. Listen,” she said softly. “Do you hear that bird?”

Azhure paused from stretching leather hides over the supports of one of the tents and listened. In the distance she could hear the beautiful song of one of the forest birds. “What is it?” she asked.

“It is the Evensong lark,” GoldFeather said, her eyes distant with memory. “I think it is one of the most beautiful songsters of the Avarinheim forest.” She turned to Azhure and smiled a little. “I named my daughter after the bird—EvenSong.”

Azhure smiled back at the woman. “What a lovely name. Do you have other children?”

GoldFeather’s face clouded over. “I had two sons, but I lost them both,” she said shortly, turning away from Azhure.

“I’m sorry,” Azhure said softly, but GoldFeather had walked over to Fleat to help prepare the evening meal and did not hear. Azhure watched her for a moment. Obviously the loss of two sons still hurt her deeply.

That evening about the fire the conversation returned to the puzzling BattleAxe.

“Azhure,” Raum said. “What do you know of the man?”

Raum was growing stronger day by day, his colour now healthy, and was starting to insist that he could spend part of each day walking with the aid of crutches to relieve Grindle and Helm of the burden of pulling him on the sled. But Barsarbe still insisted that he protect his leg as much as possible.

“I know relatively little about him,” she said slowly. “He only rode into Smyrton the afternoon before I managed to free you and I did not have very much to do with him.”

“You know nothing about his past?” Raum asked.

Azhure shrugged, taking a sip of Alefen bark tea. “Only the old scandal that is repeated by some of the Brothers of the Seneschal.”

“What is that?” Barsarbe asked impatiently, carefully turning over leaves of the waxflower shrub to dry before the fire. Waxflower leaves, when dried and powdered, made a good stimulant for aged and weak hearts. Barsarbe knew a woman of the FootStrong Clan who had need of such powder.

“That he is Axis Rivkahson, born of the shame of the Princess Rivkah.”

“What is the shame of…” Raum began, but stopped immediately, appalled by GoldFeather’s low wail of distress.

GoldFeather sat, her hands pressed to ashen cheeks, staring at Azhure, her grey eyes huge and shocked. She had gone so pale that her thick silver hair had more life in it than her face. Her lips moved soundlessly and she had to try again and again before she could force any words through.

“What?” she whispered. “What did you say?”

Azhure looked across to Raum and Barsarbe for a moment, but they looked as mystified as she felt. She turned back to GoldFeather. What was wrong with her? Pease moved over to GoldFeather and put her arms about her shoulders trying to comfort her. GoldFeather hardly noticed.

“The BattleAxe, Axis, is the son of Rivkah, sister to King Priam,” Azhure said again. “GoldFeather, what is it?”

“But he died,” GoldFeather whispered around her fingers. “He
died
!”

No-one else about the fire could understand what had upset GoldFeather so much. Barsarbe leaned forward and spoke firmly. “GoldFeather—what
is
it?”

GoldFeather blinked her eyes and seemed to refocus on the group about her. She lowered her hands and clenched them in her lap. “
I
am Rivkah,” she said bluntly. “And my son died at birth.
They told me he died!
”

“But it is said that
you
died,” Azhure said slowly, beginning to understand. No wonder GoldFeather had always appeared so courtly and gracious, so sure of herself.

“They tried to murder me,” GoldFeather said, her voice becoming harsh, “but they did not succeed. But they told me he was dead!” Her voice cracked with grief again.

Raum turned to Azhure. “Azhure, we do not understand. What is this story of Rivkah?”

Azhure told them what she knew of the story. Of Searlas’ young bride who fell pregnant to an unknown lover. Of the birth in Gorkentown that left the mother dead and the son barely alive.

Raum spoke very quietly to GoldFeather…Rivkah. “GoldFeather, was StarDrifter your son’s father?”

GoldFeather nodded. Pease tightened her hold about GoldFeather’s shoulders and whispered comfortingly into her ear.

“So,” Barsarbe said softly, “now we know how the BattleAxe carries Icarii blood. StarDrifter is of the oldest and strongest line of Icarii Enchanters, the SunSoars.”

“He was dead when they carried him from the chamber,” GoldFeather whispered. “He was so blue, so still. They told me he
was dead! Azhure,” she raised her eyes to the Nors woman. “Who raised my son? Who cared for him?”

Azhure thought for a moment, remembering the gossip she’d heard when the Plough-Keepers of neighbouring villages visited Hagen. “Why, Brother Jayme, I think. He is Brother-Leader now.”

GoldFeather took a sharp intake of breath and her eyes glittered. “Jayme and his comrade Moryson were the two who abandoned me in the Icescarp Alps to die,” she said bitterly. “And now I find that they not only tried to murder me, but stole my son as well.” Her face crumpled again. “How could I stand so close to him and not know,” she whispered, her voice losing all its strength. “How could I have raised my hand and stopped before I touched him?
How could I not have known he was my son?
”

GoldFeather lowered her face into her hands and began to cry.

“Our need to reach the groves for Yuletide is now even greater,” Raum said quietly to Grindle. “We must share this news.”

GoldFeather heard him. “I must tell StarDrifter,” she said, “I must tell my husband that our son lives.” A great sob wracked her body. “How could I have stood so close and not known that he was my son?”

G
autier drove his troops north as fast as he could, keen not only to deliver Faraday to Borneheld personally, but also to reach Gorkenfort after months of delays. They stopped only the minimum time needed to prevent complete exhaustion of both horses and riders, to warm a thin meal of gruel and the stale bread they carried with them, and to reprovision and feed the horses from the supply depots along the road to northern Ichtar. First and foremost a fighting man, Gautier could almost smell the approaching battle as they rode closer to Gorkenfort.

His sharp face pinched and whitened by the cold, light grey eyes peering out from above his scarf, Gautier spent much of the day spurring his flagging horse up and down the column of troops, cursing and shouting at them to push their horses just that little bit faster. Any horses that were plainly too exhausted in the morning to go any further were slaughtered on the spot. His troops, witnessing Gautier’s treatment of the horses, made sure that they never looked too exhausted to go on when their lieutenant rode by.

The weather, cold and snowy since southern Skarabost, had now degenerated into the worst weather Faraday had ever seen. The blacksmith travelling with Gautier was forced to screw thick spikes into
the horses’ shoes so that they could grip the icy road more easily and, when she rose in the mornings after another night spent shivering sleepless beneath her covering of blankets, Faraday could hear the outer layer of blankets crack and splinter with the thin film of ice which spread over her during the night. Few spoke during the day as they rode, their faces wrapped in thick woollen scarves to keep the frozen air from searing their lungs raw, their eyes almost squinted shut against the snow glare whenever the sun managed to struggle through the thick and low cloud layer. But no matter how many layers they wrapped about themselves the wind managed somehow to pierce right to the very marrow of their bones, and the horses’ heads hung low as they trotted like automata along the road, long ropes of ice hanging down from their muzzles and tangled through the thick hair of their manes.

Numerous bands of citizens from Gorkentown passed them as they fled south. Frightened by the obvious preparations for war and the increasing attacks on patrols by the wraiths, those townsfolk who could were escaping as far south as fast as they were able. Their wagons piled high, the fleeing citizens often blocked the road, and Gautier had to force them into the snow at the side of the road to allow his troops through. The wagons trapped in snowdrifts were simply left, their owners seizing what food and blankets they could and continuing the trek south on foot. Faraday wondered how many of them would survive.

Stranger still were the occasional bands of Ravensbund people. Faraday had heard vague stories of the wild and barbaric tribes that hunted among the ice packs of the extreme north, but the men and women that passed her on short and ugly yellow-haired horses were even more wild than Gautier’s description. Every one of them had their faces tattooed with a tangle of blue and black lines, while they plaited slivers of blue and green glass and tiny bells into their hair and the manes of their horses. One of Gautier’s scouts reported even larger bands of Ravensbund people moving south through the plains of western Ichtar, and Faraday wondered at the forces that could make an entire people abandon their homeland.

Timozel rode just in front of Faraday, trying to protect her from the worst of the wind. His only thought was to get her safe to
Borneheld, though he found himself wondering just how sane Faraday’s determination to reach Borneheld really was. But Timozel knew he had made the right choice in dedicating himself to her. It must have been through Artor’s personal intervention, Timozel thought, that he had been separated from Axis and the Axe-Wielders. Now he was distant from his former commander, Timozel could see how his talents had been stunted and wasted among the Axe-Wielders. Axis had not only dishonoured his mother and the memory of his father, but had also never given him the opportunity he needed to let his talents shine through. Timozel straightened as he thought about his new path in life. He was a Champion and would one day serve at the head of the most powerful army this land had ever seen. He would serve the WarLord as he would serve his lady wife. Yes, Timozel thought as he glanced at Faraday, riding silent and miserable in her wrappings and blankets, his cause was far more important, far more manly, than it had been in the service of the BattleAxe.

As he rode through the snow, wrapped in his own thoughts, Artor graced Timozel with a further glimpse of the glory that would be his.

A great and glorious battle and the enemy’s positions were overrun. Timozel lost not one soldier.

Another day, and another battle. The enemy used foul magic this day, and Timozel’s forces were grievously hurt…but Timozel still won the field, and the enemy and their crippled commander retreated before him.

Another day, and the battles were over. Timozel sat before the leaping fire with his Lord, Faraday at their side. All was well. Timozel had found the light and he had found his destiny.

All was well.

Borneheld would help him to achieve greatness and glory. Timozel was sure,
sure,
of it. He would be the Lord that Timozel would fight for.

Timozel wondered whether he should tell Borneheld what he knew about the Sentinels and the Star Gate. If he told Borneheld about the strange creatures he had met and the places he had seen, Borneheld might suspect him. Worse, if Timozel told Borneheld that much, then he might also tell the WarLord about Gorgrael and the pact he had
made with the Destroyer. And then Borneheld would never give Timozel command of his armies. No, safer, much safer, to keep his silence. Dark despair still enveloped Timozel whenever he thought of his pact with Gorgrael. But it would be all right so long as he was Faraday’s Champion. He would prevail. Legend would remember him.

Day by day, Timozel was changing. The vision that had first accosted him in the tomb of the ninth of the Enchanter-Talons—a Talon so terrible that the Icarii could not bear to speak of him—darkened his heart and warped his soul. The mild resentment Timozel had once harboured towards Axis now festered into an open wound. His ability to judge between right and wrong and between truth and lies cracked beyond repair.

Finally, when it seemed the whole world had frozen beneath a sunless sky, they reached their destination. Gorkentown and Gorkenfort lay almost smothered in snow and ice, the spires of the town and the towers of the fort glittering under a thin layer of ice. Gorkenfort sat defiantly on a small rise, the town huddling about its steep-walled skirts. It was a massive fort with twenty-pace-thick black stone walls mined from the foot of the Icescarp Alps and foundations sunk into such deep bedrock that the fort’s walls could not be undone by tunnelling beneath them. Ranged along the parapets and battlements were engines of war, ready to wreak destruction. All windows in the fort were simple arrow slits, protection against the missiles of enemies and the bitter winds which swept down from the north. Only the southern wall had a gate set into it, and that was so well fortified and defended that only a fool would direct an attack against it. Borneheld was using the unnatural weather to his advantage, instructing his men to each night pour water down the walls of the fort, so that they were encased in a thick slick of ice, making the walls virtually unscaleable—to flesh and blood foes, at least.

The awe-inspiring peaks of the Icescarp Alps made a dramatic backdrop to the town and fort. Little snow clung to the steep mountain peaks, so that they rose stark and black from the gentler ice-covered inclines of the lower slopes of the mountains. The Lord
of Sorrow Krak, the highest peak in the mountain range, rose twice as high as any of its neighbours and, according to the legends of Achar, was the home of the Dark Lord of the Forbidden. From Gorkenfort its peak was rarely visible, hidden by the cloud and mist that clung to it.

Gautier led his men down towards the town. It was now ten days since they had left Jervois Landing and Gautier had not allowed his men to stop all day. He had not wanted to spend another night out in the open, and he had been daydreaming about Borneheld’s surprised (and pleased) face when he presented him with his eminently desirable bride.

The town of Gorkentown lay almost completely dark. Although Borneheld had over six thousand troops stationed in the town itself, he did not want them using precious fuel on fires or for torches; most of the soldiers bedded down with the sun. Experience had taught Borneheld that he could partially counter the attacks of the ice creatures with fire, so it was imperative that all the precious stores of oil and peat be saved for when the creatures mounted their expected major offensive.

Gorkentown was walled with black stone, although the walls were not as high or as thick as those of the fort itself. Faraday shivered with apprehension as they halted their horses at the first guard post outside the walls. While she would appreciate nothing better than a warm bed out of the cursed wind and ice, that warm bed also meant Borneheld. She thought briefly about Axis, something she had rarely allowed herself to do over these past weeks. Was he all right? Had he managed to reach the fort before her? If so all might yet be lost. “Pray that I am here in time,” she whispered to herself.

Faraday looked at the shadowy figures of the watch patrolling along the walls rising high above her. Gorkentown huddled in a sprawling mass about the southern and western walls of Gorkenfort, and Faraday strained her eyes through the dusk in an effort to catch a sight of the famed fort. Here is where Axis was born and Rivkah died, she thought, and here is where I must try to keep his life safe from his brother.

“We ride!” Gautier suddenly shouted, making Faraday jump in surprise. Gautier leaned back and grabbed her horse’s bridle, forcing the tired animal forward at a canter. “Come, my Lady Faraday, the sooner we reach the fort the better.”

The guards stood back from the town gate that was slowly swinging open, and in a matter of moments Gautier pulled Faraday’s mount through and into the streets of Gorkentown itself. Timozel, his mouth grim, spurred his horse after them with Yr close behind.

Virtually deserted of citizens, Gorkentown was clearly preparing for a siege. Streets had been partially blocked with tumbled masonry in case the fighting came down to street-by-street warfare and Gautier was forced to slow their horses down in order to work their way through. Faraday could glimpse the front rooms of houses and shopfronts piled high with provisions, soldiers bedding down for the night in homes close to the barricades. The market square was a virtual tent city, again the number of troops and amount of piled provisions making rapid progress impossible. Faraday looked around anxiously for any sign of the distinctive light grey of the Axe-Wielder uniform, but could see none. For the first time she felt a small twinge of concern for her own safety. A heavily bearded soldier, bedded down in his blankets amongst the hay for added warmth, cursed her as he rolled out of the way of her horse’s hooves.

“Here! You!” Gautier yelled at a soldier lounging against the support of a tent. The soldier peered through the gloom, then straightened with a snap. “Lieutenant Gautier!” he said, saluting as smartly as his cold-stiffened limbs would allow.

“I’ve got four hundred men following me into this Artor-forsaken town. They need to be fed, bedded down and their horses attended. Who’s in charge of this sorry camp?”

“Ah, Goddars, sir.”

“Then find the damned man and tell him that if I return in the morning and find that a single one of my soldiers or horses has gone cold and hungry for lack of his personal attention
then he will be eating hay for the rest of his life,” Gautier snapped, then tugged Faraday’s horse savagely. “Come, my lady, the Duke awaits.”

Gautier spurred their horses down a narrow street, not checking to see if Timozel and Yr followed safely. Faraday clung onto the pommel of her saddle, seeing the dark streets only through an increasingly thick grey mist of exhaustion. Men, dogs and horses skittered out of the lieutenant’s way, and curses were bitten off hurriedly as men saw who it was who rode so recklessly through the streets of Gorkentown at night. Gautier got almost as much respect, and as much fear, as the WarLord himself.

The town backed up against the southern wall of Gorkenfort and within a few minutes they were picking their way along a massive stone wall rising to unseen heights in the darkness. Its top was too high for Faraday to pick out any movement of the watch. She turned slightly in the saddle, almost falling as she did so, trying to see if Timozel and Yr were still with them.

Timozel nudged his horse up beside Faraday’s, catching her arm. “Curse it, Gautier, slow down!” Timozel called out to Borneheld’s lieutenant in front of him. “There’s no point rushing the Lady Faraday to Borneheld’s side if she gets there in pieces!”

Gautier glanced contemptuously at Timozel, but pulled his horse in a little as he caught a glimpse of Faraday’s white face. The scarf had fallen around her neck, and her skin was pale and pinched in the dim light, her eyes great dark holes of exhaustion. The reins of her horse’s bridle had all but fallen from hands shaking so much with cold and tiredness that they could barely maintain their grip on the pommel of the saddle. “The gate’s but a few more minutes,” he grunted. “Hold on, my lady.”

But Faraday’s exhaustion, now that the journey had ended, hit her savagely. Shapes and voices passed her by in a blurred haze, and finally she weaved so badly that Timozel hauled her across to his own horse. Gautier looked back with a frown upon his face, but he was so involved with the complicated password requirements to get them through the massive iron-plated gates of the fort that he could do
nothing. He let Faraday’s now riderless horse go with a muttered curse and turned back to the standing watch at the gate.

“Timozel?” Yr edged her horse close to Timozel’s; she was close to exhaustion herself. “Is she all right?”