Battleaxe (33 page)

The ferry began to move away from the river bank and Faraday turned to Timozel. “Timozel, was that much force necessary?”

Timozel turned to stare at her and Faraday stepped back at the look in his eyes. Timozel’s expression softened, but his voice remained hard. “No-one insults you before me and gets away with it. The man is lucky that he lives.”

“If this is what you do to win us passage across the Nordra, then I dread to think what you will do to win us a bed for the night,” Yr grumbled.

Yet, in the end, bed and a promise of transport was arranged more easily than any of them could have imagined. When the ferryman docked at the landing leading to the main street of Jervois Landing Timozel and the two women could not get off fast enough for his liking. He mouthed a curse as the Axe-Wielder strode by him, but he made sure his face was in shadow as he did it.

The main street was abuzz with activity even though dark had fallen. Faraday had arrived only just in time, since the last major contingent for Gorkenfort had arrived that morning and were due to pull out in two days. Faraday and Yr stuck close to Timozel’s side, avoiding the lewd suggestions that were thrown their way by the rough soldiers. Timozel’s back stiffened at the insults, but there was no way he could attack the entire street of soldiers passing by. He stopped one of the locals, a merchant by the cut and quality of his clothes. “Good man, is there an inn where we could rest close by?”

The merchant laughed. “Young man,” Timozel’s face stiffened, “there is no room to be had for gold or threat here tonight. Can’t you see about you? The place is crawling with troops.” He turned and grinned at Faraday and Yr. “Now, the young lasses might be able to find themselves somewhere warm for the night, if they’re prepared to work a little for it, but I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer the indignity and cold of a night in the streets.”

Faraday grabbed Timozel’s arm. “Tim! No! He does not realise who we are. I ask you not to lose your temper here!”

Timozel’s mouth tightened so that his lips had almost completely disappeared, but he jerked his head and waved the man away. “Faraday, I do not know what we can do,” he began.

“Timozel?” A horseman hauled his mount to a sudden halt before them, “Timozel, is that you?”

Timozel stared for a moment at the man before he recognised him.

“Gautier!” Timozel said, relief relaxing his voice. He had met Borneheld’s lieutenant in Carlon when the Axe-Wielders were preparing to ride east to Tare and the Silent Woman Keep. They had struck up an easy acquaintance, even though Gautier had won Timozel’s best cloak from him at dice. At last fortune had favoured them; there was no-one save Borneheld himself who would hurry Faraday north faster than Gautier.

Gautier swung down from his horse, holding tightly to its reins as men surged past on their way to their overnight billets. Despite the cold he was wearing only his regulation brown leather uniform, his short cropped blond head bare to the wind. Light grey eyes in a sharp and narrow face made Gautier look constantly secretive, yet he was a man that few trusted with their own secrets. “Timozel! I’d heard you were dead! Word reached Carlon that you…oh, Artor!”

Gautier had finally caught sight of Faraday. “My lady!” he breathed, surprise softening his features somewhat. “How…what…who?”

Faraday forced a light laugh. She did not particularly like Gautier. She looked at Timozel, her eyes pleading with him silently to let her do the talking. “Timozel saved myself and my maid from the earthfall. We struggled free, and have been working our way north
ever since. Hence our clothes,” she grimaced, fingering her dress. “We had to purchase our dresses from a peasant woman. Ah, Gautier,” and here goes my story on its first real test, she thought to herself, “after escaping death so narrowly I could not bear the thought of being separated from Borneheld any longer. I pleaded with Timozel to escort me north, instead of back to Carlon or Skarabost.” She shrugged prettily, flirting with Gautier, playing to the admiration in his eyes. “Surely you can understand that I wanted to be with my intended husband? Perhaps you can help?”

It took only a moment for Gautier to recognise the possibilities. He imagined himself striding into the audience chamber of Gorkenfort, Faraday behind him, and taking all the credit for finding her and bringing her to Borneheld. His eyes flickered behind Faraday to her pretty maid, and further opportunities filled his mind. Why! The wench was panting for him! She’d be far hotter sport than the tired old crones who plied their trade in Jervois Landing.

Faraday watched the drift of Gautier’s eyes and hoped that Yr wasn’t playing the lustful wench too heartily. “We would all be very grateful should you be able to find us beds for the night. And I’m sure Borneheld would appreciate it too.”

“Done!” Gautier grinned. “My Lady? With your leave?” He thrust the reins of his horse at Timozel who took them with studied bad grace.

Faraday accepted Gautier’s proffered arm and he led her along the street, shouting for the crowds to make way, Timozel and Yr hurrying along behind as best they could with the mule and Gautier’s horse. At least they were going to have rooms for the night and a decent bed, Yr thought to herself, although she wondered if she might still have to work a little for her share of the warmth. For a moment she had thought Gautier was going to wrestle her to the muddy street and take her there. Yr’s lips parted in a smile. And perhaps she would not have minded. Well, she thought, as she hurried to keep pace with Faraday and Gautier, it was the least she could do to make sure that Faraday arrived in Borneheld’s bed as quickly as possible.

Gautier led them to an inn called the Tired Seagull and, with only a minimum of shouting and fuss, arranged three rooms for them. The previous incumbents, at first disposed to complain about their eviction, were silenced by Gautier’s threats and maids moved in quickly to change linen and remove the luggage of the previous occupants. Faraday forced a smile to her face again.

“Lieutenant Gautier. We have been travelling in these clothes for close on four weeks. Do you think you could manage to persuade the innkeeper to find us something else to wear? And perhaps a seamstress for the morning? I cannot appear before Borneheld like this.”

“My Lady,” Gautier bent over her hand. If she was going to marry Borneheld, then she was almost as important to impress as the Duke himself. “I will have clothes and water brought to your rooms immediately. Perhaps you would do me the pleasure of joining me below in the private dining-room once you have rested?”

Faraday dimpled prettily. “It would be my pleasure, Gautier. I shall not hesitate to inform Borneheld that you have been so helpful.”

Much later that night Yr helped unlace Faraday from the yellow silk gown that Gautier had somehow found for her. He had not stinted in his efforts to find them clothes for that evening and a bevy of seamstresses for the morning. Faraday would leave in two days’ time with virtually a complete wardrobe. It was fortunate that Jervois Landing was such a major trading post—once the merchants in residence heard that Duke Borneheld’s betrothed was staying at the Tired Seagull, bolts of silks, satins and velvets started to arrive by the cartload, all with the assurance that the trifling details of payment could wait until the Lady Faraday had completed her nuptials.

Faraday breathed a sigh of relief as Yr removed the last lace. Although the worsted peasant dress had been of rough material, its loose cut had made wearing it extremely comfortable. Faraday had almost forgotten the restrictions of high-fashion gowns.

“You do very well as a maid, Yr,” she smiled as she slipped the silk off her shoulders.

“It would not be my chosen profession, Faraday. Here, don’t throw the gown on the floor like that. Let me drape it over a chair.”

Faraday unpinned her hair. The meal with Gautier had been reasonably pleasant. He was determined to please her, and even Timozel accepted his attentions as those due to Faraday as Borneheld’s intended wife. She shivered in her thin linen shift. They were leaving within the next two days. Gautier had said that at the most they would take ten days to ride to Gorkenfort. The route was well-marked and well-provisioned. Within two weeks she could be Borneheld’s wife.

“Shush, sweet one, sit on the bed and I will brush your hair out for you. Don’t fret, I will not leave you.”

For some time Faraday closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the soothing feel of Yr stroking the brush through her hair. “Yr?” she said, after a while.

“Hmm?”

“Yr, I want to try to reach the Sacred Grove tonight. Will you help me?”

Yr’s hands stilled in Faraday’s hair. “Are you sure, my sweet?”

Faraday twisted around to look at Yr. “Yr, I have almost lost the feel of the Mother. If I don’t try tonight I’m afraid that I’ll lose Her altogether.”

Yr gently kissed Faraday’s brow. “Never that, my sweet. The Mother will stay with you always. You must simply train yourself in the arts of reaching Her.”

Faraday stood up and rummaged through her pack until she found the wooden bowl the Horned Ones had given her. “Yr, do you know how to use this?”

Yr nodded, putting the brush aside. “I have some idea. Come, we will need some water.”

Yr put the bowl on a small table and told Faraday to fill it almost to the brim with water from a china pitcher.

“Now, the Mother always demands blood, a small sacrifice to show that you are prepared to give of yourself to be with Her. Here,” Yr handed Faraday a small knife.

Faraday stared at Yr a moment, then nodded. The idea of blood felt right. She carefully pushed the tip of the blade into her thumb until she saw bright blood welling, then she put the knife down by the bowl.

“I think you will know what to do from here, Faraday,” Yr said gently, stepping back.

For a long moment Faraday stared at the blood welling on her thumb, her chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. She remembered that Raum had said that the Mother demanded they meet her as naked as the day they were born, so Faraday quickly shrugged out of her linen shift, careful not to disturb the bright drop of blood on her thumb, and kicked the shift across the floor well out of the way. Then she slowly extended her hand over the bowl of water.

“May this blood serve to renew my bond with the Mother,” she said clearly. “May it serve to remind me of my pledge of faith and service to the Mother, and may it serve to bring me closer to the Mother.”

She tilted her hand and the drop of red blood rolled off the ball of her thumb. “Mother, with this my blood may you wake for me tonight,” she said, and the blood spattered across the surface of the water. Instantly the water in the bowl flared bright emerald and Faraday gasped. Strength and power flowed through her and she closed her eyes and leaned her head back, revelling in the feel of the Mother’s touch.

“Mother!” she whispered, closing her mind to everything but the surge of power through her body and mind. She let her thoughts drift with the power, felt its energy start to carry her into realms beyond that of the physical. She felt tremendously alive, as though her normal existence was only a pale shadow of the reality that existed beyond. Rapture started to grow within her—this was, she realised, the equivalent of the Star Gate. The Mother was a Gate as well. Faraday prepared to step through.

There was a knock at the door. “Faraday?” Timozel’s voice called out.

Yr leaped forwards and tipped the water out of the bowl. The emerald glow died instantly. Faraday opened her eyes with a start, feeling the loss of power keenly. “What?”

“Quiet!” Yr hissed, throwing a cloak over the naked girl’s shoulders. “Timozel is at the door.”

Faraday, dazed, only blinked at Yr who had opened the door a crack. “What is it?”Yr asked, furious with Timozel’s interruption.

Timozel tried to peer through the narrow crack. “I just wanted to see if you were comfortable, Faraday.”

Faraday nodded curtly. “I’m fine, Timozel.” He had prevented her from stepping through the Gate.

“Well, all right then,” Timozel grumbled. “Sleep well.”

Yr slammed the door closed. “Damn fool!” She turned back to Faraday. “A lesson well-learnt, my sweet. The next time you bond with the Mother, make sure you won’t be interrupted. Imagine what would have happened if Timozel had seen that…or if Borneheld were to see it.”

Faraday nodded, sobered by the thought, but pleased beyond measure that she had managed even so brief a contact with the Mother; even now she felt renewed. The bowl was a wonderful thing. In her heart she sent a silent apology to the Mother for having so rudely broken the contact. “Yr? What will I learn from the Mother?”

Yr smiled and stroked the girl’s cheek. “I do not know, lovely lady. The bowl is an unusual gift. The Horned Ones have never let it out of the Sacred Grove before. It is enchanted wood, and what enchantments are woven into its making I do not know. Now, perhaps it would be best if you got some sleep. The seamstresses will worry you beyond measure in the morning.”

Faraday returned Yr’s smile and kissed her cheek. “Goodnight Yr. I hope you sleep well in your bed tonight.”

When Yr opened the door to her room she found Gautier stretched out naked upon her bed. She smiled and closed the door behind her.

A
xis stood on the flat roof of the Keep at the garrison of Sigholt and let the wind ruffle through his hair. He rested his hands on the ancient stone parapets of the Keep and gazed north, his eyes narrowed against the wind. On the horizon he could just see a faint smudge of purple—the Icescarp Alps. Cold as it was, the air was invigorating and Axis closed his eyes and filled his lungs. He had never been further north than Aldeni previously—Jayme had always kept him south of Ichtar—and the sight of the distant Icescarp Alps exhilarated him.

“The Princess loved to stand here, just as you do now,” a soft voice said behind him. Axis opened his eyes, and turned to the old man behind him. They were alone on the roof of the Keep.

Reinald, retired chief cook of the garrison, was old and infirm. Rheumy eyes watered in the wind, and his all but bald pate shone in what weak late autumn sunlight managed to struggle through the clouds. He grinned amiably at the BattleAxe. Most of his teeth had gone.

“I was undercook then, BattleAxe, and one of my tasks was to supervise the Princess’ meals. She would spend most of her time up here during the summer and the early autumn, and I and the kitchen
hands would have to climb the steep stairs balancing hot bowls, sharp knives and fine china and crystal. Three times a day.”

Axis smiled at the old man. “You must have cursed her.”

“Ah,” Reinald remembered, “’twas hard to curse your mother, BattleAxe.” Reinald was the only person Axis had met, apart from Faraday, who was comfortable with the fact that Rivkah was Axis’ mother. “She would smile so prettily, and apologise for all the trouble she had caused, and then she would turn to the view and invite us to see what it was that had enthralled her.”

“And that was?” Axis prompted.

Reinald stepped up to the parapets with Axis. “Why, the Icescarp Alps, BattleAxe. She used to tease us. Ralf, the youngest of the kitchen boys, had no head for heights and would often turn green with dizziness. Princess Rivkah would laugh, and say that one day she would fly away to the Alps and no-one would ever see her again. I like to think that is what her soul did, BattleAxe, when she died during your birth. I have always comforted myself with the thought that finally she was free to visit the mountains she had always wanted to see. She was closer to the Alps then, you see, when you were born.”

Axis could not say anything for a moment; sometimes garciousness and comfort could be offered from the most unexpected of places. “Thank you, Reinald,” he managed finally. He turned his eys back to the faint smudge on the horizon. “It is hard to see them from this distance.”

“Oh, during the summer, on a clear day, they stand out as if there’s only a league or two between here and there.”

“She must have been very unhappy here,” Axis said quietly, “if she wanted to fly away.”

Reinald thought hard about what to say. “She was unhappy when Searlas was here, but when he was absent, then she would laugh.”

“When my father was here?” Axis asked.

Reinald remained quiet for a very long time, staring out towards the Icescarp Alps. He remembered the terrible weeks when Duke Searlas had returned home from Gorkenfort to find his year-long absence had left Rivkah eight months pregnant. Without thinking he
looked down at his own hands. His fingernails had never grown well again after Searlas had personally pulled them out one by one with a pair of rusted kitchen tongs, trying to find out what the undercook knew about the father.

Reinald, despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, had never told. In his own way he had loved Rivkah and if he could help her by remaining silent, then he would do so with the joy that he could in fact serve her.

Axis remained quiet, leaving the man to think. He would tell, or he would not. Either way Axis was glad that he had found this old man. Through his memories he could reach the mother he had never known.

“Searlas was so…so hard. Rivkah came here as a young bride, still a girl. Above all else she needed love and laughter, the two things Searlas could not give her.” The man paused again for long minutes. “I learned to wait at the door to the roof, learned not to disturb your mother until she called. Sometimes I waited long hours, the food turning to a cold congealed mess about me. I would send the kitchen boys away.” Reinald turned to face Axis. “I never saw your father, BattleAxe. But I heard him speak, and I heard him sing. He had a voice that one could listen to for hours.” The old man smiled at the memory. “He gave her both love and laughter, BattleAxe. For close to eight months he came almost every day and stayed for hours. Who was he? I do not know. How did he reach the roof ? No-one ever passed me on the stairs.”

Axis nodded absently, his mind drifting. This would be a lovely spot in summer with the green Urqhart hills in the foreground and the purple Icescarp Alps far away in the distance. Over the past few days Ogden had told him far more about the winged Icarii. Had the Icarii Enchanter flown each day from the Alps? Or did he have a haunt in the Urqhart Hills themselves? Axis relaxed as he thought of his mother and her Enchanter lover. A lilting melody ran through his head, and without thinking he started to hum it, enjoying the way it ran about his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the summer warmth upon his face, smelling the climbing roses that in
summer crept up the Keep to its very roof. He did not see Reinald’s face drop in stunned amazement.

“StarDrifter!” A young woman called, love deepening her already low voice, and Axis opened his eyes. The roof was bathed in sunshine and across from him a lovely young woman stood, laughing in the sun, holding out her arms to him. “StarDrifter! You said you would not come today.” She was barefoot under a loose gown of lavender linen, and Axis could see that her waist was thickened with mid-term pregnancy. Her long auburn hair drifted about her back, flicking slightly in the gentle breeze. She took a long step towards him, hands open in supplication. “StarDrifter,” she called again, and then her face frowned a little. “Is that you, my love? What is that you wear?” Her voice was puzzled.

Axis took an involuntary step towards her, reaching out his own hand. Tears began to slide down his cheeks. “Mother?”

The vision wavered and Rivkah took a step backwards. “Who are you?” she whispered, her hand pressed protectively to her belly, and then the image wavered again before folding in on itself and disappearing.

“Mother!” Axis called, taking another step to where she had stood, but now only the wintry wind gusted across the roof, and the balmy air and smell of roses was gone. He turned to Reinald, his face pleading. “Did you see?”

Reinald’s face was white. “Yes, BattleAxe. I saw. That was Rivkah. That was your mother,” he whispered.

Axis whipped around, hoping that she had reappeared, but the roof was barren. He gave a cry of anguish and Reinald hobbled over to him. “Axis,” he said intently, grasping the BattleAxe’s arms, “you are truly your father’s son! Look,” he fumbled inside his gown for a moment and pulled out a long chain. There was a ring dangling at the end of it. He slipped it over his head and held it out for Axis. Axis blinked away his tears and took the chain and ring.

“Your father gave her this, young man. When Searlas returned Rivkah was terrified he would seize the ring and somehow find the father through it. So she left it in a bowl of uneaten trifle for me to
find and look after. I suppose she thought she could always ask me to return it later. But she never did—Searlas had her transported to the Retreat in Gorkentown where she died. BattleAxe, I never knew what would happen to this ring when
I
died. What could I do with it? But I never thought that I would meet Rivkah’s son, nor that I would ever see Rivkah again, laughing and smiling with love and joy atop this roof. You have brought wonder and joy back into
my
life, young man, and I would now pass on a little of that to you with my heartfelt thanks.”

Axis’ fingers closed over the ring. “Thank you, Reinald, thank you,” he whispered, and he did not mean only for the ring.

After Reinald had gone Axis stood for a very long time atop the Keep. “StarDrifter,” he whispered. “My father, StarDrifter.”

A name. He had a name. And he had the memory of the love on his mother’s face as she turned to gaze at his father. He opened his fist and gazed at his father’s ring. It lay heavy and golden in his palm. It was a wide gold band, slightly reddish in tinge, and star patterns were picked out in tiny diamond chips around its circumference. The detail was incredible. The closer Axis looked at it the more patterns and stars he could see and no matter how hard he looked he could not find the same pattern twice. He unclasped the chain and slid the ring off before slipping it on the middle finger of his right hand. It fitted beautifully, as if it had been made for his hand alone.

Belial looked from the assembled and mounted Axe-Wielders to the garrison of Sigholt as he waited for Axis to come out of the Keep. They had stayed only long enough to reprovision and rest and water the horses. Axis had brought almost all of the Axe-Wielders with him from Smyrton. Despite the vocal fears of the villagers Axis had told them shortly that they had almost nothing to fear from the Shadowsward, and had left them only thirty men to protect them from whatever ghouls their own fears might engender. Belial smiled as he remembered the looks on the faces of those thirty men left behind. They had been livid that they were left to guard a flock of
superstitious peasants when the rest of the Axe-Wielders were off to fight the forces of Gorgrael at Gorkenfort.

It was fortunate, Belial mused, not only that the story of the Prophecy had spread so quickly among the men but that they had also so quickly accepted it. With the tacit consent of Axis, Ogden and Veremund had spent a good deal of time among the Axe-Wielders, speaking of what they knew about the Icarii and Avar. They did not directly reveal themselves to the Axemen as the Sentinels of the Prophecy, but the understanding grew among the Axe-Wielders that the two old men were more than they had originally appeared. On the journey from Smyrton to Sigholt the Axe-Wielders had asked myriad questions about the Icarii and Avar. Gradually, at first in their own minds and then openly about the campfires at night, the men had begun to question the prejudices the Seneschal had instilled in them. While the Seneschal had preached hatred of the Forbidden for the past thousand years, the Acharites, Icarii and Avar had lived in harmony for thousands of years before the Wars of the Axe. Ogden and Veremund, using their own gentle arts and the stronger enchanted powers of the Prophecy, appealed to the ancient memories that all three races shared.

Whether it was the efforts of Ogden and Veremund, the brief glimpses of long repressed race memories, or the power of the Prophecy itself, by the time the Axe-Wielders reached Sigholt they clearly understood that they rode to face Gorgrael and his Ghostmen. The Icarii and Avar—and the Axemen no longer even referred to them as the Forbidden—were in as much danger as the Acharites. Many were already openly discussing the identity of the mysterious StarMan who was supposed to lead them to victory against the Destroyer. That was good, Belial thought. That meant that, when the time was right, they would the more readily accept Axis in his new guise. Axis had always been different and perhaps a brilliant commander because of that.

Belial turned away from the Keep and surveyed the Axe-Wielders. For the three days they had stayed at Sigholt they had camped in the wide depression that lay at the foot of the garrison. Sigholt was
situated at the mouth of the HoldHard Pass in the Urqhart Hills; the Pass itself led to the southern WildDog Plains and, eventually, to Smyrton as it lay on the banks of the Nordra. The garrison had been built many centuries previously, some said it was the oldest fortress in Achar, and the Keep was by far the most ancient part of the fortress. It sat on the rising slopes of the HoldHard Pass above a deep depression which stretched in a westerly direction. After three thousand men and more horses had trampled all over it for three days and nights the snow was packed hard, and to Belial’s curious eye it looked as though this had once been the bed of a wide lake at the foot of Sigholt Keep and HoldHard Pass. Perhaps a long, dried-up tributary of the Nordra had once flowed through the pass into a lake in the basin of the Urqhart Hills. Belial had seen Ogden and Veremund staring at the depression one day, muttering darkly to themselves, and he assumed they were as curious about the depression as he was. But Belial had paid the two Sentinels little attention; like Axis, he had grown somewhat used to their mutterings. Turning from the assembled Axe-Wielders before him, Belial’s eyes focused further afield. Several leagues away lay Hsingard, the main city of Ichtar and the official residence of the Dukes of Ichtar. Axis planned to ride straight by it.

The ride to Gorkenfort from Sigholt was straight forward if hard. Snow and ice lay thick on the ground in Ichtar, and, if you listened to the locals, had remained all the previous summer. Gorgrael was indeed spreading his ice clouds further south. Yet Borneheld had been moving troops north for months, and once the Axe-Wielders hit the main trail leading north from Jervois Landing to Gorkenfort the going would be faster. Borneheld had established regular provisioning stations along the trail so the Axe-Wielders would not have to burden themselves with added supplies. Barring misfortunes, they should be there in about two weeks.

Belial rubbed his arms in the frosty air. Where was Axis? They were all ready and waiting, and for once the BattleAxe himself was late. Ogden and Veremund patiently sat their white donkeys to one side, Ogden’s cherubic face and Veremund’s ascetic one showing
no sign of their true identity and powers. Belial snorted under his breath. How many other faces about him held mysteries that he could only guess at? He wondered for a moment about Azhure and where she was. There was a pretty face that held hidden depths of determination. Belial smiled ruefully and rubbed the back of his head. Even now he still suffered biting headaches when he got too tired.