Farlander (2 page)

Internally, he followed the steady flow of air as it entered his nostrils, infiltrated stinging cold into his lungs, then emerged again as warmth and steam. Stillness came upon him. He breathed and waited as the words of his answer formed themselves, then listened as he spoke them, as intrigued by them as everyone else.

‘You wear something that belongs to another,’ rang out Ash’s voice as he raised a finger to point at the necklace hanging between the king’s drooping breasts – and he thought:
the direct path, I might have known
.

The object strung on a length of twine was the size and shape of an egg cut vertically in half. It was the colour of a chestnut, and wrinkled like old leather.

The king now grasped it like a child.

‘It is not yours,’ Ash repeated. ‘And you do not know what purpose it serves.’

The king leaned forward, his throne of bones creaking.

‘
Khut
,’ he said, quietly.

‘Tell it,’ the Alhazii supplied.

Ash stared at him for the length of five heartbeats, studying the flakes of skin in the man’s thick eyebrows, the crusts of sleep in the corners of his eyes. His black hair, saturated with grease, hung in a sheer curtain to his shoulders, like a wig.

In the end, Ash nodded. ‘Beyond the Great Hush,’ he began, ‘in the Midèr
s, what they call the Heart of the World, there is a place which man – or woman – can call on for its protection. With coin, a large amount of coin, they buy from it a seal like the one you wear now, to hang from their necks so that all might see it. This seal, Old King, offers them protection, for if they die, then it dies with them.’

The Alhazii’s subsequent translation rolled and chattered over these words. The king listened, rapt. ‘That seal you wear now was worn by Omar Sar, a merchant, a venturer. It has a twin, which we watched, as we watch all of them, for signs of death. Omar Sar travelled here many moons ago on a trading expedition. Rather than allow him to trade here, amongst the settlements of your . . .
kingdom
, you thought it better to murder him and all his men, and seize what goods he had brought with him. But you did not realize that his seal protected him. You did not know that if he was slain, then his seal would die too, and its twin would also die, and more than that . . . the twin would point to the one who had killed him.’

Slowly, his knees and hips exploding with pain, Ash unfolded himself from the floor to stand before the king. ‘My name is Ash,’ he declared. ‘I am R
shun, which in my tongue means “autumn ice” –
that which comes early
. It means I come from that place of protection where all R
shun come from, for that place is where we carry forth vendetta.’

He paused to let his words sink in, then continued, ‘So you are correct, you fat pig, I have come here to take from you. I have come here to take your life.’

As the translation rattled nervously to a stop, the king roared in outrage. He shoved the Alhazii away from the throne, sending the man spilling to the floor. With blazing eyes, the king hefted the skull in his hand and launched it at Ash.

Ash swayed slightly to one side, and the skull shot past his head.

‘
Ulbaska!
’ The king bellowed, the excess flesh of his face quivering in time to the syllables.

His tribesmen stood frozen for a moment, fearing to approach this black-skinned old man who dared to cast threats at their king.

‘
Ulbaska neya!
’ he roared again, and then the warriors converged on Ash. The king sat back, ample breasts heaving, and unleashed a torrent of angry words as the spear points settled against Ash’s flanks. From the floor, sprawled on his back, the Alhazii pattered out the royal diatribe in Trade, like a clock that could not be stopped.

‘You know how I came to be ruler here?’ the king was demanding. ‘For a whole dakhusa I was sealed in the ice cavern, with five other men and food for none. One moon later, when the sun returned and melted the entrance, out came me. Me, alone!’ And he pounded his chest as he finished this, producing a heavy, fleshy, animal sound.

‘So threaten me if you will, old man fool of the north,’ – and the Alhazii paused even as the king paused, both drawing in a lungful of air – ‘for tonight you suffer, you suffer hard, and tomorrow, after I awake, we will make good use of you.’

The tribesmen gripped Ash tightly, with shaking hands. They stripped him of his underclothing till he stood naked and shivering in the frigid air.

‘Please,’ whispered the Alhazii from the floor. ‘Sweet mercy, you must help me.’

The king gave a jerk of his head, and they hauled Ash away.

Through the hangings they went, where the fighting men stopped long enough to pull on heavy skins, and then he was dragged along the passageway and beyond.

Outside, the storm still tore through the night. Ash’s heart almost stopped with the cold shock of it.

The wind pounded him relentlessly, shoving him even as the warriors shoved him. It howled for his body heat as snow lashed against his bare skin like fire. Pain entered his bones, his internal organs, his heart that was skipping and hammering in disbelief.

He would die in just moments, this way.

The grim-faced men pulled him across the snow towards the nearest of the ring of ice huts. The tallest took the lead, ducking inside, while the others came to a stop. They held their spears aimed at Ash, ready to thrust if need be.

Ash hopped about on his feet, arms wrapped about himself helplessly as he treaded snow. He turned slowly, offering one side of his body to the wind, and then the other. The men around him laughed.

From the entrance of the ice hut emerged a couple carrying bundles of their sleeping furs. They cast dark looks of resentment at the tribesmen, though they said nothing as they stumbled off towards another dwelling nearby. The tall warrior backed out next, pulling with him the skins that had covered the floor of the hut, before he yanked off the further skins that shielded its tunnel-like entrance.

‘
Huhn!
’ grunted the leader, and the warriors bundled Ash inside.

It was black as a pit within, and quiet, but the air felt warm in comparison to the gusting winds outside. Without any clothing, though, he would soon be freezing again.

Behind him, they set about sealing the entrance with blocks of ice. Ash heard water being splashed against it, and waited without moving until finally he was trapped inside.

He kicked at the wall of the hut with the side of his foot, but it was like kicking stone.

Ash sighed. For a moment he swayed on his feet, close to fainting. In that instant he could feel, pressing down on him, the crushing weight of his sixty-two years.

He collapsed to his knees on the hard-packed floor, ignoring the burn of ice against his shins. It took all his focused will not to simply lie down and close his eyes and go to sleep. To sleep now would be to die.

Cold. So cold he was likely to shake himself apart. He blew into his cupped hands, rubbed them vigorously, slapped his body with stinging palms. It roused him somewhat, so he slapped his face too for good measure. Better.

Noticing his scalp was cut, he pressed a ball of snow against the wound until it stopped bleeding. After a while his eyes began adjusting to the dark. As the ice walls brightened, they seemed to become infused with the faintest milky light.

Ash exhaled purposely. He clasped his hands together, closed his mouth to stop his teeth from chattering. He began a silent mantra.

Soon, a core of heat was pulsing outwards from his chest, seeping its steady course into his limbs, his fingers, his toes. Vapour began to rise from his goosebumped flesh. His shivering stilled.

High above his bald head, the wind keened through a small airhole in the dome-like ceiling, as if calling to him, carrying with it the odd flake of snow.

*

He imagined he had erected his heavy canvas tent, and was now huddled inside it, safe from the wind, warming himself at the little oil stove made of brass. Broth simmered with smoky cheer. The air was steamy, heavy with the stench of his thawing clothes, the sweetness of the broth. Outside, the dogs moaned as they hunkered down in the storm.

Osh
was with him in the tent.

‘You look bad,’ his old master told him in their native Honshu, lines of worry creasing ancient skin as dark as Ash’s own.

Ash nodded. ‘I’m almost dead, I think.’

‘You are surprised? All of this, at
your
age?’

‘No,’ confessed Ash, though for a moment, chastised by his master, he did not feel his age.

‘Broth?’ Ash, asked, as he scooped some into a mug, though Osh
declined by raising a single forefinger. Ash drank on his own, sipping loudly. Heat trickled down into his stomach, revitalizing. From somewhere elsewhere a moan sounded, as though in longing.