That had been the start of Gelthius's woes, and as he followed Naraghlin into the gloomy hall, he wondered at the strange route that had brought him back to this place. One word from him to Ullsaard, and within a day, the town would be razed to the ground. Naraghlin and his cronies would be dead.
It was tempting, almost too tempting, but Gelthius reminded himself that it would not only be Naraghlin that would suffer. The legions were deadly efficient, but not very discriminating; there was no way to protect his friends without protecting those he disliked.
Naraghlin took off his cloak and spread it over the carved stump of wood that served as his throne. In the flickering of the fire pit, the chieftain's wrinkled face seemed animated, but there was little life in his eyes. Girls arrived with skins of mead, passing one to the chieftain and another to Gelthius. He sat down on the straw-strewn floor and signalled for Muuril to stand by the door.
Kalsaghan, Mannuis and half a dozen other local nobles entered, but Naraghlin dismissed them with a wave.
"Out! This is between the two of us," said the chieftain. He waited until the others had left before continuing. "What does your new chieftain want?"
"Swear loyalty to my king," said Gelthius. "Do not fight the Askhans."
"That's it?" Naraghlin swilled from the skin, mead glistening in his beard. "No tribute? No slaves?"
"That's not how the Askhans do things," said Gelthius. "Not if you agree."
"What then?"
"More Askhans will come here. They will show you how to build proper houses, sow fields of barley, improve the farms. They will bring boats and masons and many other men with crafts. They will offer the young men of the Linghar the chance to become legionnaires. They will teach you how to count in their way, and speak their tongue, and write, and read."
Naraghlin considered this as he took another mouthful of mead. He tossed the skin aside and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
"And?" said the chieftain. "If that was all, nobody would have fought the Askhans."
"The Askhans will remove the shrines in the wood and down by the river, and the wards over the doors, and will tell you never to talk about the spirits. An Askhan will come to the town and take over. You will renounce the title of chieftain, and your claim to rule. This Askhan will take taxes for the empire, and you will get nothing. If you behave yourself, you might get some land to keep for yourself."
"I'm almost dead, anyway, though I can't see Kalsaghan being too happy about that. So if nobody can talk about the spirits, who calls for the crow when I die?"
"Nobody does. Your body will be burnt and the ashes given to Kalsaghan to do with as he wants. That's how the Askhans do it."
Horror spread across Naraghlin's face.
"But if nobody calls the crow, I'll be trapped in my body when it gets burnt! Why would they do that to me?"
"It's the same for everyone," said Gelthius. "The Askhans say that there are no spirits, there is no crow to take us to Aleea. They say there is no Aleea to be taken to."
"But that's idiotic. If there was no Aleea, where do all the dead people go?"
Gelthius shrugged.
"They just laughed at me when I asked. They think people just stop when their body dies."
"No, no, I can't do this," said Naraghlin. "I'd be dooming the Linghar to torment and pain. If we do not make the tributes, the crow will not feed our fathers, and who will put the seed of the children in the belly of our women if there are no offerings to the dove? This Askhan madness has to be stopped."
"Nobody's done that for two hundred years," said Gelthius, standing up. "If you fight, our people will all be killed and the Askhans will grow crops and raise goats on the ruins of our homes."
"Then we will leave here, go towards the dusk and start over," said Naraghlin. "Our people have done it before, we can survive again."
"Maybe you're right," said Gelthius as he headed to the door. "But Ullsaard is a determined man. He wants all of Salphoria, one way or the other. Maybe you'll escape this year, but next year? The year after? The Askhans told me that they will rule all the lands between the seas. They're not going to stop."
"Unless we stop them," growled Naraghlin. "Aegenuis is uniting the tribes."
Gelthius stopped at the doorway and looked back, Naraghlin a huddled form in the glow of the fire, eyes staring into the flames. "It won't help. Think about it. I'll not be heading back until tomorrow. Don't throw our people's lives away."
Gelthius slapped Muuril on the shoulder and the two of them left the hall.
"Are they going to fight?" asked the sergeant, looking uneasily at the crowd of warriors waiting outside the long hall.
"I think they are," said Gelthius. "I'm going to get my family and then we'll leave. I think it won't be safe to stay here."
IV
Gelthius stood up against the reed fence around the small plot of land attached to his house. The night was cold and steam rose from the stream of his urine. He took a deep breath, glad to be out of the cramped confines of the burrow-like dwelling; and away from the constant questions of his family. Gelthius had told them everything; being a debtor on Anglhan's landship, the rebels in the mountains, the arrival of the Askhans and the fall of Magilnada.
He had seen disbelief in their eyes and had shown them the tattoo on his arm of the symbol of the Thirteenth; he had been drunk the night the others had persuaded him and it was a blessing of the spirits that his companions' crude technique had not left him with an infection.
He smirked to himself in the darkness, remembering fondly his time with the legion. It was not like that at all, here in Salphoria. Everyone was a rival in some way; everybody was trying to get ahead at the expense of someone else. Even brothers and sons were potential enemies. In the legions, success and failure was collective, with everybody living or dying by the efforts of others as well as their own. It was not perfect; many a freezing night spent patrolling a camp had taxed Gelthius's spirit.
As he walked back to the door, Gelthius noticed firelight further down the hill. He carried on to the main track and watched as the glow brightened, seeming to come from the long hall. In the quiet of the night he could hear raised voices, though he could not tell what they were saying.
Something was not right, and Gelthius's earlier suspicions returned. It had been a mistake to stay, but Muuril had convinced him that the Linghar would not dare tempt Ullsaard's wrath by harming his ambassador. Gelthius should have insisted that such niceties were rarely observed between Salphors – hostages were taken all the time – never mind with an Askhan representative. Yet the temptation to stay with his family for a night had proved too much.
Ducking back into the house, Gelthius grabbed his knife belt and cloak.
"There's trouble," he said, looking at Maredin. "Grab what food and coin you have."
"What sort of trouble?" asked Gannuis, his eldest son, pulling a sheathed sword from a hook on the wall. Though barely turned sixteen, he was already taller than his father, with a crooked nose from drunken brawls. The younger, Minglhan, was asleep on a pile of blankets next to the fire hole. He stirred at a touch from his mother.
"Not the sort that we'll be able to fight our way out of," said Anglhan. He tapped Minglhan on the shoulder and pushed him towards the door. "Fetch your sister from her house. I'll head to the lodge and fetch my friends and the wagon. We'll leave duskwards and circle back to the army."
"Leave?" Maredin's voice broke. "Why would we leave? You go. We've been fine without you."
"Hush now," said Gannuis. "You think we'll be able to farm and hunt now that the others know about the Askhans? Just get your stuff."
Gelthius could not wait for the argument to be settled. Strapping on his belt, he jogged out into the darkness. There were more voices from around the long hall and he could see quite a gathering silhouetted against the light from the open doors.
Breaking into a run, he scrambled over the roof of another house and dropped down into the yard beside the lodging hall. Loordin was standing watch at the door.
"I think Kalsaghan and Mannuis are up to something," Gelthius said breathlessly.
"Not the chieftain?" asked Loordin.
"Maybe, but I don't think it's him, he seemed resigned to what was going to happen," replied Anglhan. "Get the cart ready and I'll fetch the others."
Loordin headed into the shadow of the stable without further comment while Gelthius stepped into the hall. It was one long chamber, a fire pit and hanging cauldron at one end, rough beds arranged along each wall with a scattering of tables and chairs in the middle of the room. The embers of the fire glowed dully and smoke drifted lazily through a vent in the thatched roof. There were only three men inside; the other Askhans. Gelthius put finger and thumb to his lips and gave a sharp whistle. Muuril was the first to rouse.
"What's happening?" he asked, snatching up his spear and shield, which he had left leaning against the wall next to his bed. "Is it a fight?"
"I hope not," said Haeksin, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I've only just come off watch."
Gelthius quickly explained what was happening and left the legionnaires to get ready. He ran back to the stables to help Loordin, arriving to find that he already had the small cart on its traces and was hitching up a recalcitrant abada. Gelthius ducked under the yoke and grabbed the ring through the beast's horn, holding it still while Loordin looped the cart ropes through the harness around the abada's body. Heaving with all his weight, Gelthius dragged the abada's head towards the door and then leapt up onto the wagon seat.
Muuril, Gebriun and Haeksin were fully armed and armoured, waiting in the courtyard. They pulled themselves into the cart as it trundled past. Haeksin slid onto the driving board beside Gelthius and took the reins from him.
"Go get your family, we'll see you on the road," said Haeksin.
Gelthius needed no second invite and dropped down to the ground. He cut up the hill at a run, jumping over small stone walls and vaulting the woven reed fences separating the small plots of the families living between the lodging house and his home.
He found Gannuis standing outside the door, a burning torch in one hand, drawn sword in the other. Aranathi, Gelthius's daughter, stood beside her mother, sharing a woollen shawl; her husband, a stocky youth called Faeghun, hovered protectively close by, a cudgel gripped nervously in one fist.
"Come on," said Gelthius as he heard the rumble of cart wheels coming up the track. He snatched the torch from Gannuis and waved it over his head, until he could see the outline of the wagon in the starlight. "Make room there! Maredin, Aranathi, Minglhan; get on board. Everyone else, we're walking."
Gannuis and Faeghun watched the legionnaires with narrowed, suspicious eyes as the Askhan soldiers helped the women and child onto the back of the cart. Gelthius split the two Linghars, one to each side, Gannuis with Loordin, Faeghun with Gebriun; he positioned himself at the front while Muuril guarded the rear.
The abada plodded up the hill under the urging of Haeksin, while Gelthius forged ahead, searching for the fork in the road that would lead to the duskwards side of the hill. A few faces peered out of doors as they passed, but most of the Linghars were asleep already, weary from a day's toil and expecting to rise before dawn.
The houses gave way to the open hillside at the crest. Here the rocks were too heavy and too close together for the Linghars to dig their homes. The track split, the main road continuing coldwards while a much less-travelled path switched back and forth down the steep duskward side of the mount.
"It's steep, be careful," Gelthius called back. Haeksin raised his hand in acknowledgement. "Watch out for rocks as well, this path don't get cleared too often."
"What are you saying?" Faeghun called back. "Who are you talking to?"
Gelthius ignored him, climbing down an embankment to cut out a loop of the path. As his sandaled feet scraped on the stonefilled dirt track, he froze.
There was torchlight at the bottom of the hill, about half a mile away as the Askhans measured it.
"Shit," Gelthius muttered.
It was too late to turn back into the village. They would have to deal with whatever was waiting for them. Gelthius carried on for a few hundred paces, stopping when he had a clearer view.
In the light of two torches, Gelthius saw a handful of Linghar warriors, perhaps a dozen at the most. He instantly recognised Kalsaghan amongst them. The tribesmen were sat on rocks beside the road, drinking and joking with each other, while Kalsaghan paced back and forth across the dirt road, hand on the hilt of a dagger at his hip.
Crouching in a bush, Gelthius listened but could hear nothing of what the men were saying. One or two seemed almost asleep. He glanced up the hill, hearing the creak of the cart axles and the crunch of the wheels. The hotwards face of the hill, above the waiting Linghars, was almost a cliff. The only way from the village to where Kalsaghan waited was down the track being followed by the wagon, or across the bridge over the river at the bottom of the dawnwards slope; neither was particularly quick.
Reaching a decision, Gelthius ran back up the hill to warn the others. He was panting hard by the time he saw the looming bulk of the wagon in the darkness. Gelthius hissed a caution as the abada almost lumbered into him, forcing him into a bush beside the narrow, steep track.
"There's men waiting for us at the bottom," said Gelthius as he pushed himself from a tangle of thorny branches, dried, dead leaves clinging to his hair and shirt. "They'll be able to hear the wagon, right enough."