“You shouldn’t make jests about that name,” the Wall grunted at her. “It may be that Drulgar has already attacked the north, if these rumours of his rise are to be believed.”
They are, Saska thought, a shudder climbing up her spine. They had heard too many reports now, of the breaking of the Wings, of the great shadow ascending amidst the swarm, of the red lightning and black clouds, to doubt that it was true.
Leshie, as ever, wasn’t taking it seriously. Her shoulders bobbed up and down in a carefree shrug, red armour clanking. “Guess we’ll find out when we get there. Though that’s going to take a while. Especially going this way.”
She pointed at the Cherry Gate as it groaned open, causing ash and soot to stir. It was here that the invaders had come storming through, where the inferno had spread, where legions had died. The buildings to the sides were husks of blackened stone and charred wood, the cobbles stained with death. The stink of it was still in the air even after all these days.
“Ersella San Sabar sounds disappointed by the route,” the Butcher identified. He grinned. “I understand this disappointment. The Capital Road will take much longer.”
“It’s the safer route,” Sir Ralston Whaleheart said. “Lord Hasham insists we go this way.”
“Insists. And where is he now? A man cannot insist if he is not coming with us. And the heir of Varin outranks him.”
“Be quiet,” growled the Wall, eyes moving left and right. “Lady Saska may have shared that secret with you, but otherwise it is not for spreading. Too many people know as it is.”
“Strange that you care more than she does, Coldheart. It is her secret to share, not yours.”
“No. It is all of ours. Because her quest affects us all. If that secret reaches the ears of the enemy, every one of us will die before we reach the north.”
“Speak for yourself. The Butcher is unkillable.” He thumped his chest.
“The Butcher is a fool,” said his brother, the Baker. “We have established this already.” He rode up to join them on a horse as stocky as he was, clopping loudly along the cobbles. “And the reason we are going along the coastal road is plain. It is safer, as the steel giant says. And no longer blocked by the coalition army. Lord Hasham is wise to advise we go this way. With fortune we will ride unimpeded all the way to Eagle’s Perch. The crossing to Rasalan from there will be quick and easy. Little time for the sea monsters to seek us out for a snack.”
The Capital Road, Saska thought, sighing. Another long ride to Eagle’s Perch. She had travelled that road once before, when a captive of Elio Krator, and had not expected to do it again. We were meant to go north. To the Everwood. Ranulf was meant to return…
“The coastal road is the sensible course,” the Wall agreed. “It is paved, easy to travel…”
“Boring,” said the Butcher. “The plains will be more fun.”
“More dangerous,” Sir Ralston came back. “The plains are crawling.”
“There is the heat as well,” added the Baker, who probably knew all about heat, with that name. He seemed much more sensible than his younger, bigger brother. “My sources tell me that the wells are drying up across the plains and the rivers are turning to dust. This heat is the sort that kills. Not to my brother, of course…no, nothing can kill him…but to mere mortals like us, yes. Heat is deadly, and a lack of water also. We have no choice but to travel the coast.”
“And who put you in charge, Knuckles?”
“Knuckles?” The Baker frowned at Leshie, one corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. He wasn’t familiar with her penchant for nicknames. “This is me, is it? Knuckles?”
“You have big hands,” she said, pointing at them. “Too big for your little body. And oversized forearms too. They should call you the Blacksmith, not the Baker.”
The Butcher chortled loudly.
The Baker smiled and said, “There is a Blacksmith already, among the Bloody Traders. A fine captain. He makes the best weapons.”
Leshie groaned. “You’re all just walking gimmicks.”
“Says the girl who calls herself the Red Blade, for this red armour she wears.” The Baker smiled, as Leshie scowled, enjoying his victory. “You are right, brother,” he said to the Butcher. “She is a very funny little thing. Most entertaining. I can see why you like to keep her around.”
“Keep me…I’m not a bloody pet!” She reached to the handle of her blade. That only made the Baker and the Butcher laugh all the louder. Which in turn made Leshie more angry. She drew out her blade, pointing at them, one then the other. “Call me a pet again…”
“Enough,” said the Wall, in a thumping voice. “He never called you a pet, and you’re far too easy to goad. Put the blade away, Leshie.” He narrowed his eyes upon her until she wilted, snarling, and thrust the dagger back into its sheath. It was the one that Robbert Lukar had given her, left inside that chest of gifts. There were small rubies and garnets on the crossguard and a large red diamond glittering atop the pommel. A kingly gift, it was. A gift for helping to save his life.
The Wall turned to Saska. “My lady. Sunrider Tantario is awaiting your command.”
She looked over. So he was. Tantario had his entire escort in place, perfectly spaced apart, a cage of swords and feathered cloaks, horses and camels, to shield her. The Sunrider rode down the centre of the column to join them. He wore scalemail in silver and cyan blue, his feathered cloak the same. The hues of House Tantario, she supposed. His hair was short, neat, brown, with steaks of white at the temples. He looked about forty, perhaps a little older, with skin sunbaked and heavily creased at the forehead and around the eyes. Lots of squinting and frowning, Saska thought. “Serenity,” the Sunrider said, in a pleasant Aramatian timbre. “We are prepared to go, at your pleasure. Should I lead on?”
“Please,” she said.
He bowed his head, and his sunwolf turned, claws clacking as he loped forward.
A moment later, they were moving, passing through the gate and beneath the scorched walls of Aram to exit onto the fields beyond, where many thousands had died in battle. The fires had not reached out here, though that did not mean the lands weren’t stained. Of blood there was plenty, soaked into the dirt and lacquered onto the rock, mottling the lands outside the city from the walls to the ruin of the warcamp.
Del was looking at those patches, a frown of consternation on his long and horsey face. “So many,” he said, quietly, over the rattling of armour, the trotting of hooves. “My friends. So many of them died here…and in the fire. I wonder…” He looked over at her. “Do you think any of them got out?”
Saska reached across to touch his arm, as they rode along side by side. “I’m sure they did, Del. Percy and Martyn weren’t found among the dead. That means they left, and are probably with Robbert. They may yet get back to Tukor.”
“I hope I get to see them again. And Prince Robbert, him most of all. I just…I wish he had stayed. I was his squire, Saska. I finally had something…important to do.”
“You’re my brother, Del. Isn’t that important enough?” She grinned and jabbed at him, as she might have done once before, back on the farm at Willow’s Rise. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? From farmhands to freedom fighters. And look at you, in that armour. You look like a proper knight.”
“Look, maybe. But the rest…” He moved his gaze around, eyes slightly down, peering out from beneath his tangle of wild black hair. “Everyone here’s a warrior. A killer. I’m just going to get in the way.”
She thought back to the steading. To the night Lord Quintan had come and mustered Del for the war with Rasalan. He had wept that night in fear, and she’d told him he’d make a good archer. Her mind had not wavered on that. So she said it again. “You have your bow, Del.” It was a good bow, too, made of yew, light and strong. He wore it across his back, with a quiver of arrows for company. “If we face any fighting, you can still do your part.” It went against her instincts to say that. In truth she would prefer that he find some rock to hide under, but that would hardly do much for his confidence. “You’re a fine shot, Del. Always were.”
“You were better. I just handed you the arrows and helped spot game.”
She smiled to think of those days, hunting wildfowl and deer in the woods at the foot of the mountains. Will life ever be so simple again? Somehow she doubted it. “You’ve trained since then.”
“Not with the bow,” he told her. “I wanted to be an archer when I joined the army, but they just put me with the reserves and gave me a rusted sword. The meat, they called us, the senior men. Fodder for steel. I was lucky that I got put under Prince Robbert’s charge. Sir Bernie…he took us under his wing, but even then, I barely trained with the bow.”
