The Fires that Stain the Horizon

Chapter One

Detlev

“Fuck me! That one hurt!”

Detlev shifted on his seat, vainly looking for a position that might lessen the stings and spikes tormenting his lower back. He winced, cursing under his breath. His left leg was stretched to the side, his right leg tucked under his seat, and his body half-turned to the left. With his right, he loosely held the reins. Awkward did not begin to describe it.

He yawned. His eyes searched for his water flask and he took a sip. Not too much, lest he needed to pee. Too cold. The creaking and clattering of his great wain mixed with the footfalls of his six horses, their snorts and complaints, and the clinking of the gear. No wind. The stench of days on the road assailed his nose, and that was only his own.

Every time he dared to doze off, the jolting of the wain shook him awake again, driving painful barbs through his back. The road was icy and rutted at this time of year and winter’s cold breath was refusing to yield the north just yet. The gouges in the road were rock solid. The wheels of the wain scudded from ridge to groove and back again.

Our own tracks from three weeks ago, I’d wager, he thought. Few folk about.

Detlev, son of Dellièv, chapman in the Merchant Guild of Piekar, demanded greater speed of his horses and gasped as another bolt ran up his spine.

“Everything all right, sir?”

His eyes went to his right. He had to lean forward, past the angled canvas canopy. The older of his two men-at-arms, Halmánov, rode beside the wain, his cropped white hair doing nothing to protect his red ears from the cold.

“Getting a bit sick of the road, Hal.”

“You’ve begun forcing the journey.”

“I’m worried about a change in the weather. The road is frozen solid now, but it’ll be a mire once the spring rains start. We have enough toil to sap us.”

“The others are struggling to keep up.”

He grinned. “My horses are good, aren’t they? Six beauties! Glad I swapped them for the old team. Worth the price, don’t you think? Besides, the wain is much lighter now, we can afford greater speed.”

“You spent too much on them, sir, you should’ve gone to my cousin.”

“The horse-trader in the shanties? No way!”

“He’s a good man, an honest father and husband toiling for his family, like yourself.”

“You feeding me honey? Not like you, Hal.”

“I know you bought the horses from your uncle, word spreads. I think you paid too much, is all.”

“Tara’s uncle. Had to keep it in the family.”

“Let me know. Next time. My cousin will cut a deal to suit you.”

“A deal to suit me? He won’t stay in business long if he’s charitable.”

Halmánov fell silent for a few moments. “You know, he has been. Too charitable, I mean. Took in a young woman from the shanties to work for him.”

“That’s not charity, Hal, he’s after something else.” Said it and laughed.

“I’m pleased to see your mood has improved.”

His thoughts turned inward. He had reason to be in good humour. Trade had been profitable. The north was a captive market at winter’s end and his pockets were flush with his gain.

Tarava would be pleased.

Returning home, shaken and wayworn, dirty and tired, he pushed for the way-station in the village of Osalbridge. Two more days after that.

Halmánov dropped away, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more. An annoying pang of guilt pricked his conscience. Halmánov was right, of course. The north concealed too many dangers to allow the train to be strung out too loosely. He got up and shuffled to his left, craning his neck to see past the girth of his vehicle.

The others were diminished dots along a broad sweep of the King’s Road. They were falling behind, having to take greater care with the unforgiving furrows of the road, but theirs were lesser contraptions, less solidly built and mostly drawn by single mules or ponies.

He resumed his position on the seat of his wain, but slowed his team, allowing the rest of the train to catch up.

What a motley bunch!

Peddlers, hawkers, small traders, suppliers of questionable wares—not the regulars normally working the northern routes. These men found opportunity in the dying days of winter that the established members of the Merchant Guild no longer wished to prosecute. The guild was awash with wealth—its members lacked desire; they lacked the need.

The guild. Oh, the guild!

Its aldermen were going to look suspiciously at his association with these opportunists. He could already hear their stridency, see their red faces. Southerners! Eastlanders! Above all, non-members!

Word always got out. Once back home, he would have to face the consequences. What would he tell them? The guild was unlikely to expel him, not for such a minor infringement, not when its own indiscretions were so plainly visible.

But there was never certainty when dealing with the guild, was there? It was powerful. It was accountable only to its pecuniary interests. His gloved fingers clasped the bridge of his nose and he shut his eyes for a moment. What if they did expel him?

Tarava would not be pleased.

He resolved to feign ignorance. Guild laws were complex and often contradictory. Apologising profusely for the whole unwholesome business wouldn’t hurt, either. Tarava’s uncle would help. Things would return to normal.

He had felt compelled to go, however; compelled to pursue the prospect of additional gain. He had always been willing to work harder and accept greater risk than his fellow guild members, like a trapper heading out into the farthest woods, risking much for great reward while his competition remained at home.

Trade last year had been satisfactory, but he had lost a month when Laylava had fallen ill. The cost of a physician from the capital had been worth bearing for his daughter’s sake, but the man had not administered a cure unknown to local healers.

Tarava had insisted, of course. Like she had insisted on the fine cloth, the silver goblets, the necklace of rare cinnamon garnets, and the many other trinkets dear to her. Rather, dear to her idea of a woman of status among the wives of the Merchant Guild.

He did not begrudge her the trappings of wealth, quite the opposite. She was good to him, good to his four children, a devoted mother and dutiful wife. No scandal had ever sullied her family; they were reputable and honest folk. She certainly enhanced his standing. Because of her status, Piekar was ripe for the taking if only he worked hard enough.

Tarava would insist that he try.

He was shaken out of his knotted jumble of worries by a commotion among the dozen or so outriders. They were calling to each other. There was an urgency in their voices. His hand groped for the crossbow he always kept close by, but his reason convinced him there was no need. The day was bright enough, with a wan winter sun beginning to wester. The sparse vegetation either side of the King’s Road and the pure white of the snow offered no concealment.

He turned to Halmánov once more.

“What is it, Hal?”

The man shifted in the saddle to look back.

“Can’t say, sir, the others are picking up the pace. Looks like someone closing from behind.” Halmánov’s breath misted with every word.

Detlev’s fists clenched around the reins of his team and he defied his aching back to sit up straight. “Stay close, Hal. Is Iliov with you?”

“He’s here, sir,” Halmánov smirked. “Can you not smell him?”

And his second man-at-arms rode into view, grimy and shaggy as always. Both Halmánov and Iliov had small crossbows at the ready. Swords hung loose against their saddles and they carried round shields on their backs.

“You’re as funny as frostbite in summer,” Iliov grinned.

“Well, you smell like frostbite in summer.”

“Considering your love of the fancy scents beloved by the ladies of Ancka, curb your haste to condemn me.”

“I need something to blot out your presence. There is not a manly scent in the entire kingdom, so I make do.”

“A day in the stables shovelling horse shit will see to that.”

“I’m not in that line of work.”

“Your excuse rings hollow. There’s another reason. It’s the reason you always shave. The reason for your love of perfumes.” Iliov's eyes flashed. “A secret desire.”

“Only for the ability to hold my breath longer.”

Iliov lifted a buttock and broke wind. “Mine is to fart for longer than you can hold your breath.”

Both men laughed.

Detlev smiled. Their banter made light work of the miles.

He was glad to have his two men-at-arms. Even though their best days lay behind them, he trusted their expertise and was happy to pay them well. They were good companions, experienced travellers, and they had served his father before working for him.

Halmánov was in his early fifties, well kempt and well spoken. He was quite tall. With his measured voice and straight-backed manner, he always conveyed an air of calm authority. His mail shirt was well maintained, the edges of his sword were keen and true. He wore a clean tabard over his armour and took great pleasure in being mistaken for a knight, even though his blood was no nobler than a common stablehand’s. Iliov often ribbed him for his obsessive personal cleanliness even in the most uninviting conditions or on the coldest mornings. Halmánov had an indulgent ear and took the ribbing in his stride.

Iliov was quite the opposite. Gruff, unkempt, and shaggy of beard, taking care only of his horse and weapons, he was more comfortable in a stable than a bed. He was, perhaps, three or four years younger than Halmánov. No wife had ever kept a hearth for him and his coarse manners had never been reined in. Whatever his raiment was made of, it had long ago ceased to have shape or colour. Bearskin? Lambskin? He seemed warm beneath the many layers of cloth and grime. Halmánov often teased him about his stench, which, he claimed, was sufficient to repel attack, or about his beard, which, apparently, was home to several kinds of nesting birds.

Another man rode up and Detlev’s attention was brought back to the present.

“Detlev, slow down! Riders approach, we need to draw together.”

“Who, Lennov?”

“Can’t say. Just slow down, for the love of the Goddess!”

There was a quiver in Lennov’s voice and on his face. The man sweated, despite the cold. There was snot in his beard. A restless hand went to his forehead, then pulled on his leather cap, as if pulling down his headgear might somehow protect him from harm.

Still, this was a dangerous land and they would do well to heed their fears. Detlev pulled on the reins to slow his team and again confirmed the location of his own crossbow. He was no marksman, but not arming himself out here was not an option. He stood and adjusted his shirt of mail. Its weight was immaterial now that the thrill of danger had pumped life into his cold and aching muscles.

Once the wain had come to a stop, he pulled on the brake handle and clambered along the side, past a barrel of water, and with stiff fingers unclasped the angled canvas at the rear. Here, his men had bolted a powerful crossbow to the bed of the wain, an arbalest with a steel prod, with immense range and lethal force. It had a swivel mount, so that he could cover a wide arc, just about a half circle. Its mechanism was clumsy, requiring a crank to draw the string, and he hesitated a moment. This weapon! It represented everything that was wrong with this forsaken land of steel and stone. He had never used it and hoped never to discover the damage it could do, but too many eyes considered merchant trains easy pickings, and all who travelled these roads were armed to the teeth.

In its resting position, the arbalest pointed skyward. Detlev stooped to pick up the stock and with an unsteady hand fed a quarrel into the groove. He looked back and watched how the other carts and waggons drew near. Twelve teams had begun the train, of which one had had to turn home early, leaving about thirty men across eleven teams. A determined attack might overcome them, but even as his fear was eating into his resolve, he recalled the maxim of all travellers in these lands. The Brakka, their ancient enemy, operated in small bands of raiders. They would not dare an attack, not this far behind the blood-soaked lands of the frontier. He began to work the crank of the weapon.

The train had drawn tightly together by the time three riders caught up with them. They all wore the green livery of the king and rode beautifully sleek horses.

“Royal couriers, by their garb,” said Halmánov.

“And in some hurry,” Iliov added.

Detlev removed the quarrel from the arbalest with a sigh of relief, released the tension in the prod, and began to reaffix the oiled canvas over his wain.

The royal couriers reached the merchant column and slowed their mounts. One of them raised an arm. “Men of Ancka, you are about in dangerous lands!” he shouted.

“Hail!” Detlev called. “Long live the king! What news do you carry so briskly?” His voice calmed as the courier closed. “Are you aware of something we should know?”

The frontmost rider came to a stop beside Detlev’s wain, the leader of the three, as signified by the plume on his leather cap. His horse was snorting and prancing, a born runner and keen to keep going, spittle and foam across its muzzle.

“What news, Captain?”

The soldier removed his cap to reveal a drawn face that spoke of the many miles behind it. He reached for a flask of drink, silvery and quite slim. Noticing Detlev’s expression, he smiled.

“Not what you think. We travel light. The cordial is heavy on sugar and lets the miles fly by. Water’s too heavy. The wells of Ancka sustain us along the way.” He took a swig.

Detlev offered him his canteen. “Take your fill, Captain. Your men may do the same.”

“I thank you,” said the soldier and took a long drink. He handed it to the second man, who drank and passed it to the third.

“I’m not a captain, by the way,” the first courier said with a smirk. “Just a senior trooper. No officer could ever be entrusted to deliver our message.” His companions laughed, gruffly.

“Please, will you not warn us if danger is about?”

“Your instinct is true, Chapman. We carry news to King Froderon. Trouble on the border.”

“Serious, if three of you are sent.”

The soldiers nodded. “The king will want to hear this,” said the first courier. “Orburgh was attacked by a large Brakka war party. We repulsed them with some losses, which is bad enough, but the garrison reports strange creatures in coalition with the Brakka. Beasts entirely unknown to us.”

“I’m troubled by your news,” Detlev admitted. “What kind of beasts?”

“The reports are indistinct,” said the second courier. “They seem to move more swiftly, not like the laboured run of the Brakka. Orburgh also reports signs of horse dung.”

Halmánov and Iliov exchanged worried glances.

Detlev noticed it. “But the Brakka don’t ride, do they?”

“Not as far as we know,” said the first courier. “They prefer the closeness of woodland.”

“During the winter, some five or six Halvian family groups sought refuge in Castle Anna,” added the third courier. “Nothing has ever challenged their way of life before.”

“In winter?” said Iliov. “Really?”

Halmánov whistled.

Detlev only nodded. The Halvian nomads lived out there and resisted the Brakka as well as the harshness of winter. He understood the events to be related, but lacked the military mind to identify a response. So he simply said, “We’d better get ourselves home, then.”

“Thank you for the water,” said the first courier, half turning in the saddle to address the train. “Safe travels!”

As the couriers sped away, Halmánov said, “There’s three of them. That worries me.”

“How so?”

“You wouldn’t send more than one rider if the message was of no consequence, but if you required a guarantee of success, you’d send more. Mounts go lame, accidents happen. They may need to split up and avoid bandit pursuit. I’d wager they didn’t reveal all they carried. There’s more to this.”

As the train set forth once more, they stayed closer together. Detlev allowed the others to keep up. He pondered Halmánov’s words. It seemed the empty lands now carried a new menace, one that none as yet could see, nor define. He cursed their predicament; cursed the fact that he had an arbalest bolted to the bed of his wain; cursed the freezing cold of winter. He should be at home, comfortably warm by the hearth, but the imperative of having to maintain a status not of his choosing bled away too much of each year’s profit. While they did not suffer want, his urgency to provide well for his family was magnified by the pressure of who he was—and by whom he married.

He stopped himself. Tarava was pregnant again; their fifth child was due in spring. None of the first four children had been problematic, neither during pregnancy nor during birth. All lived and thrived; their mother was blessed to produce such healthy offspring. Karlov was doing really well, a good lad, the cut of his face leaving no doubt about his heritage.

He sighed. His trading missions came at a price. He missed his children. Karlov, his eldest; Laylava, his favourite; Tennov, the spirited one; and little Eliava with those wonderful auburn curls that bounced along with her happy disposition. And he missed his wife, Tarava of Piekar, Tara to him. Her barbs could hurt so much, but she also drove him on, drove him to excel.

And her radiant smile could beat away the darkness of winter in a single moment.

When he had first told her of his decision to go, she had been appalled. Her words had been dismissive. Too early in the year; too dangerous. Eventually, though, she had accepted that the benefits of trading at significant markup during the lean times at the end of winter outweighed the risks. The heft of his purse would prove him right.

Her words at their parting were still vivid in his ears, even now, after three weeks on the road. Where he had expected worry, she had issued demands. He had better be careful! He had better be successful!

“Sir?”

He looked up, slightly startled. “Yes, Hal?”

“I think you need to see this.”

“More couriers?”

“No, sir. Worse.”