The Great Northern Highway, 26th of Fourthmoon
The fifth legion had been waiting for them outside of Hol Saro by their now cleared camp. They grouped behind Ren’i’s sentries as the consuls barked their orders, and the army began advancing down the Great Northern Highway as one enormous line, the rear taken by load-bearing kooris and the horses, significantly smaller than the kooris, pulling the supply wagons.
The winding highway went through the verdant countryside surrounding Hol Saro, and they passed forests, farmlands and farms as they went. The spring sowing was still underway in many places, and it wasn’t uncommon for farmhands to pause in their work to watch the army’s passage with mouths agape and eyes wide.
The farms grew smaller, their plots further and further away from one another the more distance they put between themselves and the capital, and finally they were surrounded by nothing but endless, grassy plains. The old-growth forest with its ancient trees, dating back centuries, loomed in the horizon, coming closer and closer with each league.
During the first day Ren’i noticed that riding kooris differed greatly from horses, and thought longingly of his warsteed, Lightning Bolt, who was taking the rear with all the other horses. On the third night he required assistance in dismounting. On the fifth night he had blisters in places he didn’t know the names of, and was certain he’d spend the rest of his life bow-legged. He’d started suspecting that the stupid creature was finding each and every rock and pothole in the road to step on just to torment him on purpose, and he struggled to maintain a straight face so that no one noticed his suffering.
”I doubt it’s clever enough for such systematic cunning, your highness,” Hamr said with a laugh when Ren’i entrusted these thoughts to him, keeping his voice low enough that the Guards riding behind them couldn’t hear. ”Kooris are simple-minded creatures. If the leader starts running and jumps off a cliff the rest of the herd bolts after it without considering the matter any further.”
”Then what do they think about?”
”Probably grass and water and the next sheltered place to sleep at, if even that.”
Ren’i had a nasty feeling they themselves weren’t much better. The courage of an army depended largely on the courage of its leaders, and Ren’i had made sure to appear confident in front of his forces at every turn, no matter what his true feelings were. It had yielded results. The first leagues after leaving the city he’d heard verses of Nahere’s poem being repeated in faint whispers as those present at the send-off ceremony quoted them to those who’d joined them outside the city, but Ren’i kept up meaningless chatter with Sava and the others, discussing this and that, doing his very best to feign nonchalance. As evening fell the common soldiers’ discussion topics had taken a turn for the ordinary. They shared the usual complaints about chafing breastplates, ill-fitting boots and tasteless army food around the campfires, and Nahere’s poem was long-forgotten.
That Ren’i couldn’t get her words off his mind was his personal problem. He lay awake the first night, staring at the canvas roof above him without moving a muscle, fully aware that no sleep was coming.
If only he’d been given just one more day before departure, that was all. He yearned to see his family, speak with them face to face, know that they’d manage in his absence. Nahere’s words had sounded like a warning. Did she know something the others didn’t? Was the rebellion about to reignite? What would happen to Hol Saro if it came to violence again? What about his friends in the harem?
The questions kept Ren’i up all the way until morning light.
Northern Old-growth forests, 17th of Fifthmoon 3045
North-Kishan forests covered vast areas of the northern and central parts of the continent of Daqan, and they advanced at a snail’s pace through the first old-growth forest. The highway was in adequate condition after the snow and the ice, but narrower than in the fields. In many places they were forced to halt, clearing out trees that had fallen during winter, and the road was full of hills, abrupt turns and muddy pits. The river was overflowing from the snow melt, and the terrain around bridges was damp.
The coolness of the woodlands came as a relief after the sunny plains, and Ren’i felt himself breathing more easily under the great trees, despite their slow progression. Even the kooris were more at ease in the woods, their natural nervousness absent for once. They were too big for wolves or bears to truly consider them a worthwhile snack, whereas trolls were too sensitive to light to venture out without the darkness of the polar night. The kooris seemed to acknowledge this as well. They let the animals set the pace, which allowed the wagons and logistics units in the rear more time to keep up with the main force.
His tattoo, while peeling off, had started to heal after two weeks of travel. In the shelter of the woodlands Ren’i finally changed into his riding tunic, which left the left arm and shoulder entirely exposed. Ruan had taken the last minute changes she’d had to make to his wardrobe in order to keep the tattoo covered quite personally, and Ren’i could almost feel her approving gaze boring into his back after changing into something more suitable.
”This is a campaign, not a state visit,” Ren’i had complained while she’d poked at him with pins.
”You are the crown prince, whether you’re at a ball or on the battlefield,” Ruan had said in a voice that suffered no protests. ”Dress accordingly.”
Ren’i had submitted to his fate and let Ruan decide what to pack from his wardrobe. If forced to choose, he’d rather take on ten thousands Liqaris in combat than Ruan with her fabric scissors.
”It’s very nice, that new tattoo of yours, highness,” Hamr commented as they rode in the dappled afternoon light filtering through thick boughs.
Ren’i made a noise of approval. ”Thank you. Making sure it stays clean in these conditions is less than pleasant, though.”
”It’ll heal quickly if the weather stays this way.”
”I hope so.”
Hamr scratched at his stubble, looking thoughtful. ”The subject matter is no coincidence, is it?”
”What do you mean?”
”That assault in the Spring Festival, the unrest in Hol Saro, then lady Nahere’s speech…” His brows were furrowed as he looked at Ren’i, a cunning look on his face. ”In the current political climate it’s hard not to see symbolism even in the smallest of gestures, if you understand what I’m implying. Did you choose the theme yourself?”
”My father gave it his blessings,” Ren’i said uncertainly, but he knew at once it meant nothing.
Oerei and Ellerram may not have been close as siblings, but they were still empress and the empress’s political advisor, an intermediary between the imperial family and the senate. With a new rank came a new tattoo, naturally, and as the head of the family Ellerram had the right to express her opinion on the matter. How sure could Ren’i be that Oerei hadn’t brought it up with the empress beforehand and discussed suitable topics with her? Ren’i had been given the honours for the amendment, but the empress had still made her decision even before bringing it to his attention. Ren’i decided to keep such thoughts to himself.
”Fire has been the symbol of our bloodline since ancient times,” Ren’i said finally. He chose his words with care. ”My father carries it, as do my uncle and the empress. It is a tradition I wish to be part of.”
The captain was serious when he nodded. ”That is wise. The people need to know the empire endures in times like this.”
Ren’i breathed in slowly. One thought had been roiling around his head since the ceremony, and the captain was the only person he could share it with. ”I believe the empress wanted to send a message with Nahere’s speech.”
”A message? To whom?”
”The people. The insurgents. Us.” Ren’i’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the horn of his saddle with both hands. ”That Quan’s fire burns as strong as ever, and that Kisha won’t bow down when pressured.”
Captain Hamr was silent for a long time. The air was filled with the creaking of leather and girths, and the faint singing of birds in the surrounding woods. The murmur of those riding behind was lost under the stomping of hooves, cloven or otherwise.
”I’d been pondering something along those lines myself,” the captain said. He dropped his voice and continued, ”it’s no coincidence the empress wants to strenghten her hold on the empty-bloods just as the Liqaris are marching south, is it?”
Doubt it, Ren’i thought to himself. The empress did nothing by coincidence, if he knew his aunt at all.
The Kishan empire had shifted further and further to the south over the course of many millenia, taking over ever greater parts of the continent. The Hytherlands were a hot, sparsely populated backwater region at the southern tip of Daqan, unsuited for agriculture, and they held no particular natural riches, either. Meril-An was the southern-most city of the empire, and even it stood some two hundred leagues north of the dry wasteland that formed a natural border between the north and the south.
All that would change with him and his army, he’d have to see to that. Too long had the Hytherners lived on the edges of the empire without the empress’s protection, without purpose. After the war he could build a permanent garrison in the area to protect the border, not only deflecting the Liqari threat in the future, but also providing the locals with livelihoods, work – a purpose. One of the local villages would eventually grow into a city, a fortress against the enemy, and soldiers and merchants alike would flow from the north looking for work.
”She wants the akheris to be more committed to the empire. They’ll have the honour of being the first ones to join the imperial army’s ranks as real soldiers.” Ren’i smirked. ”And what would raise our new rookies’ morals better than kicking the enemy’s ass properly?”
”Now you’re speaking my language, highness,” Hamr laughed. ”Although…”
Ren’i looked at him quizzically.
”I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.”
Ren’i could tell from his tone that was exactly what Harm was planning to do. ”That’s why you’re my captain. Tell me, what have I overlooked this time?”
”There’s no making proper soldiers out of akheris. Yes, they’re enduring even in the harshest of conditions, that much is true, but they’re primitive. Obstinate and not keen on taking orders.”
”What a disrespectful thing to say, captain.”
”I’m serious. Why do you think they’ve resisted Kishan rule for so long?”
”We haven’t exactly made efforts to keep the communications open, either. They’ve been isolated for a long time, far away from Kishan influence, and we can’t blame them for something that’s not their fault,” Ren’i said soothingly. ”Asaris, humans and merjils have lived by our side much longer. In time the akheris will do the same.”
”Your highness is frustratingly optimistic sometimes.”
”I’m afraid that’s part of my job.”
”You’ll come to notice that this is no easy task you’ve been given. The soil itself does its best to resist all your endeavours.”
Ren’i rolled his eyes and decided to switch subjects. The captain held on to his prejudices as stubbornly as many older taivashi generations did. ”You know more about the akheris than I do, captain. What are they like?”
”There are some living in Hol Saro, too, you know.”
”Some thousands,” Ren’i remarked. ”I’ve not met many of them.”
”Perhaps that shouldn’t surprise me. They tend to keep to themselves just like the asaris do.” Hamr thought for a moment. ”In appearance they resemble humans. Round ears, average height. Sharp teeth.”
”Oh?”
”They’re mainly carnivorous. And long-lived for empty-bloods. The oldest of them can reach the age of five hundred in favourable conditions.”
Ren’i thought back on the map spread out on the meeting room table and tried to dig up every little thing he’d ever heard about the southern tip of the continent from his memory. He suddenly realised that he’d never visited Meril-An, let alone the Hytherlands. He remembered once asking his teachers why they were named thus. The question had earned a nasty slap on his fingers and a snarl that the reason was obvious, and Ren’i hadn’t bothered asking again.
”Have you ever been to the south, captain?” he asked now. The captain didn’t let him off any easier than his teachers had, but Hamr was, thank the gods, more than a pointer’s reach away.
The captain’s lips curled into a rare smile. ”Often, your highness. I grew up in Meril-An, after all.”
”You did?” Ren’i said, startled. There were several Meril-Anians in his Guard, Sava and Kerrin among them, but he didn’t recall ever asking the captain about his hometown.
”That was long before your time. I’ve served the royal house for nearly eight hundreds years.” He paused. ”It’s hot and dry in Meril-An for seven months a year, and hot and humid for another seven. It’s even hotter in the Hytherlands. They don’t have four seasons as we do in the north, but the southern nights grow all the more harsh the closer to the desert you get.”
Ren’i was still thinking about the captain’s words when they set up camp again and got ready to rest. The tents where Ren’i and his Guards slept were set up a good distance away from the legionnaires, and instead of the chattering and ruckus of soldiers he only heard the babbling of a brook and the singing of gold thrushes as he laid down.
He could not picture a place never touched by winter, whose lands were never covered by a blanket of snow. From his windows in the palace he noticed his eyes seeking the snow-tipped peaks of the Mountains of the Highest whenever he was lost in thought. Not even the spring sun could melt the permafrost in the mountains. There was something comforting in the thought; that there was something lasting in the world, something to put one’s trust in. He fell asleep longing for winter’s icy touch, and when he opened his eyes again the world was white with falling flakes, and hardened snow creaked beneath his bare feet.
Ren’i looked around in wonder, eyes wide with amasement. Gone were the camp and the forest with its spruces reaching towards the sky. The bird song had halted – in its place was only the utter silence of a winter’s night, with snow muffling all sounds. He took a cautious step forwards. The ground gave beneath his weight. A moment later he realised that he was standing on cold sand. Enormous dunes stretched out as far as the eye could see like waves in the open seas, and the snowflakes fluttering down from the sky were so thick that they nearly hid the desert from view.
Ren’i felt something tugging him along, just like the north pulling at the needle of a compass. The pull was compelling, demanding, and his feet moved towards it as if on their own. Ren’i was surprised to notice that no steam blurred the air when he exhaled.
His feet sped across the desert as though flying, and he couldn’t feel fatigue nor the weight of his body, though he knew he was running faster than he ever had before. He should have felt the cold stiffen his limbs, but the sand was pleasantly cool beneath the soles of his feet. Snowflakes whipped against his skin, but their touch was neither cold nor wet. He felt them falling ever thicker, whirling about like a great vortex of air above the desert, and he lifted an arm to shield his face as he pressed on.
The wind resistance had grown so strong that it was threatening to blow him off his feet. Ren’i felt hail beating against his face, but when he opened his eyes he understood that he was not standing in a blizzard, after all.
Sandstorm. He was in the heart of a sandstorm.
The sight left him so speechless that he could not even bring himself to be afraid. Ahead of him on both sides rose enormous, dark walls of stone, and between the cliffs came rushing a merciless, endlessly spiralling dance of sand and wind. ’Dance’ was the only word he could think to describe it with – not even the harshest snowstorms moved in the same manner. The whirlpool rose all the way to the heavens and obscured everything from view, and standing in its midst Ren’i had the feeling that whatever he was looking for was here. He squinted with watery eyes, and through the tears could only just make out a shadowy figure standing exactly in the heart of the storm.
He reached out a hand towards it and felt hot wind caressing his skin. It pushed between his fingers with a raging force, and Ren’i would have wanted to shout from pain if he’d had a voice. The wind burned so that his shoulder could have been on fire, and the inked lines of his tattoos glowed red like smouldering embers. He felt it prickling underneath his skin, like something within was trying to break free, and without knowing why Ren’i reached for his ashay.
The world went up in flames around him. The swirling sands turned into an all-consuming sea of flames, and he tasted ash and the bitter tang of iron in his mouth. He felt the flames dancing in spirals around him, felt them catching his hair like the wind. The last thing he felt were the heat and the pain on his skin, and he stood up suddenly, drenched in sweat and heart hammering wildly in his chest.
It was deadly quiet outside, and no light was filtering through the canvas. Ren’i sat still, shaking, and stared at his arm. The bleak light of the lantern revealed that his tattoos looked the same as ever.
”A dream,” he sighed. His throat was parched as though he hadn’t had a drink in weeks. ”Thank the gods it was just a dream.”
Ren’i shuddered. Though the details were already starting to fade he still recalled the heat as clearly as if he’d felt it in the waking world. He had felt the burn of the fire on his skin. His fingers had blackened with soot, but the flames hadn’t burned him, almost as if he’d been part of them.
He pulled the sticky shirt off, reached out for his waterskin, and froze.
His fingers had left black, sooty stains in the cloth.
Hatam-Ile, 2nd of Seventhmoon 3045
Hawk woke up gasping for air, clutching a knife in his hand. He stared into darkness, all senses taut to the extreme, pointing at an invisible trespasser as if ready to strike. The silence was all-encompassing, and nothing or no one materialised from the darkness, though he waited for a small, restless eternity. He lowered his weapon at last, recognising the familiar walls of the cottage around him.
Never before had any dream left him so fearful. It had felt much too real. The sandstorm rolling in from the Cape of Mists had raged like a wildfire and turned all to ash in its wake. In the dream he’d felt like he’d been waiting for it all his life. He’d walked towards it with his own two feet, without fear, without looking back, and had let the fire consume the sky and the desert, everyone, everything, every single thing. Himself, too.
”Not again,” he muttered under his breath. His voice seemed to catch in his throat, and he thought he still tasted smoke on his tongue, though he knew it was impossible.
The same dream had repeated week after week, but this time he was sure of it: there had been someone else in it besides him. In the middle of the firestorm had stood a figure, its features obscured. Hawk had known subconsciously that someone had breathed the same burning air with him, had shared in his longing, though he was certain he’d seen nothing but fire.
He felt something wet trickling down his chin and realised he’d bitten his lower lip. He kicked the already tangled blankets off himself and stood up. The room was freezing and he felt goose bumps all over his skin. His berth stood close to the hearth, but the fire had died out during the night, leaving little of its warmth behind. Hawk pressed a clean rag on his bleeding lip.
He’d been a child when he’d last bitten himself in his sleep. The thought annoyed him enormously. He could feel the shape of sharp front teeth against the tip of his tongue. Though akheris hadn’t lived on just meat for millenia, the drought made surviving on grain impossible. They were still dependant on what little wild game thrived in the demanding conditions of the Hytherlands. But unlike demons in the north, akheris were no savages: they ate everything they caught and never killed for sport.
They couldn’t have afforded such wastefulness, anyway. The desert creeped ever closer year after year, the dry seasons longer and worse each time, and the summer heat so wearying that what little they could catch barely supported them anymore. Hawk knew the reason, too. Even the animals were suffering from the lack of food. The amount of wild kooris had dropped all the time as the herds travelled farther and farther in search of food. Some died on the journey, some remained in new areas in the north or wandered across the land bridge to Seiye, where the northern parts of the continent were a lush, uninhabited plain. There weren’t even as many predators left as there used to be.
Instinctively, he placed a hand on his ribs. The wound had healed years ago, but he felt the bump of scar tissue beneath his fingertips and remembered the claws that had torn open the skin. The pelt of the beast now adorned Ared’s office. He had survived his encounter with a desert wolf mostly in one piece, but many others weren’t as lucky. Predators came close to the cities driven by hunger more and more often, and there was no driving them off forever. They were just as desperate as the akheris were, desperate enough to risk it.
Hawk walked across the cottage to the kitchenette. His lip had finally ceased bleeding, but the iron tang of blood still remained in his mouth. He took a glass, bent over the water barrel and filled the glass. He’d just lifted it to his lips when he glanced out the window and nearly dropped his drink.
The sky was on fire.
He unlatched the door and rushed out wearing nothing but trousers, a quiver on his shoulder and a bow at hand.
The star-bright sky quivered and danced in shades of blue, green and yellow that dyed the sands stretching beneath them like reflections on water. It was like one huge, rippling veil caught by the wind, or like the blazing of multicoloured flames, but though he heard the air crackling faintly, the nightly wind carried no more heat than usual.
”Well, well, aren’t you up early?”
Hawk lowered the bow and looked in the direction of the voice. Onniar was leaning against the cottage wall, his gaze on the night sky. The bearded huntsmaster had pulled up the collar of his fur coat to shield against the wind, not looking even remotely sleepy.
”The hell are you doing here?” Hawk asked, not in particularly lovable tones.
Onniar shrugged. ”Just happened to be in the area, that’s all.”
”Is this a habit of yours? Sneaking around my house in the middle of the night?”
”You’re the one who wanted to live in a hunting cabin. You’ll catch a cold if you don’t get dressed.”
Hawk disregarded the remark and nodded at the sky. ”Well? Explain that since you’re here.”
”Northern lights,” Onniar said. ”Well, the old folks used to call them fox lights, I suppose. It’s said that the accursed demonkin live far in the north, surrounded by snowfields, and that their winters are so cold that their magics electrify the air itself. It supposedly even makes a fox’s fur spark as it runs in the snow.”
Fox lights. Hawk had heard the word before in stories about the north and its inhabitants, but nothing he’d ever pictured in his head came even close to reality. The sight took his breath away. He could not recall ever seeing anything more beautiful, but the dance of colours across the night sky brought back images of the fire in his dreams. He shivered and forced himself to look elsewhere.
”Northern lights this far in the south?” he mumbled out loud, stowing the arrow back in its quiver.
”I know what you’re thinking. Ared said the same. That it’s an ill omen.” Onniar dug out a pipe from his pocket, filled its bowl with herbs, and lit it.
”Superstitious bullshit,” Hawk growled. He pushed the dream off his mind resolutely. ”Omens don’t exist.”
Onniar laughed. ”I know, I know. You believe in nothing.”
”We don’t need omens to tell us we’re fucked,” Hawk said. His voice was entirely colourless. He’d had the same conversation so often and with so many others that there was nothing whatsoever left in him for emotional outbursts of any kind. ”Blueleaf and the other scouts saw the Liqari army with their own eyes. We lost Willow to those monsters, for fuck’s sake.”
”And now the Kishans are coming from the north,” Onniar concluded.
Ared had seen the same vision in the fire again and again, no matter how many times he looked. He’d described it in such detail that even those who didn’t want to believe his words had changed their minds a week ago.
Hawk had seen the same as the others from the outlook near the plains: a black mass approaching from Meril-An that marched closer with each passing day. At first it had resembled a mere spot in the horizon, but as it drew closer he’d finally been able to make out how the army stretched out ever wider. He didn’t need Ared’s fire visions to know who the newcomers were.
The cold of the night was welcome after the past month’s heat. Hawk sat down on a stump, a short distance from Onniar and the reek of smoke, and watched the northern lights quietly rippling in the skies. Their glow dyed his dark skin in tones of green and yellow. He was vaguely aware of the cold prickling at his upper body and the soles of his feet.
Onniar finished smoking and got up, stretching. He blew out one more puff of smoke.
”Sleep while you still can. Could be there won’t be a chance for it later, if things go to hell badly enough,” he told Hawk. All the jovial humour had vanished from his usually gentle face. He looked as if he’d aged decades in the blink of an eye. ”We’ll meet them with our heads held high, come what may. Be ready for tomorrow.”
Hawk spent the final hours of the night wrapped in furs, and no sleep came. The northern lights dimmed, then disappeared entirely from the brightening sky. A faint glow dyed the horizon, speaking in clear words that dawn was drawing near as he got up, dressed, and braided his hair again.
The cottage door closed quietly behind him. He walked towards the edge of the precipice, below which the wasteland and its oceans of sand stretched on endlessly. He let his eyes adjust to the brightness of the rising sun as it touched the sand with its golden rays.
In their family it was Nightsong who had a tendency for melancholy, but the verses of an old funeral rhyme rose into Hawk’s mind on their own, verses he’d last heard a decade ago.
”All that I am is but sands of time, nothing that I am is mine to own,” he quoted in low tones, and took the knife from his belt. He caught a loose strand of hair, cut it off, and let the wind catch it and carry it into the sunrise. It seemed to turn golden at the sun’s touch, and vanished in the embrace of the dunes spreading below. ”Once from this land was I taken, once more to this land was I given. The wind alone carries the akheri song. The sun alone remembers the akheri song.”
He waited until the echo of his voice escaped with the wind, just like the strand of hair, and turned his course towards Hatam-Ile.