Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    White Fire and Iron
    White Fire and Iron
    White Fire and Iron
    Ebook884 pages22 hours

    White Fire and Iron

    By GJ Kelly

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Book 5 of The Six Concentrics

    Benmelo, Master Hunter, once of Breeyanshar, waits with his friends for the coming of spring, and the coming of the final battle against the Bandavinor.

    Magganath, once Tharasine of Vinnglade, dread powerful, head of the Bandavinor conspiracy, survived the crossing of the Sixth Concentric, though for what purpose he made the attempt in the first place, no-one yet knows.

    Hunter and prey, and between them, eight hundred miles of Caravellan wilderness, and when they meet, so shall be written the final chapter in the tale of The Six Concentrics. To the victor, the spoils...

    This then, is the time of Kalmandarath. Perhaps it always was. Perhaps it always will be.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGJ Kelly
    Release dateOct 25, 2018
    ISBN9780463515495
    White Fire and Iron
    Author

    GJ Kelly

    GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

    Read more from Gj Kelly

    Related to White Fire and Iron

    Related ebooks

    Fantasy For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      Left Behind

      Mar 1, 2019

      Left Behind
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Drifting Into Antiquity

      Aug 20, 2019

      Drifting Into Antiquity
      11 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Four Poems

      Mar 1, 2022

      I met the Bishop on the roadand much said he—same old porridgeI heard as a child, my little bodya “foul sty.” “Love has pitched his mansion.” MaybeLove pitched her silken tent.Love has raised its dwelling inthe place of reproduction, which can be fit

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Temptation

      Dec 28, 2021

      Temptation
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Periodic Stranger

      Mar 2, 2017

      My roots are in a hilltop village west of Matera, where rabbit and boar run riot in the fields. Figs, apricots, and pears hang in heavy clusters, at eye-level and within easy reach. There, the local girls are famous for their calves, made firm and st

      21 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Periodic Stranger: When exile becomes home.

      Dec 12, 2013

      My roots are in a hilltop village west of Matera, where rabbit and boar run riot in the fields. Figs, apricots, and pears hang in heavy clusters, at eye-level and within easy reach. There, the local girls are famous for their calves, made firm and st

      21 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Love Thine Enemy The Fox

      Jun 23, 2021

      Love Thine Enemy The Fox
      2 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Wind Feels Loss

      Aug 8, 2019

      The Wind Feels Loss
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Until The Sea Closed Over Us And The Light Was Gone

      Jul 1, 2020

      —Dante, Canto XXVI But if the truth is dreamed of toward the morning—El Paso Although it was really last summer’s song,all this summer Despacito played on as slower then I turned myself to gazeupon Juarez. The summer everything hurts my eyes, a dozen

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Close Encounter With A Lion

      May 25, 2023

      My Dear Baker Mrs Oswell and myself thoroughly enjoyed our stay with you and your charming wife in June. It was a true pleasure for us both to renew old times and friendship. We trust that your trip to India will be a pleasant one, and the ship you a

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Selkie Moon

      Dec 3, 2020

      The Selkie Moon
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Twitch Upon The Thread

      Oct 17, 2019

      A Twitch Upon The Thread
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Fool Who Fished For A King

      May 1, 2020

      The Fool Who Fished For A King
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Days Of Shattered Faith

      Dec 3, 2024

      Welcome to Alkhalend, Jewel of the Waters, capital of Usmai and tomorrow’s frontline in the Palleseen’s relentless march to bring Perfection and Correctness to an imperfect world. On the ship, as it tacked in past the sea wall, she was in her coffin

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      He Who Fishes

      Feb 6, 2023

      He Who Fishes
      15 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Quiet COURAGE

      Mar 3, 2021

      Quiet COURAGE
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Stop Hating on Adjectives!

      Jun 12, 2019

      A common admonition in creative writing pedagogy is, “Cut as many adjectives as possible.” I propose that this rule springs from mere prejudice. The post Stop Hating on Adjectives! appeared first on The Millions.

      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Concerning The Future Of Souls

      Mar 19, 2024

      As a toddler she had caused a sensation in her family when she announced she wanted to live in a little hole like the ant. Not an ant, the ant. This might have been misheard. She was an easygoing child, not particularly thoughtful and stubbornly inar

      13 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      More Things In Heaven

      Dec 10, 2021

      It’s the deep mid-winter, when sailors check their warps, settle down in lamp-lit saloons, top up their bogey stoves and pour themselves a dram. If they’re in tune with the outside world, they’ll also shut off the flickering screens, kill the music m

      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Smeltzer the Musky Angler

      Oct 17, 2020

      Smeltzer the Musky Angler
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The New Wilderness

      Aug 14, 2020

      The New Wilderness
      10 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Island

      Jun 4, 2018

      The Island
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Feuillemort

      Jul 31, 2019

      I will wait for them at the edge of the glade that would have been promised to them had they come of age. My russet-and-white fur does not do well to hide against the branches of the old oaks, now laden with lacelike moss and bare of any floral trapp

      2 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Good Things Come To Those Who Wait

      May 20, 2020

      Good Things Come To Those Who Wait
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Still, in Focus

      Jul 9, 2019

      Still, in Focus
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Must-Read Poetry: March 2021

      Mar 4, 2021

      Our own Nick Ripatrazone takes a look at six new poetry titles from the likes of Adrienne Su, Dennis James Sweeney, and Karen Fish. The post Must-Read Poetry: March 2021 appeared first on The Millions.

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Press Ganged!

      May 1, 2020

      Press Ganged!
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Ring Silverbell

      Nov 1, 2021

      Ring Silverbell
      3 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for White Fire and Iron

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      White Fire and Iron - GJ Kelly

      Prologue

      How much iron can there be in these lands, master Benmelo? How long before it is all dug up and smelted? And does not iron succumb to air and water, the Shreev’s allies, and crumble, and rust away to nought but a stain? What defence will the lands have against the Karsht when iron is all dug up, or made steel, and rusts away? Without mystic white fire and the power of Elleese, what defence then will that future have against the demons in the deep dark places of the world?

      That is a question only the future can answer, Dass.

      Perhaps that is what the ancients said too, when they built such things as we now hope to destroy.

      ***

      It’s going to end, isn’t it? Here, in Tay’s lands, we’re going to end it, aren’t we? Then we can all settle down. You can be the master hunter of Norrestaven, or anywhere you like! And me and Tay will roam together with a rove, and I’ll teach the rovers and their children, and we can visit! And Arlock can build his forge, and maybe the witchy-woman will give up being a witchy-woman and settle there with him… it’s going to end, isn’t it? Once we’ve done for that Magganath Bandibastard, it’s going to end?

      I hope so, Paj. I barkin’ hope so.

      oOo

      1. The Music of the Waves

      More rain was on the way; anyone with eyes turned to the north would know it just by looking at the heavy clouds gathering far out to sea, clouds which seemed to be oozing slowly towards the land. Benmelo sighed, arms folded beneath his cloak, listening to the scrunching sound of pebbles beneath heavy boots; someone large was trudging down the steep shingle beach towards him.

      Ladyloon’s ears twitched, but she stood stock still, gazing at the waves rolling in and breaking on the shore as if hypnotised. Often had she done so over the past weeks whenever Ben had come here, unless of course there’d been music playing in the haven to hold her rapt attention. The waves curled, and crashed onto the shingles with a thump, and then the water spread towards her, almost to her hooves, before retreating with a pronounced hissing, tiny pebbles tumbling as if running to keep up with the foaming flow racing back to the sea.

      Aye-aye, Ben-mate, thought I’d find you down here.

      Sambal. What brings you to the beach? You usually only come down here when Dursilla’s hunting for special pebbles for her satchel or necklace.

      Aye well, came to tell you that the wild pig you bagged in the woods this morning will be done soon. Good job too, looking at them clouds... more bloody rain coming.

      It’s the season for it. Still bitterly cold too, when the wind gets up. Today’s not too bad though. At least for now, anyway.

      Aye. Y’know, I don’t mind telling you, Benmelo, if it weren’t for the occasional boar and deer you bring in to the haven, I’d likely go doolally.

      Why?

      Arlock sniffed, and shrugged, and pebbles scrunched again while he shifted his weight and moved to stand a little closer to Ben’s left side. The onshore breezes were strong enough today to whip a fellow’s words away.

      Well… I dunno. It’s the manky weather. And it’s all the bloody fish. Now don’t go getting me wrong, it’s true there’s few as likes fishy-wedgies as well as I do, but bloody fish every single day gets a bit much. Besides, the local veggies are a bit manky this time o’ year too, so we ain’t had decent wedgies for yonks. And the stuff they folk up there passes off as vinegar just ain’t the same as the real thing. What I wouldn’t give for a big fat slab o’ beefsteak! Ooh I can see it now, floating afore me eyes just out of reach… two inches thick and twelve across, sizzling on a platter… and ale… lovely, lovely ale… Arlock heaved a mighty sigh, and tailed off.

      Ben swivelled on his hips and looked up at his immense friend. That great red beard was shifting this way and that in the breezes, and the bushy red eyebrows seemed to have a life of their own. But for the bandana restraining a great crown of wild red hair, Arlock might look like a beacon fresh lit, and its flames flickering towards the south.

      Has something happened, Sambal? You haven’t upset Dursilla again, have you?

      The missy Shreev is busy with her bag o’ stones or summink.

      The missy Shreev? Not missy ‘Silla? It must be serious then.

      Don’t bloody ask me, Ben-mate. Buggered if I know what I done this time. There I was… I were watching that great pig o’ yorn turning on the spit, see? And then I spied missy Shreev over near the stable-shelter, aye? Got halfway over to bid her a plain and simple good arternoon and then there’s she, steam coming up from the ground around them dainty feet o’ hers, and her hair curling. Thought she were going to turn me into a turnip or summink… I dunno, Ben-mate. I just dunno what I done now to deserve such fierce looks. And here’s me, big as I am, running from a wee slip of a thing like her and coming down here for an excuse to avoid that fierce look o’ hers.

      The master hunter shrugged. "Well, you have been paying a lot of attention to her lately, Sambal. Maybe she just wants some time to herself or something. Not that I’m any kind of expert where women are concerned. Besides, she’s a Shreev, not the kind of girl…woman… lady that you were used to wintering with back in the rings."

      Arlock blinked, and then squeaked in protest: What’s that supposed to mean? You saying I ain’t good enough fer a witchy-woman Shreev or summink?

      Benmelo tried not to laugh. No, of course not. I’m just saying Shreevs aren’t beer-maids. Shreevs probably aren’t used to receiving any kind of attention at all, and certainly not the kind you’ve been paying since you met her. The most she’s probably used to seeing in a bloke’s eyes is blind terror.

      Aye well, Arlock huffed, That’s likely true I spose. What’s that loony horse o’ yours up to? She dead on her feet or something? Seed her ears twitch and her hair blowing in the breeze, bugger-all else moving though.

      She’s just fascinated by the ocean. Before we came here, she’d never seen the sea before, not down there on the plains around north Garns Ham. Me neither, come to that. To her, it probably looks and sounds a like a great, living thing, heaving this way and that, and to her ears, the waves crashing and water hissing probably sound like the monstrous beast breathing.

      Bloody loony.

      Ben smiled. Aye. She likes the sound the pebbles make beneath her hooves too. It likely reminds her of the sounds the strange paths of white quartz around the Carmbechs made when she trudged around those things.

      Like I said, bloody loony.

      Have you seen Paj today?

      Ooh, that reminds me, aye I have, he were keeping an eye on the spit. Reckon he’s had his fill o’ fishes too the way he were drooling. Anyway, he told me to tell you if I saw you first, that old bloke, the rover, wossisname?

      The master hunter snorted. Which one, Sambal? There’s more than one elderly Caravellan making a winterstay here in Norrestaven.

      You know! The one sir Paj and his missus Taylee been trying to persuade to talk about his rovings in the south, wossisname, the crusty old clam.

      Ecklan?

      Aye that’s him! Seems the dear old codger’s finally decided that we’re decent enough folk to speak to after all, and now he’s willing to talk about his roaming about down there.

      Benmelo felt strangely relieved. Good. We’ve been here two months now give or take a day and what’s in his head might be of great value. It’s annoyed me, having so many blank spaces on the map old Trinyan of Gallows Cross gave me.

      Aye well, don’t get your hopes too high, Ben-mate. Knowing these rovers a bit better now as I do, I reckon all you’re going to get is some rambling tale about a trek from one varkin watering-hole to another. By the Barre, they do like to tell their stories. I thought sir Paj was good with a yarn once he gets going, but these rovers can talk the ears off a bloody donkey when they’ve a mind.

      It’s how they teach their lore. They don’t have books or schools or libraries, remember.

      "And talk about boring! And then we turned east past the little hill and west past the big hill close to the river and then stopped for a nightstay ‘til sunrise afore moving on past the wiggly stream then pausing at the pignut patch, and only one in three pignuts do we take… On the edge o’ me chuntbuggrin seat when they start that bit of a tale!"

      Benmelo grinned. It was true; the Caravellan seemed to place a great deal of stock in such details when relating tales of their roamings, as if everyone listening would know and see in their minds’ eyes precisely the places described. And some of those listening probably did.

      Arlock sniffed. None of ‘em are as good as old Trinda was, though. You remember Trinda? Decent bloke, went with sir Paj to that ring o’ stones in the east afore Vargos Eyrie?

      Yes, I do.

      Good storyteller, was Trinda. Good with all them noises he used to make, and his arms flying all over the place while he told ‘em.

      True.

      Wonder where he ended up? Anyway, don’t suppose it matters much now, he ain’t here, and it’ll be Crusty the Clam we’ll be listening to after dinner I reckon.

      Ben glanced over his shoulder. The river was there, behind and away to his right, its mouth wide, waters spreading out and sliding quietly down shallow channels to the sea, and back beyond the flow, the valley and the woodlands. Is Rickerd back yet?

      Nah. Still out on patrol with his lads, keeping ‘em sharp and stretching the gee-gees’ legs, he said. Reckon he’s itching to get moving, spring can’t get here soon enough for him. Don’t think he likes being cooped up, not since he broke the chains that bound him to his home for so long. You’ll have a job holding him back once we get moving, Ben-mate, now he’s tasted freedom like he’s never had afore.

      I think he’s calmed down a lot since he realised I wasn’t joking about the seventh wilds and there being no towns or villages to call on for support here. Once he and his men finally understood that what we’ve seen is pretty much all there is, they weren’t so anxious to go charging off to the south.

      What about you, Benmelo? You’ve spent a fair old bit o’ time on yer lonesome of late. It’s been noticed. You all right? Someone upset you or summink?

      It was a good question, and the master hunter thought about it for so long that Arlock sniffed and added:

      Now you look like the bloody loony over there. Stood stock still and gazing out to sea, like you’re both looking for signs o’ fabled lands, or sails far off coming to take you there.

      Sorry, Benmelo sighed. Sometimes, in truth, I get lost in the world, back there in the woods.

      Hunting?

      "Aye. It reminds me so much of home. Rich woodlands, filled with life. Me, alone in the trees, doing what I always wanted to be doing. Sometimes… sometimes it feels like I’ve found my own domain after all, and I’m Benmelo, Master Hunter of Norrestaven, serving my own small village, and they me, and me being part of it all, just like I was back in Breeyanshar…

      "But then I smell the ocean on the breezes, the salt in the air, and I remember where I am, and who I am, and what I’ve become. Then, I understand Rickerd better, and I feel his urge to get on with it, to see it all ended, to ride south and find Magganath. And then to put the all the misery and loss and death behind me by butchering the Bandavinor bastard, and wreaking Hurna’s justice and vengeance upon him for all the evil he and his foul companions unleashed upon the world…

      Then, to ease my anger, I come down here with Ladyloon, and we watch the sea together, and while she listens to the music of the waves, I wonder if there’s another land out there, somewhere, where there’s no Magganath, no corrupt wizards, no magic to be warped and twisted to make slaves of people. Just nature’s realm, and good folk, and peace like I used to know at home.

      Arlock blinked, and sighed, filled with sudden sorrow. "Maybe this land will be like that, Benmelo. Maybe once we’ve nailed that Bandibastard, we can all settle down, and it’ll be just like you said."

      Aye, Ben agreed half-heartedly. Maybe it will.

      After a slight pause, it was Arlock who spoke again.

      Come on, let’s toddle back to the haven, don’t like leaving sir Paj on his own back there, not with what he’d call a piggin’ great pig roasting over a fire.

      Good idea, and Ben shook off the unexpected melancholy feeling, and clucked his tongue. Come on, Loony-girl, the sea will still be here tomorrow.

      Her reverie thus broken, the mare turned her head, blinked, and treated them both to a rather toothsome nicker, before plodding after them up the beach. Pebbles crunched, and the beach was indeed steep and high-stepped in places; walking on it saw all three of them grinning like children at the way the ground seemed to give way beneath their feet and the noise it made, pebbles growing larger the further up they moved. Arlock suddenly gave a loud chuckle, and started trying to run, staggering this way and that, pebbles flying to the accompaniment of his laughter.

      Idiot, Ben muttered, and looked around, and then he too tried running up the slope when Ladyloon scrunched past him, her tail swishing happily.

      At the top of the beach, still grinning, they turned and gazed back at the ocean. It was grey, and heaving, and the rainclouds had crept a little closer to these far north-eastern shores.

      Wonder what it looks like in summer, Arlock declared. Sir Paj says his missus told ‘im that people go swimming out there, in the summertime, when it’s hot and the sea’s calm and blue. Bloody daft, if you ask me.

      Daft? Why?

      "There’s all sorts of things out there I reckon."

      "Things?"

      Aye. Seen the size o’ some o’ they fishes we’ve et? Well, there’ll be things even bigger to feed on ‘em out there, I reckon. Bugger going out into their realm.

      True, Ben agreed. Big things usually do have bigger things to eat them. And it’s their domain, not ours.

      True indeed, Arlock nodded earnestly. Boats are one thing I suppose, but wandering out into that lot barefoot’s another kettle o’ fish… heh, kettle o’ fish… never mind.

      They turned once more, Ladyloon rather reluctantly it seemed, and made their way inland along the northern bank of the river which supplied Norrestaven with its fresh water, and occasional small fish and eels.

      Y’know, Ben-mate, I ain’t whacked diddly-squat with either Dumpy or Sledgy since we got here. Not counting chuntbuggrin tent-pegs, of course.

      What brought that on?

      Thinking on the fire and the pig. Rickerd’s lads do a good job with supplying the firewood, though it do get up their noses a bit when missy Taylee tells ‘em what trees they can and can’t take. I know, I know, they rovers like to manage the woodland hereabouts to keep it thriving for all others as come this way. But sometimes it means those poor Marauders have to haul chunderin’ great logs a fair old distance, and through the woods and across the river, too. Anyway… like as not they Marauders are thirsting to whack things with their swords and maces and axes, them as got ‘em, just as I’m longing to belt something too, preferably something red-hot and hard.

      Is it bothering you so much then, Sambal?

      "Aye, in truth it does bother me, a little. Makes me feel a bit varkin useless, you know? Same as Erlson’s blokes. They’re warrior-trained, and got nought to do but cut wood and keep tents up against the weather. Tend the horses, keep sharp, keep fit, always on the alert even though we all know there’s bugger-all nasty ‘round here. Me, I’m good for nothing but lifting and shifting heavy things, and, right, soon as I start to do summink like that, then six o’ bloody Erlson’s men appear like magic and the job’s done in a blink. You, you’ve got the woodlands, and hunting up good eating for us all, like the boar roasting up there. Sir Paj, he’s got his new missus, and learning all her ways. Me, I’m left wandering around like a fart in a colander."

      The master hunter chuckled quietly. When you’re not loitering six inches from Dursilla’s left shoulder.

      I do not bloody loiter! You make it sound like I’m a teeny-boy with peach-fuzz fresh-growed on his face sniffing ‘round the milkmaids hoping for a pity-kiss!

      Benmelo snorted. I’m saying nothing.

      Well I ain’t, and I don’t! Anyway, bollocks to the missy Shreev. She wants my conversation she can bloody come to me from now on.

      Aye, that’ll work.

      It’s true, it does, it drives ‘em mad to think you ain’t interested any more.

      You’re the expert, Sambal. But I should point out, it’s February, we’ve been here two months now, and Rickerd and his men have gotten used to Dursilla being around. I don’t think they’re as frightened of her as once they were back at Peakpuddle.

      There was a small and thoughtful pause at that, before Arlock announced rather firmly: Bollocks.

      Benmelo found himself grinning, and wondering at how quickly the sea and Arlock’s humour had washed away his earlier sorrows. No, he corrected himself, self-pity, more like. But it was true, whenever he took himself off into the woodlands atop the southern bank of the river, he really did feel as though he were back home, hunting boar for Martha’s Tavern. On more than one occasion he’d even caught himself trying to spot Tawn lurking nearby sneakily observing him, like his old master used to do back when Ben was apprenticed… until the salty breezes and the screeching of gulls wheeling overhead reminded him where he was.

      For Ben, though, it was good practice, just like Erlson’s frequent patrols; it kept senses sharp and alert, reflexes keen, and served to remind them all that come the spring, they would need to be hard, fit, and ready for the eight hundred mile journey that lay ahead of them. That journey was as inevitable as the coming of the season which would herald its beginning.

      D’you think he’ll come with us? Arlock suddenly asked, his voice rich with quiet apprehension.

      Paj?

      Aye.

      In truth, Sambal, I really don’t know.

      Won’t be the same without the fat two-pie-eating mental-mong and all his sacks and packs along with us.

      I know.

      Can’t help smiling though, whenever I sees him with his missy. They both light up like sunshine when they’re together. Always talking and laughing together.

      It’s his decision, Sambal. His decision alone, though I expect Taylee will have an opinion on the subject of his leaving. I’m not going to ask him to come with us. I asked more than enough of him at Peakpuddle. I won’t ask him to come with us.

      Nah. Me neither, Ben-mate. Brave bloke, is Two-Pies. I’ll never forget him walking into Piddlepuddle the way he did, with all them smoky Bandicats around his feet. Nah, I shan’t ask ‘im neither. Don’t reckon missy Taylee would leave these folk in the haven neither, not now she’s their rove leader.

      Then we’d best hope that old man Ecklan has a good memory and can tell us what lies ahead.

      And oh how I’m looking forward to hearing eighty years’ worth o’ tales about travelling afoot from one campsite to the next.

      Small price to pay for spit-roast boar.

      "Good point, well made. Seems sir Rickerd and his lads agree too, look, there they come yonder, heading back to the haven. They must’ve caught the smell o’ the roast on the air. And they’ll bloody get there afore us too! That pig best not be done yet, I told sir Paj I were looking forward to a good crispy cut off the top flank. Come on! I really really don’t want them Turreton boys getting stuck in afore I get me crispy cut!"

      oOo

      2. Rebah’s Rove

      Rain was beginning to spit when a small group of well-fed people made their way into one of the small log-built huts within Norrestaven’s palisade, and began to settle. Cot beds were upended and stood against the walls of the cabin to clear a space on the floor for everyone to sit, though a single bed was left in place at one end of the room, to be used as a seat by the speaker they’d all come to hear.

      Benmelo and Sambal were there, together with Rickerd Erlson and his sergeant, Chull. The Shreev seemed to make a point of sitting well away from Arlock, choosing instead a place behind Panjalgernon and his bride, Taylee. Kort and Talard, who served as scouts for Taylee’s rove, stood either side of the door, and when everyone who’d been invited had settled, quietly closed it against the weather outside.

      The two Glading Rangers, Dass and Sholak, were conspicuous by their absence; they’d chosen discreetly to remain in one of the large tents, sheltering from the rain along with the rest of Erlson’s men. Given the general unease with which the two warriors of Nerrenglade were still regarded by the Caravellan here in the haven, their discretion was appreciated. Those Caravellan were, for the most part, elderly, and even two months of quiet service helping out around Norrestaven hadn’t seen a lifelong suspicion of all things Glading allayed in the slightest.

      The old man, Ecklan, shuffled forward, clutching an ancient gourd filled with weak dandelion wine in one hand, and took his time settling carefully on the edge of the bed to the sound of rain pattering on the roof. He was frail of body, that much was obvious by the manner of his slow and cautious movements, but not of mind, or so Taylee had insisted when Benmelo and Rickerd first learned that the fellow had once roamed the lands in the far south.

      Not spoke much, he announced, his voice quiet, and a little nervous perhaps, though the slight quaver might simply be age. "Not done many tellings in a long span, not to young ears, never to strange ears come out the poison ring. Not got the voice I once had. Once, I could call the rove clear from the low path so’s even the high path scouts could hear. Not now though. Not many left to hear any tellings from me, not now. Young ears ain’t interested in the tellings o’ the old as got no legs left for the roamings. Don’t know what you low-folk want me to tell of."

      Low-folk is people who’ve come up from the low path, out from the Six Concentrics, Paj explained hastily. It’s not rude or anything, just what the older people call us.

      Panja speaks truly, Taylee asserted, nodding emphatically, lest there was still any doubt concerning the meaning of the word ‘low’ in Caravellan idiom.

      We’re to travel south come the spring, Ben declared politely. And once past the silbureen hills where Taylee and Orrin stood ring watch last year, we know nothing of the lands to be found there.

      Sowesten Roamings? That far then?

      Aye, Paj agreed, And Sorresten Roamings too, beyond the mountains, and the black sands. Have you seen the black sands, Ecklan?

      A-yay, I’ve seen ‘em. Cursed place that is. Cursed places all over, down Sorresten Mountains. Couldn’t wait to leave them Sorresten Roamings when I were young. Too many old places, too full o’ curses.

      Ecklan pulled the stopper from his gourd, and with a trembling arm, lifted it to his lips for the sake of a dry mouth.

      Was there a Carmbech there? Ben asked, feeling his pulse quicken. A ring of stones, where ring watchers might be posted?

      That there was. Never no ring watchers though, never needed ‘em. Was good lands, there in those sorresten roams. Lands rich with water, and trees, and good game, and good grass. Goats and deer. Good nuts, good berries. And bad stones. Old stones. Cursed stones. Towers I seen, and walls, all o’ stone and crumblin’, cursed old places. The paths we took on a sorresten roam were always twisted, turning, great snakes o’ paths to avoid them ruins of eldertime…

      Ecklan took another sip from the gourd, moving slowly, almost as though he feared a bone in his hand or arm might snap should he move too quickly. Benmelo tried to maintain his outward serenity, but inside, butterflies had been loosed in his stomach. Not even the weight of roast boar and wildgrass bread could keep them from breaking free. In his mind’s eye, he saw verdant lands, mountains towering over them, and the ruins of ancient walls and fortifications. But Ecklan was preparing to speak again…

      Idiots we had in the rove, and plenty of ‘em. Rebah’s rove it was, as I grew up in. Rebah was a farkin’ fool, I know it now, and knew it then even as young as I were. Always up for fighting was Rebah. It were the land, I reckons now, sorresten lands, cursed with old stones… brung out the worst in fools and fighters. Always fighting, in the gatheringstays and winterstays. Broke bones aplenty, a-yay, and some killings too. All the roves had their share o’ fools and fighting, down there in the sorresten roams…

      Again, Ecklan’s voice faded, but this time, it wasn’t a dry mouth stemming the words, but, from the frown of concentration on the cracked and wrinkled visage, the effort of gathering thoughts and memories from a youth long since vanished in the mists of decades.

      Ah the land was good though, he continued. Rich lands and trees, good game… and them bad stones. See, and he stared directly at Benmelo, When you live in the midst of curses and bad stones, don’t take long for ‘em to take hold. And it did too, took hold o’ the likes of Rebah, and Frandon, and Immanai, rove leaders o’ the sorresten Van when I were a boy. All that good rich land… all that good rich land… and still they become hard men, always up for fighting, settling any and all naysays and make-troubles with fist and stick and stone. And in time, it got so they expected the young o’ their roves to be likewise.

      Another pause, another sip from the gourd. But the audience was silent and still, waiting, their attention firmly held in Ecklan’s withered grip.

      Never seen such gentle lands as the sorresten roam. Rivers, springs, water clear and cool from the mountains, and from a great lake too. Rich green, deep green. Gentle green land. Weren’t no need for hard men nor rough words. Weren’t no need at all. Then, one golden shining day, came a gatheringstay, place we called Fishbay. Ahh, soft sand, gold and wide, clear water mostly, not like the rage-waves up here. Soft water, as laps the shore in summer like a lover’s kiss... And then, by some chance-happen or some fate-making, well… it puts Rebah’s rove, Frandon’s rove, and Immanai’s rove all there together, all three at the same time.

      Ecklan shook his head sadly, and took another sip of weak wine for his voice. When he seemed to have drifted off into the past, it was Paj who prompted:

      What happened, Ecklan? What happened at the Fishbay gatheringstay?

      "A-yay… I were getting to that. At first, it was shining golden... golden days! Fishing, us-all together, roves mixin’ and a-mingling, catching up on the news. Fishing takes time, this y’ know. Long line and hook needs good bait, and the catching o’ the bait-fish takes time too, need to be careful else all you get is snapping eels. Farkin’ things. Oh you can eat snapping eels but they’re all rock-dwelling bottom-feeders and snare yer line for an endless time until they tire and you can draw ‘em out their hole. Feels like you’ve snagged a rock at first, but soon you gets to knowing it’s a farkin’ eel on the hook… But that’s not what you want to hear. You want to hear tell about that golden Fishbay gatheringstay.

      "And it was golden, too! There was music with the whistle-pipes, and smiles, and eight hearthfires made on that beach. Eight! Day and night burning! And folk dancing around ‘em, and cooking fishes on sticks, and weaving the grass-mats for sun-drying fishes not cooked on the sticks, singing while they worked…

      "Then comes the third night, or might’ve been the fourth, and word comes out and around that Immanai lately afore Fishbay gatheringstay done made a trial for a young buck with a big mouth, one as wanted to be low-path scout without so much as a month on the high path. Cocky farkin’ no-mark gob-warrior, not a single battlewin braid, that boy. Still an’ all, the word spread o’ the trial Immanai made, and me, well it made my blood numb even then, young as I were…

      Now, Immanai was a big man, see, and more’n one braid in his crown. And he knows a gob-warrior when he sees one and usually a challenge to a wrestle or a game o’ stand-punch shuts ‘em up. But this time, Immanai speaks different. This time, as a test o’ the no-mark’s courage, Immanai says: And here Ecklan lifted a bony hand and pointed an arthritic and twisted finger with as much imperial command as he could muster, "Go you and lonestay three days and three nights in yonder elder-tower, then come you back and we’ll see how cocky y’are then!"

      There was a faint gasp from the Caravellan in the cabin, though the others didn’t quite grasp the full significance of Ecklan’s tale. The old man must’ve seen their confusion, for he sighed, and continued his tale with an explanation.

      That elder-tower stands on the sorresten cliffs, high up, looking down on the sea. Immanai’s rove were roaming close there, see, and that tower is from eldertime, and cursed. Crumble-stone, flat roof black from years o’ fire, still it stands I reckon, holes in the walls like dead eyes gazing out to sea…

      An old lighthouse, most likely, Panjalgernon said softly, From before the rings had kings. Seen them in books, flat topped so beacon fires could be lit to warn ships at sea…

      Taylee’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs, and with a muttered apology, Paj fell silent once more.

      Cursed stones, that elder-tower place. Cursed and filled with slumbering elder-folk and no-one born with a barleycorn o’ sense would set foot there. But the young cock-strut gob-warrior, now he were stuck twixt thorn and thistle, weren’t no way for ‘im to go without feeling a prick.

      Arlock snorted, and then at a withering look from Dursilla, mumbled an apology. Benmelo, though, felt a glimmer of understanding. This tale, he began to realise, was significant, and far more so than simply for its kernels of geographical information concerning the land in the far southeast.

      Don’t know the idiot’s name, Ecklan announced. "Don’t remember it now. Only that the fool was cursed, for he did take himself off on a lonestay to that elder-tower. Immanai sent two low-path scouts to watch and see that it was done as ordered. It was not. Oh, a-yay the no-mark went there, that much were seen and told, and went inside... but came out fast-runnin’ and would’ve fled but for sight o’ them two scouts, standing off and watching. Spent that first night sat on the grass outside the elder-tower, he did, weeping like a babe, then next day, shame-faced, went back to the rove, no more cock-strutting, no more gob-warrior. They said he later got to fighting with one o’ the rove’s high path scouts who mocked him, and ended up stabbed fer ‘is make-trouble and died three days later o’ the wound. Cursed, see?"

      Ecklan took another sip from the gourd. To Benmelo’s left, a frowning Rickerd Erlson was about to give voice to his slight confusion concerning the point of the story when the old man smacked his lips, and spoke again:

      "Rebah and Frandon heard the story o’ course, there at Fishbay. And they nodded like they was wise, and that it were a good thing Immanai done. Some folk even said so, good way to shut that gob-warrior’s trap, they said. But it weren’t. Farkin’ idiots. For why, you ask? For because Rebah and Frandon took it into their own heads to do likewise. Weren’t but a month later, after that golden gatheringstay at Fishbay, when Rebah condemns a slow-foot make-trouble to a night among the stones to be found at the westen end o’ the Midmountain Hills.

      "Terrible place that is. Field o’ stones, cold, always cold, no wind. Skin crawls there, backbones shiver. And farkin’ Rebah takes the rove close to it, on account of Immanai’s madness and not wanting to be outdone. And that fark-brained idiot slow-foot does go out into the stones as condemned, and we seen him climb up onto one o’ them big square blocks, and sit there! Made him a lonestay night watch on that stone, and come back after dawn. Walks right up to Rebah, folds his arms, and spits on the ground as if to challenge fer a braid.

      Rebah’s face goes red as any summer sunset… Ecklan broke off, coughing, and took a long draught from the gourd, and then a few deep breaths. "Red as sunset, for why? For he knew that the make-trouble slow-foot idle-tramp done something none of us-all would dare, including Rebah himself. Cursed you are! So says Rebah, and to prove it, punches the glue-boot idiot in the mouth. Broke two of his teeth. Serves ‘im right, so it were reckoned at the time…

      "But see, it weren’t long afore all the young bucks and cock-struts and gob-warriors were challenging each other to test the curse of each stone-wreck elder place they passed on a roam, and soon all the roves o’ the sorresten Van too were passing closer and closer to them, thanks to farkin’ Rebah and Frandon and Immanai’s stupidity and eagerness for fighting, and daring, and challenging.

      "Me Mam, she were well and good raised in all the old ways, and so me too, and the old ways say no good comes from troubling elder-folk in their dead-sleeping, and a curse is a curse and never, never comes any good from one o’ them. When I thought me old enough to lone-roam, and when the Rebah rove come up to the Estmountain Hills, not two years after that golden gatheringstay at Fishbay, I took myself away. Said farewell to ‘em all… said farewell to ‘em all…"

      For a long moment, great emotion could be seen waxing and waning across the old man’s face, as if the cracked and leathery skin were an ocean in miniature, and heaving. But with a sigh, he seemed to shake off the gathering storm, and sat a little taller.

      They were cursed, y’see, near all of ‘em, by then. Save for the older ones who held to the ways and feared the curse to be found in them elder stone-wreck places. Me Mam, she didn’t cry when I went. Said she was glad I were to leave the rove and go afore Rebah went farkin’ mad and ordered everyone into the stones for a curse. She was smiling when I left, for she knew I’d be safe, and knew I’d keep far from such places as only a farkin’ berry-brain low-folk know-nought might set foot.

      Ecklan heaved a sigh, and took another draught, though a small one.

      In those two year afore I left the Rebah rove, I saw such things as none might believe that roam up here with the norresten Vans… Fighting. Killing. Rebah busted one man’s leg with a rock, accusing the fool o’ being a slack-tramping deadweight. Weren’t true though. Rebah just did it for something to do.

      And this is truth? Kort gasped.

      A-yay, young ‘un, truth it do be. Seen it, with these two eyes. I ask you, what kind o’ mad fool accuses a man of slowing the rove, and then busts his leg-bone and slows the rove more as punishment? He’d have died, that poor broke-leg bugger, but for we had us two good bone-setters in the rove.

      There was a small silence then, and the Caravellan in the room weren’t the only people sitting agog and aghast at the senseless cruelty Ecklan had described. But then the old man continued.

      "Me, I left the rove like I said, and I rounded the hills, see, and made my lone-roam close to the mountains, following good land and headed for the Sowesten Roamings. Did well, too, good land, good water, good food to be found for one as knows rove lore and the old ways. Then bugger me if I didn’t meet a sowesten rove coming the other way…

      "Sudoc rove, it was. They thought they’d roam ‘emselves around the hills I just come from and go down to meet up with the sorresten Van, but they met me close by them black sands down there, and I told ‘em who I was, where I’d come from, and why I’d taken to a lone-roaming for to escape the curses befallen on my old rove-kin, and on Frandon rove, and on Immanai rove. Sudoc listened, and his council, and they sat there gob-wide and blink-eyed when I spoke of fighting and killing, and trespassing the stone-wreck elder places for dares and braids.

      "Gone mad, they says of Rebah and the other two farkin’ idiots. Gone mad and lost their path! And so it were said, so it was, I reckon. Now, look you young ‘uns… I were a young no-mark lad on a lone-roam, and so no reason had they to put store by my words. But they brung forward a Lore-crone, and she took hold o’ me chin in her bony claws and looked into my eyes, and then gave a nod, and declared my words a truth-saying.

      Sudoc turned the rove straight about, and I walked with ‘em clear back to sowesten lands, and after a year or two with ‘em, seen me a fair lass at a winterstay, and followed with her rove north into the Westen Roamings, past them other mountains. She didn’t take to me much though, and me, I wanted north, as far as I could go from that cursed sorresten Van, and Rebah, Frandon, and Immanai. Reckon they’re all dead now, all them I knew, but I reckon too they spread their madness into them roves afore they went.

      Ecklan leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, peering at them all in the gloom of reeking, fuming light from a single fish-oil lamp and its smoking wick.

      When you break with the old ways, he declared, "Just the once, mind, why soon it becomes just the twice, and just the thrice, and then the old way is lost and gone forever, and a new way takes its place. Down there, I saw Rebah break the old ways, and make new ones, with blood and broke bones and with death. That’s not the roving way. That’s the warlord way, and that’s the path Rebah, Frandon, and Immanai set their feet upon, and dragged all their rove-kin with ‘em.

      Afore I left the Westen Winterstays back then when I were young and strong and a long-strider, and not the shuffle-foot you see now, I heard tell that none o’ the sowesten Van would cross ‘round the mountains into those esten roams. And if you low-folk’s planning on going there, best you watch well. You watch well! Those roves lost their path when I were a boy. Don’t reckon they’ll have found it since. Not with the old ways broke, and new ways in their place.

      Ecklan sighed, and blinked, and yawned, and eyed the aged gourd and its weak wine, as if considering whether the effort of raising it to his lips would be worth the reward. Taylee saw the fatigue in the old man, and stood, everyone else following suit.

      Thank you for your telling, Ecklan, she announced, Rest well.

      A-yay, I shall, I think. There’s more to tell… maybe another day… maybe another day.

      While Kort and Talard replaced the cot beds and restored the normal order of things to the cabin, the rest scurried out through the rain to the second largest of the marquee tents that was home to Ben, Sambal, Rickerd Erlson, and Sergeant Chull. Dursilla, of course, shared one of the cabins with a small group of the ladies of the haven.

      When the door flap was closed, and with the sound of rain increasing and drumming on the canvas roof, cloaks and tunics were shaken out, and a Turreton glowstone lamp opened to bathe the interior with an eerie orange-yellow light.

      Well, my friends, Erlson declared, What are we to make of that?

      Ecklan spoke true, Taylee asserted, folding her arms. He is known in the vans for his truth-saying.

      I did not mean to suggest otherwise, lady Taylee, Erlson declared. I was merely wondering aloud what it all meant for us, and for our journey come the spring.

      He’s piggin’ old, Paj reminded them, And he’s got a lot more to tell us. You don’t know the ways of the old rovers, none of us really do, it was a piggin’ miracle he spoke to us at all, us being low-folk and all.

      To me, Chull opined, laying his cloak dry side down on his cot bed, It sounded like warnings all old folk give to the young. ‘Ware breaking the traditions, they’re there for good reason. Didn’t like the warlord talk though. You reckon we’ll need to go to those wojjacallits, Sorresten Roamings? Master Benmelo?

      "Much depends on what we find when we finally get to the black sands of Ethervale. Magganath could have turned to the east when he emerged from the blight, and gone into the south-eastern lands."

      Sorresten, Taylee muttered, as so often she did when one of the ‘low-folk’ used what she called a ‘ring-word’ instead of Caravellan nomenclature.

      Chull has it, though, Erlson frowned. "I liked not the talk of warlords and war-like behaviour, even if it was decades ago and the men he spoke of long dead. If old Ecklan’s right, those three rove leaders could have absorbed any other roves down there, and made a single large force of aggressive men under one chieftain… Shahtan."

      Not sure about that though, Paj offered. Roves don’t like to get too big, on account of having so many mouths to feed. Forty or so’s the best number for a rove, isn’t that right, Tay?

      Panja speaks truly. Too many people, and the land would suffer, and the paths would not sustain others.

      Aye, Ben will probably tell you that too, Ben?

      Benmelo nodded. To lead a nomadic lifestyle means to care for the paths you travel, else next time you go that way, you find nothing but the ruin you left behind. But it’s not the sorresten Van and Ecklan’s tale of their fall from grace that I thought important...

      What then, Ben-mate?

      Well I was just getting to that part, Sambal.

      Ah. Sorry. Only I’m with me mate Chull and sir Rickerd. We ain’t got many of us enough to be able to go up against a few hundreds of inhospitable rovers down that way, if they’re still there. Even with our own Shreev along to bung flaming stones and such, a big bunch o’ rovers, well…

      Dursilla said nothing, and was watching Benmelo closely.

      The master hunter simply announced: There’s a Carmbech there.

      Pigginell.

      More than that, there are the ruins Ecklan described. Ancient ruins. In the Six Concentrics, such ruins would be plundered for their stones, the blocks and rocks re-used for the building of modern dwellings. But not here in the seventh wilds, where such places are normally to be avoided.

      Good point, Ben-mate.

      Thank you, Sambal. I can’t help but remember what Tawn told me before I left Breeyanshar. He said if I’d crossed the black sands I’d find green grass and rolling plains, and then ruins, buildings of stone, great walls tumbled. Then a mountain path, flanked by two tall towers. That path I presume leads to the top of the peak, since Tawn said I’d be able to see the southern ocean from up there, and that I’d see how all the lands of the sixth might once have been, before they were blighted.

      What’s it mean, Ben? I mean, apart from the Carmbech you doubtless want piggin’ salted with iron. What’s all the talk about ruins mean?

      It means, Paj, that before the Caravellan began their roamings, there were great castles, perhaps even towns and cities out here beyond the sixth. At least, there were down there in the south-eastern lands beyond the southern mountains.

      Sorresten Mountains, Taylee huffed.

      Ben turned his gaze to the Shreev. Something destroyed those elder places, perhaps even before Bay’ah Shahtan. Do you know the history of those places, Dursilla?

      Shreev, not an historian.

      Ben’s eyes narrowed. Dursilla’s seemed to glint dangerously in the light from the glowstone.

      Is the Carmbech such a piggin’ threat, Ben? Really?

      It might be, Paj. There’s one still unbroken and unsalted in the fifth outer, northeast. The Nerrenstones, or so Tarla Sebateen called them.

      Farkin’ Magganath’s hardly likely to want to go back there is he, not with the light of Elleese waiting to burn him up there so close to Nerrenglade.

      True, Ben agreed amicably. But if Magganath makes Shades of the sorresten roves, he could send them into the fifth. Or anywhere else out here where there’s a Carmbech we don’t know about.

      Panjalgernon heaved a heavy sigh. Nothing’s ever farkin’ simple, is it?

      We’ll find out how difficult it is when we get there. In the here and now though, Paj, I’d like for you to speak to Ecklan as often as you can. Do you still have your map of the lands?

      ’Course I piggin’ do.

      Would you work with Ecklan as much as you can? See how much detail you can fill in on the map from all the Caravellan here in Norrestaven. There’s a lot of blank spaces shown outside the sixth... it’d be nice if we could fill at least some of them in.

      Aye Ben, fair do. But you know Ecklan’s old as the hills. His eyesight’s bad, except on the brightest of days. No glass and no glass-grinders out here to make him a piggin’ lens either.

      Make him a pinhole, Dursilla announced. It’ll work well enough as a lens for old eyes such as his.

      A what?

      A piece of parchment, paper, or a thin board. Punch some tiny holes through it with a pin, four or five, and have the old man hold it close to one eye and look through the holes. It’ll work. Make two such devices and he can use both eyes.

      Sceptical looks met this strange pronouncement from the Shreev.

      Would thin metal work just as well, missy Shreev?

      Aye it would, clodpole, though how do you propose to hole metal with a pin?

      Forge-man Firemaster, Arlock sniffed, Or d’you want to be learning the lore o’ Ferris as well as yer own? You draw me and sir Paj a picture, and leave the making of such things to us.

      Again, Dursilla’s eyes seemed to glint in the dull light of the tent, but she said nothing. Benmelo caught the slightest of winks from his friend Arlock, who seemed overjoyed to have had the last word with the Shreev. The master hunter might have smiled, but for the sound of the rain on the tent and the feeling that Ecklan’s tale of life in the sorresten rove contained within it portents of great, and sinister, significance.

      oOo

      3. Throwing Stones

      In the days that followed Ecklan’s disquieting tale of Rebah’s rove, Ben found himself alone more often than not. Arlock finally had a task of metalworking to occupy his time and full attention, and from time to time could be heard hammering metal a goodly distance outside the palisade, using a boulder for an anvil. Erlson and his men continued their incessant exercises and patrols, pausing only when firewood was needed; and even then they made the business of carrying heavy logs on their shoulders part and parcel of keeping fit and strong.

      Of the Shreev, Ben saw little, and of Paj, even less; the big fellow had lost weight too, so the ‘even less’ brought a wry smile to the master hunter’s lips when he thought about it. There was much to be said for a diet of fish and fresh vegetables, though Arlock’s assertion that the latter were ‘a bit manky’ at this time of year was true enough; the Caravellan were not homesteaders or farmers to plant crops and work fields.

      From time to time, out in the woodlands where he took himself to keep his own senses sharp, Benmelo would take out his leather map, and eye the vast gaps between mountain ranges depicted in the seventh wilds. It was on one such occasion, squatting and leaning back against the trunk of tree, he recalled a conversation with Tharrin Callardson…

      It had been shortly after Ben’s arrival in the camp beside the river, where Sergeant Bax of the Barre Hills Rangers had first gathered the survivors of catastrophe and where the master hunter and Panjalgernon first met Sambal Arlock, and were reunited with the three of Nerrenglade: Misheera, Vareen, and Tharrin. Misheera had been suffering in her tent, stricken by a mystic exhaustion following her battle with the wizard Krebane in the tower close to the rockfall shardlands and the road south to Orefield Head. Ben and Tharrin had been discussing the paths they might take to send word back into the rings that no new Bay’ah Shahtan with an army of half-dead, half-slaves had risen up in the wilds.

      Benmelo had suggested going all the way east to the coast and to Beacon Point, and then simply following that coastline south down to the lighthouse marked on his map before turning west and continuing around the coast all the way to Stormarbor. But Callardson had immediately scotched the plan.

      Now, staring at the map here in the woods of Norrestaven, the conversation came flooding back from the depths of the hunter’s memory.

      You cannot go that way, Ben. Those are sheer cliffs of chalk to the west of the lighthouse clear around almost to the line of the fifth. Only near Stormarbor does the land drop lower and sandy beaches provide safe landings for boats.

      Are you sure, Tharrin?

      Yes. The library at Nerrenglade is extensive. In the days of the old emperors, before the blighting of the sixth, ships would sail all around the coast of this great land, it is how such maps as yours were first made, after all. They would even hold sea races for the emperor’s pleasure and for a rich prize. It’s why the lighthouses were built there, and there at Beacon Point, to warn against attempting a landing even in calm seas and good weather. No, Ben. There is only one way now to Nerrenglade if we are to be there before the snows seal the pass, and that way is the Orefield Road.

      So then. The ruins in the far southeast were old indeed, and the ancient lighthouse Ecklan had described as still standing down there also stood as a testament to Caravellan superstition concerning such ‘stone-wreck elder places’. From what the old man had said, those ruins were extensive. And being older than the blighting of the Sixth Concentric, may well have been destroyed before Bay’ah Shahtan had risen to power and prominence, or perhaps later in history, by the foul wizard-demon himself.

      But while the master hunter was folding his map and tucking it back into a pocket of his tunic, a sudden thought struck him. The ruins and the lighthouse predated the blight, and thus had been extant back when emperors ruled the rings. Those ancient buildings weren’t the only thing to predate the destruction of the sixth; Hurna did, too. And so too did Shreevs. Shreev, not an historian had sounded plausible enough in the tent after Ecklan’s telling and with rain roaring on the canvas roof. It suddenly sounded far less plausible now…

      It took some time to find Dursilla Sarbinenn; Dass had noted the Shreev leaving the haven and Sholak, from his post up on the walkway on the palisade, had spied her wandering away towards a rocky promontory to the north of the shingle beach. That was where Benmelo found her, at the very end of the outcrop, she seated on a boulder, wrapped in her cloak against the breezes, gazing far out to sea, a small rock held tightly in one hand.

      Are you seeking for sisters out there on the waves, Dursilla? Ben asked quietly, standing a few feet behind her.

      I am about my business, Hurna’s man, as you should be about yours.

      And with that, the Shreev wreathed the stone in fire, and cast it out towards the sea, watching the fiery arc it traced until it was quenched in the waters heaving against the headland far below.

      I want to talk to you about the ruins Ecklan described, down in the lands beyond the southern mountains.

      Told you, Shreev, not an historian. Or did you forget?

      I forget very little. From a boy I’ve been well-practiced in observing and remembering, the better to learn all of Hurna’s lore, and nature’s ways. It’s why I remember the glint in your eye in the tent that night, after the roast boar and after Ecklan’s tale. You know something of those lands, and those ruins. I want to know what you know.

      What I know is next to nothing, and nothing which might concern you, Hurna’s man.

      I don’t believe you, Ben announced, watching while Dursilla drew another stone from her satchel, and sent it to a fiery, hissing death in the wake of the first.

      Bold, aren’t you. Like your friend the giant clodpole. Bold, and forward, and far too sure of yourself.

      "Must I give my reasons? Very well, I shall. Your coterie sent others to these wilds long ago, and they took themselves high up, in the mountains to be found here, in the west, and in the south. You told me so yourself. High places from which to listen, and to watch. The north was left to the care of Gladings, and a fat lot of varkin good that decision turned out to be, but that was before my time. Your own words, spoken in the dark at Orefield Head. And then you told me that those sisters in spirit were later destroyed. Blinded. Deafened. Silenced. Years ago. A long time ago. Your words, again."

      So I said. My words. So what of them?

      So they were sent, your sister-Shreevs, to keep watch on these wilds. To watch for the coming of another Bay’ah Shahtan. Else why were they sent here, to a lonely vigil atop lonely mountains, holding their stones, feeling for the trembling of a web which might speak of the rising of a wizard-demon.

      Dursilla said nothing, locks of her long brown hair stirring in the onshore breezes while she drew another pebble from her satchel and sent it on its way. It was clear that she was practicing; practicing the wreathing of stones with fire and hurling them, over and over again, that she might do so without thought or hesitation should a need for them ever arise…

      No-one sets a watchman, Ben continued, Save one who has a need for watchfulness. Killing the Shreevs in these lands was all part of the Bandavinor plan, to keep Nerrenglade from learning the truth once they began to spread lies about the coming of another Bay’ah Shahtan and his armies. Oh yes, you told me that the Shreevs here were killed a long time ago, but after all, the Bandavinor’s plans were laid a long time ago, too. It took a long time for them to find the Bay’ah Valley beyond The Hag’s Back mountain.

      Clever.

      So Tarla called me. Among other things. D’you propose to enlighten me, Dursilla Sarbinenn, or must I think out loud and judge by your posture and breathing and the strength of your lights and fires when I’ve hit the mark?

      Oh but you’re doing so well, Hurna’s man, and your interrupting of my concentration is good for my practice, and I have many more stones in my satchel yet.

      "Very well. There was a city there, once, in the far south-eastern lands which the Caravellan now call their Sorresten Roamings. A city built back in far ancient days, when emperors ruled the rings from their great palace in the Forbidden Centre. Down there where Ecklan was raised once stood a great walled castle perhaps, with a town girdled snug within that wall, and without the wall, other stone-built villages. Enough of them that the sorresten roves have to weave their paths like great snakes to avoid the cursed stones of their ruins today…

      Perhaps ships would put ashore there at that golden beach, Fishbay; perhaps fishing boats put out to sea from there and the name of the place stuck in the memory of people who one day became the nomadic rovers we know today. Certainly the lighthouse Ecklan described as still standing on the cliffs back in the days of his youth might well have warned mariners to steer clear of some hidden reef, or served to mark a turning point for boats racing around the lands for the emperor’s pleasure…

      Another stone emerged from the Shreev’s satchel, and, clad in streamers of white fire, soared out and down. The four stones Benmelo had witnessed all seemed to have landed within inches of each other, though with the rise and fall of the swells it was difficult to judge with any precision.

      But something happened, he continued. Catastrophe came to the city, and when it had ended, nought but ruins remained, save for the lighthouse, well and strongly built upon the cliffs, squat and round and made to weather endless squalls and storms. Was it Bay’ah Shahtan who wrought such ruin and scattered the people who once dwelled there?

      Another stone, another flaming missile hurled out into the sea. A sudden thought struck Benmelo, and his eyes narrowed, watching while Dursilla seemed idly to pluck another pebble from her bag.

      Or was he born there, that wizard-demon? Is that it?

      Sparks fizzled upon the stone, and then caught light.

      "That’s it,

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1