Nactivel awoke with a groan, wincing at the stiffness in her spine. Yet another day in the saddle had left her craving the comfort of her quarters in Hediminath. Another day of bleak, barren hills rolling by to either side, punctuated only by the constant churning and bubbling of the River Caran and the occasional chatter of unseen wildlife.
The road had been too quiet. The reports from the Chroniclers’ network spoke of mines closing, of villages abandoned as the nobility played with the livelihoods of the hill folk. Entire communities were devastated. Hunger set in, followed by desperation, and the alleys of the Rattle soon had a new batch of occupants. So what if people were forced to abandon their homes and attempt to make ends meet in the grotty back ways of the city? Every city needed an underclass; such was the thinking among human nobility almost the world over.
This didn’t fully explain the lack of traffic on the road. She’d seen just a handful of individual travellers moving between villages to visit relatives, at least that was the answer they’d given when she’d got close enough to ask. Most had run in the opposite direction, making warding gestures and labelling her as a demon. She expected such behaviour among rural populations who weren’t familiar with the apparently unnerving eyes of the Exol.
She stood and arched her back, stretching, feeling a series of clicks as her muscles and joints protested at their sudden mobility. One more day in the saddle and she would be at journey’s end. Even a hard, lumpy bed would be welcome. It would be under a roof for a start. The two inns she normally used towards the end of the journey to Caran had been abandoned. Signs of squatters at some time in the past were present at both, but even they’d moved on. Two or three consecutive nights in the wilds of the Caranin countryside had left a relentless chill seeping into her bones. Yes, a warm fire and a cup of spiced wine would be most welcome.
Grainy-eyed, she trudged down to the river bank, gasping with the shock of icy water splashing across her face. She dried herself on the sleeves of her undershirt, quickly wrapping herself in extra layers against the chill. Charcoal clouds continued their inexorable bloom in the east, promising rain by mid-morning. A dour day to match a dour landscape. A dour people as well, truth be told, yet they were not without qualities. A hardy, resilient people, the Caranin; they had weathered several storms in their coastal fastness.
She mounted her horse with reluctance and clicked the beast into motion with a flick of the reins, wincing as the familiar roll of her hips began. She scanned the road ahead and found no sign of the army allegedly occupying these hills. Nactivel had never considered herself an astute military tactician, but she imagined camping an army within sight of a main road to be unwise. Maybe the army had moved on. She’d seen no flattened grass, no signs of camps. None of the people she’d spoken to had seen this army. Her information was already a week old, and people lied.
Mid-morning arrived, and the trail cut a swathe through a hill-top, steep-sided banks higher than a man on horseback on both sides. Runnels of water trickled over bedrock to form dancing channels to either side of the road.
Six paces from the end of the narrow trail, two silhouetted figures emerged. Bandits, which was odd, given she’d encountered none. She considered pushing her horse into a charge, but something stopped her.
Not bandits, but soldiers. She reined in two paces away. Grim looking men both, with the look of those who had spent too long away from civilisation. Grime caked their hands and faces, ingrained so deep that no amount of washing would displace it. Their uniforms were well worn, but cared for. As were their weapons. Some measure of discipline remained in whatever group they belonged to then. They didn’t speak, hovering weapons in her direction. A languid show of force which spoke of control.
‘You wear no sigil. To what army do you belong, friends?’ she said.
The shorter of the two, a bow-legged man who might have been twenty or forty, grunted in reply. ‘We ain’t your friends, and you ain’t ours neither.’
‘You’re not startled by my appearance.’
‘Yeah, we been around a bit.’
That earned the bow-legged an elbow. ‘You ain’t supposed to tell her anything, Waddle!’
The one named Waddle returned a perplexed look at his companion, cuffing him around the ear. ‘You mean like our names, you moron?’
‘Who you calling moron? You’re the one telling her how we’ve been all over the place. Only we ain’t. We never been further than these here hills.’
‘Excuse me, fine sirs,’ Nactivel interjected. Two wind-bitten faces turned in unison to peer at her. ‘Forgive my interruption, but I believe you intercepted me for a reason. Not to rob me, clearly, for I am sure you would have already done so.’
Waddle glared in reply. ‘Yeah, Captain wants to speak to you.’
The other soldier interrupted. ‘He ain’t Captain no more, dummy. He’s Commander now.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Yeah? Well, that time Scratcher forgot, he was mucking out the horses for a week. You know I hate horses, so watch your damned mouth.’
‘You carry on like that and maybe I’ll do it on purpose just to make you do horse duty. Have a think about that when you’re calling people dummy. Hurts a man’s feelings, that sort of talk.’
‘You ain’t got no feelings, Waddle.’
‘I have, and you just hurt them.’
Nactivel watched the back and forth, head swivelling as they volleyed insults back and forth. She slid down from her horse, earning her a rap on the hip from the flat of Waddle’s blade. ‘Where you think you’re going?’
Rubbing her hip, she reached up to take the reins. ‘Only to walk my horse. A gesture of good faith, if you will.’
Waddle frowned. ‘I don’t know much about faith. You talk funny, stranger.’
Nactivel suppressed a sigh. ‘You mentioned a commander?’
‘Yeah. Follow me.’
‘An excellent suggestion.’
The camp was almost a bell’s walk from where she’d been intercepted on the road. It lay two valleys to the north, nestled against a tributary to the River Caran. The eastern end of the valley was steep-sided, with access possible only by a precipitous switch-back trail. Nactivel, never fond of heights, was grateful the two soldiers elected to walk the extra distance and enter the valley from the shallow end.
Her escort appeared unconcerned she would try to run, content to let her trail a few paces behind them as they jabbered away to each other, trading petty insults for most of the journey. Waddle’s companion, she had learned, was named Sharps, and Nactivel was unsure whether this was due to prowess with a weapon, or an ironic take on the man’s apparent lack of intelligence.
They had met her attempts at conversation with twin blank stares. One more blank than the other, if such a thing was possible. After that, she contented herself with watching the rumbling gait of Waddle. There was something mesmeric about that undulating, bow-legged stride.
As they neared the picket lines on the camp’s outer edge, she took in details, as was her duty. Canvas tents followed the lines of the valley in neat rows. The ground underfoot was soft but not yet sodden, suggesting this army had only recently arrived. And an army it was in truth. Her very reason for travelling to this corner of the world; rumours of a force amassing outside Caran. As she had come closer to the city, she had doubted the veracity of those rumours, yet here it was, splayed before her with precise discipline. Her curiosity was piqued now, and she felt the familiar flutter of anticipation as she worked out the questions she would ask to ascertain the story of who these soldiers were, where they came from, why they were here and what they intended.
She felt at her chest, involuntarily, reassured that her most prized possession, her Chronicler’s quill, was accounted for. The shaping of her quill had been a labour of love. Urgency to travel to Caran had necessitated a sleepless night under the watchful gaze of Grand Chronicler Keryd. The quill was invested with the sorcery of Exol, as well as a fragment of Nactivel’s soul. She had left Hediminath with the warnings of the Keryd in her ears. The quill would never break, never dull, and it would not allow her to write untruths.
She left her horse at the makeshift stables before being led up the main avenue of the camp. She heard the distant clang of smiths mending armour and weapons, the faint whiff of something being stewed, soldiers and camp followers alike scurrying every which way. It had been some time since Nactivel had immersed herself in army life such as this, but the camp bore all the signs of a fully functional operation.
The command tent was visible over the tops of the other tents. There was nothing remarkable about it; no vivid colour or ornamentation, it was the same plain, muddied canvas as the rest, only larger. As they rounded the gentle bend, the tent came into full view, flaps pulled back, allowing a breeze to flow through. Runners came and went, carrying orders from scouts and lookouts, no doubt.
Waddle turned to her. ‘Wait here. Commander will have my balls if I let you near the map table.’ Nactivel did as she was bid, frowning in consternation. There was no written accord – such a thing would be impossible to implement given how power changed hands so often among humans – but it was widely accepted that the Exol Erey were neutral to a fault. In turn, they were afforded the freedom to go where they pleased, to record the details of the present that would one day become written history. In short, no-one made the Exol Erey wait at the door.
Her apprenticeship had been meticulous, as befitted her race and the pursuit they had taken upon themselves. Humans were short-lived and therefore guided by emotion and immediacy. Secrecy was clearly important to this commander. The insult jarred, but Keryd had schooled her in the art of patience, that anger which was quick to build was almost always misplaced. She went through her mental exercises, feeling that anger dissipate, and stoic calm returned.
The commander strode from the tent. A thick-limbed man with a bushy beard showing sprouts of grey. He held out his hand with an appraising look and a tight smile. ‘An Exol Erey in our midst. Our infamy grows, it would seem.’
Nactivel shook the commander’s hand; a formal gesture of peace in these parts. ‘Commander... Forgive me, but I do not know your face, nor your name, alas. As for infamy, I’m sure you know we do not record matters using such emotive language, as per our covenant of neutrality.’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever read one of your tomes, Erey. Sounds like a dry read though. I’m Galgun, in charge of this sorry rabble. If you’d care to join me in my tent.’
Nactivel followed, finding it odd that a stranger was allowed to walk with the commander alone. A glance over her shoulder showed Waddle and Sharps were in close attendance, yet far enough back to give them some privacy. Still, this commander was confident he could take care of himself if anything went awry. ‘I’m Nactivel. Chronicler Nactivel, that is.’
A wry smile from the commander. ‘New to the role then. Well, I can relate to that, though I expect you’re settling into it more comfortably than I am.’
Commander Galgun’s stolid demeanour and self-deprecation made him an easy man to like. Nactivel silently reminded herself of the responsibilities which came with being raised to the position of Chronicler; detachment was among the most important of those. It wasn’t the way she liked to operate, but there were certain expectations and she was determined to meet them. ‘Yes, Commander. Less than two weeks past, though I was of course apprenticed to the role for some time.’
They reached the tent, Galgun holding the flap open for Nactivel to enter. The interior was spacious enough, the furnishings basic and functional. A segregated space for sleeping quarters; the main room contained three chairs of varying sturdiness, by their look, and a folding table. Chests, no doubt containing armour and clothing were neatly placed around the edges of the tent. ‘Please, sit. I’ll call for ale. If you’re new to the role, it sounds like congratulations are in order.’
‘Oh, we don’t celebrate such things in Hediminath. An initiation ceremony, yes, but celebrations are frowned upon.’
The commander favoured her with a warm smile. ‘I’m calling for ale anyway to slake my thirst. You don’t have to call it a celebration, but I’ll be offended if you don’t join me for a drink.’
Nactivel eyed the chair, unconvinced it would support her weight. ‘As you wish,’ she replied, easing herself down in wary increments.
Ale in hand, which was, she had to admit, more refreshing than she’d expected, Nactivel opened her mouth to ask her questions. Commander Galgun held up a hand. ‘Please. I understand the nature of your role, and you must have an endless list of questions. Of course, I don’t have the time, and I’m afraid, the inclination, to answer them all.
‘So, here’s how it is. You’re free to travel with us, as a camp follower. Ask your questions of my soldiers, but do not pry too hard; we’ve trained them to hold the truth close to their chests. The blame there lies with me, not with them.
‘Our operation is covert. As covert as it can be in any case. I know the Exol Erey are usually granted the freedom to wander as they will, but I cannot grant you this freedom at this time. Council meetings and the strategy tent will be off-limits to you. I’d also ask you to refrain from observing the training drills. Is all of this acceptable?’
‘Commander, you leave me with little choice. You understand, however, I will have to log this restricted access. Report it to my superiors, who may not be pleased.’
The commander spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. ‘I will just have to accept their wrath. Besides, if we lose, it won’t matter.’
Sympathy welled up inside Nactivel. A hard man, this Galgun. Good-natured, but hard. He made his decisions of necessity – at least his version of it – rather than any sense of self-importance. Nactivel didn’t voice it out loud, but she wished this commander the very best. History was sprinkled with men such as Galgun. Alas, they rarely ruled for long. Men and women of a crueller disposition could withstand the pressures of difficult choices and live with the consequences, to ignore the rage and hatred directed at them. A man such as Galgun would push himself to the precipice, maybe even right over the edge, in an unwinnable quest to fix everything. Broad shoulders were never broad enough to withstand the cumulative ills of a cruel world. What was more, Galgun probably knew all that, but resolved it was worth trying anyway.
‘Commander, it occurs to me that my perspective as an outsider may be of some use.’
Grey eyes fixed on Nactivel as the commander ceased chewing on his beard, apparently lost in thought for the moment. ‘Yes, I suppose it would. What would you offer?’
Nactivel smiled at the hidden question.
What do you want in return?
‘Only my assessment of your attempts at subterfuge, and I offer it freely.’ She noted the sceptical look, but continued on. ‘I tried to find your army for days. True, my information was two weeks old, but I knew your army was within three days’ march of the city at that point in time.’
‘That you knew of our location two weeks ago is a failing in itself.’
Nactivel smiled. ‘I assure you, Commander, our network of eyes and ears--’
‘Spies.’
‘Let’s compromise on... informants. Our network of informants is unsurpassed. It doesn’t mean your operation is compromised. It’s quite common for folk to have multiple loyalties. Better your information is leaked to the Exol Erey than whomever you’re fighting. We can keep a secret, after all.’
‘You write it all down in your books.’
‘Books that only Erey eyes will ever read.’
That brought a grunt from the commander. He was cynical of the truth of that claim. Most were, but humans in particular carried seeds of doubt and suspicion. ‘As I was saying, your army is hard to find. Indeed, it found me. This was in no small part down to your successful... subjugation of the hill and village folk.’
‘I sense disapproval in your tone.’
‘Subjugation is never pleasant.’
‘No-one was harmed. Fear only lasts as long as there is a perceived threat. With any luck we won’t be around long enough to reinforce it. Besides, we paid generously for the supplies we bought from them.’
‘Ah, coin ever offsets necessity.’
‘I thought you lot were supposed to be neutral. If I wanted lessons in morality, I’d have gone to see the damned priest.’
Nactivel grimaced. She’d gotten carried away, which was unbecoming of her station. ‘I apologise, Commander. You are quite right to reprimand me. I overstepped the bounds of my duty.’
A weary sigh escaped the Commander. ‘I didn’t say I disagreed with your barb. I just didn’t want reminding of it. Now, I’d better get back to my troops, lest Waddle and Sharps decide they fancy giving out orders.’
‘A most worrisome prospect, I agree.’
‘You might want to seek out the damned priest I spoke of. I think you and he might get along just fine.’