SHAL

Vignar’s Cradle was a range of mountains that hugged northwest Mae’sin and the western settlements. The peaks reach into a wide crescent and cradled the lumbering villages in a grasp of stone. Buffeting storms dominated the Cradle. When a burst of rain and gust was not freeing the cliffs of another boulder, there were at least two or three travelers turning back to escape the miserable conditions and returning home.

This was not the case for every refugee.

High in the paths through Vignar’s Cradle, taking refuge in the craggy plateau between two peaks, a party of travelers had stopped to find a moments rest. The twin peaks towered thunderously beyond the height of the travelers on either side and dwarfed them in a deep shade which only served to make the frigid chill colder.

“Surkin,” the leader of the party called hoarsely. “Find Linrak Pasmere and bring him to me.”

Soft scratches came from his inked pen as he jotted quickly on a small letter. He struggled to write legibly, though he was standing and the paper was supported only by the palm of his hand.

He quickly put his name to the message and folded it securely.

Surkin was nearby, in the midst of his search for Linrak. He peered through the snow and bluster to get a better look at the faces of the men. Most had rough hide hoods drawn up to cut the wind, but many seemed to have forgotten the cold.

How few were thirty-three men, really? How few of his men had made it through the push and on to the mountainside. The Mun’curo had killed nearly all of them. The thirty-three that had outlived their brothers seemed to be wandering aimlessly about the mountaintop, or gathering around a small fire. They were made silent by the storm.

“I’ve brought the young one,” Surkin said. His massive form reappeared and blocked the stinging wind. A young boy of fifteen winters was nervously standing with a shoulder under Surkin’s palm.

“The storm,” Shal started. The boy looked at him blankly. Shal began again louder. “The storm is too wild to loose a hawk from Melik’s cages, but if we wait much longer the Mun’curo will know to be looking for a messenger bird.”

He looked at the boy again, but the blank look remained. Shal shook his head and held out the folded parchment.

“I need you to take this back down the mountain. Marlan Parak is the man you are looking for. He must receive this. It contains our numbers and the necessary roster, along with a cyphered notation of our path.”

Shal leaned in close and eyed the boy. “I entrust this to you because you know how important this is, Lin.”

The young man looked back imploringly. “Thrum trav thra’dur? Shal thra’badir esa trav.”

“You cannot speak the bastard tongue, no matter how well you can understand it. And the men back home must know we broke through. Take my message.”

Lin looked ready to continue his pleading, but coughed violently instead. They were only atop the first peak. Shal remained silent and let Lin look on at the foothills and mounts that remained ahead of the party. “I will take letter,” he said in slow determined words.

Shal nodded at him briskly and then watched as Lin prepared for a journey back into the southland.

The wind howled around them. Chill cut into Shal’s furs.

A quick look was enough to see the dimming fire and the men sitting around it. The crackling light and heat seemed a foreign concept to him, as he had not felt the baking sun of the Bursin homeland since he had mounted the cliffs and pathways of Vignar’s Cradle. Up here, a blustering wind was always waiting around the corner. The buffeting gravel had already claimed a life.

Shal turned to watch Linrak descend down into the snow and distant slopes. The boy became a speck quickly, only a fading memory if he had not held Shal’s letter.

“Surkin.” The old Jawman was the only man to have a rank of one below Shal’s own. This far out from the forts of Bursin, he was the only man the Shal could talk to in confidence. Surkin turned. His broad chin and widely set cheekbones were adorned in long sideburns and the same amused expression as always. His white hair was coarse and tied back in a thick knot.

“A word,” Shal said.

“Likely many, if I can tell by your expression. Something weighs on your mind?”

“Good on you for speaking the bastard tongue already,” Shal said. He waited a few moments in silence and looked off into the storm. “I was climbing hard during the first legs of the ascent and the last swings of the battle are a blur to me. Do you think there would be any use in putting out a reconnaissance behind us? Do you think anyone else made it up onto the mountain?”

Surkin shook his head. “None of the Mun’curo could make it to the foothills. Parak managed his plan well enough. I saw his men encircle and box in the bulk of the enemy.”

“No, I know the Mun’curo did not follow. I meant, do you think any of our other haunchmen made it?”

Surkin raised an eyebrow. “Our own men making it up the mountain? It could be, young prince, but I – I think not. Those who made it to the foothills are here with us now.” He paused and looked quickly over Shal’s shoulder.

The mountain’s wind had become so much a part of the party that Shal had begun to think of it as silence. He turned back toward where Linrak had departed. When the wind blew heavily, he could still hear traces of the battle. Perhaps he was sending the boy to his death.

“You think he will be caught or killed?” Shal asked.

“I – it is not my place. Linrak is a young boy, that’s all.”

Shal nodded and dismissed Surkin, so that the lumbering man could return to the cold flicker of the fire. After a few minutes, Shal pulled his own hood down to reveal the thick block of black beard and sallow skin drawn taught over a pair of high cheekbones. His hair, grimy from lack of wash, was knotted and braided behind his head.

“Listen,” Shal said. He made his way to the pack of warriors who were slowly cooking themselves in their blankets. It was an inadequate preparation for the winds they would soon be returning to. “Who among you speaks Rocelic? Who speaks the bastardized brother of Rocelic, Governance-tongue?”

“These humble few words,” said Surkin as he turned. Three others in the crowd motioned with their hands, but that was all.

“Those with any capacity at all should begin to speak it now; we are leaving the homeland behind. We will soon come upon unwanted Squaller ears.”

“Fust’dur thraig. Thra sest’dur three esa lan,” a sneering woman spat. Shal shot her a look.

“You must care whether a western Squaller hears us speak, or you will be made to.”

“Thran trav yar-”

Shal gave her a sharp look and waited for her to continue in Governance.

“We go north to stop fighting that our old traditions started,” she fumbled. “Why should I care for old tradition?”

“The Mun’curo would have the world believe that they are the only southern people who respect the old traditions - but they are wrong. They are warmongers. I pray to the Ruthmere wolves as much as any man. I keep the Badar Langur secret. No western man will be learning the holy language because a slip of my tongue. This war on the Mun’curo priests is not about reforming religion. I know many of you follow the Fust’Woos’Kell religion to the letter. But the West is far too powerful. If they ask for concessions from us, if they ask for the priests to lock up their wolves and for us to outwardly acknowledge another god, we must abide for now. Dispute and we will be wiped out to a man. If we fight the West, then all of our beliefs die along with us. You see the logic. Nothing has changed,” Shal said.

“Well, being paid to kill Mun’curo priests is new to me,” said Gel Farlae. Shal turned on him.

“I know men in the Mun’curo. I have relatives among them. I’m sure all of us do. You will not make light of this tragedy while you travel with us, sellsword.”

Silence followed Shal’s outburst, save for the howling wind and sleet.

“Now gather your things,” Shal finished with a hard look. The woman nodded slowly and made her way off to the ring of blankets around the unattended fire. After some murmurs and gossip, the others followed.

“It’s hard to know the mind of these people,” Shal said to Surkin. The old veteran nodded.

“They did not all see the westerner’s march in force on Ves’badaren. The word ‘ten-thousand’ means little to the young. Until they see the vast armies of the West themselves, they will never truly understand just how easily the westerners could wipe us from Mae’sin.”

Surkin stared out into the snow for a moment before continuing.

“The priests should not have an army. The Lansh’esa Fust is a religious leader, not a commander. But these young people are too young to know that. When the Lansh’esa declared war on the West, your men expected we would come to his aid. All they know now is that they are being asked to kill their own brothers and sisters.”

Shal raised an eyebrow. Surkin did not often voice his views on the faith. “I would have feared that you may have been among the dissenters.”

Surkin looked down at him. “I swore my life to the Jawrie – and I would never dishonor myself by breaking that promise. But in truth I do believe we are fighting alongside the right people, young prince. We cannot survive in a direct war with the West. Not even if every faction in the south put aside their differences. Do I agree with the submission being asked of our faith? No. But seeing our faith and our religious orders perish alongside us in a war against the West is far worse. So if the Mun’curo priests want to squabble over the concessions that the West has demanded of us, and they are willing to draw blades on the Western armies, we have to stop them. To keep the faith alive.”

“Scouting the northlands for Mun’curo reinforcements is the only way to weaken their campaign against the West and force them into a peace treaty. With ourselves and the West.”

Surkin nodded. “The Mun’curo up there are bitter. The priest in charge is some fellow named Halren. He never stopped training his men with the sword, even when the southern priesthood disbanded their military.”

“Halren Gelmor. We’re to deliver him overseas.”

Surkin coughed a laugh. “It might be easier to deliver the Lansh’esa himself.”

“We are just an expeditionary force. Reinforcements will be coming to take Gelmor and his followers once we detail the Mun’curo positions in the north. The Westerners, one of the ambassadors from Westgleam, agreed to an accord on the premise that we can cripple the northern Mun’curo.”

“I’d had my guesses,” Surkin said with a deferent nod. “Perhaps the men should know these things as well.”

Shal shook his head. “This is not me chatting with you, Angmar. You were not allowed into the high counsels back home, but up here I have no high counsel. I’m afraid you’ve just inherited that responsibility.”

Surkin smiled. “Yes, little prince.”

After their talking had ceased, it only took a few more moments for Shal’s party to ready. They hefted their things on their shoulders and called for their leader to take his position.

“I told you! No more of the Badar Langur! We speak in the bastard tongue alone!” he growled as he walked past them and took his place at the maw of the pass. The mountain descended before him, down in into the Esgradane forest and the Squaller Landclaims. “And if you have mastery of western words to complain, I’d just as well you didn’t use them either.”

Next Chapter: Rambling Man