Chapter One - Sensible Men

It was almost winter, and the inn was quiet as the grave.

It is a peculiar sort of quiet, that creeps up on such places, when the light of the evening has dwindled to a nub, and the aching stillness of tired limbs wins out. A quietness of wood-smoke, of long drinks and weary tongues. The kind of quiet to find a home in taverns not unlike this one, when the regular little bedragglement of patrons grow bored of their voices for a time. When the sound of the cooking fires is spent. A familiar quiet. A safe quiet.

But the quiet that night in the Watcher’s Nest had another name. It was not familiar. It was not known. There was something heavy to it, an invisible weight pressed against the blurry edges of the candlelit walls. Anxiety, perhaps. Even fear, maybe, though that dare not be spoken. It lingered on the edges of the firelight, just out of sight, shifted in the shadows beside the door. It held out against the sound of rain and distant thunder beyond the thatching, pushing their voices flat against the dark. It brushed against the shoulders of the regulars, shivering over their brows, putting lead to their tongues.

The conversation that night had been more laboured than usual, the laughter just a little less easy. The innkeep was behind the bar, like always, dark eyes watchful as he toyed with his pipe, and his children went about their usual business beside him, polishing mugs, tapping barrels, wiping at spilt drink with a dirty rag. The patrons themselves made a good show of comfort, mostly. If you were to look closely, though, you would see their eyes flicking occasionally towards the far end of the room, to the dark corner with its little group of dark cloaks, and the quiet remained.

Even Old Godry seemed to have noticed, rheumy-eyed and wrinkled though he was. The strangers were pleasant enough, but it was hard not to stare when the usual village folk themselves amounted to a group of six. Especially when that group were amongst the dourest and drunkest of his regular listeners. Storms in the hills were frequent and heavy, and the villagers were wet to the bone in spite of the fire. His attempts at storytelling that evening had been reluctant at best, but there was one thing he knew was sure to get them talking.

‘Go on then, how’d you think it happened?’ Albin, the butcher, demanded, eyeing him distrustfully. He was a good way younger than Godry himself, with a shaggy head of fair hair and a broad, square jaw. A sensible man, by all accounts. Sensible men don’t believe in magic and immortal sorcerers. They can, however, always be relied on to start arguments about them in inns, after a few mugs of ale.

‘Well it weren’t just any old man, for starters. It was Isandur himself.’ he told Albin patiently.

‘If it was Isandur, I’ll drop gold in the morning.’ Albin snorted. His son, Petr, was beside him, a hulking boar of a boy, shoulders wide as the inn door and a jaw like a brick. He’d been picking rock since before he had hair on his balls, and it showed. The youth eyed Godry unpleasantly as his father spoke, sneering. ‘Just some old chancer with a head wrinkled like my plums.’

‘If it weren’t Isandur, how’d’you explain the storm?’ Godry sat back with a knowing little smile on his scarred face as he spoke. The distant sound of thunder outside the inn cracked faintly against the hills, echoing, but Albin wasn’t having it. The others sat by patiently, knowing better than to intervene.

‘Well, it was a fucking storm, wasn’t it. Not every little shower gets farted out a Chosen’s arse. You’ll be telling me it was Bonemen outside the city gates, next.’

‘You got no sense of wonder, you grumpy old shit.’ Godry told him sadly, shaking his head. The old smelter was sixty, if he was a day, leathery skin scratched with a thousand little ember-scars, melting off his grizzled cheeks like wax from half a lifetime working the furnaces. Sixty was old, for Rindon, and that made old Godry wiser than most. By his reckoning, anyway, and no one really remembered when he hadn’t been the oldest, so no one had argued when he appointed himself the resident knowledge on all stories and tales that passed over the tavern’s tables. The hillfolk had heard every one of them a dozen times over, and Godry himself knew every last bit of them like an old boot. Weary, overused, worn down to the soles, passed from many mouths to many ears till finally they wound their way to Rindon at the edge of the world, twisted as willow roots and just as honest. It didn’t seem to bother the others, much, though. A story, some haggling over the finer details. A few watery drinks. Men took what comfort they could, times being what they were.

‘I just got a head that ain’t rotted like old cheese.’ Albin was saying. ‘Isandur, my arse.’

One of the others, Jed, snorted with laughter at this, but did not speak, as was his way. Soot-blackened hands curled around his mug, dusty brows knotted with years of squinting. A miner; quiet sort, as they often are. More taken to listening than speaking. His fellow, Lot, was even quieter. That suited Godry just fine.

‘He’s right though, Alb.’ Forley piped up. He was younger than the both of them, with fair, freckled skin and a little mop of orange hair, arm reflexively looped over his pretty young wife’s shoulders. Priss was a good woman, they all agreed, easy to smile and quick to laugh. They were new to the village, a few months past, from down near Fairlop, apparently, which wasn’t quite far enough away for them not to be trusted. Only married last year. Had a herd of goats, up in the hills north of the village. Solid folk. Kept the Makers like they were fresh from temple. But twenty is not yet old enough to have such sensible thoughts as Albin on the subjects of magic and immortal old men. Nor was it old enough to know not to come between the butcher and his temper. ‘It was Isandur. I heard the same, from a storyteller in the valley, when I went down last summer. Said them First Chosen don’t die. Not natural, anyways.’

‘Oh, that settles it then. Must be true. Some prick in the valley says so. Lowlanders’ve got even more mud in their heads than you, Forley.’

That had done it. The quiet rushed back in like dark in midwinter, and Godry pressed his aching gums together, frowning. Albin realised his mistake, too late, eyeing the little group of strangers sitting in the far corner of the inn uncomfortably. Three of them, in all, dark-faced and hunched over their mugs. Cloaks too fine and clean for miners’, and their hands were pale and soft looking. Lowlanders, plain as day. The moment of silence lingered like a bad smell. Forley and his young wife shifted uncomfortably, and the miners suddenly got very interested in their mugs.

‘I wager most Lowlanders’re more than a match for the likes of you, you dolt.’ Godry ventured carefully, fixing Albin with a withering look. He had no more love for the new folk than anyone else, mind. He’d said as much to that weasel Solen, when he’d taken them on to work the crates. But Solen had more mind for coin than the right way of doing things, and Godry was too old for fighting. Just then, the innkeep began to move quietly between the tables, refilling mugs from a little cask at his hip. Godry rubbed at his scarred chin, frowning.

‘Fine, Isandur it was.’ Albin conceded grumpily, taking another swig from his mug. His son continued to glare at Godry with that same slack-jawed scowl, but he stayed quiet. ‘Don’t let me spoil yer fun. Call him the First Maker himself if it makes you fucking happy.’

‘Right then.’ Old Godry went on, smiling happily to himself. ‘Well Isandur says to old King Talor: ‘you’re fresh out of gold, and even that magic sword of yours can’t keep you king without it. But you’ve got a daughter. Pretty one at that. Hair black as night, eyes green as green goes, just like her da. And that Lord Dicker has half the gold mines in the Valia.’’

He was interrupted as Albin gave a loud snort and slammed his mug back down on the table, splattering ale across the scratched wood. His dullard son’s sneer inched towards a grin.

‘Lord what? It’s Dekar, you old goat.’

‘That’s what I said! Anyways, so Talor gets a sniff of all that gold, and he’s ready to sell his daughter off proper quick. Promises her to this Lord Dekar with all his shiny gold.’ Godry paused, eyeing his audience with a conspiratorial smile, flashing the gaps in his yellowed teeth. ‘But wasn’t only Dekar what’s come visiting Uldoroth. No no, old King Talor’s got some northern animals holed up there with him, too.’

The miners, Jed and Lot, scowled, and Albin spat on the floor with a curse. Even he couldn’t argue with the evils of Northmen.

‘Anyways, this was back before the North had a King of its own.’ Godry went on, scratching at his unevenly stubbled chin. ‘When they still held with Valia, knelt at the Night Throne, same as everyone else. My da used to say them Northmen has more Lords than the sea has storms, but not a King between them.’

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‘Should’ve stayed that way.’ Albin grumbled.

‘You’ll get no argument, here.’ Godry nodded. ‘But this was before then, anyways, and it weren’t no King what came south looking for scraps from Talor’s table. It were a little Lordling, name of Aerolf.’ he eyed Albin as he spoke the name, daring the butcher to disagree, but got no response, so he continued. ‘Young lord of Jotelheim or some such, big and powerful as Northmen go. Had a magic sword of their own, his folk, and the old blood to match. Only the oldest families do. And guess who Aerolf takes a fancy to?’

‘Talia.’ Forley replied dreamily, but his wife pinched his arm before he could say anything too rash, so he settled for flinching instead.

‘Just so, Forley.’ Godry smiled, leathery face creasing into a tapestry of well-tanned ravines. ‘Can’t say I blame him, either. If Talor had one bit of luck, ‘twas that Elahi wife of his. They say them High Places women are quite the beauties. Talia was her mother’s daughter, by all accounts.’

Albin, Petr and Jed smiled knowingly, making little appreciative noises at the thought, as if they’d ever seen one of the Elahi. Or a Northman. Or anyone from further away than Fairlop, even. Forley kept carefully quiet, this time, under the watchful eye of his wife.

‘This was just about the time Dicker, or Dekar, or whatever, was coming up to see about his new wife, and this Aerolf knew it. So he snatched the Princess, right from under her da’s nose, and vanished, as into thin air.’ He snapped his fingers, making a sharp little crack.

Albin snorted. ‘And I suppose you want us believin’ that was magic, too?’

‘Might a’been. Might not.’ Godry replied indignantly, taking another swig of his ale. ‘Isandur had gone walkabout, as he does, but he ain’t the only Chosen still breathing, if you believe the stories. Aerolf was good as gone, anyways, and the Princess Talia with him. Makers knew where. Lord Dekar with all his gold had his nose right out of joint, and Old King Talor was furious. Had every man in the kingdom looking for them.’

‘They say the bounty was their weight in gold!’ Forley whispered, eyeing the little group of listeners excitedly. ‘And them Northmen are big bastards, too.’

‘Didn’t make no difference, though. No one found so much as a hair.’ Godry went on. ‘Took a year, but she came back, all by herself! Every man in Valia looking to make a name for himself by findin’ her, and she trots right up to that big rock in Uldoroth like she’d been away for dinner!’

‘Man down in the valley said she got a blade on him when he weren’t looking.’ Forley added, holding out his fingers like a knife. ‘Said she sent him back north with a few more scars for his trouble.’

‘Good girl.’ Albin agreed.

‘Don’t know about that.’ Godry went on. ‘But Old King Talor couldn’t believe his luck. Might a’been mad, but he learned his lesson, sure enough. Had his daughter locked away in some tower up on the rock, right quick.’

‘What about the Northman?’

The little group of regulars blinked. It was Jed that had spoken. An unusual occurrence, indeed. Godry was the first to regain his composure.

‘Well, he weren’t happy to lose his prisoner, no doubting that.’

‘Serves ‘im right.’ Albin grumbled. His mug was empty again. An empty mug can make the most sensible man a brute, once he’s had a taste. The innkeep spotted this and made a beeline for the ill-tempered butcher with his cask.

‘This young Lord of Jotlenheim got the other northern lords all worked up, he did, agreeing on something for the first time in more winters than you could count. Raised every fighter in the North. Open Rebellion. Seems them Northmen weren’t happy with the scraps from Talor’s table, no more. Came south over the Sea with thirty thousand screamers, each big as a horse, men and women both.’

Petr snorted, taking a moment’s pause from shooting glances towards the innkeep’s girl behind the bar to give Godry his best dirty look. Apparently the boy took the idea any man, and particularly a woman, could be bigger than he was as a personal affront. Still didn’t seem capable of speaking, though, so Godry paid him no heed.

‘The Rift saw the worst of it, but that’s a story all on it’s own. Half the men of Valia went out to fight. Not many came back. Lost a lot of good men, in that pit. And there weren’t many left to lose. Not after the Black Breath took all those names, winter before.’ Godry paused reverently as Forley and his wife made the circular godsign over their breasts, and even Albin and his angry son lowered their eyes respectfully. Plague didn’t bear joking about, even to spite Godry.

‘Heard they fight like animals, them Northmen.’ Forley whispered. ‘They say one of them killed fifty men, all by his’self.’

‘Stonesplitter, they call him.’ Godry nodded. ‘Barely a man at all, that one. Lost his blade, in the muck. Didn’t stop him, though. Killed Talor’s twin sons with a rock, instead. Crushed their fancy armour like it was paper.’

‘What about the Elahi?’ Forley asked eagerly. ‘The forest folk?’

‘Well, seems them from the High Places had had enough of kneeling, too. Took their chance. Shut themselves up in them trees. Barely a soul’s been out since.’ Godry paused, scratching his chin. ‘Tricksy, them tree folk. Trickier than the rest of us. And they say their woods has minds of their own. Send an army in there and they’ll swallow it whole easier than Albin takes a mug of ale. Best to leave them be, Talor knew. Even when that Elahi wife of his scarpered and shut herself up in those trees with them.’

‘Tree-fuckers.’ Albin grumbled. ‘Heard the air up that high makes them mad.’

‘But we ain’t talking about no Elahi. We’re talking about Northmen.’ Godry went on, ignoring him. ‘Once they was through the Rift, weren’t nothing to stop ‘em from getting all the way south to Uldoroth. Surrounded the city for weeks, till all the food was gone and the horses was next. Talor didn’t have an army left to take ‘em, not after the Rift. Plague, famine, then an invasion. If that ain’t Gods cursed, I don’t know what is. That’s what you get for keeping with Cursed Ones.’

‘Greycloaks.’ Albin spat.

‘What about Isandur, then?’

‘Well I was getting to that, Forley, wasn’t I!’ Godry said irritably, shooting the young goatherd a dark look. ‘Anyways, so Isandur comes and goes as he pleases, just like the rest of them Chosen lot, the ones still around, anyway. Hadn’t been seen in months, and years before that, now he shows up out of Ulwe knows where just as the Northerners are at the gates. Counsel, he says. Plans, I say. These Chosen has schemes us normal folk couldn’t. Nought else to do when you never die.’

Albin snorted through a mouthful of ale, but said nothing, to his credit.

‘Was his brother with him?’ Forley asked eagerly, and his young wife rolled her eyes.

‘No he was not, Forley. Mad Tor’s got his own troubles, if he ain’t dead with the rest of ‘em.’ Godry shot him another irritable glance. ‘Now you gonna let me tell this story or not?’

Albin laughed. Forley’s foolishness was something he and Godry could both agree on. Weren’t old enough yet to have better sense. Forley lowered his eyes bashfully, taking another sip of his ale.

‘Any which way you look at it, the city’s holding out, then one night five hundred screamers get through the walls and up that big rock of theirs without barely a sound.’

‘How?’

Godry turned a withering eye towards Forley, then realised it was Priss that had spoken, and quickly swallowed his retort.

‘Well, I don’t rightly know, Priss.’ Godry told her, holding up his hands magnanimously. It was a rather ridiculous affectation for a man covered head to toe in soot and wrinkled like a melted old prune, but he wasn’t to know that. ‘Some folk say magic…’

‘Shit on that.’ Albin interrupted, scowling. ‘Someone opened the bloody gate, hauled them up there same as everyone else! What about that sneak wizard? Heard it said he wanted Talor dead and all.’

‘Maybe. Who knows what them Chosen want.’ Godry conceded with a knowing little nod of his gleaming head. There was always a time in the evening when he lost his will to bicker with Albin about the details, and he was nearing it. ‘But inside they was. Went straight up to the Rock, all sneaky like. Murdered Red King Talor while he slept. Cut his throat, ear to ear.’

‘Good!’ Albin leered drunkenly, spitting on the floor.

‘He was our King!’ Forley gasped incredulously.

‘Aye, and he taxed us half to death to pay for his feasts and women. Brought plague and famine on us. Hope he rots. Him and the Northmen both.’

‘But…’ Priss lay a hand on her husband’s arm, and he reluctantly went back to his drink.

‘But the Northmen weren’t done. Not by half!’ Godry went on, giving his listeners a knowing look. ‘They’re savage folk, and no mistake, But whatever that Lord Aerolf was before his Princess got loose, he was a man no longer. Chosen never should’ve been allowed to welp. The First are scheming bastards, but their bloodlines are worse. It’s a sickness. Talor’s lot, with all that dreamsight nonsense. Them old Northmen families, though? Blood mad, they call ‘em. And that ain’t no laughing matter.’

Forley was watching Godry, transfixed. The miners and the brute Petr seemed to be leaning a little forward in their seats, and even Albin had stopped his sniping. They’d quite forgotten the quiet, and the storm outside the door. They’d even forgotten the little group of strangers in the corner, hunched over their drinks in silence. Instead, they watched Godry eagerly. They all knew this part. Everyone did.

‘So up comes Aerolf, blood rage on him, flailing that grey sword of his, screaming her name as he went. Screaming it all the way up to the tower where she’s locked up.’ Godry went on, fixing each of them with a dark stare, draping a splayed hand over his face so that the silver scars on his fingers laced across his weathered skin. ‘Weren’t nothing stopping him. More beast than man, by the time he got there. All covered in blood, cut up something awful. Fangs like a wolf-’

The door of the inn swung open with a bang. The regulars started, and a couple of mugs went spinning across the table. The sounds of the storm thundered into the room, cracking against the meek whisper of the hearth, and rain sprayed across the threshold, thick as fingers. Lightning flashed around the black figure in the doorway, throwing a long, jagged shadow across the room beyond. The man’s clothes were torn close to rags, and red lines ran in slashes over his pale skin, weeping crimson trails through the rain-soaked cloth. As Godry watched, he stumbled forward and fell to his knees just inside the light of the hearth, panting hard. The blacksmith’s boy, the old smelter realised, pale eyes wild as wolves’, dark hair plastered like wax over his sharp cheeks. The strangers in the corner were paying attention now, dark eyes turned towards the thunder of the flashing doorway.

‘Makers be good.’ Forley murmured.

Godry pressed his aching gums together so hard his jaw ached. Story was well and truly ruined, now.

At least the quiet was gone.