Chapter Forty - The Rift

On the fourth day, they arrived at the Rift.

They came over the top of a low rise, and the endless valley opened up in front of them like a festering wound, gawping up at the bare sky, bleeding black mud into thin tufts of grey grass, scattered with blasted rock and shale.

‘Quite the sight.’ Finn said, stopping his horse and scratching at his perpetually stubbled jaw.

Brand drew up his mare alongside him and looked out over the devastation. Never thought he’d be back here. The valley looked very different, from up on the ridge. Not like before. Down in the black mud, surrounded by the dead, the dying, guts and muscle and blood strung out over the muck like red rope. Shouting, screaming, pleading, steel flashing like fire. He cursed under his breath. Life has a way of kicking you where it hurts. Brand knew that better than most.

‘What was it like?’ The fool asked, looking over at him.

‘Hell.’ Brand grunted.

‘Couldn’t pick a much more dramatic location for a battle, I’ll grant you.’ Finn admitted absently. ‘Or make this place any uglier than it already was. How old were you? Fifteen?’

‘Fourteen.’ Brand told him. He hated this little shit and all his little questions, but he’d learned quick enough that they didn’t stop without answers. He touched his fingertips to the knife in his sleeve, gritting his teeth.

‘Fourteen! Must have been glorious.’

‘It never is.’ Brand replied, staring down at the blasted valley.

‘They say you killed fifty men yourself, that day.’ The fool went on. ‘Lost your sword, faced down the Butcher Twins of Talor with nothing but a rock. Made yourself a name, Stonesplitter.’

Brand ground his teeth.

‘Chosen blood or not, I say you did the world a service. Monsters, those two. The worst kind.’

Monsters.

‘There’s always more.’ Brand grunted back, staring down over the valley. Black slopes, jagged and uneven, burst open like a maggoty meat and strewn with shattered stone. The slash of broken earth speared away eastward towards the distant peaks of the Teeth, a line of blackened grass two miles wide, deep enough to swallow the keep of Tarling five times over. His jaw knotted tighter.

‘Suppose you’re right.’ The fool admitted, looking at him thoughtfully with his sharp little eyes. ‘Lucky the Bloodless didn’t take the field, that day.’

‘Lucky.’ Brand snorted back. He rubbed at the notch in his back, feeling the dull ache of it, and decided he was done talking.

‘What did this?’ A’kira asked, appearing beside them, silver markings on her face frozen as she stared wide-eyed at the desolation below.

‘The Darkness.’ Finn told her, scratching at his chin again. ‘Death. Old magic. Oldest of all, really, and the worst. Don’t they teach you anything, in the Sands?’

‘You lie.’ A’kira told him, baring a row of pale, sharp teeth. ‘There is no magic.’

‘You and our leader are going to get on splendidly.’

Brand ignored them. He just stared down at the ruin below, a whole army of unpleasant thoughts ringing in his ears. Never thought he’d be back here. Never wanted to be back here. But he was getting used to not getting what he wanted. He muttered a few more choice curses.

‘Some wounds never heal.’ Finn murmured, looking over at him.

Brand gave the fool a long look, fingering the knife in his sleeve again.

‘We should keep moving.’ The man said suddenly, oblivious, and spurred his horse off along the ridge. Brand glanced at the foreign woman, but she just snarled back, teeth flashing. He sighed, and coaxed his mare back onto the path.

*

A’kira took another bite from her hunk of bread, glaring over the dying fire at the giant.

She didn’t trust him, she decided. Hadn’t been a hard decision. He was too big. Sat there on an overturned pack, shoulders heaving as he slurped at his water-skin like a big white pig, hair the colour of blood. She’d never seen hair like that before, but it was hardly what troubled her most. The sword at his shoulder was almost as tall as she was, and she’d seen how quick his hands had moved, with her arrow on him. Might even best her in a fight, if it came to that. Maybe. She didn’t know any easterners worth piss in a fight, and his big face was torn up like a slashed hide, but being surrounded by soft men didn’t mean you were one, and a few scars didn’t mean you didn’t know how to mark others. Stonesplitter, the liar called him. A big name for a big man. A’kira didn’t like having anyone nearby she didn’t know if she could kill. Even if she was still fairly certain she could kill this big white pig. If it came to that.

She tore off another chunk of bread, glaring at him, and he glared back, taking another slurp of water. How these white-skinned soft-bellies needed so much water when so much of it fell from the sky on their island she had no clue. easterners.

Still, at least she understood the giant. Or at least she thought she did. A big man with a big sword and a little cock. Lots of angry men out there with little cocks. A’kira had known a more than a few of them. Dangerous, all the same, but predictable. Fighters. Killers. Known.

The liar, she was far more concerned about. She glared over at him where he sat at the edge of their camp, surveying the night beyond as though the moon were just for him. Dressed like any old merchant, or farmer, or anyone at all. Finn, he had said. Liar, she had thought. He wasn’t like the giant at all. Not like any type of man she’d ever met before, and A’kira had met them all. The fighters were bad enough. Then there were the fools. The traitors. The strong. The weak.

A’kira spat at her feet. She still had no idea which this particular liar was. But until she figured it out, she’d be watching him. His gold was good, if nothing else. Not that she had much interest in gold. It was what it might buy her that she cared about. To pay her weight. That was her only way back. She shot the liar’s back another angry look, and the back gave her no response.

Easterners.

*

Brand took another sip of water, eyeing the foreign woman carefully.

She’d been staring at him ever since they’d stopped for the night. Just like she did every night, black cheeks twisting with silver. The kind of stare that made him want a sword in his fist. He wondered how old she was, under all those carefully carved scars. How many fights she’d lived through. He’d been brushing the hilt of the knife in his sleeve so much one of his fingers had a painful indent in it, halfway to blistering. He scowled at himself. How the fuck did he end up here? Hardly felt any safer in this company than on his own on the road, even with every chancer in the North chasing his tail. At least then he’d known his purpose. To get lost somewhere, somewhere no one would ever look. Now he was heading deeper into the last place he ever wanted to be, following some cunt with a face like an empty ledger and a voice like a card trick. Not to mention a woman that looked like she wanted to stick a dagger in his throat whilst he slept. He clenched his jaw, checking the hilt of the knife at his wrist again. Better to be ready, if it came to that.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He gave the fool a sour look, but he was still sat looking away into the night like there was something out there only he could see. Out into the darkness over the invisible black valley below. For his part, Brand was quite happy staying as far from the lip of that shit-filled pit as possible. Weren’t many happy memories from the war, and that was the worst. Knee deep in stinking mud and emptied guts, thrashing his sword about like a madman, half-blind from the blood in his eyes. Hero, they’d said. Butcher, he’d thought. He touched the new scar on his cheek, barely healed, frowning.

‘See something I don’t?’

He scowled at himself even as he said it. He’d done it now. Finn turned around, and his nothing face caught the dimming firelight, half-tanned and smiling.

‘Not yet.’ He said cheerily, coming back over to the fire. ‘But just because I can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.’

‘What?’

The fool lowered himself onto a pack beside the fire, holding out his hands to the dwindling flames. ‘Black Hand.’

‘The fuck would Black Hand be doing here?’ Brand frowned. Brothers didn’t worry him particularly, but talking might take his mind off the foreign woman’s eyes shooting daggers at him, so it would do for now.

‘Word is, they’re recruiting, again. Travelling in packs. All over the lowlands, and further besides.’

‘Is that what they call it? Recruiting?’ Brand grumbled. He knew the stories, same as everyone else. Snatching boys in the night. Rituals. Blood magic. It was probably all bullshit. But those were the stories.

‘Doesn’t matter what you call it.’ Finn told him. ‘A brotherhood of all-male heretics doesn’t stick around for centuries if they butcher everyone they kidnap.’

Brand couldn’t argue with that.

‘What are... Black Hand?’ The foreign woman asked, looking at them suspiciously, marked face knotting like fine silver silk. Her strange, black coverings merged with the dark, turning her face to a floating disc of silver-marked shadow.

‘Fucking Makers.’ Brand muttered. ‘Where’d you find her?’

‘Fanatics.’ Finn told her, ignoring him. ‘Sprung up a few centuries back. Don’t keep the Nine. Just one. The Darkness. And Death is not a kind master.’

‘Easterners.’ The woman spat, snarling her sharpened teeth. ‘What sort of fools worship the dark?’

‘Dangerous ones.’ The fool told her, looking back out into the night with a frown on his nothing face.

Brand snorted. ‘Bet it’s a damn sight easier for them now, with that rat Dekar turning a blind eye.’

‘Aye.’ Finn told him, frowning again. ‘The price he paid for the Night Throne is a heavy one.’

Brand didn’t need reminding. He’d been there, the night they finally made it past the walls of Uldoroth. The night Dekar had been waiting for them. The night old King Talor had his throat cut as he slept, not by the invaders, but by one of his own. Black masks streaming out of every doorway like ants, silver blades flashing like fangs. Wouldn’t have made it out alive without… He grimaced, and tried not to think about it.

‘Anyways, our wise leader has been on their list for some time.’ The fool went on, looking back at the fire. ‘Apparently his meddling has become troublesome.’

Brand snorted. He had no shortage of enemies himself, but he’d bet his weight in silver that old cunt had more.

‘Any idea when he’ll show his face, this leader of ours?’ He asked sourly. He had no particular fondness for the storm-talker. Chosen types spoke in more riddles than Finn did. But he was bored of riding from one shit-heap to another without much idea of where he was headed. Say one thing for that wily old goat. He always had a plan.

‘He has a way of arriving when he’s needed.’ The fool told him. ‘Something you know better than most.’

Brand spat at his feet, scowling. ‘That’s not much of an answer.’

‘Would you like me to guess?’

Brand shot him a particularly sour look over the dwindling embers of the fire. He could feel the foreign woman watching him, sharp, dark eyes digging into his skin like blades. His fingers found their way to the hilt of the knife in his sleeve again, and he took another swig of his water, scowling to himself. How the fuck did he end up here?

*

The next morning, the villagers caught up with them.

They had turned south a ways and ridden down off the ledge of the great black valley of the Rift, through a thick strand of dark woodland that crouched in the dell beyond, and Brand was thinking how happy he was to be rid of the sight of it. Days of staring into that ugly, bloody pit wasn’t doing any good for his temper. And that was without the fool prattling along beside him about one pointless thing or another, or the foreign woman with her marked face looking ready to put an arrow in his belly. He was so preoccupied with the little tickling of rage in his gut and the hilt of the knife up his sleeve that he almost forgot to watch the trees as they rode. Almost, anyway.

He saw the shadows moving before he heard them. They were quiet. He had to give them credit for that. But when the first man stepped out of the trees and onto the path in front of them, his sword was already in his hand. He spurred his mare forward with a roar, opening him up from shoulder to navel with one savage sweep of the giant blade, just as one of the foreign woman’s arrows thudded into his limp throat.

He was already spinning the mare about, trying to get his bearings. A’kira was on foot, a bundle of arrows in one hand, bow in the other. The other three horses were nowhere to be seen, and the fool had dissolved into the trees as though he’d never been there at all. The villagers were everywhere. Grubby-faced men in grubby cloaks, rusted lengths of iron in their gnarled fists. Brand had a moment to be grateful that it wasn’t Black Hand that’d found them. Then an arrow whistled past his ear, and he cursed, grabbed for his saddle too late, and pitched sideways into the dirt.

He came up spluttering, dragging his sword with him. A man ran at him. Big fucker, swinging a woodsman’s axe like a club. Brand dived aside just in time, then hacked his head half off with a backhand sweep of his blade. Blood sprayed across his face, and he staggered to his feet, lurching in the muck. Another came, and another fell, belly gaping, clawing at his bare guts as he went down. Brand could feel the old anger building. The familiar heat of it. But he knew it now, and knowing helped. He roared, carving a man’s skull open with an overhand swing.

Another arrow whistled over his shoulder. Closer this time. He looked up to see a bowman in the trees knocking another, just as Finn slipped out of the brush behind him with a flash of silver and slit his throat ear to ear. Brand blinked. Then there was another man on him, and he wrenched up his sword just in time to catch the crudely spiked-club headed for his skull. He surged upwards, forcing the villager back, and a moment later the man crumpled, clutching at the black-fletched arrow in his heart.

‘Northman!’

Brand came about towards the cry, blinking at the blood in his eyes. The man coming towards him was big, with arms thick as roots and a battered old longsword in his fist. One side of his face was pockmarked with splotches of acne, the other blistered like melted leather. Brand grinned madly, and the heat sang in his gut, filling his blood. This one, he remembered.

‘Back for more?’ He bellowed, taking his sword in both hands. The man roared back, charging at him. Brand’s savage swing sheared his rusted blade off at the hilt, carving a notch a foot deep just above his hip, and the man went down in a shower of blood, screaming.

It was over real quick after that. There hadn’t been more than a score of them, all in all. Not nearly enough. The last two tried to run. One of them died with one of A’kira’s arrows between his shoulders. The other stopped dead as Finn melted out of the trees and put a knife through his heart.

When it was done, Brand set his sword point down in the dirt, feeling the heat fade from his belly. It came less now, and left faster, but he was still breathing hard. Full of the shame of it. Bloody work for bloody hands. The woods were quiet again, and the familiar silence filled his ears. He hated the quiet. After. The foreign woman was moving about in the dirt, retrieving her black arrows from the dead, a cruel-looking, curved knife in hand. Brand looked down at the ruined body beside him. The ringleader from the inn looked very different now, one good eye open and staring, guts leaking into the dirt. Seemed almost everyone Brand met ended up broken, eventually, name or not. Fool.

‘From the inn.’ Finn said quietly, coming down out of the trees. He wiped a long, sharp looking dagger on the grass beside the road, vanishing it into his cloak, and was the unassuming traveller with the nothing face once more.

Brand straightened, sighing. ‘Aye.’

‘More dangerous than we thought, then.’

‘Not dangerous enough.’

‘No.’ Finn agreed, his nothing face unmoved. Neither of them said what they were both thinking. Black Hand abroad. Farmers turning bandit. The lowlands might be more dangerous than the North, after all.

A’kira had finished her bloody work, and she appeared beside them, looking down at the man with the ruined face lying in the dirt.

‘Who was he?’

‘No one.’ Brand told her, wiping his sword on the man’s cloak.

‘Where’d you go?’ A’kira demanded, glaring at Finn. He shrugged.

‘We all have our talents.’

They stood there in silence for a moment. Brand slid his sword back over his shoulder, checking himself over. His arm ached where he’d fallen from his mare. A couple of shallow nicks on one shoulder had snuck through his leathers and were leaking warm blood into his sleeve. The old wound on his back ached, making him shiver, but that wasn’t new. Not bad, all things considered. And Brand always liked to consider them. Considering was what kept a man alive.

‘I’ll round up the horses.’ Finn told them, dissolving into the trees again. The foreign woman stood there for a moment longer, staring back at Brand, eyes dark, silver-marked face impassive. For a moment he considered reaching for his sword again. Then she too turned and vanished into the trees. No arrow for him, then. Not this time. Brand sighed, the cold empty in his gut knotting silently. Some things were looking up, at least.