They rode in a three-group formation, Vaelin with the North Guard and Orven’s men in the centre and the Eorhil on both flanks. He had heard many tales of the horsemanship of the Eorhil and saw now they were well-founded, each rider moving in concert with their mount in an unconscious reflex, like a single animal forged to range across these plains. He was aware they were limiting their speed to keep pace with the Tower Lord’s men, and one had opted to join their company for the ride. Insha ka Forna rode at Orven’s side on a piebald stallion a hand taller than the captain’s own warhorse, her braids streaming back from a face wearing a faintly smug expression.
It was late in the afternoon by the time they came upon them, a large camp on the eastern bank of the creek, numerous fires seeping smoke into the ice-chilled wind. Vaelin called a halt two hundred paces from the camp, signalling for both flanks to spread out and ordering his own men into battle formation. He took the canvas bundle from where it was lashed to his saddle, placing a hand on the largest knot. One tug and it’s free. He knew it would shine very bright today, the sound it made as it cut the air would be another song of blood, one he sang so well. It had remained sheathed and bound since the day he faced the Shield of the Isles. He hadn’t liked the way it felt when he drew it that day, the way it fit in his hand . . . so comfortable.
“My lord!” Captain Adal’s shout brought his gaze back to the camp, seeing a solitary figure walking towards them. A cluster of people had gathered at the fringes of the camp, it may have been an illusion of the light and the distance but they all appeared thin to the point of emaciation: gaunt, flesh-denuded faces poking out from their furs, staring at their enemies with numb expectation free of any anger or hate.
“I see no weapons, my lord,” Orven said.
“A trick, no doubt,” Adal replied. “The Horde always had a thousand tricks.”
Vaelin watched the lone figure continue towards them. He was squat but thin, like the rest of his people, and considerably older, walking with a slow but purposeful gait, aided by what seemed to be a large gnarled stick but soon revealed itself as a long thighbone from some unknown beast, covered all over with intricate carvings and script.
“Shaman!” Adal hissed, unlimbering his bow. “My lord, I request the honour of first blood.”
“Shaman?” Vaelin asked.
“They command the war-beasts,” Dahrena explained. “Train them, lead them in war. We never learned how they did it.”
“He doesn’t appear to have any beasts,” Vaelin observed as the squat man came to a halt twenty yards away.
“More fool him,” Adal said, raising his bow.
“Stop that!” Vaelin commanded, his voice snapping through the ranks, absolute in its authority.
Adal gaped at him, his bow still drawn. “My lord?”
Vaelin didn’t look at him. “You are under my command. Obey my order or I’ll have you flogged and dismissed.”
He angled his head as he studied the squat man, ignoring Adal’s choking fury as Dahrena sought to restrain him. The shaman took hold of the bone in both hands and held it out before him, trembling and swaying in the black wind.
Vaelin felt it then, the blood-song’s note of greeting to a gifted soul. Dahrena stiffened in her saddle, her calming hand falling from Adal’s shoulder. Vaelin inclined his head at the shaman. “It seems we are called to parley, my lady.”
Fear made her eyes wide and her face white, but she nodded and they trotted forward, halting to dismount before the shaman. Up close his emaciation was a painful thing to see, the bones of his face white under skin that seemed no more than wet paper wrapping a butcher’s leavings. A black-and-grey tangle of hair grew from his head to his shoulders, a few talismans hanging unpolished in the unkempt tresses. The tremble was not just fear, Vaelin saw, but hunger, bringing a harsh realisation: They don’t come for war, they come to die.
“You have a name?” Vaelin asked him.
The shaman gave no response, planting the bone on the earth before him, both hands resting atop it, his gaze taking on owl-like focus as he stared into Vaelin’s eyes. The gaze fixed him, drew him closer. There was a moment of concern as something stirred in his mind. A trick, like Adal said. But the blood-song was unwavering in its welcome and he let the stirring continue. It was like a memory, a forgotten vision of another time, but it was not his.
People, clad in furs, and beasts. Bears, huge white-furred terrors, all labouring through a blizzard. Many are wounded, many are children. Riders appear out of the blizzard, dressed all in black, swords and lances stabbing and slashing . . . blood on the snow . . . so much blood . . . The riders wheel and turn, laughing as they kill, more and more charging out of the snow as the fur-clad people scatter. A man raises a great bone-staff and his bears turn on the riders, mauling and rending, killing many . . . but there are more . . . there are always more . . .
The vision faded, the shaman’s face still and unspeaking above the tip of his bone-staff.
Vaelin looked at Dahrena, noting the horror on her face. “You saw it?”
She nodded, hiding her trembling hands within her furs and drawing back a little. He could tell she wanted to flee, that this squat old man with no weapon save a length of bone, terrified her. But she stayed, drawing breath in gulps, refusing to look away.
Vaelin turned back to the shaman. “You flee these men, these riders?” It was clear from the man’s frown he didn’t understand a word. Vaelin sighed, glanced back at the ranks of guards and Eorhil, then sang. It was just a small note, unlikely to call forth any blood, conveying the sense of his query, coloured by his memory of the shaman’s vision.
The old man straightened, eyes widening, then nodded. He met Vaelin’s eyes again and soon another vision filled his mind.
A dark mass of people trekking across an ice field, the backs of their great white bears rising and falling amongst the throng as they flee, always westward, always away from the riders . . . no time to rest . . . no time to hunt . . . only time to flee . . . or fall out and die. The old people are first, then the younger children, the tribe bleeding its life away as it moves across the white expanse. The bears grow maddened by hunger, rending them from the shamans’ control. Hardy warriors weep as they cut them down and share out their meat, for without their bears, what are they? By the time the plains are in sight, they know their nation has died . . . They ask for nothing save a peaceful death.
Dahrena wept as the vision faded, gasping as tears streamed down her face. “What callous fools we are,” she whispered. Vaelin sang again, filling his song with the image of the battle tapestry from the tower; the Horde and its terrible beasts.
The shaman gave a disgusted grunt, replying with a vision of his own. The battle is fierce, no quarter is given, cats and bears tear at each other with mindless fury, the spear-hawks blacken the sky as they meet in a roiling cloud above, birthing a rain of blood and feathers, the warriors fight with spear and bone-club. When the red day is done the Bear People have shown the Cat People the folly of war on the ice. They see them no more, for they take themselves off to the southern plains, soft and cowardly in their desire for easier prey.
Bear People. Vaelin raised his gaze to the camp, seeing only starving men and women, a few children, no old folk, and no beasts at all. They lost their bears, they lost their name.
He looked again at the shaman, singing for the final time, recalling the image of the riders in black and ending the song with a questioning note, feeling the familiar wave of fatigue that told him he had sung enough for now.