Read Online The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) by Bradley Beaulieu - Free Book Online
Authors: Bradley Beaulieu
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her face, translated. “You came too late.”
Styophan looked between her and Kürad. “What do you mean too late ?”
When Kürad spoke, it was with clear reluctance, but it seemed as though he would give this to Styophan, this if nothing else. He spoke for a long time. He paused every so often, gathering himself, choosing the right words, and Styophan wondered what could make him open up so.
“Three weeks ago,” the woman finally said, “the Empire came and offered us peace. They came with food and gold and an offer of land—nearly all of it that had been taken in the war between us that has lasted generations. Kürad spoke to your crow, to your Matra. The gems you offered were generous, and we would have continued the war, despite our losses…” Now it was the woman’s turn to gather herself. “Gripping arms with Yrstanla is not something we would have foreseen even three moons ago. But the withering…” Styophan had seen this look a hundred times. A thousand. It was the look of someone approaching the final days of the wasting who thought the disease a failing, some fault of their own. “Kürad could not allow our numbers to dwindle further, not if we wanted any chance of surviving.”
“They’re lying to you,” Styophan said. “They’ve done this because of the war with Anuskaya. When that is done, they will return.”
“That is why Kürad hopes you fight to your last breath. The people of Hael must rest. We must breathe.”
“But don’t you see? Our only hope is to fight together . If you wait, Bahett will take you at his leisure.”
“That may be so, but the Lord of the Hills has told us that we cannot fight. And so it will be.”
Styophan tried to speak again, but Kürad pointed toward the entryway, and he was led roughly outside. Mikhalai and Rodion and four others were held by the Haelish men. Four more lay upon the ground, unmoving, blood pooled beneath them.
Styophan stared at the face of Avil, young Avil, his eyes slack, lifeless. His lips were already blue. By the ancients who preserve, he was only twenty-three.
“You goat-fucking heathens!”
The man who held him struck him across the back of his head.
“Fuck your mother!” he shouted over the pain as he tried to wrench his arms away.
But their hold on him was as sure as a mainstay. They struck him again and again. Finally one struck squarely. Stars burst before him. He felt woozy. He drew in another breath, ready to fight until they killed him, but the next strike brought with it a deep and utter blackness.
When Styophan woke, he was being dragged behind a horse on a wooden framework. His wrists and ankles were tied to long wooden poles that crossed over the horse’s withers. They were traveling through a marsh. The smell of it as the horses’ hooves splooshed into the muck was foul and fetid. The sled pulled him through the shallow water at a downward angle, giving him a clear view of the Haelish to the rear of the line. He had to lift his head to do it, though, and every time he did it the movement sent a spike of cold iron through his head.
Dozens of horses rode in the line behind him. He could see more sleds like his, but who was on them, he couldn’t tell. He’d brought eighty-nine windsmen to Haelish lands. How many of them still lived? Four? Five? His head pounded as the weight of it struck him. He felt tears forming, but he stifled his thoughts of regret ruthlessly. He refused to let the Haelish see his tears.
Behind the horses marched several hundred Haelish, most carrying large bundles or baskets on their backs. The entire tribe must have come, he realized. They’d picked up their entire village and went on the move. No wonder it was so difficult for the Empire to pin them down. They had only a handful of permanent settlements, and those were on ground the Haelish considered sacred, places they were especially loath to relinquish to the Empire.
Styophan’s vision went blurry. He blinked his eyes, but it
Styophan looked between her and Kürad. “What do you mean too late ?”
When Kürad spoke, it was with clear reluctance, but it seemed as though he would give this to Styophan, this if nothing else. He spoke for a long time. He paused every so often, gathering himself, choosing the right words, and Styophan wondered what could make him open up so.
“Three weeks ago,” the woman finally said, “the Empire came and offered us peace. They came with food and gold and an offer of land—nearly all of it that had been taken in the war between us that has lasted generations. Kürad spoke to your crow, to your Matra. The gems you offered were generous, and we would have continued the war, despite our losses…” Now it was the woman’s turn to gather herself. “Gripping arms with Yrstanla is not something we would have foreseen even three moons ago. But the withering…” Styophan had seen this look a hundred times. A thousand. It was the look of someone approaching the final days of the wasting who thought the disease a failing, some fault of their own. “Kürad could not allow our numbers to dwindle further, not if we wanted any chance of surviving.”
“They’re lying to you,” Styophan said. “They’ve done this because of the war with Anuskaya. When that is done, they will return.”
“That is why Kürad hopes you fight to your last breath. The people of Hael must rest. We must breathe.”
“But don’t you see? Our only hope is to fight together . If you wait, Bahett will take you at his leisure.”
“That may be so, but the Lord of the Hills has told us that we cannot fight. And so it will be.”
Styophan tried to speak again, but Kürad pointed toward the entryway, and he was led roughly outside. Mikhalai and Rodion and four others were held by the Haelish men. Four more lay upon the ground, unmoving, blood pooled beneath them.
Styophan stared at the face of Avil, young Avil, his eyes slack, lifeless. His lips were already blue. By the ancients who preserve, he was only twenty-three.
“You goat-fucking heathens!”
The man who held him struck him across the back of his head.
“Fuck your mother!” he shouted over the pain as he tried to wrench his arms away.
But their hold on him was as sure as a mainstay. They struck him again and again. Finally one struck squarely. Stars burst before him. He felt woozy. He drew in another breath, ready to fight until they killed him, but the next strike brought with it a deep and utter blackness.
When Styophan woke, he was being dragged behind a horse on a wooden framework. His wrists and ankles were tied to long wooden poles that crossed over the horse’s withers. They were traveling through a marsh. The smell of it as the horses’ hooves splooshed into the muck was foul and fetid. The sled pulled him through the shallow water at a downward angle, giving him a clear view of the Haelish to the rear of the line. He had to lift his head to do it, though, and every time he did it the movement sent a spike of cold iron through his head.
Dozens of horses rode in the line behind him. He could see more sleds like his, but who was on them, he couldn’t tell. He’d brought eighty-nine windsmen to Haelish lands. How many of them still lived? Four? Five? His head pounded as the weight of it struck him. He felt tears forming, but he stifled his thoughts of regret ruthlessly. He refused to let the Haelish see his tears.
Behind the horses marched several hundred Haelish, most carrying large bundles or baskets on their backs. The entire tribe must have come, he realized. They’d picked up their entire village and went on the move. No wonder it was so difficult for the Empire to pin them down. They had only a handful of permanent settlements, and those were on ground the Haelish considered sacred, places they were especially loath to relinquish to the Empire.
Styophan’s vision went blurry. He blinked his eyes, but it
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