Read Online The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) by Bradley Beaulieu - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bradley Beaulieu
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wouldn’t go away, and soon his head began to hurt worse than only moments ago. His stomach felt like it was twisting in circles, and as a Haelish man came beside him, a nausea struck him so fiercely that he simply threw up what little there was in his stomach.
The man walking beside his sled was Datha, he realized. His eyes were resolute, but there was shame in them as well. He took a length of brown cloth from a sack at his belt and placed it over Styophan’s eyes.
Styophan tried to move his head away, fearing what he might do when the blindfold was on him.
“Sleep,” Datha said, tying the cloth despite Styophan’s feeble attempts at preventing it.
Styophan wanted to spit in his face, but he saw no point in it.
He was so woozy he wanted to throw up again, but whatever small amount of vigor he’d had on waking had already been drained from him, and he fell asleep minutes later.
The next time Styophan woke, his blindfold had been removed. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps they reasoned they were deep enough into Haelish territory, or they’d confirmed that there were no allies near enough to help him. Or perhaps Styophan had proved himself docile enough that they could allow this small amount of freedom. That made him want to struggle once more, to break free if only to take one of them with him before he died, but the truth was he was too weak at the moment to do anything.
They traveled among tall hills still bright with green summer growth. Grasses taller than a man swayed in the wind, making them look alive, as if they might pick themselves up and fall into line with the Haelish on their trek southward. The sky was a nondescript grey. A light snow was falling, casting the hills as something from a dream, as if it didn’t really exist beyond the white haze of snow in the distance.
Datha was walking next to him again. As he had in the forest, he wore no shirt, no form of protection from the growing cold. His skin was also covered in something that glistened in the low light. Goat fat, perhaps, as the Matri did before submerging themselves beneath the frigid waters of the drowning basin. No paint covered his chest. This was also true of the other Haelish men that Styophan could see walking in the line behind him. Perhaps they only applied the paint in preparation for battle. It would make sense. To use it unnecessarily would be to waste the stones they found so valuable.
He wondered if they’d scavenged the ships for the stones he’d brought from Khalakovo. Surely they had. He could see several of the warriors bearing muskets. Even from this distance Styophan could tell they were Anuskayan.
Datha glanced down at Styophan, doing a double-take when he realized Styophan was awake. He unslung a skin of water from around his shoulders and held it up to Styophan’s lips. The act of lifting his head caused Styophan no small amount of pain, but it was manageable, and he was able to drink his fill.
“You’re gutless,” Styophan said in Yrstanlan when Datha pulled the skin away.
Datha bristled. “Watch your tongue.”
“Worthless.”
No sooner had Styophan said this than Datha lashed out and clouted him across the cheek. It was not a particularly hard hit, but with his head wound already throbbing, it made Styophan feel as if his skull were being crushed beneath a wagon wheel.
“Kürad is taking you to Skolohalla. Bahett wished to speak with the one who led the forces of Anuskaya when they came. If you wish for mercy, or any kindness at all for the Aramahn woman or your remaining men, you will watch your tongue. No matter what Bahett has offered, Kürad won’t hesitate to kill them, or you, if you bring further shame on our tribe.”
Styophan had heard of Skolohalla. It was not a place. Rather, it was a meeting, a joining of the various tribes of Hael in one location. They did so at certain times of the year, most often at summer and winter solstice, but this felt different. It felt momentous. They came
The man walking beside his sled was Datha, he realized. His eyes were resolute, but there was shame in them as well. He took a length of brown cloth from a sack at his belt and placed it over Styophan’s eyes.
Styophan tried to move his head away, fearing what he might do when the blindfold was on him.
“Sleep,” Datha said, tying the cloth despite Styophan’s feeble attempts at preventing it.
Styophan wanted to spit in his face, but he saw no point in it.
He was so woozy he wanted to throw up again, but whatever small amount of vigor he’d had on waking had already been drained from him, and he fell asleep minutes later.
The next time Styophan woke, his blindfold had been removed. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps they reasoned they were deep enough into Haelish territory, or they’d confirmed that there were no allies near enough to help him. Or perhaps Styophan had proved himself docile enough that they could allow this small amount of freedom. That made him want to struggle once more, to break free if only to take one of them with him before he died, but the truth was he was too weak at the moment to do anything.
They traveled among tall hills still bright with green summer growth. Grasses taller than a man swayed in the wind, making them look alive, as if they might pick themselves up and fall into line with the Haelish on their trek southward. The sky was a nondescript grey. A light snow was falling, casting the hills as something from a dream, as if it didn’t really exist beyond the white haze of snow in the distance.
Datha was walking next to him again. As he had in the forest, he wore no shirt, no form of protection from the growing cold. His skin was also covered in something that glistened in the low light. Goat fat, perhaps, as the Matri did before submerging themselves beneath the frigid waters of the drowning basin. No paint covered his chest. This was also true of the other Haelish men that Styophan could see walking in the line behind him. Perhaps they only applied the paint in preparation for battle. It would make sense. To use it unnecessarily would be to waste the stones they found so valuable.
He wondered if they’d scavenged the ships for the stones he’d brought from Khalakovo. Surely they had. He could see several of the warriors bearing muskets. Even from this distance Styophan could tell they were Anuskayan.
Datha glanced down at Styophan, doing a double-take when he realized Styophan was awake. He unslung a skin of water from around his shoulders and held it up to Styophan’s lips. The act of lifting his head caused Styophan no small amount of pain, but it was manageable, and he was able to drink his fill.
“You’re gutless,” Styophan said in Yrstanlan when Datha pulled the skin away.
Datha bristled. “Watch your tongue.”
“Worthless.”
No sooner had Styophan said this than Datha lashed out and clouted him across the cheek. It was not a particularly hard hit, but with his head wound already throbbing, it made Styophan feel as if his skull were being crushed beneath a wagon wheel.
“Kürad is taking you to Skolohalla. Bahett wished to speak with the one who led the forces of Anuskaya when they came. If you wish for mercy, or any kindness at all for the Aramahn woman or your remaining men, you will watch your tongue. No matter what Bahett has offered, Kürad won’t hesitate to kill them, or you, if you bring further shame on our tribe.”
Styophan had heard of Skolohalla. It was not a place. Rather, it was a meeting, a joining of the various tribes of Hael in one location. They did so at certain times of the year, most often at summer and winter solstice, but this felt different. It felt momentous. They came
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