Under A Colder Sun (Khale the Wanderer Book 1) (7 page)

Leste stood before the decrepit doorway that led into the Church of Four. The church building was a rude structure of recovered stone, the windows patched with woven straw and dried moss. No light was permitted in the Church, save that which the Fathers and Brothers fostered within its dank walls. Dark and desolate, it towered over all other buildings in its district—bequeathed to the Church by the King in return for their support of his claim to the throne.

She had spent most of the day angrily walking the streets of Colm. The men and women of the Watch nodded their greetings but she could see they were all thinking of Murtagh’s orders. Their eyes were wary and guarded. Their gestures to her were tight and ready, in case she tried to strike them.

Leste performed the four bows out of habit more than faith. She had always felt a disquiet about the Church and its malnourished denizens with their black robes and bowed heads. Whenever their faces were shown, they were solemn and pale, and their gaze turned inward, lost and despairing. They reminded Leste too much of the world outside the walls of Colm: a world that was gradually creeping in through those walls, dulling the thoughts and tainting the lives of those who lived here.

She had an idea that the Church existed only to perpetuate the world’s misery, to tie people to it, rather than to ease the pain of those in suffering and to drive away the cold.

Still, she had been brought up in the Shadows of the Four, like every child in Colm, and, for once, she hoped they would hear her prayer, bless her journey as it lay ahead, and curse the enemy she pursued.

Leste crossed the threshold and waited for her eyes to adjust to the scented gloom inside. She could see people kneeling before each of the four idols, presenting the gifts demanded by each of the Four. To Murtuva: a fresh kill. To Chuma: a token of decay. To Voyane: blood drawn by another’s hand. To Mirane: an offering of food and nourishment. Leste grimaced at the smell of the offerings left for Chuma, and the humming song of the flies attracted to the small, dead things at the base of Murtuva’s idol.

Each of the idols was veiled; none but the Fathers of the Church were permitted to look upon them. It was said that eyes of the sculptors who carved them had been cut out and their fingers severed after the work was done.

Sisters and Brothers moved around the prostrate and the weeping, whispering words that sounded as chastising as they were encouraging. One of the pale, black-clad creatures approached her, fixing a vacant stare upon her. She was unsure, at first, whether it was man or woman.

“Do you wish to pray and make offering, daughter?”

They were all shorn of hair when they took their vows and observed the sacraments of the Four. Their bodies steadily shrank to skeletal proportions as they fasted repeatedly, and few made it past their fiftieth year; those who did were whispered to be mages harboured by the Church.

“I have no offering to make. I only wish to pray.”

“Without offering, not one of the Four will listen. What is the substance of your prayer?”

“I have a journey ahead. An enemy to overtake. A child to rescue and return home.”

“Then your offering should be made to Voyane. Blood drawn by another’s hand. Fear not,” the trembling creature said. “I have a knife.”

Leste flinched at the notched blade the Brother drew from the folds of his cloak, and at the way he stroked it, caressed it, and looked eager to put it to use. She let him lead her by the hand to the foot of the idol raised in honour of Voyane.

“Make your bows, my child.”

And she did.

“Now, give me your hand.”

And she did.

“Please, try not to scream.”

He cut across her palm with a swift stroke. She did not scream. She felt time grow long as the pain passed through her body, making her nerves sing and her brain ache. She swallowed the pain, only opening her mouth to let out a few ragged breaths. Leste looked to the Brother and saw how his moist eyes adored the wound he had made.

“You have given of your blood, daughter. Now, make your prayer to Voyane, for she has tasted of you and is now listening.”

Clenching her hands into fists, keeping her head bowed, Leste made her prayer.

Voyane, Blood-Creator, hear my words and seal my oath with this blood spilt. I ride against a great enemy. Give me strength to match his strength. Cunning to match his cunning. Will to strike against his will. In your name will I bring an end to his life and thus my oath will be served and this blood unbound. Murta ashe vey.

“She has heard you,” said the Brother. “I feel it in my blood and bones.”

Leste rose to her feet and left, not sparing a glance or a word for the twisted man. There were stories about the Fathers and Brothers—about how they preached strength yet practiced the worst kinds of weakness. She had seen it in his eyes when he cut her hand.

Truly, what good had visiting that rancid place with its whimpering souls done her?

She sighed, and realised she was still clenching her hands into fists. She relaxed her fingers, only to stifle a cry at what she saw on her palm, or rather what she did not see. There was no more blood. The wound was a ridged scar stretching across her palm, as if it had been there for many years. It neither ached, nor throbbed as she flexed her fingers and made a fist again.

Her disquiet with the Church and its Gods grew all the more.

*

Leste went home to prepare for the journey. Despite what Murtagh had said, there was a way out that she could try to use. It would be guarded—she had no illusions about that—but she had to try. She loved Murtagh; however, he did not understand what this meant to her.

It was night and dark in the house. She had crept in unshod so as to gather her things quickly and quietly before leaving the city. If she was swift, she was sure that she could pick up the trail and bring Milanda back. Khale might have used magic to escape, but he could not have travelled far if his destination was to be Neprokhodymh.

As she turned to leave, Leste felt eyes on her back. She heard a familiar mouth breathe in sharply.

“I have to go, Yrena,” she said, turning to face her lover.

The words were scarcely out of Leste’s mouth before she saw the pain spreading as dark lines across the older woman’s face.

They had been together for three years. She had been the widow of Murtagh’s last sergeant, Oman, and it was out of respect for his memory that no-one in Colm told too many tales, or spat at them in the street. Yrena was handsome, with fine grey hair and a noble woman’s bearing, though she did not have the breeding.

“No, you don’t have to go,” Yrena said with tears in her eyes. “Am I to lose Oman first and now you also? This is not about what you have to do. You just think you have to do this when really you do not.”

“You don’t understand, Yrena.”

“No. I don’t. I don’t understand why we are so little to you. Why your duty is so much more. You said that you love me. I said that I love you. The boy asleep in the other room loves us both. Why would you leave us behind to die alone in a far-off place?”

“I won’t die, Yrena.”

“Yes, you will. You will die, or become lost to me. Oman said the same words to me, don’t you understand? You think because you’re young that this is the first time, that it’s a sacred mission, a hero’s quest and only you can do it, no-one else. Leste, there are no more heroes, and there never were many to begin with. You are riding towards pain and death, not hope and glory. You want hope? It is here in this house with me. You want glory? Do you not remember the nights we’ve spent together—is that not enough for you? See this? Here is my hand.
Feel it!
It is warm. It is as real as my love. It is as real as the feelings in my heart. What you are fighting for, these things are not real. They are the dreams of men, and you are a woman. Why do you have need of them? You only think they are real because that is what you have been told all your life by Murtagh.”

Leste wound her fingers through those of Yrena. The older woman felt so fragile, her skin looked pale and translucent as a moon-butterfly’s wings. No tears fell from Yrena’s eyes; her pain and fear was all held in her face and voice.

Leste wanted to open her lips and say that she would return, and that this was just something she had to do. But she couldn’t. She could not be the poison in the wound. She let Yrena’s hand go. They went to bed together and spent long hours sweating and moaning in each other’s arms, until they were both well spent. The next morning, while Yrena slept, Leste set off in pursuit of Khale.

Chapter Eleven

Leste came to the Pig Gate before dawn and saw, as Murtagh had promised, that it was guarded.

The Pig Gate was small, not much higher than the door of a poorhouse. It was the gate used by the destitute, by vagabonds and thieves, to get into and out of the city. The other gates could not be opened by one person alone – but this one could.

No-one remembered the original, intended purpose of the Pig Gate. The North Gate was called the Marching Gate, as it opened onto the Kingsway that led to the foot of the earthwork hill and the castle’s bailey. The West and East Gates were called the Barneth and Farness Gates, as they each opened onto borderlands of the neighbouring Small Kingdoms. The South Gate was the Keth Gate, as the river that fed into the moat around the castle ran beneath it. The Pig Gate was the Pig Gate, and no-one knew why it was there.

The Pig District reeked of human waste. There were no houses, only hovels made from old stone and worm-eaten wood, which were crushed together, many on the verge of collapsing into their neighbours.

A storm could lay this entire district low
, Leste thought, as she rode through it. Her horse’s hooves were quickly coated in the district’s leavings. The gutters were overflowing, making the narrow roadways and alleys into gutters themselves, through which the poor of Colm waded ankle-deep. The fumes issuing from the crudely-cut smoke-holes in the hovels smelled no better than the district itself. Smoke hung over the area like a faecal fog, and made Leste gag and cough. She had not often crossed into the Pig District, for there was little to steal here and its people were too broken by life to murder or to fight much. There were no taverns, just the occasional hovel, usually dirtier and more smoke-clogged than the rest, with shadowy forms clustered inside to drink barely-fermented beer.

The district was the one route to the Pig Gate, and when Leste came to the gate itself, she saw that it was guarded by Hethe—one of the oldest and most grizzled men in the Watch. Murtagh must have known she would try to leave Colm this way. He had not trusted it to one of the young.

Hethe saw her and raised his halberd to bar her way.

“No further, Leste, or I run your horse through and drag you back to the cells.”

Leste made no reply to his words. She tugged on the horse’s reins, bringing him to a halt, and then dismounted. Her eyes never left Hethe as she drew her sword from its scabbard and faced him.

“You don’t need to do this, Leste. You are a sister of the Watch. I am your brother. If I draw your blood—”

“What makes you so sure that you will, brother?”

Hethe’s brow furrowed and his eyes glinted. “Sister,” he said, coldly, “if you come at me with sword drawn, I will defend myself. I will not let you pass.”

Leste nodded and stepped forward, her sword readied. “Guard yourself, brother.”

“Very well, sister.” Hethe rested his halberd against the rotten timbers of the Pig Gate and drew his sword. “Guard yourself well.”

Leste waited and so did he, neither making a move for some minutes. Then, Leste stepped forward and feinted with her blade. Hethe saw her eyes move and her shoulders relax, and he parried the slash that she made. The flat of his sword scraped against the edge of hers, dulling and notching the blade. She cursed and backed away as Hethe made a riposte that would have cut her sword arm open.

Her horse snorted and stamped. Leste parried a lunge and thrust from Hethe. His eyes never left her, and she could not read him as well as she wanted to. The tension in his muscles ebbed and flowed, not telling her how he was going to strike next. He was as old as Murtagh and knew how to fight. When he slashed, he turned his blade as she parried him, so that it did not lose too much edge. He turned a parry into a riposte with a flick of his wrist, forcing Leste to move swiftly or lose a calf. Her responses to him became tired and slow. Her breath caught sharply in her throat and tasted of copper.

“Do you yield, sister?” he shouted, as he hammered her blade’s poor swing aside with the flat of his own.

Leste shook her head. Her mouth was dry, and her arms, weak.

“Yield, Leste,” Hethe said. “I will not ask again.”

Leste held her ground and pushed him back with a lunge driven more by force than skill. Hethe stumbled in the muck and his sword slashed out, lightly cutting the neck of Leste’s steed. The horse snorted, whinnied, and reared.

Despite herself, Leste screamed, “
No!
”

The horse lashed out, one hoof taking Hethe in the face and the other striking him hard in the chest. His sword fell from his hands as he crumpled to the ground. Leste grabbed at the reins, pulling the snorting animal down to earth. She held it hard with one hand as she stroked its withers and neck. She pressed her own face against the steed, letting her breathing quicken in time with the horse’s and then slow. The creature’s muscles pushed against her, but she held on and continued her slow breathing until she felt the horse’s breaths begin to match her own. Eventually, she felt able to let the reins loosen, and the horse rumbled softly to itself, the tension passing out of its body.

She then went to Hethe, where he had fallen in the filth, and knelt beside him. But there was nothing to say or to do. He was already gone. His skull was broken and a pulp of blood and soft matter bulged from the wound. His chest was sunken and loose where the horse had kicked him. There was nothing to be done.