Such people frightened Rint. Were they even capable of anger? Did they not feel indignation? Did they not take offence?
He tossed the bucket out to the end of the rope knotted about its handles, watched as it settled and filled. The pull on his arms was solid as he drew against the weight.
Draconus had reached the rise and was staring out to the west, where the sun had lost all its shape in a welter of red upon the horizon. Moments later he raised one gauntleted hand.
Rint pulled the bucket up in a slosh of water and set it down on the bank, his heart suddenly thudding heavy as a drum. He watched as Draconus turned about and made his way back down to the river. He waded across and was met by Raskan. A few words were exchanged and then the Lord moved on, leaving the sergeant to stare after him.
Someone is coming. From the west. Someone… expected.
Feren came down to his side, her moccasin-clad feet crunching on the rounded pebbles of the bank. ‘You saw?’
He nodded.
‘Who might it be, I wonder?’
‘I would not think a Jaghut,’ Rint replied. ‘Who then? Azathanai?’ He saw her glance back at the camp, followed her gaze. ‘Do you fear for the boy now? What is he to all of this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You did what was asked of you, Feren. He will have expectations.’
She shot him a hard look. ‘And is he nothing more than a damned pup to be brought to heel?’
‘You are the only one who can answer that,’ he retorted.
‘You are a man. Of this, you understand nothing.’
‘I don’t? How old would the boy have been by now? Same as Arathan, or close enough.’ He saw the effect of his words, like blades crossing her face, and it sickened him. ‘Sister, I am sorry.’
But her eyes had gone flat. ‘Children die. A mother gets over it, as she must.’
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Such people frightened Rint. Were they even capable of anger? Did they not feel indignation? Did they not take offence?
He tossed the bucket out to the end of the rope knotted about its handles, watched as it settled and filled. The pull on his arms was solid as he drew against the weight.
Draconus had reached the rise and was staring out to the west, where the sun had lost all its shape in a welter of red upon the horizon. Moments later he raised one gauntleted hand.
Rint pulled the bucket up in a slosh of water and set it down on the bank, his heart suddenly thudding heavy as a drum. He watched as Draconus turned about and made his way back down to the river. He waded across and was met by Raskan. A few words were exchanged and then the Lord moved on, leaving the sergeant to stare after him.
Someone is coming. From the west. Someone… expected.
Feren came down to his side, her moccasin-clad feet crunching on the rounded pebbles of the bank. ‘You saw?’
He nodded.
‘Who might it be, I wonder?’
‘I would not think a Jaghut,’ Rint replied. ‘Who then? Azathanai?’ He saw her glance back at the camp, followed her gaze. ‘Do you fear for the boy now? What is he to all of this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You did what was asked of you, Feren. He will have expectations.’
She shot him a hard look. ‘And is he nothing more than a damned pup to be brought to heel?’
‘You are the only one who can answer that,’ he retorted.
‘You are a man. Of this, you understand nothing.’
‘I don’t? How old would the boy have been by now? Same as Arathan, or close enough.’ He saw the effect of his words, like blades crossing her face, and it sickened him. ‘Sister, I am sorry.’
But her eyes had gone flat. ‘Children die. A mother gets over it, as she must.’
‘Feren-’
‘The failure was his father’s, not mine.’
‘I know. I did not mean-’
‘Grief led his hand to the knife. Selfishness sank it into his own heart.’
‘Feren.’
‘He abandoned me when I needed him the most. I learned from that, brother. I learned well.’
‘Arathan is not-’
‘I know that! Is it me who’s been chewing dead meat all afternoon? Am I the one worked into a black rage? I had a son. He died. I had a husband. He is dead, too. And I have a brother, who thinks he knows me, but all he knows is a sister he has invented — go to her again, Rint. She’s easy to find. Bound to the chains inside your head.’ She lifted a hand as if to strike him and he steeled himself against the blow, but it never came, and moments later she was walking back to the fire.
He wanted to weep. Instead, he cursed himself for being a fool.
A figure appeared at the rise on the other side of the river. Massive, towering, clad in thick plates of leather armour, a clutch of spears balanced over one shoulder, a heavy sack held in one hand. His head was bare, his hair unbound and lit like fiery blood in the glare of the setting sun. He paused for a moment and then lumbered his way down to the ford.
And Rint knew this Azathanai, though he had never seen him before.
The lone warrior among the Azathanai. The one known as Protector. Though whom he has fought is a question I cannot answer. Thel Akai halfblood, mate to Kilmandaros.
This is Grizzin Farl.
The water barely breached his heavy boots.
‘Draconus!’ he bellowed. ‘Is this how you hide from all the world? Ha, I had not believed the tales — now see me for the fat fool I am! But look, I have ale!’
He came among them like a man with nothing to fear and nothing to lose, and only much later — years later — did Arathan come to understand how each fed the other and could in turn fashion sentiments of both admiration and great pity. But with his arrival in the camp, it was as if a giant had descended from some lofty mountain crag, down from some wind-whipped keep with echoing halls and frost at the foot of wooden doors. Its master had grown weary of the solitude and now sought company.
There are those from whom pleasure exudes, heady as ale fumes, inviting as the warmth of a fire on a cold night. They encourage amusement with but a glance, as if jests fill the world and the company they share cannot help but fall into that welcoming embrace.
The Azathanai named himself Grizzin Farl, and he did not wait for Draconus to introduce him to the others; instead walking to each in turn. Raskan, Rint, and then Arathan, and when his hand clasped Arathan’s wrist the nest of wrinkles bracketing the giant’s eyes sharpened and he said, ‘A sword-wielder’s forearm, that. Your father has not been careless in preparing you for the life ahead. You are Arathan, inconvenient son of Draconus, lost child to a grieving mother. Will it be this hand I now hold that sends the knife into your father’s back? So he fears, and what father wouldn’t?’