Asherah rode her black pony through the valley as the snowfall grew
heavier. The clouds hung low, blotting out almost all the dim light
of what was called day here in the very north of the world. She knew
there were other lands, warmer lands where there was bright sun and
no snow lay upon the earth. It had never been given to her to see
those places, and it never would be. Asherah was one of the Karkahd,
the people who dwelled here in the dark. They were charged to always
guard the sacred land where their kings lay buried.
She kept her fur drawn up over her mouth and squinted into the snow.
This was the last part of her regular route, and she would not give
it up because of a little storm. Her horse knew the way, and she was
warm enough. In her left hand she bore one of the torches of eternal
fire – a cast iron and brass handle that was set with a shard of
the burning star that burned and never faded. It lit her way and
gave heat even in this cold place.
Hers was the most remote path, the road that led north out of the
lands inhabited by men and into the forbidden lands. Her way took
her to the very gates of the burial grounds, over the pass and to
where, on a clear day, she could look upon the stone pillars that
marked the border than no man might step across.
She thought of her way home. Soon she would return to the keep and
find warmth and food and her companions. Her mind was occupied with
her thoughts, and then she found the trail. There, through the
drifted snow, lay a wide path, a trail left by many horses along the
pass, and then it turned north to where no one was permitted to go.
Her heart began to beat faster, and she drew rein, looked around her
and saw no other sign, no light and no motion. She drew her saber
and swung down from her horse, pushed through the snow to get a
closer look at the trail. She thrust the pointed tip of her torch
into the ground and bent to examine the tracks. The snow was marked
by the tread of shod horses, and she saw the marks of sled runners.
They were in narrow file, so it was difficult to say how many, but
she guessed at least a dozen horses, perhaps more.
How had anyone come so deep into their lands? The way was guarded
and watched, and riders ranged all along the borders, hunting for the
signs left by would-be grave robbers. Whoever had come this way with
a company of men was a canny trail man, able to elude much searching.
Now they had reached the very heart of the lands guarded by the
Karkahd, and Asherah was alone. Her hands stole inside her coat and
touched the ruby that she wore around her neck. Etched with sigils
and caught in a cage of golden wire, it was an heirloom of her
family.
She stood and looked down the trail, torn between her desire to ride
after them and her desire to go at once for others to help her kill
the intruders. It would take half the day for her to reach the keep,
and then it would be hours to gather whoever was there, arm them, and
lead them back. Some of them might not believe her. The Karkahd had
guarded this land for three hundred years, and never had any raider
come as close as this.
They could surely catch them before they escaped with anything, but
to think of the tombs of the kings desecrated made her blood boil.
Perhaps she could kill them, or drive them off. Arrows could lame
their horses, and if they had a sled she could cripple it. If she
could even destroy their supplies, they would likely starve.
She examined the trail and saw how light the dust of snow was on the
tracks. They had passed this way very recently, and she was not far
behind them. That was what decided her. She shrouded her torch so
the light would not be seen from far off and mounted her horse again.
Grim-faced, she pushed her way north.
o0o
The trail led through the rocky hills and the thick trees that had
never known the axe. With her light shrouded it was harder going,
but she kept on the trail and she kept moving. The snow was heavy
but there was not too much wind, so she listened closely, knowing she
would likely hear them before she saw them. She had a good horn bow
and twenty arrows. From the dark she could strike them down if she
had targets to shoot at. The Karkahd were trained to track and hunt
and fight to the death. To give their lives, if need be, for the
dead.
At the mouth of the valley two great pillars had been raised, stone
piled on stone, carved with skill by artisans brought from kinder
lands. They were wider than trees and as tall as towers, and she saw
them long before she reached them. They were worked with scenes from
the life of their first king. Druan, the Hammer of the North.
Between them was stretched a heavy rope, tapped to keep it proof
against the damp, the ends sealed with molten gold.
When she came in sight of the towers she got down from her horse and
tethered him, took her bow and crept forward to spy out the pass.
Even in the dim light she could see that the rope had been cut, and
the golden seals were gone. The path led straight between the
pillars, and she ground her teeth in rage. Blood would pay for this,
as had been demanded by Druan himself. This land was forbidden, save
for when a new king was interred with his ancestors and his family,
and then only the Karkahd were permitted.
Silent, she crept through the snow, arrow set to the string. The
blowing snow did not slow her, only made her watch carefully, seeking
any sign of men left behind to watch the entrance. It was quiet, so
quiet, and so she heard a rough cough long before she saw the shapes
of the men. They were huddled in the lee of the leftmost pillar,
close around a small fire that was well-banked so it could not be
seen from far off. She saw a shadow move in front of the fire, and
so she knew they were waiting.
Waiting, but not doing a good job of watching. Rather than keep
their eyes on the pass, they were close to their flames, eyes blinded
by the light. Closer, and she saw there were four of them. By this
she knew the intruders were many. A small party would not have left
so many behind. Now she knew they were at least twenty. They were
careless as well, and these men were not of the north, not inured to
the hardships of the cold. They were wrapped and swaddled in heavy
cloth, but not furs, and their weapons were strange. She saw one
bore a short spear with a silver counterweight gleaming in place of
the back spike, and the others wore swords longer and more ornate
than anything she knew.
Strange or not, they would die as easily as any. She sighted across
the fire at the one who sat facing her direction, unaware. He would
be the easiest target, and she could be sure to put one of them down.
She took another arrow from her quiver and held it between her
fingers, for a quick second shot.
She drew, glad of the slight wind, and aimed carefully. He was not
moving much, and she waited for him to lean down, add more wood to
the fire, and when he sat up straight she loosed. Her bowstring,
muffled for hunting, made only a slight sound, and then the arrow
punched through his eye and the point stood out from the back of his
head. He sat up terrible and straight, made no sound, and in the
moment of shock as the others stared, she drew and shot her second
shaft.
She caught the second man just as he reached for his companion, and
her arrow buried itself under his arm. He howled and pitched over,
writhing, and the other two jumped to their feet and kicked the fire
out. They were smart enough for that at least, but she could still
see them well enough. She drew, waited for them to venture out, and
when they did, she loose again, and the third man went down with an
arrow in his chest. His scream echoed, and she cursed. The rest
might hear his caterwauling.
Asherah moved fast. She sheathed her bow in its case, then took her
saber in one hand and her long knife in the other, moved in on the
last man, keeping low and circling in from the left where the pillar
would cover her approach.
It covered him as well, so when she found him, she was almost on top
of him. He saw her blade in the dark and slashed at her, startled.
She ducked back, then lunged in with her sword cutting high. He
parried high and left himself open. He was probably armored under
his heavy clothes, and so she brought her knife up and cut deep on
the inside of his thigh, blood spraying out before the blade was even
clear of the wound.
He went down, gasping for a scream, and she kicked his blade aside
and they stabbed down into his throat, cutting off his cry. The man
with the arrow in his chest was gasping and coughing, but she put a
stop to that with a heavy blow of her sword, taking his head off.
The blood was black in the faded light, and it steamed as it poured
into the snow.
She moved quickly to finish the other wounded man, and then she
cleaned her blades before the blood could freeze to the steel and
ripped her arrows out. It only took a moment to clean them enough to
use, and then she searched the dead men. Under their heavy clothes
they were pale, light-eyed men. They were tall, with long limbs and
big hands. She had never seen men like them. They wore mail armor
under their coats, and the workmanship was very fine. Their swords
were long, meant to be used in two hands, and the hilts were
decorated with gold.
Each man wore a heavy golden pendant under his collar, and she looked
at it, noting the shape of the hand molded on the metal, a symbol in
the palm. She took one, snapping the chain, and she put it in her
pouch.
Enough. She left the bodies and returned to her horse, mounted
quickly. They had not left these men any horses, which meant they
were meant to wait until their companions returned, which meant they
did not intend to stay long. That puzzled her. The valley contained
dozens of royal tombs, many of them filled with splendid treasures.
It would take them a long time to excavate even one, and they would
have to choose one that held what they wanted.
She did not think these men had come all this way with such care
unless they wanted something, and to move quickly and hope to escape
undetected, they had to know what they were looking for, and where it
could be found. That meant she had to move fast if she wanted to be
in time to stop them.
Her horse was tired, as was she, but that did not matter. This was
her duty, the purpose to which her people were sworn. She would die
before she gave up the trail, or allowed them to escape the valley of
the kings without paying with their lives.
o0o
The snow came down heavily, and the sky fires burned above, turning
the clouds to green and pink and gold. Asherah pressed on and
crossed into the valley of the dead. On all sides she saw the
irregular shapes of snow-covered tombs, silent and watchful as
sentinels. She saw the progression of grave-building, from simple
tumulus graves covered over with earth and stones, to great carved
mausoleums, flanked by obelisks and guarded by beast-faced statues
that roared silent into the eternal dark. The trail led past them
all, and her anger and her apprehension mounted as she followed it
deeper into the valley, until she saw lights ahead and hunkered down
in the saddle, peering ahead, to the center of the necropolis.
She had suspected this was why they came, for what tomb was grander
or steeped with greater legend than the resting place of Druan
himself? Here was the great mound, covered over with stone and
ringed by spears driven into the earth. Every thirteen moons they
returned to this place and thrust fresh spears into the soil, so the
grave was always surrounded by a hedge of iron points, the hafts
slowly rotting away from water and ice and wind, leaving the ground
stained with rust and treacherous with dagger points.
Asherah came down from her horse and crept ahead, hid in the lee of
an ancient wall that had stood since before memory, and she looked on
a scene of utter blasphemy. There were more than twenty horses,
along with mules and sleds of tools and supplies. She counted at
least fifteen men, all of them armed and of the same tall,
well-wrapped kind as those she had slain. They were not men of the
north, that was plain. They had come from some foreign land to
plunder the tomb of Druan, the first and greatest emperor, the
conqueror of all lands. She ground her teeth and drew her bow from
its case. She would not permit that to happen.
She saw no digging, and no tools nor slaves to wield them. She
wondered what they expected to accomplish with bare hands. But then
a distinct figure stepped forward, and Asherah saw this was a man
unlike the rest. He was taller, and when he cast back his hood, she
saw he had sallow skin and a thin, vulpine aspect. His hair was a
single scalp lock tied in a long braid, and his eyes were darkened
with some dye or tattoo, so they seemed hollow, like the sockets of a
skull.
He seemed to have to fear of the cold, and she saw him hold up his
arms and gesture strangely, heard his voice lifted in a strange
chant. She wondered if, perhaps, these men had come to do homage to
the Emperor, to revere him as a god, as some of the peoples of the
southlands were said to do. The matter was not so serious if that
was why they came. They still must die, but they would not defile
the grave itself.
The earth shuddered beneath her, and Asherah clung to the rocks as
she stared, unbelieving. The hands of the chanter glowed, and the
air around him seemed to come alive as if at some incandescent flame.
A light blazed on the mound of the tomb, as if shining up from
beneath the stones, and then the very earth tore itself open.
Asherah gasped in horrified shock as the burial mound erupted as from
within, exposing the blackness of the interior like an open maw. It
looked so like a wound that she expected to see blood, as though the
flesh of the earth would rip and bleed like her own.
She felt cold with outrage and fear. A sorcerer! That changed
everything, and now that the tomb was open, she must do everything
she could do. She rolled over the wall and crept closer, flitting
from cover to cover until she was close enough to shoot without fear
of missing. The wind was soft but unpredictable, and she wanted to
be sure of her kills.
The wizard would be first, and then the rest, until she could placate
the spirit of the Emperor with the blood of the defilers poured out
upon the soil and their heads impaled on the spears that guarded his
tomb. She drew and sighted, aiming for the deadly spot behind his
ear. She breathed deep, calmed her racing heart, and then loosed.
He turned, as if he heard the sound, turned to look her direction,
and the arrow plowed into his right eye and ripped through the side
of his socket, cracking the bone with a sound that carried. He
screamed and clapped a hand to the wound, fell over into the snow,
and then Asherah drew another arrow and loosed a rain of steel upon
her enemies.
She fired as quickly as she could, and three of them fell with arrows
embedded in them before the rest could scramble for cover. Some of
them hid inside the tomb, and that infuriated her even more. She saw
the sorcerer rise, staggering and wounded, and she drew aim on him
again. This time, she would put a shaft through his heart.
The arrow struck her left arm like the blow of a hammer, and she fell
into the snow, spitting and cursing. The shaft was clean through the
muscle of her upper arm, painful and bleeding, and she hissed as she
snapped the point off and pulled the shaft from her flesh. The wound
would not stop her, but now she knew another archer was watching for
her, and that changed everything.
She rolled left and crawled low through the snow, staying behind the
rocks. She shoved her bow back in its case and instead drew her
saber. She would not be able to shoot accurately now; now it would
be blade work. She drew her dagger with her left arm and winced. It
hurt, but she would not let it stop her.
There was shouting, and the sounds of men running through the snow.
She heard a voice lifted, calling in a language she did not know.
She slipped along the ridge and pressed close to a tree, peered
around and then heard a twig snap. There she saw a dark shape, bow
ready, creeping low toward where she had been, and she smiled through
gritted teeth.
The hunter stalked closer, and she leaped. He must have seen the
motion in the corner of his eye, because he had time to parry her
sword-stroke with his bow, though her steel notched the stave and cut
the string. She slashed low with her dagger and he had to jump away
to escape. Then she saw his face, and shock fell on her like a blow.
His face was tattooed as was hers – the marks of the Karkahd.
That was how this force of interlopers had made their way so deep
into the forbidden lands without being spotted. They were led by one
of her own brethren. He was marked as of the clan of Sultai, the
guardians of the west, while her line was descended from Arun, the
guards of the east. She did not know his face, but how could one of
the chosen aid a desecration like this?
He swept out his own sword, and they fought, there in the shadows.
Steel rang on steel, and he took his knife in hand and they dueled
edge to edge. Her left arm, wounded, was weakened, and he forced
past her guard and cut her shoulder, slashed a line up her cheek, and
then lights came as the other warriors closed on the sound of battle.
She could not fight them all, not like this. Desperate, she flung
her knife in his face and when he ducked back she struck furiously
and cut off his left hand. He howled and blood splashed the snow,
and then she reeled away as more warriors rushed in with their
lanterns held high.
Halfway up the slope, under the trees, she turned at bay. With both
hands on her sword hilt she met four of them in a storm of steel
edges. They thrust at her with their short spears, slashed with
their long swords. They were hampered by their heavy clothes and by
the lanterns they carried. She evaded the stroke of a spear and
struck at the lantern, shattering it so that burning oil spilled over
the man. He screamed and staggered away, but even then another spear
pierced her thigh and she fell. Even as her leg folded, she struck
back with venomous speed, and her sword bit through his mail and
slashed open his chest.
Asherah forced herself to her feet and retreated, hearing shouts as
more men came. Two swordsmen engaged her, pressing her as she backed
up the slope, her wounded leg all but failing with every step. One
of them overextended and she slashed open his throat, sent his
bleeding body sliding down the slope with a red trail in the snow,
and then she stumbled over a rock and the other swordsman cut her
head with a quick blow and sent her tumbling down the reverse of the
ridge, rolling in the snow.
She held grimly to her sword, and at the bottom she found she was
half blind with blood. Every instinct roared for her to go back and
kill as many as she could, but with a Karkahd betrayal, it was much
more serious. She could not kill them all, not against a sorcerer
and one trained as she was trained. She had to get back to the keep
and gather help. Her wounds would tell her tale.
Desperate and anguished, she turned from the tomb and staggered for
her horse, clawing blood from her face as it ran over her eyes and
froze in place. The snow was coming down thicker than ever, and it
made it harder to see, even as it protected her from pursuit. She
bore no light to betray her path in the dark. She staggered through
the trees to where her horse was tethered, and she dragged herself
into the saddle. Already she felt cold seeping into her limbs from
the lost blood, and she cursed death. She gave a last look back, and
offered up a prayer to the ghost of the Emperor, asking him to
forgive her, and promising that she would return. She would avenge
this outrage.
She heard voices coming through the snow, and she snarled and turned
her horse toward home. She leaned low and held on and gave him his
head. He knew the way and would bring her to the keep. All she had
to do was stay alive.
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