In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Althalos

Four days into the ride back to Laternas, Althalos was back in a saddle. He had smiled ironically as he had noted that the gray horse was that of his last lieutenant, the man he had killed in the camp. As he thought of the man, his mind turned to Modred, or rather Sir Modred, as he had been corrected dozens of times by the men of his newfound patrol. Over the next few days he managed to coax the history of his unexpected saviour out of one of his men, Rinc.

“So why did you lot bring me back, instead of just finishing me off?”
Delighted by the effect his words had on the mean around him, the response was some time in coming, and even then it was in spluttering indignation.
“What? We never! How did you know?”
“Do not worry, I do not blame you. I think it may even have been better if...” Althalos trailed off, angry at his self-pity.
“In any case, it’s none of us you have to thank, it’s him,” said Rinc gruffly, nodding ahead to Modred.
“Really? Why? Who is he?”

Rinc shrugged and Althalos feared he might not answer but he did receive a reply eventually, if somewhat grudgingly.

“He is some minor noble, only a knight, second son of some house from the northern border. He was sent when he was eight to an academy in Laternas though, and squired for the Colonel before his induction.”
“Ah right; the Lord of the Wessex Marches.”

Laughing, the soldier shoke his head, “no not yet at least. Anyway Sir Modred could easily rise as high someday, if not higher. He is only young; twenty summers, but he’s clever, you know?” Althalos did not but nodded all the same.
They rode in silence, until Althalos piped up again.“What about you, Rinc? Where did you grow up?”

Taken slightly aback, Rinc didn’t answer immediately. “...Me? I grew up a gutter rat in Laternas. My father was a baker right near the outer wall. I was poor my entire childhood, lied about my age when I was fourteen and enlisted, and here I am, ten years later.”

Althalos was shocked; the man before him did not look twenty-four, he looked nearer thirty-four. “Seen much action?”

“Only really the Migrations, I was too young for the Cantari Schism.” Nodding in understanding, he realised that he must have been thrust into action as soon as he had enlisted, and had entirely missed the period of peace between the Schism and the beginning of the Migrations. Once again to two lapsed into silence, although it was different. Instead of the usual hostile silence, it was now more amicable, as if they might grow to be friends.
***
Katja

“At least bring it up with him!” Her pride did not quite allow her to beg, but this was as close as she had ever got to it.
“I don’t see why I should. A battlefield is not a woman’s place, as it is not your place to be questioning by decision.” Valdemar looked at her with disdain, she realised it was also to some extent an appraisal. She was used to such, as she was to the disdain. Previously she had been forced to ignore it.

Tonight however, with her losses still raw, she was only growing angry. In the midst of the fire and blood of the camp, she had watched her younger sister cut down by one of the Laternae monsters as she had tried to run. Later, when she had been confronted by a dismounted soldier, he had not moved to attack. It had seemed that his view of women was similar to Valdemar’s. The look in his eye had been a lot more predatory however.

Right up until the moment she had driven her knife into it.

Taken by surprise, he had died very quickly, dropping quietly to the floor. Dispassionately, she had knelt down to retrieve it before rising again and stalking towards the eastern edge of the camp. She had considered going back to find her sister but had quelled that instinct, deciding that she would likely be more able to avenge her if she escaped.

Realising that Valdemar was still looking at her, she spoke up again.
“Tell him that we want to take part.” Sneering at her, Valdemar replied in a similar fashion.
“No, I see no reason to waste his – “
He was interrupted as Katja slapped him.
The blow was open-handed, and she had put her shoulder into it. Valdemar’s head snapped round with the force of it.

When he turned back to her, Katja really thought he might hit her, however much it might dishonour him. She braced herself, lifting her chin to stare him in the eye. As she did so, she saw something new in his gaze. Could it be?
She had no opportunity to look again however, for he was gone without another word. Just for a moment, it looked as though a glimmer of respect had entered his face.

A few nights later, Valdemar returned to her, approaching after they had snatched a few hours sleep. Leaping to her feet, he held his hands up, a gesture to calm her.
“I talked to her about it, he said you should go to him yourself.”
“Thank you, thank you so much.” Her composure slipped for a moment before she clamped down on her emotions, and her self-discipline reasserted itself.

“My thanks, Valdemar.” Nodding to him, she turned, falling in with the other refugees. The next half hour was spent wondering how to approach Ingvarr. She knew nothing of him, beyond the fact that he was a Forerunner. That much was obvious. As a woman she knew very little about Forerunners; they were not part of her education. All she knew was owed to myths of his kind. The first Forerunners had led her people south from the mountains and into the Wastes. Since that event, they had performed purely defensive duties, protecting their borders and settlements against encroachments. She had heard the old stories of the first heroic Forerunners. There had been a mere handful, but they had led the move south, fighting ferociously against the human tribes, and eventually leading to the settlement of the Wastes. As such, their names had been passed down with reverence by each generation. The names Alarik, Einar, Ivar, Mathias and Osker were names of irrevocable power and honour, and each generation saw scores of new incarnations of these heroes.

She had no idea how to broach the topic with Ingvarr, as she had no idea how to relate to him. Eventually she just decided to grit her teeth and do it, no matter how uncomfortable and potentially awkward it would be.

Approaching as quietly as she could, she was struck for the first time by just how enormous the man was. Tall, almost to the extent of ridicule, massive shoulders, and a hugely wide chest tapered to a narrower waist. Below this, he had monstrous thighs, well-suited for riding. At some unknown sound, he turned to face her. As his face was illuminated by moonlight, she got a good view of it. He had mid-length brown hair, as well as short stubble of the same colour. Dark eyes were set on a plain face with a nose which was perhaps larger than usual. He was wearing a boiled leather breastplate, with evidence of a grimy, tattered shirt poking out at his waist and under his arms. A vicious-looking half-moon axe hung from a belt loop. The handle swung down his leg, brushing the rough-spun trousers which ended in worn, ankle-high leather boots.

The sight of him, tall and imperious, stirred something inside her, although she could not quite work out what. No matter, she would figure it out later.
As she came closer, Katja forgot her timidity and launched into her argument.
***
Ingvarr

When he rose three hours  later to wake the others, Ingvarr scarcely noticed the cramp which tightened his limbs. He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed the approach of Valdemar.
“Forerunner, I have spoken to the others. The other men from my group wish to join you, as do three from the other.”

Here he hesitated, unsure whether to go on, “...there have been requests from some of the women to take part as well...I told them that I would tell you, but that they should not be too hopeful...”

As he faded, Ingvarr considered. Would women really be much weaker than men? Certainly they would not be accepted in any sort of command role, at least not initially. The concept of command would be difficult enough to accept for the Ethernath without it being a woman they had to accept it from. For women to be involved in battle, they would have to train much harder. Maybe all-women units would be the answer? Then men wouldn’t be involved, and there could be a development of specialist units. Realising he hadn’t spoken for a while, he mentally shook himself, looking down at Valdemar.

“No, no, you were right to tell me. I am glad we have so many of the men, and send those women who are interested to me.” As they broke camp, the group moved out into the open, where immediately they began to be buffeted by the wind. Ducking his head into the wind, Ingvarr gathered his cloak around him more tightly, and set off eastwards, the others following behind, with Fyodor once again bringing up the rear.

A few days later, while the weary column was trudging through the glaring sunlight, and the wind had died down somewhat, Ingvarr heard the approach of someone from behind. Turning, he saw a fierce looking woman approaching. Startlingly clear blue eyes were set above high, prominent cheekbones, and such blonde hair that it was nearly silver streamed out behind her. The way the wind playfully flicked her hair out combined with the sparkling determination present in her brilliantly blue eyes served to create a somewhat frightening image.

“I was ordered by Valdemar to talk to you concerning our future role. He said not to be too hopeful though. Why not? Are we really any less able than you? We still die just the same.” Ingvarr for one of the few times in his life was stunned, to such an extent that he was rendered temporarily speechless. The woman’s obvious beauty, coupled with her straightforwardness which was bordering on rude had caught him off guard. He had been too long on the outskirts of his society, meaning his image of the women of the tribes was somewhat outdated, by the definition before him at any rate.

According to what he had been taught as a child, and indeed what every Ethernath child was taught, women were to provide and look after children, while organising the household; that was their domain. Men were to provide for and protect the household, with the emphasis more on provision: the Ethernath were by nature a peaceful people, forced by circumstance to take up arms.

The Forerunners did not really fit anywhere into society; they were by definition loners. Their duty was to watch over the borders of the Ethernath territories and increasingly to protect the Migrations west, acting as both the vanguard in the West and the rearguard in the East, fighting to slow the Enemy.  They were regarded with respect by others of the tribes, and acted with a constant vigilance as sentinels, chosen from birth; marked out by the Gods by their sheer size.
The image that Ingvarr had of women was one of meekness and obedience, and yet here was one staring him full in the face, her defiance plain.
“Well?” Impatient with his silence, the woman made her thoughts clear.
Recovering himself, Ingvarr began to give voice to his thoughts. “I have been thinking since hetman Valdemar raised the issue...”

Here he paused. There would be no going back once he said it, but the woman in front of him was a testament to the conclusion he had reached by himself. “...I would be happy to accept women into the ranks. Of course there will be differences however: women will form their own units, they will be separate to the men.”

Considering his words for a moment, the woman’s joy became clear as she flung herself at him, hugging him around the stomach; as far as she could reach.
Again thrown, Ingvarr wondered at the quicksilver change of temperament. Discipline would certainly be required here. Looking down at the top of her head, he gently prised himself free.
“What is your name? And why do you want to fight so much; war is ugly.” In an instant, the woman’s composure reasserted itself, and the defiant visage once again replaced the joyful one.
“I’m called Katja, and I only want to prove myself equal. I am tired of the men of the tribes being dominant, and bored of being told my life’s work will be to mother children and look after the home.”

Ingvarr nodded his understanding almost mournfully. “Very well, consider yourself hetman Katja and we shall speak more once we reach Sarpsborg and we have opportunity to find horses, and more equipment.
***
Qira

Stalking through the ethereal forests, Qira moved forwards between the trees, fur boots crunching softly on the unpacked snow. The surrounding fir trees were laden with summer snows. Such was typical of northern Cantar, and she was well used to them after eighteen. She had been hunting in these words every summer for the last nine, and so knew them well. As she padded forward, there came a quiet
rustling ahead. A deer appeared; a small doe.

Calmly and silently, Qira slipped an arrow from the quiver over her shoulder, and placed it on the string of her bow. Kneeling behind one of the numerous sparse bushes, she raised her bow, drawing the goose feather fletching back to her ear. In one smooth motion, she straightened her fingers, releasing the bow string.
The arrow slid off the string, darting across the intervening space to take the doe in the throat. She collapsed, blood spurting from the wound. Qira rose to her feet, a wraith rising from the snow, and jogged on lithe, long legs over to the dying animal.
As she did so her cloak, a pale green so light it was nearly white snapped out behind her. The noise startled her: she had not realised just how silent the forest had been. With the sound, a flock of birds exploded from the trees, crashing through branches in their panic to escape. Reaching the still-dying doe, she carefully moved around the spreading pink area of snow, and retrieved her arrow. Having done this, she began to skin the animal with swift, deft strokes.

A practised Cantari hunter could skin a deer this size in just a minute, so Qira was surprised when it took her even half that. Resolving to be faster next time, she began stripping the meat from its bones, butchering the doe. She packed the meat into the small leather bag next to her quiver that she had bought for just such a purpose. The skin she wound around her shoulder, deciding it would make a nice pair of gloves. Storing the tendons in another, smaller bag, she rose, leaving the remains for any other predators of the woods.

Beginning back towards Minglun, and the warmth of home, she set off in a long, loping run. The gait ate up the distance quickly, while not expending too much energy. By nightfall, she had reached the road, but stayed back from it as she huddled up in her cloak for the duration of the hours of darkness. A fire would have been welcome, but also risky.

Although she was well within the borders of Cantar, and the road was patrolled by watchmen, Qira might well have been mistaken for one of the bandits who also frequented the trail. The cold was biting, and she struggled to sleep, but eventually drifted off.

The next morning she woke and got to her feet before the dusting the snow which had settled during the night from herself. Travelling on the road during the day would not be dangerous; she would be able to reveal herself to watchmen, and she was more than capable of defending herself against any bandit bold enough to operate during the day.

She passed a few travellers on the road who were for the most part merchants. They travelled in groups with private hired guards and were generally moving north to trade for fur or lumber in Lipu. She did however also encounter two troops of watchmen. The troops passed her without comment, weary-looking atop their shaggy horses. Dressed head to toe in dark leathers, they each carried long swords at their hips and round shields slung on their backs. Qira had been offered nothing more than cursory glances by the two patrols. With her hood drawn up, and her cloak pulled around her, she was seemingly anonymous. The cloak served to cover her own leathers, so she looked no different to any other hunter.

As the day drew on, and Qira had paused for a midday meal, the city of Minglun appeared on the horizon, perched on the side of a hill. The welcome sight of home spurred her one, and she broke into a jog once again. Night had begun to descend, and torches began to appear at the gates a few miles ahead of her, as well as along the wall at intervals.

Nearing the gate, she broke to a walk around a hundred metres out, unwilling to alarm the gate guards. As she got closer however, there came an enormous grinding and clanking, and the portcullis began to descend. Alarmed, Qira broke into a sprint, and got past just as the bottom-most spikes descended to head height.

The guardsmen standing just inside the gates were shocked to see a lone figure detach itself from the night and hurtle towards the gateway. They were even more startled when the figure reached the safety of the city and dropped the hood of her cloak, shaking out flowing, brunette hair. As she moved into the firelight, Qira received the expected honorific, much to her disgust.
“M’lady, what are...? We weren’t expecting you to...We wouldn’t have dropped the gate. My apologies.”
“Don’t worry, I enjoyed the run.” She flashed the bewildered guardsmen a bright smile, enjoying the confusion and alarm which washed across his features.
Leaving the four open-mouthed guardsmen in her wake, she began up the street towards home. There were a few people on the streets of the capital, but with the gates closed for the night, they were almost exclusively going home. Picking up her pace, she moved up the hill towards the summit.

When she finally reached the next set of gates, night had well and truly descended, and the only light was that given off by the lanterns hung outside the residences on either side of the road. The guards at these gates were dressed differently; a shirt of scales over the top of a leather jerkin similar to her own, with chainmail sleeves that ended in articulated gauntlets. Each guardsman’s legs were protected by overlapping plates down the thigh, and rounded steel greaves below the knee. The hilt of a two-handed sword jutted up over one shoulder, although this was largely for show. At their hips hung a sword and on their arm was a small, round shield. Unlike the guards a city gates, they did not address her, merely nodding as she walked between them.

Entering the main hall, she was unsurprised to find her father was not there. As it was after nightfall, he was likely to be in his study, poring over old scrolls as he was want to do. She knocked on the door when she reached it, and entered without waiting for a response.
“Father, I thought I should let you know I am back.”
She waited patiently as her father slowly turned in his seat, before rising to greet his eldest daughter.

While Lord Kang was now growing old, in his youth he had led the war for independence from the Laternae Republic, with the result that he had led the Cantari people for the last thirty years. His rule was widely regarded as the brightest period in their history. The oldest history was that of the Time of Oppression; the legacy of their Laternae heritage. Following this were the centuries of being shunned and persecuted by their southern neighbours who regarded them as uncivilised savages. The fact that it had come from a war which had lasted a decade was something easily overlooked by the people.
“Excellent, excellent. Have you eaten yet? I can send for something.”
“No, it’s fine. I only want a bath and then bed. I just wanted to tell you.” He nodded and Qira turned to go, realising as she did just how much she stank.

Without stopping anywhere else, she all but ran to her rooms. Once there, she opened the door and went inside, ignoring the guardsman stationed there. Before the door had closed, she had thrown her pack into a corner, carefully propped her bow and quiver against the wall and then unclasped her cloak, letting the pale green material fall to the ground. She left the heap where it was, moving over to her writing table and lighting a few of the candles there. She paused to light a few more around the room, and lit the carefully prepared fire until there was a healthy glow. There came a knock at the door, and upon answering the door Qira was greeted by the sight of three maids carrying two large buckets of water each.
She held open the door to allow them inside, and they all piled into the room, carrying the sloshing buckets carefully across to the tiled area in one corner, where a large copper bathtub sat empty. One by one, the buckets were emptied into the large container, until it had enough water for her to wash in.

The maids asked if Qira would need any assistance, which she politely declined. As soon as they had left, Qira locked the door and continued to strip down, peeling off her leather jerkin to reveal a sweat-stained linen undershirt. The leather trousers soon followed the jerkin into the growing heap near the door. Within moments, she was standing there naked. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was slightly alarmed to see that individual ribs were visible. While the game had been scarce, she had still felt she was eating enough. And yet the form before her was slightly wasted. The muscles in her legs remained as strong and firm as they always had, but higher up, ribs showed through her skin.

Thinking of the sumptuous food to come in the next few days, Qira dismissed her worries, and climbed into the bathtub, lowering herself carefully into the hot water. Compared with the constant cold of the last month, the temperature of the water was wonderful, and Qira silently thanked The Kinsman, the god of hearth and home, for the heat.

For a time, she simply lay back and relaxed into the hot water. Qira felt her eyelids drooping and shook awake, stirring herself to clean off the accumulated dirt and sweat of the last month in the wilderness. First she doused her head under the water, soaking her hair, before cleaning it with some of the strong-smelling soap the maids had left. As soon as she rubbed it into her hair, the woody pine scent permeated the room, but she did not mind. The smell reminded her of the woods, and she felt far more at home among the trees than she ever would in a castle. Quickly, she scrubbed each of her hands clean, before using them to rub the dirt and grease off her legs. After that she quickly cleaned her stomach and chest, before rising out of the bathtub.

Qira sluggishly dried herself, and sat before the fire to rid herself of the remaining droplets of water, before slipping into to some comfortable nightclothes, and falling onto her bed. She did not even get under the covers before she was asleep.
***