Firemoon (3 page)

Linda was one of Maron’s grandchildren and Katja’s age. She was beautiful, intelligent, warm and ladylike and the two of them had formed strong bonds for the last year. It had been painful to see her leave this summer to marry another Shade and so strengthen the secret order’s web of connections. Painful, but unavoidable. That was just the nature of this life.

The problem was that Linda’s husband lived in Pine City.

Katja closed her eyes and thought of the good times with Linda. Normal, calm moments of home and simple friendship which weren’t Katja’s fate but she had still been allowed to enjoy for some time. They had very little in common but that had turned out to be of no consequence.

She hoped nothing would come of this war and that the dispute was merely mud-slinging on a large scale. But the northern noble families, the descendants of Torgeir Stonefoot, were infamous for constant warfare and struggles for power and Pine City would be a fine acquisition for a competitor in that nonsense. The surrounding farmlands were especially bountiful, the harbour was much used and the city controlled an important route. It and Farnar City were the most important connections between the north and the Inner Sea.

Katja tried to convince herself on what the gossip had usually agreed upon: Valdimar wanted a city, not a smoking ruin. He would gain little by slaughtering the citizens if his army took the city. Linda’s husband was not of importance to non-Shades and would not have to go down along with Pine City’s leadership.

But not too long ago a northern army had gone mad after a trying battle and gone berserk on the streets of a city in defiance of their orders. The Red Day, it was called, and was fresh in people’s memories as a great atrocity.

Flee to the countryside, Linda
, Katja thought and looked north.
Flee to the Shades and wait for the storm to pass.

She occasionally looked at Serdra but if the older Redcloak glanced at her in turn it was only when Katja was looking elsewhere.

The woman usually said little that did not relate to Katja’s training to some degree. Nevertheless, Katja felt she had been unusually silent lately. Figuring out Serdra’s feelings was very difficult, both because of how little they showed on the outside and because of Katja’s doubts that they were even comparable to other peoples’.

Just what is it like to reach that age?
she thought yet again and observed her mentor as she stared out at the sea without really seeing it.
To live with violence and constant danger? Knowing she could die tomorrow or in a hundred and thirty-three years more? Mustn’t it be like dangling in mid-air?

They couldn’t discuss their matters around strangers, there was nothing to do on board the ship and the men generally weren’t chatty. So time crawled by and thoughts and worries had room to gnaw her until evening and until morning as the waves made sleep difficult.

Maron had told Raon Jom that they wanted to land by the coastal village Gunevel, but they corrected him in the morning. They wanted to land north of it. Raon protested briefly, stating that there was nothing there, but it made little difference to him what became of them after leaving his ship. He changed course slightly with minor grumbling about indecisive people.

The coast of the Golden Plain replaced the endless sea and Katja again felt the excitement of seeing a new place. She wanted to say something sarcastic about this particular plain being unusually uneven and forested, but she supposed it was difficult to come up with a name that described every corner of a country and the Golden Plain had expanded since the naming.

It took the sailors some time to find a part of the coast they were willing to approach and Katja and Serdra then had to leap into water up to the waist.

“You two are crazy!” Raon said as they rowed away and they waded to shore.

Katja would rather have skipped the sea salt but still found it a good way to freshen up after the immobility on board the ship.

They walked onto dry land to be greeted by a wild, old forest that had grown over an ancient landslide. Serdra found a good tree for climbing and peeked above the treetops, so she could use a certain mountain as a landmark.

The excitement that had bubbled within Katja during the journey took on a different life, now that she could actually move and their destination and all that came with it were near.

Because spread around the world were certain places who were far away from normal traffic and entirely unremarkable, except that with the right codeword those places became the meeting place for all Redcloaks who heard it. On the rare occasions that her people came together news was exchanged, young ones introduced and long-term plans made for the struggle against the darkness harrying this world.

This springs’ events had certainly been newsworthy to the few who knew of them and would probably require certain changes. Serdra had therefore sent out a message and here, in this half-forgotten forest, the meeting would take place.

It was time for Katja to get to know the family a bit. The visit to the Shades would come afterwards.

She hopped lightly in place while Serdra climbed back down. She was excited to head on, even if only to release her nervous energy somehow.

Serdra watched her and it suddenly occurred to Katja that perhaps her silence for the last few days was her version of tension before this meeting.

“Is there something in my face?” Katja asked and smirked.

“Stress,” Serdra said, and headed into the forest. Katja ran after her.

“Not stress! Just excitement!”

She caught up with Serdra and they walked side-by-side through wild, difficult foliage.

“What about you?” she asked somewhat more seriously. “What goes through the mind of an old warhorse at such a reunion? Are you excited to meet... kinfolk?”

“It is always useful to meet one of our people,” the woman replied and looked straight ahead. “We usually work fairly independently but it is still good to coordinate with others about who should guard which territories and hear how thing go in other parts of the world.”

“So upon graduation I must travel according to the wishes of the old timers?”

“There are no penalties for defying the will of the elders,” Serdra said. “We need everyone, even malcontents. But the elders...” Serdra looked skywards and was silent for a few moments. “They have experienced centuries of battle and learned from those who experienced the centuries before them. They have overview over the eternal conflict itself.”

Serdra looked at her and Katja saw that she was to pay heed to her mentor’s next words.

“Keep in mind Katja, that to the older ones the Silent War, this secret conflict we have waged since the fall of Jukiala, is merely a chapter. I have experienced nothing else but perhaps one day I will, if I live long enough. The framework changes over the ages but the core always remains the same.”

“I... understand,” Katja said, though she didn’t really trust herself to process all of this.

“You must be able to think independently, but do still mind the words of the elders before you go against their instructions.”

Katja kept quiet as they clambered over several dead trees and the silence stretched. She couldn’t think of anything to add and began to think Serdra had finished.

“I am joining those ranks, Katja,” she then said and stroked her white and brown hair.

A Redcloak’s only sign of ageing was the white colour that began to come into the hair after the first century. Serdra had said her own hair would probably turn completely white after about twenty years.

“Gradually, yes,” Katja said. “Are you going to invite me to the feast when the last brown hairs vanish? Isn’t there some celebration, once you get to take part in decisions?”

“It is not about colour, but wisdom,” Serdra said.

“And how does one prove one’s wisdom?”“Training a youngster well is always a good ratification.”

Katja stopped.

“Oh,” she said. “Are you going to tell me to show the oldies what I can do?”

“No Katja,” Serdra said and looked at her with rare emotion in her eyes. “My skills as a teacher will tell by whether you survive the coming years.”

--------------------

Vajan stared at his target and wiggled the fingers of his right hand. Then he darted them quickly into his left sleeve, pulled out the knife and threw it.

The weapon flew five meters and sank into the neck of the wicker dummy with a c
rack
noise.

He walked to the dummy, yanked out the knife and carefully slid it into the sheath hidden under the wide sleeve. Then he took ten steps backwards and threw again.

The knife sank into the neck.
Crack
.

Vajan fetched the knife and threw again while picturing his enemy’s face.

Crack
.

Threw again.

Crack
.

He fetched the knife and put it in the sleeve but fumbled a bit with pulling it back out. He did not allow himself agitation over it. Once the true moment arrived he would only have one chance. He could not afford to lose himself to irritation or have mercy on himself. Certainly he was exhausted after today’s exercises, sweaty and with his hand hurting terribly. But he would be shown no mercy.

Vajan looked at the back of his own hand. The scar after the stabbing was still red and ugly. He had woven the man-sized dummy himself to regain strength in his fingers. It had been a slow, painful and clumsy task a real weaver would have shook his head over. But the proportions were accurate and the dummy still hung together after uncountable stabs. That was all that mattered.He faced the dummy. He had not painted or decorated the head like some. He didn’t need to. H
e saw the face as clear as daylight
.

No mercy.

He gathered his strength and threw again.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack
.

The pain intensified and his body resisted ever more but he had taught himself a warrior’s discipline and continued with total focus. Nonetheless he noticed the approaching footsteps, to his considerable pride.

These days he was mostly left alone in the clearing he had made his shrine. He knew what the topic had to be, aside from recognising the heavy gait.

“Will it happen?” he asked and fetched his knife yet again.

“Yes,” said Kolgrimur’s booming voice.

Vajan looked about at the broad, rough-hewn, dark-haired man who was his leader these days.

“The whole process has been activated,” the man continued. “Our allies are either moving or awaiting the right moment. And I have all I need to achieve the side task.”

“Including a man to lead it,” Vajan said and met his gaze intensely.

“Are you quite sure of that?” Kolgrimur asked calmly and stared back.

“I am the most qualified,” Vajan answered. “I know the area and I have the skills. You need me.”

Vajan knew he was skirting direct challenge. There were after all arguments about whether the coven wanted anything to do with him these days.

“You have the skills and the knowledge, true enough, but do you have the nerves? You are not the man you were.”

Vajan was silent. There was a certain truth to Kolgrimur’s words. His reflection now had previously unknown bags under the eyes, a rigid stare and a severe cast. The hair had not reached its previous length after the doctor had shaved it to treat the cut on the back of his head. And the body itself had shed the last soft lines and was now so stiff and chiselled as to border on skinny.

“No, I am not the same as before. I am more dangerous.”

“I have little use for a berserker.”

“I am not a berserker, I am focused.” Vajan never broke eye contact, for emphasis of his words.

“Focused, you say?” Kolgrimur said and examined the state of the dummy. “Perhaps so, but you did followed the fool Arvar.”

Because he accepted me for my worth
, Vajan thought.

“Arvar was your cousin,” he said out loud.

“True, but he abandoned my guidance and tried to form his own coven in spite of lacking the wisdom for such a task.”

“He had wisdom enough to try to move things forward,” Vajan said and couldn’t keep emotion out of his voice, in defence of his friend.

“It did not turn out so well for him,” Kolgrimur stated simply.

“He was
murdered
.”

“Wise men do not put themselves in a position to be murdered. Wise men do not die young. That is the only yardstick that matters.”

Vajan stayed silent. He did not trust his own words.

“How is your hand?” Kolgrimur asked and pointed at it.

Vajan steeled himself, wiggled his fingers and picked up three other knives he had placed on a stump. He threw them as fast as he could, one after the other.

Kolgrimur looked at the three knives in the dummy’s face.

“Very well. You will lead the operation.” He turned and began to walk away. “You will have a chance to prove yourself.”