Full Circle (32 page)

How wonderful it was to finally talk to someone freely — to be honest, truly himself. Saker tried to remember the last time
he had been able to tell the truth. He thought it was when he’d warned that officer’s daughter against Freite. A long, long
time ago.

He discussed it with Oak, over a dinner of fine roast kid and carrots, strawberries from the garden, clotted cream and honey.
It gave him great satisfaction to sit in the warlord’s chair and drink mead out of an actual glass goblet.

And to discuss conquest with a friend of the old blood was a joy he had anticipated for a very long time.

“Turvite’s the key,” he said, leaning to fill Oak’s glass again. “It always has been, which is why Acton wanted it.”

Oak nodded, reflecting. “Lot of people in Turvite.”

“It’s the only way. Otherwise they will regroup and take it back from us. If we wipe them out, our people can live in peace
and plenty.”

“There’s some good folk, though,” Oak replied, “with Acton’s blood.”

Saker scoffed. “So tell me how to sort them out from the other kind, and I’ll save them. I’ve thought this through, Oak. There’s
no other way.”

Oak looked thoughtful and downed the last of his drink.

“Get some sleep,” Saker said. “Early rise tomorrow.”

He slept in the warlord’s bed, which smelt still of the Lady — gardenias and roses. Saker dreamt of gardens torn apart by
wind wraiths, and woke in the hour before dawn, that high, ominous shrilling in his ears, ready to provide more blood for
his army. But by the time he got out to the muster yard in the grey light, Owl and his father had already bled two victims
dry, a blonde dairymaid and a saddler.

Saker watched the ceremony with a sinking feeling in his gut. They hadn’t bothered with a prayer to the gods, and no one was
reminding the ghosts of blood and memory. It was far more businesslike than the day before, with two orderly lines that meant
no one had to hustle for their share. All arranged without him.

As the saddler slumped back on the ground, dead, Saker saw something move out of the corner of his eye — a tall, sinuous shape.
He spun, mouth open to call an alarm, but there was nothing there except an aspen, shivering in the dawn wind. He shivered
too. An illusion. Nothing more.

His army was getting ready to march.

He wondered, for the first time, whether he had the power to break the spell and send the ghosts back to the grave.

T
HE WARLORD’S
men slammed both doors open just after dawn. They came in two groups, yelling, “Out, the lot of you!”, waking Ash from the
deepest sleep he’d had since Oakmere. He roused instantly, rolled out of bed and jumped through the window; but they were
outside, too, and grabbed him roughly, dragging him around to the front door where the officer stood.

He had just enough sense not to fight back. They threw him on the ground and he rolled to his knees, hands ready, just in
case. But there were at least ten men, and he had no chance; they held boar spears and bows, as well as swords. He didn’t
even have his belt knife. He’d taken his belt off the night before, wanting for once to sleep comfortably, and feeling safe
in Bramble’s house. That had been stupid, although it had probably saved his life — he’d have used the knife, if he’d had
it, and he’d be dead by now.

They threw Bramble down after him. She grimaced at him and wiped a smear of blood away from her mouth. She’d fought, then.

The River reached to him, sensing his fear. “
Beloved?
” She said.

“I am here,” Ash replied, calmed by Her touch.

“
Stay alive
,” She ordered, with a flicker of humour.

“Good idea,” he answered in kind, and She laughed and retreated, as though She trusted him to deal with this current danger.
It gave him confidence.

The officer was a man in his forties, maybe, with a small beard, and a hard voice. “Travellers,” he said, “you are fortunate.
The warlord has decided to give you shelter at the fort.”

“Shelter from what?” Ash asked.

“From those who would take revenge against all dark-haired folk because of your enchanter’s evil.” He said it like he didn’t
believe it. Like he didn’t care if it were true or not.

Bramble drew a breath and one of the warlord’s men looked at her with some interest. That look was unmistakable. Where in
the cold hell was Acton?

“Beck!” a voice called from inside. “There’s another one!”

Bramble flashed a look at Ash and he wondered what she meant, then remembered.
Beck
. He’d heard that name. The Well of Secrets had named Beck as the man whom the gods had intended to be the Kill Reborn. A
man of mixed blood, as Bramble was.

Baluch walked out the door, hands spread wide to show that he was weaponless, followed by a couple of men who were clearly
not sure whether Baluch was a Traveller. He looked strange enough, it was true, in his leggings and tunic, his plaits hanging
around his face. But he had blue eyes, the particular blue that you only got with no trace of the old blood, and that might
save him.

“Beck, is it?” Baluch asked, his beautiful voice taking on a tone of authority, as an officer’s would in these circumstances.

“Second in command at Thornhill fort, in temporary command in my lord’s absence,” Beck answered immediately, responding to
the tone.

Baluch nodded. “I hope you have good reason for rousting us from our beds.”

“My lord’s orders. All Travellers come to the fort.” There was no room for negotiation in that voice. “Everyone with Traveller
blood in them, Settled or not,” Beck added, to make it clear that Bramble living in a cottage didn’t make her safe.

Ash could see the pattern, suddenly. There was a song from four centuries ago, “The Red-headed Lord,” told the story of a
warlord who took his enemy’s children as hostages to prevent a massacre.

“Hostages,” he said, the refrain of the song running through his head. “You want us as hostages.”

“What my lord wants with you is no one’s business but his,” Beck said, and gestured to his men to haul Ash and Bramble to
their feet.

“Your lord is wrong.” Acton’s voice had come from the corner of the house. Dark and grating and terrible, it was as though
Ash heard the voice of the dead for the first time, inspiring the terror of death. Acton had spoken in the modern language
— a fast learner, Ash thought, or Baluch had taught him the words he would most likely need.

The warlord’s men whirled, then stopped, faltering, as they saw Acton.

“Stand fast!” Beck snapped. The men settled into formation, clutching their weapons.

Acton held his sword, the one he had taken from the sergeant who had killed Medric, and it looked menacing against his white
hands and white chest.

“Your lord is wrong,” Acton repeated. He took a step forward and the men started to back away slowly; he kept one eye on Beck,
who had drawn his own sword.

“Where are the rest of you?” Beck asked, circling for a better approach.

“You don’t recognise me,” Acton said gently. “I have been gone a thousand years, but I’m back now.”

Beck stared at the ghost before him. “Impossible,” he said, finally.

Acton needed no translation — the tone was clear. He smiled.

“You’re not Acton,” Beck said loudly, for the benefit of his men. “You’re an imposter trying to sow discord.” He smiled back
at them. “You —” he spaced the words for effect — “are a creature of the enchanter’s.”

The men firmed in their ranks, gripping their spears and swords more tightly.

“No matter who I am,” Acton said, “I resist the enchanter, and I advise you to do the same.”

“We are —”

“Hostages won’t work,” Bramble cut in. She stood up and took a step forward, facing Beck down. “The enchanter kills Travellers
who get in his way.”

Acton came forward, sword point on the ground, Baluch next to him, ready to translate.

“The enchanter will sacrifice these people if he has to, for all Travellers. Instead of holding them hostage, you should be
begging these people to save you.” Baluch translated so fast that it was as though he were Acton’s echo.

Beck looked disbelieving, but a murmur came from the men. “And how can they save us?” he asked.

“Stand together with them in defence. Let them convince the enchanter that they doen’t need his help. That they are strong
and respected and safe in this town.”

“Hah!” Bramble scoffed, and Beck flicked her a glance of dislike.

“You must make them your shield and sword,” Acton insisted, speaking the modern words himself.

“I will make them our shield,” Beck said. “As my lord ordered.” He gestured to Ash and Bramble. “Take them to the fort.”

Acton smiled and stood next to Bramble. There was something in his face that made Ash shiver. Something primitive. For the
first time, Ash felt in his gut that Acton was a thousand years dead, because the light in his eyes, his willingness to slaughter
with a smile on his face, came from another time. And it was clear, from the way he stood, that he would protect Bramble at
the cost of a hundred lives.

Ash was filled with a vast impatience. Beck’s men didn’t deserve to die because their officer was too hard-headed to submit
to fate.

“Do you want to die?” Ash exclaimed. He pointed at Acton. “Don’t you understand? That’s
Acton
. Alive he could have crushed each one of you. But he’s dead. He has a sword and he
cannot be killed
. Lay one hand on her and he’ll slaughter the lot of you.”

The men backed away but Beck grabbed Ash, pointing a knife at his gut. “Which is why we need hostages,” he said.

For a long moment no one moved. Then Beck turned to Acton. Ash kicked Beck in the groin and as the man bent over in pain he
brought up joined hands fast under his chin, snapping Beck’s head back. The warlord’s man fell, retching.

Ash stepped back, panting a little, Beck’s knife in his hand. He knelt by Beck’s side and held the knife in the same place
Beck had used on him, under the ribs ready to strike up at the heart. His hand shook with the desire to push it in. But this
wasn’t a decision he could make on his own. He looked up at Bramble. Her eyes were hard with hatred, too, but she shook her
head, flicking her eyes at the other men, poised now to attack. The River touched his mind again as if sensing his turmoil.
Stay alive
.

“I could kill him,” Ash said slowly, for the benefit of the men. “But we are not here to kill.” He stood up and tucked the
knife into his belt. Beck vomited again and rolled up onto his knees, then climbed to his feet, wiping his face.

He looked at Ash, a long measuring look that marked Ash down for later retribution.

“I could kill all of you,” Acton said. “But we’re not here to kill.”

It gave Ash a jolt of satisfaction to hear Acton follow his lead. Acton had been telling the truth, earlier — he was prepared
to follow if someone else led. But they had reached an impasse, and Ash didn’t know how to break it.

Bramble walked over to Beck and spoke quietly to him. “You have the old blood in you, just like me,” she said.

Beck’s face went blank and he shook his head. No, not true: Ash could see the thoughts hitting him, making him shake a little.
“You’re lying,” he said.

Bramble said, “The Well of Secrets told us.”

He dragged a breath in and held it, then let it out slowly, fighting for calm, to not let his men see his reaction. It was
as though Bramble had told him something he had always feared. Then his face hardened. “Acton or not, I take these Travellers
to the fort.”

“We’ll go,” Bramble said, and then to Acton and Ash, “there may be someone with more sense up there.”

Beck waved his men back to let them walk freely. The men were visibly relieved.

As they walked up to the fort, through the busy market square, the centre of all eyes, Acton grinned at Ash. “So,” he said,
“you’re a warrior as well as an enchanter.”

“No,” Ash said quietly. “I’ve been a killer. And sometimes I’m a safeguarder. But I’m not a warrior, and I never will be.”

The townsfolk followed them, drawn by the sight of Acton, not knowing if he were a messenger from the enchanter, or an advance
scout for an army.

At the gate of the fort, with guards outside and inside, Ash felt his stomach churn. To be escorted into a fort by warlord’s
men was a verse from a song which ended on the gibbet. The soldiers unbarred the gate at Beck’s order and it swung open slowly.

As Ash readied to walk forward, one of the soldiers looked up over Ash’s shoulder to the sky, and horror twisted his face.

“Run!” he screamed and ran inside the fort, throwing his spear to the ground.

They all spun around.

Wind wraiths. Gods preserve them. Wind wraiths were arrowing their way across the sky, turning and dipping and dancing with
joy. Ash was flooded with shame. Were these the wraiths he had sent south unintentionally, from the cliffs above Golden Valley?
Had he saved himself then at the cost of other lives? He had saved Flax and Horst, too, he reminded himself, but the shame
stayed, mixed with fear as the wraiths came closer to the fort.

They circled high above, shrieking down to them. “Our master has conquered the central fort and we have feasted! Soon, soon,
we feast here, humans!”

They cackled and played in the air before disappearing north, towards Central Domain. The silence they left behind was broken
by one of the men sobbing.

“He has broken the compact,” Baluch said, his voice shaking.

“He commands spirits as well as ghosts in his army,” Acton said, not seeming to understand what the compact meant. But the
thought that a human being had deliberately invited wind wraiths to feast on other humans made Ash want to retch.

“Sendat has fallen,” Bramble said slowly. She looked up at Beck, who was white around the eyes but who stood firmly, not showing
fear to his men. “Did Thegan have hostages?”

Beck nodded.

“Much good it did him,” said Bramble. “I hope the wind wraiths ate his heart out.”