Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 4

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10 minutes

General Audience

The Lake of Stars

The gods of the North were indifferent. Southern deities smiled down with greater warmth, but made men soft. Fencers they had in the temperate lands, and scribblers, and great machines of death. Vast armies, yes, like engines in which each soldier was but a millstone, grinding down whole peoples in the open field. But such armies were of little use in the dark and tangled North, where there grew many trees, but few fields, and where warriors, not soldiers, wielded black iron.

Iron was cold, and the cold made men fierce. Cold sky; cold gods; these were the things Mac Brón knew, and what, after a fashion, he trusted. He hailed from Smaragd, from the near-north, where grass was yet green, but hardy enough to live. If only his father, the King of Smaragd, had stayed within that narrow strip of land within a man’s heart where honor is tested by the cold, yet stays green. But the witch had spoiled him.

So it was that as Mac Brón led them north and east, the forest growing frigid, and the oaks giving way to pine and birch, he gained in vigor. Last winter’s snow had melted, and no spring snowfall had yet come. For a brief time, the sun and earth warred over the land, to raise it heavenward, or else pull it down into the ice beneath all things. But ice must triumph in the end.

They grazed the true North. Only fifty leagues lay between them and those grim barbarian lords in their frozen halls, castles carved out of the ice itself.

There was little cover. They’d traveled five days, and had reached a place where the trunks grew narrowly, letting their branches out high. The woods here had no understory, only a blue-gray moss that coated the glacial rocks with which the floor was littered. An hour after midday, the boy stopped and listened. Mac Brón turned, and looked around. He glanced at the woman, and saw that she braced herself against a birch.

“We must keep moving while there’s light,” said Mac Brón. “Rest when we stop.”

The boy shook his head.

“It’s not that,” he said. “I hear something.”

Mac Brón was surprised. He’d first seen the trackers three days earlier, in a small village called Lich where they’d tried to buy furs. There was little there, and they were advised to go on to Uz, on the border of the Lake of Stars. No doubt, Uz could supply them — for a steep price. Mac Brón was fairly certain that the trackers had not followed them all the way from the slave convoy, but had already been in Lich. They were tall men, and well-built. There were four, enough to take him, if such were their intention. That they hadn’t tried was suggestive. He did not like what it suggested.

“Never mind the sound,” he said. “The forest is deceptive. I’ve been watching carefully.”

The boy ignored him, and kept listening. He had an imperious quality that bristled Mac Brón, but also impressed him. Such composure was rare in men, let alone youths. The boy glanced at his mother, who looked at Mac Brón.

“He’s rarely wrong,” she said.

“You think we’re being followed,” said Mac Brón.

“It would not be difficult,” said the boy. “One can see for miles in these woods.”

“All the more reason to keep moving then,” said Mac Brón.

The boy didn’t trouble to respond, but conceded the point by walking forward. It would not do to tell them the truth. They would only panic. He must wait for an opportune moment. To distract them, he asked the question whose answer he’d already guessed.

“Am I correct to think that the steward had the emperor slain, and that you escaped?”

The woman and boy drew closer together, but did not meet eyes. Yet Mac Brón saw by their silence that he must be right. And he saw the pain that came into the woman’s face — the anger into the boy’s.

“Well?”

“We should not discuss this out here,” said the woman.

“Does he know you escaped?” pressed Mac Brón. “Would he pursue you?”

Still no answer. Perhaps they didn’t know, or did, and did not want to tell him how much danger he was in by helping them.

“If you seek Tarkaric, then why did you come up the coast, rather than down?”

The woman sighed. “Can you ask? The Ocean Sea teems with his ships. And the steward has his own guard, the Hand of Ketch. Their loyalty was always to him.”

Mac Brón did not smile at being proved right. The emperor’s arm was long. Had been, he corrected himself. He doubted that the fact of their survival and escape could truly have gone unnoticed. He doubted also that he could take four of the steward’s elite men, if that was who they were. Not unless he could surprise them.

“May I at least know your names?” he said.

“We plan to pay you well for your services,” said the boy, without emotion. “It’s for your own good that you know little about us.”

The woman stopped, and put her hand on her son’s arm.

“Rusu,” she said, looking at Mac Brón. “Like the flower. You may call me by that name. And the boy…call him Tammet. We shouldn’t tell you more.”

Mac Brón nodded, and it was almost a bow. When he told her his name, she received it with grace, but with lips pressed closed, as if to say, “That, and nothing else.”

They marched northeast a day and a quarter, before the woods began to thin. Around mid-afternoon, the trees fell away entirely, revealing the town of Uz. Beyond it lay Stjörnur Lach, the Lake of Stars. Formed in the crater of the fire from heaven that had ended the world, the place was cursed ground. It spanned the horizon, an inland sea fed by subterranean rivers, and by runoff from the Devil’s Beard. The surface was two hundred spans below the surrounding land, and could only be reached by long stairways built into the rock. At all times the water threatened to freeze over, so that the ferrymen of Uz broke the ice as they passed through it on their wide barges.

Uz was a walled town that seemed to have been put together with a thousand clapboards. The place was often pummeled by storms, which lifted the icy waters out of the crater, and hurled them against the walls. There were even walls outside its walls. These latter were slanting stone structures. They did not repel attacks, but redirected the naked winds that pressed on Uz from all points. ‘Twas a desolate place for a town, but the money that came through its ferry was the solace the Uzians sought. All manner of black trade funneled across the icy river, north to the grim lords, or south to the Empire Road. And of course, east. The Uzians accepted any coin, and ferried any passenger, even those from the Black Lands, beyond the Devil’s Beard. It was said their ferrymen would refuse Bohlgomin, but Mac Brón had his doubts about that.

“We are not staying here,” said the boy, Tammet.

“Not if we can help it, no,” said the warrior. “But we need to enter the city to obtain passage over the lake.”

Rusu breathed deeply, then looked at Mac Brón.

“You are…going to help us across then?”

She meant accompany us, he thought. Until now, he hadn’t been sure he would. But they were being followed.

“I told you I would take you as far as the Devil’s Eyebrow,” he said. “I also told you it was foolish to go that way. If you insist on it, then, yes, I will take you to one of the canyon’s entrances.”

And beyond that, he thought, you can expect no more. After all, he was of Smaragd. His father’s kingdom lay outside the borders of Talahm-lár. She was not his empress, nor the boy his emperor. He would not allow them to be cut down or enslaved while they were in his care, yet it was not his duty to shepherd them, nor would he involve himself in the squabbling of the southern empires.

Breaking his gaze from hers, he led them toward town. They huddled together, both because it was cold, and because it would seem less strange if they appeared to be a family. The gates were open, and they walked in under the gaze of heavily bundled guards.

“We need to buy furs,” he said, leading them toward a shop that had come into view.

The shopkeeper hardly looked at them as he took their coin. It was almost as if he wished not to know with whom he was dealing. This was a city of secrets, and questions were better left unasked.

“We need transport across the lake,” said Mac Brón.

The shopkeeper surveyed them in a glance.

“Ask at Fela Sig,” he said. “But you’d better get a room there too. Lots of traffic to the Empire Road.”

“We’re not going south.”

“Well,” laughed the shopkeeper, “then you’ll really need a room. North’s frozen over. No breaking that ice. Might be unfroze in two weeks.”

“We’re going east,” said Mac Brón.

The clerk looked up at them, and suppressed a frown.

“I don’t want to know your business,” he said. “I don’t want to ask why you’d take a family over there.”

“Then do not,” said Mac Brón.

The shopkeeper paused, and drummed his fingers on the counter. Shaking his head, he leaned in toward the warrior.

“A barge is going there tomorrow,” he said. “I know, because the owner at Fela Sig is a friend of mine. It’s such a long wait for the Empire Road, that some of his guests were considering riding east, than skirting the lake down south.”

“But?”

“But the barge east is carrying a lot of them.”

“Them? The Péistghrá?”

The shopkeeper pounded the counter. “Don’t, man. We call ‘em worm-worshippers here — if we call ‘em anything. There’s a whole troop of them at Solfa Hér. That’s the cheap inn. They don’t need comfort, them. But he charges ‘em double.”

Mac Brón nodded his thanks, and led Rusu and Tammet outside.

“Worm-worshippers?” hissed Tammet, when they were on the street. “We’re not riding with them.”

Mac Brón shrugged. “‘Twould be excellent cover,” he said. “No one else would ride with them.”

The boy scoffed. “I’d rather the steward find me.”

Mac Brón stopped, and turned to look at Tammet. “Would you?”

Wordlessly he turned back, and led them toward the inns. Fela Sig loomed in the distance, taking up half a block. In this gray town, it was the only thing that suggested warmth. Red light from the fireplaces shone through the windows, and the company doubled its pace.

Inside Mac Brón found them a table in a dark corner. Door chimes rang when they entered, and they waited a while to let their entrance fade into obscurity. The other guests soon lost interest in the newcomers, and returned to their muttered, smoky conversations.

“Give me some money for the fare, and board if we need it.”

Tammet withdrew a purse, and began to count out coins. “How much do you need?”

“I don’t know,” said Mac Brón. “Better give me the whole purse. I’ll return the remainder.”

Tammet paused, then, with an almost imperceptible effort of will, handed it over. Mac Brón took it, and made for the counter. A burly bearded man with a single bushy brow made his way towards the warrior.

“I’m Fort, the owner here. Need a drink?” he said.

“Passage,” said Mac Brón. “East across the lake. And no questions.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

The owner looked past Mac Brón, saw his company, and raised his single eyebrow.

“What ‘ave they done to deserve it, I wonder?”

“I said no questions.”

“Right you are,” said the man. “Well my ferryman can take you across this afternoon, but it’ll cost you extra.”

Mac Brón had prepared himself for this. It was Uz, after all.

“Extra to go east?” he said. “I can only imagine the cost of going south.”

The owner smiled. “Extra, because you’re the only one going today. And we have to break ice.”

“Fine,” said Mac Brón. “What’s the cost?”

Fort quoted him a price. Mac Brón scoffed, but began to count it out from the purse.

“Paying in the emperor’s coin?” he said.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, but it goes for less here. Over there, even less. You might want to trade in for their coin, is all.”

“I thought worm coin was forbidden,” said Mac Brón. “You’re within Talahm-lár.”

Fort grinned, and his black brow grinned with him, like a mustache in the wrong place.

“The emperor has been slain,” he said. “And even before that, their coins were best. Purest gold. Forbidden or no, worm coin is becoming the true currency. Why else do you think we suffer them to cross over here?”

There was a jingle of bells. Mac Brón waited, then turned to take in the newcomers. Four men, tall and sinewy, and stained from long travel. Under their furs, Mac Brón saw the shine of red cloth. These were no common trackers, but fell men, grim of bearing and cold as the night. He saw them look across and spy the woman and her son, before splitting off, and taking different seats on the other side of the dining room. Mac Brón had a sudden notion, and acted before he could doubt himself.

“You know that lot?” muttered Fort, eyeing Mac Brón.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Put us on the barge tomorrow. With the worm-lovers.”

Fort began to speak, then closed his mouth. “No questions. But there’s space, and I can give you passage and a room tonight for half the cost you’d have paid to go today.”

“Good. And one more thing,” said Mac Brón. “They will ask you what room we’re in. I know they’ll offer you money, and that you will take it.”

Fort pretended to be offended, then smiled.

“Tell them,” said Mac Brón, “but then…”

He leaned forward, and whispered something only the owner could hear. Fort nodded, but shook his head doubtfully.

“Like I said, warrior. No questions.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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