10
GORARIC
SARASINIAN OCCUPIED AHRENIA
ENGUND’S TOR
Goraric eyed the Tor from about a half mile out. It was early morning, and too foggy by half, but that only meant a clear day ahead. The place was as lush as he remembered, green terraces with wide gashes of brown in between. Good farmland, if difficult to work, and still pretty despite the patch of blackened stubble the Sarasinians had left near the famous boulders. Hard to imagine never feasting in the great hall again. Harder still to imagine not seeing any of the people whose lives had been taken from them.
The Tor was home, he supposed, even though he’d given it his back years ago. Torsmen were a parochial lot, notorious for their disdain of outsiders. He’d never agreed with that sort of mindset, never really understood it. It was one thing to love where you came from, but to see everyone else as inferior? And to be only too willing to fight them over it? No. To be small-minded to that degree was idiotic. It was one of the many reasons he’d left.
His mother had been the main reason, of course.
Goraric felt a dagger of fear in his guts. When he’d joined the Sarasinian garrison in Herena, Mother had called him a traitor, told him he had forever lost the right to call himself a Torsman. Warned him against coming back. Ever. Hoping he wasn’t making the mistake of his life, he took a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other. Onward. Besides, he’d only stay a few days before moving on. A few days at the most.
Under the watchful eye of a pair of guards, the Tor’s slaves were out gathering sticks for kindling. Goraric spotted Kushran among them, recognising her despite not having seen her in, well, it felt like a lifetime ago.
“Hello Kushran,” he said, going up to her.
Kushran’s head snapped up. “Goraric?”
“How are you?” Despite her deep wrinkles and hair jutting out at odd angles, she was still striking. But there was no denying that his once smooth-skinned beauty had aged badly. She looked careworn, set upon. She probably had a brood of children now, too, fathered by every man on the Tor. His smile slipped.
One of the guards stepped forward as if to challenge him, a thin boy swathed in a comically large cloak. His companion, grey-bearded and not so ridiculously dressed, checked the lad by tapping him on the knee with the butt of his spear. The boy flashed them both angry looks but didn’t say anything.
Goraric didn’t recognise the older man. “Good morning, uncle,” he said. Out here, that was what you called any man who looked as if he had more than a decade on you. And knowing how things worked on the Tor, there was a decent chance the fellow actually was his uncle. By way of reply, the man nodded curtly at spat on the ground.
He turned back to Kushran. “How are you?”
Kushran shrugged, unsmiling. “As good as can be expected, I guess.” Though she already had a decent armful of sticks, she went back to the task of adding to them.
“Yeah,” said Goraric.
“You back because of what happened here?” she asked, not looking at him. “Because of what the Sarasinians did?”
“Yes.”
“Staying for good?” Was it just him, or did she sound hopeful?
“I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “No, probably not.” Definitely not. By now, placards bearing his face would have been plastered all over Herena. And sooner or later the Sarasinians would come to the Tor looking for him. “No.”
“I should tell you,” said Kushran, glancing at the guards even though they were out of earshot and didn’t even seem interested in their conversation. “You’ll get no warm welcome here. Your mother blames you for what happened to those girls.”
“What doesn’t she blame me for, eh?” said Goraric, aiming for flippant but sounding bitter instead. “And anyway, I blame myself for what happened to those girls.”
Kushran frowned. “Nay, Goraric. I know you well enough to know you would never–”
“Do you, though? It’s been years since you and I–”
“I do know you,” said Kushran over the top of him. “Enough to know you had no part in the killings. And nothing you say could convince me otherwise.”
Goraric hung his head. “I was there, Kushran. I didn’t even try to save them.”
“Not the same thing.” She tugged at Goraric’s sleeve with her free hand to reveal the inside of his forearm. He didn’t try to stop her. “Ah, yes. I see you’re still at it,” she said, running a finger over his wounds. Her hands were like leather, rougher than a smith’s.
“Yes.” Why deny the obvious?
“Still think your blood will soothe your little brother’s spirit?” It might have been phrased as one, but it wasn’t really a question.
“Well, actually this arm is for the new spirits,” said Goraric. “I use the other one for him.” He indicated his right arm.
“Oh, Goraric! Nay. Neither the girls nor your brother were your fault. Why can’t you see that?”
“Because my mother–”
Kushran spat between his feet. “Fuck your mother.”
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. Not an argument he wanted to have. “In any case I’m not staying long. I brought money. You know, to give to the families? To atone for the girls, for what I did.” He caught her expression. “Or at least for what I failed to do…”
Kushran stared at the guards, who had since turned back to watch them. “Uh huh.”
“And after that I had plans to go over the Asfour and begin anew.”
“I see.”
“To start a new life. You know, among the northern clans? One of them might take me in and–”
“Yes,” said Kushran with a snort. “You know it did occur to me that might be what you meant!”
“Ah,” he said. She was angry. He cleared his throat again. “And of course, I’ll buy your freedom. I’ll buy your freedom and we could take off together? I mean, I know it’s been a while, but surely not so long that we couldn’t–”
“Been a while?” Kushran looked as if she might fling her kindling at his head. “Six years, Goraric!” she hissed. “I waited six years for you to come back for me.”
“I know…”
“But then I convinced myself we’d been children playing at being adults, and that I had no right to expect anything from you. And I came to that realisation six years ago. So don’t think you can just swan in here now after twelve years and make everything right!”
“Kushran,” said Goraric. “My love. I’m sorry.” And he was. He’d left his promise to her unfulfilled, and for reasons he’d never been able to articulate. Had it really been twelve years? And he’d just left her here, waiting?
“You didn’t even say goodbye.”
“I–” Shit. He hadn’t reckoned on feeling even worse about himself than he already did. Small wonder she was angry–how could he have been so heartless? He reached for her.
“I’m not your love.” She pushed his arm away. “Never was, never will be. You should go.”
“Kushran, please…” he said, but she went back to her work and wouldn’t speak with him again. It hurt. He’d hurt her far more, though. She was right, too, of course. He didn’t love her, and never had. Otherwise he wouldn’t have skipped out on her twelve years ago without so much as a parting word, would he? No. What a sad, deluded prick he was. And of course it was far too late to ask for forgiveness. Stricken with grief, he turned away.
Word of Goraric’s arrival spread quickly through the Tor. He hadn’t expected anyone to meet him with good cheer, and they didn’t. He endured their glares and the stony silence. Never mind. They’d almost certainly change their minds about him when they saw the money.
He found Mother’s tiny fleapit of a house. He pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, half-expecting an attack. The last time he’d been here the woman had barely missed his head with a skillet. “Hello?”
If the years hadn’t been kind to Kushran, she’d gotten off lightly compared to his mother. The woman was a crone now, blotchy and bent and shrivelled. “You look like you spent the night under a hedge. Idiot boy,” she said, glowering at him.
Idiot boy? A decade and more gone between them, and that was the best she could do for a greeting? Time had apparently softened her heart. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “And good to be back.” Lies. She looked frightful, and the house reeked of piss and death.
“They all said you’d be back. I didn’t think you would.”
“Well, I had to. I–”
“Had to return to the scene of the crime?” Mother cackled. “Murderer.”
“Don’t call me that. I didn’t kill those girls. I was there, but I didn’t kill them.”
“Is that so? And what about Lyglot, then?”
Goraric sighed. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. “I didn’t kill Lyglot.”
Mother laughed, the sound of a rasp on wood. “You killed him, boy. I know you did.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did?”
“No one did. He just… died. He went to sleep and he just died.”
“Bullshit!” screeched Mother. “My poor Lyglot! I knew I couldn’t trust you. You were always jealous of him. He was no bastard, eh? Not like you.”
Goraric sighed again. He wanted to remind her that children don’t ask to be born, and that he was no exception. Was he to blame because his mother hadn’t kept her legs shut when she should have? Had he asked his father to jam his cock in her? With ‘no’ being the answer to both questions, it seemed ridiculous that the accident of his birth should reflect so poorly on him. But he couldn’t say any of that. Or wouldn’t. “I didn’t kill Lyglot.”
Instead of continuing to harangue him, the old woman licked her lips. “Hm, hm. So, what have you brought for ol’ Mother, then?”
This was unexpected. “Well,” he said, wondering which of his things he could offer her. He put down the sack containing his sword, armour and stolen coin purses. Some of the money was his, though not more than a months’ wages. Some he’d planned on donating to the poorer folk on the Tor, of course, but the bulk of it he’d earmarked as blood money. He patted himself down. His belt knife, maybe? Should he give that to her? It was a good one, and had seen him through some tough times. He was reluctant to give it away.
“I’ll take the knife,” said Mother, holding out her hand. The old cunt must have read his mind.
“Of course,” said Goraric. It was a really good knife, and he cursed under his breath as he undid his belt so he could hand her the blade and scabbard together.
“I’ve a little something for you, too.”
“Oh?” He heard Mother’s rasp-on-wood laughter again and turned, too late, at the sudden clump clump of boots behind him. He almost didn’t feel the blows, and as he grappled with his attackers on the ground, he saw the old woman already rifling through his belongings. Well, fuck. Coming back had been a really bad idea after all.
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An excerpt from The Origins of Kanosh, translated from the surviving fragments of a 500-year-old manuscript
Kanosh was founded in Renderos by refugees from Alda in the year 953 in the so-called Red Age, following the loss of their city to Sarasinian rebels in 975. The first settlement was called New Alda [text unreadable]
In order to establish a foothold in the region, the first Kanoshians fought with great animosity against the native Renderosi. We are sure it would prove a subject fascinating to many, however our most reliable records from that era were destroyed during the Philosophy Wars, and the exclusively oral traditions of the indigenous inhabitants are of dubious faithfulness. [text unreadable] there is enough evidence to state with certainty that fighting was almost perennial for the first few decades.
[text unreadable] some Renderosi tribes were granted citizenship [text unreadable] widespread intermarriage, and though more or less imperialistic in nature, Kanosh appears remarkably inclusive even by the standards of our own Age. For example, we know that the Kanoshian rulers supported certain Renderosi towns against the tyrant Njenerukechi; that Kanosh intervened somewhere around the year 720 in the struggle against the Oglok prince, Rkwebe, who threatened the Rumenkawchu tribes with annihilation; and that for several centuries from 500 there was no aggressive expansion [text unreadable]
[text unreadable] something of Sarasinian intent. We know that a commander named Hanius invaded Kanosh in 580 but was defeated; that minor skirmishes occurred every now and again over the next century or so. We also know [text unreadable] when Gerich and most of Kanosh fell to the Sarasinians, but was refounded and became prosperous once more. Revival would have been impossible without the contributions made by those who came to be known as the Philosophists [text unreadable]
[text unreadable] and following the destruction wrought by Jevad the Destroyer in 393, the Sarasinians were either unable or unwilling to mount further expeditions against Kanoshian holdings.
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