Escorted by Kehlbrand and two of his most trusted saddle brothers, we left the din of the celebration behind and rode beyond the sprawl of tents and out into the vastness of the Iron Steppe. A five-mile ride under the stars brought us to a small rise in the otherwise unbroken flatness of the landscape. The two warriors pitched a tent atop the rise, attached the reins of their horses to their wrists with long ropes and retreated to a respectful distance. One faced east, the other west. Both had their strongbows unlimbered with an arrow nocked. I knew not if Kehlbrand had told them what would occur this night, but also knew if he had, they would also never speak of it. Loyalty was absolute amongst those who secured his friendship.
“In case you get bored,” I said, handing Obvar’s wineskin to Kehlbrand.
“Ah,” he said after a small sip, eyebrows raised in appreciation. “I know this. Made from a fruit called a grape by barbarians across the Wide Sea. They reside in a kingdom beset by endless wars and irrational superstitions.” He set the wineskin down next to the small fire he had lit. “They’ll be glad of the peace we bring them in time.”
“You intend to ride so far?”
“I intend to ride all the way around the world. For have not the priests foretold this as the course of the Mestra-Skeltir?”
I rolled my eyes at him and crawled into the tent. “Don’t finish it all.”
I divested myself of my oxen leather garb and lay on the furs his saddle brothers had set down for me. As ever the wind was stiff on the Steppe and the tent walls snapped continually. It was a familiar refrain and failed to disturb me as I sought the peaceful mind-state that would bring on the black veil and the True Dream.
After my first experience I had shunned my gift for a long time, fearful of what I might find once the veil parted. But curiosity, perhaps the hardest of all habits to break, eventually compelled me to seek it out. My attempts had been faltering at first; the True Dream brought brief glimpses of places and people so alien in dress and speech that whatever message I had been sent became meaningless. It was only after much experimentation that I discovered that the True Dream requires a purpose, a question to guide it towards truth.
My brother’s name, I whispered inwardly as the black veil descended. What is it?
The veil duly parted and I found myself standing atop a low rise, tall grass whispering in an evening breeze. The sky had the darkened hues of twilight and I could see many fires burning in the shallow depression below. An army, I realised, taking in the sight of the veritable city of tents clustered around campfires where men sat or stood. Their armour and weapons were stacked, the design very different to the black iron breastplates and chain mail of the Hast. These consisted of the overlapping steel plates and curve bladed spears of soldiers in service to the Merchant Kings. It was the largest host I had ever seen, thousands upon thousands strong.
“Who are you?”
I started at the sound of another voice. The woman stood a dozen paces away, her appearance greatly surprising in its sheer unfamiliarity. Her garb, a simple ankle-length robe of black featuring a small white flame sigil on the breast, was not one I had seen before. Also, her features were different in shape and colouring to the people of the Merchant Realms, more like the Stahlhast with their blue eyes and pale skin. But what surprised me most, in fact shocked me, was that she was looking directly at me. She saw me.
“Who are you?” she repeated, gaping at her surroundings with wide and fearful eyes. “Where am I?”
I could only stare, dumbfounded. Never once during any previous True Dream had any of its denizens taken note of my presence. How could they? I wasn’t actually here.
“Did you call me to this place?” the woman demanded, advancing towards me, suddenly angry rather than baffled. I failed to move, still caught in a snare of uncertainty and also distracted by the fact that the black-robed woman wore no shoes. Her feet were black with accumulated filth, and for some reason I found the sight oddly fascinating.
“This is not a vision from the Father,” the woman said, lunging towards me. “It feels different. I can tell!”
My preoccupation with her feet, coupled with a consuming sense of utter surprise, forestalled any reaction as she actually took hold of my arms, her grip fierce. I remember noting the bloodshot condition of her eyes as her face came within inches of mine. It was a comely face, in truth, possessed of a smoothness that spoke of a woman somewhere shy of her thirtieth year. But it was crowned by an unruly mass of dark, unkempt hair, and her breath had a familiar acrid tinge that, coupled with her reddened eyes, provoked a singular deduction. A drunkard. My dream has been invaded by a drunkard with dirty feet.
“Do not try to fool me, witch!” she hissed. “What Dark design is this?”
It was the thin but pungent stream of her breath that roused me, twisting my features into a disgusted mask as I snapped my head forward, slamming my forehead against her nose. The desired effect was immediate, her hands slipping from my shoulders as she sank to her knees, groaning.
“You asked who I am,” I said, drawing the long-knife from my belt and putting it to her neck. “I would know your name first.”
I was gratified to see the edge of the blade press into her flesh. If we could touch each other here, it appeared we could damage each other too.
“I’ll tell you nothing, servant of the Dark,” she said, face tensed by pain as she stared up in defiance. “I will never betray the Father’s love . . .”
She let out a pained squeak as I whipped the blade across her cheek, leaving a small but deep cut. “How do you come to be here?” I demanded. “How can you see me? How did you find your way into my dream?”
Her pain and animosity faded for a moment and she gaped up at me in baffled wonder. “You mean . . . you too are a seer? But . . . you cannot know the Father’s love. He would not bestow so great a gift upon one such as you . . .”
“What father?” I demanded, angling the tip of my blade so that it hovered an inch from her eye. “What are you gabbling about?”
The sound of many horns swallowed my words, the pealing echo rising up from the army below in a great chorus of alarm. I raised my gaze from the drunken woman to see the army responding to the call. Soldiers ran to retrieve stacked spears and don armour, crossbowmen gathered their quivers and cavalrymen hauled saddles to tethered horses.
“What’s happening?” the woman asked. I realised I still had my knife poised to skewer her eye and stepped away, suddenly feeling somewhat foolish.
“A battle, apparently,” I replied, sheathing my blade.
“Where?” She got to her feet, wincing and rubbing at her nose. I saw that the bruise was now fading, as was the cut on her cheek. It seemed any wounds we inflicted here were only temporary. “Who is fighting?”
“I’m not exactly sure.” I turned away to watch the army form ranks. “I suspect we are somewhere on the southern Steppe, not far from the border with the lands of the Merchant Kings.”