The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  “You two!” he snapped, pointing. “I’ll need you both, with a shield. The rest of you, get in their faces!”

  They had no real reason to obey him other than he seemed to have a plan and wasn’t asking them to break the shieldwall themselves, but that was enough. They advanced up between the roofs on either side of them, clashing their weapons against their shields and shouting challenges. Snowhair’s Scarred held their positions, their faces grim and set. There would be no charges from them; they’d just lock their shields and hold fast, and wait for the attackers to risk trying to break them down.

  Rikkut called Rodnjan and Stonejaw to him, one hand on each of their shoulders, and quickly outlined what he needed. Stonejaw nodded once and that was that; so far as she was concerned, he was welcome to get himself killed playing the fool. Rodnjan’s bushy eyebrows raised in surprise, but he made no objection, and just slung his axe in the loop on his belt before pulling his shield off his arm.

  The rest of their fighters had moved up the street to almost within reach of the shieldwall, shouting, taunting, and casting crude aspersions on the parentage of those in it. Stonejaw and Rodnjan took up position right behind the others, then went down to one knee with Rodnjan’s roundshield held flat between them, at roughly knee height.

  Rikkut took three deep breaths, tightened his grip on his axe and started to run.

  It was a terrible risk, but he didn’t care. The world wasn’t safe anymore. Rikkut had learned that when ships swept down on his clan one summer morning two years ago. Yngda Podastutar of the Tall Pines had refused to swear fealty or surrender the belt that marked her as chief, and Rikkut had been there when she’d burned under the stars that evening, the flames’ reflections dancing in the gilt-chased mask that watched her perish. Now the clans were broken and the world was being remade. There was nothing to stay safe for. There was only glory, or death.

  He reached the line of his warriors, jumped onto the shield and was hoisted high into the air as Stonejaw and Rodnjan rose to a standing position and heaved him upwards with twin grunts of effort.

  He saw the startled, upturned faces of the men and women in the shieldwall as he cleared them before they could think to take a swing up at him. He knew their moment of distraction would be all the rest of his warriors would need to jump them, and start hacking their way through.

  His time aloft lasted a mere moment, during which he caught a glimpse of white hair, and two other faces turning towards him, and then the ground was rushing up to meet him again with almost malevolent glee. He landed, his left boot slipped, and he dropped to one knee with a curse.

  Death came for him.

  Two of them, presumably Snowhair’s best. The first was on him before he could rise, black-edged axe flashing down like the claws of a stooping fish eagle. A strong blow, but clumsy: Rikkut raised his shield to protect his head and caught it. The impact shivered the timber, but he hooked his axe behind the other warrior’s leg and pulled back at the same time as he drove upwards with his shield. He felt the axe teeth bite into their calf as he bore them backwards and down into the path of the second fighter, and heard a scream of pain, but his axe was wrenched from his grasp. The second warrior, a red-bearded man, stepped aside to avoid having his companion land on his legs. That gave Rikkut a second to draw his long spearfish-bill dagger, but it wasn’t going to be an even fight.

  The red-bearded man swung an axe at him overhand, faster than Rikkut could get his shield up to properly defend. The teeth didn’t bite his flesh, but it overshot his shield and the beard wedged in the back, and the other man wrenched his weapon to try to pull Rikkut’s shield aside. It should have sent Rikkut stumbling off-balance, but he anticipated it and stepped in with the momentum to headbutt the man in the face.

  His enemy staggered, and Rikkut swung the rim of his shield as hard as he could at the other man’s head. The Rockman tried to raise his right arm to block and caught the blow high on his bicep, which knocked his axe from his grasp and must have numbed his arm. He tried the same thing in retaliation but Rikkut was quick enough to use his own shield to block, then kicked his opponent in the balls and drove his dagger into the red-beard’s neck as he sank to his knees. Blood gouted and Rikkut pulled his hand away, leaving the dagger in place. The man was as good as dead: he still had killing to do, and he needed a dry grip for that.

  He snatched the other warrior’s axe up. It was slightly longer than his, with a more pronounced beard, and one of the teeth had broken off, but it would serve his purpose. Their altercation had taken but a few heartbeats. Such was the margin between life and death in the world these days.

  The dull thunk and clack of blades striking shields was all around him. Tyaszhin’s warriors were pressing Snowhair’s Scarred hard, but the Rockfolk were holding for the moment. That left Rikkut on his own against the chief and his last defender.

  She’d staggered upright and kicked his axe away from her leg to make sure he couldn’t reach it. Young, probably about his age, crow-haired and missing a tooth. She spat at him and spun her own weapon expertly, a blurring circle of wood and blackstone. Nothing flashy; just enough to show him that she knew axework back-to-front.

  She was trying to stall him. He’d be wary of her skill normally, but he’d already injured one of her legs, so he charged straight at her. She couldn’t meet his rush head-on so she tried to catch him with an underhand swing on his way in, but he’d read it and batted it aside with his shield even as he drove into her. He didn’t bother with his axe: the simple impact of his shoulder against her shield knocked her off her somewhat unsteady feet and down into the mud a second time.

  Snowhair came at him with a strange, slightly curved sword in both hands—a metal sword! He’d had no idea these Westerners were so rich—and a wavering battle cry. Rikkut just stepped aside and swung the flat of his axe at the back of the old man’s legs. Snowhair crumpled to the ground and Rikkut kicked the strange sword out of his hands before hauling the Seal Rock chief up in front of him, turning his axe so the blades pricked Snowhair’s throat.

  “Yield!” he bellowed, turning on the spot. “Yield, or your chief dies!”

  Gap-tooth was struggling up again, but Rikkut saw her lips twist as she took in her companion, now face down and bleeding out with Rikkut’s dagger in his neck, and Rikkut himself holding an axe on her chief.

  “Say the words, old man,” Rikkut hissed into Snowhair’s ear. “I don’t fear death. My deeds today are already worthy of song, and I’m prepared to meet the Dark Father.”

  “I yield,” Snowhair croaked, his body sagging even more in Rikkut’s grip. “I yield!”

  Gap-tooth heard him and nodded bitterly. She dropped her axe and raised her voice, far louder than her chief’s weak lungs could manage.

  “Seal Rock! We yield! We yield!”

  The cry was taken up around them as, one by one, the Scarred realised what had happened. The knots of fighting quietened as warriors stepped back, dropping their weapons. Tyaszhin’s fighters didn’t press the advantage: to attack an enemy who had yielded was cowardice worse than not fighting at all, nearly as bad as pretending to yield in order to gain an advantage. Father Krayk had no use for cowards.

  Amalk Tyaszhin shoved his way through his own warriors and the downcast Scarred of the Seal Rock, but the grim pleasure on his face soured when he saw Rikkut’s axe at Snowhair’s throat. If the chief had yielded through realising his position was untenable then it would have been Tyaszhin’s glory as raid leader. As it was, most of the glory would be Rikkut’s, especially when tales got around of his daring leap over the enemy shieldwall. He would make sure Stonejaw and Rodnjan were mentioned in the verses, and ensure they heard him calling for it. He could afford to be generous, and they would be good warriors to have at his side, hungering for more renown.

  “Fireheart,” Tyaszhin said grudgingly. “You can release my captive.”

  Rikkut deliberately held his axe in place for a couple of moments while he locked gazes wit
h the captain of the Red Smile, then lowered the weapon and shoved Snowhair away. He walked over to where the strange metal sword lay, and picked it out of the mud. The blade was thin, and surprisingly light, yet it seemed sturdy. He grinned. Snowhair was clearly not able to wield such a weapon properly. Rikkut Fireheart would be a more suitable owner.

  “Captive?” the Seal Rock chief quavered, looking up at Tyaszhin. “But—”

  “Captive,” Tyaszhin said firmly. “All chiefs must swear fealty at Torakudo. You’re going to see it, old man.

  “You’re going to see The Golden.”

  SAANA

  RISTJAAN THE CLEAVER had his sea leather shirt back on and was waiting in the space between four fires in the town square, the flickering glow lighting him up as though he was bathed in flames. Benches and tables had been hurriedly cleared away, leaving a spill of ale here, a smudge of some unidentified food there. Most of those eating here had been from the clan, and they were already clustered around the edges of the rough square, although not too close to the fires. Saana estimated the space they’d left at thirty ells a side.

  “Chief!” Rist bellowed when he saw her. Saana gritted her teeth and made her way over to him. Daimon hadn’t appeared yet: she’d left the castle yard while he’d been talking to his chief servant, or whatever the man was, and assumed he was still getting armoured.

  “I hope you’re not going to ask me to let the boy take my head,” Ristjaan said as she approached. His tone was jovial, but she could see uncertainty in his eyes.

  “I can’t make jokes about this, Rist,” she said tightly. The Dark Father help her, but there were members of her clan whose deaths she could have reconciled herself to if it meant satisfying the Flatlanders’ honour. Ristjaan, however, was not one. And yet, the notion of her friend killing the young lord who’d actually turned against his own family to welcome them made her stomach twist. That would surely be the death knell for any hope of settling here peacefully.

  “They were bound to recognise one or other of us at some point,” Rist said. He raised his huge axe and rested it on his shoulder. “And it was probably going to be me, right? I figured this might happen.” He winked at her. “Don’t worry, Saana. I won’t hurt the lad too much.”

  Saana’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not a complete fool,” Ristjaan said wryly, looking down at her. “You can’t afford for him to die. He’s barely more than a boy, and I’d be surprised if he’s lifted his sword in anger.” He nodded sideways at his axe. “This thing’s only got a blade on one side, and I’ve got my shield. I can’t promise he’ll be healthy, but I can knock the fight out of him well enough.”

  “Rist, he’ll be trying to kill you!” Saana snapped, but her friend just smiled.

  “People have tried that for twenty years, and no one’s managed it yet.” He looked up as Saana heard a commotion behind her, and his face took on a puzzled cast. “Well, here he is. I think he’s forgotten something, though.”

  Saana turned around. Sure enough, Daimon Blackcreek was making his way out of the main gates of his stronghouse. However, instead of the coat of nails and war helm that she’d been expecting, he was dressed in a shorter version of the robe he’d worn for the feast: dark green with black trim, and a circular emblem picked out in black, blue and green on each breast. This only reached his knees, instead of to the ground, and his legs were clad in breeches and boots instead of the usual metal greaves. The only concession he’d made to protection were armoured gauntlets.

  “Nalon!” Ristjaan roared. There was a small disturbance in the crowd and Nalon shuffled into view, albeit through nudges in the back rather than his own volition.

  “Aye?” Nalon said, eyeing the Cleaver warily.

  “Ask the boy if he’s forgotten his armour,” Ristjaan called, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard. Nalon rolled his eyes, but turned to the approaching Daimon and translated the words into Naridan.

  “Tell him this lord will not need it, so long as no one watching stabs this lord in his back,” Daimon called back, one hand resting on the hilt of the longer of the two blades belted at his side.

  “And have people think he can’t win on his own?” Nalon scoffed. “No fear of that!”

  “Then shall we begin?” Daimon said, planting his feet and staring at Ristjaan with no obvious signs of fear.

  Nalon switched back to Tjakorshi. “He says he’s fine as he is.”

  “I gathered,” Ristjaan replied with a frown.

  “What?” Saana asked him, concerned at his sudden uncertainty.

  “No armour? I’ll crack him like an egg,” Rist muttered to her, then blew out his moustaches in resignation. “Well, if the boy wants to meet his man-god this badly, so be it. I can’t promise how he’ll fare if he won’t even take me seriously enough to wear armour.”

  Saana bit down on her lip. “Just take care, Rist.”

  “Will you wish me luck?” he asked, sliding his huge axe off his shoulder.

  “I wish us all luck,” Saana replied shortly, and walked away from him towards Daimon. She briefly caught sight of Zhanna in the crowd, which didn’t help her nerves. If Ristjaan cut the Naridans’ lord open in an honour duel, would they target her daughter as revenge?

  She approached Daimon and stood in front of him, meeting his stare. Now she was close she could see the pulse fluttering in his throat, and the quickness of his breathing. He didn’t have the calm of a seasoned warrior, and hope glimmered. Could she talk him out of it?

  “We have had no killing,” she said to him in his tongue. “Why must this happen?”

  “We have had killing,” Daimon replied levelly, lifting his gaze past her to focus on Ristjaan. “The killing was many years ago, but it happened.”

  Saana’s hope withered and died. “But—”

  “We never asked for your people to come raiding!” Daimon snapped at her. “We never did the same to you! We never marched on you in war! We lived our lives until you chose to come and take them!” He glanced at her and she caught a momentary glimpse of the conflict inside. He wanted to protect his people, but she’d been a fool to think he’d have made peace had he not needed to. Daimon Blackcreek would have been a child when she’d come to his walls: her people would have been the monsters in the night, and now he was old enough to lift a sword against those monsters.

  “This lord’s father and brother would have killed you all, if they could, for what was done many years ago by some of you,” Daimon continued, his voice tight. “This lord will kill one man only, that man, for something he did do.”

  “This man told you, and your father,” Sattistutar said, lowering her voice until only he could hear, and stepping within reach of his blade. “She killed two farmers the day she came here.”

  “You did,” Daimon acknowledged.

  “Why then you do not wish to kill her?”

  “Because no one remembers you did it,” Daimon said bluntly. “No one has brought an honour debt against you.”

  Sattistutar stared at him for a couple of seconds, then hissed through her teeth. “Your people are…” She groped for the word he’d used earlier. “Crazy. You are crazy.”

  “Move away,” Daimon told her, focusing on Ristjaan once more.

  “This—”

  “Move away, unless you wish to fight for him.”

  For a moment, Saana considered it. She could call for her sword, shield and sea leather, and face off against Daimon Blackcreek. Would that make him think again? No, the boy was set on his honour combat. Could she fight and lose?

  She eyed the long steel sword at his side. No, not if she wished to live. She knew how sharp a sar’s blade was, and had no illusions Daimon would pull his cuts. His stupid honour demanded a death, and she had no wish to see the Dark Father yet, not while Zhanna was still so young. Besides, Rist had been right, back on the Krayk’s Teeth. Her clan needed her. She knew every one of them: some better than others, admittedly, but she knew their names
, their faces, their temperaments. There were those that might make a good chief—better than her, perhaps—but right now her people needed at least one anchor of certainty and stability in the swell.

  She told herself this as she turned away from Daimon Blackcreek and joined the crowd, but it didn’t make her feel any less of a coward.

  There was no longer anyone between the two warriors. Tjakorshi faced Naridan across flat stone slabs; one tall, broad, and dressed for battle, the other shorter, slimmer, and clad only in a simple robe. The firelight licked over both of them, and for several heartbeats neither man moved.

  “Shall we begin?” Ristjaan called, presumably unaware how he was echoing Daimon’s earlier words. Daimon didn’t reply. He stood still, one thumb hooked over the circular hilt of his longblade, the other hand resting lightly on its grip.

  “You can still back down, if you’d like,” Ristjaan offered, starting to walk forward. Daimon didn’t speak or move, and Ristjaan’s lip twitched. “Nalon, tell him—”

  “What did I tell you about sars, Cleaver?” Nalon interrupted him. “Stubborn as rocks, every one. He’ll know what you’re saying, and he won’t give a shit. He’s not leaving here until one of you gets carried out.”

  “Fine,” Ristjaan snapped, rolling his axe shoulder. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  The big man began to swing his axe in looping arcs. It looked showy, but Saana knew there was a deadly purpose to it. When swinging a weapon with most of its weight at the far end, stopping a swing halfway would not only tire you quickly, but also potentially pull you off-balance, leaving you open. In the rolling brawl of the battlefield you took your cuts where you could, but in the shield circle you could concentrate on one opponent, and on your own form. The key was to have your weapon already moving for when you saw an opening, so you merely needed to redirect a swing instead of starting anew.