by Mike Brooks
Saana went cold. She should have seen this coming ever since the incident on the drawbridge.
Tavi surged up off the ground behind Ganalel and slammed his arm up between his fellow Naridan’s legs, and Ganalel’s eyes bulged in agony. Saana caught the wrist of his knife hand and punched him in the face as hard as she could, dropping him.
“Raider scum! He’s on our team!”
Young Elio slammed into her, knocking her away from Ganalel, and swung for her head with his fist. Saana blocked it, trying to remember the Naridan for “knife”. Had he not seen Ganalel’s attack? Did he not care?
Zalika ran over Elio from behind, introducing her forearm to the back of his head. She grinned at Saana, then got punched in the stomach by a different Naridan, who started to kick at her as she folded. Menaken tried to haul the man responsible away, got shoved back by him, then punched in the face by Otim.
“Stop it!” Saana yelled, trying to grab Otim. Everything was devolving into a straight-up brawl between Naridans and Tjakorshi, the teams of the Great Game forgotten. She managed to wrap her arms around Otim from behind, but he apparently took her for an enemy because he buried his elbow in her ribs hard enough to knock the breath out of her, then lashed backwards with the same arm and caught her in the temple. Saana staggered, losing her grip on him as her head swam, and then someone piled into her from the side. She landed hard in the mud and lashed out, panicking that whoever had brought her down might also have a knife. A boot trod on her left hand and she screamed as the bones ground together, then used her other hand to punch the culprit in the back of their knee to get them off her.
Someone kicked her in the ribs, a stab of pain that knocked half the breath from her. Saana turned towards the impact and grabbed the leg, then rose up to her feet with a roar, bearing her attacker into the air. She stumbled forwards, bouncing off at least one other person, then lunged forwards and drove her burden back-first into the wooden fence encircling the nearest house’s smallholding. It gave way with a splintering crack and they both landed in the dirt, with her opponent letting out a cry of agony. Saana punched him in the jaw and he went still, so she forced herself back up and turned back to the rest of them.
“Stop it!” she yelled, her stomach sinking. “Stop fighting!”
They paid her no heed.
DAIMON
SHOUTING AND GENERAL commotion was always part of the Great Game, and Nari knew there was enough of it going on, but Daimon’s fingers tightened on his longblade’s grip when one knot of noise in particular began to rise above the others. He glanced sideways at Kelaharel, but the reeve didn’t seem overly concerned, and simply continued to lean on his long stave. Tsolga Hornsounder, however, looked up from where she was sitting on a tree stump stool and caught Daimon’s eye.
“Bad,” she said in Naridan, and got to her feet. She punched one hand into the other, then nodded in the direction of the noise. “Bad.”
Daimon nodded, already questioning whether he’d made a critical mistake by introducing the Brown Eagle clan to the emotional cauldron that was the Great Game. Still, Black Keep had a traditional solution for that problem. “Reeve, your men are required.”
“Are you sure, lord?” Kelaharel asked, raising his eyebrows. “It could just be high spirits.”
He would never have queried Daimon’s father: Daimon tapped two fingers meaningfully on his longblade’s scabbard and the reeve ducked his head. “As you say.”
“This lord will come with you,” Daimon told him, ignoring the flash of consternation on Kelaharel’s face as he spoke. Tsolga Hornsounder fell in beside him, her face grim and her fingers twitching as though searching for a weapon to grip. The old woman clearly thought trouble was afoot, and Daimon trusted her instincts with regards to her own people, at least.
“Come!” Daimon barked, and set off at the best pace he could manage through Black Keep’s muddy side streets. The reevesmen kept pace with him, which he wasn’t surprised at; what he hadn’t expected was for Tsolga to manage it as well, but the old woman seemed hale, at least.
The disturbance wasn’t hard to find.
It was a struggling ruck of people up near the boundary wall, shouting and swearing and laying about themselves, but one glance told Daimon that what he’d feared most had come to pass: Naridan and Tjakorshi were at each others’ throats, in some cases literally.
“Into them!” Kelarahel barked, and he and his reevesmen waded in, staves lashing out. That was how the reevesmen worked: they broke up fights by laying about them until no one wanted to fight any longer, which was a decent enough method when dealing with Naridan lowborn who knew the reeve’s authority ultimately came from their lord. The Tjakorshi, however, for whom the reevesmen might be nothing more than Flatlanders with weapons… Daimon opened his mouth to call them back, but what other option did he have? Let the fight escalate?
Shouting from behind alerted him to a half-dozen Tjakorshi approaching from the direction of the square; members of the Brown Eagle clan who’d decided not to participate. His momentary hope that they’d come to help break things up evaporated when they drew the strange, thin daggers of their people, that were neither bone nor horn but similar to both. They were here to fight, and to kill.
His heart racing, and well aware he was clad in nothing but the thick cloth of his robes, Daimon drew his longblade. He tried to tell himself that perhaps the threat of a sar’s naked steel would stem their charge, but he knew before the weapon had cleared its scabbard that the hope was a desperate one. His grand dreams for a united Black Keep, one where Naridan and Tjakorshi could live alongside each other, would die today. Along with him.
An eerie, sonorous wail rang out from beside him, louder even than the noise of the fight, and Daimon’s bones were suddenly ice. He was a child again, hearing that sound echoing through the streets of his home and knowing death was at the walls. The charge of the Tjakorshi faltered as well, rage replaced by uncertainty.
Tsolga blew her huge shell horn until her knees shook, then refilled her old lungs and blew again. Black Keep spirit tales held that the Raiders made their horns from the skulls of the demons they worshipped, but seeing the truth in action didn’t change the effect on Daimon’s soul. It was a primal fear, one that surged out of his childhood and gripped him by the throat.
Between one heartbeat and the next, the fighting stopped.
Naridans were looking around in alarm, Tjakorshi in confusion. And then, bawling in her own language and forcing her way through the middle of the press, Saana Sattistutar appeared.
She looked a mess. She was covered in mud, one of her sleeves was hanging off at the shoulder and she had a cut on her forehead that was dribbling blood down her face, but she was grabbing Tjakorshi and hauling them away from whichever Naridan they happened to have their hands on at that moment. A rough split appeared down the middle, as the two sides began to separate.
Daimon drew his shortblade and walked into that gap, one weapon in each hand, forcing the two groups to part in front of him until he stood face to face with Saana. The look she threw at him made it clear she wasn’t sure whether he’d come to help her or kill her, and was beyond caring either way.
“What happened?” he asked, praying to Nari there was a good explanation.
“She punched Ganalel!” someone shouted.
“The man Ganalel,” Saana snarled, half at Daimon and half in the direction of whoever had shouted, “had knife. Tried to stab.”
“Stab you?” Daimon asked in alarm, and to his horror Saana nodded.
“Yes. This man hit him, but others did not see knife. They hit her, then Brown Eagles hit them. This man could not stop them all.”
Daimon ground his teeth in fury. Nari’s blood, but Ganalel was one of his guards! The shame on his house!
Never mind the shame, you fool! If he’d succeeded, you’d be looking at a dead chief and a clan of Tjakorshi who would burn Black Keep to the ground, and kill everyone in it.
“Did anyo
ne else see this?” he demanded, turning in a slow circle. If an accuser had two witnesses then a claim was held to be true, unless the thane had grave doubts about their truthfulness. The Naridans shuffled their feet and looked at each other uncertainly. The Tjakorshi obviously couldn’t understand him. Saana drew in breath to translate his words, and Daimon braced himself for the inevitable outpouring of loyalty to their chief, whether or not they’d actually seen anything…
“Aye, Lord!”
Tavi. The stablemaster forced his way through the ranks of his fellow countrymen, dragging Ganalel with him, one arm under each of the little man’s armpits and his hands clasped behind Ganalel’s head.
“Your man saw it, clear as he sees your face now,” Tavi declared, his own face flat with rage. “Tried to stab the chief in the back, then ran for it when the fight started. S’man wasn’t going to let him get away.”
An ugly ripple ran through the assembled Naridans, and several spat in Ganalel’s direction. More than one was nursing bruises or cuts, and Young Elio looked barely able to stand straight. Black Keep held the Great Game in high regard, and someone using it as cover to settle a personal dispute with a knife would be reviled in any case, let alone if that had started a fight leading to injuries.
“It’s a lie!” Ganalel bawled, struggling uselessly against the stablemaster’s thick arms. “You’ve seen him lord, always closeted with the Raider girl! No wonder he takes the side of the witch’s mother!”
Daimon found the tip of his longblade at the man’s throat almost before he realised what he was doing, and fought to get control of himself.
“This lord is of the opinion that Chief Saana’s daughter is no witch,” he bit out. “As you are well aware, Ganalel! Do you truly dispute your lord’s judgement in this matter?”
Ganalel froze, his eyes cast down towards the steel pricking his skin. “No, lord.”
“This lord hears your words, Tavi,” Daimon told the stablemaster. He lowered his blade from Ganalel’s throat, but didn’t take his eyes from the guard’s face. “Did anyone else see what Tavi describes?”
There was a shuffling in the Naridan ranks and Ita stepped forwards, swallowing nervously.
“Aye, lord. Your man saw it, but couldn’t make the others hear him—”
Ganalel’s eyes widened and he tried to round on his fellow guardsman, so abruptly that for a moment it looked as though Tavi wouldn’t be able to hold him.
“You treacherous little worm!” Ganalel raged, struggling to free himself. “S’man shits on your ancestors, you milkface-loving whoreson!”
“The witnesses are noted,” Daimon said, raising his voice to make himself heard above Ganalel’s rantings. He’d seen his father do this before and had never liked it, but it was necessary. “Tavi, take Ganalel to the pillory.”
“Lord,” Tavi nodded, and set about dragging his captive towards the square, apparently having no problem manhandling Ganalel by himself. Working in the stables must have given the man sinews like steel bars.
“Ita, run and tell Tevyel to prepare the resin,” Daimon instructed the tall guard, who bowed and set off, quickly overtaking Tavi and Ganalel. The people of the Blackcreek lands had used pine resin for many purposes for as long as anyone could remember, from throat medicine to an adhesive for fletching arrows. Tevyel would need a greater quantity than usual for what was coming, however. Daimon turned back to the rest of his folk.
“Heed your wounds!” he told them as forcefully as he could. “Feel them and remember them, and remember you took them in defence of a coward who cared not if he destroyed us all!” He sheathed his blade. The lowborn muttered, and there were still one or two dark looks cast at the Brown Eagles, whom Saana was speaking to in what sounded like similar tones, but there were many more nods, and many cursings of Ganalel’s name.
“What now happens?” Saana demanded, turning back to him. She still looked to be in a furious temper, which Daimon thought quite understandable. He bowed to her, the bow of a man with shame to expunge.
“This lord apologises to you, that his man should have acted in such a way.”
“Apologise?” Saana said, her eyes flashing. “Nasjuk went into your cages for punching a man. This needs more than your manners, thane!”
“And will get it,” Daimon told her firmly, straightening. “Ganalel will be held in the pillory. We will wait for the game to end, as this lord will need Gador to heat a blade in his forge.”
“And then?”
“The law is clear,” Daimon said, meeting her eyes. “Ganalel will lose the hand in which he held the knife.”
IT DIDN’T TAKE long for the game to end. Members of the red team triumphantly carried their opponent’s barrel back to the square with their three balls inside it, and placed it in front of Daimon. It seemed the Tjakorshi called Timmun had been the one to snatch the win with the red team’s third ball: Daimon wasn’t the best at reading the foreigners’ reactions, but he got the impression this was surprising to a lot of them. Most of the red team were now in a jubilant mood that crossed over the boundaries between Naridan and Tjakorshi.
Of course, there was one glaring issue left to resolve.
“People of Black Keep!” Daimon shouted, raising his hands. The crowd quietened. Beside him, Nalon gave a piercing whistle that seemed to focus the Tjakorshi’s attention. Daimon and Saana had agreed it would be better for Nalon to translate in this case, and Nalon had only complained about it slightly.
“It is this lord’s pleasure as Thane of Blackcreek to announce the winners of the great spring game as the red team of Yaro the fisher!”
A great roar went up from the half of the square in which those wearing red were concentrated. The other half, the defeated green team, were less enthusiastic.
“However, an issue arose during the game that this lord cannot ignore,” Daimon continued, while Nalon called out the Tjakorshi equivalent. “One of our town took to the field carrying a knife, and used the game as cover to attack a member of his own team over a grudge!”
Outrage. Shouts of anger and derision from all sides. Furious looks were cast at the pillory where Ganalel was held by his arms. Daimon didn’t know how much word had spread of the incident before this point, but if anyone had wondered why one of his guards was on display in the town square, they now knew.
“Ganalel attempted to stab Chief Saana of the Brown Eagle clan,” he declared. “In doing so he not only violated his own honour, but this lord’s honour as well. More importantly,” he said, raking the crowd with his gaze, trying to drive home the seriousness of the situation, “he endangered us all. Seeing only a fight, and not knowing the cause, most went to aid their own people. Had it not been for the quick thinking of the woman Tsolga”—he pointed, drawing a look of some confusion from her which only seemed to increase as Nalon translated—“this could have engulfed us all. Death could have come for many in Black Keep, over the actions of one man. Remember, our only enemies in this town are those who are opposed to peace, be they Naridan or Tjakorshi!”
His words didn’t exactly draw cheers, but neither were they jeered, or even greeted with a stony silence. Instead there was a general nodding, and a low buzz of conversation. The harsh reality of what would happen if a genuine battle broke out was surely clear to his folk, and he couldn’t imagine any of them wished to die.
“What of Ganalel, lord?” Shefal shouted. Of course it was Shefal. Well, he was going to be disappointed if he expected Daimon to shirk his responsibilities.
“Witnesses confirmed the accusation,” Daimon said. “This lord has, in accordance with our laws, sentenced Ganalel to lose the hand that so treacherously wielded the weapon. This lord now calls his town to bear witness to the punishment.”
He turned towards the pillory, and the crowd shuffled and shifted to follow. Gador emerged from the forge, holding a long, thick blade glowing dull red with heat. One of the reasons the pillory was so near the forge was to ensure the blade used for such punishments cooled
as little as possible before it was needed. It was no sar’s longblade, and the heating would have started to blunt its edge, but it was sharp and heavy enough for what needed to be done. Daimon took it, feeling the waves of heat coming off it. Ganalel had started to wail.
“Ita!” Daimon snapped. “The log!”
Ita rolled an upright log into position. Its length was such that it rested just below the hole in the pillory where a prisoner’s hands were held, and its upper surface was scarred with old, blackened blade marks.
Daimon felt his stomach roil, but there was no turning back. It was a very different feeling to facing down Ristjaan, when he’d been overwhelmed by a nervous energy accentuating everything. This was just a sick regret. But he couldn’t allow his people to just stab each other in the back, even if some of them were Raiders. He needed everyone to understand they were all under the same law.
“Ganalel of Black Keep,” he pronounced, holding the blade in front of him. “You are guilty of cowardly violence, and this lord, Daimon Blackcreek, thane of these lands, will take from you the hand used to do the deed.”
“Lord, your man begs you!” Ganalel wheedled. The sun was setting, but the light caught the tears on his cheeks. “His family! How will your man feed them with only one hand?”
Daimon shook his head. “Lay your hand on the log, Ganalel, and keep it still.”
“But Lord—”
“Your hand, Ganalel!” Daimon shouted. “This lord gives his word he will strike true, but he can only do that if you keep still. Should you move, this lord may need to strike more than once.”
Gador pulled a small sack from his belt and pulled it down over Ganalel’s head, hiding his face. “There, Lord. It may help if he can’t see the blow coming.”
Daimon nodded, and raised the blade. In truth, it helped him not to see the man’s pleading eyes, although the low, wordless wail emerging from the sack wasn’t helping his nerves. He positioned his feet carefully, focused on Ganalel’s wrist, and swung.