by Mike Brooks
“Twenty ships, near enough,” Daimon heard himself say through a mouth that was suddenly dry. “More ships even than the entire Brown Eagle clan had arrived on, and all as large as the biggest of those, or close to it.”
Saana screamed in sudden anger. “How could it know?! We told no one! We crept away like thieves, and still the foul thing finds us!”
“Those are warriors?” Daimon asked, aghast. “All of them, warriors?” Part of him wanted to curse his new wife for bringing this doom down upon them all, but her haggard expression was testament to the fact she’d believed the demon far behind them. “We must make ready.”
Saana simply spat over the wall. “The Dark Father calls, Daimon.” Then her eyes widened and she clutched the battlement, leaning out as though it would help her to see better. “Zhanna!”
“What? Where?” Daimon scanned the ground in front of them but could only see a few herders running for the dubious safety of Black Keep’s walls, none of whom looked like Saana’s fire-haired daughter. Then he realised where she was looking, and cursed as he suddenly understood. “She was out fishing?”
“Your wife has not seen her today, but she thinks so,” Saana said, her voice taut. “If so, she will be on the Leviathan’s Wake… there, at the back.”
Questions wheeled through Daimon’s head—why hadn’t Saana seen her today? Why was Zhanna out fishing on her mother’s wedding day? Was this usual for Tjakorshi, or had he offended Zhanna somehow?—but he had no time to indulge them. Something like four hundred Tjakorshi warriors were coming, yet his mind had gone blank, his body frozen in place. He would fight any of these invaders one-on-one, but how could he protect an entire town from all of them?
“They look to be heading for the River Gate,” Darel said at his shoulder, and Daimon started in surprise: he hadn’t even heard his brother arrive. Darel was pointing at the fishing vessels. “Your daughter is with them?”
“This man thinks so,” Saana said grimly.
“Then get to the River Gate with as many of your people as you can find between here and there, and whatever weapons you have,” Darel told her urgently. “We’ll open the armoury and get more to you, but you’ll know best who approaching the walls is friend and who is foe, and you can hopefully find your daughter. Go!”
Saana nodded once and was gone, bounding down the steps with her wheat-blonde hair flying out behind her. She raised her voice as she went and Tjakorshi faces fell, but her clan members turned to follow her as she cut through the crowd. Several broke off to head for houses: to get weapons, or so Daimon sincerely hoped.
“You!” Darel snapped, grabbing a young girl of perhaps ten years who’d run up the steps to join them, heedless of her mother’s shouts from below. “Go to the shrine, ring the bell, and don’t stop ringing it until this lord tells you to! Now!”
The child turned and ran, dodging her mother’s desperate grab for her as she passed.
“Aftak!” Darel shouted, and Daimon saw the priest’s head come up. “Go to the Road Gate! Get as many of our people in from the fields as can make it, then shut it fast and hold it!”
“Aye, lord!” Aftak roared back, raising his staff in salute. “You, you and you, with this priest!” He struck three men on the shoulder with his staff and made off northwards through the streets. With his departure, Darel raised his hands and shouted down to the crowd of townsfolk who’d gathered below them.
“People of Black Keep, we are under attack! More Raiders have arrived, and the clan of this lord’s brother-wife flees from them! Those of you who have weapons to hand, guard the breach!” He pointed along the line of the wall to the largest gap in it, where the wagon had stood when the Brown Eagle clan had landed. “Everyone else, to the castle! Anyone who can bear a weapon shall take them from the armoury, and we will then reinforce the walls as quickly as we may! The children and infirm will remain within the castle itself!”
Daimon darted after his brother as Darel hurried down the stairs. “Darel! The keys! You said the traitors had them!”
For answer, Darel held up the iron ring on which jangled the keys to the armoury and stronghouse. “Your brother said they killed Malakel to get them, Daimon. He wasn’t going to let them hold onto them.”
“You are wise,” Daimon said honestly, as the bell of the shrine started to toll out its frantic warning. He belatedly wiped the blood from his longblade and sheathed it, lest the drawn steel cut someone in the crowd around them. “What would you have your brother do?”
Darel glanced at him as they ran across the flagstones of the square, a flicker of uncertainty on his face. “You ask that? You are the warrior!”
“Your brother knows swordplay, but that does not make him a warrior,” Daimon admitted, dropping his voice. “He froze on the walls. He had no orders to give.”
Darel raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks. “We should don our armour and get to the dragons. Can your wife ride?”
“Saana?” Daimon shook his head. “She rode on Bastion when we searched for their corpse-painter, but that was once, and she has never ridden a dragon alone.”
“A pity,” Darel muttered. “One apiece to guard the River Gate, the Road Gate and the breach would be ideal.”
“Tavi!” Daimon said, inspiration dawning. “He knows the beasts better than anyone!”
“You would have the stablemaster ride one of our family’s war mounts?” Darel asked incredulously.
“Put Tavi on a dragon and give him a spear, and your brother wagers he’ll skewer Raiders better than either of us!” Daimon said honestly. “The man’s near as strong as a dragon himself!”
“Very well,” Darel replied. They’d reached the stronghouse’s drawbridge at the head of a crowd of townsfolk, and Daimon was brought up short for a moment by the sight of a stocky figure in the shadows of the gatehouse.
“Lord… Lords?” Tavi said, stepping into the light and making a startled, hurried half-bow. “Your man heard the bell and came running, but Malakel! He’s—”
“More Raiders, Tavi!” Daimon told him as they surged onto the drawbridge. “Saddle three dragons!”
“More—Three?” Tavi gaped, one question overtaking the first. “Your lord father—”
“Is dead,” Darel cut in. They were in the gatehouse now, and the townsfolk were spilling into the first yard. Daimon’s brother turned, searching the crowd as the stablemaster stared at him in horror and confusion. “Menaken! Open the armoury and arm anyone who can hold a weapon! Anyone who can shoot a bow gets one: this lord wants as many of those Raiders dead as possible before they reach the walls!”
“Aye, lord!” Menaken shouted back, catching the keys Darel threw at him. “This way!” The main press of the townsfolk followed him, and Daimon heard some screams: had they caught sight of Malakel? Where had the poor man been when he was killed?
“Lords,” Tavi said uncertainly, looking from one of them to the other. “Three dragons? One for each of you, but who rides the third?”
“This lord will take Silverhorn,” Daimon said. His mount was feisty, but Daimon knew him well. “Lord Darel will ride Quill.” He put one hand on Tavi’s shoulder and looked into the stablemaster’s eyes, or tried to: Tavi seemed reluctant to look straight at him, which was unlike the man.
“You are to ride Bastion.”
SAANA
“DO YOU SEE them?” Saana shouted up at the wall, fastening her chief’s belt over her sea leather. She’d taken the risk of running back to her house before going to the River Gate, for she’d be little use against armed attackers with only her fists to rely on. Now she had her armour, her helm, her shield and her axe, and felt she might actually serve a purpose. Her stomach was lurching like she’d swallowed too much seawater, and she was offering down fervent wishes to Father Krayk that he’d protect her daughter, even though she knew how foolish that was. The Dark Father had gifted people with land and will, and expected them to do the rest themselves. He took their lives back as and when he chose
… but still Saana implored him silently, just in case.
You took Rist from me. You took my closest friend, and I understood the need. But please, please, please let Zhanna live. Even if our enemies get into the town, even if they take my life, please let Zhanna live.
“Do you see them?” she screamed. The street down to the River Gate held a mass of Tjakorshi, men and women, some armed and armoured as she was, some who’d come with nothing. They’d only get in the way in a fight.
“I see them!” Tsennan Longjaw shouted down. It was no surprise he was up on the wall; his mother had been out fishing, after all. “I see them! They’re round the castle! Open the gate, open the gate!”
Saana’s heart fluttered as a cheer went up, but he’d only given them half the story. “Tsennan! Are they being chased?”
The youth leaned out over the rampart and looked east. The stronghouse roof and the tall trees of its garden blocked his view, Saana realised; he couldn’t see back down the river.
“No!” he shouted a moment later. “Not yet, anyway!”
That was a problem in and of itself, Saana realised, but one thing at a time. Zhanna was safe.
Or was she? Cold fear gripped her again. There’d been several Naridan fishing skiffs out as well, and she’d seen Naridans on the taughs as they’d fled upriver, so the crews must have been picked up by the faster ships. What if the Leviathan’s Wake had been overfull, and Zhanna had been knocked overboard? What if a slingstone had struck her? Getting a good shot off at sea was virtually impossible, but a taugh was a big target, and if everyone on board was packed so tight they couldn’t avoid a stone…
Calm, she told herself. You’ll find out in a matter of moments. You won’t help anyone by panicking.
“Clear the way!” she bellowed as the River Gate was hauled open. “Get back! Give them space to get off the boats, damn it!” She hauled someone back by his shoulder and realised it was Otzudh. He glowered at her.
“No surprise this should happen the day you betray our clan and marry a Flatlander,” he sneered. “You’ve brought the attention of the Dark Father down on us all!”
Rage flashed through Saana, momentarily banishing her fear. “If we weren’t waiting to see if our daughter was alive, I’d knock your teeth down your throat!” She pushed him away, and took a step towards the gate.
“A Tjakorshi man wasn’t good enough for you, then?” Otzudh shouted from behind her.
“Obviously not!” Saana yelled without turning, to a few nervous laughs. She whirled back to face him, pointing accusingly. “Why don’t you go and say the same thing to Avlja, see what she and Nalon have to say?” Otzudh scowled but didn’t reply, which just showed he had at least some sense in his thick head.
“They’re landing!” Tsennan shouted from the wall. Saana looked through the gate, and saw the first taugh pulling alongside a jetty. The tide was low, so the first woman ashore had to clamber upwards, but she quickly secured the taugh with lines thrown to her, and the crew began to disembark. Saana scanned the faces as they appeared, despite knowing Zhanna had been on a different boat. There was Otim, and there were the two Naridans Old Elio and Young Elio, the father and son. Evruk came off next, ashen-faced and shaking. They were ushered through the gates, the Tjakorshi finding their families and running to them, the Naridans clustering around each other and looking around nervously.
“Clear the path,” Saana instructed the Naridans, well aware that she was the only person there who spoke their language. “More to come!”
The second taugh landed, and Ada’s voice rang out as she hassled and hurried the others ashore. Zalika’s tall frame was visible, and Saana fought down a surge of irritation. If that lanky string of piss had made it back but her daughter hadn’t… She cast the cruel thought aside. More Naridans, too: Yaro, the captain of her team in the Great Game, and a Naridan whose name she thought might be Achin.
“Chief,” Ada greeted her, hurrying through the gate. The witch’s face was grim, and one hand still rested on the spearfish-bill dagger at her belt. “It’s The Golden’s warriors.”
“Is it with them?” Saana asked, her breath catching. “Did you see it?”
“Not the draug itself,” Ada admitted. “But I know Zheldu Stonejaw when I see her, even from distance over waves, and her clan swore to it last summer, as I heard.” She spat at the ground. “It’s an ill wind that blew these bastards here, that’s for certain.”
“And Zhanna?” Saana asked, dreading the answer.
“The last I saw, she was helping Flatlanders aboard the Leviathan’s Wake,” Ada said. “Fair screaming at them in their tongue, she was, but they moved quick enough when we came alongside. I’d have left them to the swell, but Jelema Eddistutar swore to the wind and waves that she’d cut my throat if I did, and I’ll not cross her when she’s got a storm face on.”
Oh, Jelema. Always the big-hearted one. “Thank you,” Saana said, as something in her chest loosened a little. “Now go get your weapons and armour; we need Ada the raider now, not Ada the fisher.”
“I’m no Unblooded, Saana,” Ada retorted, pushing past her, “I know what’s coming! Move, you grass-bloods! Just because those goat-fuckers stopped chasing us doesn’t meant they’ve gone away! They’ll be over these walls in moments!”
Saana should have been doing the same, she knew that, but she couldn’t bring herself to, not yet. She had to see if Zhanna was alive and well. The Leviathan’s Wake was drawing in now and she could barely prevent herself from pushing through the folk still coming in thorough the gate.
Jelema Eddistutar clambered into view first, turning to grab a rope thrown to her and then kneeling down to tether her craft. Kurvodan was next, with another line, then a Naridan—Elka, perhaps?—and then…
Then a flash of bright red hair, and Saana’s knees nearly buckled in relief. “Zhanna!”
Her daughter was pulling other people ashore, Naridan and Tjakorshi alike, and it wasn’t until everyone was off the Leviathan’s Wake that she made for the gate. Saana couldn’t take her eyes off her, convinced an enemy yolgu was going to round the river bend any moment and send a punishing hail of slingstones ashore, or somehow get to the jetty and disgorge warriors before Zhanna could flee, but none of those things came to pass.
“Mama!” Tsennan Longjaw came flying down from the wall and crashed into his mother with a hug that knocked her sideways, but he held onto her tightly enough that she didn’t fall. There was more laughter, this time relieved, as Jelema scolded him to let her go, then hugged him herself as soon as he did so.
Zhanna hurried through the gate, rearmost of all, and Saana stepped forwards… then stopped herself. What if—?
Zhanna took one look at her, at the tears that were starting to blur her vision, and enveloped her in a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Saana whispered into her ear, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. And that you can stand to touch me now, she thought but didn’t add.
“I’m not safe,” Zhanna muttered back.
“You’re safe at this moment, and that’s what matters most to me in the world,” Saana said. “In the world, Zhanna.”
“You should be proud of your daughter,” Jelema Eddistutar’s voice said, and Saana opened her eyes to see the fisherwoman releasing her son again. She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I’d have never taken the Flatlanders on board, but Zhanna wouldn’t hear of it. Near enough weighed us down too much, but we got away with it. It was the right thing to do, I just hadn’t the courage to do it.” She turned away from them, then came to an abrupt halt and the colour drained from her face. “What in the name of—”
There were screams and shouts of alarm from the Tjakorshi. Saana let go of Zhaana and placed herself in front of her and Jelema, drawing her axe and facing down the street. A huge shape lumbered into view, snorting and shaking its horned head.
Saana let out a relieved breath and laughed as her clan scuttled backwards like startled crabs. “What’s the matter? Ha
ve none of you seen a dragon before?” She switched to Naridan. “Daimon? Is that you?”
The dragon’s rider lifted off his helmet, and her new husband’s face was revealed. Other Naridans carrying weapons edged past his enormous mount and began passing them out to the clan. Some warriors already had their own weapons, whether they were blackstone axes or stolen or traded metal, and clearly preferred to stick with them. However, others less familiar with battle clearly found some comfort in the notion of Naridan steel.
“Do they come?” Daimon asked, standing up in his stirrups in an effort to see over the wall.
“No!” Saana shouted back. “They gave up the chase. Did they not land on the seaward side?”
“Your husband does not know, he came directly here,” Daimon admitted. Worry flitted across his face, and he turned to look back towards the east. “They’ll surely attack the breach or the Road Gate, then, or both…”
A Naridan appeared in front of Saana. She shook her head when he offered her an axe that didn’t look in particularly good repair, but the boy child that came after him held up a green strip of cloth and didn’t seem in any mood to be ignored.
“Daimon, what is this?” Saana called, holding it up. It looked to be one of the strips used to mark out teams in the Naridan’s Great Game.
“Darel’s idea,” Daimon replied. “To mark friend Tjakorshi from foe, should the foes get inside the walls!”
“Put them on!” Saana shouted at her confused clan, and began to fumble with it. She supposed she’d be hard pressed to pick out most of the Black Keep Naridans from ones she’d never seen before, if everyone had a weapon and some were trying to kill her. Daimon’s brother didn’t seem a fool, whatever else he might be.
Zhanna took the strip from her and secured it with a few quick motions, then held up a red one. “Tie mine.”
Saana didn’t argue. She took the cloth from her daughter and knotted it firmly above Zhanna’s right bicep. “Now go get your axe. But remember,” she added urgently, holding onto Zhanna’s arm, “these aren’t Flatlander farmers, these are Tjakorshi warriors. Don’t be a Naridan and die for honour, Zhanna. It’s fine to hit them from behind.”