by Mike Brooks
“This lord must know where the gates are, and where the walls are strong or weak, in case we find them held against us,” he’d told Evram seriously. “He must know how the town is laid out. No one here knows these things, Evram of Black Keep, save for you.”
And so Evram had swallowed his wine, done his best to swallow his nerves, and had set about discussing his home with the most powerful man in South Narida. The High Marshal was courteous, and listened carefully when Evram described what buildings lay where as a scribe took charcoal to paper to draw a rough map, or answered as best he could about the nature and temperament of Black Keep’s lords. Each time, when they’d finished, the High Marshal thanked Evram for his assistance.
They had to be close to Black Keep now, Evram knew. They’d passed the last woodcutters’ cottages the day before, and he’d just seen a burned, blasted pine tree he recognised. His stomach was getting tighter and tighter. They were nearly out of the Downwoods. What then? Would Black Keep still be standing? Would the Raiders have departed, leaving him a liar in the eyes of the High Marshal?
“Evram of Black Keep!”
He jumped as the shout came back down the line. A sar was approaching, their plumed helm turning this way and that as they rode their dragon between the marching ranks of spearmen and archers. Although, Evram saw, the column’s march was coming to a halt. Was he about to be ordered to explain himself?
There was nothing for it. He stood up on the driving platform of the wagon so the sar could see him. “Here!”
“Come with this sar!” the warrior commanded, guiding his dragon over. He steered the huffing animal around to present its back to Evram. “Come on, man!”
He scrambled on clumsily, but the dragon was battle-trained and took little notice of his flounderings. The sar spurred it forwards and they trotted through the ranks again until they arrived at the head of the column, where the High Marshal himself sat astride his mighty war beast.
“Evram!” the Marshal hailed him, and Nari be praised, he didn’t sound angry. “This lord has need of you once again.” He gestured with one armoured gauntlet. “Can you name these men?”
Evram’s mount took a few more steps forwards, and as the dragons of the High Marshal’s retinue parted he caught sight of four men kneeling in the dirt of the road, flanked by men Evram now knew to be the High Marshal’s scouts. Two wore the livery of Black Keep, and there was no mistaking the others.
“Nadar and Yoon of Lord Blackcreek’s household, Kelarahel the reeve, and Freeman Shefal,” Evram said without hesitation. None of them looked up at him, for all still had their heads bowed before the High Marshal, but Evram saw a slight smile quirk the corner of Shefal’s mouth.
“They claim they freed Lord Asrel, but he was slain by his own son, and the rest of the town has turned traitor and now sides with the invaders,” the High Marshal said, and Evram’s heart quickened in shock. Could such a thing be true?
“Your man beseeches you, lord,” Shefal said. “Ride forth and liberate our home!”
“Insolent cur!” one of the scouts snapped, cuffing Shefal so hard that the freeman toppled sideways, knocking into Kelarahel and nearly sending him sprawling as well. “You do not speak to the Hand of Heaven unless he requests it!”
Evram’s throat tightened, for had he not done the same thing in the great hall of Darkspur? But perhaps the High Marshal had counted that conversation as being part of his initial request; or perhaps these soldiers were simply particularly vigilant, for Lord Brightwater raised one hand to forestall any further punishment.
“Is the town defended against our coming?” he asked. No one answered, and he sighed in exasperation. “This marshal asked a question! You, reeve! Is the town defended?”
“N-no, lord,” Kelarahel stammered. “Not when we left. Your coming is not known. They have gathered to celebrate the wedding of Lord Daimon to the Raider chief.”
“Wedding?!” Odem Darkspur blurted out. “Has the boy lost his mind?”
“A valid question,” the High Marshal said thoughtfully. “And one we should soon have the answer to. Place these men with the supply wagons; we ride to Black Keep, to see if its people still know their true master! Evram,” he added more quietly, as the sars around him began calling orders to get the column moving again, “ride with this marshal.”
Evram gaped. “With you, lord? But your man can barely sit on a dragon, he would impede you!”
“One of the advantages of being High Marshal, Evram,” Brightwater said with a grin, “is that you rarely have to see combat yourself. This marshal would have you close at hand to identify people or landmarks, and the wagons will not keep up. Since you have no mount of your own…”
And so Evram of Black Keep found himself clambering clumsily from the back of one war dragon to another, the finest beast from all of Brightwater’s stables, and perched somewhat precariously behind the most powerful man in Southern Narida. So well-trained was the dragon that the High Marshal merely had to touch his heels to its flanks and it began to walk forwards, but it seemed to Evram that almost no sooner had the column begun moving again, that they’d stopped once more.
“What is it now?” Brightwater demanded testily. Evram leaned hesitantly out to one side past his cloaked shoulder, and saw a scout hastening towards them again.
“High Marshal!” the scouts called. “We have seen the town, and it appears to be under attack!”
“From whom?”
“Raiders, lord!”
Evram couldn’t see Brightwater’s face, but he sounded more confused than angry at such a statement. “We were told they were inside the town, celebrating!”
The scout bowed to cover his own confusion. “These ones are definitely outside it, High Marshal, but they seek to gain entry, and those inside are resisting!”
“Does nothing make sense any more?” Brightwater muttered, so low that Evram could barely hear him, then spurred his mount forwards. Evram hung on as best he could, until the daylight around him grew brighter as they reached the edge of the Downwoods and looked out over the last—or first—stretch of the North Road that led to the gates of Black Keep.
Sure enough, the town was under attack. Evram gaped in horror at the sight; a new host of the strange Raider ships beached on the riverbank, and what looked like the last few stragglers heading for where he knew the breach in the wall lay, on the east side. However, a sizeable number were skirting the town’s northern edge and making for the Road Gate. Labourers returning from the far fields were also heading there as fast as they could, but the race would be close.
“Evram?” the High Marshal said. “Do you have any insight?”
“None, lord,” Evram said wretchedly. “This is beyond your man’s understanding.”
“Then we shall assume these Raiders are no friends of those who may be inside, and we may be able to use that to our advantage!” Brightwater said forcefully, and Evram realised that he was addressing his retinue, who had reined in around him. “Sound the charge! Ride down these scum and drive them back to their ships! Kill any Raider you see outside the walls!”
“What of any inside, lord?” someone asked.
“We shall deal with that when we get inside,” the High Marshal replied.
“Lord!” Evram said suddenly. “Beware the marsh to the east! Your mounts will founder in it!”
“Thank you, Evram,” Brightwater said. “You heard him! Watch the footing! Now charge!”
War horns blared, dragons bellowed in response, and the sars of the Southern Army burst out of the treeline to thunder down the North Road towards Evram’s beleaguered home. In their wake ran the columns of foot troops; not at a full sprint, but the quick pace of men who could see a hated enemy and intended to close with them while conserving strength enough to fight. The High Marshal guided his mount forward at a trot, keeping pace with his spearmen and archers.
“You see, Evram?” Brightwater said. “The savages have no stomach for battle.” And indeed, already th
e closest group of raiders, who had clustered around the now-closed Road Gate and appeared to be about to attack a group of farmers who had not made it inside before the gate had closed, had turned in shock at the sounding of the Southern Army’s war horns.
Then the Road Gate opened again and another sar on a war dragon charged out, smashing through them from behind before they realised he was there.
That was enough. The Raiders turned and fled, running for their ships, and the farmers ran forwards to dispatch those who’d been caught by the dragon’s charge. Brightwater’s sars angled their gallops to chase those fleeing, and the Black Keep sar joined them. The farmers, their grisly work done, merely stood and stared at the procession coming down the North Road towards them. The High Marshal’s bannerman rode behind him, with the huge standard snapping in the stiff breeze coming in off the ocean, and it was plain for anyone with eyes to see who was approaching Black Keep.
As the High Marshal drew close, a Naridan with a thick beard and holding a staff stepped out of the gate and ushered the farmers inside. He then knelt, alone, in the middle of the road.
“That is Aftak, lord, our priest,” Evram muttered into Brightwater’s ear.
“A good man?” the High Marshal asked quietly.
“Your man has always thought so, lord.”
“Priest!” Brightwater called, reining in his dragon. “You bar the Southern Marshal’s way!”
“This priest begs your forgiveness, lord,” Aftak answered, his eyes still downcast. “He merely wishes to inform you that not all the Raiders you will see here are your enemies.”
“Those are disturbing words to hear,” Brightwater said sternly.
“Yet true nonetheless,” Aftak replied firmly. “It has always been this priest’s duty to speak the truth as he sees it, and although he understands it may see his head separated from his shoulders on this day, still he must do it. Perhaps you were too distant to see, lord? Some of those who killed the bodies that lie here”—he gestured with one hand to the dead Raiders behind him—“were members of the Brown Eagle clan, who had been working in the Blackcreek fields alongside men of this town before these new raiders arrived.”
“Even if what you say is true,” Brightwater said slowly, “how should this lord’s men know friend from foe?”
“Those loyal to us have cloth of red or green tied around their arms,” Aftak said. “A ruse devised by Lord Darel, so we should know them from the foe.”
“Lord Darel?” the High Marshal said. “He fights?”
“Aye, lord,” Aftak replied. “Him, and his brother Lord Daimon.”
“And where is Lord Daimon?” the High Marshal demanded.
Aftak looked up, a mischievous smile creasing the lips beneath his beard. “You just missed him, High Marshal. He went that way.”
He pointed in the direction the sar on the war dragon had gone, chasing after the fleeing Raiders.
“Your orders, High Marshal?” asked the captain of the foot troops, who had halted next to Brightwater’s dragon.
“Clear out the town,” Brightwater commanded. “Kill any who resist. But…” he added, as the man drew in a breath.
There was a momentary pause.
“But the men are not to attack Raiders wearing coloured cloth as the priest has described, should they not prove hostile.”
“Yes, lord,” the captain replied. If he had questions or doubts, he didn’t voice them. Instead he drew his sword and led his troops onwards. Aftak remained kneeling, for he had not yet been bidden to rise, and the troops filed past on either side of him.
“High Marshal?” Odem Darkspur asked. “It is not this thane’s position to question, but—”
“No, it is not,” Brightwater cut him off. “But this lord wishes to see what has truly happened here. If it turns out that the Blackcreek family are indeed traitors, and the Raiders within the walls are also our enemies…”
He spurred his mount forwards again. Now Aftak did move, for it was that or be crushed for barring the Hand of Heaven’s path, and that was the greater insult.
“Well,” Brightwater concluded, “if that is the case, we can deal with them later. Better to fight your enemies one at a time, after all.”
DAIMON
THE RAIDERS HE’D pursued from the Road Gate were fleeing into the marsh towards their ships, along with their fellows who’d fled out of the breach, and Daimon resisted the temptation to urge Silverhorn after them. An adult longbrow would stand no chance of catching people in the mud, and might get mired completely. He reluctantly pulled his mount’s head around instead.
“Daimon!”
Other people were emerging from the breach now, Black Keep folk and Brown Eagles with cloth around their arms. And, limping in their midst, was a familiar figure with a sheet of blood down her left cheek and what looked to be a new sword tucked into her chief’s belt.
“Saana!” Daimon slid down from Silverhorn’s saddle and left the dragon to graze for the moment—he wouldn’t wander far, and he’d more than earned it after the work he’d put in. Daimon slipped through his folk, who were doing the grim work of dealing with the Raiders who’d been injured but not killed as they fled, and made his way to Saana’s side.
“You are alive!” she exclaimed as soon as he reached her, and there looked to be genuine relief in her eyes. “The leader, Rikkut, he had a spear and shield like the ones you carried! And then your wife saw a body and a dead dragon just there, inside the wall—”
“It must be Tavi,” Daimon said heavily, and Saana’s face fell. “Tavi was riding Bastion. We didn’t know where the Raiders would attack first; Darel went to the River Gate, your husband to the Road Gate, and Tavi to the breach. He must have fought bravely, especially for a man untrained.”
“Your wife is sad,” Saana said, her shoulders drooping. “She did not know him well, but… he was a good man.”
“Aye,” Daimon muttered, tasting sour guilt. It had been his idea to get Tavi on a dragon, and the loss of poor Bastion was nearly as keen. “We have lost many good people today. But your husband is glad you were not among them.”
“You there!”
Daimon looked around. He’d seen other sars pursuing Raiders, and had heard the horns. Three were now approaching, and seemed none too pleased to be faced with Naridans and Tjakorshi standing side by side.
“Who are you, who wears the armour of a sar but consorts with these savages?” the foremost rider bellowed from behind his war mask. His shield bore crossed golden spears, the sigil of the Southern Marshal’s personal household. Daimon pulled his own helmet off and shook his braids free.
“This lord is Daimon Blackcreek, of Black Keep!” he shouted back. “These savages, as you call them, are the Brown Eagle clan of Tjakorsha, who have fought beside us today to throw back an attack from Raiders from across the sea!”
“They are Raiders themselves, man!” the rider spluttered. “Look at them!”
Daimon folded his arms. “And yet they are not raiding. They have ploughed our fields and fished our seas, and celebrated the Festival of Life with us!”
The three riders looked at each other and mutterings passed between them, too low for Daimon to make out.
“You bear the sigil of the High Marshal!” he called. “Is he here?”
“Indeed he is,” another sar responded. “He rides through your town’s gate even now.”
“Then perhaps this lord should speak with him,” Daimon suggested, fighting down the flutter of his insides. “The High Marshal will undoubtedly wish to learn what has occurred here, and this lord would not have him hear it from another’s lips.”
“Too late for that, boy,” laughed the third sar. “Why else do you think we rode to this Nari-forsaken spit of land in the first place?”
“This man is certain the High Marshal will indeed wish to speak with you,” the first rider said, apparently ignoring his companion’s comment. “In fact, if you were not to seek him out, we would be compelled to take you to
him.”
“There will be no need for that,” Daimon replied stiffly. He whistled and slapped his thigh. Silverhorn grunted in response and began to amble over, picking his way over the bodies on the ground now he wasn’t being urged to trample anyone. Daimon turned to Saana. “Will you ride with your husband?”
“Your wife is not sure these sars would approve,” Saana said, looking over his shoulder at the riders.
“Your husband cares nothing for whether they approve or not,” Daimon said bluntly. He wiped his longblade off on his robe and scabbarded it. “He would have you with him when he speaks to the High Marshal, but you are injured, and it would not be honourable to make you walk when he rides.”
“Very well, then,” Saana said, eyeing the approaching Silverhorn. “If you can get your wife onto your dragon, she will ride with you.”
Her apprehension proved to be unfounded, for Silverhorn had run off any excess energy, and was now perfectly happy to kneel to let them mount, then rose to his feet and set off with nothing but a breathy chuff of effort. Daimon guided him back through the gap in the wall, then through the streets beyond to the main square. He tried not to look at the dead bodies that lay in their way, or hear the screams of those injured, or the weeping of families and friends as they discovered them. He needed to speak to the Southern Marshal of Narida as a lord of Black Keep, and honour dictated that a lord must be strong and dry-eyed.
Daimon couldn’t help but feel that honour had a lot to answer for.
“You said their leader had Tavi’s spear and shield,” he said over his shoulder to Saana as they rode. “What happened to this… Rikkut?”
“Zhanna killed him.”
“Zhanna?!” He looked back at her in shock, twisting in his seat to do so. “Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
Daimon found himself momentarily at a loss for words.