The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  “She is a remarkable young woman,” he said, turning back to guide Silverhorn again.

  “She is,” Saana replied, and if her voice sounded a little choked, Daimon wasn’t going to mention it. They rode in silence for another few moments, and then Saana spoke again.

  “She… used a longblade to do it.”

  “A longblade?” Daimon frowned. “Where did she—?”

  “Your father’s was… well, after he… fell, and then the attackers came,” Saana said hesitantly. “It was still with him. Zhanna saw it, and thought it better than her own weapon…” She gripped his shoulder. “Daimon, she meant no disrespect, and she saved your wife’s life with it. Your wife begs you, do not treat her harshly.”

  Daimon wasn’t angry. He felt he should be, but he wasn’t. He waited a couple more dragonstrides, trying to put his thoughts into words.

  “It is a weapon,” he said slowly. “Nothing more. Your husband’s father tried to kill your husband, his own son, with it. Its last use, before Zhanna took it up, was to try to kill you. It is not a noble thing, in and of itself. It seems fair it should be used to save you.” He sighed. “Your husband will speak to Darel. We each have our own blades. Since Zhanna put our father’s to such good use, perhaps she should keep it.”

  There was silence from behind him.

  “Saana?”

  “Zhanna Longblade,” Saana said with a snort that sounded like half-laugh, half-sob. “Daimon, your wife thanks you. It is just… she does not wish her daughter to become a warrior. She loves her too much. But she knows she will not get to decide these things.”

  “Let us hope Zhanna can decide, and the choice is not taken from her, as it was today,” Daimon replied. He guided Silverhorn around the last corner, saw what awaited them in the square, and took a deep breath. “And that we are all still free to make such choices by the time the sun goes down.”

  He felt Saana shift to look over his shoulder, and heard her mutter something under her breath in Tjakorshi. It seemed his wife shared his misgivings.

  Ten dragons stood proudly around the square. Each one was a mighty war beast the equal of Silverhorn, and their sars still sat astride them with their weapons drawn. The greatest of them all, a huge creature with nearly black plumage and ridden by a man who had to be the Southern Marshal himself, was standing in front of Darel.

  Daimon’s brother was on one knee, with his longblade drawn and grounded point first onto the stone slabs. He was watched not only by the assembled sars and armsmen bearing the sigil of the Southern Marshal, but by the survivors of Black Keep. Naridan and Tjakorshi clustered together much as they had for Daimon’s wedding, and when Daimon’s father had challenged him to a duel, but the stakes here were far, far higher.

  Armsmen moved aside as Silverhorn grunted at them, and Daimon rode into the square. He was conscious of everyone’s eyes on them. Even Darel broke from his bow for long enough to cast a quick backward glance, although nobody seemed to notice.

  “Do as we do,” Daimon muttered to Saana as he guided Silverhorn alongside his brother, then tapped the dragon’s neck. Silverhorn knelt obediently and Daimon slid off him, then helped Saana dismount. She winced as her right leg touched the ground, and Daimon helped her drop to one knee. When she grounded her own sword he drew his longblade in one swift motion and imitated his brother and his wife, paying homage to the Southern Marshal.

  “Whom is this lord addressing?” Marshal Brightwater demanded. The question was a formal one, and required a formal answer.

  “Your servant Darel Blackcreek, presumptive Thane of Black Keep,” Darel said before Daimon could speak. Daimon glanced sideways at him: they’d never finished the conversation about who should inherit their father’s title.

  Darel mouthed one word to him, silently. Trust.

  Daimon inclined his head a fraction in the most infinitesimal nod he could manage, then cleared his throat. “Your servant Daimon Blackcreek, law-brother of the thane.”

  Saana spoke next. “Your servant Saana Sattistutar, chief of the Brown Eagle clan.”

  She paused for a moment.

  “And wife to Daimon Blackcreek.”

  Her voice was strong, and must have carried clearly across the square, because Daimon heard the gasps and mutters from the armsmen. Several of the sars began shouting of dishonour and shame, but their voices quickly stilled. Daimon, still looking at the ground, imagined the Marshal raising one hand for quiet prior to ordering their immediate execution. He took a firmer grip on his longblade. Should he fight? Hadn’t today already seen enough fighting?

  There was a slither of movement, and then the thump of two boots hitting stone. The tap-tap-tap of regular steps approaching. Then they stopped, just out of range of a swordsman’s lunge.

  “Look up.”

  Daimon did so, and found himself looking at the Southern Marshal.

  Marshal Kaldur Brightwater was not an old man: in fact, his braided hair was yet to show a hint of grey. His boots were soft and supple dragonskin, and his coat of nails was a vivid yellow chased with blue, with circles of embroidery running from his collar to his hem, each one displaying his sigil of crossed golden spears on blue. The pommels of his longblade and shortblade looked to have been carved from dragonhorn, and his face had the marked cheekbones and long chin characteristic of the northern Naridan nobility. Daimon felt his own low birth had never been more obvious.

  “This marshal was told of this union not long ago,” Kaldur said, fixing first Daimon and then Saana with a dark, steady gaze. “Four men of this town brought us the news as we were approaching.”

  Shefal, Yoon, Kelarahel, and Nadar. Daimon would have cursed them all had he not been on one knee in front of one of the most powerful men in Narida.

  “It was a strange scene that greeted this marshal when we cleared the edge of the forest,” Kaldur continued, starting to pace slowly in front of them. “Raiders, those loathsome savages from across the waves, attacking a town. Nothing so unusual there, sad to say. And yet… and yet…”

  He paused directly in front of Darel, then began pacing again.

  “A man had already brought news to Thane Odem at Darkspur that Raiders had come to Black Keep, and not to pillage, but to settle. That Thane Asrel’s law-son had turned upon his father and brother, and betrayed them. Of course, Darkspur assumed the Raiders would have quickly broken any trust placed in them, and slaughtered Black Keep’s rightful inhabitants. Indeed, this marshal would have thought that was what he was seeing when he rode into the town… had it not been clear that some Raiders were fighting beside the people of Black Keep.”

  He stopped again, this time in front of Daimon.

  “Would anyone care to explain?”

  “Lord, the Brown Eagle clan are indeed of the people we have known as Raiders,” Daimon said. “Some two weeks ago they arrived here from across the ocean, seeking to settle. Their chief was clear they wished to do so peacefully. Your servant’s law-father, Asrel Blackcreek, having met with the chief under a flag of parley, attempted to kill her.” Daimon paused for a moment, but Brightwater’s expression didn’t change.

  “Your servant saw that only bloodshed of his people could result from this, so he disarmed his father and made a pact with the Brown Eagles’ chief, Saana Sattistutar, that the people of Black Keep would not be harmed,” Daimon continued. “Your servant’s law-father and law-brother could not reconcile themselves to this, so your servant had them imprisoned in his family’s stronghouse where they could neither harm others nor take their lives honourably. In this matter, your servant confesses he acted from the fondness of his heart, rather than as honour would dictate.”

  “But your law-brother is here, Daimon Blackcreek,” Brightwater pointed out. “Here, armed, and calling himself the thane presumptive.”

  “Your servant was freed, along with his father, by the men whom you met on the road, lord,” Darel spoke up. “They hoped your servant’s father would prevent the marriage. Your servant confesses
that when he emerged from his captivity, he saw that nothing he had feared had come to pass. The Raiders had killed no one, despite Daimon slaying one of their champions in single combat over the honour of a lowborn man. The Brown Eagle clan had honoured their chief’s promise, and had begun to live and work alongside our people. Daimon’s judgement was good.”

  “And the battle today?” Brightwater asked. “How did it happen? Did tempers flare? Did the savages’ true nature come out? Did these people from across the ocean turn on each other?”

  Daimon wasn’t sure quite how to answer. Saana took the choice from him.

  “They were clanless. They have abandoned all that Tjakorshi call honour, and have chosen to worship a demon. It was they we fled from to come here. Black Keep and Brown Eagle clan fought and bled together to save each other.”

  Brightwater said nothing, but tapped his fingers several times on the dragonhorn pommel of his longblade. Then, without turning, he raised his voice.

  “Thane Darkspur!”

  A figure in brown and gold stepped forwards. Daimon hadn’t seen Odem Darkspur for many years, since he and Asrel Blackcreek had still been on speaking terms, but he recognised him immediately.

  “High Marshal,” Odem said, sinking to one knee when he was three paces from Brightwater.

  “You brought this matter to this marshal, and requested his assistance with it,” Brightwater said. “Your concerns were valid. It was of course unthinkable that Raiders, that scourge from across the sea, should think to settle in Narida.”

  Daimon’s throat clenched. But they’d spoken so well! How could Kaldur not see it?

  “However.”

  The square went very still.

  “This marshal does not see Raiders in front of him,” Kaldur said clearly. “He sees farmers and fishers who fled misfortune and came to Narida to live with honour. They made promises, and they have kept them. And their chief has now married a son of the Blackcreek house.”

  “Lord?” Odem asked, his face twisting in confusion.

  “This… Brown Eagle clan… wish to live as Naridans? Then they shall live as Naridans!” Kaldur said forcefully. “They shall work for their lord as Naridans do, they shall contribute to his coffers as Naridans do, and he shall pay his taxes to his liege-lord on the basis of that.”

  Daimon stole a glance sideways at Darel and Saana, unable to keep a smile from his lips. No matter his hopes, no matter his prayers to Nari or any benevolent spirits who might have been listening, he’d struggled to believe this would ever be possible.

  Yet Darel’s face was drawn with tension. Daimon frowned in return. What was he missing?

  “Yes, lord,” Odem managed. He looked like someone had fed him dragon dung. “Your servant is grateful for your judgement in this matter.”

  Crawl back to your home, Daimon thought at him viciously as he rose and withdrew. If you’d dared to come against us yourself, no one might have questioned you if you’d won. Instead you sent for help, and found the help didn’t agree with you.

  “However.”

  Daimon blinked. Hadn’t they already done this?

  “There is one issue that cannot be ignored,” Brightwater said, looking at Daimon. “When this marshal arrived here, his men found the body of Thane Asrel Blackcreek, apparently placed in the shrine of Nari by his steward. The thane had died with honour by falling on his shortblade, but there was another grievous wound in his side, which would have undoubtedly killed him. The men this marshal encountered on the road all swore this wound was inflicted by Daimon Blackcreek.”

  There was no point denying it. “It is true, lord. Your servant’s law-father challenged him to an honour duel, and threatened to kill people of the town if the challenge was refused.”

  “A sad state of affairs,” Brightwater nodded, although his eyes remained hard. “But the kinslayer is accursed, Daimon Blackcreek. It is amongst the greatest crimes in this land.”

  Daimon’s throat dried. “Even in an honour duel?!”

  “No,” Brightwater said. “An honour duel, conducted in line with the Code, is exempt from this law. But is it not true that Asrel Blackcreek had himself breached the covenant of the duel by attacking your wife? And had your brother Lord Darel not drawn his own blade and engaged your father?”

  Daimon breathed out shakily. “It is true, High Marshal.”

  “An honour duel is a combat between two warriors,” Marshal Brightwater declared. “By breaching that, your father had already lost, and in so doing also sacrificed any protection he himself would have enjoyed. Had your father then killed you, Daimon Blackcreek, this marshal would have enacted the exact same penalty upon him.”

  He sighed, with what sounded like genuine regret.

  “Death, by beheading.”

  TILA

  IDRAMAR. THE SEAT of the divine God-King, the capital of Narida, and the centre of civilisation.

  Or at least, so Tila had always believed.

  She’d lived her whole life in and around Idramar, as befitted a princess of the line of the Divine Nari. She’d learned her nation’s history from her tutors and had had its inherent superiority reinforced to her again and again. She’d dealt with nobles and dignitaries from other lands, and had always imagined their awe when they’d first laid their eyes on the Sun Palace. How they must have marvelled, seeing the strength and beauty of its lines! How they must have been humbled by the might of the great Narida!

  Then she’d travelled to Kiburu ce Alaba, the City of Islands, and… well, it was fair to say that she looked at her own city a little differently now, as she sailed back into the mouth of the river Idra on the deck of the Light of Fortune.

  Idramar was still large, there was no doubting that, but East Harbour was larger. The Sun Palace might be bigger than any individual building in East Harbour, but the New Palace of the Hierarchs was not far off. As for the port, Tila had always thought of the docks at Idramar as a huge, bustling place, but East Harbour’s dwarfed them. Quite apart from that, East Harbour was only one city amongst the islands that were strung out across the Throat of the World, although it was the largest.

  It was a strange experience, for a princess to come back to her home and look on it with humbled eyes.

  “It’s good to be back,” Barach said at her shoulder.

  “It’s going to be hard,” she replied. “This lady imagines there has been a considerable amount of jostling for position while she’s been away. We might have to make some examples of people.” That was true for both Idramar’s backstreets and the corridors of the Sun Palace, but the backstreets were going to have to wait. Family came first. What she wouldn’t give to have Barach at her side for that, but anyone knowing her secret was one person too many.

  “Where are we going first?” Barach asked.

  “First of all, this lady is going home,” Tila said firmly. “She’s not going to walk straight into the thundertooth’s lair without knowing what awaits her. She will let the news of her return circulate for a couple of days, and see who scurries for cover.” The one thing she could know for certain was that her brother had not passed away since she’d last had news. Even from this far out, she could see that no mourning flags flew on the docks, or on the ships berthed there. She’d prayed to her long-distant ancestor for her brother’s survival even since Emerald Bay, and it looked as though those prayers had been answered. Tila didn’t know what she could do to help him, but if there was something, she’d find it.

  Barach grunted and nodded. Some of Tila’s criminal underlings were overenthusiastic in their efforts to get into her good graces, but Barach not only deferred to her utterly, but was a naturally cautious man. It was a good trait in a bodyguard, and one of the reasons she trusted him.

  “A fine day, is it not?”

  Tila’s cheek twitched involuntarily as Marin’s voice greeted them from behind. She’d hoped that the thief, and most especially his husband, would have disembarked from the Light of Fortune much earlier, but it seemed they�
��d decided to travel all the way to Idramar. Tila had considered having Captain Kemanyel simply throw them off the boat, but she’d leaned hard on her influence with him already. Besides, even a group of sailors would think twice about trying to force a blacksword who bore the tattoo of a Brotherhood mercenary to leave somewhere he intended to stay, and pirates were a real danger along some stretches of the Naridan coast. Some of the crew had seemed quite pleased at the prospect of a seasoned warrior being on board.

  She glanced around. Sure enough, Alazar Blade lurked behind Marin like a silent thundercloud, now clad in Naridan clothes he’d bought at the port of New Bayecliffe, instead of the Alaban ones he’d been wearing when he first came on board. Tila had done her best to avoid him for the duration of the voyage, and he still didn’t seem to have made the connection between Livnya and the princess he’d known in passing twenty years before, but every moment she spent around him was another chance for him to ruin her life.

  Again.

  “It does a man’s heart good to see his home,” Marin chuntered happily, staring at the city they were approaching.

  “Your husband is sure the Keepers will be delighted to see you,” Alazar said, shifting his weight to lean against the rail. The Keepers were the God-King’s men, charged with keeping Idramar in good order, which included catching and locking up thieves.

  “It’s been five years, Laz,” Marin said dismissively. “They’ll have forgotten.”

  Alazar Blade grunted sceptically and crossed his arms. He looked over at Barach and Tila, and Tila turned her head away from him as though looking back up the coast northwards.

  “Your husband doesn’t like coming back here,” she heard Alazar say. The sentiment wasn’t surprising. Tila wondered if Marin knew that his husband was the God-King’s ex-lover.

  “You’ve said.”

  “And he’ll say it again, and often, until we leave.”

  “We won’t need to stay for long,” Marin said firmly. “Your husband just needs to talk to some people, that’s all.”