by Anthony Ryan
What absurd comedy this is, I thought. To pardon a man for a crime he did commit so he can face retribution for one he had no part in.
Last to arrive were the Ship Lords, eight men of middle or advanced years dressed in what I assumed passed for finery in the isles. These were the wealthiest men in the Islands, elevated to the governing council by virtue of the number of ships they owned, a singular form of government that had survived surprisingly well for over four centuries. They took their places on the raised long marble dais at the far end of the arena, eight large oak-wood chairs having already been placed there for their comfort.
One of the Ship Lords remained standing, a wiry man, dressed more simply than his fellows, but with soft leather gloves on both hands. I sensed Al Sorna shift next to me. “Carval Nurin,” he said.
“The captain of the Red Falcon,” I recalled.
He nodded. “Bluestone buys a lot of ships it seems.”
Nurin waited for the hum of the crowd to die down, his expressionless gaze lingering on Al Sorna for a moment before he raised his voice to speak, “We come to witness resolution of challenge to single combat. The Shiplords Council formally recognises this challenge to be fair and lawful. There will be no punishment for any blood spilled this day. Who speaks for the challenger?”
One of the Shield’s crew stepped forward, a large, bearded man with a blue scarf on his head denoting his rank as first mate. “I do, my lords.”
Nurin’s gaze turned to me. “And for the challenged?”
I rose and walked to the centre of the arena. “I do.”
Nurin’s expression faltered a little at the lack of an honorific in my response but he continued smoothly. “By law we are required to enquire of both parties if this matter can be resolved without bloodshed.”
The first mate spoke first, voice raised, addressing the crowd rather than the Shiplords. “My Captain’s dishonour is too great. Although a peaceful man by nature the souls of his murdered kin cry out for justice!”
There was a growl of agreement from the audience, threatening to build into a cacophony of rage until a glare from Carval Nurin caused it to subside. He looked down at me. “And does the challenged wish to resolve this matter peacefully?”
I glanced back at Al Sorna and found him looking up at the sky. Following his gaze I saw a bird circling above, a sea eagle judging from the wingspan. It turned and wheeled in the cloudless sky, born by the warm air rising from the cliff, above all this, above our sordid public murder. For I now knew this was murder, there was no justice here.
“My lord!” Carval Nurin prompted, his voice hard with annoyance.
I watched the eagle fold its wings and dive below the cliff face. Beautiful. “Just get it over with,” I said, turning and walking back to my seat without a backward glance.
There was a curious expression on Al Sorna’s face as I returned to my seat. Perhaps he was amused by my refusal to play long with this travesty. Later, in my more deluded moments, I wondered if there might have been some admiration there, some small measure of respect. But that, of course, is absurd.
“The combatants will take their place!” Carval Nurin announced.
Al Sorna stood, hefting his hateful sword. There was a brief hesitation as he placed his hand on the hilt, I noted the flex of his fingers before he drew the blade from the scabbard. His face was devoid of amusement now, dark eyes seeming to drink in the sight of the steel shining in the sun, his expression unreadable. After a second he placed the scabbard next to me and walked to the centre of the arena.
The Shield came forward, his sabre bared, blond hair tied back with a leather thong, clad simply in sailors garb of plain cotton shirt, buckskin trews and sturdy leather boots. His clothes may have been simple but he wore them like a prince, easily outshining the finery of the assembled Ship Lords, exuding grave nobility and physical prowess, a lion in search of justice for its murdered pride. The good humour he had displayed at the harbour was gone now and he regarded Al Sorna with a cold, predatory judgement.
Al Sorna took his place opposite, meeting the Shield's gaze without demur, showing the same effortless inability to be outshone. He stood with his sword held low, legs parted in line with his shoulders, a slight crouch to his back.
Carval Nurin raised his voice again. “Begin!”
It happened almost before Nurin’s command had ended, so fast it was a moment before I, and the crowd, realised what had occurred. Al Sorna moved. He moved in a way I had never seen a man move before, like the eagle diving below the cliff edge, or the orcas swooping on the salmon when we left Linesh, a fluid blur of speed and a single flickering slash of metal.
The Shield’s sabre must have been fashioned of quality steel judging by the rich ringing sound it made as it skittered away across the arena, leaving him standing there unarmed and defenceless.
The silence was total.
Al Sorna straightened, offering the Shield a grim smile. “You were holding it wrong.”
The Shield’s face showed a brief spasm of either rage or fear, but he mastered it quickly. Saying nothing, awaiting death and refusing to beg.
“There was much laughter in your house,” Al Sorna told him. “When your father returned from distant shores with presents and tales of adventure, you would gather around with your brothers and listen, hungering for manhood and rejoicing in his love. But he never told you of the murders he committed, honest sailors pitched to the sharks from the decks of their own ships, nor the women he raped when they raided the Realm’s southern shore. You loved your father, but you loved a lie.”
The Shield bared his teeth in a feral grimace of hate. “Just finish it!”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Al Sorna went on. “You were just a boy. There was nothing you could do. You were right to run…”
The Shield’s composure shattered, an enraged roar erupting from his lips, charging forward, hands reaching for Al Sorna’s throat. The northman side-stepped the charge and slammed the palm of his hand into the Shield’s temple, felling him to the arena floor where he lay still and immobile.
Al Sorna turned and walked back to his seat, retrieving the scabbard and sheathing his sword. The crowd were beginning to react now, mostly in shock, but with a tinge of anger that I knew would only grow.
“This challenge is not concluded, Lord Vaelin!” Carval Nurin called above the rising tumult.
Al Sorna turned, walking to where Lady Emeren sat, shocked and staring at him in rigid frustration. “My Lady, are you ready to depart this place?”
“This contest is to the death!” Nurin shouted. “If you leave this man alive you dishonour him in the eyes of the Isles for all time.”
Al Sorna turned away from the Lady Emeren with a gracious bow. “Honour?” he asked Nurin. “Honour is just a word. You can’t eat it or drink it and yet everywhere I go men talk of it endlessly, and they all tell a different tale of what it actually means. For the Alpirans it’s all about duty, the Renfaelins think it’s the same as courage. In these islands it appears it means killing a son for a crime committed by his father then slaughtering a helpless man when the pantomime fails to go to plan.”
It was strange, but the crowd fell silent as he spoke, even though his voice wasn’t particularly loud the amphitheatre carried it effortlessly to all those present, and somehow their anger and disappointed blood-lust abated.
“I offer no excuse for my father’s actions. Nor can I offer any contrition. He burned a city on the orders of his king, it was wrong but I had no hand in it. In any case, spilling my blood will leave no mark on a man who died three years ago, peacefully in his bed with his wife and daughter at his side. There is no vengeance to be had on a corpse long since given to the fire. Now give me what I came for or kill me and have done.”
My gaze shifted to the spear-bearing guards, seeing hesitation as they exchanged glances and cast wary eyes at the crowd, now possessed of a rising murmur of confusion.
“KILL HIM!” It was the Lady Emeren, o
n her feet now, striding towards Al Sorna, finger pointed in accusation, snarling. “KILL THE MURDERING SAVAGE!”
“You have no voice here, woman!” Nurin told her, voice hard in rebuke. “This is the business of men.”
“Men?” Her laugh was harsh, near hysterical as she rounded on Nurin. “The only man here lies unconscious and unavenged. Cowards, I call you. Faithless pirate scum! Where is the justice I was promised?”
“You were promised a challenge,” Nurin told her. He looked at Al Sorna for a long moment before lifting his gaze to the crowd, his voice rising. “And it is concluded. We are pirates it is true, for the gods gave us all the oceans as our hunting grounds, but they also gave us the law with which we govern these Isles and the law holds true in all things or it means nothing. Vaelin Al Sorna stands as victor in this challenge under the terms of the law. He has committed no crime in the Isles and is therefore free to go.” He turned back to the Lady Emeren. “Pirates we are, but scum we are not. And you, Lady, are also free to go.”
We were marched to the end of the mole and told us to wait whilst they arranged passage for us with the few foreign vessels in port. A large detachment of spearmen stood guard across the quay to discourage any last minute vengeance from the townsfolk, although I judged the mood of the crowd at the conclusion of the challenge to be subdued, more disappointed than outraged. The guards ignored us and it was plain our departure would be marked with no ceremony. I have to say it was an awkward circumstance to linger there with the two of them, the Lady Emeren prowling the dock, arms tightly folded against her breast, Al Sorna sitting silently on a spice barrel, and me, praying for the turn of the tide and blessed release from this place.
“This does not end here, Northman!” the Lady Emeren burst out after an hour of silent pacing. She approached to within a few feet of him, glaring, hating. “Have no dream of escape from me. This earth is not broad enough to hide from…”
“It’s a terrible thing,” Al Sorna cut in. “When love turns to hate.”
Her baleful visage froze as if he had stabbed her.
“I knew a man once,” Al Sorna continued, “who loved a woman very much. But he had a duty to perform, a duty he knew would cost him his life, and hers too if she stayed with him. And so he tricked her and had her taken far away. Sometimes that man tries to cast his thoughts across the ocean, to see if the love they shared has turned to hate, but he finds only distant echoes of her fierce compassion, a life saved here, a kindness done there, like smoke trailing after a blazing torch. And so he wonders, does she hate me? For she has much to forgive, and between lovers,” his gaze switched from her to me, “betrayal is always the worst sin.”
The cut on my cheek burned, guilt and grief mingling in my breast amidst a torrent of memory. Seliesen when he first came to court, the way his smile always seemed to bring the sun, the Emperor giving the honour of his education in court matters to me, his early stumbling attempts at etiquette, listening to his latest poems far into the night, the fierce jealousy when Emeren made her feelings known, and the shameful triumph when he began to forsake her company for mine. And his death... The endless grief I thought would consume me.
Al Sorna had seen it all, I knew it. Somehow, there was nothing hidden from his jet eyes.
Al Sorna rose and stepped towards the Lady Emeren, making her flinch, not in hatred I knew, but fear. What else had he seen? What else would he say? Kneeling before her he spoke in clear, formal tones, “My Lady, I offer my apology for taking your husband’s life.”
It took her a moment to master her fear. “And will you offer your own in recompense?”
“I cannot, my lady.”
“Then your apology is as empty as your heart, Northman. And my hatred is undimmed.”
They found a vessel from the Northern Reaches for Al Sorna, ships from the Unified Realm’s northmost holdings apparently enjoy rights of anchorage in Meldenean waters denied their countrymen. I had heard and read a little of the Reaches, how it was home to peoples of varied ancestry, and was therefore unsuprised to find the crew mostly dark-skinned with the broad features common in the Empire’s south-western provinces. I walked with Al Sorna to the ship’s berth, leaving the Lady Emeren rigidly immobile at the end of the mole. She stared out to sea, refusing to grace the Northman with another word.
“You should heed her,” I told him as we neared the gangplank. “Her vendetta won’t end here.”
He glanced over at the still form of the Lady, sighing in regret. “Then she is to be pitied.”
“We thought we were sending you here to your death, but all we have done is set you free. As you knew we would, I’m sure. Ell-Nestra never had a chance. Why didn’t you kill him?”
His black eyes met mine with the piercing, questing gaze I knew saw far too much. “At my trial Lord Velsus asked me how many lives I had taken, I honestly couldn’t tell him. I’ve killed many times, the good, the bad, cowards and heroes, thieves and… poets.” His eyes became downcast and I wondered if this was my apology. “Even friends. And I’m sick of it.” He looked down at the sheathed sword in his hand. “I hope to never draw this again.”
He didn’t linger, made no offer of his hand or any word of farewell, simply turning and making his way up the gangplank. The vessel’s captain greeted him with a deep bow, his face lit with a naked awe shared by the surrounding crew. The Northman’s legend had flown far it seemed, even though these men hailed from a place long distant from the Realm’s heartland, his name clearly carried a great meaning. What waits for him? I wondered. In a Realm where he is no longer merely a man.
The ship departed within the hour, leaving half its cargo unloaded on the docks, keen to be away with its prize. I stood at the end of the mole with the Lady Emeren, watching the Hope Killer sail away. I could see him for a time, a tall figure at the prow of the ship. I fancied he may have glanced back at us, just once, perhaps even have raised a hand in a wave, but he was too far away to be sure. Once free of the harbour the ship unfurled to full sail and was soon vanished beyond the headland, heading east with all speed.
“You should forget him,” I told the Lady Emeren. “This obsession will be your ruin. Go home and raise your son. I beg you.”
I was appalled to see she was crying, tears streaming from her eyes, although her face was rigidly devoid of expression. Her voice was a whisper, but fierce as ever, “Not until the gods claim me, and even then I'll find a way to send my vengeance through the veil.”
Part V
In longer games, where the Liar’s Attack or one of the other openings outlined above has failed, the complexity of Keschet is fully revealed. The following chapters will examine the most effective stratagems to be employed in the long game, beginning with The Bowman’s Switch, taking its name from a manoeuvre employed by Alpiran horse archers. Like the Liar’s Attack, The Bowman’s Switch employs misdirection but also retains the potential for exploiting unforeseen opportunity. A skilled player can move offensively against two objectives, leaving their opponent ignorant of the ultimate target until the most fruitful opportunity presents itself.
Author unknown, Keschet – Rules and Strategies, Great Library of the Unified Realm.
Chapter 1
He took Spit and rode westward, keeping to the shoreline, finding a campsite sheltered in the lee of a large grass-topped dune. He gathered driftwood for a fire and cut grass for tindling. The stems were dried by the sea breeze and lit at the first touch of the flint. The fire grew high and bright, embers rising like fireflies into the early evening sky. In the distance the lights of Linesh seemed to burn brighter still and he could hear music mingled with the sound of many voices raised in celebration.
“After all we did for them,” he told Spit, holding a candy up for the war horse to chomp on. “War, plague and months of fear. Hard to believe they’re happy to see us go.”
If Spit cared anything for irony it was expressed in a loud snort of annoyance as he jerked his head away. “Wait.” Vaelin caught hold
of the reins and unfastened the bridle before moving to lift the saddle from his back. Shorn of the encumbrance Spit cantered away across the dunes, kicking through the sand and tossing his head. Vaelin watched him play in the surf as the sky dimmed and a bright full moon rose to paint the dunes a familiar silver blue. Like snow drifts in the height of winter.
Spit came trotting back as the last glimmer of daylight faded, standing expectantly at the edge of the light cast by the fire, awaiting the nightly ritual of grooming and tethering. “No,” Vaelin said. “We’re done. Time to go.”
Spit nickered uncertainly, forehoof kicking sand.
Vaelin went to him, slapped a hand on his flank, stepping back quickly to avoid the retaliatory kick as Spit reared, whinnying in anger, teeth bared. “Go on you hateful beast!” Vaelin shouted, gesticulating wildly. “GO!”
And he was gone, galloping away in a blur of silver blue sand, his parting whinny resounding in the night air. “Go on you bloody nag,” Vaelin whispered with a smile.
There was little else to occupy his time so he sat, feeding the fire, recalling that day atop the battlements at the High Keep when he watched Dentos approach the gate without Nortah and knew everything was about to change. Nortah… Dentos… Two brothers lost and about to lose another.
It was only a slight change in the wind bringing a faint scent of sweat and brine. He closed his eyes, hearing the soft scrape of feet on sand, approaching from the west, making no pretence of stealth. And why would he? We are brothers after all.