by Rj Barker
“No one knows how it works, Girton. Usually the high kingship goes to a relative, but all of Darsese’s close family died in the plague.”
“Surely there is a cousin with a claim?” Aydor laughed, pulling on the rein of his mount to stop the beast snapping at Xus.
“Cousins? Loads of them, but that’s the problem. Darsese is related to practically every family in the Tired Lands, Rufra and Marrel ap Marrel included.”
“Surely this has happened before? There being no succession?” Aydor had a surprisingly thorough knowledge of Tired Lands history, though he liked to pretend he was stupid in front of others. To avoid being asked to work, he said.
“Happened a few times actually, lot of double-crossing at Ceadoc. Occasionally they get a bit over-enthusiastic and no one survives.”
“And how was it solved then?”
“The usual way.”
“Usual?”
“You know, war. But I thought you’d prefer to avoid that as much as Rufra.” I did not speak for a while and Aydor stared at the horizon, squinting as if he thought he could see something. His eyesight was poor in the middle distance but surprisingly good for things very far away. “It’s a good idea Rufra and Marrel have had,” he said, “to vote on the new king and back each other on the result. They have the biggest and best armies, few will stand against them.”
“But can Marrel be trusted?” Aydor stared at me. “I mean he seems like a good man, but …”
“He is a good man, Girton, and like Rufra he has a new wife who makes him happy. Long cold nights on wet battlefields are the last thing on his mind. And besides, he’s old-fashioned, like someone from one of your dances. His word can be trusted.”
“Well, at least a vote should be quick.”
Aydor laughed again and produced an apple from somewhere in his armour.
“Quick? Nothing at Castle Ceadoc is quick. Oh, the vote is simple enough, when it happens, but there’ll be all manner of feasting and standing about doing nothing for the sake of propriety and so those who are undecided can be persuaded to change sides. By which I mean bribed.”
“All Rufra ever talks of is who is and isn’t on his side.”
“There’ll be kilts too, Girton, loads of kilt-wearing. I know how you enjoy putting on a kilt.”
“Even having to fold a kilt to fit and make idle talk with Tired Lands aristocrats is better than standing in a shield wall.”
Aydor paused in chewing his apple.
“I’m not so sure, Girton. At least you know where you are in a battle. Ceadoc is the Sepulchre of the Gods where the priests keep their power, the seat of the Landsmen. It is where the Children of Arnst set up after Rufra threw them out of Maniyadoc too, and then there is Gamelon—”
“Gamelon?”
“Seneschal of the high king, a hereditary position and the man has known nothing but cruelty and intrigue since he was born. Ceadoc is a bear pit, Girton. Your friendship with Rufra may have soured over the years.” He saw me wince. “Sorry, but it is true and you know it. Even if you will not admit why.”
“He is just—”
“King, and he must make decisions that are hard.”
“I know that.”
“Maybe you should act like it?”
“Maybe he should try and understand what I—”
He raised a hand to silence me.
“Sorry, I should not have meddled, but my point is this, if ever there was a place Rufra may need your skills it is Ceadoc, and he knows it. And—”
“So I am simply a useful tool?”
“Dead gods, you two are so alike you cannot see it! You really are, stubborn as bull mounts the two of you. Rufra wants you there because you make the chance of a peaceful transition better.”
“You mean he knows I’ll kill his enemies for him.”
“I mean he knows you will keep him, and those he loves, safe.” He looked away, staring at the horizon and giving me time for the resentment within to calm itself. He was used to this, juggling Rufra and I. “It’ll be war anyway, Girton, mark my words. Maybe not great armies …” His voice faded away and he turned to glare at the horizon again. “… but there’ll be plenty of killing at Ceadoc. I’m glad you’re with us.” He clapped me on the shoulder but I could not meet his good cheer because I knew he was right. Rufra had shown no real interest in being high king until he had visited Ceadoc three years ago. Then he had become obsessed, making plans, lists of those who would be allies and those who would be against him. Rufra had repeatedly told me how infirm the high king, Darsese, was and I knew what he meant but would not say, could hear the intention in his voice, but I felt the weight of history on me. To kill a high king was not something I would do unless he told me to directly.
And he would never do that.
But now Darsese was dead, his family too, all lost to the forgetting plague that had swept through the Tired Lands killing blessed, living and thankful alike. Only Maniyadoc had remained untouched and where Rufra had been seen by many as an outcast, a man who scorned the dead gods and their ways, now he was seen as blessed by them. The Children of Arnst, a religion started in Rufra’s war camp before he banished them, had experienced a surge in popularity. Why else would his lands have been spared if he was not favoured? His star would never be higher than it was now—though many still loved the old ways, and the Landsmen, under Fureth, hated him for eating into their power and casting them from Maniyadoc.
“How does he stand, Girton?” I was snatched from my reverie by Voniss. She was a famed beauty, red hair held aloft in elaborate constructions of painted hard bread—an extravagant display of wealth—and pale skin touched with earthy colours to honour the land. She was clothed in the bright colours and rags of Festival, and was a child of their lords, bringing all their power with her to Rufra’s side.
“Stand? What do you mean? Is Aydor more drunk than I thought?” She smiled, though she was heavily pregnant and clearly uncomfortable on the saddle of her mount.
“How does Rufra stand with the blessed, will he win the vote?”
“Aydor, thinks so.” She nodded and I was sure I did not tell her anything new. Voniss was very rarely surprised. “It is very close though. Gorin ap Sullis is yet to decide, but he is conservative by nature. I have heard that Dannic ap Survin is gravely ill and Rufra is sure his son, Olek ap Survin, will vote for him. There is also a blessed coming down from the hills, Baln ap Borlad. I know nothing of him. If we can convince him to our side then Rufra’s victory will be even safer.”
“Do the same men still stand against him, or have new alliances formed while I was with my family?”
“His uncle, of course, stands against him, but the trader Leckan ap Syridd has dropped his bonemount and given it to Marrel ap Marrel of the Ragged Wetlands. He remains Rufra’s greatest threat. And there is always Fureth of course.”
“The trunk of the Landsmen does love to meddle,” she said.
“Aye, but he has little support among the blessed, they do not trust Fureth.”
“But Fureth does not need political support. He has the Landsmen.”
“Aye.” We rode on in silence a little before I spoke again. “Rufra believes Fureth will throw his weight behind Marrel, eventually, but it will still not be enough for Marrel to win as the Landsmen have no vote, though it gives him a bigger army, which should worry us all.”
“Marrel has no wish or taste for war,” said Voniss. “He has hosted Festival enough for me to know him. He is a traditional man but a good man, at heart. He bids for power through alliances and bonhomie, not force of arms. He will come in behind Rufra if he wins, just as he promised.”
“You sound like you think he would make a good high king.”
“He would. Marrel is a stable hand.”
“And Rufra is not?” I said.
She chose not to answer.
“What of the priesthood, Girton? Their vote is important, many will follow them.”
Something cold ran in my blood
at the thought of the priesthood—more specifically at the thought of the high priest of the Tired Lands, Neander. Daydreams of Neander’s blood on my blade had long been one of the things that filled my spare moments, but Rufra had forbidden me from taking the man’s life—despite that Neander had been the architect of so much misery, not only for myself, but for all those who lived in Maniyadoc and the Long Tides. Rufra had cultivated the man as an ally, ignoring my advice that to do so was madness.
“Well, there is Danfoth and the Children of Arnst: Rufra could have counted on them to support him once, but Danfoth has been at Ceadoc for five years now and he sees no emissaries. I have heard he is close to the Landsmen, but he also owes Rufra and wishes for a temple on his land, so who knows how he will decide. Rufra believes Neander will vote for him and with him he brings the entire priesthood but I think he is being blind. Neander is a snake.”
Voniss nodded. “All this to win power that is of no use.” She waved a tiny biting lizard away with an elegant hand.
“He thinks he can make it of use.”
“And stamp his new ways on the whole of the Tired Lands?” she said. “No, the bear has it right, war will follow Rufra’s victory in Ceadoc if he tries to force his changes across the land. No more thankful? The whole idea a man or woman can change their station in life? If he tries to push that on the entire Tired Lands we won’t have seen a cataclysm like it since the Black Sorcerer. However, he has not said he plans to force his laws on others. Maybe he sees a way to start something more subtle, or maybe he sees something he has not revealed yet.”
“Not even to you?”
“He tells me very little, Girton.”
“You do not sound like you are too keen on Rufra becoming high king.”
“Are you?”
Xus rocked beneath me and I stared at the sky, cloudless and blue as the small flowers that lined the roads. The sun so bright and hot it made me squint and wish I had chosen to ride without armour beneath my motley.
“How did your diplomacy go, Voniss?” I said.
“Well enough, but we expected nothing else. The Festival Lords will host Rufra’s bonemount even though he will stay in Ceadoc Castle. It will send a powerful message.”
“Many don’t trust Festival.”
“But they want its wealth.”
“Indeed.”
She let her mount fall back to join her retinue and guards and I trotted on with Xus. All around me the land was bare. This was not through sourings—there was no stink on the wind—simply that the year had been hot and the crops had died in the ground. Partly because of the heat and partly because the forgetting plague had left too few people to harvest what did grow before it suddenly burnt itself out. I knew little of the plague, only that few survived it. When it swept through the Tired Lands Rufra had stopped travel in and out of Maniyadoc, guarding river crossings and passes, revealing a hardness of heart I did not recognise and thought he was better than. When the plague had passed, and I heard how many had died in the lands outside Maniyadoc, it was hard to fault his choices, though I still felt like there should have been some other way.
When even the slightest breeze appeared great clouds of dust gathered and that, together with the lack of birthstorm and the stifling heat that had come with the yearslife months, was what many had blamed the plague on. I did not believe it. The Landsmen, green-armoured and dark-hearted, had taken their crusade against anyone they believed held magic to a higher level after being driven from Maniyadoc. They had emptied the Tired Lands of its wise women and hedge healers. Blood gibbets surrounded every souring and, though it was true the sourings had shrunk considerably, the people had been left without recourse to those who kept them well. When plague came there was nothing to heal it but prayer made to dead gods—and, as all know, dead gods only ever grant small mercies.
People said Xus the unseen ruled now. The black priests of Arnst walked the land, talking of a god I did not know or recognise: a fierce god and an angry god, whereas the Xus I knew was nothing of the sort. I knew him as a lonely figure, one who went about the work of death unwillingly, saddened by what he must do and lonely because he alone survived the wars that killed the other gods.
But talk of gods was nonsense. Maniyadoc was free of plague not only because Rufra closed his borders but because he, knowingly or not, protected the wise women of his lands. He had banished the Landsmen as punishment for siding with the pretender, Tomas ap Glyndier, at the battle of Goldenson Copse, and he kept a standing army big enough to stop them causing him too much trouble.
And of course, many believed that Xus himself protected Rufra. After all, it seemed his enemies often died without him ever having to lead an army on to the field.
“Girton!” I turned to find Aydor at my shoulder, holding his shield with the grinning bear on it as if it weighed nothing. “Stop daydreaming and put your eyes to good use.” He pointed at the horizon, “What do you see?”
I sheltered my eyes, staring at the line where the dark land met the pale blue sky.
“Riders.”
“Aye, and they seem in a hurry.”
Voniss joined us.
“Messengers, do you think?”
“If so, it’s a Torelc-cursed important message, there’s twenty riders at least,” I said.
“Well,” said Aydor with a grin, “that bodes nothing well.” He rolled his huge shoulders. “Form up!” he shouted. “Cavalry, form up!” Riders trotted forward, some in Rufra’s black on red and some in the colours of Festival, red on black in a checked pattern. “Girton, I’ll leave you ten mount archers. You protect the queen if it comes to it.” I nodded as Aydor tightened the strap of his wide helm with its twisting snake on top of it. “Shouldn’t do though,” he said. “We should be able to see this lot off easily enough.”
Once I would have been insulted to have someone discount me so offhandedly, but time had worn down my spikier edges and age had brought with it the gift of knowing my own strengths. I had fought in a cavalry charge once and found myself completely out of my depth, and I had fought in a state as close to panic as I had ever been in a fight, and only the quick reactions of my mount had saved me from death. Aydor was welcome to lead his charge and I would stay back here with Voniss and watch as he dealt with whoever it was that had decided to move against Rufra’s queen. Such an attempt was not a surprise, to kill or capture Voniss and her unborn child would not only hurt Rufra but it may even drive a wedge between him and Festival. Although, of course, we would not let it happen.
I watched as Aydor and his cavalry shrank in my vision, making full speed to meet those who rode at us. Voniss’s ladies formed up around her, all from Festival and all armed with stabswords. Around them formed a ring of Rufra’s mount archers, the most feared warriors in the Tired Lands. Many had tried to emulate them, but none had the skill of Rufra’s men and women.
The riders on the horizon altered their direction, veering away from the oncoming cavalry. Aydor and his troop’s mounts ran through the long grass and it appeared as if they floated over the dry ground, dark bodies over yellow grass. A great plume of swirling smoky dust followed like they had stirred up Coil the Yellower’s fury and the hedging lord pursued them.
From this distance it looked oddly peaceful, more like a painting than the coming descent into death and violence. I shuddered, some seldom used sense ran a blade through my veins. It was similar to the discomfort I felt in a souring, where the dead ground stole away my connection to the magic held in the land and everything that lived within it.
Something was wrong, but what?
What was the first thing you did in an ambush?
My master, drawing lines in the dirt with sticks.
You drew away the biggest threat. And if the biggest threat was our cavalry that meant … infantry.
No, we were mounted, so not infantry: archers.
I looked to my left. The leader of the mount archers wore Festival colours, young, a girl who could not be far out of h
er twenties. Bodyguard to the queen was a position of honour, not always one given to the greatest warriors—the queen was generally with the king and his guard.
“Shields,” I said quietly. “Ready your shields.”
“I obey the queen—” began the girl, but the queen cut her off.
“Do as he says, Margis, he speaks with my voice here.”
The girl nodded and called out, “Ready shields!” Her men and women reacted quickly enough, even Voniss’s ladies produced small round shields that I had thought were only for saddle decoration. Aydor’s cavalry were being drawn further and further away. He was not a fool, but he was an overly enthusiastic warrior. He would soon realise he was being played with and return. If there was going to be an ambush, it would have to happen quickly.
“Shields up!” Margis may have been unhappy to take orders from a jester, but she was alert. Shields came up into a tent of hardwood and I ducked in Xus’s saddle so I could look under their edges. Archers—not many, ten or fifteen—had been hidden in the long grass. They held the standard longbows of the Tired Lands and let loose a high volley which fell to rattle uselessly off the shields, sounding like the rain we all longed for.
“Wheel left,” shouted Margis and our mounts moved round so we headed toward the archers at a brisk trot. The mounts needed little training for this, preferring to ride together in a herd. Xus let out a low growl. “Prepare to break,” shouted Margis. I watched the archers as they turned from us to run. “Have them!” shouted Margis and our shield tent vanished. Four mount archers stayed with us and the rest rode for the archers. I knew this was sound tactics—we were mounted, if infantry hid in the grass we could run—but something felt wrong. The land around me pulsed. I could feel nothing further, no sense of the people around me, only this overwhelming throbbing.
And I knew we had been played as simply as a musical instrument.
The assassin dropped the simple invisibility at a run and was on us too soon for any to react. A mount archer turned, catching the movement in the corner of his vision and the killer was on him so quick as to confuse the eye. He went up the archer’s mount, blade flashing out in a bloody arc as he passed. Next one of Voniss’s ladies fell, her throat opened in a precision strike. The assassin came on, single-minded, for his target. Twentieth iteration: Swordmouth’s Leap, coming down with twin blades poised to strike at Voniss.