by Rj Barker
“Don’t listen to him!” The voice came from the ranks of the Landsmen. Out of them came Fureth. Blood ran down his armour, but it was not his. A shudder of fear went through me at the sight of the huge man by him. “This is not Xus!” he shouted. “This is Rufra’s man, Girton Club-Foot, the assassin. He is trying to trick you!” His voice was not as loud as mine, and the last words were drowned out by the croaking of black birds.
“Girton Club-Foot is my Chosen.” As I said the words I almost choked on them. But was it true? “I wear his skin.”
Fureth laughed and turned to his men.
“Wear his skin?” He turned to the Children of Arnst. “Does he indeed? Or does he simply think we are foolish enough to believe what he says if it is dressed up with a little chalk dust?” He strode over to me and swiped his hand across Xus’s side. The mount snapped at him and Fureth jumped out of the way, but what he had done was enough. Where he had touched he left a streak of brown fur. Fureth lifted his hand, showing white paint on it. “See! A Trick! Archers,” he shouted, “be ready! For if this really is Xus, he cannot die!” On the walls above more Landsmen appeared, not many, about ten, but each held a bow and they were stringing them. “Let us see if it is true!”
“Wait!” This shout came from the ranks of the Landsmen. Another of their number pushed his way out of the press. “Even if this man is Girton Club-Foot, Fureth, he holds the high king’s sister in his arms, and she lives despite we were told the entire family died.” From the other side of the courtyard came another shout. A woman split from the Children of Arnst.
“You will not fire upon Xus,” she said. Fureth pushed up his visor.
“He is not your god! He is not the Chosen; you call him now! He is just a man. Who knows where he found Cassadea? But,” he shouted, looking up and down the lines, “does this not show more treachery on the part of Rufra?” Fureth raised his voice. “Did the false king have the high king’s sister all along?” Among the Landsmen I could see Fureth’s words working. Men were moving, making their way to my rear to trap me. Many had the long spears designed to take down a mounted rider. “If you are the god who cannot die,” said Fureth to me, his voice carrying over the still courtyard: inside my mask sweat dripped from my nose, ran down my face, stung my eyes, “then come down here and fight my man.” He pointed his sword at the giant standing silently by his side, then waited. Xus moved below me, saddle leather creaking as he stepped sideways and let out a huffing breath. “You will not,” he said, “because you are only Girton Club-Foot and, in my man, you know you have met your match.”
“Your man?” I did not amplify my voice now, but I did not need to. Every ear strained to hear us and from every windowsill and wall edge the black birds of Xus watched me with beady eyes. “He is no man at all, Fureth, and you know it. He is a thing of magic. A thing that you made.” Now I raised my voice again. “You have betrayed your vows and you have betrayed every Landsman here, Fureth, by using magic.” I expected a gasp, shouting, something, anything, but there was only a silence so pure my voice rang out like a bell.
A Landsman to my left tightened his grip around the haft of his spear.
Fureth started to laugh.
“Do you realise how desperate you sound, Girton Club-Foot? Oh, your entrance was dramatic enough, but you can push a thing too far.” He shook his head, spat on the filthy ground. “The Trunk of the Landsmen a sorcerer!” Gentle laughter from the ranks around him.
“Strip your man,” I said. “Let people see his red eyes. Let people see the scar I gave him. They are warriors. They will know a killing blow when they see it.”
“My best man? Have him remove his armour? On the battlefield? Are you mad, Girton Club-Foot?” He turned to his men, still laughing. “No, he is not mad. He thinks us stupid! He thinks you will believe he is a god! He thinks you will believe he brought this woman back from the dead!” I could feel the momentum of the crowd turning from me. I had held them, for a moment they had been mine but no longer—and if I did not do something either the archers would shoot me down or the spearmen would overwhelm me.
“He speaks the truth!” I shouted. Agreeing with him was just unexpected enough to buy me a little time. “She was not dead! I brought Cassadea from the Sepulchre of the Gods! Cassadea was a sorcerer and Fureth used her. Those who held her left hand lost their lives, those who held her right were healed. Fureth has been using this magic! A Landsman, using magic! He has despoiled everything you are!”
Nothing. No outrage, no mockery. No shouting.
Fureth laughed quietly.
“You are spent, assassin,” he said. “No one here will believe your lies. But at least you will not be alive to see your king burn on a fool’s throne, eh? I will give you that comfort.” He raised an arm, ready to signal the attack, and as he did I pulled the bag from Cassadea’s left hand and lifted her arm so she held the limp hand out to Fureth.
“Take her hand,” I said, and though I said it quietly the words carried. “Take off your glove, and take her hand.”
“I do not have time for this.” He sneered it. “Archers!”
Now I shouted.
“He will not do it because he knows I speak the truth.”
“Face death like a man, assassin,” he said. “Stop squawking.”
“Take her hand.” It was not me who said it this time. It was the Landsman who had spoken earlier.
“Who are you to order me, Galsar?” said Fureth.
“He is just an assassin, you say,” said Galsar, “and you say he is not the Chosen of Xus. And you say she is not a sorcerer.” The silence was almost opaque, as heavy and oppressive as the heat. Men and women strained to hear Galsar’s voice. “If he lies, Fureth, why would you not take her hand?” Fureth looked to the Landsmen nearest to him. All of them were staring at him.
“Why will you not take her hand?” said another Landsman, stepping out from their lines.
“She may be a magician,” said Fureth. “They could have had her hidden and been waiting for this moment—”
“He knows exactly what she is,” I said. “Go to the sepulchre. You will find your own dead, and Rufra’s. You will also find the throne they tied her to, the burnt remains of a statue of Xus and the statue of Adallada they have defiled.”
“It is not true,” said Fureth, but his voice was not as strong now. Galsar stepped forward.
“You have kept many of us away from the sepulchre, Fureth,” he said, “and you have denied all requests we have made to fix the pumps, which has long been our duty. I am quite happy to believe Girton Club-Foot lies if you will offer me proof.” Something changed in the Landsman’s posture: he was no longer a man talking to his superior, he became a man readying himself to fight an enemy. “So, if you do not lie, Fureth, Trunk of the White Tree, show us.” He looked at the men around him. They watched, all eyes on him. “Take her hand, Fureth.”
I will give this to Fureth, he was brave. He pulled the gauntlet from his hand and threw it into the dirt so a cloud of dust puffed up around it. Without pause he took two strides over, avoiding my gaze as he did, and he grasped Cassadea’s hand. His muscles stiffened. He let out something between a sigh and a sob and then the life went from his eyes and he fell in the dirt, dead.
A moment of silence. Then the black birds of Xus took off en masse, wheeling and turning in the sky above us, filling the air with the rip-tear of flapping wings. And when the birds had gone there was silence. I glanced over at Rufra: bloodied, tired, pain etched into his face, standing with Celot, Dinay and Marrel in the front line of his shieldwall.
All eyes were on me, as if by being in the guise of Xus the unseen I had some form of authority and was not simply a slave boy, bought at a market in the sourlands and trained to kill. From the corner of my eye I caught movement. Aydor, staggering out from behind the stables, dragging a sword behind him as if he were looking for a fight, leaking blood from the poorly tourniqueted stump of his arm. He stopped, looked around at all the soldiers a
s if puzzled about why they were there. Then his gaze turned to me and a smile spread across his face. He raised his sword in salute once more and I remembered his words as I had ridden away from him.
“Ride for King Rufra!”
I knew exactly what to do. I sheathed my longsword and stood up in my stirrups, taking out the shining Conwy stabsword that was brother to the longsword Rufra wore. I held it up.
“Hail!” I shouted. “Hail Rufra the Just, King of Maniyadoc. Hail Rufra! High King of Ceadoc and the Tired Lands!” The words echoed from the walls and I did not know what I expected to hear in reply: acclaim? Cheers? There was none of that, only silence. Then Marrel ap Marrel stepped out from the shield wall. He held a sword in one hand and had his other hand hooked into his belt. He looked around him, stared at me for longer than I was comfortable with, then leant over and placed his bloodied sword on the ground. He stood, straighter than I had ever seen him before, and scanned the assembled troops before him: his own, Rufra’s, and the Landsmen. All watched him. He coughed, cleared his throat. Nodded to himself.
“A high king has been proclaimed,” he said. He did not speak loudly, but all heard him. “I have read up on what must be done when that happens.” Another pause. “You all know why. But I believe it is customary, when the high king is proclaimed, to lay down your sword and kneel.” Marrel looked around again and then lowered himself down until he knelt on one knee.
A moment of quiet, then the jingle and creak of leather and armour as behind him every man and woman in Rufra’s lines knelt and placed their blades on the floor. At that moment the Landsmen could easily have finished Rufra’s troops, instead they looked to Galsar, the first man to question Fureth’s rule. He stared at Marrel, at Rufra and his men then dropped his sword. The sound of it hitting the floor became a signal and, as he went down on one knee, one by one the Landsmen dropped their weapons on the ground and surrendered to Rufra ap Vthyr, High King of Ceadoc.
High King of the Tired Lands.
Chapter 33
When the Landsmen laid down their arms Rufra’s victory was complete. The Children of Arnst held a brief stand-off but Rufra promised them their freedom and that their religion could continue. Then they also laid down their arms and the Meredari among them melted away into Ceadoc town, leaving only a group of ragged followers. Lastly, and as if he had a sixth sense for when it was safe to do so, Gamelon appeared with the highguard to pledge thier allegiance.
We were feasting before the bodies had been cleared from the Low Tower’s courtyard. Gamelon was nothing if not efficient. I had thought, hoped, that all conflict would be over for me, but it was not to be. A fight can be with words as much as weapons and it seemed that whenever I was in a room with Rufra we would end up at odds—no matter how joyous the occasion should be.
The fight had left Rufra tired and in pain. He sat on a chair seeming to wilt in the heat, but it was more than the heat, and it was more than a physical tiredness that assailed him. At his shoulder stood his son, Vinwulf. If anything, the battle had energised him. The boy stood taller, prouder. He looked more like a king-in-waiting than ever.
“Girton,” said Rufra, but he could not look at me. “You have made your thoughts quite plain—”
“Not plain enough!” It was all I could do to keep from screaming at him. “Everything that has happened here is the fault of the Landsmen, Rufra. As high king you will have the power to disband them. You have that power now.” He shook his head, staring at the floor.
“What Fureth’s betrayal has made plain, Girton,” he said the words slowly, as if I were a child who could not understand a simple concept, “is that magic is as much a scourge as ever in the Tired Lands and—”
“We can control it ourselves.”
“But the Landsmen are already there. They already exist. Fureth is gone. Those who supported him have been rounded up and you may be sure I shall deal with them.”
“Just because the rest may not have been involved does not make them any less cruel.”
“Maybe they are right to be cruel, Girton.” Now he was shouting, rising from his throne. “Maybe that is the only way! Maybe if they had been crueller Cassadea would not be laid in a dungeon awaiting a blood gibbet and would have been smothered as child, then none of this would have happened, eh?”
“You think the killing of children is to be encouraged now?” He stared at me, lowered himself down into the chair.
“That you could even think that saddens me. Leave me, Girton. Leave me before I say something I may regret tomorrow.”
“I—”
“Leave!” He roared it, and Celot took a step forward, one hand on the hilt of his blade. I turned away. I had no doubt Celot would take his blade to me if he thought Rufra wanted it. His loyalty to the king was absolute. I nodded a bow—a curt, quick movement of my head—and then turned on my heel and limped painfully out of his sight. Outside of his quarters all was noise and joy. Cymbals crashed, men and women danced and drank and ate. I had an appetite for none of it. What I wanted was company, but two of those I thought would understand were not here: Aydor was with the healers and Tinia Speaks-Not was dead. So I searched for my master—she would listen and soothe—but I was unable to find her. Instead I found a corner and watched Gusteffa. The jester stood on a table juggling apples while balancing on one foot. Occasionally she would take a drink from a pot on the table and when it was empty she added it to the apples. What she did was nothing new and I grew bored and restless quickly, deciding to move on. I did not doubt she would draw attention to me if she saw me, so I tried to sneak past. I was seen as the hero of the day but had no stomach for celebration. Of course, it was foolish of me to try and sneak past Gusteffa: she was a well-practised jester and nothing draws a jester’s attention like one who does not want it.
“Girton Club-Foot!” She cartwheeled down the table to much cheering, landing in front of me and performing an elaborate bow. “It is the hero of the hour!” A roar. “It is the Chosen of Xus the unseen!” Another roar. “It is Death’s Jester himself.” Her voice more mocking now. “And yet you do not dance.” She framed her face in the gesture of surprise. “We celebrate Rufra’s greatest victory, but you do not dance. Why do you not dance?”
“Many I loved and called friend died today, Gusteffa.”
“But you are Death’s Jester!” She made the gesture of surprise again, turning on one foot so the whole crowd could see. She resembled nothing so much as a child’s toy, spinning slowly on the spot: white face, red dots for cheeks exaggerating her grotesque and mocking expressions. “You are the assassin Heartblade. You should welcome death, surely?”
“No,” I said, and she pushed out her lip, like a child pretending to be sad. When she spoke again she feigned misery.
“But you have given the king all he wants,” and then she grinned, like a friend who realises you have a foolish secret that they may mock you for in private. “I think, good warriors of Rufra, he worries his king will not need him now he has everything!” Laughter at that, and behind it happy voices, all reassuring me it was not so—could never be so. But I was not so sure, and I moved away through the crowd. Hands clapped me on the back, reached for me, and behind the congratulations Gusteffa shouted, “Dance! He should dance!” But I could not. It was gone from me. I left the room, Gusteffa’s voice echoing behind me.
I found my master on the lowest floor of the tower, laughing and drinking perry with a stablegirl. She took one look at me and her smile vanished; it was often the way now with the common folk. Ever since I had become Heartblade to Rufra many struggled to see me as anything else.
“Girton,” my master said, pushing herself up from the floor, “I thought you would be celebrating in the upper floors.”
“I am not in the mood for it.” My club foot ached.
“Ah,” she said, looping her arm through mine, “I was not either but Gusteffa was kind enough to bring me some perry.” She lifted her cup. “Come with me to the stables, my melancholy
boy. Xus will improve your spirits and if not you can brush the beast down and improve his. It will take some work to earn his forgiveness for covering him in paint and chalk dust.”
“Maybe.”
“Surely,” she said, and handed the rest of her cup to the stablegirl before leading me out into the warm night where the evelizards trilled out a greeting. “You have triumphed, Girton. You have brought Rufra to the high kingship; brought down those who would betray the land and make life worse. Not even Rufra could believe in his curse now. You should be celebrating.”
“Rufra will not disband the Landsmen,” I said as we entered the stable.
“I understand your disappointment, Girton, but I am not surprised. They are a strong force and he will need them on his side to rule the Tired Lands. They are not all monsters, you know.”
“But what they do—”
“They have done for generations. Maybe, if you can bring yourself to understand why Rufra does what he does, you can change what they do from within. You won him his high kingship, Girton, you will have much sway at the triangle table.”
“I have still not found the assassin, Master. I have not found who is responsible for Feorwic’s death. I cannot rest until I know. I will not rest until Feorwic is avenged.”
She opened her mouth to say something but heavy footfalls interrupted us.
“I thought I would find you here,” a deep, slightly dreamy voice, heavy with nightsmilk to dull pain.
“Aydor!” I said.
“I will leave you two boys,” said my master. “I have my own duties to attend to.” Aydor offered my master his remaining hand and pulled her up, both let out grunts of pain, then he sat beside me in Xus’s stall. The mount’s head came round to sniff at him and then Xus blew out air through his nose as if to say, “Oh, only you,” and turned back to his food.
“You should be with the healers,” I said.
“Dead gods, Girton.” He grinned as he spoke. “I have already come close to death twice today. I will not chance it again by letting Anwith’s ghouls poke at me.” He laughed, but it was a quiet laugh and it was as if part of him were missing, as if it had been cut away along with his hand. “We are heroes, you know. I suspect we shall be able to ask for anything we want, our own lands, titles …” He let his voice die away.