by Anthony Ryan
Vaelin sat still in the saddle, blinking placidly at the man’s reddening face. He was a veteran warrior with pale channels running through a thick blond beard, and clearly unused to disobedience from captives. “Beskar, uhm levrik!” he said, hand going to the sabre on his belt.
Vaelin remained still, watching the blond man half draw his sabre and then stop. The scars tracing through his beard became paler still as his features darkened with impotent fury.
“So, you have orders,” Vaelin said. “No harm comes to the Thief of Names.”
He gave a bland smile and spurred Derka into a gallop, the encircling Stahlhast scattering from his path.
Derka proved a fast mount, easily closing the distance to Sherin and the Princess. As they drew nearer to the Great Tor, they passed by an increasing number of encampments. Each was roughly the same size as the one where Skeltir Varnko held sway, but some were much larger. The camps grew into a vast sprawl of tents surrounding a ring of tall free-standing monoliths that formed a circle around the tor. Uncountable Stahlhast were visible amongst the tents, most going about their chores whilst a few stood to watch the foreigners ride past.
A people great in number, Vaelin concluded as his eyes roved the densely populated tents. But he doubted even this many could hope to take the lands of the Merchant Kings, whatever recent triumphs they might have scored.
Luralyn slowed as they neared the circle of monoliths, guiding them through the maze of encampments to the eastern flank of the tor. She reined to a halt before two huge slabs of stone, taller than the others by several yards, and dismounted. A young man stood between the two stones, well-muscled arms crossed and a lopsided grin on his face. Unlike most of the other Stahlhast men Vaelin had seen, he wore no beard, and his features, smooth and youthfully handsome, were free of scars.
The Mestra-Skeltir? Vaelin wondered but quickly discounted the notion when he saw the unconcealed disdain on Luralyn’s face as she strode towards the young man. He was also several years her junior.
“Babukir,” she said before continuing in Chu-Shin, “what are you doing here?”
“You know I can never resist a celebration, dear sister,” he replied, a frown accompanying his grin. “Why are we speaking the pig-language, pray tell?”
“In deference to our guests.” Luralyn nodded at the Jade Princess. “And because our brother has ordained it be so.”
The young man’s gaze settled on the Princess for a time before moving on to Vaelin, whereupon his grin faded. “Can this really be him?” he asked, stepping past his sister to approach Vaelin, arms still crossed, an expression of mock incredulity on his face. “The Thief of Names? Surely not.” He shook his head. “I was going to beg my brother for the honour of killing you. Now I think I’ll leave it to one of my bastards. The oldest is about five, I think.”
Vaelin smiled and nodded before tightening his grip on Derka’s reins. The grey’s head abruptly jerked to the left, catching the young Stahlhast full in the face. He reeled away, letting out a yell accompanied by a gout of blood from a broken nose.
“Apologies,” Vaelin said, reaching forward to scratch behind Derka’s ears. “He’s young, still somewhat unruly.”
Babukir stood regarding him with blood streaming down his face, every inch of him quivering with the desire for immediate and violent revenge. However, he made no move to reach for the sabre at his waist. No harm to the Thief of Names. An injunction that apparently applied to all Stahlhast, regardless of blood or rank.
“Where is our brother?” Luralyn asked him, apparently indifferent to his injury.
Babukir’s eyes continued to blaze at Vaelin as he reached up to grasp his nose. “In communion,” he said, grunting with pain as he reset the bone with a quick shove. He snorted more blood and grinned again. “Feel free to disturb him, if you like.”
Vaelin watched Luralyn turn to regard a small grey structure beyond the two stone slabs. It was completely featureless save for a single open doorway. Her gaze lingered on that doorway for some time, fox-like features unreadable.
“Come,” she said finally, turning and beckoning to Vaelin and the two women. “It seems we have some time to wait. We might as well do it in comfort.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Luralyn’s tent was one of only three within the monolithic circle. The other two were large and grand arrangements of hide and canvas, festooned with various banners, some, Vaelin noted, bearing Far Western script. Trophies from their recent battle, he concluded, remembering the blackened, corpse-strewn site to the south. Luralyn’s tent lacked any banners and was markedly smaller, albeit finely furnished with couches and tables that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Far Western palace.
The Princess immediately arranged herself in a languid pose on one of the couches, waving a hand at the two other people already present in the tent. “I will have tea, thank you.” The pair, a man and a woman of Far Western origins, exchanged glances before looking to Luralyn for guidance.
“This is Eresa and Varij,” she said. “They are not servants. If you wish tea, you’ll find a kettle and leaves in the adjoining tent. Make it yourself.”
“She has the Divine Blood,” Eresa, the Far Western woman, said. She regarded the Princess with a deep frown that mixed suspicion with a suppressed sense of awe. “I feel it . . .”
“I told you she was powerful,” Luralyn interrupted.
“Your brother,” Eresa went on, her frown becoming fearful. “He will feel it too . . .”
“As is expected. Stop worrying.” Luralyn looked at Vaelin. “We have a distraction for him. The Thief of Names is here after all.”
“Why is that so important?” Sherin asked.
“My brother is jealous of his name. And your arrival,” she added, turning to Vaelin, “has been long awaited.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Sherin said to the Jade Princess.
“Two warriors of great renown, both named the Darkblade.” The Princess shrugged her slender shoulders. “Did you imagine it was no more than an insignificant coincidence?”
“You said the Stahlhast warlord only has to hear your song for this all to be over.”
“I did. And for him to hear it the Thief of Names must also be here.”
“You didn’t . . .” Sherin trailed off, shooting a guarded look at Vaelin before speaking on. “You didn’t say I would be leading him to his death.”
“No, I didn’t. But I must confess surprise that you care.” The Princess got to her feet. “You know, I think I will try to brew some tea. It’s been several centuries since my last attempt.”
She made a suitably regal exit into the adjoining tent, leaving a thick silence in her wake.
“So,” Vaelin said to Luralyn, “it appears you have gone to great lengths to embroil us in a plot against your brother. Is that not sacrilege?”
Eresa let out a small whimper of alarm, reaching out to clasp the hand of the man at her side. He drew her close, cradling her head against his chest and whispering soft words of comfort.
“If I believed him to be a god, then it would be sacrilege,” Luralyn said. “Instead, it is a vile betrayal that will haunt my heart for the rest of my days.”
From outside there came a sudden uproar, thousands of voices raised as one in a storm of thunderous acclamation.
“What is that?” Sherin asked, obliged to shout over the continuing roar.
“Kehlbrand has completed his communion with the Unseen,” Luralyn said. “Now we will have two full days of revels to celebrate our great victory over the Southlanders and gird our souls for the conquests to come.”
She made for the tent flap, Eresa and Varij close behind. “We are needed to guard the artisans against any overly excited revellers.” She paused before leaving, regarding Vaelin and Sherin with grave eyes. “My brother will send for you soon enough. I sug
gest you use the time to settle any differences. It’s an ill thing to meet your end with a bitter heart.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“I heard you lost your woman in the war.”
They stood outside Luralyn’s tent watching the celebrations rage beyond the stone circle. Night had fallen now and the glow of innumerable campfires and torches played over the spectacle of the Stahlhast in the throes of celebration. They cavorted in various states of undress, drank liquor in copious quantities and sang their oddly melodious songs to the beat of drums or skirling pipes. Several brawls had broken out in the last hour, though no blades were bared and Vaelin noticed how men and women who had been assailing each other with balled fists moments before would soon after dance together in happy abandon. Whatever their faults as a people, the Stahlhast were plainly not joyless.
“Stories of the Fire Queen’s great crusade fly far and wide,” Sherin went on when Vaelin didn’t answer. “Though some are so outlandish I afford them scant credit.” She paused, her expression displaying more sorrow than resentment as she asked, “Who was she?”
“Her name was Dahrena Al Myrna,” he said. “First Counsel to the North Tower, greatly beloved of the Reaches and the Seordah Sil.”
“The previous Tower Lord’s daughter. I heard a great deal about her when I visited the Reaches. Much was said of kindness.”
“Kind she was. Also fierce in battle and wise in counsel. Without her the war may well have been lost.” And she died with my child inside her. “If it were permitted by the Merchant King, Sho Tsai would be your husband now, would he not?”
“I expect so, although it’s a question he’s never formally asked.” She gave a smile, faint but still rich in the compassion he remembered so well. “It seems time insisted on passing for both of us. I am not the same me, you are not the same you. And, though I wish you had never come here, I am sorry for what you lost.”
“And I am sorry for what I did. But I won’t lie, Sherin. I would do it again, for so much depended on it. So many lives, including your own. As bad as the Alpiran war was, worse was coming. I needed to be there to meet it.”
She looked out at the unconstrained revels beyond the stones. “So many lives stand to be lost here too. These people seem so . . . human now. But the Princess has left me in no doubt as to the evil they will wreak upon the world. That’s why I came, Vaelin. I had to, but I didn’t know you were ever supposed to be a part of it. Our journey was rich in delays and distractions, taking far longer than it should have. I put it down to her fascination with the world beyond the temple she had escaped after so many years. What a fool I was not to realise. I was bait to lure you here.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice although the continuing din of the Stahlhast celebration would surely prevent their being overheard. “The Princess lied to me. Which means she may be lying about everything. For all we know she’s been driven beyond reason by her endless years. This entire enterprise may be just the grand folly of an ancient madwoman.” She moved closer still, voice dropping to a whisper. “Slip away. It’ll be easy for you amongst all this chaos.”
“You know I can’t.”
“You won’t be able to protect me whatever happens. Not here. Please.” She reached out to grasp his hand. “Go.”
His eyes lingered on her hand for a moment, struck by the warmth of it, familiar even after so many years. Then he caught sight of two figures standing between the great stones. They were both of impressive stature, although one was taller than the other by several inches. They stood motionless for a brief moment, then approached at an unhurried walk. Both were bare chested and bore no weapons, the taller of the two drinking from a large flask, his unruly mass of hair twisting in the stiff breeze that swept through the monoliths. The other man’s hands were empty and his hair was tied into a long tail that stretched down his back. His features had the pleasing angularity that seemed typical to the Stahlhast, the sharpness of his nose and chin an echo of Luralyn’s features. In contrast, his taller companion had a blunt, brutish aspect, marred by several recent bruises.
They came to a halt a few feet away, the shorter man executing a precise bow of respectful depth. His companion squinted at this with a half-amused grimace and continued to drink from his flask.
“Good evening,” the other man said, straightening. “Allow me to introduce myself.”
“You are Kehlbrand Reyerik,” Vaelin said. “Mestra-Skeltir to the Stahlhast.”
“I am indeed. But I’m sure you know I have another name. And you”—the man’s smile broadened to reveal a set of perfect white teeth—“have stolen it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vaelin said nothing, his gaze switching between Kehlbrand and the larger man. They both exuded an aura of physical strength and contained violence he had seen in only the most dangerous of people. He also suspected that, despite his repeated gulps from whatever beverage his flask contained, the taller man was very far from drunk.
“This is Obvar,” Kehlbrand said, noting Vaelin’s scrutiny. “My saddle brother and anointed Champion of the Darkblade.”
Obvar inclined his head at Vaelin. “You broke Babukir’s nose,” he said in heavily accented Chu-Shin. “Why do such an uncivilised thing?”
“I didn’t like him much,” Vaelin said. “And I’ve rarely been considered civilised.”
The large man’s lips betrayed a grin as he drank again, saying something to Kehlbrand in the Stahlhast tongue. Whether it was a witticism or an insult Vaelin couldn’t tell, but it failed to bring a smile to Kehlbrand’s face, merely a nod of satisfaction.
“You’re the healer my sister told me about?” he said, bowing to Sherin. “Come all this way to heal Varnko’s boy.”
“I am,” she said, returning the bow. “Sherin Unsa.”
“My people will have work aplenty for you, two mornings from now.” Kehlbrand gestured to the revelry beyond the stones. “Our celebrations tend to become more fractious as they go on. Blades will be drawn, blood will be spilled. Those who survive will need their wounds tended and stitched.”
“I shall be happy to lend a hand.”
This brought another grin to Obvar’s lips, though it was more sour than his first and the words he spoke held a tinge of disgust.
“‘Only the weak give succour to their enemy,’” Kehlbrand translated. “One of the lessons the priests would teach us. And one of many I’ve now forbidden to be spoken.” He fixed Obvar with a steady eye, Vaelin noting how the big man’s jaw clenched tight before he looked away. Kehlbrand’s gaze, however, continued to linger.
“Tell me, brother,” he said in a low, intent voice. “What do you make of our visitors from across the wide water?”
Obvar’s throat swelled as he took a series of hard, deep gulps from his flask, Vaelin noting how he still failed to meet Kehlbrand’s eye. He’s terrified of him, Vaelin realised.
“They look like us,” Obvar said, wiping a hand across his mouth as he lowered the flask. “But they are not us. This one has killed many, to be sure.” He jerked his head at Vaelin. “But still, they are not of the Hast, and any not of the Hast are weak and worthy only of conquest.”
Kehlbrand gave a weary laugh and returned his gaze to Vaelin. “You must forgive my brother, for his mind is so very limited. Mighty though he is, he has in truth seen little of this world, whilst you must have seen a great deal of it. Many lands, many wonders too, I imagine.” He extended a hand towards the unremarkable grey building Luralyn had called a Sepulchre. “Would you like to see another?”
Vaelin’s eyes lingered on the black rectangle of the Sepulchre’s entrance, knowing with certainty that if he still possessed his song, it would be very loud at this moment. “Isn’t that a holy place?” he asked. “A place where your gods reside?”
He saw Obvar stiffen at this, perhaps in indignation at some perceived blasphemy,
although Vaelin suspected it owed more to his fear of Kehlbrand’s reaction. The Mestra-Skeltir, however, merely laughed.
“My people have but one god now,” he said, starting towards the Sepulchre. “The healer can stay here and tend to those scratches on Obvar’s back. Our womenfolk tend to get overexcited on nights like this.”
Vaelin stared hard at Obvar, but if the hulking champion saw any threat in it, he failed to bridle, merely shrugging with a placid smile.
“You have another needle handy, I assume?” Vaelin asked Sherin in Realm Tongue.
“Two, actually,” she said, eyeing Obvar, who had returned his attention to his flask.
“Good. Don’t hesitate should the need arise.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Kehlbrand paused at the Sepulchre entrance to strike flint to a torch propped against the outer wall. “Not long ago,” he commented, extending his arm so the torchlight illuminated the interior, “it would have been death for one not of the Hast to step within the circle, never mind approach the Sepulchre of the Unseen. One of the priests’ many stupidities. For a faith to grow, it must be open to all. I have guided exiles, outlaws and artisans here. Even southland captives wise enough to give me their allegiance and join the ranks of the Redeemed. All have left enlightened, filled with devotion to the Darkblade and his sacred mission. How will you leave, I wonder?”
He stepped inside without waiting for an answer. Vaelin followed to find himself confronted by a rectangular hole in the ground and a series of stone steps descending into the absolute gloom below. Kehlbrand started down without pause, his torch soon fading to a small yellow ball and obliging Vaelin to hurry so as not to lose his footing in the dark.
“This place once sat beneath the Great Tor,” Kehlbrand told him, voice echoing long in the slanted tunnel. “Revealed after generations of labour as we dug away ever more rock to harvest the ore it held. These stairs are not our creation, however, begging the question of how they came to be constructed under a lump of rock that must have stood here since the world’s birthing. Clearly, whoever crafted them expected it to be found one day.”