by Tim Stead
“Parrots,” the herald said. “They make an awful mess, but they’re sacred here, so we feed them.”
Narak said nothing. He had caught a scent on the wind. At home he knew that Poor sometimes burned special woods to give the air a pleasant scent, and this was the same, but in quantities that would have bankrupted a lord. He remembered the trail of white smoke rising above the trees. There was a scent of men, growing closer, and of fresh cut timber, and food.
It was like stepping into a different world. The forest ended abruptly, and Narak followed his guide into a clearing that was about three hundred paces across. No tree remained in this space. The path that they followed turned sharply to the right, and the herald followed it. There was a palisade before him, and a gate, but the path did not lead directly to it. Instead it swung to the right for fifty paces, then to the left, then right again, a saw tooth pattern that edged them closer to the gate with each turn.
Guards watched them. Narak could make out two men standing in the gate, big men, naked to the waist, holding spears of some kind. He could see the metal tips glinting in the bright sun.
“We approach slowly to show respect,” the herald spoke quietly; loud enough for Narak to hear, but his voice would not carry to the guards. “It gives them a chance to look you over.”
They continued in silence until at last the path brought them before the gate. They stopped. They waited.
“Who comes before the Sei?” one of the guards demanded. Ritual words.
“A humble herald of the people,” the herald replied. “And with him the northern lord Narak of the Forest, also called the Wolf, seeking audience. It is written.”
The guard glanced at something he held in his hand. It looked like a leaf, and it looked like parchment. He had read the thing a few times already, Narak could see. He did not need to read it again.
“It is written,” the guard agreed. “Enter.”
They stood aside and Narak allowed himself to be led meekly through into the inner sanctum of the Green Isles, or so he thought it must be. But there was an inner palisade within the outer, another gate, more guards. There were also people here, and cook fires, and to each side a cluster of huts and lean-tos. Servants, he supposed, to please the Sei with what they desired.
They approached the second gate by a direct path, paved with sea smoothed stones and mortared with loose white sand. The herald indicated that Narak should go before him, and so he did.
“Who are you?” the guard asked. His tone was less formal, but it was still ritual. The guard must know exactly who he was.
“I am Narak,” he said. “Lord of the Great Forest.”
The guard nodded and stood aside.
“Enter into the presence of the Sei, Narak.”
Once more he stepped through the gate, but this time he heard it close behind him, and was aware at once that the herald had been left behind. He was alone. He studied the scene before him.
This, then, was the Hall of Decision, the seat of the rulers of the Green Isles. It was both simple and spectacular. Within the palisade stood a semi circle of poles, great thick poles, the remnants of large trees. These supported an arrangement of planking and thatch, a roof that seemed to have no other support, though the space within the poles was easily thirty paces across. The roof rose and twisted into the air, spiralling up to a peak which was, in fact, a hole, and through this hole rose the smoke from the aromatic wood that smouldered on the fire. There were no walls here, and from time to time a breeze puffed the smoke away from its intended path, scenting the thatch.
The flames lay squarely beneath the hole, and beyond it was a dais of wood on which sat four thrones. He thought of them as thrones, for it was clear that was the intent, though they were little more than decorated wood. One stood before the other three, and one of the three was vacant.
On the one throne sat an elderly man, his skin quite as dark as strong tea, his hair short and tightly curled to his head. He wore only a simple green robe, draped over one shoulder and wrapped around his body. His feet were clad in sandals of the kind that all these people wore. He looked calm, curious, wise. This, then, must be Sei Mun, King of the Green Isles.
Behind him sat two other men. The man to the left was as old as Sei Mun, perhaps older. He wore a yellow robe in the same style as his lord, the same sandals, and he had a big boned face, a large nose and squinting eyes and ears to sail a ship by, broad shoulders and a round belly.
The third man held Narak’s eye most of all. He was much younger, thickly muscled and handsome. He was naked to the waist after the fashion of every other warrior he had seen here, and he wore a sword tucked into a cloth belt. He stared at Narak.
Narak executed a modest bow. He wished to be polite, but not deferential.
“I thank you for consenting to see me,” he said.
“How could we not?” Sei Mun said. “You bring word of war, and we have seen the ships, so many of them. And you are who you are.”
“Who I am?”
“We are not so isolated here – Narak of the Forest, also called the Wolf – many of our people may not know the name, but we do. You are Wolf Narak? This is what you claim?”
“It is who I am.”
“You are the one that fought in the city of Afael four hundred years ago?”
“I am.”
The warrior, the one with the sword, snorted at this, and Sei Mun cast a slightly irritated look behind him.
“Are you a god?”
Well, there was the question. It was rarely asked in the five kingdoms. He was known and respected there, but here he was no more than a tale. For hundreds of years he had avoided answering this particular question, because in his heart there were two answers, neither of which would do. He could say no, he was a man, but a man with particular abilities, a man who stayed young through centuries, a man who could transform himself into a wolf. It was a poor answer. He was a man who was not a man. Yet the other answer he had was no better. To the wolves he was a god. He was their father, their protector, and when he was the wolf, when he ran among them he felt that he was a god.
The truth was that he did not really know.
“It is what men say,” he replied.
“But you will not?”
Narak shook his head, and Sei Mun seemed to accept this but Sei Feras Tiar, the king of blood and fire, stamped an impatient foot.
“This is absurd,” he said. “The man will not answer your questions. He is just a man, no more than thirty years old. This nonsense is an insult to us all.”
“I do not intend an insult, Sei,” Narak said. “I speak only the truth.”
“And what of the war?” Sei Koshan Burdenna said. It must be him, the third man, for he knew that Sei Mun was their king of plenty. These were good times for the Green Isles.
“I will tell you,” Narak said, and he did. He told them of the spies, the deceptions, the army in the east and the battle that wiped it out, Telan treachery, the subterfuge that took the gate on the Green Road, the battles that took it back and held it. Finally he told them of the stalemate of winter, and the expectations of spring.
When he finished there was a silence. They had all been transformed by his tale, and none more so than the warrior king. He had attended closely to the details, lived the battles in his own mind as Narak described them. His face had shown it all. The others had sunk back in their seats, overcome by the scale and horror of what he had described, the thousands of dead, the thousands that were to die. It was Sei Mun who spoke first.
“This is all true?”
“If it were not I would not be here.”
“And why should these invaders out of legend come here? They did not in the past. What reason do they have to attack the Green Isles?”
“They have but one reason for every thing that they do, Sei,” Narak said. “Their book tells them that all the world must conform, that their way is the only way. Any man, any village or nation that is otherwise must be converted or destro
yed.”
“Their book? They do this because of a book?”
“They believe it is the words of their god, Sei.”
“No god should hate men so that he sends his servants out to slay them.”
“Wise words, Sei,” Narak agreed. “But I am here only to say what is, and what must be.”
“What must be?” The warrior king spoke again. “You are here to instruct us?”
“Sei Feras Tiar, it may be that we of the north can win this war without your help, but it may be that we fall, and if we fall you will face the armies and ships of Seth Yarra alone, and there will be none to help you. Even if we win you will dwell here forever in the knowledge that your peace has been bought with our blood, and that in natural justice you are no more than a vassal state, bound in blood as tightly as slaves are bound with ropes. It will be your shame.”
“The shame is that you come here and lie to us, you tell us grand stories to draw us into yet another of your petty wars, to have our men die in your cause. I will not take men to your war, and if you did not stand here in the sacred place I would strike you down for your lies and deceit.”
“I speak only the truth,” Narak said, but he could feel his anger again. This man had called him a liar.
“Then prove it,” the warrior sprang to his feet, and in truth he was half a head taller than Narak, and half as heavy again. Muscles ripples beneath the dark skin, and his eyes flashed with anger. “Fight me now and let the gods decide.”
Narak could feel the comfortable weight of the swords on his back. They had not insisted that he abandon them, and that had been a surprise, but he did not reach for them. He had made a promise to Narala, and it was a wise promise. He did not want to make enemies here.
“I will not raise my blades against you, Sei,” he said. “I come here for alliance, not to fight.”
“So you are a coward?”
His jaw tightened at the word. He could not prevent his pride from speaking.
“I am merciful,” he said. The man’s weapon was simple steel. There was no blood silver here or he would have smelled it. The swords of the Green Isles, their spears and knives might as well be bamboo sticks and reeds for all the harm they could do him. It would be cowardly indeed to draw his blades. Leaving them sheathed was more difficult, more noble. That is what he told himself.
“Send him away,” the warrior told Sei Mun. “Send him now before I profane this place with his blood.”
Narak looked at the old man, the supreme ruler of the Green Isles, and he saw that he was greatly troubled. He held the side of his head with one hand, and the other was bunched into a fist, and rested on the arm of his wooden throne.
“It may be that you speak the truth, Narak of the Great Forest,” he said. “But it does not matter. I am no warrior. If I believe you then I must cede power to the king of blood and fire, and he must accept it. We must agree, do you see? It is plain that at present we do not.”
“You have made your decision?” Narak was exasperated. Had he failed?
“No. It will be three more days. That is the custom. We will talk among ourselves. We will seek wisdom. In three days we will send your chosen herald with word. Now it is time for you to go.”
Narak bowed again, a polite bending of the head. “If there is anything more I can say or do…”
“Go.”
He stood for a moment. There should be something more than this. He should be able to do something, to show them something that would convince them. If he could bring the prisoners here and make them speak the truth, if he could let them see the certainty and dread in his own mind… but there was nothing more. He bowed again, walked backwards to the door as Narala has told him he must do, and stepped out again into the lesser world.
The old herald was waiting. He read Narak’s face.
“It did not go well?”
“There was some disagreement.”
“It was to be expected. There is always disagreement. Sei Feras Tiar?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“He is prideful. If you are who you say you are…” he stepped back at the look on Narak’s face, “I do not judge, one way or the other, but if you are who you say you are then that one will feel it as a challenge. He is a great warrior. He admits no equal.”
“He is a man.”
“And you are not?”
Narak stared at the old herald for a moment. “I am not,” he said. “Not when it comes to that.”
The old man studied him for a moment, then nodded. “We should go back,” he said. “Your friend will be waiting for you.”
12. Blood Kin
Sara Bruff lay on the floor next to young Saul’s basket and listened to him cry. She hoped that somebody would come before she died. She wanted to tell someone to look after Saul. She was quite certain that she would die. Elejine’s knife had pierced her body at the same moment she had buried the fruit knife in the steward’s neck. She had no skill with the blade. All she had been concerned with was preventing him from killing Saul, and that was done.
Elejine sat opposite her, back against the wall, head tilted over, his sightless eyes staring at her in eternal surprise. His coat and shirt glistened with blood, and it had pooled on the floor around him. It would be a tricky stain to get out, she thought.
She had tried to reach the bell rope, but the pain had been so great that she had passed out. She had been surprised to wake again. Every movement brought pain, great washes of it, and so she lay still and waited.
She felt thirsty. The jug of water mocked her from the table, a million miles away. She could feel the blood pumping out of the hole Elejine had made, and that was a surprise, too, that there should be so much blood in her, and that he’d died first. It was good, though, because now she knew that Saul was safe.
It seemed years before she heard voices in the corridor, footsteps approaching the door. She looked sideways so that she could see who it was.
Tilian Henn stepped into the room. He froze for a moment, his eyes on Elejine’s body, his hand finding the hilt of his sword, but the steward was obviously dead. She saw his eyes flick around the room and find her. He leaped across the room. It was a single jump, she would swear. He didn’t run or walk, just one movement and he was at her side. Their eyes met for a moment, and she wanted to speak to him, but her mouth was so dry that she could not make the sounds that she wanted.
Then he was gone again, and she heard the sounding of the bell. He had pulled the rope. He was back again, almost at once, and he was ripping at her clothes, tearing the cotton of the dress. It hurt, and she wanted to tell him to stop, to leave her and look after Saul, but he wasn’t looking at her eyes any more. She felt cold air on her flesh, he had torn away most of the left side of her dress and she felt naked, and he touched her wound, and pain jerked her sideways, dark shadows fringing her vision.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have to clean the wound and bind it.”
A maid entered. Sara could see the uniform, but not the face. Perhaps it was Lira. The maid, whoever she was, must have broken down at the sight before her, because Tilian shouted.
“Stop that! Go and fetch me spirits, anything will do, and honey, and clean cloth, and hot water, and send runners for my lord. Go. Now!”
Steps clattered down the hallway, and Tilian was bending over her again.
“This is going to hurt,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He pressed something against her wound, and it did hurt, but not as bad as before. Her pain caused a spasm in her neck, jerking her head sideways. Tilian tied something there, then he stood and dipped a cloth in water. He knelt again and squeezed it, allowing a few drops to fall on her lips, on her tongue. She licked at them greedily.
“It’s the loss of blood,” he told her. “It makes you thirsty.”
A footman ran into the room. He was carrying a bottle of some kind, cloths and a kettle of boiling water. Sara wanted him to give her more water, but Tilian was gone again, clattering around. S
he heard his voice, but not the words, and he reappeared with another cloth, and untied the bandage.