by Tim Stead
Most of the people of Bas Erinor were like this, Cain guessed. They would be surprised that the world was about to change. Cain himself had only learned his history piecemeal. It was all a mess of old stories to him. He knew some of the tales, but when Sheyani spoke it was as though she held the thread that joined them together, bound them into a tapestry that was both coherent and frightening.
She had told him already that the war was over.
“Passerina will end the war,” she had said.
He trusted her, and took her at her word, as hard as it was for him to credit. He had seen Narak fight, and could not imagine a more formidable creature. Narak carved his path through an army as though they were paper men, and yet it was beyond Narak to end the war. Now there were dragons in the sky and Passerina was a god mage. He did not understand either of them. In the stories the dragons had killed the god mages and the god mages had overcome the dragons. They were like two sides of the same mythical coin. Cain had always believed that the stories were just that, tales to entertain, but Sheyani held them to be solid truths, and that shadow in the night sky had been real enough.
It could even be that this was the end of all things. If there was to be another war between gods and dragons then surely they had little chance, Farheim though they were. The tales from the god wars were not tales of men – it was not men who fought at all. They were just swept aside in the carnage. It was Farheim who fought and died, gods who plotted, and dragons that killed. Cities greater than Bas Erinor had been levelled in a day.
He told none of this to Fane. All they could do was hope.
They crossed into Berash on the fifth day. Cain was greeted as an old friend by men he did not know. He was, after all, a knight talon of the now ironic Berashi order of the Dragon. What would the Berashi say if real dragons came to Tor Silas?
They rode through the kingdom for two days, and were met one evening by a large party of mounted men in armour. Dragon Guard. Cain knew them at once, and he knew the man at their head. It was Prince Havil.
Havil had come to meet them as soon as he had heard that they were crossing his father’s kingdom. He had brought with him a whole cavalcade of tents and wagons, a determined kind of hospitality, and that night they dined in luxury at a table, beneath canvas.
They talked for a while about the war, and it quickly became apparent that Havil was less than happy.
“I am at a loss,” he told Cain. “I do not know what to do. We have passed mid-winter and still there is no word from Narak. We should be preparing. In a month or two they will attack again, and we have no plan.”
Cain made no comment. He thought they relied too much on the Wolf, and in his own mind it was simple enough. What forces they had should be divided into three. One force could hold Fal Verdan, one the White Road, and the other stay back in Avilian to face any unexpected developments, such as new landings on the coast.
“He will return,” Cain assured him. “And Passerina with him.” Havil nodded. He did not understand the significance of Passerina, but Cain was not about to explain it. There was no telling how Havil might react to the knowledge that Farheim walked the earth once more. He had not spoken the word in front of Quinnial for the same reason.
“I am certain of it,” Havil agreed. “But we need time to prepare.”
“Do what you can,” Cain suggested. “Make certain of the wall at Fal Verdan, keep a reserve. What more can you do?”
“I will do that, of course,” Havil said. “But I fear that something is amiss with the gods. You heard that there was an attack on Wolfguard?”
“Aye, Prince Havil, I heard.”
“There was an attempt to kill Sithmaree as well, in my own keep.” This was news to Cain. He asked for and was told the details. It seemed to him a desperate move, and one intended to prevent the contents of the translated documents from getting to Wolfguard, and possibly to Narak. But Narak had already left for the wall and would not have seen it. He wondered what might be in them.
“There was an attempt on the Eagle as well. It was our companion here, Sir Jerac Fane, who prevented it.”
Havil looked at Fane with new eyes, and this time the lieutenant did not seem put out by the scrutiny.
“You saw the assassin?” Havil asked.
“I did. He was a man of average height, perhaps a little over. He bore a bow, and his head was encased in metal.”
“It is the same,” Havil said. “Three of my men saw him, only one of them lived to speak of it. So someone tries to kill the gods. Who but another god? Perhaps it was Seth Yarra you saw Sir Jerac.”
“Then I have no fear of him,” Fane said. “When Jidian attacked him he fled.”
“He fled?”
“Aye, Prince Havil. He jumped from the walls of the high city in his haste to escape, but he did not fall, he simply vanished.”
“No more than an assassin, then, as you say. I will leave my trust in the Wolf’s safe keeping. If he flees from Jidian he will certainly fear Narak.”
Cain was not so certain, but he kept his opinion to himself.
Havil rode with them, keeping them all in good company and considerable comfort, until they reached Fal Verdan itself. This was strange for Cain. His memories of Fal Verdan were jumbled. He remembered both pain and victory. He remembered being afraid the first time he had seen the Seth Yarra hoard approach the wall, remembered the shock when the Telans had launched their night time attack, remembered the mud, the desperation.
It was quite different now.
The camp at the eastern end of the pass was a village – a tent village, but still a village. There were shops, a wine seller, a couple of bakers, a butcher, a whole street of smiths. It was as bustling and lively as Bas Erinor on a feast day. Soldiers were everywhere, but there were women here, too. Some of these were clearly here for the convenience and pleasure of the common soldiers, but others were wives and mothers, daughters and maidens. There must have been eight to ten thousand altogether.
They rode into the camp and into the kind of greeting that a popular prince such as Havil might expect. A rider had obviously been sent ahead, and the people lined the first streets, cheering and throwing flowers and herbs onto the road before them. The horses crushed the plants and released a multitude of competing scents, richer and more varied than any lady’s perfume.
It smelled like a kitchen in a brothel, Cain thought, but he liked it anyway.
Havil took the plaudits at the head of the column, but when the crowd realised that Cain Arbak rode in the column he heard his own name called out, and people shouted his praises as much as those of the prince.
The centre of the tent village was clear enough. An open space had been engineered among the canvas, and someone had built streets of wooden boards across it so that men and women might pass unsullied over the mud. This more than anything told Cain that it was no longer a soldiers’ camp.
They stopped on the edge of this square. Havil dismounted, and his horse was taken away. Cain, Sheyani and Fane followed suit. It was a casual affair by Avilian standards. The prince was greeted and he and his party, including Cain’s group, were led to a private tent as large as a tavern. Cain recognised many of the Berashi officers, particularly colonel Tragil, who approached as soon as he had properly greeted his prince. Tragil was smiling, but his brow was furrowed with concern.
“It is true, then,” he said. “You have been touched by the gods.”
“So it seems,” Cain replied. “All is well with Fal Verdan?” The change of subject was quite blunt, but that was no more than Tragil should have expected, and the Berashi commander barely missed a beat.
“Well enough,” he said, his glance wandering back to Sheyani and Fane, who stood behind. “We hold, and they do not attempt to take the wall, but they have built one of their own since Skal’s little expedition.”
“A wall?”
“Not so much a wall, but if you were hoping to go on into Telas it cannot be done. They have trenches, a palisa
de around their camp and spikes to discourage cavalry. I wouldn’t like to ride against it now.”
“I must see it,” Cain said. This was a disaster for their duty. How could they carry Passerina’s message to Wolfguard if they could not get past Fal Verdan?
“In the morning,” Tragil said. “You have been riding all day. How many men did you bring?”
“Ten,” Cain said. Tragil raised an eyebrow. “We are on the Wolf’s business, and ten serve as well as ten thousand for what we intend.” He did not say that he meant to leave the ten to make their way back to Bas Erinor and go on alone, just the three of them, to Wolfguard. He had trusted in stealth and what they were, it should be enough to get past the Seth Yarra, and it might still be possible. “I would like to see the wall tonight, if I can. It will give me the night to dwell upon it.”
“As you wish, but you had best go now. Sunset will be upon us in an hour or two.”
Cain quickly made his excuses to Prince Havil and left the tent and its festivities. Fane and Sheyani followed him. They walked the half mile or so down the pass to the wall of Fal Verdan itself. It was well manned. There was a good bustle of alert men both around the base of the wall and on the parapet. Since he had been here the ramshackle steps his carpenters had built had been replaced with new timber, a robust looking set at either end of the wall.
Some of the men recognised him, and he was saluted piecemeal as he approached, climbed the steps, and stood on the parapet himself. He was surprised how many names he recalled, and he made a point of saying them, smiling at the men, returning their salutes. An officer attached himself to their small party and stood with them, gazing out at the enemy.
It was exactly what he did not want to see. Tragil had not exaggerated in the least. The ditch was deep and the earth thrown up before it like a wall. This rampart was decorated with thick, sharpened stakes, each well braced and pointed towards the wall. The whole thing formed a huge semicircle, carefully placed just out of bowshot. The woods that Tragil’s men had sheltered in when they had first been driven from the wall were gone. Now it was a bleak land of mud and stumps, and in the midst of it stood a stockade every bit as intimidating as the ramparts. Men walked along parapets there, too, and scarcely lower than Cain’s own position.
“When did this happen?” Cain asked.
“They started a month ago,” the officer replied. He was a captain, Captain Sinbel. He’d been a lieutenant last time Cain had seen him, but that had been over a year past. “These are the ones that replaced those killed by Colonel Hebberd. They started building as soon at they got here.”
“You didn’t try to prevent it?”
“No, sir,” the captain said. “Our task is to hold the wall.”
“How many?” he asked.
“Ten thousand, we think,” Sinbel said. “There is some traffic between here and the south, and westwards to Telas Alt, but the numbers stay about the same.”
There was no way that even three people could pass through this line during the day. There was no cover. There were no places where they would not be seen by a dozen sentries.
“And at night?” Cain asked.
Sinbel shook his head. “Just as bad,” he said. “They hang lanterns on every piece of wood, the whole length of it. It looks like an Avilian festival eve, colonel.”
Cain looked. Every piece of wood. It would be almost impossible to pass, but almost was better than impossible. He would have to see it after dark. The sun was beginning to set by now, and the light took on that peculiar buttery colour that precedes scarlet. The whole scene looked like a tapestry that he had seen in the castle at Bas Erinor, a mass of men gathered in the foreground along their lines, and the now stripped plains beyond looking unreal and golden in the dishonest light.
“This is where you fought.”
Cain turned to Fane, who was standing and looking about him as though it were a holy place.
“Not I,” Cain said. “Colonel Hebberd held the wall when the Telans attacked.” He pointed down the valley. “I was down there.”
Fane appeared to barely register his words. He nodded, so he must have heard them, but his eyes remained on the wall, the enemy, and the ground between. Cain wondered what was going through his mind. He must have known what it was like. Fane had stood on the walls of Bas Erinor itself and fought. It was the legend that bewitched him, Cain guessed, the legend of Fal Verdan.
The sky was blushing pink before they left, and already there was a procession of torches coming out of the Seth Yarra palisade to light their defences. They left Captain Sinbel and walked back up the valley.
“It will be difficult,” Cain said.
“Difficult?” Sheyani said. “Sheshay, it will be impossible.”
But Cain had already seen their pathway. He looked high, at the rough, steep peaks that lined the pass. After all, they were not natural men. What might be an impossible climb for some would be easy, and if they should fall, well, it might hurt, but they would not die.
His mood lightened as the sky grew dark. They would be going on after all.
Forty Three – Pascha
Pelion did not know as much as she had expected. His tale of dragons was detailed, fresh, as though the events had happened yesterday, but it was a tale that had no beginning. Pelion did not know how they had been created, did not know the magic that Cobran and the seven had employed. He did not know anything vital.
That is not to say that she did not learn. She now knew the names of the dragons, could describe each and every one of them as though they stood before her. She knew where each had done their crimes, how they had been resisted – poorly – by the kingdoms of men. She knew, also, how they had been bound by the Pity Stone. She understood what Pelion had done, and how he had contained them.
From this she learned other things, things that Pelion had not intended her to learn.
She understood, now, how all this had arisen.
The god mages had been the worst of men. In any contest there are some who win and some who lose. Among kings and lords it is the same. They all play politics, seek advantage over one another. Only the rulers, those who have reached the top, can appear unmoved by it all. The god mages had been no different. The difference was that kings and lords are kept in check by their mortality. They die. When they die, some other man steps forward and the world changes.
The god mages were immortal, and it seemed to Pascha that the greater their inhumanity, the vaster their capacity for callous cruelty, the more powerful they became. There was no word in Avilian for what these men were, but she did not doubt that the best of them lost and the worst prevailed until all that remained were twelve of the most cruel, tyrannical and unpleasant men that had ever lived. If there was a word for such men, then they had invented it: Dragon – a thing without conscience or remorse.
Pelion had created something that he himself had not understood. He had not understood it because he lacked the gift that the stone itself bestowed. He did not know pity, not until he made the thing.
Pelion had unwittingly made something that not only saved the world from the dragons, but from god mages as well.
And now she was a god mage.
She studied Pelion as he tried to teach her without admitting the truth. He still writhed in the grip of his artificial conscience, living all the time with the lie that the five had been good and the seven bad. It was the same lie that she had been fed as a child, a lie that she had believed through fifteen hundred years, but it was still a lie. If the five had conceived of dragons first they would probably have created them.
Pascha knew that she was not the same as them. She wept for the dead. She was riddled with regrets and longings. She kept her more base desires in check. She did these things because she knew right from wrong. She believed in the code laid out in the Tales of Karim: that power brought responsibility; that honour mattered. Even Narak, her famously bloodthirsty paramour, was a saint compared to these monsters. Narak was tortured by the impulsiv
e things that he had done in his wilder moments. She knew he regretted the slaughter at Afael above all things.
The god mages – demon mages would have been a better naming – had been undone by Pelion’s Star, the Pity Stone. It had shown them the vileness of their own nature, forced them to see their crimes for what they were.
How did she know this? Pelion carefully avoided telling her anything of his own actions before the god wars, or even during them until the creation of the dragons. After that it was more or less an open book, but even when she asked directly he avoided replying. He talked only of afterwards, not before. He would not meet her eyes.