by Tim Stead
“Are we your prisoners?” Jorgan asked. It looked like he might be offended by the wrong answer. Politics again.
“Not precisely,” Skal replied. “You will march with us to ensure your safety, and to reassure the people of Telas that they have nothing to fear.”
“We can do that,” Jorgan said. “But you must instruct us in how to worship your god.”
Skal thought of the divine city, the massed temples of bas Erinor, and wondered how he would ever be able to explain such a thing to a man like Jorgan.
“I am no priest,” he said. “But I will do my best to show you our ways, and you will then pass those on to your men.”
“It is acceptable.”
“And you must surrender your bows,” Skal said. It was a risk. Taking their bows left them virtually defenceless against cavalry, yet allowed them the illusion of arms. They could keep their swords and daggers. He was unsure how Jorgan would react, but even so he was surprised.
“I will have to talk to them,” the cleanser said. “It is their decision.”
Skal watched him walk back to the scattered remnants of the Seth Yarra army. They stood and sat about in a disorderly manner, waiting patiently for Jorgan to return. He watched as the cleanser spoke to his men, though by this very act of consultation it was clear they were no longer his, or not in the sense that Skal accepted. He could not command them. They were no longer an army.
There was a discussion among the Seth Yarra. Skal could see that some were for the proposal, and some against. It was all a question of whether they trusted him or not, he supposed. Their choice was no choice at all, in the end. If they refused to give up their bows they faced an immediate end, though Skal was still unsure if he would order them killed if they refused him. It seemed a waste. If they gave up their bows they would be safe.
He slid down from his horse. “Stay here,” he said to his men. He walked steadily over to the Seth Yarra. Jorgan’s back was turned to him, but someone must have said something, because he turned as Skal approached.
“Jorgan, if I speak to them will you tell them what I say?”
The cleanser looked around at his men. “I will,” he confirmed, and said a few words in his own language. There was a shuffling of feet. Some of them leaned forwards, the better to hear.
“I am Lord Skal Hebberd of Latter Fetch,” he began. “I am colonel and commander of the second regiment of the seventh friend. I am known to the Wolf.” This last was true, but the only time he had been close to Narak was when his father had been killed and his titled stripped. Apart from a few military conferences he had hardly spoken to him else. But that was the point.
“My father was a traitor,” he said. “He was the marquis and lord of Bel Arac. He served Seth Yarra, but was killed by the Wolf.” He saw that this raised a stir. Perhaps one or two of them knew his father’s name. “Yet I have found favour, I command men, I have earned titles and estates. It is a lesson.” He paused while Jorgan translated his words. “If you can change your heart and work in the Wolf’s cause without reservation it will be as though your life begins again. The Wolf hold’s no grudge. He judges you for what you are, not what you once may have been.”
He waited again, listened to the tone of their talk. It seemed that he had made an impression, because they sounded more positive now. The doubters were less strident and the conversation was brief.
“We will accept,” Jorgan said. “We will give up our bows.”
“And I give you my word as a lord of Avilian that I will protect you,” Skal said.
They began to pass their bows forwards, piling them in a heap between the Avilians and themselves, and Skal walked back to his own men.
“That was a risk,” Lissman said. “They could have turned on you.”
Skal ignored his concern. “They have not surrendered,” he said. “But they have given up their bows. Arrange for them to be collected and secured. Do not destroy them. We will be riding south with these Seth Yarra, but they are no longer Seth Yarra. They are just men who wish to worship Narak.”
“I heard,” Lissman said. “You trust them, colonel?”
“Do you trust me?” Skal asked.
“Of course, sir.”
“Then understand this. I judge them to be an asset. They will not be harassed or mocked or provoked in any way. Treat them as you would treat Telans marching with us – perhaps better. They will respond well to signs of friendship.” He spoke loud enough that many men in the line could hear him. He wanted this spread throughout the regiment. Their guests would stay an asset as long as there was no antipathy between them and the Avilians.
The remainder of the day passed smoothly. His men heeded his wishes, and no outward hostility was on display, though Skal heard a few mutterings. The Seth Yarra – he would have to think of a different name for them – marched in the centre of the column. Skal made sure that half his cavalry brought up the rear in case of any second thoughts.
That evening they camped early, in full daylight. It meant a short day, but Skal preferred to have everyone settled and fed before dark so that nobody would be moving around unnecessarily in the night. He sent an Afalel speaking messenger to invite Jorgan to share his meal. He made sure that Lissman was there, too.
They sat on cushions around a low table, which was actually no more than a board set on more cushions. The tent was quite small, and well lit by lamps. There was barely room for the soldier acting the part of a servant to move around them.
First they drank tea. Skal missed Tilian’s tea. The boy had made good tea, just the way Skal liked it. But Tilian was a captain now, and if he was still alive he was half a world away. Jorgan seemed familiar with the concept of tea. He accepted the cup and sipped at it, seemed to like it.
“Tell me of the Wolf,” he said.
Skal appreciated a man who got straight to the point, but he would have preferred a little more time to put his thoughts in order. With insufficient time to marshal his resources he fell back on defence.
“What do you know?” he asked.
Jorgan shrugged. On a cleanser it seemed a very odd gesture. “The Wolf is your god. He fights with two blades. He wears red armour. He cannot be killed, though our leaders say he can. We are told that he is a demon, though he looks like a man. These are all stories among our soldiers, though I have never seen him.”
“The Wolf,” Skal phrased it carefully. “Is one of our gods.”
“One? You have two?” Jorgan’s eyes widened. “How many?”
“Seventy-three, I think.”
“You have seventy-three gods?”
“It could be seventy-two.”
Jorgan stared at him as though he had just declared that the sea was milk. He shook his head.
“Must I know them all?” he asked.
“I cannot name them all, Jorgan, and I have lived in the kingdoms all my life.”
“Then how do you know which ones to worship? It would take all your days to offer proper devotion to so many.”
“Our gods are all different. They promise different things. Some are worshiped a great deal, and others hardly at all. It is not deemed necessary to worship any.”
“So,” Jorgan paused, seeming to struggle with the concept. “You choose?”
“We do. During times of war many pray to Maritan. He is our god of war, and it is said that he may grant victory. But many more pray to Narak – the one we call the Wolf. He is a god of flesh and blood, a Benetheon God, and he walks and talks and kills our enemies.”
“A Benetheon God? What is a Benetheon God?”
“It is a story. If you wish I will tell it.”
Jorgan said that he did, and so Skal told him the story of the Benetheon as he had been told it in the nursery. It was a simple tale, and he probably didn’t believe that it was entirely true, but it was an explanation, and readily to hand.
“So there are twenty like Narak the Wolf?” Jorgan asked when he finished.
“Not so many. Some have died
. Others have no interest in the world of men. As far as I know there are only four who take our part in this war. They are the Wolf, the Sparrow, the Eagle and the Snake.”
“And they are all mighty warriors, even the Sparrow?”
“Especially the Sparrow,” Skal said. It was speculation on his part, but if Passerina was indeed a god mage then she was the greatest of them all. “She is my patron,” he added.
Food arrived, and the conversation was interrupted. Skal’s soldier-servant had done well, and their usual unappetising fare had been beaten into submission, and now seemed quite edible. The dried meat had been soaked in a mixture of blood and water, cooked with spices and vegetables and served with thick bread and one of the few bottles of wine that Skal had been saving. It was a feast compared to even the previous night’s repast.
Jorgan tasted everything before he filled his plate, and he seemed more impressed by the food than the wine, which he eschewed and asked for more tea.
“You have not told me how it is that you worship,” Jorgan said.
“It is a question of style,” Skal replied. “If you meet the god, bend a knee so that it touches the ground. The correct form of address is Deus. Narak is not one who likes fawning or pretty words. He prefers men who look him in the eye and tell him the truth. There are festivals where one might be expected to go to a god’s temple, or as many as you wish to visit. You may make offerings of sweet incense, wine and food, but the incense is burned and the food is usually eaten by the priests, so many do not bother.”
“It seems haphazard,” Jorgan looked puzzled again. “I do not know how I will explain this to my men if I do not understand it myself.”
Skal did not know quite how to answer this. It was Lissman who found the right words.
“Think of it as freedom,” he said. “You are free to worship who you like, as you like, certainly in Avilian.”
Jorgan seemed to accept this. He ate in silence for a while, and when he spoke again he asked for tales of the Wolf, his prowess, his deeds, and Skal was happy to oblige, though most of the tales were of the last war against Seth Yarra. He did manage to dredge up some tales from the more distant past when the world was at peace and Narak was not so feared.
In the morning Skal waited until dawn lightened the sky before he ordered them to break camp. Again, he did not want men moving around too much in the dark. He feared misunderstandings, and thought them better dispelled in the light of day.
By midday they had covered only ten miles. Skal was aware that he had not given Urgonial time the previous night to scry out the land ahead. He had been too concerned with Jorgan and his Seth Yarra.
He had to stop calling them that. But what else? Technically they were apostates. From his own point of view they were converts to the Wolf. He didn’t want to call them either converts or apostates, because they both had implications that might stick. Lupines? Better, but quite dry. Calling them Lupines would do them no favours. He wished he had Cain’s touch with words. Though he only had it by report he still remembered the Wolves of Fal Verdan, a great speech, he thought, a speech that bound allies together, gave them a name, a cause, and a battle cry all in one. These men were Wolf touched, born again in the Wolf, a new pack, if you like. They needed a new name – something simple that men would remember, something that linked them to the Wolf.
Wolfen.
It sprang into his mind. The meaning was clear enough to him, and would be to the men. They belonged to the Wolf, were made by him. Wolfen. It was just what he wanted. He reined his horse back through the ranks of his men, moving aside and watching them pass until the Seth Yarra, the Wolfen, marched past. He dismounted and walked alongside Jorgan, leading his horse.
“Greeting to you, Lord Hebberd,” Jorgan said. “We are honoured that you march with us.”
“I need you to ask your people something, Jorgan. I wish to gift you a new name, a name that will make you different from those who still worship Seth Yarra.”
“A name? What name?”
“Wolfen,” he said. “In my tongue is means that you are made by the Wolf, Wolf-made and Wolf-belonging.”
Jorgan considered this. “I think it is a good name, and it is true. I will speak to them, ask them if they will be known by it, and I will tell you this eve when the march is over.”
Skal continued to walk beside him for a while. “Your men, are they happy with your situation?”
“They accept it,” Jorgan replied. “They expected to die, so this is better.”
“If you expected to die, why did you do it?” Skal asked. “Why did you turn your back on Seth Yarra, fight with your comrades?”
“I do not think you will understand,” Jorgan said. “Your way of living is so different.”
“Even if I do not understand, will you tell me?”
“As you wish.” Jorgan looked at the men around him, the ones that perhaps he had commanded. They ambled along, talking among themselves. Skal saw smiles, an ease among them that he would not have thought to see. “The Book was wrong,” Jorgan said.
“The Book? I have heard of it,” Skal said. “Is that all?”
Jorgan shook his head, and Skal knew that he had not understood. “The Book is everything,” he said.
He pondered the cleanser’s reply. It would take some thought to make sense of this. In a superficial way he understood. Their religion was based on the book, The Book, which was Seth Yarra’s truth. It was not a book of parts, a thing that you could divide into those things that you thought were true and those you did not. It was a whole, and if not, it was nothing at all. To have the smallest part proven false was to destroy it completely.
Jorgan was right. He knew that he could say these words and still not understand what it meant, not to them.
A rider came towards them, raising dust and drumming the road, riding fast from the head of the column. Skal saw at once that it was one of his scouts.
“My Lord,” the man said. “There are men ahead, a force of Seth Yarra.”
Skal swung up onto his horse in a moment. “How many?” he asked. “Have they seen us?”
“At least several hundred,” the scout said. “They seem to be camped, and no, I don’t think they saw us. Will we attack?”
“Not today.” These short days were a problem. There was hardly time left to manoeuvre for an advantage before the sun would be in full retreat. “We will camp here, off the road.” He did not want to fight at all. Enough of his men had died in Telas. If it was possible he would try to slip past them in the night. If not he would attack before dawn, but he must know their numbers and disposition.
He took his leave of Jorgan and rode forwards, sending the scout to find Urgonial, to get his tent pitched as soon as possible. He cursed as he rode. He had begun to think that he would make it as far as Fal Verdan without a fight, but it was not to be.
Forty Five – Narak
Arisanne the Fair arrived in perfect starlight. Of all the dragons Arisanne was the most feminine. Yet Narak knew that Dragons were neither male nor female. They were simply dragons. How he knew this he could not say. It was just something that had bled into him with their magic.
Other things were changing, too. He could not remember his night vision being so clear. In his full aspect Narak had always been able to see in darkness that blinded natural men, but it had been a poor thing really. He had seen shapes, motion, could recognise most things for what they were. Now it was different. He could see as sharply as in the day. He could see colours, and he was grateful for that. If he had not been gifted this colour sight he could not have appreciated Arisanne in all his glory.
The dragon swept three times above Narak as he walked, well below the others who still flew high in the frozen air. His wings were stained glass in the starlight, glowing with more colours than any rainbow. His body, small by dragon standards, was red and gold, and smooth as a river stone.
Arisanne swept to an elegant landing just a hundred paces ahead of Narak, raising his
wings and stopping in mid air just a foot from the snow, and then reaching down with his feet so that it seemed there was no drop at all. Narak continued to walk, dragging his sled, until he was twenty paced from the creature’s great head.
The impression he got from the dragon was not the same as the others. They seemed armoured, powerful, warlike. Arisanne did not have the spines and plates of Torgaris and Hesterion. His scales were smaller, blended easily together like a mosaic of vibrant colours. He resembled nothing so much as a painted snake with wings.
Narak remembered other things, too, but they were not his own. He remembered Arisanne as he had once been. Vain. Spiteful. Arrogant. Cruel. The dragon was staring at him with red eyes. Its breath sparkled in the starlight, a thousand tiny ice crystals in each exhalation.