by Tim Stead
This he had seen before. It shocked him just the same. His opponent might be Seth Yarra, but he was also Benetheon.
They fought on. The longer they fought the clearer it was to Skal that he was the better blade of the two, and also that this meant nothing. Each hit he scored simply failed to penetrate, and his opponent’s less frequent hits did him no damage. He simply carried on.
They briefly disengaged. Neither of them was breathing heavily.
“Who are you?” the silver helmet demanded again. “What are you?”
“I’m not a traitor,” Skal replied. “I do not fight against my own.”
The reply to this was a cut at Skal’s head. He knocked the blade up and thrust at the throat, being rewarded by nothing more than surprise and anger in his opponent’s eyes. They traded blows for a while longer. It seemed to Skal that the fighting around him had stopped, and when he had time to glance left and right he saw that it was true. His blade and Seth Yarra’s were the only ones employed. They were watching, both armies were watching to see which of them might prevail.
Skal had never imagined that he was fighting just for himself. He knew that this duel was pivotal, but now it seemed that it had become the entire battle. It also meant that he could no longer conceal what he was. It must be plain to anybody who had eyes that this was not a fight between natural men.
So he had to win. He had to defeat a god.
How he could do this he did not know. Neither of them seemed inclined to tire, and neither could harm the other. It was a stalemate. But it made no sense. Seth Yarra had to expect to meet other members of the Benetheon. If he wanted to win the war he would have to seek them out in the end unless he intended to hide behind his common soldiers, and his presence here suggested otherwise.
Skal began to watch his opponent’s blade, to study it in the moments that it was still. There was something peculiar about it. The way the light caught it made the metal sparkle, as though it contained thousands of the smallest diamonds embedded in the steel.
Blood silver. It had to be. Skal had never seen the stuff before, but reason told him that anyone who expected to win a fight against the Benetheon would have weapons tipped and edged with it. After all, his own father had died for the crime of supplying it to Seth Yarra. It made sense.
All he had to do was get the weapon and victory would be his.
It was easier said than done. There was no move taught for this, no technique to master, so he would have to make one up. He had to find a way to pinion the sword arm and rely on his superior strength to wrench the sword free.
They continued to exchange blows, and for a while neither scored a hit. Skal was hanging back, watching, trying to see how he could execute his plan. This had the effect of making his opponent bolder, and as caution ebbed from his style Skal could see the opening that he wanted. With Skal a quarter of a pace further away Seth Yarra was overstepping his lunges, and there was a point on each attack when he was unbalanced.
He waited a while longer to be certain. He watched three more attacks, parried them, saw the tipping point, the tiny advantage. The other’s growing confidence helped. But Skal remembered his lessons well. It was Harad, the only teacher he’d really paid attention to as a boy, who had told him that you didn’t have to start well. It only mattered who scored the last hit. Patience was as good at a second blade.
So he was patient, and when the moment came he was ready. Seth Yarra thrust at him, overstepped again, and Skal moved forwards instead of back. This was not without risk, and he knew that it was going to hurt, but it was the only way.
He dropped his sword and seized his opponent’s sword hand with both of his, throwing his whole body into a twisting motion. He felt the bones break beneath his hands at the same moment as the knife entered his back. The pain was terrible, but he had the satisfaction of hearing a sharp intake of breath, and feeling the grip fail on the sword. He spun away, tearing the dagger out of his back with the motion, and stood for a moment while the wound sealed itself and the pain went away.
Now his opponent was disarmed. For a moment he stood with just a bloody dagger, Skal’s sword discarded a couple of paces to his right. Skal could have attacked, He could have finished it then, but something stayed his hand. Perhaps it was respect. This was a god, after all. Perhaps it was the code he’d been drilled with as a boy, the code that said you didn’t kill an unarmed man. Whatever it was, he hesitated.
The wrist that he had broken would heal quickly. Skal did not know how quickly, but it seemed not quickly enough. Seth Yarra threw the dagger aside and picked up the sword, and Skal knew that it was an acceptance of defeat. Left handed, one handed, he was no match for Skal.
They stood like that for a count of five.
Seth Yarra vanished. There was a sound like a cork being drawn from a wine bottle, a swirl in the air that kicked a little tornado of leaves from the ground, and Skal was facing nobody. It was like waking from a dream, as though the fight had never taken place. He was surrounded by thousands of men, his own and Seth Yarra, and he looked around at their faces, all of them the same in some way, all stunned, all stilled with awe.
And why not? He was Skal Hebberd, Farheim, Lord of Latter Fetch, and he had defeated a god.
The Seth Yarra threw their weapons down, an abject and immediate surrender. They had seen their god bested. What point could there be to fighting on? Skal felt his shoulders slump. He was tired. His body could go on and on, but his mind had been beaten down by this test. He turned and walked back towards the camp they had left before dawn that morning. His tent was still there, and he wanted a drink, several drinks. He became aware of Lissman walking at his side.
“My lord,” the captain said. “You need to say something.”
“What?” What did the man mean? To whom?
“The men, my lord. They are afraid.”
Skal stopped and looked. It was true. His men were looking at him with awe, but also with something else. If he did not give them a reason to believe, then their trust in him would erode. He stopped and turned back to face them. He took a deep breath. His voice needed to carry.
“I am your colonel,” he said. “I am Skal Hebberd, Lord of Latter Fetch and proud to be your commander. I am also the chosen blade of the Sparrow. I am her champion, and my prowess is her gift.” He raised the blood silver blade that he had taken from Seth Yarra. “Today we have turned the tide,” he said. “Your children will sing of this day, and their children, and so on for a thousand years.”
He looked at Lissman, and the captain nodded. He thought it was enough, and it had to be. Skal’s eyes felt heavy. He walked back towards his tent.
It was a victory. It was a victory like no other in the war, but he still felt the pressing weight of doubt on his shoulders. He had made a mistake, and it might be a terrible and costly one.
He should have killed the bastard when he had the chance.
Forty Nine – Narak
Narak was no longer Narak. He was familiar with this. Many years before he had ceased to be who he was – become something else. Once he had been a boy, a young man perhaps. He had been Narak Brash, a hunter, and a hunter’s son. That young man had been plucked from his life by Pelion. It had been a good life, too. Narak had loved his mother and father, and they had been pleased with him, glad that he was their son. But you do not refuse the gods when they call.
Narak had gone. He had left his happy home and his simple life, and he had become the Wolf, a god himself, a small piece of the Benetheon.
He never knew why Pelion chose him. There were cleverer boys, even ones that he knew, and boys who were better at almost every task, every skill. Yet he had chosen Narak, and Narak had been honoured, impressed, and left his family and life almost unthinking, unknowing what it meant.
Later he had known the bitterness of regret. It was a lesson that he had never forgotten.
For fifteen hundred and a handful of years he had been the Wolf, and that was what he had become, fully and truly. His sola
ce was the forest, the wolves, and his few friends. His home was Wolfguard. These things defined him. Now he could feel them slipping away again. Wolf Narak was becoming someone else.
It was more than the dragon magic. Something had happened to him at Wolfguard when he had been crouched over Pascha, worried for her life. She had let something go, healed Caster, changed them all. That is what had made him different, and the changes were making themselves known. He no longer felt like Wolf Narak when he closed his eyes. Things were no longer clear. The dragon magic was filling him with uncertainties.
He no longer needed the wolves. This was true in many ways. The trick that Sithmaree had shown him, drawing heat from them, was no longer necessary. He was filled with heat now, heat from the dragons, enough to melt a dozen miles of snow. The wolves grew distant as well. Every mile that he covered, and every dragon that he had touched increased the distance.
Perhaps he was becoming Dragon Narak, but he was certain that the dragons would not accept an overlord as easily as the wolves had done. Wolves believed in the pack. It was their way, and each pack had a leader. It was the space he filled in all their hearts. Dragons had no such convenient loyalties, and besides, this was about redemption, not leadership. He was more a tool of these great beasts that the other way around.
He looked up at the stars. To his changing eyes they were a blaze of perfect light. Each pinprick of light shining like the sun, and all the colours, red, blue, yellow, like coloured light at midsummer’s eve. What would the forest be to these eyes? Would he ever be able to look upon such brightness again?
Torgaris flew across the sky, a mile above him in the crystalline air. Even at this distance he could recognise them, each and every one. There were eight of them now.
Tanifay had been the fifth to come. He was a modest size and a pure emerald green, translucent like glass so that he glowed by night, shedding the light of the fires within his belly. He could never fail to pick out Tanifay against the night sky. Tanifay had taken on a streak of blue, head to tail, at the touch of Narak’s hand, and Tanifay was glad to believe, and polite.
And there soared Daran, the longest of the dragons, great wings spanning fifty paces or more, hardly needing to move them to achieve perfect control. Daran was the finest flyer of them all. His colour was the colour of ash, a swirl of black and grey along the length of his slender form. He could not judge Daran, for the dragon had spoken only two words – “I believe”. He had not admonished Narak, nor praised him. There had been no questions, no doubts, no hesitation; just “I believe” and a streak of white racing from Narak’s hand. Daran had hardly looked at him, but instead leaped at once into the air and said all that needed to be said with his wings. He was graceful as smoke in a still room.
Seventh was Hajani, a magpie beast, all black and white patches like some child’s puzzle ineptly put together. There was such variety among them that by the time he saw Hajani he had almost ceased to be surprised. But the magpie was the jester. He mocked Narak, mocked himself, made light of redemption, and made Narak laugh. It was as shocking as any of the others to see such levity in such a terrible creature. Hajani, too, believed, and was marked with red, a violent red against his monochrome scales, and on the change he became grave for the first time.
“If we are to be redeemed, then who is to pay the price?” he asked.
Narak looked into the dragon’s eyes, white as the eyes of the blind, unnerving because of it. He did not know the answer, but the magic within him gave him words to say.
“Past, present and future, the price has and will be paid. It is not your concern.”
“Indeed it is, Wolf Narak, for I would not have the guilt of the price laid atop the burden I already bear.”
“Those who owe will pay.”
This seemed to satisfy the dragon, and it turned and sprang into the air, joining the circus that was now Narak’s constant companion.
The eighth dragon to show itself was called Bane, and there was no mistaking this creature’s purpose. It was as large as Torgaris, and slate grey where Torgaris was black, his scales large and overlapping, Gifted with spines and claws more than all the others with large, grey eyes. Bane was thick set, powerfully made, a creature of war if ever he had seen one. But he spoke softly.
“Do you fear me, Wolf Narak?” he asked.
“To fear you is to fear death, Bane. You are the death of cities, the death of men. I do not fear death.” It was true. Narak had passed beyond caring whether he lived or died. There was only this task to be done, the Bren to be set aright, and the small matter of the dragons. If he failed, then it would not be for want of trying, and he would regret it, but he was not afraid.
“It is a good answer,” Bane said. “I have been bane by name and nature, but never by choice. Since I grew a heart I have loved gentler things. I can hear an acorn drop a hundred miles away, and yet it is music that I wish to hear. Do you know music, Wolf Narak?”
“I know it, but I have no voice to speak of, and no skill with any instrument. It is a gift I cannot give you.”
“No matter. When we are free and in the world I will seek out those who will play for me, and I will be glad to hear them.”
The image that this conjured up was a startling one, and for Narak it gave him a first glimpse of what the world might be like with these great beasts loose once again. They would be princes of the air, each with a court of their own, and in Bane’s court there would be music, music day and night, singing and strings and flutes and every kind of music that could be made. It was a vision of happiness and hope, a prophecy of an unimagined world. He was grateful for it.
Bane offered his head and declared his belief. His mark was white, a jagged, snowy line of great scales and spines, and he rose up into the air to fly with the others.
Narak walked on. He hurried, for he felt that he was drawing near to the end of his journey. The images that had been sent to him by Kirrith, the places he had dreamed, were coming to an end. There was a valley, a high pass, a way that skirted around a great mountain, and then a plain that he must cross. That was all that remained, and then… Then he did not know what would happen. He had been shown no doorway, no place where he might find Kirrith. There was just the plain and the mountains, just a place. He assumed that he would wait there.
He felt stronger now; stronger than he had ever felt. He did not tire, did not need sleep more than the odd snatched hour, and he walked through the snow as though it were nothing at all. The valley was three miles long, and he walked it in an hour, rising up at the head of it to a high pass, turning between two sharp peaks, the left taller than the right. There was cloud now, the sky thickening with rolling grey, hiding the stars with a promise of snow. He smelled the fresh snow before it fell, heard the wind before it came.
He was through the pass and heading down again, skirting the edge of a great mountain when it hit. He passed through a white curtain, and beyond it there was nothing. The snow was thick enough to eradicate the light of the stars, and he was in night again, true, dark, starless night. It was as thick and black as the lair in Wolfguard, but it rushed at him, driving almost horizontal through the air.
He continued to walk, feeling the land beneath his feet, knowing that if he remained at the same altitude he would skirt the mountain. After that he could not walk if he could not see. He reached the point where he believed his descent to the plain began and stopped. If he was so much as a hundred paces wrong he would walk off in the wrong direction across the plain, and after the snow he would be lost.
He looked up, but could see nothing of his aerial escort. They were somewhere high above him, invisible in the storm.
He sat, turned his back to the wind and leaned forwards, tucking his head down, folding his arms and resting them on his knees. He would just have to wait. It was frustrating that he was so close. There had been so many clear hours, so many perfect days, if such endless night could be counted in days. A part of him suspected that this howling blizzard wa
s not a coincidence. Somehow it had been summoned, perhaps by Kirrith, perhaps some other power.
It did not matter. He could wait. He could wait for as long as it took.
He closed his eyes.
He wondered what Pascha was doing.
Fifty – Cain
Cain stepped out into nothingness. There was no floor on the other side of the mage crafted door. For a moment he had an image of himself plunging a thousand feet, smashing into the rocks at the foot of some snow filled ravine. That image was replaced by one of Sheyani doing the same, and a second later he landed on all fours, like a cat, just ten feet below the door.
Glancing up he could see nothing. Or to be more accurate he could see nothing that indicated the presence of a door. He was at the foot of a small cliff, no more than thirty feet high. It was all weathered rock, spotted with moss and here and there a clump of shad grass.
Sheyani came through. She came through the rock, or it looked that way. There was no wavering of the rock face, no gap opened up around her. She just stepped out into the air. She shrieked. Another man might have laughed at her discomfort. There was no danger, after all, but Cain moved quickly and caught her.