The Pity Stone (Book 3)

by Tim Stead

  He backed off, and took the opportunity while they circled each other to rehearse the move in his head, to visualise his body twisting, his blades moving just so.

  He drew another attack from the avatar, parried and watched the withdrawal. Perfect. It was perfect, and that was its weakness. He attacked himself. He cut twice with the same blade, leaving the other to parry any riposte, and failed to make any impression on the perfect defence. It was important that the avatar did not guess what he was planning, so he attacked again and again, unleashing a storm of aggression, battering at the avatar’s blades as though in desperation. He knew what would follow.

  The inevitable attack followed. The avatar replied to his assault in kind as soon as he relented. The pale blades hammered against his own, sought to break or deceive his guard, but again they failed.

  Now came the moment. The avatar withdrew once more and he saw the tiniest gap open up for his perfect stroke attack, but he did not take his chance. There was the tiniest kernel of fear inside him that held him back.

  If he failed, if he died, he would never see Pascha or Wolfguard again. He would never run through the forest alive with the scents of spring, the brightness of winter, the damp warmth of summer. The war, the Bren, the dragons could all take care of themselves. He cared, he was here because he cared, but if he died then he had done his best. It was not those things that he would regret in the brief moment between failure and death.

  Narak very much wanted to live for the simplest of reasons. He wanted to see Pascha again, even if it was only to discover that she had changed beyond his ability to love her. Then he would know. Then he could die.

  He pushed it to one side.

  Now was not the time for fear or doubt. Now he must be Wolf Narak, the bloodstained god, the victor of Afael.

  The avatar attacked again. How simple it was now that the decision was made. He had surrendered free will for this brief moment in time and could no more change his course than an arrow in flight. He parried. The avatar began to withdraw.

  Narak’s blades snapped forwards, he lunged, throwing his whole body into the blow, feet leaving the ground, arms stretching, twisting and striking.

  The perfect stroke.

  Fifty Four – Pascha

  They were waiting for her: Skal, Caster, Jerac, standing in the forest. Perhaps they had heard the bowstring release. They had been close enough. She carried the blood silver helmet in one hand, her bow in the other. She didn’t stop, but walked through their line. They followed.

  “He’s dead then?” Skal asked.

  “Aye, he’s dead,” she replied. It gave her no pleasure to say so, though of course it had needed to be done. The Crow had committed nearly every crime that could be named from treason and murder all the way down to deception.

  “Who was it?” Caster asked.

  “Fashmanion,” she said. Nobody asked anything else. They followed her back into Wolfguard. Cain and Sheyani were sitting in Narak’s converted throne room with Jidian and Sithmaree. Urgonial had hidden himself away in a corner. Pascha poured herself a glass of wine. She could get drunk if she wanted to. Now she had the choice. She was no longer bound by the limitations of the Benetheon.

  She chose to stay sober.

  It was Caster who spoke. He told the others the story of the hunt, that the metal headed man had been Fashmanion, and his fate.

  “I would not have thought it,” Jidian said.

  Sithmaree picked at her food and looked resentful. She had still not come to terms with the loss of the Sirash, and it surprised Pascha that Jidian seemed so accepting. The Eagle was already looking forward, getting on with his life. He was eating heartily, which was something that he did well. Narak had always said that Jidian lacked imagination, implied that he was stupid, but Pascha thought of him as the steadiest of them all despite his shortcomings.

  She drained her wine. There was no point sitting here wasting time. She could look ahead now, see the future in a way that she had never been able to before. Some things cried out to be set right, others should be. They had less than sixty days now before the Bren acted, and everything had to be ready by then. She hoped that Narak would be with her, but she couldn’t rely on it.

  “There are things that we must do,” she said. They all turned and looked at her, all except Sithmaree. “The war is not over,” she said. “Sixty thousand Seth Yarra soldiers prepare for spring. They will march north within a month. And something needs to be done to put Telas and Durandar in order.”

  “In order, Eran?” It was Sheyani who asked.

  Pascha looked at the Durander. There was a light in the small woman’s eyes, and why not? Why should this not be her time? The usurper Hammerdan had been king of the occult kingdom for long enough. He had offended too many times.

  “Sheyani, come with me,” she said. She turned to Urgonial. “You, too, boy mage. It is time we spoke to your mistress.”

  “Now?” Urgonial seemed taken aback. “Do you want me to open a way?” he asked.

  Pascha laughed. “Your skills will not be required,” she said. “Come here and stand by me, both of you.

  Cain stood up. “I will go with you,” he said. “I have sworn that we will not be separated again.”

  “Have no fear,” Pascha said. “I like your wife, Cain. She is under my protection, and no harm will come to her.”

  “You are going to Durandar,” he said.

  “And yet there is no danger. Trust me, Cain Arbak, it is better that you stay here and prepare for your own trials, for they will surely come.”

  Blink. It was as though the world blinked and they were standing in the chamber of the occult court, which was apparently in session. The great round table was surrounded by hooded figures, the ceiling burned with watery blue fire, and Hammerdan, who was on his feet and in the middle of some pronouncement, stopped with his mouth open and stared at them.

  “Will you not welcome me to the occult court, King Hammerdan?” Pascha asked.

  “Deus…”

  “Eran would be the correct form of address,” she said.

  Heads turned. There was more than one exclamation from around the table.

  “You claim to be the true heir of Pelion?” Hammerdan asked. His eyes slid sideways and rested on Sheyani. That she was here at all was an affront to him, but he seemed to choose to see it otherwise.

  “Then you are most welcome here,” he said. “How may we serve?”

  It was smooth, she had to grant him that. He’d ignored the insult, handled the surprise better than any of his council, and presented a model of amicable, polite behaviour. She knew he must be seething inside.

  “I have come to see justice done,” Pascha said. Now Hammerdan’s eyes rested firmly on Sheyani, but they could glean nothing there. The Halith’s face was still as granite, her eyes returned his gaze without flinching.

  “There was some talk of a challenge,” Hammerdan said. “But it was not intended. I apologise to the mage Sheyani Esh Baradan for any offence that might have been caused. I withdraw the challenge.” It was enough to appease. By Durander law it excused Hammerdan from the challenge he had implied with the attempt on Sheyani’s life at Fal Verdan. Pascha looked at her, and saw the corner of her lip twitch – a hidden smile. The girl was quick enough and had seen Pascha’s game almost at once.

  “You think an apology enough to answer for my father’s death?” Sheyani demanded.

  “The law is the law,” Hammerdan replied. The course was set now. Pascha could just stand back and watch.

  “So it is,” Sheyani said. “But that does not mean that you are not a coward, a sneaker in the night, and unworthy to polish my father’s throne.”

  Hammerdan smiled a mirthless smile. He thought he knew the game, thought that Sheyani was trying to provoke him. He didn’t answer, though it must have stung him to be spoken to in this manner before his court. It would weaken him, and he knew it, but he had played this game before. He would not challenge her because that w
ould give her the choice of discipline, and she was a finer Halith than he.

  Sheyani walked around the table until she stood before him, less than an arms length, and their proximity served to show how small and fragile she looked beside him, for Hammerdan was a big man.

  She spat in his face.

  Hammerdan surged forwards as if to strike her, but that, too, could be construed as a challenge, and he stayed his hand, his face red with anger and his eyes staring.

  “I will not disrespect the Eran,” he hissed, his hand falling once more to his side. He stepped away from her, putting the table between them. Pascha did not move. She did not speak. She was here to enjoy the spectacle.

  Sheyani was now standing by Hammerdan’s vacant seat, and without speaking another word she sat in it.

  “You must not sit in the king’s seat,” one of the hooded mages muttered. “You must not.”

  Hammerdan’s demeanour changed at once. He knew what it meant. “You must beg my forgiveness for the trespass,” he said. “That is the king’s seat, and I am the king. No other may sit there.”

  “It is my father’s seat,” Sheyani said.

  “And do you claim it?” he asked.

  “You are asking if I challenge you, Hammerdan?” She looked him in the eye, but did not vacate the seat. She leaned back. “I do,” she said.

  “Then I accept,” Hammerdan said. He turned to Pascha. “If the Eran permits?”

  “The law is the law,” Pascha said, echoing the king’s earlier words. “Esh Baradan may do as she pleases.”

  Now Hammerdan seemed elated, and there was perhaps an equal amount of discomfort among the mages at the table. Some of them clearly favoured Sheyani.

  “Then we shall duel here, now,” the king said. He threw back his cloak and drew a long blade from a scabbard beneath his cloak. “Blades,” he said. “We will fight with blades.”

  Sheyani stood and drew a dagger from her belt. It was a little more than a hand’s span in length – good steel, but it looked inadequate faced with Hammerdan’s sword. “This will serve me well enough,” she said.

  Hammerdan almost understood then. Pascha could see it in his face, a flicker of doubt, but confidence washed it away and he smiled again.

  “It is time for the house of Baradan to end,” he said.

  The council chamber was a large open space, and the king stepped out away from the table. He wanted to have room to swing his sword, to secure his advantage. Sheyani followed. She did not move, showed no inclination to circle, but faced Hammerdan, knife held half raised in her hand, waiting.

  The king took this for what it was. Sheyani didn’t know how to fight. He did. His smile broadened still further. “You will pay for those insults, Esh Baradan,” he said. “You will die slowly.”

  He swung his sword, but it was a lazy, overconfident blow, and Sheyani parried with her dagger, stopping Hammerdan’s blade in mid arc. The king stepped back, surprised, and his second blow was harder, faster. Sheyani blocked it again, but this time her dagger was angled the wrong way and the blade bounced high, swinging over the top of her head. She ducked.

  The king was into his work now. He was a competent swordsman, and he attacked with intent, cutting rather than thrusting because he expected to wear down her meagre defence. Any soldier understood the strain of taking every blow on one wrist, and he expected Sheyani to buckle, but she did not. She met blow after blow with her dagger, parrying with various degrees of precision.

  It could not go on, though. Hammerdan was better than that. He swung one more time and twisted his wrist, dodging the dagger and turning the cut into a thrust. Sheyani saw the change and moved, but not enough. The king’s blade pierced her shoulder.

  Her cry was matched by some of those at the table, and Pascha marked them. These were Sheyani’s allies.

  The king stepped back, victory on his face. He knew that he had won, but it was only for an instant. This was Sheyani’s moment, and she seized it. The wound in her shoulder had healed as soon as the blade withdrew, and now she leaped forwards, quick as a cat and drove her short dagger into Hammerdan’s gut. She twisted it and ripped upwards, leaving a terrible wound. The king shrieked and fell back against the wall.

  When she stepped away the room was silent. The gasps that had greeted her deadly blow were hushed, and they all looked at her with frightened eyes. But Sheyani ignored them. She was watching the king. Hammerdan was still alive, but it would not be for long. He was bleeding profusely from the wound, and in agony. She stepped up to him again and kicked his sword away.

  “Now the trickster is tricked,” she said. She touched her shoulder where the blade had pierced her, as if remembering the pain, and her hand came away with a smear of blood on it, no more. “I am Farheim, Hammerdan. You were dead from the moment you drew your blade. Now my father is avenged.”

  One of the mages rose from her seat and bowed to Sheyani.

  “Hail Sheyani, Queen of Durandar,” she said.

  Pascha guessed that this was Morianna, simply because it was her seat that Urgonial had stood behind when they had arrived. But Sheyani did not even look at Pascha.

  “No,” she said. “I am not your queen. I have renounced the throne and will not go back on my word.”

  “But you challenged for the throne,” Morianna said. “You sat on it.”

  “To avenge my father,” she replied. “I am in the Wolf’s favour, and I am Farheim. I cannot take the throne even if I wished it. It would be against all natural law.”

  There was a pause in which the mages of the occult court were very careful not to look at each other.

  “Then who do you speak for?” Morianna asked.

  Politics again, Pascha thought. It always came down to that. Here they were with their king still dying on the floor behind them and already they were manoeuvring to gain the throne. She could hardly blame them. None of them could be worse than Hammerdan. But that was something she couldn’t be sure of. Hammerdan had not been loved, but he had kept the occult kingdom safe during the war, he had allied himself with Narak – not that he had really had a choice, no king of Durandar could be on the same side as Telas - in fact it was only the manner of his rise and the way he had kept power that marked him as unacceptable.

  Sheyani passed the cup.

  “You ask me? Better you should ask the Eran.”

  But Pascha was not prepared to name a monarch from a group of people she didn’t know, and probably didn’t want to know. She gave Sheyani a stony look. “Durandar is not my realm,” she said. “Decide among yourselves.”

  Morianna took a step closer, her hands clasped before her. “Eran,” she said. “It is our wish to serve. It is our purpose and our calling.”

  There was something more to this, Pascha realised. They were all nodding, all looking pointedly at her. This was history and tradition, and she knew nothing of it. She wished that Narak was here. He understood these people. He would have known what to do, what to say. She looked to Sheyani for help.

  “It is our tradition that the Eran will return,” Sheyani said. “This has now come about. It is said that when the Eran return we will serve them. You have the right to name the monarch of Durandar, according to our traditions.”

  No escape, then. She could throw it back at them, but that could make things more difficult later. What would Narak do? He would probably know what to do, but what if he didn’t? He’d buy time, she guessed.

  “Now is not the time for me to choose,” she said. She looked round the faces. One or two seemed disappointed, but most were simply attentive. “There are seven of you,” she went on. Each of you will rule in Hammerdan’s place for a period of a month, and at the end of that time you will all attend me where ever I have made my home and I will speak with each of you. Then I will name the new monarch.”

  Again, a couple of them still seemed dissatisfied, including Morianna, and there were a few raised eyebrows, but none of them seemed prepared to question her. Sheyani nodded her app
roval.

  “Now we must leave,” Pascha said. She didn’t wait.

  The world blinked again and they were back in Wolfguard. The others were caught by surprise, but it only took a moment for Cain to see blood on Sheyani’s hands and clothes and leap to his feet.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “It is not my blood,” Sheyani said. Pascha saw that Sheyani had changed in an instant. She had been steely and grim in Durandar, but now Pascha could see fear. She was afraid. For a moment she did not understand, but then she saw. She was afraid of Cain: not of what he would do, but what he would think. She was afraid of losing his good opinion, his devotion. Still, the truth was the truth.