by Tim Stead
“To what?”
“Fighting. There’s not a man among us wants to go against Cain Arbak, but loyalty lies in the present, not that past, and Alwain is the present.”
“You’ll win though?”
“Oh, we’ll win. We outnumber him fifteen to one – ten at worst – and he doesn’t have the men to hold the walls, never mind drive us off. Worst case we’ll sit around until the city starves, but I think Alwain will attack. He’s not a patient man.”
The major squinted at the tavern window. He drained his mug.
“Best be getting on,” he said.
Bram followed him out. The two soldiers followed Bram. At the gate there were two wagons piled with goods taken from the town.
“What have we got?” Antalis asked.
“Dried fish. A couple of sacks of grain.”
“Is that all?”
“We took half,” the soldier on the wagon replied. “It’s what you said.”
“So I did. Can’t have them starving. Any sign of Jorgal’s squad?”
“Not a feather, sir.”
The major turned to Bram. “You’re lucky, clever or honest. Doesn’t matter which. We’ll leave you in peace now.”
Bram watched him mount his horse and wave his men away through the gates and the gates close behind him. It was over. The town had survived and they lost less than a tenth of their food. The rest was safe at sea and would come back in a few days, gods willing.
Ivo came across the square smiling and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Nice one, Da,” he said. “Glad this one didn’t come before that Jorgal.”
“We were lucky in that, sure enough. I’m going to have an ale at the Ghost. Owe them an apology. If you need me…”
He walked away. The Ghost was still open and Bram dumped a few coins on the bar.
“Sorry about that, Ben,” he said.
Ben smiled. “We all have to do our part. Apparently, mine was a barrel of ale.”
“The town will pay you back.”
“No. No need. I do well enough and we’re all still here thanks to you.” He poured a mug and set it in front of Bram. “On the house.”
“You’re a good man, Ben.”
Others were coming in. The end of the crisis seemed to call for a lot of drinking and Bram retired to a table by the door where he always sat and sipped his beer. Just one, he thought, and then home.
“Granda?”
Camren had appeared at his elbow.
“What is it, boy?”
“I kind of understand it. We killed those men because they were going to take our food and some would have died. But did we have the right?”
The boy had a talent for awkward questions.
“Us or them,” Bram said.
“Do we always choose us?”
Bram looked at Camren. The boy was frowning. He was serious about this, and so deserved a serious answer, but Bram was no scholar.
“Can’t be sure that I can answer that, boy,” he said. “But I think it’s about loyalty.”
“What’s loyalty?”
Bram didn’t doubt that the boy knew the word as well as he, but to define it? He sipped at his ale again, shook his head.
“That’s a hard thing to say, boy. I guess it’s a kind of love. I love my family and I love the bay and its people and, in a way, I guess I love the king and Avilian itself, but it’s like a list, too. Those closest to me are at the top and others further down. It seems to me that those that can’t love can’t be loyal to any but their own skin, and that’s a bad thing. But doing right comes into it. You can’t just be loyal. It ain’t like adding numbers, boy. It’s just a feeling.”
“So we might choose them if they was right and we was wrong?”
“We might, boy, but I think we’d probably still choose us and feel worse about it. That’s just people.”
“But some men die for things.”
“Nobody thinks they’re going to die – not soldiers who fight nor fishermen that gets caught in a storm. But that ain’t true, not always. I don’t know boy. I’m just a fisherman that’s been alive a long time.”
The boy looked thoughtful. “I guess,” he said. His face cleared and he smiled. “Can I taste your ale?”
“I don’t suppose your Da would mind. Just a sip, though.”
The boy grinned and lifted the mug with both hands. He took a decent swallow and put it back.
“Horrible,” he said.
Bram laughed. “I guess you prefer wine, do you, boy?”
“Can I try some?”
“No.”
The boy grinned again. “Got to go,” he said. “Ma’ll be waiting.”
“Better run then.”
Bram watched the boy go. He was a fine boy. It made it worthwhile to see a boy like that.
12 Kenton
Sithmaree was delighted by their reception. Duke Kenton was the model of deference. He had offered them wine and food of the finest quality and spent an hour with them discussing the tides of war and Afael’s turbulent recent history.
“It is not difficult to understand why the people of Afael city want to break free from the royal shackles,” Kenton said over a glass of exquisite Telan wine. “They have been shamefully treated. Decades, perhaps centuries of misrule have led us to this. The Casraes line was never strong, and some of the better families have taken advantage of that weakness to enhance their personal standing and fortunes.”
“They have enriched themselves at the people’s expense,” Jidian said.
Kenton rocked his hand to and fro. “There is some of that, of course, but it is the king’s job to protect the people. The dukes naturally vie with each other for advantage.”
“But not you,” Sithmaree said.
“The Kentons have always been a rural dukedom. We produce food for the kingdom and have been scorned for it because we do not host the finest balls and have no city palaces. It has finally played to our advantage.
“You want to be king,” Jidian said.
Kenton opened his hands and shrugged. “There is nobody else,” he said. “Falini’s line had been wiped out, and privately I believe he was responsible for wiping out the Casraes. That left Duke Anjasari, and he was handed a beating by Falini before Falini himself fell. He has put what remains of his force at my disposal.”
“There are rumours that the city has organised a citizen’s government,” Sithmaree said. “They may not want a king.”
Kenton laughed. “A government of sailors and blacksmiths? How long do you think that will last?”
“Until they have to go back to work, I expect,” Sithmaree said.
“It’s never been tried,” Jidian ventured. “So it’s impossible to say.”
Kenton raised an eyebrow.
“Forgive me if I disagree, Deus,” he said. “But I know my people. They have neither the stamina nor the ambition for government. We are born to it. I am tempted to wait for chaos to descend and then walk in and take over, but I fear too much damage may be done.”
Sithmaree could tell that Jidian bristled at this. None of the Benetheon had been especially high born. Narak had been a hunter and the god-mage herself the daughter of a shop girl. Jidian had been an apprentice farrier before Pelion had scooped him up and made him what he was.
“From what I’ve seen it’s war that brings chaos and death and ambition that kills people,” the Eagle said. “And I’ve seen a lot in my time.”
“Well, of course there’s truth in that,” Kenton said, clearly reluctant to argue with Jidian. “But sometimes war is a necessary evil. Even so, I hope to avoid any actual fighting. By the time we lay siege to Afael city I expect to be welcomed in as a bringer of light to a time of darkness.”
“We’ll see,” Jidian said.
“When will you join your army?” Sithmaree asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“There’s no hurry,” Kenton said, pouring more wine. “I have told them to move slowly. There is every indicat
ion that the longer we take to get there the easier the task will be.”
Jidian said nothing, but took an ungentlemanly pull at his wine and looked at Sithmaree.
“We will ride with you, Lord Kenton,” Sithmaree said. “It has been a while since I’ve seen this country, but I remember it as a pleasant region – green and prosperous.”
“And so it is,” Kenton said. “But now you must excuse me, Deus, for I have duties to attend to and arrangements to make. My steward will show you your accommodation when you are ready, but feel free to treat my home as if it was your own. If you need anything just ask, and it will be provided.”
Kenton stood and bowed. He left them alone. Jidian walked out onto a balcony that overlooked Kenton’s formal gardens.
“You have not warmed to him,” Sithmaree suggested.
“I have not,” the Eagle agreed. “He is pompous, and I suspect that he is wrong to dawdle.”
“How so?”
“Narak always says that chaos is the mother of power. Some force will arise in the city and if Kenton takes too long it may be difficult to overcome.”
“But surely he is right. The people cannot govern themselves.”
“Why not? Could they do a worse job than Casraes? Than Alwain? I say let them try.”
“They lack the education.”
“So? Narak never went to school a day in his life. He taught himself to read, to fight, to be the man he is.”
Sithmaree gave up. Once Jidian invoked Narak the argument had ended. The Eagle worshipped Narak with a younger brother’s devotion. Sithmaree herself had come to admire the man. For centuries they had not agreed on anything, and she had avoided contact with mankind when Narak wallowed in it, fighting two wars on their behalf. It had done him no good. Any fool could see that. But it had proved that he was a talented general and an able leader of men. More to the point, he had protected Sithmaree from the Crow and expected nothing in return. Narak was, in every way that mattered, her friend. Even so, she resented him just a little. It was wrong for one man to have so much, and since his dalliance with dragons he had become an even more broody and dangerous figure.
“Well, then, perhaps they will surprise us – or me at any rate,” Sithmaree said. “But we are here to watch, that is all.”
“That is what we said,” Jidian agreed. But there was a hint there that he might wish to break their promise to Pascha, to take sides as Narak had done. It worried her. Sithmaree’s life had been lonely, and she had grown accustomed to that. It was only with Jidian in the last mere hundred years, that she had found love. It was something she was willing to defend to the death – even to die for. It was a form of insanity. She was wise enough to recognise that, but it didn’t seem to matter. The only thing in her life that mattered was Jidian. She hated the way it bound her, forced her to consider others, and yet it was a sweet captivity.
She looked down on Kenton’s gardens. They were a model of orderly nature. The trees were pruned to rows of identical shapes, the shrubs were unnatural spheres, the grass was cut to a thumbnail above the ground and the paths were weed free, their white sand impossibly stark against the green. It was nature beaten into submission, enslaved to one man’s whim, but Sithmaree knew better than most that nature raged unchecked beyond the gods walk and a moment’s inattention was all it would need to drag this entire fortress down. Nature was patient. She knew that it would win in the end.
13 High Stone
Sandaray reined his mount to a halt a few scant yards from the edge of the forest and looked out at the open land surrounding the grim little fortress. High Stone was not a pretty place. It had been built centuries ago when bandits were common in these northern parts, and it had been built with deadly purpose. The walls were thick, high and smooth; it boasted a triple gate, and towers at every corner dominated the walls, providing defenders with clear sightlines. There was nowhere for an attacker to hide.
This, Sandaray thought, was defensible.
But the colonel doubted Callan Henn, and so he would be cautious. A horse stopped beside him and he looked up to see Lord Toranda squinting through the trees at their destination.
“Do you think they have comfortable rooms?” he asked. “It looks cold.”
“It is a family home as well, My Lord” Sandaray said. “I expect they have all the comforts.” It had been the seat of the Henn family since the time of the hero Tilian Henn, who had been gifted the place by Duke Quinnial for his service in the Great War. The scholar Sara Henn, Tilian’s wife, had worked here, written her books here. It was a place of history. “Wait here, My Lord. I will ride up and make us known to them. We wouldn’t want to be mistaken for the enemy.”
Sandaray gave orders to his men and rode forwards with twenty picked soldiers. He could see heads above the walls, the unmistakable shapes of bows in their hands, and he watched for any sign of hostility. There was none.
He stopped twenty paces from the gates.
“I bring fair greeting from My Lord Toranda,” he called up. “I ask that you open your gates and admit us.”
A head leaned out between the crenels directly over the gate.
“Sandaray, is that you?”
“It is.”
“Wait there. I’ll come out.”
The head was pulled back and a few moments later the postern in the heavy gates opened and a man stepped out. He looked every inch the minor lord dressed for war. There was more silk than steel and the sword buckled at his waist was a long fencing blade. He was smiling.
“Colonel, I am pleased to welcome you. Your men are in the trees, yes?”
“With my Lord Toranda. With your permission he will stay here with his kin and fifty of his men. The rest of us, with your levy, will ride promptly for Bas Erinor.”
“It will take an hour to ready them for the march,” Henn said. “Will you not come in and refresh yourselves? I wish to speak to you.”
“To me?” It seemed odd. Henn had written the letter offering help directly to Sandaray and not to his lord, and now he wished to speak privately.
“Military matters,” Henn said.
“Very well. Open the gate.”
Henn cocked his head on one side. “I would prefer it if you were to step down and come through on your own,” he said.
Sandaray hesitated. If this was a trap it was an inept one. He did not doubt his own importance as regimental commander, but there was so much more to play for here. Henn spread his arms wide.
“You will be safe, Colonel. I swear it on my life and by my family’s bond with the Wolf. But the matters I would discuss with you are most urgent.”
The colonel sighed. He could hardly refuse. They were here to cement an alliance. His lord was expecting to stay here while they took the war south.
“Wait for me here,” he told his men and slid down from the saddle. He followed Henn through the postern.
“What’s this about, Henn?” he demanded.
“Come,” Henn said. He led the way across a courtyard and up a flight of stairs into a small chamber laid out as a study. The walls were heavy with books, the carpet thick and a small fire burned in the grate. He gestured at a seat and Sandaray sat. Henn poured a cup of wine and offered it to him. He drank. It was chilled and refreshing, just what he needed after a day’s ride, but he was conscious that his lord was still in the saddle.
“Well?”
Henn said nothing, but offered him a scrap of paper. It was torn and looked like it had been dipped in blood. Sandaray opened it and read it.
‘Toranda’s regiment marches south today in haste. Kinray will follow. Others unknown. A thousand the former. Eleven hundred the latter.’
Sandaray read the message twice. “Where did you get this?”
“Off the body of a rider heading south.”
“You killed him?”
“No choice. He killed two of my men when we tried to stop him. It took a bow to bring him down.”
“You think this was bound for Alwain?”<
br />
“Who else?”
“Cain Arbak?”
“Arbak doesn’t need spies to tell him what’s going on. He gets his information from the god-mage.”
“He does?” That was news to Sandaray.
“The point is there is a traitor in the north. He must be highly placed, or even a lord, to have such detail. I thought it might be one of the names mentioned.”
That was a polite way of accusing Toranda.
“Such duplicity is beyond My Lord. I have served him for twenty years and he is a timid man. He knows his duty, but has no ambition.”
“Kinray then?”
“I have met the man a dozen times, all before this trouble began. If he is a traitor, he hides it well. He is a good lord and not enamoured of Alwain’s methods. His people speak well of him.”
“Then we have a problem. Did you know that Kinray was preparing to march?”
“No. We had no reply from him before we left.”
“Then our informant must have better eyes and ears. I guess he lives closer to Kinray than Toranda.”
“It could be anyone,” Sandaray said. “How do I even know that the note is real?” If Henn could accuse, so could he.
Henn smiled a thin smile. “I take your point. I could have faked the note, but to what end? To alert you to the fact that there is a traitor that you were unaware of? If it was me that would be very foolish.”
“Or perhaps doubly clever.”
“Frankly, Colonel, if I wanted a dupe, I would have chosen your lord.”
Henn had him there. He couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. “Your point is well taken, Henn. But why tell me? In an hour I will be gone. Trust Toranda, Kinray and Blackwood. That is my advice. Look for a lesser man.”
“I tell you precisely because you will be travelling south. Other regiments will follow you, and one of them might not be the friend you think. But I will heed your advice.”
Sandaray handed back the bloodstained scrap of paper. It was disturbing to think that there was a traitor in the north. Most likely it would be a man who had been turned years ago, a spy. Alwain had never trusted or liked the northern lords.
“You spent a lot of time in Bas Erinor,” he said. “Why?”