by Tim Stead
“Golt?” The woman seemed suddenly more interested. “Narak?”
“He sent me here,” she showed her ring. “After the battle.”
The woman stared at Enali for a moment, then took her hand. “I have been impolite,” she said. “I am Callista Dalini.” She executed a polite bow, a nod of the head. Enali knew the name. Eran Callista had been mentioned by almost everyone she had met here. She was talking to a god mage.
She bowed deeply. “Enali Canterissa, I am honoured to meet you.”
Callista kept hold of her hand. “Nonsense,” she said. “I’m just a novice here. Pascha is teaching me.”
“Me too,” Enali said. “But just archery.” She didn’t want Callista to think she was claiming to be a mage.
“Good. Then we shall be friends. You mentioned a battle?”
Enali shrugged. “Not a battle really. A lot of Alwain’s men came to the city and Narak told them to go away. They attacked him, so he killed a lot of them. It was… it was Narak, I suppose. I’ve never seen anyone fight like that.”
“I’ve never seen anyone fight,” Callista said.
Enali didn’t know what to say to that, but before the epic slaughter outside Golt she hadn’t either. She supposed that real battles were not so common. As far as she knew there hadn’t been any serious ones since the second Great War.
“Were you going up?” Callista asked.
“I was… I wasn’t sure. She has company.”
“Don’t worry, Pascha speaks her mind. If we’re not welcome, she’ll send us away.”
Callista led the way up the stairs and Enali followed. The guard at the top was standing a good two paces from the door, a distance that indicated he definitely wasn’t eavesdropping. He bowed to them as they approached.
“Eran Callista, Lady Enali, I will announce you,” he said. He stepped inside and Enali heard their names repeated and a murmured reply. The guard stepped out again.
“You may enter,” he said.
Enali followed Callista into the room and saw that Pascha was still on the terrace, but now she was with a man and a woman that she didn’t recognise. Callista leaned back.
“Do you know who they are?” she whispered.
“Never seen them,” Enali said. But these were obviously important people by the way they sat, the gestures of their hands. She searched her history to find a matching couple from the old times, from the second Great War. “I think it’s Skal and Hestia,” she muttered.
Callista gave her a searching look, then strode forwards. Enali trailed along behind.
Pascha stood to greet them. “Callista, what news from Afael?”
“A great deal, Eran,” Callista said. She paused a few steps short of the group on the terrace.
“My manners,” Pascha said. “Lord Skal, Lady Hestia, this is Eran Callista and Lady Enali.”
Callista looked back at Enali again, smiled and raised an eyebrow. It pleased Enali that she’d been right, but it didn’t seem any great trick to her. There were so few people who could sit down with the god mage as equals and she knew that Jidian and Sithmaree were away in Afael, Cain and Sheyani in Avilian. These were the only two left.
They were waved to seats and wine was poured. Enali had never drunk so much wine before she came to Col Boran. They seemed to have it with every conversation, never mind meals. She almost expected to see it at breakfast.
“So,” Pascha said, settling back in her chair. “Tell us what’s going on in Afael City. Is it chaos?”
“Far from it,” Callista said. “The politics seem a little uncouth, but they have set up a government, a council of elected men and women, two from each city ward.” She pulled a wad of paper from a pocket and handed a sheet to Pascha. “And this.”
Pascha took the paper and began to read. Callista gave copies to everyone else, but Hestia glanced at it and put it down almost at once. “I can’t read this,” she said.
Enali looked at it and found that she, too, was unable to understand the writing. It was Afalel again.
“I apologise, Lady Hestia. I will translate to Avilian if you like.”
Pascha held up a hand. “Wait.” She scanned the page quickly, turned it over to see if there was more, then looked at Callista. “This is what they’re trying to do?”
“So it seems. They call it Johanism. Torgaris thinks it’s interesting, but that it will fail.”
Hestia leaned forwards. “Will someone please tell me what’s on the paper?”
“It’s a plan for a form of government,” Skal said. He sounded thoughtful. “And Torgaris said it wouldn’t work? Well, you can never underestimate a dragon’s opinion of human nature.”
“I’ll translate,” Callista said. “This is the actual document that was shown to Torgaris and read out before the council in Afael City.” She read slowly, struggling a little with a few Avilian words, but what she said was clear and unambiguous. Enali was initially shocked. The paper was describing a society with no ruling class, a country where any uneducated peasant could sit on the council and have a say in government. The rest of it, however, the guild monopolies, the schools, the treatment of the poor – it all seemed like a reaction to Alwain, but Alwain was in Avilian. If there was dry grass in Avilian, then this could be the spark to set it aflame.
“It’s ridiculous,” Hestia said. “You can’t expect cobblers and bakers to know how to run a country.”
“After Alwain your cobblers and bakers might disagree,” said Skal. “They would see a government like this might rule in their interests instead of those of the nobility.”
“It would be chaos,” Hestia protested. “Who would own the land? Who would make the laws? Who would enforce them? Who would defend the country?”
“These are all questions that can be answered,” Pascha said. “I do not know the answers that the Afaeli’s will come up with, but I don’t doubt they will, given time. Anyway, Kenton will probably crush them and that will be an end to it.”
“I don’t think so,” Enali said. She spoke without thinking, and then cringed inside as they all looked at her.
“You’re Avilian. You’ve never been to Afael. What could you possibly know?” Hestia asked.
Callista smiled at her. “I know you’re smart, but... oh, go on, impress us.”
“It’s nothing really,” Enali said. “I don’t know anything.”
“Speak,” Pascha said. “You’re in Col Boran and sitting here because you have value. Speak.”
Enali looked at them. Callista was the only one that hadn’t lived a century more that her and Callista was a god mage just back from Afael. She took a deep breath.
“Before Narak cleared Golt of traitors there was a lot of talk in the taverns about Afael and what was going on there.”
“Gossip,” Hestia said.
“Some of it, yes. But remember that I was speaking to the children of aristocrats, some connected with Alwain and some with the king. They were indiscreet, especially after a few cups of wine.”
“Drunken gossip,” Hestia said. But everyone else was listening, so Enali ploughed on.
“You hear a lot of stories, but some things keep coming up from different directions, and you can’t ignore that.”
“So what did you hear?” Pascha asked. She was beginning to look impatient.
“Falini – the old duke – was murdered by a man who could walk through walls. Nobody saw him. He’d visited the duke before, left a knife on his bed as a warning and the duke doubled his guard, but it made no difference. The Younger Falini was killed too, with all his friends in the middle of his house in the middle of the day. Again, nobody saw anything.”
“Ghost stories,” Hestia said.
“No,” Callista said. “There’s truth to it. People talk about it in Afael, too. The people on the street, even the wealthy, believe that there’s an assassin called ‘J’ who kills at will.”
“Being a common tale doesn’t mean it has any basis in fact,” Skal said.
&nbs
p; “I talked to some of Falini’s people. They all told variations on the same story,” Callista said.
Pascha tapped the table. “Let Enali finish,” she said.
“All the stories seem to agree that the city regiments are firmly behind the council, that they’re prepared to fight, and some old general has agreed to lead them.”
“Delarsi,” Callista said, grinning. “General Delarsi.”
“And the whole city is supposed to be controlled by one man, though the names are always different. Some say it’s the mysterious ‘J’, others that it’s Johan himself, and others still that it’s a man called Gayme.”
“Gayne, Francis Gayne,” Callista said. “Really, I don’t know why I bothered to go to Afael at all!” She laughed. “But Johan’s dead, and I can’t comment on ‘J’. Nobody in Afael seems to know who he is, or if they do, they’re keeping quiet about it.”
“As they would,” Skal said.
There was an extended silence while they all digested what had been said.
“So this Gayne man,” Skal said. “He’s the chairman of this council?”
“They have no chairman,” Callista said. “They have an arbiter.”
Skal frowned. “Clearly this is too deep a topic for idle conversation,” he said. “We’ll need to talk more and I’ll have to think a great deal before I decide what to do.”
“And in the meantime?” Hestia asked.
Skal grinned. “I’m going to teach Lady Enali how to use a sword,” he said.
Hestia sighed, but there was a faint smile on her lips, and the way she looked at Skal said more. Enali understood. None of the snide remarks had been directed at Enali. They had been for Pascha’s benefit. Hestia didn’t like Pascha because the god mage had forced her to give up the throne of her beloved Telas. Hestia had only ever had two things that mattered to her – Telas and Skal – and now there was only Skal. She loved him. But in a way Skal was Pascha’s as well. Not as a lover, but it had been Pascha who had granted Skal her favour. It had been Pascha who had saved Hestia’s life. Both of them were alive now because she had accidentally made them Farheim, death-born, and that, too, rankled. Until the last few weeks these people had been nothing more than names in a history book to Enali. Seeing them changed everything.
But Skal and Hestia’s love was not like the love between Narak and Pascha. Enali had seen that, too, in Pomeroy’s tent outside Golt. That had been older, more deliberate, better understood. The two of them were like props that held up the world. Each would die for the other, but it was only together that they functioned now. It was resignedly desperate, too, in the way that sick and dying people are desperate. She didn’t understand that completely, except perhaps that they were old. For every one of her years they had seen a century. She could not imagine that. It must change you, though, having seen so much.
She smiled at Lord Skal.
“I will do my best not to disappoint you, Lord Skal.”
35 The Beginning
Colonel Sandaray stood on the second north tower with a cheese-filled bun in one hand. From here he could see almost nothing. Alwain’s army, he knew, had mostly arrived in the night and he had seen the distant flickering of camp fires in the dark, but now that day had come, he could see only the occasional plume of dust or smoke. They had camped to the south of the city, and that was the problem.
He took a bite of his bun, chewed and swallowed. “Not much chance of action here,” he said.
Major Willan looked out over Avilian’s fields and frowned. “Not a bad thing, sir,” he said. “I expect this will take a while. They’ll need us sooner or later.”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Sandaray said. “I’m not used to sitting at the back waiting my turn.” He looked at Willan and thought he detected the ghost of a smile on the man’s face, but the major said nothing.
“They won’t attack today,” the colonel went on. “Alwain’s no fool. If he has spies, and I’ll bet my pay he does, he’ll want to hear from them. He’ll want to scout the walls, too, not that he doesn’t know them, but he’ll want to see what General Arbak’s done before he moves.”
Sandaray looked out over the fields that stretched away below the wall again. There wasn’t much cover out there. You couldn’t hide ten men between here and the woods, and they were a quarter of a mile distant. It was more likely that Alwain would launch his first assault at a gate, and both gates were far away from his position.
“Mind the walls for me, Willan,” he said. “I’m going to see what’s developing at the main gate.”
“Yes, sir.” Willan saluted.
Sandaray strolled south. His own men, about a third of them, were stationed along a section of wall about two hundred paces in length. The rest were in reserve down below, some sleeping, some passing the day the way off-duty soldiers do. Sandaray could hear quiet music, and some of the men were playing cards – he could hear the calls as they frittered away their money. They sounded relaxed, confident, and he liked that.
But why shouldn’t they be confident? They had the numbers, they had the city walls and they had a legendary general in Cain Arbak. Sandaray had exchanged a few words with the general when they’d arrived but he wanted more – what commander wouldn’t? Arbak had struck him as comfortingly ordinary. He was not pompous, not full of himself. The general listened, spoke quietly, made decisions that he explained. You’d never have guessed that he was a hundred and fifty.
The colonel passed the last of his men and walked on. This section of the wall was manned by men of the Seventh Friend. A few of the officers nodded politely to him as he passed, but their commander, Lord Dunsandel, was nowhere to be seen.
He passed on, walking steadily, taking the occasional bite from his bun, inspecting the soldiers casually as he walked. Overall, he was impressed. These men were ready to fight.
His opinion changed when he came to the Wolfen. He’d heard the stories of course. These were the descendants of Seth Yarra soldiers spared by General Arbak and Lord Skal Hebberd in the Great War. Other northerners he’d met here had said that they were a morose, unfriendly bunch. The difference was immediately apparent.
He was challenged.
“Your name and business?” the solder said, barring his way. The man was big, dressed all in black, and heavily armed. Two more like him stood at his back. Sandaray smiled his most ingratiating smile.
“I am Colonel Sandaray,” he told them. “My business is with the Duke.” He took another nibble from his bun. “By what authority do you prevent me?”
“You’re Colonel Sandaray?” The Wolfen regarded him with scepticism.
“Should I have brought an escort?” He looked past them. He couldn’t see General Arbak, but he decided to fake it. “Ah, there he is!” He walked around the Wolfen and carried on along the wall. He heard a brief, whispered conversation behind him and glanced back to see that one of the men was following him. For a moment he wondered if the man would have the nerve to lay hands on him, but it seemed that he was content to follow.
Sandaray wasn’t annoyed. These men were just obeying their orders and you couldn’t fault a soldier for that.
The Wolfen-manned section of the wall was short, but it included the two towers of the main gate and it was here that Sandaray finally caught sight of General Arbak, the Duke of Bas Erinor. He was sitting on an upturned box on top of the nearest tower talking with what must be a Wolfen officer. Sandaray climbed the steps.
Arbak saw him almost at once.
“Colonel Sandaray, aren’t you somewhat out of position?”
“Got bored, sir,” Sandaray said. “Besides, Major Willan is quite capable of fighting the regiment and I wanted to see what you were up to at the sharp end.”
General Arbak smiled, and that seemed a good thing. Sandaray had to admit to himself that he was curious. Both towers were dominated by objects concealed beneath blankets. The one here looked vaguely triangular.
“Well, your timing is good, Colonel. Stay a
nd watch the show.” He nodded to the Wolfen officer who nodded to his men. They pulled the blanket away.
What lay underneath was the biggest crossbow Sandaray had ever seen. The lath looked to be a good six feet wide and the bolt that lay on the thing would have been the height of a man if you stood it upright.
One of the Wolfen fussed about the weapon, measuring and tapping at parts of it with a small hammer. Sandaray guessed he was aiming it. He looked out beyond the gate, and there lay Alwain’s camp. It was well out of bowshot, and he immediately realised that this giant bow must have the range to reach it. But for all that size and power he didn’t imagine it could do much harm to over ten thousand men.
But the man tapping at the thing was aiming it, and trying to aim with a high degree of precision. There was a definite target out there. He moved behind the bow, and squinted along the aiming line, but he couldn’t see anything significant.
“General Arbak, what…?”
“Hush,” Arbak said. “Just wait and watch.”
The aimer seemed satisfied and nodded to his officer. The officer called across to the other tower.
“Ready?”
“Ready!”
“They’re ready, sir.”
Arbak walked to the edge of the tower. For a full minute he stood looking out at the distant camp.
“It’s extraordinary,” he said. “They camped just where we thought they would.” He shook his head. “Sandaray, you’re about to see war change forever.”
“Sir?” Arbak’s tone was almost sorrowful, and it worried the colonel. He stepped forwards and stood beside the general. Arbak turned.
“Captain Dantillia, you may shoot.”
The Wolfen officer raised his hand, paused a moment, then let it drop. The giant bow bucked with a sound like a striking whip. Sandaray looked out at Alwain’s camp and saw a plume of dust flash into the air where the great bolt struck.
Arbak laughed.
“Sorry, sir,” Dantillia said. “We’re a little low.”
“History will wait, Captain,” the general said.