Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  The pause lasted another three heartbeats, and then Anjasari’s men turned and fled, pursued by flocks of arrows. But Gayne wasn’t watching. He was still looking up at the soaring eagle. He glanced aside when he heard Callista speak.

  “I’ll keep looking, Jidian,” she muttered. “Time for you to go.”

  He looked at her and she looked up and covered one of her eyes with a hand.

  Gayne followed her gaze. The Eagle had vanished. The skies above Afael were empty. When he looked down once more Callista, too, had gone and he was standing alone on the city wall. General Delarsi hurried up, beaming.

  “Never seen anything like it,” he said. “The gods themselves serve our cause.”

  “Do they?” Gayne asked.

  “We’ve won, councillor. We’ve won! Kenton doesn’t have enough men to take the city now. He won’t even try.”

  Gayne looked up at the sky again. He wondered where Callista had gone.

  *

  Duke Kenton sat in his tent and drank. He was already half way to oblivion, but for once he didn’t care. He would drink today until he fell over.

  How could Anjasari be so stupid? Kenton was at a loss to find the words to describe it. It was as though the young duke had fallen prey to insanity – idiocy through madness – it was the only explanation that he could believe.

  He should have seen it coming. The bizarre behaviour at dinner had been a red flag. He’d known that Anjasari was volatile, but to attack a member of the Benetheon, even verbally, was inviting retribution. The gods were not kind, and Anjasari knew that. Everybody knew that. History was stained with the blood of those who’d opposed the gods, those who’d even looked askance at them.

  He poured himself another cup of wine, spilling as much as he put in the cup. A waste. It was good wine. But it was as much a waste to drink it as to spill it when he was this far gone. He looked at the cup for a moment as it wandered to and fro with his hand, then set it carefully aside. He scrubbed at his wine-numbed face.

  What could he do? Without Anjasari’s men he was hamstrung. He didn’t have enough to forcibly take the city, but on the other hand there was no way that they could defeat him outside their walls. And he could no more besiege the city than he could catch the wind. It was a port and he had no ships.

  Kenton did not consider himself an ambitious man. He was not like Anjasari. He did not yearn to rule, but Afael needed a king and with Falini dead, Anjasari defeated and diminished, he had seemed the obvious choice. It was even more true now that Anjasari had got himself killed. But Kenton could see no road that led to the throne.

  So what would happen if he just went home? It was what he wanted to do. In the morning he might change his mind, but now he longed for his comfortable home, his family, his forests full of game. It would be a disaster, of course. The chaos festering in the city would leak out of it and infect the whole of the south. In a few years he would find himself facing armies he could not match and the world as he knew it would end. He’d known that before he marched south. That was why he was here. This populism had to be stopped.

  Kenton looked longingly at his cup of wine. He cursed Anjasari again. He’d counted on the support of Jidian and Sithmaree. Benetheon gods were a powerful if not entirely reliable argument if they stood beside you. They brought heart to your men and dismay to your enemies even if they didn’t draw a blade.

  Perhaps he needed time. He could go back and build his own armies, recruit from Falini’s and Anjasari’s lands. Name himself king and come back to crush the city when the time was right.

  But they could do the same. They could spread their regicidal creed, recruit more men, and then the battle would be all the greater.

  Kenton knew that he was no general, no great leader of men. He was a country lord. He liked to plant trees and see them grow, harvest his crops, entertain his friends in a lordly manner. Now that he came to think of it, it had been Anjasari who’d persuaded him to come. He’d been reluctant.

  He was going to lose.

  The thought hit him like an arrow in the heart. He’d never considered it before, but everything had gone wrong. He wasn’t clever enough, or bold enough, or violent enough. He was a man made for peace, a good man. Anjasari would have considered him weak, probably had, but in truth he would have had the man killed for what he’d tried to do to Jidian and Sithmaree. He’d been incandescent when the survivors of his patrol had reported back. Not only had Anjasari blown apart his relationship with the Benetheon, but he’d killed Kenton’s young cousin, a man he’d been quite fond of.

  Kenton was not weak. He might not be a brilliant general, a genius like Cain Arbak, or a great warrior like the Wolf, but he was a great talker, a persuasive man, a likeable man, and he had a cause. He loved his family, his lands and his people. That had to matter, didn’t it?

  He couldn’t see how. This was a time for ruthless men. Kenton thought of his colonel and his majors. Where they ruthless men? Perhaps he should stand back and let his soldiers fight the war. He doubted that it would work. He’d never chosen his officers with war in mind. He’d picked men he liked, men like him.

  He shook his head, but that only made him dizzy. This wasn’t the time for thought. Tomorrow would do. There was no hurry.

  He reached for his wine again, picked it up carefully and took a sip. That made him feel a little better. It was good wine. Really good wine.

  He drained the cup and reached for the bottle.

  42 A Question of Timing

  She could feel a bead of sweat running down her spine. Another dripped from the point of her nose, but Enali Canterissa would not be distracted. The sword was heavy in her hand. Skal had told her that she was weak – too weak to fight – and so she had been training. They had set up a post wrapped in sacking and she had been hitting it for days now, forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand until her arm ached and she could barely hold her arm up, never mind a blade.

  But it had paid off. She had been holding her blade straight out from her body for more than half an hour now and Lord Skal’s expression had changed from neutral to one of mild approval.

  “Right,” he said, suddenly standing. “Take a guard position.”

  “What?” It was ridiculous. She’d been standing like a statue for over sixty minutes and now he expected her to fight? But Skal didn’t wait. He drew his own blade and, before she could protest further, he cut at her head. She parried and stepped back.

  “Why are you stepping back?” Skal demanded, aiming another blow at her head.

  “I’m tired,” she said, deflecting his blade.

  “And now I know that. You just gave away your weakness, lost the fight before it began.”

  Enali didn’t like to point out that she’d lost the bout anyway. Skal was inhumanly fast and full of tricks. He’d proven that by fencing with her for twenty minutes in which she’d never managed to touch his blade, never mind stop it touching her.

  She stepped forwards and struck at him, putting all her strength into the blow.

  “Better,” he said. “Now I think you might have been trying to trick me. You see?”

  He’d said it a hundred times. “Look weak when you’re strong, look strong when you’re weak. I know,” she said and lunged at his chest. He patted the blade aside and laughed.

  “Good. Now disarm.” He thrust his blade at her throat. It was a quick movement, but not a quarter of what he was capable of. She caught the tip with her guard. The swords were specially designed for this and for once she got it right. Now that the tip of Skal’s blade was trapped she twisted and lifted with all her diminished might and Skal let go. His blade flew up into the air and she watched it arc back over her head.

  Skal tapped her throat with the edge of a dagger.

  “Dead again,” he said. “The sword is not your enemy. Watch the man.”

  She kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow,” he laughed. “A fatal blow.”

  She’d realised long ago that she couldn’t
hurt Skal, but it was poor form to let her frustration show.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Skal stepped back, smiling. “So how do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “We’ve been at this for four weeks.”

  Enali shrugged. “I’m stronger,” she said. “But I don’t seem to get anywhere. It’s like pouring water into a bottomless pit.”

  “You mean you can’t touch me?” Skal asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “I am very good,” Skal said. “And I’m Farheim. Even before I was Farheim I was one of the best blades in Avilian and I’ve had a century to practice. It’ll take you years to get good enough to touch me.”

  “So what’s the point?” she asked.

  “That.” Skal pointed at her hand, the one that bore the wolf’s head ring. “Narak has lost people. I wasn’t what I am back then, but I know the stories. Perhaps if they’d been more useful with a blade they might have lived. They trusted in the ring, and the ring bought them vengeance, but what’s that worth when you’re dead?”

  “Not much. But if it’s going to take years…?”

  “You have years,” Skal assured her. “Narak’s chosen do not age.”

  “But I want to do something now,” Enali said.

  “You think you’re useless. I see.” He looked thoughtful. “You can’t tell how much you’ve improved. I can assure you that you’re a good student. I’ve rarely taught better.”

  “You’ve rarely taught,” she replied.

  Skal grinned. She had to admit that she liked him. Physically he seemed only a couple of years older than her and he was quite attractive when he smiled. But that was dangerous territory.

  Skal turned to the young page who waited on their pleasure.

  “Fetch Arran, the guard,” he said. “You know where to find him?”

  The page nodded and ran off.

  Enali looked at Skal. “You want me to fight Arran? He’s twice my size.”

  “That’s true. Sit down. Drink some water. Rest. You’ll need it.”

  She did as she was told, swallowing two or three mouthfuls of cool water. She sat on a bench and looked around her. They were in a courtyard, a plain place of stone flags and blank walls. There were two doors that led into adjacent buildings but no windows and no plants. It was a sort of miniature desert. She liked it because it was private and her clumsiness was witnessed only by Skal and the page.

  “You really think I can fight Arran?” she asked.

  Skal shrugged. “You’ll do what you can.”

  He was being enigmatic. It was a condition that seized him from time to time and in Enali’s opinion it didn’t suit him. It made him seem pompous. Either he was trying to show her how good she was or how far she still had to go. She honestly didn’t know which, but she hoped it was the former. She had worked so hard. Her smooth, soft hands had become hard. Her arms looked like a kitchen maid’s.

  Arran arrived. He was not an especially big man, but he was a head taller than Enali and almost a foot broader at the shoulder. He bowed to Skal.

  “How may I serve, My Lord?”

  “You are to spar with Lady Enali,” Skal said. “She thinks she’s better than you.”

  Enali snorted with derision. She couldn’t help herself. “Nonsense,” she said. “I don’t know how good I am. For all I know Arran will beat me black and blue.”

  Skal grinned again. He threw Arran his practice sword. “Use this,” he said. Arran caught it and swung it a couple of times to test the weight. He seemed satisfied and turned to face Enali. To her surprise he saluted her, the traditional fencer’s salute – sword raised vertically and hilt to the heart – followed by a deep bow.

  “My Lady, shall we go to it?”

  Enali liked him. Under that hairy, ill-favoured exterior beat a noble heart. She returned the gesture.

  “Lord Arran,” she said. “I assure you that this bout will be fair and forgotten.” Traditional words again, meaning that she would not hold a grudge if he hurt her.

  “He’s not a lord, Enali,” Skal said.

  She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on Arran. “Lord Skal, you are surely aware of Wolf Narak’s principle that any who serve him are accounted Lords. How can I treat the God Mage’s servants with less dignity?”

  Skal shook his head, but he was still smiling. “I stand corrected.”

  Arran raised his blade, hilt down, point high and Enali matched him, crossing blades. It was Arran who spoke. “My Lord Skal, will you do us the honour?”

  Skal sighed. “Really?” He stepped forwards and drew his sharp blade, placing it beneath their two so that the three blades all touched. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready, My Lord,” Arran said.

  “Ready,” Enali said.

  Skal whipped his sword away. “Fence!” he cried.

  Arran attacked, a sharp, straight thrust, but she stepped inside it and cut at his arm. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blow. Almost at once he launched a second attack, and this time Enali engaged his blade and forced it out, launching her own, more determined counter. Arran jumped back again, but this time the tip of her blade scraped faintly across the chain mail on his chest.

  “A touch,” Skal said.

  Arran retreated a step and set himself again. Now he would be more cautious, perhaps. But to her surprise he came again, cutting down towards her neck.

  Enali had been taught many things: to appear strong when she was weak, to be one place when her enemy thought she was in another. Dance and deceive, Skal called it. She ducked under Arran’s blade, protecting herself with her own, and stepped forwards within the arc of his blow. Arran was expecting it, almost, but she was expecting him to expect it – rings within rings. He could not touch her with his blade, but his arm caught her on the backhand and pushed her aside. She rolled with it, went down on a shoulder and rose with a low, swinging blade that caught Arran hard on the shin. She heard him swear, and continued through her roll, coming up sword at the ready in front of him.

  “A hit,” Skal said. “Arran, you just lost a foot.”

  Arran tested his weight on his bruised leg. “And yet I feel able to continue, My Lord,” he said.

  They stepped back from each other again and this time Enali could see the caution in Arran’s eyes. He’d thought the first touch just luck, but the second had hurt him. Now he would show respect.

  They fought for another twenty minutes, but Enali was fading. Her arms felt like lead and it was harder and harder to counter Arran’s powerful strokes. But just when she felt she could fight no more the guard stood back and saluted.

  “I concede the match,” he said.

  Enali was astounded. “Why? You were winning.”

  Skal pointed behind her and she turned. There was a very large wolf standing just inside the courtyard. It had apparently just walked through the door. It didn’t look particularly happy, but stared at her with intelligent, pale eyes.

  “What’s a wolf doing here?” she asked. She wasn’t afraid. The wolf was Narak’s signature and she was one of Narak’s.

  You are Enali Cantarissa?

  Neither Skal nor Arran had asked the question, but the wolf hadn’t spoken. Wolves can’t speak.

  “I am,” she said.

  “Who are you talking to?” Skal asked.

  “The Wolf.”

  I am Swift Foot of the First Pack, Regent of the Great Forest and Guardian of Wolfguard. Lord Narak sent me.

  The wolf’s mouth didn’t move when it spoke, and it seemed that it spoke only to her mind. A nice ability.

  “To what end?” Enali asked.

  I am to be your escort, your council and your educator.

  “What’s he saying?” Skal asked.

  The wolf looked at Skal.

  My discussion with the Lady Enali is private.

  Clearly Skal heard that. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re of the First Pack,” he said. “Narak told me about you.”

  And he told me about you.
>
  And that was the end of the conversation with Skal. Swift Foot turned back to Enali.

  Is there somewhere we can go where we can converse in private?

  “Yes, of course. Lord Skal, will you excuse me?”

  Skal gestured as though he was showing her the door to a ballroom, but he was still smiling. He clearly found this whole incident amusing.

  Enali followed the wolf through the doorway and along a narrow, colonnaded walkway that looked out over the plains. They went through a door at the other end and were outside.

  “This way,” she said, pointing.

  The wolf, Swift Foot, had told her he was to be her educator. She didn’t know what that meant, but she’d read about the First Pack somewhere. They had come into existence in the five decades after the end of the Second Great War. Nobody knew how, but that it was Narak’s doing. They were wolves of the Great Forest and somehow Narak had gifted them the ability to think and speak – well, not speak exactly, but to make themselves heard. Scholars in Golt regarded it as a Great Mystery – one of several conundrums to which they had no answer or even a credible theory. Perhaps Enali could learn something of that.

  She took her new companion out of Col Boran and up to the knoll with a seat that lay to the south. Here she sat down.

  “This is as private as it gets in Col Boran,” she said.

  Swift Foot seemed satisfied. He sat in front of her.

  You are in Narak’s service. Do you know what that means?

  Enali shrugged. “I won’t age. I’ll heal more quickly.”

  You misunderstand the question, or perhaps the relationship. From time to time you will be given tasks. You will perform them in accordance with your instructions.

  “Yes, I understand that.”

  There will be danger. Many of Narak’s chosen have died.

  “I know, but most have lived long and interesting lives.”

  That is true. But this is a time of war and you have no defence but the ring.