by Tim Stead
“Lord Skal has been teaching me.”
The wolf blinked.
Skal is Farheim. He cannot teach that. One girl with a sword may be killed in any number of ways, no matter her skill.
“I suppose the same is true of a wolf,” she said.
She could have sworn that the wolf smiled, but it was only an impression. Perhaps it was like its speaking – something sent to her mind.
I can see why he likes you. But I am not just a wolf. I have ways of defending myself – of defending you.
Enali was thrilled. This was something that nobody knew, something entirely new.
“How?”
When the time comes you will see. Now we must talk about other things. I will teach you Narak’s history and the stories of the chosen ones, and his wealth and how you may use it.
“Wealth?”
Gold is often sharper than a sword.
“Of course, but is Narak wealthy?”
So I am told.
Of course the wolf wouldn’t know anything about money – only what it had learned from Narak, which, thinking about it, could be quite a lot. She wondered how rich the Wolf really was. But History?
“I know Narak’s history,” she said. “I have read many books.”
And I have never read one, but I’ll wager I know more than you.
“Perhaps you do,” Enali conceded. “Tell me.”
*
Skal watched her go. The twists and turns of this place never ceased to amaze him, but to see one of the First Pack here? That was truly unexpected.
“You were working her before I arrived, My Lord?” Arran asked.
“I was. What did you think, Captain?”
“How long have you been training her?”
“Four weeks, but of course she had the rudiments – as much as they teach girls these days.”
“Remarkable. She will be a formidable opponent.”
“If she lives that long.”
Arran raised an eyebrow. Skal shrugged. “She is Narak’s and he will use her somehow. It is always dangerous.”
Arran nodded. “As you say. I thank you for the match, Lord Skal, but I had best be getting back to the men.”
“Of course.”
Arran left and Skal picked up the practice swords. He did a couple of hand swaps, a couple of spins, working the blades in complicated patterns. He still preferred the Berashi style of sword and shield, but he’d been practicing with two long swords. He was looking forward to trying it out on Caster when they met again.
He took the opposite door from Enali’s, heading back through the palace complex to the apartment that he was sharing with Hestia.
And there she was, standing on the balcony looking out at the Great Plain. It astonished Skal that even after a hundred years, after all they had been through together, that he still fell in love with her all over again every time he saw her. The curve of her cheek, the bright intelligence of her eyes, the shape of her nose, the way her hair coiled about her neck in a loving embrace – it all still worked its magic. He called out to her and she turned, but her smile was fleeting. She held out a rolled document.
“This came,” she called down.
Skal ran up the stairs onto the balcony.
“You did not read it?” he asked.
“It’s from Henn,” she said. “Addressed to you.”
She was scrupulous about that sort of thing. He took the document and broke the seal, holding the paper up so that she could read it over his shoulder.
They both read in silence for a while. It was a long message, recounting everything that had passed at High Stone.
“This was sent weeks ago,” Skal said.
Hestia nodded. “We have to tell Pascha.”
“We do. We’ll go at once,” he said.
43 The King’s House
Wester Beck wasn’t as impressive as Major Fargas had expected. It seemed overly modest for a King’s country estate. It was a simple house. A grand door dominated the centre and there were six windows either side on two floors. Several of the upper rooms seemed to have balconies. It didn’t look like you could defend it from a pack of dogs. He’d seen the back of it, too, and there was nothing special there – no tower, no battlements, nothing but glass and wood between the stone walls.
Even so.
Fargas knew that the King had sent a hundred men here. Alwain’s spies had discovered that much, and he had to believe that a number of them were inside the house.
There were buildings out the back that looked like barracks, but there was no wall to defend them. A wall ran from the barracks to the house and that, he supposed, could be intended as some kind of defensive line. If so, it was a weak one. The house could be flanked so easily.
He looked at the sky. It was an hour shy of dusk. He could take the house now, he had no doubt, but after he’d marshalled his men and issued his orders he’d be fighting in the dark and he didn’t fancy that. He’d do what needed to be done tonight and attack them at dawn when they still had sleep in their eyes.
“Pull back,” he said. “We’ll take the place at dawn.”
He eased back through the forest, the dozen or so men with him moving more quickly once they were out of sight and hearing of the house. His camp was a mile back in a broad valley that would shield any noise or light they might make.
The conference in his tent was a sparse affair. After the disaster at Golt, and shedding Major Tamarak, his senior officers consisted of two captains and a senior lieutenant. His second was now Captain Neelan, a dour, grey haired veteran with all the qualities you might expect of a fifty-year-old man who’d never been promoted to Major. He was stolid, unimaginative, and mentally slow on his feet. He would obey orders, but improvisation was beyond him. Captain Kinadi was of a different stamp. He was still young enough to advance and clearly keen to make his mark, though Fargas suspected that made him too likely to fly off at a tangent from the plan.
The lieutenant, Ambrin, shared the faults of both men in lesser amounts.
“Neelan, you will take two hundred men and launch a frontal assault. Kinadi will take the left flank, and Ambrin the right. I will take a hundred and circle round the rear.”
“You’re going to box them in,” said Neelan.
“Yes. But there’s one thing you must all remember. The queen and the prince are not to be harmed. The reason we are here is to take them alive. Do you all understand?”
They all nodded, but Fargas wanted to drive his point home.
“Anyone who harms them will be executed,” he said. “And so will their unit commander.”
“A bit harsh,” Neelan said. “They are the enemy, after all. A stray arrow can’t be helped…”
“You will not shoot arrows anywhere near them,” Fargas said.
“But they’re free to shoot at us, I suppose?” Kinadi said.
“Unless you happen to have a queen or a prince among your men.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Neelan said.
“You can go back and face Wolf Narak instead if you think that’s fairer,” Fargas said. On this one rare occasion he wished that he had Tamarak to lead the frontal assault. Tamarak would have understood everything without asking stupid questions. He also briefly wondered if he was doing the right thing. He was setting a dangerous precedent and breaking hundreds of years of tradition, and he was doing it with barely competent officers.
His officers said nothing, but Neelan paled a little. Nobody in their right mind would face Narak, not after what he’d done to the regiment.
“Right,” Fargas said. “Wake an hour before dawn, quiet drill. We want to take them by surprise.”
*
It wasn’t until nine hours later when the first of his men emerged from the trees in front of Wester Beck that he realised the futility of those words. All one hundred of the king’s men stood ready before the house in full battle order. In the night they had built barricades to the left and right, and with the house at their back t
hey had a practicable defensive position.
Neelan went early, of course. Fargas could see his men advancing across the grass towards the house before he was level with the enemy position. The whole thing made a mockery of his plan. He picked a junior lieutenant.
“You, go to the back of the house. Take thirty men and make sure nobody leaves.”
“Sir!” The young officer set off with a squad at a trot, keeping to the cover of the trees. Fargas turned and joined Kinadi’s flank.
That was when he saw the depth of their problems.
Firstly, he saw the ha-ha. The ditch ran around the house, a sheer wall on the house side. It had been invisible the night before, and now Neelan’s men were charging towards it. From their perspective it would be all but invisible until they were mere yards away.
Secondly, he noticed that Neelan’s archers were not shooting, and he saw why. The queen herself was standing front and centre, bow in hand, shooting arrow after arrow into the advancing force.
“No arrows,” he commanded. “Use ropes and hooks to pull those barricades down.”
He’d hoped that they could use the barricades to their own advantage, sheltering from the Queen’s archers, but that hope was quickly dashed. They clearly had a platform behind the thing and as Kinadi’s men closed on it they popped up and started picking off the advancing soldiers.
It was a catastrophe. Losses were going to be significant, but even so he had the numbers to win.
The man next to him went down, and Fargas caught an arrow on his shield.
Now Neelan’s men had reached the ha-ha and were being butchered in the ditch. The Queen’s men were using bows and pikes to kill them, hacking down at them with long blades. Neelan would keep at it, though. That was the nature of the man.
Kinadi’s men scrambled over the ha-ha and reached the barricade. It was a surprisingly solid structure. The base seemed to be a pair of wagons turned turtle with heavy furniture stacked on top and tied down. Fargas hacked at one of the ropes holding it together, his shield over his head to defend from the archers above.
The rope parted and he seized something and began to pull it away. An arrow slammed into his shield and he bent his legs to absorb the impact. At that moment the thing he was pulling came loose and a cascade of heavy wood crashed down on top of him, knocking his shield from his hand.
He thought he was trapped. For a moment he could almost feel the next arrow striking his unprotected head, but a hand grabbed his and with that help and by kicking his legs furiously he was dragged free of the debris.
He’d lost both sword and shield, but picked up another of each from a dead man lying nearby and found himself advancing next to Kinadi. There would be time to thank the man for pulling him out later, but now there was a breach in the barricade and his men were fighting their way through.
After that it was over in minutes. The remnants of the Queen’s guard surrendered and she was brought before him. She had a split lip and a cut on her arm, but was otherwise intact. Even defeated she was a commanding presence, tall and slender with long, fair hair. Her empty quiver was still strapped to her.
“Queen Annalise,” Fargas said. “You are my prisoner.”
She spat in his face, but Fargas didn’t react. He wiped away the spittle and carried on.
“I understand your anger, My Lady, but this was necessary. The Wolf made it so.”
“You think he will not avenge this betrayal?” the queen said.
“We are counting on it,” Fargas said. “Where is Prince Chillarin?”
The Queen’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Long gone,” she said. “By now he is fifty miles away.”
That was a setback. He’d wanted the prince as well.
“Kinadi, set twenty men to track the prince’s trail. He probably left last night on horseback, heading north at a guess. Your men will need to be mounted. Fresh horses.”
Kinadi nodded and left. Now the queen didn’t look quite so smug.
“You will be held here in the house, My Lady,” he said. “Your confinement need not be uncomfortable. You will be fed and have a servant to tend to your needs, but you will not escape. We will wait here for your husband and Narak.”
She was led away and Fargas was left to survey the carnage. Did he have enough men left? He guessed this had cost him more than two hundred – a third of his force. It would be touch and go whether he still had the strength to pull off his planned ambush, but he had come this far. There was no going back now.
44 Beckton
The town was called Beckton. It was bigger than Berrit Bay, a lot bigger. Unlike the Bay it wasn’t walled, but sprawled across a river that flowed down from the low chalk hills that backed it. It looked as prosperous as any small Avilian town could in these troubled times, but the greeting Bram Calpot and his small band received was suspicious, verging on hostile.
Fane didn’t seem to notice. He strode up to a group of men outside a tavern.
“Mayor Calpot of Berrit Bay and party to see your mayor on business,” he said. “Where can I find him?”
The largest of the men put down his beer.
“What business?” he asked.
“Are you the mayor?”
“Might be.” His friends sniggered. “And you ain’t no Berrit,” he said.
“That’s true,” Fane said. “But I work for the Mayor. Where can I find yours?”
“He’s fucking foreign, that’s what he is,” one of the big man’s friends said.
Fane looked at them, made a decision. “I’ll ask elsewhere,” he said and turned to go.
Bram watched as Fane turned, saw the big man push off from the wall and reach out a large hand to grab Fane by the shoulder. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but it wasn’t needed. Fane turned again and caught the man’s hand. He stepped sideways and twisted. A moment later the big Beckton man was face down in the street yelling in pain.
“That was unfriendly,” Fane said. A couple of the other men stepped towards him and Fane drew his blade. They backed off again. “All I want is a civil answer to a civil question. Now, who’s going to tell me where I can find the Mayor of Beckton?”
One of the younger men outside the tavern edged forwards and pointed up the street. “She’ll be in the hall. That’s up the street and on the right. It’s a big white building. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” Fane said. He released the big man and pushed him away with his foot. “That was all I wanted to know.” He walked back to Bram. “You heard?”
“Yes.” Bram wasn’t sure that Fane had made any friends, but he was wise enough not to comment. They walked up the street looking for the white building, and Bram kept looking back at the men outside the tavern, but they didn’t follow. Fane’s easy mastering of their champion had apparently drawn their teeth.
The hall, as the young man had called it, was not especially impressive. It was little bigger than a house, but had a couple of pillars supporting a sort of awning over the front and there was a queue of people outside.
“We should wait,” Bram said. “She’s holding audience.”
Fane smiled, but he didn’t stop. He walked past the waiting citizens of Beckton and pushed through the door. Bram had little choice but to follow.
Inside there were no surprises. The building was one big room. The mayor sat on a seat at one end and Beckton’s people were shepherded in by ushers to make their case before her. The mayor of Beckton was a woman of perhaps thirty years. She sat forward on her chair, leaning into whatever story was being told, her chin resting on her hand, her elbow on her knee. She looked up when Fane pushed his way past the ushers.
“You,” she pointed at Fane. “Wait.”
To Bram’s astonishment Fane stopped and waited patiently while the mayor finished dealing with a petty dispute about a wall between two houses. It was the sort of thing Bram dealt with every day in Berrit Bay, and he admired the efficiency with which she resolved the matter. The disputing parties both se
emed to accept her ruling, neither entirely happy. That was usually a sign that you’d got it about right. They left and the mayor turned to Fane.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“I bring the Mayor of Berrit Bay to speak to you on an urgent matter,” Fane said.
“And does the Mayor of Berrit Bay have a voice?”
“I do,” Bram said. He stepped forwards, aware that she was appraising him. He held out a hand. “Bram Calpot,” he said. Fane, his purpose achieved, had stepped aside.
She took his hand. Hers was strong, her skin cool and dry. “Jess Catamel,” she said. “What do you want?”
“The matter’s a little delicate,” Bram said. “Can we speak in private?”
She pressed her lips together, clearly irritated, and for a moment Bram thought she would refuse, but she nodded and beckoned over one of her ushers.
“Tell the people there will be a delay, but I will see them all if they will wait.”
She stood up. “Does he have to come?” she pointed at Fane.
“He does,” Bram said.
Catamel pulled a face again. “Very well.” She led them through a door at the back of the hall into a small and messy office. Shelves were piled with paper. Some of it had spilled onto the floor. There was only one chair behind the overloaded desk and she sat in it.
“Speak,” she said.
“There’s a war going on,” Bram said.
“There is,” Catamel said. “What’s that to do with us?”
“Plenty. If Alwain wins we’ll all pay for it.”
“We will, but what can we do about it?”
“Fight,” Bram said. He expected disbelief, but Catamel squinted at him, then looked at Fane.
“That’s where he comes in, is it?”
Bram looked at Fane. “He is Jerac Fane, a Farheim Lord.”
Catamel looked genuinely surprised. She stared at Fane. “I have not heard your name spoken, Farheim,” she said. “How is that?”
“I have been in the Seth Yarra homeland for a hundred years,” Fane said.
“And what have you been doing there?”
“Learning, living, fighting, burying my friends.”