by Tim Stead
“I’ll judge her,” he said.
By the look on his face he was determined to do so.
“As you wish,” Callista said.
Bram stepped across the tent and stood inches from Catamel.
“Do you really believe that you’re fit to lead our people, Jess?” he asked. “These men may have told you so, but in your heart?”
“Why not?” she replied.
“If you’d done it you wouldn’t have lived a month. One or more of these saw you as a stepping stone. They used you. You would kill me and one of these would gain credit by killing you, would become more legitimate by killing the killer. You are a fool. That’s why you’re unfit to lead us.”
Catamel stared at him. “No,” she said, but she believed him. Callista could see it in her eyes. She could see it in the men around her, too. Catamel was a dupe. It still didn’t excuse her.
“Give us all of them, Jess,” he said.
She nodded. It was a lesson for Callista. He’d done with simple shame what she had tried to do with threats of violence. It sharpened her sense of Bram as a leader, an asset for Avilian.
Catamel wrote down a list of names. It wasn’t long, about seven men who weren’t in the tent. Bram rousted out soldiers from nearby tents and sent them to fetch the plotters.
In twenty minutes they were gathered together outside the tent, surrounded by a growing number of soldiers. They looked frightened, which was how they should look, Callista thought. She exchanged a glance with Bram and he nodded. This was his, now. He stepped forwards, climbed up onto the tailboard of a wagon.
“You know me,” he said. “I’m Bram. I run this camp.” There was a murmur through the crowd. It sounded like agreement. Bram pointed to the conspirators. “These men wanted to kill me,” he said. “They sent a man with a knife in the middle of the night.” He paused. “I’ve killed men,” he said. “Most of us have. But I’ve always looked them in the eye and I’ve always had a damned good reason. They wanted to kill me so they could tell you what to do, and I don’t know what the fuck that was but they were pretty sure I wouldn’t agree to it, I guess. But I’m still here and Eran Callista’s given me judgement over them. But first I want to know if any of you have anything you’d like to say.”
There was a general shuffling of feet in the crowd, but one man a few rows back found his voice.
“What they want us to do?”
“Kill folk who I don’t think deserve killing,” Bram said. “Couldn’t be anything else since we’re in the killing business now. As to who and why – I don’t see it matters that much since they started by wanting to kill me.”
The mob of soldiers seemed to agree with the sentiment. Bram waited, giving the men time to pluck up courage if they needed it, but nobody seemed to want to add anything. He turned to the accused.
“Any of you want to speak – give your side of it? I’ll not condemn a man without giving him a chance to answer the charges.”
One of the men was bold enough.
“You’re wrong, Bram,” he said. “We need to kill them all and take what they have for our own. That’s the only way there’ll be justice. Fane will betray us. You’ll see.”
“And am I a lord of Avilian, Gonak?”
“You are in the way,” Gonak replied.
“And how many more of these soldiers would be in the way? How many farmers, tailors, smiths and townsfolk? How many would you kill, Gonak, to get your way?”
The accused fell silent. Callista knew that many in the crowd sympathised with Gonak, but most of them admired Bram. The big Berrit was an honest man, fair and kind, and they knew it.
Bram waited again, a count of twenty, before he spoke again.
“Well, that’s it,” he said. “Now to judgement.” He looked at the conspirators. Most of them were officers, newly minted in Fane’s army. Callista didn’t know what they had been before.
“Death,” he said. “Death for all but one. Catamel lives.”
“Bram?” Callista was surprised. Catamel was the one who’d led it.
“I’m not finished,” he said. “She lives, but she’s banished from this army, all ranks and titles stripped, and if she ever seeks power again, I’ll kill her myself. She was my friend once, but that currency is all spent on this mercy.” He turned to face Catamel. “Jess, leave high games for those that have the wit for it. Be gone from here by morning.”
It was unfair, Callista thought, that these men should die and Catamel walk free, but she’d given judgement to Bram.
“Is that it?” she asked. “These men die and she that led them goes free?”
“That’s it,” Bram said.
Callista disapproved, but she had planned this moment since she’d first known the attempt on Bram’s life would happen. She wanted the army to see and understand what had happened to their leader. There would be no questioning it.
“The sentence is death,” she said, and snatched the lives from the condemned men. They fell like sacks of grain, and Callista felt the power swell in her. The deaths were so sudden and unexpected that the crowd of soldiers shied back like a frightened animal and Callista stepped up onto the wagon with Bram.
“They tried to take your life,” she said. “It is only fitting that you have theirs.” She gripped his forearm with her hand and let the power rush through. The change happened just as she had hoped. Bram realised what she was doing a moment after it was done. His eyes widened and he snatched his arm away. He didn’t want it, but Callista didn’t care.
Bram’s wrinkles faded, his hair darkened and became thicker. His eyes brightened.
“What have you done?” Bram demanded. “I will not serve Col Boran.”
“I would not expect it. You serve the people of Avilian.” She raised her hand and a thunderclap sounded above their heads, silencing the army. Callista spoke into that silence.
“Now you have a general worthy of your cause,” she said. “Heed him.” She vanished.
88 A Gift
Narak rode the winds. He had always dreamed of flying and now that it was possible he spent part of every night in the sky above Golt. It was new, and Narak loved things that were new. He had spent so long being bound to the earth that the sensation of flight felt like being reborn. He soared, and while he soared, he gazed down on the city.
It was an education, being a dragon. He saw things with a clarity he had never known, and not just with his eyes. It all went back to the very beginning, to dragons and god-mages, mage wars and the creation of the Pity Stone. Dragons and men had been changed by it, given the conscience they lacked. Pelion had been one of those men, but like the dragons he had been unbalanced by the sudden acquisition of guilt. He had chosen his Benetheon under the burden of his guilt, and that had been a mistake – perhaps.
When Narak pictured them, his fellow gods, living and dead, they shared many things. They were withdrawn, shunned company, lacked even the ghost of ambition. Narak and Pascha were the only ones who had stepped out willingly into the world. Narak had done it out of duty, to do what needed to be done, and Pascha – well, he still didn’t understand what had taken her to the court of Alaran in Afael, but it had not been ambition. To be loved, perhaps, as Narak could not love her. To be worshipped, to lead a life of grace and pleasure. All of them shied away from power. Some even eschewed human company altogether. As gods they were barely worth their salt.
It didn’t have to be like this. It was all right to interfere, to steer, to influence. In fact, it was required. Narak and the remaining Benetheon gods were almost invisible. What wisdom they had acquired over centuries was wasted, hoarded, hidden.
Narak flew lower. The urge to act, to take part in the world was drawing him down towards the ground. But what to do? Could he simply fly west, find Alwain and kill him? He baulked at the idea. It was too crude, too direct. And that was what Pelion had seen in him. He had fought to save the kingdoms, but to save a kingdom from itself? He didn’t have the right.
But
he was rejecting that, wasn’t he? He did have the right.
He reduced his size and landed on the tower above his room. He didn’t change form, though. He remained a dragon, clear-headed, wise.
The truth was that he didn’t know what was right. Both paths seemed to have virtues. Both were attractive. His dragon nature cried out for him to act, but the man in him clung to inaction, to pleasing Pascha, to letting the game play out.
Compromise. He would help but, somehow, he would not strike the blow himself. He gripped the battlements with clawed feet and looked east. All his people were there. Cain, Sheyani, Caster, Jerac – even Enali had been there for a while. Only Skal was absent, and Skal was not his.
But Pascha had used Enali, so he could do the same with Skal, and he knew that Skal wanted to fight.
But how? And what?
The idea was simple when it came to him, but he had no idea if he could do it. He’d seen Kirrith create an avatar, and he travelled with one of Hesterion’s. He thought about it. Kirrith’s avatar had been armed, and it had left the blades when Kirrith had taken it back. Narak had those blades now.
He imagined his own avatar, not only armed, but armoured, an armour of dragon steel, flexible and impenetrable, an armour that would fit any man. It was impossible, of course, but that was what magic was – the realisation of the impossible. He had always taken his native magic for granted, but this was new. It felt strange, but somehow, like flying, he knew how to be a dragon in this as well.
He drew a claw across his chest, and he opened like a scaled purse, and his avatar stepped out.
For a moment he was dizzy. It was like having eyes that pointed different ways and the images didn’t make sense. The sensation of the avatar’s existence was even stranger. It was part of him, but like an arm or a leg he did not need to tell it what to do. It responded to his desires in the same way that his hand would reach out for a cup of wine. But it was even more than that. It was as though he could signal his desire to go down stairs and his legs would take care of it, because his avatar saw, felt, even thought. Even though he knew what it knew, it could act to his ends without the need for instruction.
It stood for a moment, and then began to divest itself of its armour.
It was black. The armour was black, the blades were black, and where it was exposed its skin was black. Narak wondered about that. The Avatar stopped and looked at him. It was Narak looking at himself, of course, like an intelligent mirror, and for the first time he saw himself as a dragon. It was not what he had imagined.
He was a creature of polished obsidian. He glittered in the starlight, his eyes were hot coals and his scales were black teardrops. He stared at himself. It surprised him that he would be so beautiful.
But it was a distraction. The avatar turned away and divested itself of the rest of its armour. Narak opened himself again and it stepped inside, becoming a part of him again. The armour remained, a pile of discarded shadows, the cast skin of an indestructible snake.
He didn’t feel any weaker. He stretched his wings and raised his neck.
Bane?
He felt a stirring, a breath drawn in a thousand miles away.
Narak? Kirrith said that you had changed. He felt it.
It’s true. I need a favour, Bane.
Ask it.
89 South
Fane’s army marched quickly. He pushed them. His own boundless energy didn’t fade, but he knew that his men and horses would tire, so he watched them for signs of fatigue. They showed none. The first two days they marched with determined vigour. It was almost as though Sheyani was piping for them.
On the third day they were more dogged. They talked less, sang less, seemed to concentrate more on putting one foot in front of the other. He stopped early that day and increased their rations, broke out what wine they had. He needed them strong. He needed them to be keen.
That night there was a commotion in the camp. A guard ducked his head into the tent.
“Riders from the south,” he said.
Riders? Tamarak?
“How many?”
“Not many, sir.”
Fane pulled on a coat and stepped out into the night. He found the newcomers on the south side of the camp. They saluted as soon as he appeared. The man in charge was a lieutenant, one of Tamarak’s veterans newly made up to the rank.
“Bad news, General,” he said. “The road south is blocked. Alwain has turned back and there’s over four hundred of his cavalry loose north of Great Howe.”
Everything in two sentences. Not bad.
“And Colonel Tamarak?”
The man shrugged. “We rode east from the road. He was going to double back to the road and come north. He should be less than a day behind us, but he may have been forced to engage the enemy.”
Fane knew about Alwain and the road, but Callista had said nothing about Tamarak. It was still a couple of days march to Great Howe, but now he had cavalry to worry about and almost all his men were infantry. He was vulnerable. In the morning he’d change the marching order. Bows would have to be strung and men equipped with spears – better against horses. He’d have to treat this as hostile country.
“Get these men some food and somewhere to sleep,” he said. “We leave at first light.”
He walked back to his tent. On the way there Wenban found him. Fane issued his new orders and retreated to his tent. He tried to sleep, but gave up after an hour and sat on his bed reading maps by lamplight. There was very little he could do but march south, wait for Callista and hope.
*
The next day was uneventful. He slowed the march, gave the men a full hour at midday, and camped that evening before sunset. He’d seen no sign of Alwain’s Cavalry and tomorrow they’d pass Littlebridge and come within sight of Great Howe. He’d hoped to see Tamarak riding north today, but there had been nothing.
The only thing he knew for certain was that something unexpected had happened – probably a fight. He didn’t see how Tamarak and his half-trained horsemen could win. They were outnumbered, if what the messengers had said was right, and they were green. He still hoped, though. Tamarak was clever. If he’d had time he’d probably run for Great Howe and holed up there. That would mean the cavalry would be there, too.
Knowing where they were would make a difference. Even so he doubled the guard that night and slept lightly.
Morning came with a slap on the tent in the half-dark. Fane rolled out of his bed and pulled on his clothes. Men were already pulling his tent down when he left it. He found Wenban already on horseback, watching the dawn.
“Quiet night?” he asked. A soldier was holding his horse ready. He climbed into the saddle.
“Nothing,” Wenban said. “Scouts changed half an hour ago. They didn’t see as much as a lizard.”
A soldier brought him his breakfast, an Afaeli sausage in a thin loaf of bread. He chewed it and drank a little water. The column formed up around them. Spears and bows were prominent. Fane stood up in his saddle and looked back over his army. There was a crispness, a certainty about the way they moved. They were confident, which was good. They were going to need it.
Bram’s lessons, too, were evident in their efficiency. It took them less than half an hour to break camp and they marched south on a deserted road.
If his men were ready, Fane himself was on edge. He knew what a squadron of cavalry could do to an infantry column. He’d done it himself often enough back in the homeland. Bows and spears were no substitute for a decent wall or ditch.
The march continued untroubled through the morning. There were no attacks, no sighting by their scouts. It was puzzling. Even if Tamarak had been wiped out he would have expected to see some sign of it on the road, if Fetherhill’s colonel had been headed this way.
They reached Littlebridge a short while before midday and Fane ordered a halt. The village was cautiously welcoming. Some of its young men were with Fane, and he had already made it a rule to take nothing that wasn’t freely offered
. He knew that an army could strip a village like this in a day, leave them starving.
He found the local tavern and took a table there with a couple of his officers, leaving Wenban to manage the army. He ordered an ale and a plate of food. The landlord seemed pleased to have him eat here and served him personally. Perhaps he thought that having the general on the premises would guarantee the behaviour of his soldiers.
Fane took advantage.
“Tell me, landlord,” he said as the man put the plate before him. “Have you seen or heard anything of soldiers around here in the last week?”
“Aye,” the landlord said, eager to please. “There was a battle south of here just two days ago. A thousand men, they say. Hundreds killed.”
So there had been a fight. He didn’t doubt the numbers were exaggerated, but men had been killed.
“You know who won?”
The landlord shrugged. “Man who saw it was a hunter. He said there was three uniforms – some of them Fetherhill maybe. Lots of men on horses. Lot of men dead at the end of it. He said they went into the castle. Afterwards.”
The odds had not been in Tamarak’s favour. His own men had said that. But if Great Howe was being held by Alwain’s men that presented a new problem. He didn’t like the idea of marching south with an enemy stronghold behind him. On the other hand, it could take a few days to capture the castle, even if he made full use of his Farheim abilities. Four or five hundred men was a stiffer challenge than a lord and a handful of retainers. He could lose a lot of men taking it, and he didn’t have the time. He was chasing Alwain, trying to get there in time to help Cain. He couldn’t afford to lay siege to a castle.
Wenban came through the door and, catching sight of him, hurried over.
“Scouts have come in, General. There are flags flying over Great Howe. It’s occupied.”
“Whose flags?”
“They’re parley flags, General. White.”
Well, that was interesting. Whoever was in Great Howe wanted to talk rather than fight – unless it was a trick. Whoever it was probably knew that the only large force north of the blocked road was Fane’s army, so if they wanted to talk, they wanted to talk to him.