A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)

by Freda Warrington

  The swordsmen were on foot, running lithely and strongly across the glassy rock. They had dark golden skin and hair, and stood around seven feet high, almost naked but for weapons strapped about their thighs, waists and chests. Their features were long and strange, neither male nor female. Most bizarre of all, each of the beings had four arms, one pair below the other; four muscular arms, four strong hands. And each hand held a weapon; sword, shield, axe, and morning-star – a spiked iron ball that whirled on a chain.

  Ashurek and Estarinel drew swords. Medrian set arrow to bow. Then one of the creatures, apparently their captain, pointed at the three and cried, ‘Take them!’

  Chapter Nine. To Her Door

  They were not taken without a battle. They had the advantage of being on the narrow ridge and mounted on horses; but there the advantage ended. The creatures advanced in silence but for a curious rushing sound that was the slap of many bare feet on wet rock. Before they reached the three, Medrian was already sending arrows skimming with accuracy into the creatures’ ranks, picking off several of them.

  Ashurek was the first to be assailed. It was difficult fighting several of the beings at once, each handling four weapons with skill and ferocity. He lopped the head from the first and it fell back, knocking down a comrade behind it. Vixata jumped sideways and a morning-star whistled close to his ear. A sword swung at him, and he turned so that it fell with a shuddering blow on his shield. He sliced two arms from one attacker, took another through the chest. His mare, a metallic streak of light, was rearing, kicking, dodging. She was a war-horse highly trained in the Gorethrian technique of fighting, finely schooled to strike, bite and kick at all assailants of her own accord, while obeying the slightest command of her rider. The rider, too, used great skill in sitting firm on the plunging steed, and fighting swiftly and ferociously at the same time. It was spectacular to watch, and it terrified and demoralised enemies.

  Ashurek, as he wielded his sword, cutting off a limb here, a head there, feeling the lithe, strong movements of his sweating mare beneath him, was taken over by a familiar blood-lust. He was in his element. He gave an unearthly howl of joy.

  Estarinel, meanwhile, was struggling. This was the first battle he had ever experienced. The Forluinish learned the use of weapons as a sport, and skilful with the sword as he was, there was a world of difference between a fencing match and a life-or-death fight. But he had killed once, and the next time, horribly, was easier.

  The golden-skinned hominids crowded in on him. He twisted, ducked, blocked blows with his shield, severed limbs, struck and parried. Shaell had no such skill as Vixata, but through sheer strength and bulk was able to push the men aside, push them over and off the ridge.

  There seemed no end to the number of creatures. Their attack never faltered. Strong, bronze-limbed, expressionless, they had a kind of asexual beauty. As one was killed or wounded, another would take its place, their multiple arms moving with graceful co-ordination. They had so far dealt no fatal blows, but horses and riders were incurring many wounds, rents, bruises. Blood creamed with sweat on the horses’ steaming coats and the animals were all growing distressed, breathing hard.

  Medrian had to give up her arrow-firing and fight hand to hand. Ashurek, finding a second to draw breath and glance at her, recognised her Alaakian style of fighting, very fast and accurate. She favoured taking her attackers through the throat. Although her shield arm had taken a wound and blood was pouring down her wrist and hand, she fought on. She manoeuvred Nameless, using leg aids to make him barge into the beings and push them over.

  The sun sank. A dim half-light shadowed the battle; mists fell. The roar of the falls was punctuated by the high, clear sounds of clashing weaponry.

  Estarinel, attacked from both sides, turned one way to plunge his sword through a hominid’s chest. From the other side there was a low whirr of air and a morning-star caught him across the back. He cried out and half-fell from his stallion.

  ‘Come on!’ he heard Ashurek shouting. ‘Follow me!’ Ashurek turned Vixata, rearing, knocking three assailants out of the way and jumping over their bodies. Medrian followed, Nameless going swift as a gliding crow in the dusk. Shaell galloped after at full speed with Estarinel hanging onto his mane as they sped up the ridge. This tactic surprised their enemies, left them standing.

  They careered down the outside of the ridge, forced their way round bluffs of white rock. Ashurek led them to the comparative safety of a barrier of large rocks overhung by a knoll.

  ‘Now what?’ said Medrian, as they hurriedly brought the horses behind the rocks, which stood high enough to conceal them. The hominids ran sure-footedly at amazing speed and were quickly catching up.

  ‘Get your breath. They’re following us… set arrow to bow!’ Ashurek said, sliding down from his sweating, shaking mare. They crouched behind the rocks and waited.

  ‘That was well timed,’ Estarinel said.

  ‘It can work,’ replied Ashurek. ‘Hold your ground, look for a thin patch, and then run like blazes… it’s a way out of a hopeless battle that gives you a break to rest and form a plan.’

  ‘Ho there!’ A cry broke in from below. ‘Surrender yourselves as prisoners!’ They glanced over the top of their rock barrier and saw three of the golden-skinned creatures approaching their refuge. Medrian released three arrows and felled them all. ‘Only one arrow left,’ she whispered.

  A morning-star flew towards them and bounced violently off the rock about a foot from her face. She jumped backwards with a curse, crouching down again. ‘This is the best we can do,’ she said. ‘We’ve killed about fifteen but there’s still over forty of them. They’re starting to surround us. We can’t fight our way out – not with our horses exhausted and ourselves pouring blood.’

  ‘Very well,’ the clear voice continued. ‘We will wait for you until you decide to come out.’

  Silence followed. When they looked out again they were indeed surrounded.

  ‘Let’s make ourselves comfortable,’ Ashurek suggested. ‘We’re here for the night now.’

  Outside, the hominids were making a camp, lighting torches, building small fires that reflected a flickering red glow on the rocky knoll above the three companions’ heads. Estarinel was tearing up a muslin shirt to make bandages. He wished his store of healing herbs had not been lost on Hrannekh Ol. There was nothing he could do for their various wounds except stem the bleeding.

  ‘Medrian, will you roll up your sleeve please?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’ she said absently, listening acutely for activity outside.

  ‘So that I can bandage your arm.’

  ‘Oh,’ she murmured, holding out her hand. It was crusted with blood, and blood still welled from a knife slash on her forearm. Estarinel made a tourniquet and held up her lower arm up to stop the dark red flow.

  ‘Do you feel all right?’ he asked. ‘You may have lost a lot of blood.'

  ‘Well, I expect I could bleed dry and still walk about,’ she answered shortly. ‘I feel better than usual.’

  As he sat close to her, gently supporting her arm, he noticed that she did look less haunted than normal. It was as if whatever internal pain she felt was relieved, or at least numbed, by external danger. Presently she looked at him, her face in shadow, and said, ‘What did you feel about having to fight?’

  ‘Frightened. And sickened,’ he replied.

  ‘And shocked that your instinct to live is greater than your horror of killing?’

  He smiled, grimly, at her perceptiveness. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Used to it! I don’t want to get used to killing.’ He shuddered.

  ‘But when you do, the pain will be less, which will make it easier for you to fulfil the Quest,’ she said, her voice distant and somehow ominous. And he knew that while Ashurek had felt wolfish joy in that battle, Medrian had felt nothing, nothing at all, and somehow that seemed much worse.

  ‘Yes, but I came to kill a mindles
s beast, not human beings,’ he said unhappily.

  ‘But it is all part of the same thing. And even the Serpent has a mind, and when you kill it, it will feel, and know.’ She uttered a grim laugh. ‘Estarinel, don’t be tortured by self-doubt; it will pass.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said softly; and he did not understand how he could feel so drawn to someone so cold, strange, even callous.

  ‘Nor I you,’ she replied. ‘How can you have suffered so much for Forluin, yet still be able to care what happens in Belhadra?’

  ‘That’s just the way we are – in Forluin, I mean. I can’t help it. I care about you as well, Medrian.’

  ‘Listen,’ she said thinly. ‘What are you going to do when it all gets too much? Emotion is pain… I’m not afraid of pain, but I can only function by not feeling anything.’

  He stared at her; she appeared small and frail, hardly any older than himself, her shower of black hair falling around her pallid face. But the terrible darkness was still in her eyes, and she seemed as delicate and clear and indestructible as a diamond. He could not bring himself to ask her reasons for coming on the Quest.

  ‘If you must care about so many things, Estarinel,’ she continued, a strange cold note entering her voice, ‘don’t make the mistake of including me. I am not to be trusted. As my companion you can help me best by finding a way to the Blue Plane… and bearing with my silence. The bleeding has stopped now.’

  She gently drew her arm from his hands. Her words had brought an unexpected pressure of distress to his throat, but before he could say any more to her, Ashurek interrupted.

  ‘Nemen,’ he said. ‘That’s what they are.’

  ‘What?’ Estarinel said.

  ‘Our friends out there. Some of the races of Tearn have three sexes: men, women, nemen. The northern countries, Athrainy and Sphraina…’

  ‘Silvren came from Athrainy, didn’t she?’ Estarinel asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ashurek, ‘that is how I know. It is said they are neuter, and having no sexual purpose they are shunned by society. So, they wander from their homelands and take arms for the highest bidder. It’s a life that makes them bitter and formidable adversaries… being an accident of nature without use. Like the whole damned Earth!’ He laughed cynically.

  Estarinel shivered, looking up at the two alabaster moons gleaming benignly in the cobalt sky. He wished more than ever that he was at home, and that the Serpent M’gulfn did not exist.

  They slept in turn. The black globe of the sky pivoted above them. Estarinel awoke suddenly to find Skord kneeling on top of their rock barrier, looking down at them.

  ‘Hello, what brings you to be hiding behind a rock like frightened rabbits?’ he mocked. ‘You three are fools. I send out an armed escort to look after you and what do you do? Attack them. You’ve had your chance now! These nemen are sensitive souls and they’re not likely to forgive your behaviour, even if it was a mistake – agh!’ The last exclamation exploded from Skord as Ashurek seized him and pulled him bodily from his perch into their refuge.

  ‘What are you talking about this time?’ Ashurek demanded, his eyes glinting dangerously.

  Skord sulkily nursed a bruised arm. ‘You may not know where you’re going, but –’

  ‘To She To Whom You Pay Tribute? The Mirror of Mel Skara?’

  ‘Oh. So you’re not complete fools.’ Skord grinned. ‘I sent the nemen out as a sort of escort of honour – since you can’t avoid going to Her now, you may as well be made to feel welcome – but you’ve obviously rubbed them up the wrong way.’

  ‘Skord,’ said Ashurek, ‘what would you do if fifty or so four-armed warriors rushed you from all sides?’

  ‘It’s just their way,’ Skord said apologetically, still grinning slightly. ‘They’ve been instructed not to kill you.’

  ‘I see. It’s your idea of a joke to have us attacked and held to siege!'

  ‘Not at all, I’m saying–’

  ‘Now you’re here,’ Ashurek interrupted, drawing out a knife that gleamed coldly in the darkness, ‘it’s time for some explanations.’

  ‘What have I got to explain?’ Skord said, a trace of anxiety cutting through his swaggering tone.

  ‘Tell us about your bargain with Her.’

  ‘I have none – I work for Her of my own accord.’

  ‘Do you not loathe Her?’

  ‘We worship Her – we all worship Her.’ Fear began to show in his eyes. ‘I have only to shout a command and a horde of nemen will descend on this place.’

  ‘With you as our hostage?’

  ‘They have no love for me,’ Skord said, and it was probably the only honest statement he had ever made to them.

  ‘In that case, you’ll have no chance to shout.’ Ashurek put the knife to Skord’s throat. It was not the knife that Skord feared, but the Gorethrian himself. ‘What is your bargain with Her?’

  ‘None – none!’ Skord spat. ‘She’ll make you pay for this!’

  ‘Why should I fear your threats or Hers? I, who have defied demons and escaped the Dark Regions?’

  ‘She has more power than a demon – no, no, I am not threatening you, I am warning you.’ A note of hysteria grew in Skord’s voice. ‘I was only serving Her – I – oh no, no–’ His fair, rosy face became contorted and purplish, his eyes glazed, his breathing quick and shallow like a small animal’s.

  Ashurek groaned and sheathed the knife. He had tried to dismiss it from his mind, but he could no longer: Skord’s erratic behaviour was similar to that of his own dead brother.

  ‘Something stopped him speaking,’ Ashurek said. ‘He was going to tell us too much, so something blocked his tongue. Whether it was Her or some other power… the Worm is dogging our steps all the way.’ He sighed and rested his dark head in his hands.

  Estarinel broke hesitantly into the silence.

  ‘I think I can make him speak. An old Forluinish technique – a kind of hypnotism – it’s only supposed to be used for healing purposes.’ He looked uncertainly at Ashurek for approval.

  ‘If there’s a complete antithesis to Gorethrian methods, it must be Forluinish ones. Go on, let’s see if it works. I want to know who this boy is.’

  The young knight positioned himself so that he was kneeling, facing the vacant-eyed Skord, whose boyish face was twisted as if with terror. Estarinel drew a deep breath to calm and ready himself, and fixed his own eyes, unblinking, with a clear and steady gaze, on the boy’s.

  About ten minutes passed and both figures were motionless, silent. Medrian and Ashurek watched, conscious of a current between the two, like a radiation passing across a vacuum. Skord’s breathing grew slower and slower. Colour came back to his cheeks but his eyes did not change. A terrible sadness came over the face of Estarinel and his lips parted.

  ‘Skord,’ he said. ‘Skord.’ Again, ‘Skord.’ Then he began to speak in a low monotone, chanting a ritual that gave Ashurek a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. There was power in the words, and more to the Forluinish than met the eye.

  ‘That which sealed thy lips is departed. That which stayed thy tongue is departed. That which stilled thy voice is departed. From mine eyes to thine, the key. From thine eyes to thy mouth, the unlocking…’ on and on. Skord’s face hung with an expression of despair; the look that had been on the face of his mother, and Skarred, and the murdered girl, and her mother. ‘…now speak. Speak. Speak.’ Estarinel finished the chant. ‘Who are you?’

  A few seconds passed. Then Skord spoke with a strange accent. ‘Schorde,’ he said. ‘I am Schorde.’ It sounded like a different name, rather than a slurring of his own.

  ‘Where do you live?’ No response. ‘Describe it to me – is it a farm?’

  ‘No, a city… spires shining in the sun, white and gold, glittering. The sea on one side… forests on the other. The sun shines, I play with my friends… down through the forests, past the eleven spires, down to the sea we race… I am the fastest! Even my friend with his long legs is n
ot swifter than me!’ A smile came to his lips but his eyes remained vacant.

  ‘Drish! He’s a damned Drishian,’ Ashurek muttered under his breath.

  ‘Do you come from Drish, Skord – Schorde?’ Estarinel asked.

  At once the boy’s face changed, clouding with annoyance. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirteen! Almost.’

  ‘And have you always lived in Drish?’

  ‘Of course! Where else would I live?’

  ‘You don’t live there now.’

  Skord frowned and began to turn his head from side to side. ‘You’re lying. I do, I do… I live near the city. Mother and Father are with me, yes they are – and my little sister – no! No!’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Estarinel asked. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘They are coming – dark ships on the sea, tall men walking up through the tide… black and silver, like demons, dripping with blood. No! We have never done them harm – why do they come? We must fight them, fight, fight… Father goes. I am holding onto Mother and my sister, they are crying – so afraid… the dark ones are not human. We wait and wait – but Father does not come back.

  ‘Mother is mad with grief, I cannot calm her. Then our leaders come for us… we are herded from our houses to a camp, like prisoners… the invaders have taken the city. But our leaders haven’t surrendered! There’s to be another battle… but all those who are unfit to fight are to be sent away to safety. I don’t want to go – I want to fight, like Father – I argue with Mother, she weeps and weeps – I cannot comfort her – then – then something is coming towards us!’ Skord was breathing very fast, his face ghastly with horror.

  ‘What is it? What is it?’ Estarinel asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Can’t remember. Very dark – then so bright I can’t see. My leg hurts. Mother is screaming, so is my sister – screams all around us. Something slashing at us… blood, my little sister covered in blood. No! No! They betrayed us!’