by JW Webb
“I doubt that.”
“But this is no social call, Corin an Fol. The Game quickens and we are entering the Final Dance! Until now I was happy to observe you and steer the worst away, though you kept finding more trouble for me. You’re a very scrappy lad, you know.”
“Dance?” Again Corin chose to ignore the god’s expansive tone.
“The Weaver’s Dance fashioned the cosmic threads of life throughout the universe; the glue cementing that thread was time and space. We gods, you mortals. We are all specks of dust residing in that time and space. Each with a specific job to do.
“The Big Boss has moved on to other galaxies but His Dance remains. And in this grubby corner of the universe it quickens like moth rushing into flame. The Weaver has lost interest in us, and consequently Ansu, this special world, is in direst peril.”
“Old Night—I’ve heard the stories.” Corin slurped his ale and rolled his eyes. “You will have to do better than that.”
“Why do you think King Ulani is here? He’s clever for a mortal and he knows who you are. And he alone of your comrades has witnessed the ashes of the return of Old Night. Your little war with that stupid wizard in Kella is but an echo of a larger, infinitely more important conflict. A war of three movements, three dances, with the third about to start.”
Corin laughed despite the heavy presence of the god. “You are like Zallerak with your hints and innuendoes, despite your protestations. You pair should be drinking partners; you could fill an entire corner of the universe with your riddles and crap.”
Corin winced and ducked as lightning struck a branch above his head, snapping it clean from the tree and sending it thudding to the ground a foot from where he stood.
“Have a care, mortal!” The Huntsman’s face had darkened and his features faded from view. He loomed like a smoky shadow expanding out like smoke above Corin’s head. “My patience is not infinite, and you are dicing with oblivion.” The god’s tone softened and He sighed as one summoning calm from within.
“I am not your enemy, I am your friend. Count yourself fortunate, mortal. There are few that can claim to have friends such as I.”
“It was a joke—I just pictured you and Zallerak together.’
“A bad joke.” The Wanderer’s face came back into view and he shrank back to size and again appeared an old man. Oroonin motioned Corin take seat beside Him on a log.
“I like humans—always have. Your race has achieved a great deal considering the brevity of their lives. You’re plucky, sharp, and independent. And I like that—respect it. But you can also be incredibly stupid at times.”
“That’s true,” Corin nodded.
“The Aralais are different. I don’t care for them much: arrogant, self important, edgy, and aloof—all traits shared by My Kin. But whereas the gods have a right to be that way the Aralais overreached themselves.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Arallos was the worst of them. Ambitious and bright, it was he that started the war with the Dog people—not the other way around, which I’m certain, is how he explained it to you.”
“I’ve never trusted him.” Corin tore at a strip of beef and wondered what was occurring in the hall; it seemed very quiet for a feast. Doubtless everyone was awaiting his return. “But Morak’s lot are worse.”
“Are they?”
“Of course they are, and Morak stinks of evil.”
“Actually that reek is bitterness laced with old wet dog, Morak had his face blown off by Arallos, but he’s finally happy again because he’s got his revenge.”
“What’s happened—am I missing something?”
“Just another piece in the Game, a short movement in the coming Dance. Good and evil—where you find one, the other lurks close. The Urgolais are not the black villains your Zallerak portrayed them to be.
“Before their war, the Aralais treated their cousins with disdain and contempt, and even enslaved many as they were physically weaker and smaller in build. This led to a resentful faction growing amongst the Urgolais scholars led by Morak, a powerful priest among their people.
“Back then Morak had honour. He challenged Arallos to single combat but was tricked, and Zallerak’s flames tore the Urgo lord’s face away.”
“Zallerak told me the burns were caused by Morak’s spear, Golganak.”
“The weapon the Dog-Lord made for himself? Hah, a glib lie that one! Arallos made Callanak the sword and the other artefacts to destroy the Urgolais towards the end of the war, both races were almost worn out, and that was also the reason why Zallerak jumped on your ancestor, Erun Cade, with his offer of the crown.
“He had meant it for himself but realised that he (or any Aralais living) lacked the strength to wear it. So instead Arollas chose the timely arrival of your people to use them to carry his shield—for the Tekara is a shield as well as a crown, as its main purpose has always been to protect.”
“So what’s become of Zallerak now?”
“He’s retired from the Dance.”
“Dead?”
“It’s not impossible. Listen, we are all the Weaver’s children, Zallerak, you, Me—we all must play our part in this the final chord. You mortals are lucky you have small parts. You worry, fret, plot, scheme, and shaft each other and then—pop! You’re dead. Game over. Simple! We Gods and the demi-gods, demons, and such don’t get it so easy. My wife has held a grudge against me for four thousand years—imagine that.”
“Sorry to piss on your bonfire, but I don’t really believe in a supreme being. I mean why let all this shit happen?”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe in! Humans, you are all about yourselves! The Weaver created you and blessed you with a mind to work things out, but you only use a small part of that mind. And when you people do think you always draw the wrong conclusions. Shame really.”
Corin rubbed his eyes and wondered what the real purpose of this visit was. The god, reading his mind, smiled his wolf smile.
“You are transparent, and yes I am coming to that. I get lonely, Corin; sometimes it’s just nice to share thoughts—even with an idiot like you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ve heard of Callanak?”
“A sword of legend. Another of Zallerak’s trinkets?”
“It hangs from the wall of a cave in Laras Lassladden—an island currently conveniently moored at the tip of this world.”
“You want me to find this sword? Kill a bunch of people and do big stuff with it? And you say I’m the transparent one?”
“It is yours by right, as is the Tekara, and you will need both to counteract Morak’s spear.” The Wanderer sounded tetchy. “Laras Lassladden moves around the nine worlds and shifts through dimensions, hence you need to act while we still have time.”
“And this sword helps your cause too?”
“My cause? What would you know about that?”
“Bugger all, except that by helping me you help yourself. Else why do it?”
Oroonin chuckled. “And there’s me expecting gratitude and compliance. Suffice to say mortal, we walk a fine line. All of us. My unpleasant brother recovers. He has His team of loyal players, My sister and wife has Hers.”
“And what of you?”
“I work alone and trust no one. That way I don’t get surprised or let down.”
“And you want me in your team whereas Vervandi wants me in her Mother’s. It’s all a bit confusing.”
“Not when you’re a god and have had oceans of time to dwell on such things. The sword and crown can turn the odds against Morak and—more importantly—who is backing him. With the rightful heir to the throne wielding and wearing these artefacts there is a chance of holding back Old Night. Isn’t that enough? For the survival of your people if nothing else?”
“I am currently on another project.”
“Love!” Oroonin spat the word out as though it had a bad taste. “Yes, I heard the little speech you gave your father and, yes, I know how stub
born you are. That said, my task runs neatly alongside your project.”
“How so?”
“Shallan is due to arrive in Grimhold Castle with the two men you most hate. Barin is right, you have saved time by coming here, and he knows that fortress, so I’m sure you’ll find a way inside.
“Free the lady if you can and revel in your joyful reunion. Then return to Barin’s ship and make north for the island of Laras Lassladden. Once there disembark and make for the caverns hidden beneath Bhogha Mountain. Callanak is there. Take the sword and voyage south to Kelthaine at speed. The war will have started so you cannot dally.”
Corin stood and showed his back to the god. “I’m going to find my lover, and what happens after that, happens. I make no pledges. You’ve said your piece, Wanderer, now let me return to my friends, and pester me no more.”
“As you wish, mortal.” Corin heard steel in the voice and could feel the angry silver gaze burning into his back. “But know this. I came in kindly manner, hoping we could work alongside. Your attitude leads me to think we must work apart, which could well prove ill for you. From now on you will need to watch your back!”
Corin turned quickly, aware that he had spoken over-harshly, but it was too late. The old man/god had vanished from the moonlit night. Corin shivered, drained his ale, and went to re-join his friends who still hovered outside the hall.
They didn’t ask and he didn’t answer, but instead Corin ventured inside and spent the rest of that night burying his head in strong brew. The feast went well enough, though voices were quieter than before and many a face awarded Corin strange looks.
By next afternoon they were at sea again, and just before dark had raised the grim cliffs of western Leeth.
Chapter 33
Grimhold Castle
The wall of rock announcing their arrival at Leeth rose sheer and dark for miles, showing no break or strand or sign of anywhere to moor the ship. The cliffs rose, swallowing moon and stars, and as they loomed close, the expression on each passenger’s face changed from wonder to alarm.
“Is he running us aground?” Tolemon gazed accusingly at Barin, standing huge and motionless at the helm.
“Patience brother, he knows these waters and you do not.” Danail looked nervous despite his words. Closer to Barin, Bleyne raised a quizzical brow and Zukei frowned, whilst Prince Tarin clenched his teeth and Corin an Fol leaned close beside Barin at the wheel.
“Barin doesn’t have to do this to impress me,” King Ulani said somewhere behind them.
“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Corin asked Barin.
“A few more moments,” Barin grinned cheerfully down at him whilst enjoying his little secret. Meanwhile, the black line of cliff swallowed what was left of star-studded sky as The Starlight Wanderer maintained her course, heading straight for the cliffs.
Then, after several tense seconds, Corin laughed, seeing the slight silver glint of a crack in that erstwhile impenetrable wall of rock ahead. A mere thread of skylight with a lone star glinting like a winking eye beckoning them in.
“That’s our guide,” Barin grinned, pointing at the lone star, and raising his voice added, “those squeamish should fare below, this is a tight passage and touch and go—even in broad daylight. At night we risk running aground or getting squished on rogue rocks.”
“Well don’t sound so bloody cheerful about it,” Corin couldn’t help suggesting as they plunged into the crack, which widened just enough to swallow the ship whole.
“Fuck but that’s narrow,” Zukei muttered and she clutched her Karyia as though she could fight the cliffs away with its steel.
“Interesting.” Bleyne nodded beside her. “So many ways this could go wrong.” Zukei and Bleyne had recently become acquainted and had been discussing tactics with the other five chosen for Shallan’s rescue team.
On board were seven horses. Barin said it was a lucky number—mainly because eight alongside so many passengers and crew would most likes sink the boat (his words). But that left a problem—choosing the assault squad.
After a half-hour’s nattering, the group decided who would rescue Shallan. But not without a deal of argument and vented steam, mainly on Barin and Ulani’s part, and with little support from Barin’s crew. He had his old team back again, including the newer recruits Wogun of Vendel, Haikon the former Permian fisherman, and Norman from that country no one could pronounce. These voiced their opinions against Barin’s inclusion with little mercy shown.
“You can’t come.” (Cogga.)
“Things will get bad if you’re there.” (Ruagon.)
“You’re too big and fat to sneak into that castle unannounced.” (Fassof.)
“He’s as big as I am,” Barin nudged Ulani who grunted.
“It’s not about size, I’m a stealth monkey,” Ulani protested.
“You, father, are an elephant. They’d hear your stomping outside the castle walls.” (Zukei.)
“See what I have to put up with?” Ulani exchanged glances with Barin.
“They are right, uncle, we commandoes need the element of surprise, and you pair do stick out a bit.” Taic got a mallet-hard ear clipping for that. But Ulani and Barin complied eventually, and the latter in better spirits than he had complied at Car Carranis at the eve of the raid on King Haal’s camp. Barin knew if he saw Redhand his temper would get the better of him, putting their slim chances of success at even higher risk.
In his place, Barin insisted Fassof and Cogga go. Both were dependable and both knew Grimhold Castle as well as he did, having been there many times before the latest feud between Valkador and Leeth. Two guides lest one has a mishap, Barin explained.
But who else to choose?
Naturally Corin volunteered himself and no one challenged that. Zukei voted Bleyne and Bleyne voted Zukei—these two seemed to like each other and Barin agreed the pair had unique skills that would prove invaluable, should things get nasty in that castle. Then Shallan’s brothers Tolemon and Danail stepped forward, and again no one could gainsay their right to play a part in their sister’s rescue, though Corin made it clear he’d have chosen anyone else over this pair. He didn’t like Tolemon overmuch, and Danail…? The word “untested” came to mind. And that made seven.
Olen and Arami wanted to come, as did Prince Tarin, Arac the lean archer (who insisted archery would be needed more than swords), and of course Taic and Sveyn, who hated missing out on any venture.
But the limit on horses put a firm lid on things. Hence these others would have to put up with heaving to with Barin at the chosen spot and waiting. During the next hours, the seven chosen made ready for another busy night.
***
The hard-faced king sprawled idle and drunk on his newly-claimed throne, his blue gaze scanning his warriors for future upstarts and troublemakers. He’d long dreamt of sitting here, knowing that both his father and brothers had been fools and that he was the better man.
Now all three were conveniently dead and Daan Redhand ruled the vast entirety of Leeth, a country so big he hadn’t seen a tenth of it. Not that that mattered a jot, as the power base was here in Grimhold Castle, and the only men that counted were these drunken tossers in his hall fondling wenches and exchanging coarse banter on the benches below.
Many were his men, trusted and solid. But many more were his father’s lot, or else Corvalian’s boys and Snake’s hatchet crew. There were others too, from the wider regions of Leeth, all eager to win favour with the new king.
Redhand didn’t trust any of them, and for good reason, as most were as cold and ambitious and treacherous as he was.
The hour was late when the guard at the gates announced three timely visitors to Grimhold. “Bring them here!” Daan Redhand roared. “Make them welcome, especially the lady!” His warriors grinned seeing the lusty gleam in their lord’s eye. Although it was late, it now seemed that the night had just started.
Minutes later the two guards returned with the aloof quirky Rael Hakkenon almost
dancing to keep up behind them. Following the slender Assassin were a tall, hard-faced fighting man, whom the guards introduced as Hagan Delmorier—a man whose reputation had reached Grimhold—and in his grip the cold-eyed daughter of Tomais of Vangaris. That same lady daughter was indirectly responsible for King Haal’s death, and therefore worthy of Daan’s gratitude—in his own special way.
“You southerners are welcome here!” Daan’s raw voice boomed across the hall, as his guards bid Rael and Hagan take seats in the front row, dragging the stony-faced Shallan with them. “Get them ale—the lady too! I like a lively wench.” Daan surveyed Shallan’s curves with a widening smile but she refused to meet his eyes.
Turning to the two men accompanying her he noted how haunted Rael’s expression was. Gone was the familiar self-confidence and arrogance exuded by the Master Assassin of Crenna, in its place a sort of self-doubt and inner loathing which gave the king cause to wonder. That and the dark circles surrounding his famous green eyes. The man Hagan had a dependable, solid look and King Redhand soon forgot he was there. Instead he resumed his bold study of Shallan.
“Eat lady—I would have you strong and lusty!” Redhand laughed as a thrall brought a bowl of steaming broth, and at the king’s word, forced Shallan’s mouth open and poured the hot liquid down her throat. Shallan choked and gagged and the hot broth mostly ran down her chin. To her right, Hagan looked annoyed at her treatment but he kept his lips together.
“My, my,” Redhand grinned. “And there’s me thinking you a high born lady—not some grubby tavern wench. Well, best get to it. Strip her starkers, lads!”
***
The passage through the mountains was a knife slice twenty miles long. Occasionally a kink sheering left or right in the cliff face would mean intense concentration and copious expletives on Barin’s part as he worked the wheel.
They heard rather than saw the urgent rush of churning water, warning of hidden skerry and rock. Somehow Barin steered clear of all hidden hazards and, after a taut couple of hours, they left the walls of cliffs behind and entered a wider channel with the dark shadow of pine-forested hills looming like silent guards on either side.