by John Gwynne
‘And you have done more. You rule in Tenebral, are regent in Nathair’s stead.’
‘Aye. But that hasn’t gone so well.’
‘Tell me of it.’
As Lykos spoke, he remembered: the effigy of Fidele that Calidus had gifted him, the power it gave him over her. Passion stirred in him at the memory of her, the sensation of her skin beneath his fingers, the taste of her fear. He remembered the arena, his wedding day, Fidele as beautiful and desirable as he had ever seen her. Maquin and Orgull duelling in the fighting-pit. Maquin throwing down his weapons, the explosion of eagle-guard from amongst the spectators.
Chaos.
Battle.
Fighting Maquin, Fidele plunging a knife into his back. He felt a wave of anger at that, but it soon subsided into a self-deprecating chuckle. ‘I suppose I had that coming.’
‘No. In your world you take, or it is taken from you.’
‘I remember those words. My da spoke them to me.’
‘Aye. And you have taken, and tasted.’
‘I have.’ He thought of Fidele again, felt a spark of anger at Maquin, the man who had taken her from him.
‘Your face, Lykos. What happened to it?’
He touched his cheek, felt gouges in his flesh, blood congealing into crusted scabs.
‘She attacked me, clawed me like an animal. The bitch.’ He licked a drop of his blood from a finger. ‘She was magnificent.’
Calidus grinned at him.
‘Do you want to go back?’
‘Aye.’ Lykos grinned in return, took another bite from his apple. It was blood red now, the flesh sweet, juice dripping down his chin.
Lykos’ eyes fluttered open.
Where am I?
The swaying sensation gave it away. On a ship. He reached out, gripped the side of a cot and pulled himself up. Pain throbbed in his back but he gritted his teeth and managed to sit upright. He sat there long moments, head in his hands, fighting the pain, the swirling sense of nausea and the fact that he felt weak as a newborn pup.
A door creaked and a figure peered into the cabin, a woman. He blinked, remembering her.
Nella. She had been his woman before his obsession with Fidele. Or one of his women. Something was strapped across her chest, a lump wrapped in linen.
She put a hand upon his head, her face creased with worry.
‘I’m fine, woman,’ Lykos said irritably. Or at least, that’s what he meant to say. It came out strangled and unintelligible. She poured water from a jug, which he drank greedily.
‘Slowly, or you’ll bring it back up,’ Nella scolded him. He waved her away.
Others came through the cabin door – old Jayr, his ship’s healer, Alazon, the white-haired shipwright, and another, a warrior bristling with hilts and iron. Where’s Deinon, my shieldman?
Memories and dreams were starting to blur. The arena, fighting the Old Wolf Maquin, Fidele. She’d put a knife in his back. After that everything was vague. Being carried, half-dragged, from the arena. Then nothing.
No, not nothing. The Otherworld. Calidus. He gave me a task to do.
His stomach growled, complaining about the sudden influx of water or the fact that he felt half starved, he did not know. Probably both.
‘Slow down with the water,’ old Jayr said as his fingers probed at Lykos’ throat, then lifted bandages from his waist, checking the wound on his back. ‘You’re well,’ he sniffed.
That didn’t mean much from Jayr, who pronounced everyone healthy until they were a handspan from death. But that in itself is encouraging, I suppose.
‘Where’s Deinon?’ Lykos managed to get out, his voice a croak.
‘Dead,’ Alazon said.
That hit Lykos like a punch in the gut. Of course they lived and usually died by the sword, but Deinon had seemed invulnerable. And he had been the closest thing to a friend that Lykos had known, his presence always reassuring.
‘The Old Wolf, so men have said,’ Alazon continued. ‘This is Kolai. I appointed him as your chief shieldman until you were able to choose Deinon’s . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence.
Lykos gave Kolai a perfunctory nod as he looked him over. His age was hard to gauge, his skin weathered and scarred, but Lykos vaguely remembered him, had bet money on him. Another one from the pits. It always ages them on the outside. Thirty summers, maybe.
‘How long have I been out?’
‘Over a ten-night,’ Nella said, fetching a bowl and dipping a linen cloth into it. ‘Goat’s milk. Take a few drops, then stop,’ she ordered. His eyes dropped to the lump strapped to her chest and he saw a shock of black hair as she leaned over him. It gave out a whimper.
‘What’s that?’ he asked as he grabbed the linen from her.
‘Your son,’ she snapped.
He blinked at that, abruptly remembering that she had been heavy with child the last time he’d seen her, back on Panos. He slurped a mouthful from the linen, then took the bowl and drank it down.
Nella tutted at him.
‘She’s right – slow down,’ Jayr said to him reprovingly.
‘My son,’ Lykos said, feeling a grin split his face. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Rodas.’
Lykos reached over, pulled the linen sheet back and stroked his thumb across the child’s cheek. ‘Well met, Rodas,’ he said, patting him on the head. That didn’t go down too well, the boy’s face wrinkling as he sucked in a breath and wailed.
‘He’s not a hound,’ Nella said, slapping Lykos’ hand away.
‘He needs to be strong,’ Lykos said as he stood. ‘My sword? My knives?’ The world felt as if it was moving, more so than he would expect from a ship’s cabin, but he refused to lie still a moment longer.
‘Report,’ he ordered as he pulled on a linen shirt and a leather vest, wincing at the jolts of complaint from the wound in his back.
Alazon spoke to him of all that had happened since the uprising in the arena. He had taken control while Lykos was incapacitated, a decision which Lykos approved of. Apparently a bloody battle had raged on the meadows and streets of Jerolin for half a day. The steady influx of Vin Thalun from ships moored on the lake and others arriving by river had turned it. Since then the Vin Thalun had been going door to door, searching, burning, executing. The uprising had not spread, in large part due to the fact that many of the eagle-guard of Jerolin had stayed allied with the Vin Thalun. Fidele had been wed to Lykos, after all, so with her missing – kidnapped, Alazon had announced, by a madman and murderer – Lykos was to all purposes her representative until she was found. Slowly the unrest had died down and a semblance of peace had been restored, at least within Jerolin and the surrounding vicinity. Meanwhile Alazon had sent hunting parties out after any survivors of the uprising.
‘What of the Old Wolf and Fidele? I want his head, and I want her back.’
‘Got someone you might want to talk to about that.’
Lykos leaned against a timber frame in the shipyard that stood on the lakeshore before Jerolin’s dark walls, resting for a moment as the sun beat down upon him.
Damn, but it’s hot. Without a word Alazon handed him a skin. Lykos sniffed and drank, cool watered wine. A glance at the village on the lakeshore and Jerolin on its low hill had been reassuring. All seemed normal, people going about their everyday business. It’s as if there was no uprising.
The only visible difference was that there were more Vin Thalun about the place. In the village, on the lakeshore, standing watch on the walls of Jerolin alongside the fortress’ eagle-guard.
Alazon has done well. The situation could have polarized us.
The lake was a forest of masts and black sails, a Vin Thalun fleet settled on it like crows upon a field of corpses.
‘I’ve had word from Calidus. A fleet must be readied for sail. War-galleys and transporters for a warband two thousand strong. Room for horses and baggage.’ And something else.
‘That’s fifty ships, at least. We can do that,’ Alazon shrugged.
>
‘Good. We’ll talk more of it later.’
‘This way,’ Alazon said, striding bow-legged through the shipyard, and led him to the arena that still stood on the plain before Jerolin. Its earth was hard packed now, dried out by the sun. Dark stains betrayed the violence that it had witnessed.
There were cages on the far side, designed to hold pit-fighters. The cages were full. A score of Vin Thalun warriors guarded them, lounging in the sun, some sparring half-heartedly, some drinking.
Alazon called out a name and a warrior separated from the guards, a young Vin Thalun, his beard oiled and bound with only a few iron rings. He looked as if he’d seen combat recently, his nose crooked, his jaw swollen, bruises fading.
‘This is Senios,’ Alazon said. ‘He’s got something to tell.’
‘I saw Fidele and the Old Wolf,’ he said, eyes unable to meet Lykos’.
‘Where?’
‘The forest – I was guarding the timber fields, the day of your . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Aye. Go on.’
Senios told of his capture by Maquin, bargaining for his life and time. How he had tried to escape, fought hard with the Old Wolf, only losing because Fidele had struck him from behind.
Lykos looked him up and down. I saw the Old Wolf kill Herak, trainer of pit-fighters. Can’t see you besting him.
‘What did you offer in return for your life?’ Lykos asked him.
‘Information.’
Lykos just stared at him.
Senios looked at the ground, shuffled his feet. ‘The giantess and her whelp,’ he muttered, just above a whisper. ‘I took the Old Wolf and Fidele to see them.’
Lykos felt a hot gush of rage, fear entwined about it. His most closely guarded secret. Twelve years he had kept them safe from harm and prying eyes on the island of Pelset, but things had become so fluid, danger everywhere, that he had wanted them close to him. And now Fidele and the Old Wolf had seen them.
The Old Wolf must die and Fidele must be returned to my side, where I can seal her flapping lips.
‘And,’ he managed to say, bottling his rage.
‘I escaped,’ Senios said, raising his head and meeting Lykos’ gaze. ‘They ran. Some of the giants’ guards gave chase.’
‘How many?’
‘Seven, eight.’
Not enough.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Twelve nights ago,’ Alazon said. ‘Senios reached us eight nights gone. I sent a score more into the forest, hounds and a local woodsman with them.’
‘Good, Alazon,’ Lykos said, patting the old warrior’s shoulder. He looked hard at Senios, reached a decision.
‘Kolai,’ he snapped to the warrior whom Alazon had appointed as his shieldman.
‘Aye,’ the warrior said, stepping forward.
‘I need new shieldmen. See if Senios is worthy.’
Kolai drew a short sword and knife from the impressive array of weapons strapped about his body. Senios blinked and took a step away.
Kolai moved into the arena, beckoned for Senios to follow.
Senios’ eyes darted about, fell onto Lykos, who was watching him like a horse trader at market.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Lykos said.
Senios walked hesitantly after Kolai. He drew his short sword and shrugged a buckler onto his arm.
‘Begin,’ Lykos said and Kolai exploded forwards. Iron met iron, sparks flying, feet shuffling on the dusty earth. Senios fought well – any Vin Thalun who reached adulthood knew how to fight, but Kolai steadily broke down his guard, Senios’ blocks and lunges becoming wilder as Kolai’s skill became more apparent. In a dozen heartbeats Senios was bleeding from many small wounds, blood sheeting into his left eye. He knew it was only a matter of time and decided on an all-or-nothing attack.
I admire that, at least. But he betrayed my secret.
He ended up flat on his back, Kolai’s boot on his chest, sword hovering over his throat.
‘Live or die?’ Kolai asked, not taking his eyes from Senios.
There was only ever one outcome I wanted from this. Senios betrayed me to save his skin for an extra day.
‘Die.’
Kolai’s sword stabbed down, a gurgle and a rush of blood, then he was cleaning his blades and sheathing them. Lykos nodded to him as he resumed his position a few steps behind Lykos. He knew this was as much a test for him as for Senios. Unlike Senios, he has just passed.
‘Who are they?’ Lykos asked Alazon, pointing to the men crammed into the cages at the far end of the arena.
‘Prisoners. A mixture. Mostly locals who got caught up in the rioting. A few eagle-guard. Pit-fighters who turned on us.’
Lykos remembered that, could see in his mind’s eye Maquin and Orgull smashing the locks to the cages, the pit-fighters inside rushing out. Lykos walked to the cages, paced slowly alongside them, studied those inside. Local people, farmers, trappers, traders, a handful of battered and bloodstained eagle-guard. He stopped suddenly.
‘Javed.’
Javed was a pit-fighter, one of the few who had risen up through the ranks with Maquin. He was from Tarbesh in the east – small, slim, seemingly built solely of wire-like muscle. Lykos had offered him and a handful of others their freedom, one last fight and a chest of silver at the end of it for the victor. Javed had won his bout, earned his freedom and his silver, and yet he had chosen to fight beside Maquin and Orgull. He sat with his head bowed, refusing to look at Lykos.
‘I saw the Old Wolf set you free. He used you, you know. Needed some help in getting out.’
Javed looked up then, glaring, but still he said nothing.
‘You could have had a chest of silver, and yet you’re back in a cage.’
‘I saw my chance for freedom and I took it,’ Javed said.
No doubt I would have done the same.
‘Not for long, by the look of things.’ Lykos grinned.
‘I’ll earn another chest from you,’ Javed said.
He always had a pair of stones on him, I’ll give him that.
‘Maybe, but you’ll have to earn your way back into the pit first. It’s an oar-bench for you.’
He saw the light dim in Javed’s eyes as the horror of his fate swept him.
‘That’s right. Back to the very beginning. Then the first level of the pits, if you’re still alive. Perhaps I’ll see you back here in a year or two.’ He walked on, Javed’s eyes burning into his back. He counted five eagle-guard warriors within the cage, ordered that they be brought out.
‘Peritus was behind your uprising. Where is he?’
None answered. He drew his sword and buried it in a warrior’s belly, ripped it out, intestines spilling to the ground like a barrel of writhing snakes. The man screamed.
‘Where is Peritus?’ Lykos asked again.
Silence, except for the agonized screams of the man who had just been gutted.
Lykos swung at the next warrior’s ankle. There was a crack as the bone broke. Lykos struck again, hacking through flesh and bone, leaving the man’s foot hanging by a thread of skin. Lykos felt a sharp pain in his back, stitches pulling, tearing. He brushed hair from his face, breathing hard.
The warrior with his guts on the ground had stopped screaming, was now making pitiful mewling sounds, like a hungry kitten.
‘Where is Peritus?’
Three men looked silently back at him. One grey-beard stared flatly, one glared. The third was a young man, barely past his Long Night. Urine dribbled down one leg, pooling in the dirt. Lykos left him, went to the man who glared.
‘Where is Peritus?’
The warrior spat in his face. Lykos smashed the pommel of his sword into his mouth. Blood and teeth spattered the ground. Lykos punched and punched the iron hilt into his enemy; the man slumped unconscious, face a bloody pulp. Lykos swung two-handed at his neck, half-severing the head.
He paused to catch his breath and wipe blood from his face, felt something warm trickle down his back and onto his hip
, knew he’d opened his wound, but didn’t care.
‘Where. Is. Peritus?’
No answer, the one that had soiled himself now whimpering.
Lykos took a step towards him.
‘No, please, no,’ the young lad pleaded.
‘A warrior should not beg, it is unseemly,’ Lykos said. Laughter rippled through the Vin Thalun. He took another step closer, raised his sword.
‘Ripa,’ a voice said. Not the young warrior, but the grey-beard. ‘If he still lives, Peritus is in Ripa.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HAELAN
‘I’m hungry,’ Haelan said.
‘You’ll have to wait for the highsun bell, like everyone else,’ Tahir replied, not even bothering to look at Haelan.
They were in a huge paddock, Tahir inspecting the saddle-straps on a bay stallion. It dug at the ground with one hoof. ‘I’m surrounded by impatient souls,’ Tahir muttered.
Mam never made me wait, Haelan thought. He felt a pressure behind his eyes at the memory of her and blinked hard. ‘I hate waiting,’ he said.
‘Don’t we all,’ Tahir grunted as he adjusted the straps, then stood and patted the animal’s neck. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your chores?’
I hate chores. There were a good score of children living at Gramm’s hold who were too young to set foot in the Rowan Field, but of an age where they could be put to some practical use.
‘You could go and get me some food,’ Haelan said, ignoring Tahir’s mention of chores. He looked back at the feast-hall that sat at the crown of a hill, smoke from the kitchens wafting into a grey sky. His stomach growled.
‘No,’ Tahir said, pausing to look at Haelan, his gaze hard. Haelan knew that look, had seen it many times now, although he was still struggling with it.
No one ever used to say no to me, except Mam and Uncle Varick, and that was rare enough.
Tahir’s eyes softened, responding to something that swept Haelan’s face. ‘There’s no special treatment here, lad. You have to blend in. It’s too dangerous for you to stand out; you know this. We’ve spoken about it more than once, haven’t we?’ The young warrior looked sternly at Haelan, holding his eyes until the boy nodded.
‘Now I’m going to let this lad know what it feels like to have me on his back. You should be at your chores, anyway – blending in. You’re supposed to be in the timber yard, aren’t you?’