by John Gwynne
Tahir gave him a long look, eventually sighing.
‘I cannot go. I’m sworn to Haelan.’
Wulf poured himself another cup of mead and drank it down. ‘You owe us. You owe my family. You would both be dead now, if not for this hold.’
‘Aye, that’s most likely true,’ Tahir said. Haelan could tell he was uncomfortable, did not want to be having this conversation. ‘And I am grateful. More grateful than I can ever express—’
‘Deeds, not words, show the truth and depth of a man’s gratitude,’ Wulf interrupted.
‘My old mam used to say that,’ Tahir muttered, looking into his empty cup.
‘Please go with him,’ Haelan said. ‘I want you to go. Swain is my friend. I’ve never had a friend before. Not a real one.’
Tahir turned his gaze upon Haelan.
‘Neither of you understand,’ he said. ‘I swore an oath. To Maquin and Orgull, my sword-brothers. We were the last of the Gadrai, we three. Now I am the last. To leave you here, go off on a task that risks me never coming back . . .’ His shoulders slumped. ‘I’m not afraid,’ he growled, ‘in fact, I like the idea. It’s suicidal enough to earn its own song. But to break my oath when there is no one left to take it up for me.’ He shook his head.
‘You’d not be breaking it,’ Haelan assured him. ‘I’m safe as I can ever be here, whether you’re here or not. I don’t mean any insult, Tahir. I saw your bravery, on the walls of Dun Kellen. I saw you, Orgull and Maquin keep Jael’s men from taking the walls, time after time. But you are one man. If trouble comes here, Gramm has warriors aplenty. You would make little difference.’
‘Nicely said.’ Tahir’s lips twisted in a brief smile. ‘But you are wrong. Every man here serves Gramm as his lord, has given their oaths to him. Gramm would be their first priority. Whereas me, I swore an oath to protect you; not Gramm, or Wulf, or any other soul living in these Banished Lands. You. And I would give my life to do it. Can any other say such a thing?’
Haelan was moved by Tahir’s words.
‘Will you be my shieldman when I am king?’ Haelan asked.
Tahir smiled. ‘Aye, lad, if we get that far, I’ll be your shieldman.’
‘Do you mean that, or are you just humouring a bairn?’
Tahir looked at him seriously. ‘I mean that, Haelan.’
‘Then swear it now. I’m likely to die, I know. Probably before I see my twelfth nameday. But just in case.’ He shrugged.
Tahir regarded him a good long while. ‘Do you know what is involved? It’s not just words. Blood seals it,’ he eventually said.
‘I’ve seen many an oath sworn to my mam and uncle. I know my part,’ Haelan said. He felt a lot older than his eleven years, suddenly.
‘We would need a witness.’
‘Wulf could bear witness.’
‘Aye,’ Wulf agreed. ‘An oath is no small thing,’ he added.
The silence stretched again.
‘I’ll give you my oath,’ Tahir said and drew a knife from his belt, laid it on the table between them. ‘Wulf, will you say the words?’
‘Aye, if you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
‘Tahir, will you bind yourself to Haelan ben Romar, become his sword and shield, the defender of his flesh, his blood, his honour, unto death?’
‘I will,’ Tahir said. There was a tremor in his voice. He gripped his knife’s blade, cut his palm and let blood drip from his fist onto the iron hilt.
‘Haelan, will you bind yourself to Tahir ben Davin, accept his fealty, swear to provide for and protect him to your utmost ability, unto your dying breath?’
‘I will,’ Tahir said. He picked up the knife, regarded it a moment, then squeezed its blade. He winced as blood welled from his hand, but he still felt brave, grown up. Blood dripped from his cut and he let it flow over the knife hilt, mixing with Tahir’s blood.
‘It is done,’ Wulf said.
Haelan handed the knife back to Tahir.
‘So you are my shieldman now?’
“I am,’ Tahir said.
‘Good. Then my first request to you is that you help Wulf get Swain and Sif back.’
Tahir sat back in his chair, blinking. Then he threw his head back and laughed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MAQUIN
Maquin recognized Krelis, like a memory from a dream.
He was the man who lifted me from the street and carried me through the gates of Ripa.
‘The Vin Thalun?’ Alben asked.
‘Some are still scurrying about the tower,’ Krelis said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. ‘Think we’ve dealt with the worst of it. Either way, we need to get you out of here.’
‘We’re safer down here,’ Ektor said.
‘Not if any Vin Thalun decided to come poking around. I haven’t come to debate it with you, brother. You’re coming with me.’
Ektor looked sullen but he said no more.
Krelis’ men closed about them as they filed out of the room, Maquin walking behind Fidele. He made it as far as the spiral steps before his legs began to shake. A dozen more paces and he began to sink. Fidele turned and saw him, grabbed him before he hit the floor.
‘Help,’ she called.
‘Didn’t realize it was you,’ Krelis said as he put an arm around Maquin and lifted him upright. ‘You should be dead, not walking around,’ he added good-naturedly.
Maquin grunted, ‘There’s still time.’ With Krelis one side of him and Fidele the other, he managed to climb the stairs. Distant sounds of combat drifted along a corridor as they passed its entrance, but nothing that sounded close.
‘Krelis, what is the situation, with the Vin Thalun?’ Fidele asked as they made their way upwards.
‘It was a coordinated attack,’ Krelis said. ‘A force approached the gates, drew our eyes and waited for their men to scale the cliffs. Then they assaulted our walls. We beat them back, though it was too close for my liking. The ones in the tower are mostly dead – they tried to get to the gates.’ He shrugged. ‘They failed. There’s a few still running around the tower’s corridors, but they won’t be breathing for much longer.’
Eventually they left the spiral staircase and stepped into a hall, the cold stone disappearing, replaced by timber. Maquin was helped to a bench beside a long table and he realized they were in a feast-hall. He reached for a jug of water, his throat drier than he could ever remember, and began to drink.
‘Only sips,’ Alben said beside him, placing a hand on his wrist.
A tall man stood nearby, ringed by warriors. He was old, grey-haired, his face lined and weary.
‘Father,’ Krelis said as he approached the old man, ‘Fidele has been found.’
So that is Lamar, then. As Maquin studied him he saw an echo of his friend, Veradis. Not so much in the features, more the set of his shoulders, a certain conviction that he radiated, a resolution in the line of his jaw.
‘Good,’ Lamar said, turning to take Fidele’s hand and bowing his head.
‘Welcome to Ripa, my lady.’
Another figure appeared, shorter, whip-cord slim, each muscle a defined striation of fibre. Maquin had seen this man before – the last time chained in the arena at Jerolin, ready for execution.
Peritus, Aquilus’ battlechief, Fidele’s friend. It had been Peritus who had begun the uprising against the Vin Thalun. He dropped to his knees before Fidele and kissed her hand.
‘My Queen, I thought we had lost you, that I had failed you.’
‘You lit the spark that set me free,’ Fidele said, gently tugging him to his feet. To Maquin’s surprise he saw tears staining Peritus’ cheeks.
As Maquin sat there the throbbing in his belly began to grow, becoming impossible to ignore. It pulsed rhythmically with his heart, an organic drumbeat.
I have a gut wound. It will most likely kill me. He felt a wash of anger at that, because death meant he would not get to put a knife through Jael’s heart. As he sat there watching Fidele, though, the de
sire to destroy Jael burned less brightly than it usually did. His vision dimmed at the edges, painting a dark border around Fidele.
I am glad that I didn’t leave you in the forest, he thought abstractly, watching the bones in her face move as she spoke, the curve of her lips as she smiled, a pattern of fine laughter lines that stretched from her eyes. You were worth saving. Worth dying for. He saw her face turn towards him, her smile evaporate, replaced by concern. He tried to say something, to tell her not to worry, but somehow his mouth refused to work. His hand moved to his sword hilt – for some reason it was important that he feel the hilt in his hand. But his fingers were numb, and suddenly he realized he was cold, shivering, a chill spreading through his bones. He slipped from the chair, as if the strings holding his body upright had been cut.
Maquin was standing before a stone bridge. It arched over a wide chasm, deep and dark, the bottom, if there was one, lost in shadows. The far side was blurred, a mist infused with a nimbus glow, like the last light of day, pale and golden.
I need to cross over. He didn’t know why, he just knew he should, as if someone pulled upon a cord tied about his waist, so he took a step onto the bridge, realized he was holding his sword. Nothing had ever felt more natural to him. He took another few steps, the bridge feeling strange underfoot, uneven. He looked down and saw the stone was merged with sword after sword beneath his feet. He paused halfway across as a figure took form and approached him through the mist.
It was man-like, but taller. Not like a giant, all slabs of muscle, but finer, more elegant. And it had wings, great wings of white feather that spanned the width of the bridge.
One of the Ben-Elim.
It held a sword in its hand, wisps of flame curling up from the blade.
The wings flexed, a rush of air buffeting him and the creature was airborne, landing gracefully a dozen steps before him. Maquin strode towards it.
‘Are you ready to cross the bridge of swords, child of flesh?’ the Ben-Elim asked him.
Maquin felt a shock go through him at that.
I am dead, then. He did not feel anything, just a cold detachment. Possibly an echo of disappointment.
The Ben-Elim stooped a little, regarding Maquin with dark eyes. It held out its sword, the tip glowing, hovering a handspan before his heart. ‘Hold, something is . . . different.’ He sniffed the air, reached out with one hand and touched Maquin’s face.
Maquin tried to open his eyes but the light was blinding, painful. He gave up.
Where am I?
He moved his hands, or tried. A finger moved, slightly. Maybe.
I’m lying down.
The sound of gulls filtered through to him, a gentle breeze upon his face.
Ripa. I’m in Ripa.
Slowly he became aware of a presence close by, the sound of breathing. A stirring in the air. A hand touched his face.
A door creaked, footsteps getting louder.
The hand on his face disappeared.
‘My lady, how is he?’
‘The same. His fever burns.’
I know that voice. Fidele. It felt nice to hear her, a comfort.
Footsteps approached, a cool, dry hand on his brow. Fingers probed the pulse in his neck.
‘Alben, how long can he survive like this?’
‘He should be dead, my lady. I have not seen anyone cling to life through a fever this severe or that lasted this long.’
‘I’ve done all you said – water, goat’s milk, the herbs you mixed – all dripped through linen into his mouth.’
‘Others can do this, my lady. Lamar has been asking for y—’
‘No. This is where I choose to be.’
‘As you say. But . . .’ He fell silent.
Wise man. No point arguing with her.
‘The good news is his gut wound seems to be healing. It is rare, but it can happen. Now, if he could just beat this fever.’
‘He can.’
An indrawn breath.
‘My lady, you should prepare yourself.’
‘No. You told me that a ten-night gone, and yet he is still here.’
‘But look at him. There is little more than skin and bone left of him. He has fought hard, but unless this fever breaks . . .’
‘He is the strongest man I have ever known. In flesh and in spirit. He will beat this.’
‘Perhaps. If he is as strong as you say then he has a chance. But I must warn you, my lady, it is very slim. If he is a fighter . . .’
Fidele snorted. ‘He is the definition of the word.’
‘I shall call in before sunset.’
‘Thank you, Alben. I do not mean to sound ungrateful.’
‘You do not, my lady. You stand vigil over a friend who straddles the line between life and death.’
The door closed, footsteps receding.
A hand closed about his. Squeezed.
‘Live, damn you.’ A soft breath brushed his ear.
The Ben-Elim was staring at Maquin; it felt as if he was staring into him, viewing his soul.
‘You have a choice to make,’ the Ben-Elim said. ‘Most who reach this place have no choices left to them. A rare few do. You are one of them.’
‘What choice?’ Maquin breathed.
‘Go forward, or go back.’
Something moved behind the Ben-Elim, beyond the bridge, a figure forming in the mist. Maquin frowned, something familiar about it. He froze, not believing his eyes.
It was Kastell. He was as Maquin remembered him, a shock of red hair, face pale, freckled. They stared at each other.
The sight of him set a flood of memory loose within Maquin, coursing through his body like heady mead in his blood. The day he had sworn his oath to Kastell, so many years ago, standing upon a palisaded wall within sight of Forn Forest. Carrying him from his father’s hold as it went up in flames, giants chasing them, bellowing their war-cry, silhouetted by flame. Joining the Gadrai. Walking into the catacombs of Haldis, fighting side by side. Maquin felt tears wetting his cheeks.
He called out, dropped to his knees. ‘I am sorry, my friend. I have failed you, Jael still lives.’
Kastell stared at him, head cocked to one side.
‘It was not your fault,’ Kastell said, the words sounding like wind rustling through dead leaves.
‘I swore an oath to you,’ Maquin said, tears blurring his vision.
Other figures appeared around Kastell – the first bent and twisted, like a wind-blasted tree. He had not seen him for a score of years, but Maquin knew him instantly. His da. Beside him there was a woman, a warm smile upon her face; his mam. Another man, broad and red-haired. Aenor, his first lord, Kastell’s da. They all stood at the bridge’s edge, watching him. Maquin felt his heart lurch, a longing flow through him to be with these people.
‘Join us,’ they said. ‘There is peace here.’
‘Peace?’ Maquin breathed.
‘Have you tired of the world of flesh?’ the Ben-Elim asked him.
‘Tired? Aye, I am tired. Of the pain, of fighting, always, of the blood, the misery. I am tired of failing.’
‘Is there aught you would return to the world of flesh for?’
Maquin opened his mouth, lips forming the word ‘No,’ but then he hesitated. He closed his eyes, images forming in his mind. He saw Jael plunging his sword into Kastell’s belly, the moment frozen forever, seared into his brain. He remembered being taken by Lykos. Being branded, forced into the pits, his humanity stripped incrementally away. Jael and Lykos, their faces floating in his mind’s eye, merging, separating. Rage coursed through him, cold yet burning.
And then another face, a woman, hair of jet flecked with silver framing pale, milky skin, a warm smile from red lips. Fidele. Somehow she had made him feel human again, something more than a trained animal. A voice echoed through his mind. Live, damn you, it said, and something else rose up within him, battling with the rage that consumed him, warring for his soul.
He opened his eyes.
The Ben
-Elim towered over him, flaming sword held loosely, wings flexing.
‘You must choose,’ it said. ‘Go forwards or go back.’
He climbed to his feet, wiped the tears from his eyes. Kastell and the others were standing as still as the stone carvings in Haldis, watching him.
‘Peace,’ Maquin breathed. Then louder, ‘I shall see you again. One day. But not yet.’
He turned and strode back across the bridge.
Maquin opened his eyes, blinking in the light. He moved his head. He was alone. Slowly he grew accustomed to a flood of sensations. His fingers tingled, his back ached. Everywhere aches. His throat was dry, constricted. He opened his mouth, felt his lips tighten, skin pulling close to cracking. After a while he tried to sit up and managed it on his second attempt. A jug of water sat on a table beside him and he poured half a cup and sipped, the effort draining him. He looked about, saw that he was sitting on the only bed in a spacious room. A single chair rested beside the bed. It was dark; a window opened onto the bay of Ripa, stars flickering into life on a velvet canopy.
The door creaked open and Alben entered. He paused when he saw Maquin sitting up, then looked over his shoulder and said something. Footsteps echoed, fading quickly.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ Alben said with a smile.
‘How long?’ Maquin said, his voice a dry croak. He sipped some more water.
‘Twenty nights. You should be dead.’ Alben put a hand upon Maquin’s forehead, then held two fingers to the pulse in Maquin’s wrist.
‘Lykos?’ Maquin asked. The Vin Thalun was suddenly all that Maquin could think about. He had an overwhelming urge to find a knife and sheathe it in Lykos’ heart.
‘We are under siege. You remember the attack on the tower?’
‘I do.’
‘We fought them back. They have ventured a few sorties against our walls since then, but nothing has come as close to success as that first attempt.’
Fidele appeared in the doorway. She froze when she saw him sitting there. She smiled at him, and he smiled in return, feeling a flutter in his belly as he did so.
‘I knew you wouldn’t die,’ Fidele said, crossing the room to him as Alben left. Tentatively she reached out, her fingertips brushing the back of his hand.