by John Gwynne
‘I fear for Nathair,’ she said, ‘I suspect he is in terrible danger. The company he keeps—’
‘Of course he is in danger,’ Lykos interrupted. ‘It’s not easy being the champion of Elyon. Instantly you have a very long list of enemies.’
This is heading away from the discussion. I must bring it back on course.
‘Nathair is well, and fighting hard not only for Tenebral, but for all of the Banished Lands,’ Veradis said. ‘But what you are doing here threatens to undermine all he has achieved. You must see that there cannot be open rebellion in his own realm.’
‘This is not rebellion,’ Fidele hissed. ‘This is saving Tenebral. Lykos—’
‘Lykos is Nathair’s chosen regent. You all know this. Nathair spoke those words to me not two moons gone. What you are doing here is treason.’
‘Well said,’ Lykos whispered.
Shut up. You are not helping.
‘Veradis,’ Peritus said, making an effort to keep his voice steady. ‘You do not know what has happened here, what Lykos has done. He killed Armatus—’
‘On whose order?’ Veradis asked. Had Calidus been misinformed? Surely it could not have been Fidele.
‘That is . . .’ Peritus glanced at Fidele.
‘On whose order?’ Veradis repeated.
‘Mine,’ whispered Fidele.
‘Not Lykos’?’ Veradis asked. It is true, then. He almost could not believe it, even hearing it from Fidele’s own lips, had been convinced that Calidus had been mistaken.
‘No doubt you have heard many things about me, Veradis,’ Fidele said, holding her chin high.
‘I have,’ he said. You married Lykos. You ordered the execution of Armatus and Peritus. You sent the eagle-guard to the four corners of Tenebral on pointless errands.
‘They are all true. But, I did them against my will. Believe me or not, Lykos cast a bewitchment over me.’
That surprised him. He had not expected Fidele to accept the charges in the first place, but to then accuse Lykos of sorcery . . . Veradis had doubted Nathair’s judgement in choosing Lykos as his regent, he had many faults in Veradis’ opinion – but a sorcerer? He is too drunk, most of the time. His first reaction was to laugh, the accusation seemed so ludicrous, but one glance at Fidele’s face convinced him that she believed what she said. Or that she was mad.
Show her some respect. She was the high king’s wife, is mother to Nathair.
‘How did he bewitch you, my lady?’
‘I do not know how or where he learned his infernal talents,’ Fidele snapped. ‘All I know is that he had a doll, a clay figure, a strand of my hair set within it. When Maquin fought him at the arena it was crushed underfoot, destroyed, and immediately the chains within my mind were broken.’
‘So there is nothing left of this doll?’
‘Obviously not, or I would still be under his spell.’
Genius and insanity are separated by a hair’s breadth.
‘Lykos has committed countless atrocities,’ Peritus said.
‘He has burned Ripa, sunk our ships,’ Lamar said.
‘I told you they don’t like me,’ Lykos said in a mock-whisper.
Shut. Up. Nathair is right, politicking is like parenting a horde of bairns. He took a deep breath.
‘Veradis,’ a new voice said. Alben. He had stayed silent and listened, thus far. He leaned forward now, his gaze intense. ‘Lykos is false.’
What is that even supposed to mean? And what do they expect me to do? Hand them Lykos’ head on a platter?
‘Even if he is, Alben, I am not here to judge any man’s character,’ Veradis said. ‘I am a King’s messenger. Nathair has a proposal. A command.’
A silence settled over them, angry glares criss-crossing the table.
‘Let us hear it, then,’ Alben said, leaning back in his chair.
‘I will state the facts. You have grievances, that is clear. There has been a breakdown of government in Tenebral to the point of civil war. That is also clear. The next step here is battle, where many people will die.’ Veradis gestured to the tent entrance, through which gathered warbands could be glimpsed.
‘Many have already died,’ Fidele said.
‘What is the alternative?’ Marcellin asked, speaking for the first time and startling a few of them. ‘What is Nathair’s proposal?’
‘That you come with me to Mikil in Isiltir. Nathair will be there – he is holding a council of the alliance. You can put your grievances before him, all of you, and let your King decide.’
‘What do you mean, all of us?’ Ektor asked.
‘Any who wish to go are welcome. A representative of each of the interested parties may be more sensible. Father, it would be in part a journey through winter . . .’
‘You think me too weak and frail?’ Lamar snapped.
‘No. These are Nathair’s words. He suggested that Krelis or Ektor make the journey, as your representative. Or both, if you wish.’ One hot-headed, one cold as a dead fish. ‘Fidele, of course. Lykos, Peritus.’
‘Me?’ Lykos said, sitting up straight and his smile fading.
‘Aye. Nathair wants you with him in Mikil.’
Lykos frowned at that.
‘That does actually sound like wisdom,’ Ektor said. ‘Certainly a means of avoiding such terrible bloodshed. I hate to admit it, and I can’t believe that I’m saying such a thing, but Veradis is making sense.’
Fidele glared at him.
‘I cannot go,’ Lykos said. ‘I am regent here.’
‘No longer,’ Veradis said. ‘At least until this predicament is resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. And Nathair has asked for you, Lykos. You are leaving Tenebral.’
Lykos scowled at that but held his tongue.
‘And what of Tenebral in the meantime?’ Lamar asked, frowning. ‘Who will govern here?’
‘I will,’ Marcellin said, attracting many shocked stares.
‘Marcellin will remain in Tenebral,’ Veradis said. ‘He will act as steward of the realm until this situation is resolved. By our King. Not the needless slaughter of men of Tenebral.’
‘It is not men of Tenebral that I would slaughter,’ Lamar said. ‘but Vin Thalun. They are vastly outnumbered.’
‘I will not throw my men into needless battle,’ Marcellin said.
‘So it would be you that is outnumbered, Father,’ Veradis pointed out.
Lamar’s eyes narrowed, cold as flint.
He is more angry than I realized. But he is also a good commander, a man of strategy, knows when to fight and when to retreat. Now for the final role of the dice . . .
‘If you choose to fight, then I will have no choice but to step in. I will fight beside the Vin Thalun.’
‘Against your own people. Against your own kin?’ Lamar said, bitterness dripping from his voice.
Veradis stared at his father. He’d known this point was coming, could not be avoided. I will not falter now.
‘Yes. I follow the orders of my King. Your King. Lykos is . . . was, his chosen regent.’
‘Not any more,’ Lykos muttered into his wine cup.
‘If you raise a hand against Lykos,’ Veradis continued, ‘you are raising it against Nathair.’
‘You would lose,’ Lamar said, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Never a good sign.
‘Who knows?’ Veradis shrugged. ‘All things are possible in battle. But you would be sorely outnumbered, and my eagle-guard are veterans, have been victorious many times.’ He looked at Peritus, who had seen Veradis and his shield wall fight their way out of a river and win the day against overwhelming odds.
‘I do not think we would lose.’
A silence settled over the tent.
‘You have grown since last I saw you,’ Fidele said, though to Veradis’ ears it did not sound like a compliment.
‘I agree,’ Lamar said. It did not sound like an insult the way his father spoke it. There was even a tinge of respect in his eyes. That is something I have never seen befor
e – not directed at me, at least. For a moment it broke Veradis’ train of thought. Then he gathered himself.
‘This meeting is at an end,’ Veradis said. ‘The choices are before you.’
‘I for one have made my choice,’ Marcellin said. ‘It seems that I’ve walked a long way to sit with you all in this tent, but for better or worse I accept Nathair’s proposal. I will not fight, and I will steward Tenebral until Nathair has sorted this mess out.’ He scowled at them all with his bushy brows. ‘As for you,’ he said, pointing at Lykos. ‘I hope Nathair exercises some sense and I never see your face in this realm again.’ Then he stood and left the tent, his shield-man close behind him.
Fidele clapped her hands, slowly, looking at Veradis.
‘You have manoeuvred us most skilfully,’ she said. ‘Divided our ranks and left a route open for us to retreat without losing our honour.’
‘It is not like that,’ Veradis said. As much as he was battle-hardened, had been injured, stabbed, bruised, Fidele’s comment hurt him more than any wound he remembered.
‘No? I am well used to the world of politicking, and I recognize this for what it is.’ She looked around at them all.
‘Divide and conquer.’ Her voice was steady, not quite calm, but Veradis saw the colour draining from her face, eyes drawn back to Lykos again. ‘But some of us are not so easy to manipulate.’
‘I am manipulating no one,’ Veradis said, feeling his own temper stirring. He respected Fidele in many ways, but for her to sit there and accuse him, after all that she had done, and confessed to doing . . . ‘The things I have heard said about you, my lady. I had discounted them as no more than gossip and rumour, but seeing you, listening to how you are twisting the truth, I am more inclined to believe the rumours.’
‘Have a care,’ Maquin said to him.
‘I have few friends still breathing,’ Veradis said slowly, turning his gaze upon Maquin. ‘And I’d not lose you, Maquin. But you’ll not threaten me again.’
Maquin shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a threat.’
Veradis stood. ‘This meeting is over.’
His father rose, Ektor standing with him.
‘Father, perhaps we could talk, soon?’ Veradis asked him.
‘Aye,’ Lamar said. He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘After we have reached our decision.’
Ektor nodded a farewell.
Lamar turned to leave, Ektor moving to hold the tent flap open for him. Fidele stood, face taut with anger, and turned to follow them.
‘Fidele,’ Lykos called after her. She paused and looked back.
‘Soon,’ he said and blew her a kiss.
Maquin’s explosion into violence was so sudden that it took Veradis half a dozen heartbeats to realize it was happening.
Maquin leaped across the table, sent it flying as he pushed off from it, cups and jugs and chairs flying, smashing, wine spraying.
Lykos was still seated; he shoved himself backwards and disappeared as his chair rolled, Maquin a heartbeat behind him, somehow a knife in his fist.
He cannot do this – it is a rowan-meet, sacred.
Veradis drew his short sword, heard people shouting, willed his feet to move after Maquin, who slashed at the rolling Lykos, blood arcing. Then Lykos’ shieldman Kolai was there, standing over Lykos, who was still tangled in his chair. Kolai and Maquin exchanged a flurry of blows, punches, chops, knife thrusts, too hard and fast for Veradis to follow. There was a wet punching sound, then, for a moment, everything was still, Maquin standing with his knife buried to the hilt up through Kolai’s lower jaw.
The Vin Thalun collapsed, one leg juddering, and the chaos began again, more shouting, Veradis feeling as if he was moving through water, trying to reach Maquin. Voices were yelling outside the tent, muffled, eagle-guard piling in, weapons drawn, bodies everywhere. Veradis stumbled on something, slipped, then felt an impact on his shoulder, turned, yelling, and something slammed into him, staggering him back a pace. A man.
It was his father, Lamar, his arms around Veradis.
What?
Then Veradis felt something warm on his hand, looked down, saw blood slicking his fist. He jerked backwards, let go of his sword hilt, the blade buried in his father’s belly. With a sigh Lamar collapsed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
LYKOS
Lykos scrambled on the ground, fists pulling up chunks of grass and dirt. Maquin’s face loomed over him, standing over the corpse of Kolai.
He was scared, and angry with himself for being scared, but the fear was winning out over any thoughts of revenge, screaming at him to get away.
Maquin lost a few moments as he dragged his knife from Kolai’s skull and shoved the collapsing body out of his way, moments that Lykos determined to use well. Finally he managed to roll out from the chair that he had become entangled in, rose to a crouch and leaped towards the canvas of the tent wall. Fumbling for his knife, he managed to draw it and slash at the fabric, tearing a rent large enough to fit his upper body through. He hurled himself through, crashing out into cold daylight to land on his head before a line of frowning eagle-guard, beyond whom his Vin Thalun were milling.
He clambered to his feet and ran, Maquin’s snarling face appearing through the tear in the tent. Lykos lunged to the side and heard a knife whistle past his ear to thud into an eagle-guard shield.
‘Stop him!’ Lykos yelled at the top of his voice, the first ranks of Veradis’ eagle-guard parting to let him through. ‘Protect Veradis, defend your lord,’ he bellowed, voice cracking.
The eagle-guard were moving, sweeping around the tent like a closing fist. Some of his Vin Thalun had seen him and were moving his way.
Faster. Move faster.
Lykos looked back to see that Maquin had cut his way out of the tent. He saw Lykos, seemed blind to the fact that Lykos was surrounded by eagle-guard, and a horde of Vin Thalun were growing closer with every heartbeat, because he just snarled and ran at Lykos.
Does the man not know when he is beaten?
Nevertheless that wave of fear that had only just calmed swept up again.
He killed Kolai in less than ten heartbeats.
Lykos looked about frantically, heard someone in the eagle-guard shout and saw shields thudding together.
Maquin threw himself against them, managed to pull one man out of position; Lykos saw the glint of iron as swords were drawn.
‘Do not kill him,’ Lykos yelled.
Someone clubbed Maquin with the hilt of a sword. Maquin staggered, grabbed a shield, was clubbed by more men.
Lykos sucked in a few breaths, felt relief, then anger sweep his fear away. Then a deep joy.
The Old Wolf is mine again. Then he smiled.
He heard a scream, looked to see Fidele half in and half out of the tear in the tent. She was looking at Maquin, trying to climb out, but hands were pulling her back.
Peritus?
Amazing the difference half a day can make. Life is looking far more promising than when I woke this morning. I will come and find you soon, he promised Fidele.
The first of his Vin Thalun were about him now, looking at him with confused, questioning glances. He strode towards Maquin, beckoning for his warriors to follow.
The Old Wolf was on his knees in the grass, a ring of eagle-guard about him.
‘My thanks,’ Lykos said to a serious-looking warrior who seemed to be in charge. ‘I’ll take him now.’ The eagle-guard looked at him suspiciously.
‘You’d best get inside that tent – your Lord Veradis has been attacked.’
The eagle-guard yelled some orders and they hurried away.
Lykos looked down at Maquin, Vin Thalun all around pointing iron at the pit-fighter.
‘What a good day this is turning out to be,’ said Lykos as he squatted down beside Maquin. Not too close – Maquin was bleeding from his scalp, but you could never be too careful with this man.
Maquin breathed deep through his nose, hawked and spat blood. ‘I can smell your fear,’ he sai
d.
‘No, you have that wrong,’ Lykos said, leaning as close as he dared. ‘You’re mine now. And this time it will be forever.’ He stood up. ‘Oh, and you need to stop killing my shieldmen.’ He spun and kicked Maquin in the head, stunning him.
‘Take him to my quarters,’ Lykos ordered. ‘Twenty men on each shift.’
As his warriors bound Maquin and dragged him away, Lykos processed what had just happened, what he’d glimpsed inside the tent as he’d been rolling over in his chair.
Lamar with a sword in his belly. Marcellin the new steward of Tenebral. He snarled, glaring over at Marcellin and his warband, resenting Nathair and his decision to remove him from power.
I will get it back.
He looked at the rowan-meet tent, could hear the sound of grieving from within, people shouting. He called a dozen men to him and marched up to it, cautiously entering.
Eagle-guard were everywhere, hovering mostly, some attempting to clean up the mess Maquin had made. Kolai’s corpse had been lifted to one side of the tent, where he lay staring at nothing, a red hole in his jaw, blood drying upon his chest.
An exceptional warrior. What a waste. Is there anyone that the Old Wolf cannot kill?
Veradis was kneeling in the centre, his sword discarded and red to the hilt, Lamar lying on the ground, head upon Veradis’ lap. Veradis was stroking his father’s head. Lamar was breathing, though he was as pale as the dead and it looked as if an ocean of blood had spilt into the grass about them.
How did that happen?
The silver-haired man who had been present in the rowan-meet was kneeling with them, hands stained red, bent over Lamar’s wound.
Lykos only gave them a perfunctory glance.
There she is.
Fidele was standing beside a tent pole, Peritus with her, as well as Ektor, the sickly son of Lamar whom Lykos had never seen before. He had a stunned expression upon his face, like a man after a battle. It looked as if Fidele and Peritus were arguing. A trio of eagle-guard hovered close by.
‘My lady,’ Lykos said behind her.
She almost leaped away, fear washing her face. That made Lykos happy. Then she got angry and reached for a knife at her belt. Peritus gripped her wrist.