“Nobody is going to kill her,” Arfael told the dragon. Half-expecting Sek to lash out, he put himself between the Black Dragon and Vila, then looked up at Sek. “She is nothing; she has no strength left. Now that I have taken back what is mine, Bausamon will strip her of the Power. Let her live. Let her watch as everything she had dreamed of slips away.”
Sek nodded. “Kinder to kill her.”
“Perhaps, but there has been too much death already. Diobael will be that much stronger if we give in to hate.”
“If you give in to hate,” Sek said. “I don’t hate her; I want her dead because she failed, and she is dangerous… was dangerous.” The dragon looked down at Vila. “Very well, she can live. And you should go. There’s only room for one Kin in this clan, and I’m it.”
Arfael’s eyes widened. He had no idea what Sek had meant by “One Kin.” He decided it would be best not to ask, not while surrounded by the enemy—maybe another time.
“If one of you could fly me back to the cliffs…” Arfael said. “I’ll make my own way from there.”
Sek nodded. “Teo,” he said, then turned to the dragon standing behind him. “Take the Cinnè’arth to the cliffs east of Bailryn.”
The Drin moved forward and, after collecting his sword, Arfael climbed up onto its back.
“We will meet again,” Sek told him.
“I know,” Arfael answered. “Maybe next time we won’t be on opposite sides.”
Sek chuckled. “I’m sure you know that isn’t up to me. It will depend on what the humans do.”
“Then let us hope they make the right choice.”
Sek curled his lip. He didn’t look convinced that the humans were capable of making the right choice. “We can hope.”
“Yes, we can hope.”
* * *
Lord Breen heeled his mount forward. It had been sixteen hours since he had left the Black Hand camped northwest of the Colaroy Valley, sixteen hours since he had become convinced that Vila’slae was a fool, and likely to get him killed.
It had all gone wrong. First the Salrians lost the map, then General Khan let the Re’adh boy escape, then Daric and Mikelmoor had taken over the Palace Guards, ousting his man in the process. And worst of all, the citizens had fought for the King. How did that happen? He was sure he had the people’s support!
The rain had stopped, but it was still dark. To his left, he could just about see the Halem Road—ride on for the rest of the night, and half of tomorrow, and he would be back on his own land. He still controlled the south road and the mines at Whitecliff, and he had enough men to hold off any attack. Not that the King would attack. After the siege, he doubted Vierdan would have enough guards to patrol the harbour, never mind start a civil war. No, he would be safe, and in a few years he could try again.
He heard a shout coming from behind. He turned, then ducked, as one of his guards was thrown past him.
Breen heeled his horse, but the animal slumped at its hindquarters and rolled onto its side. A moment later, the horse got back on its feet and galloped off, leaving Breen lying on the ground.
A huge man resolved from the shadows. Naked, but for a cloth around his middle, the man must have been ten feet tall. The stranger took another step. Breen realised it wasn’t a man—at least its face wasn’t human. It looked like a lizard, with dull orange eyes and a dozen horns making a crown around its head.
“What do you want,” Breen asked, as he edged away from the creature. “My money is in the chest, on the cart, over there.” He pointed to the cart. The driver was slumped across the front seat.
“It’s not money I need,” the creature said. “Stand up, Lord Breen. Your power is what I’m after—your… influence.”
Breen struggled to his feet. “Anything. How can I help? Do you need land? A title?”
The creature laughed. “Both! Your land and your title.”
“But—”
The creature grabbed him by the neck with one taloned hand. Breen struggled, but the creature’s arm seemed to be made of stone. The… thing brought his other hand close to Breen’s face. He gasped, as the creature’s fingers turned to smoke. The smoke filled his nose. He tried to cough, to blow it away, but the smoke kept coming. Soon, the creature’s whole arm had disappeared.
Breen’s eyes began to close as a wave of drowsiness covered him. He tried to struggle free, tried to plead for mercy, but the creature ignored him. Finally, the darkness overcame him, and he slept.
Fa’rann opened his eyes—Lord Breen’s eyes—and looked down at his new body. It was weaker than the last, and a little too old for his liking. But what he now lacked in strength, he hoped to make up for in influence. With this body, he could affect more humans than a dozen demons.
Smiling, he walked over to the cart and patted the horse on the neck. The animal calmed down. Fa’rann pulled the driver off the seat and, after changing clothes with the dead man—travelling on his own dressed as a lord might prove… suspicious—he climbed up onto the driver’s seat.
This time tomorrow he would arrive at Lord Breen’s estates—his estates. The thought made him grin. He had tried strength; now it was time to try manipulation. One way or another, he would win—Diobael would win!
CHAPTER 28
Wind of Change
“We’ve lost the eastern flank,” Daric said, stabbing his fingers at the map. “The troopers from there will be heading west. We should warn Mott and the others to expect them.”
He’d only been back at the Hungry Fisherman for an hour or so. The mood had been subdued. Two of the sergeants had laid Mikelmoor’s body out in the stable yard. When Daric arrived, most of the officers had been milling about, shaking their heads, saying how terrible it was that the guards could have let an assassin pass unnoticed.
Daric didn’t blame the guards; with all that was going on in the city, they could not be everywhere at once, there were bound to be breaches in security. Still, he wished with all his heart that Mikelmoor had been spared from this latest attack. Not just because he was a friend, but because it now fell on him to pull a miracle out of the bag.
“So how do we win?” Captain Theodore asked.
Daric stared at the map. The east was lost, the wolves were penned in. Their southern units were outnumbered; it was a wonder the Kel’madden weren’t already banging on the gates… if there was a gate for them to bang on. “We don’t, we must retreat. Form up on the Highgate.”
Theodore looked sick. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Daric had spoken too loudly, a buzz of whispers filled the room. All eyes stared at him, probably waiting for him to say he was joking, that he had a miraculous plan to get them all out of the pit they had dug for themselves.
Daric stood tall and stared right back at them. “We will rally at the Highgate and—”
“Your son is bringing Elspeth and Grady back,” Ker said.
“What?” Daric instinctively looked up at the ceiling where Gialyn’s room would be.
“Your son is bringing them back. Taking them to the palace.” The wolf’s voice was matter-of-fact, mechanical, as if saying dinner had been served.
“How the bloody hell…” Daric’s voice faded to a murmur as he dropped the owl ornament he was holding and made his way to the outer hall.
“You can’t leave now!” Theodore told him. “Not when our lines are collapsing.”
Daric stopped dead in his tracks. The captain was right; he couldn’t leave. “Damn that boy,” he whispered, as he took up his place at the map table. “If that Wicks has dragged him out there…”
“Daric!” Ker shouted.
“What is it now?” Daric snapped. “Has my wife turned up at the palace?”
“No.” The wolf’s eyes glazed over again, he was using the Voice.
Daric’s shook his head as he turned to face Ker. “Come on! What has happened?”
Ker’s eyes cleared. The wolf tipped his head back and howled.
“Ker, will you please
stop that. It’s bad enough in here without that racket.”
“Vila is defeated!” Ker said. “Vila is defeated, and the Kel’madden are retreating.”
“Now I know you are crazy,” Daric said. “Someone is feeding you with fals—
“It’s the Cinnè’arth… Arfael. He is north of the cliffs, shouting to all who would listen. ‘Vila is defeated! Vila has lost!’ He sounds very pleased with himself. Their general has sounded a retreat, and there’s something about Sek… I think the Black Dragon has made himself their new leader.”
“He’s right,” Elucia said. The old witch had just entered the common room, wearing a big smile. “I’ve heard the same from three different sources; they are retreating. I don’t know about Vila, but the troopers are pulling back from every front.”
A loud cheer erupted around the room. Daric couldn’t help but laugh. He felt as if the gods had washed his soul and given him a new dawn. He joined in with the cheering. Theodore rounded the table and pulled him into an embrace. Sergeants patted him on the back. Amongst it all, Daric could hear more cheering coming from the road outside. It was over! The Battle for Bailryn had been won.
“Calm down,” Daric shouted, waving his hands at the near hysterical guards. “There’s still a lot of work to do. Theo, begin organising search parties, there are wounded out there who need our help.
The captain gave him an exaggerated salute—and a ridiculously wide grin. “Yes, sir. Count it as done.” Picking up his helmet, the captain all but danced to the door.
The innkeeper, Alim, banged a tankard on the counter. “Free drinks for all,” he shouted. The common room erupted in another loud cheer. “Only one, mind; I’m not made of money.” That brought a laugh.
“Will you have a drink, Daric?” the innkeeper asked.
“Soon, my friend. First, I have to find out what sort of trouble my son has gotten himself into.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Aye, I ‘spose you do. It’ll be waiting here for when you get back.”
“Thank you, Alim,” Daric said, as he made his way to the door.
Outside, guards were dancing and shouting in the street. Daric found himself tugged from left and right as he tried to make his way to the stable. He kept a smile for the men, though.
Elum was in the stable yard with a few other youngsters. They were dancing around in circles and making weapons of sticks and barrel tops to fight each other with. Daric heard one of them say, “I’m Caylib,” another said, “I’m Mateaf.” Seemed they all wanted to be Cren Woodsmen. Daric didn’t blame them.
“My horse, if you please, young Master Elum.” Daric said to the young Eurmacian.
Elum jumped off the barrel he was defending. “Thank you, sir, but I’m no master,” he said. The young lad ran into the stable to fetch Daric’s horse.
“Not yet,” Daric whispered.
A short while later, Elum walked Daric’s horse out of the stable. He had saddled him. Daric threw him a Gold Ren.
“Thank you, sir.” Elum’s eyes lit up as he showed off the Ren to the other youngsters. “I’ll be here when you get back, Major Re’adh.”
“For a Ren, I’ve no doubt you will,” Daric mumbled. He swung into his saddle and turned his mount towards the Blue Mile.
His thoughts turned to Gialyn. He wondered what surprises his son had in store for him this time. Knowing the boy, he’d probably brought back a stray dragon… or an escort of dancing forest-foxes. Daric let himself relax as his horse walked along the cobbled road. Whatever the boy had been up to, he must be all right, or Ker would have said something. Fixing the palace in his sight, he heeled his horse to a trot. Alim’s free drink wouldn’t wait all night, and Daric had every intention of claiming it
CHAPTER 29
Dinner with the King
It was four days before Master Roan allowed Gialyn to leave his bed. A guard had been ordered to watch his door, with instructions to report to the herbalist if anyone was heard moving around in the rooms. Four days of boredom, mixed with frequent visits from Elspeth and Brea. Olivia had checked on him morning and night, too. And, of course, his father—who was staying in the apartments next door—had hardly been away from his bedside.
Daric had spent the first two days recalling stories of his exploits with Grady, from when the two of them were stationed at the palace barracks. It made Gialyn sad to hear his father’s voice waver, but he knew it was something Daric needed to do, so he listened and asked questions. Once, he thought he saw a tear in his father’s eye. He could not remember that happening before. His father would usually shout and kick something if he were upset.
Arfael visited him twice. The big Eirasian seemed different, more at ease, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Maybe it was the new clothes. The white shirt and tailored breeches made Arfael look… normal, albeit still very big. Gialyn had asked him about what had happened, but the big man politely refused to answer.
Like his father, Arfael spent most of his two visits talking about the friend he had lost—Olam, in this case. Of course, being the Cinnè’arth, Arfael could talk to Olam at any time but, as yet, he hadn’t wanted to—so he said. Apparently, something to do with the Powers had him confused, and Arfael didn’t want to visit Arenthenia until he found some answers. Gialyn didn’t believe a word of it; he was sure the big man was simply too upset to face his old friend.
Arfael had become quite the hero. Despite his repeated pleas to the contrary, most of the palace was under the impression that the Cinnè’arth—they all knew who he was, thanks to Ker and the other wolves—had single handedly defeated Vila’slae. Gialyn had told him, “If you want them to stop saying it, you’ll have to tell everyone what happened.” That idea had been met with a level look. However, he did say that he would tell Gialyn “when he had decided what it all meant.” Of course, that only made Gialyn want to know all the more.
Mott, Toban and Aleban were frequent visitors. The Rukin had pride of place in the new negotiations over the southeastern grasslands, along with the Darkin, of course. Meanwhile, many of the Darkin and wildlings had been given positions guarding the palace. They took to it surprisingly easily, considering all the moaning they had done about “wanting to get back to the wild.”
Mott was in no rush. He had found a mate. On the second day, Nacole had brought her pups for a visit. Not that Gialyn saw much of them; the she-wolf had arrived when Brea and Elspeth were there. The two women had spent the entire visit doting over the “beautiful little creatures.” Still, he managed to have a good talk with Mott. Even if it were mostly about the Voice—a subject Gialyn would have preferred to avoid for now, given the trouble it had caused him.
The first place Gialyn visited, once his four days of bed rest were up, was the palace stables. The King had given him a horse! It had made him laugh when Master Roan read out the King’s message. The master had asked him what was so funny. Gialyn couldn’t explain that owning a horse of his own was all he had ever dreamed of, back in Albergeddy. He couldn’t say that he would spend his evening staring out of his bedroom window, wishing he could explore the Geddy Valley. Now that he had a horse, the Geddy Valley was on the other side of the continent. After all he had been through… if that wasn’t worth a laugh…
The stables were hot and damp when Gialyn entered through the palace side door. They smelled of lime and ash; the groom was scrubbing the long walkway that ran in between the stalls. Gialyn could see the stable master at the far end. Well, he didn’t know if he was the stable master, but he was the only one giving orders.
“Pardon me, sir. I’m Gialyn Re’adh,” he said.
The stable master was a fat, barrel-chested man. His black beard reached down past his thick neck and he had a blue leather patch over his right eye. A pink scar made a V-shape beneath the patch.
“You’re late!” The stable master gave him an angry look and then pointed to a large pile of leather saddlery. “Oil there, cloth there, you’ve got two hours before Captain Rarshman
is due to collect them. Get to work!”
“But—”
“I’m already docking your pay, do you want to make it a half day? Get to it.”
“Sir. No, listen to me. I’m not a stable boy, I have a note from Lady Cesim.”
The stable master kept his eyes on Gialyn as he took the proffered parchment from his hand. He read it, nodding to himself. “So, he has given you Jumper has he?” The man laughed. “Better you than me, boy. Come on, he’s down here.”
Gialyn followed the fat man as he marched down between the stalls. The stable master stopped at one of the gates and tapped the top of it with the note Gialyn had given him.
“Here, uh”—he looked at the parchment—“Gialyn. I take it you’ll be stabling him here. It’s four copper a day, a krun, if you want the best feed, or else he gets what the harbour ponies get.”
A krun! Gialyn hadn’t considered that. He would have to ask his father. “Thank you, sir. Yes, he will be staying here, for now. Give him the good feed. What, uh, what kind of horse is he… she?”
“He… is a Painted Eurmac. Good all-rounders, most of them. This one’s a bit jittery; will jump anything you put in front of him, hence the name. He’ll be good for you, though, once he gets used to you. I take it you don’t have a saddle, either. Three ren will get you a simple saddle, five for a Toyan Roper—they’re on sale, seems no one wants Toyan brands just now. Can’t blame ‘em really.”
“I’ll see about that later,” Gialyn said. Where was he going to get five ren?
“Right you are, boy. Well, I’m off for tea and cake in the mess. You can stay a minute, but don’t touch anything.” The fat man waddled off.
Gialyn leant over the rail. The horse regarded him with kind, dark eyes, and pushed a wet nose against his shoulder. The gelding was bigger than Gialyn was expecting. Barrel-chested and wide; Jumper made Pepa look like a pit pony. The horse whickered and let Gialyn scratch behind his ear.
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