by John Gwynne
He shrugged, not wanting to commit to an outright lie that could later incriminate him. ‘I’ll look into these rumours.’
‘We both know that they are not rumours,’ Fidele snapped, leaning forward in her chair. ‘You attended one of these events only a ten-night gone. This barbaric custom will not happen within the boundaries of Tenebral. I expect you to put an end to it.’
‘I thought Nathair ruled here,’ he said before he could check himself.
‘Nathair is not here, and I rule in his place,’ Fidele said.
‘Of course,’ Lykos muttered, pouring himself another cup of wine. For now. ‘I will make sure the pits stay on the Islands.’
Fidele inclined her head. ‘And I will see that your supply of wood is unhindered.’
‘How did it go, chief?’ Deinon asked him.
Lykos scowled at his shieldman. They were out on the meadow road, walking back to the lake shore. It was hard enough taking orders from Nathair, someone young enough to be his son, though he knew he had no choice with that, at least for now. But Nathair’s mother, a woman . . . no matter how much he enjoyed looking at her . . .
‘She knows about the pits,’ he muttered.
‘Is that a problem?’ Thaan asked.
‘Course it’s a problem. These landwalkers are soft. She wants the pits closed.’
‘The lads won’t like it.’
‘No, they won’t.’ And neither would I. ‘Which is why the pits’ll stay open. Just have to be a bit clever about it, that’s all. Not so close to Jerolin, not so regular; just for a while.’
‘Good,’ Deinon said, the air whistling through his ruined nose as he talked. ‘Didn’t think you’d let a woman tell you what’s what, no matter how fine she is to look at.’
‘Watch your tongue,’ Lykos said, giving Deinon a sour look. There was a lot more to this than he had originally imagined. Conquering the Islands had been so much easier than this politicking – bloodier, aye, but simpler, at least. He glanced up, saw the day was well past highsun.
‘You all right, chief?’ Thaan asked him.
Soon it would be night again. Why did each day pass so quickly, each night last so long? He felt a knot of fear twist in his gut at the thought of the nightmares he knew would come, and that made his anger return. How could he tell his shieldman that he was afraid of the dark?
He spent the rest of the day at the shipyard, first inspecting the finished galleys, then losing himself in the rhythm of manual work on the new ships. As the sun set, sinking behind distant mountains, he took a turn beside Deinon at an oar, pulling for his ship anchored on the lake. The ache in his back muscles was almost pleasant.
‘How long are we here, chief?’ Deinon asked.
‘Another week, maybe. Make sure Alazon has all the materials he needs, then it’s back to the coast to check on the other shipyard.’
‘Have mercy,’ Thaan muttered behind them.
Mercy’s for fools, thought Lykos, almost hearing his dead father whisper the words in his ear. ‘This easy life not to your taste?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather be cracking heads and betting on the pits than this,’ Thaan grumbled.
‘Not much I can do about the pits, for now,’ Lykos said. ‘But the head cracking . . .’ Something Fidele had said during their meeting had been bothering him all day, that’s why he had spent the day with a mallet in his hand – it helped him think. They reached their ship, tied off the rowing boat and clambered up the ladder onto the deck. Most of the crew had been sleeping ashore, with strict orders not to spend time in Jerolin’s inns. A few hands were still about though – there was always work that needed doing. Lykos looked about, studying each face. Then he saw who he was looking for.
‘One of you fetch Jace, bring him down to my cabin,’ he said with a nod, then turned and walked below decks without a look back.
It was not long before there was a knock at his cabin door and Deinon entered, Jace behind him. Thaan stayed in the hall and closed the door.
‘Have a drink,’ Lykos said, thrusting a cup of wine at Jace.
Jace took it, his smile all teeth and gums, and drank, though only a little. He had not been aboard long, only a ten-night, having earned his place at the oars at the last pit-fight Lykos had attended. Lykos liked him, liked his style – a focused, contained fury when he fought. He was lean, yet well-muscled. Scars latticed his arms and shoulders. Probably only eighteen years old, maybe nineteen. He looked older, but that was usual for any that made it out of the pits.
‘I wanted to share a drink with you, welcome you aboard. I do it with all the new lads.’
Jace relaxed slightly, just a suggestion in the set of his shoulders, his feet.
‘Sit down,’ Lykos said, more order than request. Jace’s eyes flitted to the door and back. He sat, slowly, legs coiled beneath him. Still wary, then.
‘How’re you finding your new life?’ Lykos asked.
‘It’s good, chief. Better’n the pits, for sure.’
Deinon moved out of Jace’s view, stepping behind him.
‘Aye. Life with the Vin Thalun is not the easiest – some might say the hardest – but the rewards . . .’ He grinned, emptied his own cup of wine and placed it carefully on a table beside Jace. ‘Stay alive long enough and who knows what you’ll earn – silver, your own war-galley, women. Lots of women. Isn’t that right, Deinon, even for someone as ugly as you, eh?’
‘True enough, chief,’ Deinon said with a wide grin.
Lykos stood before Jace, feeling his temper stir, flaring hot.
‘All I ask is loyalty.’
With no warning, Jace erupted from his chair, headbutting Lykos in the gut. Lykos had been expecting it, but still the lad caught him. Gods, but the pits make you fast, he thought, even as he doubled over, fighting to draw a breath.
Jace was trying to step away, reaching for a knife at his belt, when Deinon’s hand clutched his hair, yanked him backwards, the shieldman’s other fist crashing into the boy’s head, just above the ear. Jace staggered, though still managed to stay on his feet. Lykos headbutted him full in the face, felt cartilage break, crunching as blood spurted. Jace collapsed back into the chair, head lolling.
‘Loyalty,’ Lykos snarled, Jace’s blood dripping from his face. ‘I gave you a new life, but that wasn’t good enough for you. Had to run to Fidele. Why?’
‘I didn’t do nothing,’ Jace bubbled through his ruined face. ‘Don’t understand.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ Lykos hissed. ‘Deinon.’
The shieldman grabbed one of Jace’s wrists and clamped his hand to the table. In a blur Lykos drew his knife and slammed it into Jace’s palm, pinning it to the wood beneath. Jace screamed, pain and terror mingled, eyes bulging.
‘Why?’ Lykos repeated, bending to stare into Jace’s eyes. ‘Speak the truth and the pain’ll end.’
Jace just stared at him.
‘All right then,’ Lykos said, ‘looks like you need a little more persuasion.’ With a sigh he drew another knife from his boot, this one small, thin and sharp. He held it hovering over Jace’s pinned hand and with a jerk cut one of the man’s fingers off.
Jace screamed, shaking his head wildly. Deinon held him clamped in place.
‘I can keep going like this all night,’ Lykos said. ‘There’s more than fingers I could be cutting.’
‘When I was taken,’ Jace whispered, ‘my family – mother, father, sister – all murdered, by you.’
‘How old were you, boy?’
‘F-fifteen.’
Lykos sighed, tutted. ‘Shame you didn’t learn your lesson.’
‘Wha . . .?’ Jace said, his face contorted with pain.
‘That I control life and death for you.’ Lykos nodded to Deinon, who still had a fist twisted in Jace’s hair. He pulled the lad’s head back and cut his throat.
‘Take him out in the lake and sink him with something heavy,’ Lykos said, stepping away from the blood pooling at his feet. He poured himself a cup of
wine.
‘Don’t you want to let his body be found, show Fidele what happens to squealers?’
‘No, wouldn’t put it past that bitch to put me on trial for murder,’ Lykos said.
Deinon chuckled, stooped and slung Jace’s corpse over his shoulder, heading for the door.
Lykos sat in his chair and started drinking. It was full night now; the exhilaration of the conflict with Jace drained away. He was feeling weary – no, exhausted. Sleep would follow soon. He gulped more wine down, afraid.
‘Father, who and what have I become?’ he muttered, cocking his head to hear an answer. When no response came he shrugged and continued drinking. Eventually he dozed off, still sitting in his chair.
He woke screaming, eyes bulging. Thaan poked his head through the door.
‘You all right, chief?’
‘Wha . . . ? I. Yes,’ Lykos mumbled, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Making deals with a devil was sure to have a down side. He reached automatically for his jug of wine. Only a few dregs were left but he slurped them back. ‘Good news for you,’ he said. ‘There’s a change of plan. We need to round up the Jehar and take them to Ardan, and – even better for you – after that we’ll get to crack some heads. A lot of heads.’
‘Ardan?’ Thaan said.
‘Aye, Thaan. Ardan. We’ve been summoned.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVNIS
Evnis absently plucked at the petal of a rose, let it drift onto the stones at his feet. ‘Everything is turning to ash, Fain,’ he whispered.
He was standing before a stone cairn, weak sunlight streaming across the walls of Dun Carreg into the courtyard. The sounds of his hold waking stirred about him. Dogs were barking in the kennels, children teasing them with scraps from the tower kitchen. The smell of baking bread and ham frying wafted about on the breeze. The sun had not risen long enough to burn the chill of night away and Evnis shivered, pulling his cloak tighter about him. He took a deep breath, an attempt to steady himself for the coming day, but no matter how he tried to calm himself, to focus on what he must do, all his swirling thoughts returned to one thing.
Vonn.
Where was his son?
They had argued, in the keep before the fortress fell, after he had told Vonn something of his plans. All Vonn had wanted to talk about was the girl from Havan, Bethan the drunkard’s daughter. Evnis had told Vonn to put her out of his mind, to focus on what was important, but that had only made Vonn worse. He had stormed out into the night. And now he was gone, disappeared in the chaos of Dun Carreg’s fall, before Evnis could talk to him and put things right.
Please, Fallen One, do not let him be dead. Evnis had spent most of a day searching, checking every corpse that had been piled in the streets, questioning survivors. Some had spoken of seeing Vonn with Edana and her handful of protectors.
He blew out a long breath. His son with Edana, with Brenin’s daughter. In other circumstances the irony of it would have made him smile.
It was two nights since Dun Carreg had fallen, since Owain’s boar of Narvon had replaced Brenin’s wolf. He remembered little of his fight with Brenin: it had been a red haze, over a year’s worth of pent-up rage and grief spilling out in a few moments. Until his knife had pierced Brenin’s chest, anyway. He remembered that clearly enough, could never forget it; the brief resistance of cloth, skin and bone, then the hot pulse of blood, Brenin’s strength fading so quickly, like a bird taking flight. There was a flutter of something in his gut. Shame? Perhaps. Certainly Fain, his gentle-hearted wife, would not have approved. But she was not here now, her corpse rotting beneath the cairn he was standing before. Brenin’s choices had sealed her death. If Brenin had allowed him to leave Dun Carreg, to take Fain away, to the cauldron, things would have been different. Fain had deserved a blood-price. There was some kind of justice in the way things had turned out – Brenin dying by his hand.
‘My lord.’ A voice pierced his thoughts. Conall was limping towards him, a few of his warriors following.
‘It is time,’ Conall said.
Evnis nodded curtly, crushed the rose in his hand and scattered it over the cairn. He stalked through the grounds of his hold, past the kennels where Helfach’s boy was feeding the hounds, through the wide gates. Conall and the other warriors settled about him, a tension amongst them all. They knew the stakes as well as he. The fortress may have fallen but it was far from safe, with many on both sides who would like Evnis dead. He glanced at the buildings either side, searching the shadows for assassins. I have rolled the dice, he thought. No going back now.
He glanced at Conall, who still walked with a limp. The warrior had fallen from the wall above Stonegate and had only survived because the crush of those fighting about the gates had broken his fall.
The warrior was all confidence and swagger, quick to laugh and quick to anger. Beyond the arrogance there was a keen intelligence. Conall saw much. It had been a wise choice, winning him over, though he had needed a little help. He was learning the power of the earth, extracting secrets from the book he had discovered in the tunnels beneath the fortress. There were ways to influence a man, even control him. He felt like a novice, struggling in the dark, but he had learned enough to add an edge of power, of persuasion to his voice, especially when the target’s will was wavering. And so he had won Conall’s loyalty.
‘You have no regrets leaving your brother, Halion, opposing him?’
Conall looked surprised and his mouth twisted, a haunted look sweeping his face. ‘No. I am glad to be out from under his shadow. He was turning from me, in deeds if not in words. It was clear he’d chosen Brenin and flattery over me.’ He grimaced. ‘We all live with the consequences of our choices, eh?’
‘That we do,’ Evnis muttered, glancing at an old scar on the palm of his hand, a reminder of a glade in the Darkwood, of a pact made years ago to Asroth, his master, to whom he had pledged his life, his soul. And Asroth had told him to aid Nathair, of that he was certain. So aid the young King of Tenebral he would. And if somehow that turned out to his benefit, then all the better.
Figures burst from an alleyway and Conall half drew his sword, but they were only children, running and laughing as they goaded a skinny hound with a bone.
‘Jumping at shadows,’ Evnis said.
‘Well, you’re not the most popular man in the fortress right now. Most of Dun Carreg must want you dead,’ Conall said, glaring at the children.
‘I’m more concerned over the quality of my enemies than their quantity,’ Evnis murmured, thinking of Owain.
‘I’ve heard something similar, though usually from the ladies.’
Evnis snorted, almost smiled. Laughter rippled through the warriors behind him.
‘Enemies in high places. I’ve had that problem myself,’ Conall said.
‘Really? And what did you do?’
‘I ran away.’
‘I see.’ He regarded Conall silently, wondering about his new shieldman’s hidden past. ‘Perhaps I have a less drastic remedy.’ Friends in high places. Or in this case friend. Nathair. The young King had come to him asking questions about the Benothi, Dun Carreg’s ancient giant masters and their treasures, and that was a subject that Evnis knew much about, possibly even more than old Heb or Brina. Evnis had hinted at his knowledge, given snippets of information, whispered promises of more, and it was those promises that he hoped would keep him alive until Rhin arrived. Nathair would protect him, at least while it was in his interest to do so. Or so Evnis hoped. Owain was unpredictable. It had been a gamble, helping the King of Narvon gain entrance to the fortress, but Nathair had asked him for help, and so he had given it. The act of opening Stonegate had won much favour with Owain, but Evnis was not sure how much the act of slaying a king had compromised that favour. Nobody liked that, especially not another king.
‘Time will be the judge,’ he muttered.
‘Aye. It usually is,’ Conall replied.
The rest of their journey passed in sil
ence. Evnis hardly spared a glance at the charred pile of ash that marked all that was left of Dun Carreg’s fallen defenders, the stench of their burning still lingering in the air. He swept into the keep and marched through it into the corridors beyond until he reached Nathair’s chambers.
One of the black-clad warriors that he had spirited into the fortress to such devastating effect was standing guard. The man ushered him into the chamber but blocked Conall as he made to follow.
‘Only you,’ the man said to Evnis.
Evnis nodded to Conall and those behind him as the guard closed the door.
Nathair sat within, sipping a cup of wine. His bodyguard, Sumur, was standing beside an unshuttered window, sword hilt jutting over his shoulder. A handful of Nathair’s eagle-guard were lounging at a table in the far end of the chamber, gathered about a half-eaten round of cheese and a leg of pork. They eyed Evnis suspiciously, then went back to their food. Evnis stared at them, remembering their comrades in the keep the night Dun Carreg fell, arrayed about him and Brenin and Nathair in a wall of shields. They were all dead now, most of them cut down by Gar, the crippled stablemaster. That night had left more than one mystery in his mind that begged to be solved.
‘Welcome, Evnis,’ the King of Tenebral said, standing and gripping Evnis’ wrist. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly. Are you hungry? Thirsty?’ He gestured to the food and wine.