by John Gwynne
This is all mine now, he thought. Jerolin is the heart of Tenebral, and it belongs to me. By proxy. His fingers dipped inside his cloak, seeking the effigy of Fidele. He felt a moment of fear, a weightlessness in his gut as his fingers searched. Then he felt it, smooth clay and brittle hair. Such power. With Fidele a puppet in my hand I rule Jerolin, and with it, all of Tenebral.
Riders appeared on the road to the north, eight or ten of them. Lykos watched them draw closer, until he could see the white eagles embossed on their cuirasses and shields.
Peritus has returned, then. And the first thing he will do is seek an audience with Fidele.
A chill wind blew out of the north along with them. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. It is warmer on the Islands. But I have Fidele to keep me warm here.
He felt a stirring in his blood, just at the thought of her. He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, could still smell her, a residue on his beard of rose petals and sweat. With the thought of her fresh in his mind he turned and made his way towards Jerolin’s tower.
People looked away as he passed them, none brave enough or stupid enough to give him the black looks he had once become accustomed to. At first, when Fidele had announced him forgiven of his crimes and welcomed into the heart of Jerolin he had still received those looks, but as the days had passed and with them demonstration after demonstration that he could do as he wished without consequence the angry glares had turned away. Initially a horde of people complaining too loudly had been dragged to the dungeons, and that no doubt had helped to silence the complainers, but Lykos could still sense the animosity. These people were not cowed, yet. A stronger lesson was needed.
He passed a roped-off courtyard with bloodstains still on the flagstones. He had already begun the pit-fighting, on a small scale. A few contests in makeshift rings in the lakeside town at first, then moving to the stronghold. There had been an outcry, of course. Petitions had been sent to Fidele by the wainload, but, under his control she had just ignored them. And people had come, had watched, had bet silver and gold. A trickle at first, furtive looking, trying to stand in the shadows, but more had turned up with each bout. Soon he would spread the entertainment throughout Tenebral, but not until the arena on the plain had been finished. We will need more slaves soon, else we’ll run out of fighters.
The spoils of war would supply that need soon enough.
He found Fidele in her chambers high in Jerolin’s tower. She stared at him with such a look of hatred and contempt that he smiled – he had seen that look before, on the recently conquered, warriors he had made his slaves. In time the look would pass, would merge into other things. First would come despair, then acceptance, then servitude. He reached a hand into his cloak and her expression changed, became fearful. That made him smile as well.
‘Speak your mind,’ he said.
She opened her mouth, not trusting her voice. ‘My son will kill you for this,’ she breathed, beginning little above a whisper. She looked surprised that her thoughts had aligned with her words.
‘I don’t think he will,’ Lykos said. Soon enough he will have more on his mind than the governance of Tenebral.
‘Then I will kill you,’ she said, her voice rising, her back straightening, as if control of her vocal cords gave her actual strength.
‘Enough,’ Lykos commanded. Or your guards will hear.
A struggle took place within the confines of her face and behind her eyes. She was clinging to her freedom of speech, refusing to let it go. Her mouth opened, lips twisting, but nothing came out. A few more moments passed as Lykos watched, entertained. Then her shoulders slumped, her body sagging.
‘You will have a visitor soon,’ he began . . .
There was a knock on the door.
‘Enter,’ Fidele called.
She was sat in a high-backed chair, wrapped in a cloak of darkest sable contrasting with her milky skin, her lips a deep red.
I shall have her when this is done, thought Lykos. He was standing further back, half in shadow. Deinon stood the other side of Fidele’s chair. Other Vin Thalun were hidden about the dark edges of the room.
Two men walked into the chamber: Peritus, the old battlechief, and Armatus, his childhood friend and also first-sword of the dead king, Aquilus. They were both older men, the wrong side of forty, Lykos guessed. Both had deep lines in their faces and more grey than black in their hair. They both had a reputation with their blades, though, and Lykos was not one to underestimate an enemy.
‘My lady,’ Peritus said, bowing to Fidele. Then he saw Lykos. A look passed between him and Armatus.
‘Welcome back to Jerolin,’ Fidele said to them both. There was little warmth in her voice. ‘How are things in the north?’
‘Quiet,’ Peritus said. ‘The giants’ raids have all but stopped. It was good to be home. I have returned early, though, because I am hearing strange things. About Jerolin.’ He paused, looking uncomfortable.
‘What things?’ Fidele said.
‘Where is Orcus?’ Armatus asked. His eyes had seen Deinon standing in the shadows.
‘I gave Orcus a leave of absence. There was illness in his family.’
He does not believe her, Lykos thought, watching Armatus.
‘What strange things do you speak of, Peritus?’ Fidele continued.
‘May we speak alone?’ Peritus asked, eyes flickering to Lykos.
‘No, we may not,’ Fidele said. ‘My son, your King, trusts Lykos, and so do I.’
‘You had a different opinion the last time that I saw you.’
‘Opinions change.’
‘But, the fighting pits. The dead, the boy dragged up from the lake – Jace. They were facts, not opinions. Lykos and his kind are murderers. You know this.’
Fidele stared at Peritus. Muscles in her face twitched. She opened her mouth but only a breath hissed out.
Lykos squeezed the effigy concealed in his hand and Fidele groaned.
‘Are you well, my lady?’ Peritus said to her, stepping forwards.
‘Stay where you are,’ Lykos said, moving out of the shadows.
Peritus froze, but Armatus moved forwards now. ‘The last time I was in Jerolin, the Vin Thalun didn’t give orders to the battlechief of Tenebral,’ he said.
‘Things have changed,’ Lykos replied. He smiled at the two men.
‘How so?’ Peritus said. There was an edge in his voice now, one that Lykos recognized. Of violence restrained.
‘Because I have willed it,’ Fidele said, breaking a taut silence. ‘We must move forwards, not backwards, and grudges and outdated rules cannot hold us back. The alliance with the Vin Thalun is vital to our cause. Lykos has given us great aid.’
‘Outdated rules?’ Peritus breathed. ‘Since when has the punishment of murder become an outdated rule?’
‘I have decided to forgive and move on,’ Fidele said. Her tone was angry now. Only Lykos knew that that anger was not roused by Peritus’ questions.
‘Fidele,’ Peritus said, ‘you are not in your right mind. How can you say such things? You saw the pit at Balara – the dead heaped in piles.’
‘Enough,’ Lykos barked. He was losing patience with this now. ‘Tell him all of it,’ he said to Fidele.
‘To honour this new beginning, games are to be held. A celebration. I have commissioned an arena to be built. Tenebral shall watch our enemies fight to the death.’
‘Pit-fighting, in Jerolin,’ Peritus hissed. ‘You are out of your mind, or under a spell.’
Fidele’s body jerked at that, her eyes screwing shut.
‘What is wrong with you?’
Strong-minded bitch, thought Lykos. How can she fight this? He gripped the effigy tighter, and willed her to obey.
‘Nothing,’ Fidele said with a shudder.
‘Something ails you,’ Peritus said. He looked at Armatus, something passing between them. ‘You are not in your right mind, not able to rule, at present.’
In a blur of motion, faster than
anything Lykos had anticipated, Armatus had drawn his sword and was holding it levelled at Lykos’ chest.
‘As battlechief of Tenebral I claim the regency while you recover,’ Peritus said. He was watching Deinon, who had taken a stride closer, his sword half-drawn, but had frozen now.
Fidele’s gaze drifted over Peritus’ shoulder, just a flicker of her eyes.
Peritus whirled, drawing his own blade; the Vin Thalun who had stood hidden in the shadows fell on him. Peritus managed to stab one in the shoulder, but there were six Vin Thalun, four of them pit-trained. Within moments Peritus was on his knees, half stunned. He was dragged to his feet and a blade held across his throat.
‘Put your sword down,’ Lykos said to Armatus.
The warrior had hesitated, just for a heartbeat, and that was all it had taken for Peritus to be overwhelmed. Lykos had not moved.
‘Put it down,’ he repeated.
‘Kill him,’ Peritus slurred. Blood ran down his face from a blow to the head.
The dilemma warred across Armatus’ features. Lykos saw the decision in the man’s eyes before it reached his limbs. He lowered his sword.
Immediately Deinon surged forwards, holding his own blade at Armatus’ chest.
‘Weak fool,’ Lykos said. He stepped forwards and punched Armatus in the throat, the old warrior dropping to one knee, gasping for breath.
‘He should have killed me,’ Lykos said conversationally to Peritus. ‘My Queen,’ he said to Fidele. ‘If I am not mistaken, I think we have just witnessed an act of treason. What is the punishment for such a crime in Tenebral?’
Fidele struggled, paused and then answered through clenched teeth. ‘Execution.’
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
CORBAN
Corban ran through the corridors of Dun Vaner, past a trail of the dead. He hurt in a dozen places – his wrists, ankles, ribs, jaw, too many pains to recognize – but it felt so good to be free, to be reunited with his mam and friends. And more. He had been certain his death was at hand, bound, with a knife at his throat and no way to fight it off. To be saved from that, to still live and draw breath. He felt euphoric. He felt reborn.
And so much had happened. Not least Gar’s father joining them. Even as they ran through the halls and stairwells, more of these strange warriors were joining them. The Jehar. Four at the entrance to the first stairwell, corpses piled about them, then another three, then five, another two, until Corban felt as if he was part of a small warband rather than an escaping prisoner.
The sound of combat drifted from ahead, growing louder. Then they were in a feast-hall, a pitched battle raging through it.
There were at least a hundred warriors in the room, most of them Rhin’s men. Amongst them swirled the dark shapes of Jehar warriors, fast, graceful and deadly, leaving only the dead or dying in their wake. Force of numbers threatened to overwhelm them, though. Corban could see a pile of corpses in a half-circle about the doorway, but the battle had been pushed back from there, with more of Rhin’s men crowding the entrance.
All about Corban warriors surged forwards, Tukul and Meical at their head. They crashed into the battle, an unstoppable force. Gar hesitated, lingering close to Corban, his familiar position. His mam, Farrell and Coralen did the same, pulling close about him, an unbidden, instinctive reaction in them.
In moments the battle was all but done in the hall. Meical, Tukul and forty or so Jehar warriors at his back turned the conflict in heartbeats. The remnants of Rhin’s warriors fled through the doors, the Jehar following them, their battle spilling out into the courtyard.
Corban and the others followed.
All was chaos out here. Fresh snow had fallen, coating the flagstones, more was swirling down. As Corban looked, he saw Tukul storming into a knot of warriors. A severed arm spun through the air, jetting a trail of blood, startlingly red on the fresh snow.
Gar was dancing on his toes, desperate to join the battle, then the battle joined them, a handful of men rushing them.
Gar took the first one’s head; the warrior’s body ran on a few paces before the legs gave way. Another fell with one of Gwenith’s knives in his chest, then Farrell and Coralen were wading in. Corban hefted the sword which had been returned to him by Gar in the dungeon and joined the fray.
He blocked a wild swing, twisted his wrist and stabbed the man through the throat, blood spraying his face as he ripped his blade free. He moved forwards, ducked another slash, chopped three, four blows in retaliation, the fifth breaking through a weakening defence, crashing into an iron helm, denting it, the warrior staggering. Corban kicked the dazed man’s legs away and stabbed down hard as he stepped over him. He found a release in this battle: a simplicity that focused his mind, feeling both a sense of calm and a wild joy, barely contained. He concentrated on each breath, the shift of weight on his feet, his balance, the flow of muscle in hip and back, shoulder and arm, and faceless warriors fell like wheat as he cut through their ranks.
Then there was no one left before him. He looked about, slashed the shoulder of a man who was attacking Coralen. She finished him with her wolven claws. His mam was retreating before a sustained assault, turning a blade with her spear shaft. Corban and Gar saw at the same time. The man fell with two swords piercing him.
There was a clatter of hooves from the stableblock, shouting and yelling, and horses exploded from the stable’s gates. Rhin was at their head, Braith and Conall close behind, a dozen other warriors following. They rode hard across the courtyard, trampling friend and enemy alike.
Coralen ran forwards, calling Conall’s name. He must have heard, even over the din of battle, for at the open gateway he reined in and looked back. He saw Coralen, just stared for a heartbeat, then kicked his horse on.
Coralen ran after him, Corban and his companions following her. They stopped in the archway of the gates, watching as Rhin and her shieldmen galloped down the snow-covered slopes of Dun Vaner.
A rider stiffened in his saddle, a black arrow sprouting from his back. He toppled from his mount and was dragged through the snow.
A streak of movement caught Corban’s eye, a blur moving after the galloping shapes, speeding across the snow much faster than the labouring horses.
Storm.
Silent as smoke, she caught up with the escaping riders and launched herself into the air. With a crunch that Corban felt as well as heard, the last horse and rider tumbled to the ground, an explosion of snow concealing them all. As it cleared, Corban saw a man rise from the ground and begin running. The horse didn’t move. Storm shook herself and leaped after the man, crashing into his back, jaws sinking into his head. She gave a savage wrench of her neck and there was a spray of blood.
‘Storm,’ Corban called.
She looked up at the sound, ears twitching, saw him and ran at them. She skidded before Corban, jumped on him, her hot breath washing his face, rough tongue scratching his skin. He staggered under her weight, hugged her tight, burying his face in her bloodied fur.
He realized a silence had fallen and he pulled away from Storm, turned and looked into the courtyard.
The battle was done, all of Rhin’s remaining warriors dead. A few score of these strange Jehar warriors stood staring at him, the place eerily silent and still, the only movement the gently falling snow. Tukul stepped forward, drew his sword and pointed it at the sky. ‘The Seren Disglair.’
With a cry, the other warriors did the same, then together they all dropped to one knee and bowed their heads before him.
They searched the fortress and found it to be deserted. Only a small company had been garrisoned there; the bulk of Rhin’s warriors and their kin were on the move in the south, invading Domhain. Tukul patrolled the entire stronghold personally, and only then did he declare it safe. They collected their dead – eight Jehar warriors – and made a pyre in the courtyard, Tukul singing a solemn lament as the fires burned. Snow was falling heavier again, and the light was already failing, so they barred the gates and made camp in
the feast-hall that night with Jehar patrolling the walls.
‘Ventos,’ Corban said to himself, thinking of how he had ended up in this place. ‘Where is Ventos?’ He was exhausted now, sitting close to the fire-pit and chewing on a leg of mutton, one of many discovered in a huge cold-room.
‘Dead,’ Dath said. ‘We found him with your knife in his belly. You should have seen your mam – she would have liked to bring him back to life, just so she could kill him again.’
He smiled at that. It saddened him, thinking of Ventos. He had liked the man, had thought him a friend. But he had betrayed him.
‘How did you get in?’
‘We climbed the wall to the north,’ said Dath. ‘It’s a sheer drop, but they weren’t very vigilant. I guess they didn’t have enough men here to man every wall, and they weren’t exactly expecting an attack. Brina tied a loop in some rope and Craf flew it up to the battlements and dropped it over something solid.’
‘But how did you find me? How did you know where to look?’
‘Craf again,’ said Dath. ‘He looked in every hole in this fortress until he found you. He’s handy to have around, that bird, even if his eating habits would make the dead vomit up their last meal.’
‘He is indeed,’ Corban agreed. He tore off a strip of meat and threw it to Craf, who was perched contentedly on the back of Brina’s chair. He caught the meat in the air and gulped it down.
Brina had hugged Corban tight when she had seen him, then berated him sharply for having let himself be captured. Corban had not minded, though. He had felt a swell of emotion at seeing the old woman, at seeing all of his friends. And what they had done for him.
He felt it again now, looking about the room at them – his mam sitting quiet beside Brina, Gar talking to Tukul – his da, Corban could still not get over that – Dath and Farrell sitting either side of him, Coralen, further apart, brooding, silently scouring crusted blood from her wolven claws.
Such friends. Following me through the mountains, attacking Braith. Storming a fortress. Rhin’s fortress. Just looking at them, he felt a pressure building in his chest. This world may be full of greed and tragedy and darkness, but I am fortunate beyond measure to have such people about me.