by C F Welburn
“Trust me in this, Dunn Fannon,” a stern-faced, white-haired man was saying to his left. “We must use our heads, though our hearts thunder otherwise!”
“Thank you, Beringal, I will think upon it. You long served my father and I respect you, though what you suggest will not be easy.” The youth’s jowl quivered, though through rage, not fear.
“A word.” All eyes turned to the shaven-pated askaba. Up close, Balagir inspected the spike that curved upwards from between his eyebrows, pronged as a serpent’s tongue. His demeanour had not sweetened even in the company of the Dunn, and he had the look of a man chewing bitter fruit. Dunn Fannon acquiesced. “Speak, Sisken, for I know my father heeded you.”
“Whilst there is comfort in continuity, such times can be opportunities for change.”
Granted permission to proceed, Sisken smiled, a feline, gap-toothed affair. “A fire in a city brings destruction, but also refinement. Wider streets, sturdier abodes, sewage systems. The matter at hand could be viewed in such terms. We’ve shared dominance for too long. Compromise, concessions, sacrifice, for what? The Valelands should be under one rule. That of Ozgar. Even your father willed it, though honour forbade him giving vent. And you, loyal Beringal,” he said, turning to the white-haired commander who was struggling to contain himself. “Though you show Ortho respect, to treat with Eskareth is unacceptable. Weakness! As well open our gates to them.”
“And you’d have us what, Sisken?” snapped Beringal heatedly. “Smash ourselves against their walls? Make martyrs of us all? This is a time for brains, not brawn. No matter how bitter, there will be a time for justice; I swear it! But we must be patient.”
“Brains, not brawn you say; though negotiation is pure folly. Dunn Ortho and Ozgar’s pride must be avenged! We stand at a crossroads. We must no longer be manipulated—”
“Engaging in war is being manipulated. Can’t you see that is precisely what Gorokhan wants? He’s antagonised us, and like a foaming dog, you’ve taken the scent.”
It was the young Dunn who banged his fist on the table, bringing the room to a charged silence.
“Cease this bickering, it becomes neither of you.” Beringal looked down, ashamed. Sisken merely stared towards the window. “Debate with merit and sling no insults, or I will cease to heed you.” Both men remained quiet, though the old advisor’s eyes regarded the askaba without affection.
At last Dunn Fannon spoke, a weariness in his voice beyond his years. “I need to think on what has been said today, but for my curiosity, I would see a show of hands. For negotiation?” Four present raised their hands. “For war?” The remaining four raised their hands. The outcome did not satisfy him.
“If you will, Dunn Fannon,” Beringal interjected, “Gorokhan’s actions may be as unforgivable as they are unexpected and unfathomable, but he is naught if not proud. A man of his word.”
Sisken laughed darkly. “His words are like air. He’s mad, isn’t it plain? Like an apple his surface shines, but the worm of rot has burrowed deep. How else to explain his actions?”
“We should hear what he has to say,” Beringal argued. “Or at least commune with the askaba he has at his court—your own brother amongst them! Perhaps there are forces at work beyond that of his will. Bridges hastily torched cannot be retrod.”
Dunn Fannon waved them to silence.
“At dawn you’ll have my decision. Either way, we must be prepared to ride. I will not leave my armies leaderless in the field, whatever the outcome. Commander, ready the troops.” Beringal nodded; Sisken attempted to get one last word in, but the young Dunn would not be swayed.
“I’ve heard enough. Leave me to my thoughts. I’ll be alone for a time.” Those present rose glumly one by one. Balagir was so involved in proceedings, he had not seen Sisken inspecting the shadow on the floor.
“Beware!” he yelled. “We’re being watched!” Several of the old guards drew their swords, but Sisken sneered. “Steel will do no good. Behold our spy.” He began to weave his hands, and Balagir felt his shadow being contorted, squeezed as clay in a fist. He wrestled free and raced back to his body, the impact sending him backwards over the bench, jarring his shoulder on the stones. Several children laughed. He hurriedly brushed himself off and disappeared into the archways before the guard and askaba burst from the palace door to search the area. An ashen would instantly draw suspicion, and the shade-band would not withstand the askaba’s scrutiny.
So, he had until dawn to reach the Dunn. With an idea already forming, he let things settle and paid a visit to the smithy.
“What’d you expect? There’s a war on!” the smith growled when he criticised his stock. “Blades are what they need, not bangles!”
“Maybe you can still be of use. What can you tell me of this?” He handed over the worn amulet. The smith, not overly enthused, huffed and puffed and reached for his monocle to examine the piece.
“Not in good condition, and incomplete. You’ll get nowt for it.”
“It’s not for sale,” Balagir clarified.
“Then why show it me?”
“What do you know about it?”
The smith shrugged. “Not a lot. From the design it could be from any number of small houses. From its age I would say it’s from before the dissolutions—the splinter wars.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” the smith grumbled, “it no longer exists. Now, take it and be gone. I haven’t time for history lessons. If you haven’t noticed, we’ve two thousand farmers to arm. If you want to make yourself useful, use that sword of yours to train them. Good day, ashen.”
Balagir saw himself out.
He bought a cup of wine from a spice merchant across the street and stared despondently at the amulet.
He finally knew it for what it was. A carrot on a stick. A whip by which to be driven; Finster’s manipulation of a newcomer who had defied the odds and survived. Kiela had been right; they were all chasing ghosts. He was of a mind to cast the wretched thing in the river, but some sense of poetic justice stayed him. If he ever saw Finster again, he would feed it him.
With these dark musings, he left Ozgar through the east gate and followed the grassy verge until he located the hub. Another grey-skinned, scarred ashen sat in a trance, but his companions were not present. Still, it was not they he had come to see.
“Piper,” he demanded. The creature, as ever, paid him no heed. “Piper, hark! Why do you drive us? What is it you want?” Nothing. He may as well have been speaking to a wraith, which in essence, he was. He wanted to strike the creature, but as well strike a shadow. He longed to defy it and give up this game, but he could not. Not now. Not until he had found meaning. And in order to do so, he would need more smoke. Lots of it. The very thing he wished to abandon was the one thing he was dependent on. He kicked the ground at the irony.
Leaving the fire, he stormed back to Ozgar, the tune grating on his nerves like nails across dry slate.
Back in Ozgar, halfway up the hill, he took another cup of wine, which was infinitely more palatable than the ale. The piscatorial crests, trees, and statues aside, he drew a line at beer ruminating the odour of fish. He was in the south after all, and if that meant drinking wine, it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
He nursed his cup restlessly in a quiet arbour until sundown, whereupon he found a torch and dispatched his shadow; through the palace wings it floated, unto the chamber of Dunn Fannon. Fortunately, the young Dunn was awake, bent over a lamp-lit chart. Slowly he became aware of the shadow on the wall and leapt to his feet, sword already in hand.
“Who goes there? What do you want?” Balagir used a placating hand gesture and then beckoned him to follow. Uncertainly, the Dunn obeyed.
It was difficult to follow a shadow in the darkness, but there were enough torches and lamps in the palace for the Dunn to always relocate him after any length of gloom.
When Balagir saw himself through his shadow’s eyes, he returned to his body and stood slowly to greet the c
autious Dunn.
“Before you speak,” Dunn Fannon announced, “know that I can call down a hundred guards with a single blast.” He indicated the bugle about his neck. He may have been shy of twenty, but held himself proudly as only one bred on a lifetime of court etiquette was capable. His blond hair hung in ringlets and his beard was still struggling to take form on his youthful, chiseled face.
“That will not be necessary,” Balagir said, showing his empty hands and gesturing for the Dunn to sit. Dunn Fannon declined.
“What is it you want, ashen? Be quick about it.”
“You mustn’t attack Eskareth. You and Gorokhan should put your differences aside.” The Dunn gave a small dry laugh.
“And that would be your counsel, would it, ashen? You realise he executed my father without cause? Though I hardly expect you to understand matters of paternity.”
The remark cut deeper than Balagir let show.
“I realise it’s difficult to take advice from an ashen, but not allying would be disastrous.”
The Dunn bristled. “I’d sooner ally with the ashen, or the largatyn for that matter?”
“Interesting that you should mention the largatyn, but you have more imminent concerns than they.”
“Be direct or I’m gone.”
Balagir nodded and withdrew the Gazer’s eye from his pouch. The young Dunn’s gaze drank it in. Once more Balagir indicated the bench, and this time, cautious as a doe, the Dunn crossed the arbour and sat. Balagir tilted the eye, and instantly images began to form.
The message was clear now: the two armies meeting, the blue and the yellow; then the red wave washing down.
“Horlocks,” Dunn Fannon whispered. “I’d heard they were massing, but…” The image grew blurry, a swirling mass of chaotic colour, but there was no mistaking the largatyn’s timely descent; how they would destroy the squabbling survivors beneath their black, slithering wave.
“Where did you get this?” the Dunn breathed.
“In Iylleth,” Balagir said. “Zyrath has one similar. He’s seen his own victory and is bolstered by it.”
“How can I trust such a trinket?”
Balagir shrugged. “You don’t have to, of course. I’ve shown you, and that is all. I cannot force you to act on it. But know this: the horlocks move south, that is true, and the largatyn are on your doorstep. No matter who is victorious, Ozgar or Eskareth, you will be left weakened and vulnerable.”
The Dunn extended his hand, and Balagir passed him the eye. Quietly, he watched events play over once more.
“I see what must be done,” he said at last. “But siding with the man who slew my father…”
Balagir nodded, though—as the Dunn had so bluntly pointed out—he could not truly empathise.
“My commander, Beringal, has advised we treat with Gorokhan. Of course, you know this, having been present.”
Balagir smiled wryly. “Be thankful it was I and not someone who has other interests.”
The Dunn looked up thoughtfully. “What else did you take from the council that I may have missed?”
“You mean the askaba?”
“I know Beringal does not trust him, but I want nothing more than to see Gorokhan’s head on a pike.”
“How much do you trust them?”
“They are strange, but they’ve never given reason to distrust them. Sisken served my father well.”
“And the askaba in Eskareth? They too serve Gorokhan?”
“Served. It was through them Sisken learnt of my father’s apprehension, though it came too late for us to intervene. Surely you can’t suggest they are involved? If Sisken was working with them, why would he advise us to attack?”
Balagir shrugged. “It seemed clear in the meeting he is an opportunist. Perhaps there is something to be gained from this upheaval. This act of violence was out of character for Gorokhan?”
“There’ve always been tensions between the two cities, but he’s never committed so grave an act.”
“Then perhaps you should find out why. As Beringal suggested, there may be more at work here.”
“And what of the horlocks? I thought them a disorganised rabble, slaying their own.”
“They’ve united under one leader and have never been stronger. They seek to take advantage in the south, though I doubt they suspect the largatyn’s betrayal.”
“And what about you, ashen?” the Dunn said, regarding him narrowly. “The black-eyes amongst you are as bad as horlocks, and those on Trummond Dorr are a cause of endless grief.”
“I do not speak for my wayward kin,” Balagir said levelly. “And I know not of this Trummond Dorr you speak of. But as for myself…” He splayed his hands, indicating honesty. “The ashen are tied up in this somewhere, though I do not know how. We were captured by the largatyn, held prisoner. That is how I became privy to their plan. They did not want us reaching the south. It cannot be coincidence that it comes on the eve of battle.” The Dunn was quiet for some time.
If he had hoped to gain answers, he was disappointed. If anything, he was left more confused.
“I’ll need the eye for the council,” he said at last.
“It’s mine,” Balagir said unwaveringly. “But I’ll be happy to accompany you.”
The Dunn sighed. “Since this appears to be a war of races, why not accept the help of an ashen. But I make no promises, and the others will not be easily swayed. Ashen are not popular in the Valelands.”
“I had noticed,” Balagir said drily.
“The council meets at dawn. I need to rest; I suggest you do the same. I thank you…”
“Balagir.”
Dunn Fannon nodded and stood, bade him goodnight, and left with more troubles than he had arrived with.
Dawn found Balagir loitering at the palace steps, and it was only the interjection of the young Dunn that kept the guards from chasing him off with their halberds. Even then, their frowns made it clear that such a guest would never have been welcomed whilst Ortho had been Dunn.
He was greeted with similar hostility when he entered the council chamber, and once the disbelieving gasps were out of the way, outcries arose.
“What is the meaning of this?” Beringal demanded with a tightness to his jaw. Despite a lifetime of servitude, such unseemliness was enough to make him forget his place.
“Some information has come to light. The ashen is here at my bidding. I ask that you put aside your prejudices for the time.”
The only figure that remained silent was Sisken, who watched Balagir as a haryek might a lone sheep.
“With all respect, Dunn Fannon,” Beringal rallied, “what help can we expect from his kind? Have you forgotten the ‘heroes’? They’ve been as much a thorn in our side as Gorokhan.” Balagir frowned at the term, though the tone in which they had been addressed made them sound anything but.
He cleared his throat, and Dunn Fannon gave a nod.
“Beringal,” he said, “I do not know well what differences you have with my kin, but today I come as an ally. Behold what it is I’ve brought, then you may dismiss me as you see fit.”
“Well spoken,” Dunn Fannon said wearily, quelling further protest.
Balagir removed the Gazer’s eye from his pouch and placed it on the table. There was a murmur of uncertainty, promptly giving way to gasps as the images kindled and unfolded. When the sequence had run its course, a deep silence fell over the chamber. Beringal, whose face had paled, visibly struggled with the scepticism so embodied in his bones.
“What is this? Fantasy?”
“Prophesy,” Balagir said.
“He found it in Iylleth,” Dunn Fannon elaborated. “Zyrath has beheld the same and is ready to strike.” Beringal shook his head in wonder.
“If this is true, even more reason to treat. Let us show Gorokhan what we’ve seen.” Sisken, who had remained unnervingly still throughout proceedings, raised his hand.
“I counsel caution.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Dunn.
>
“When have we ever put our trust in the ashen? When have they ever come to our aid?” He turned his icy gaze upon Balagir, and something unspoken flickered across his eyes. Something like curiosity, or hunger, or threat. “Should we begin now, at so crucial a juncture?”
“And you suggest?”
“Allow me to verify the authenticity of these auguries.”
“You’ve the means?”
“In the tower, of course. It would not be the first time some false prophet has sought to sway events to their liking. If your father were present, he’d confirm my words.”
“I will not let the eye out of my sight,” Balagir stated resolutely.
“Nor will you need to. If the Dunn agrees, you shall accompany me. We have much to discuss, you and I.” Balagir held the askaba’s gaze, neither willing to break it. They did indeed have much to discuss. Balagir wondered if Sisken had guessed what he knew or was simply curious for other reasons.
“How long will you need?” Dunn Fannon asked, rubbing his temples.
“It’s a straightforward procedure, though I would have to be delicate and thorough. I could be back by noon.”
“I see no harm in being cautious,” Beringal said, for once in agreement with the askaba. Satisfied, Dunn Fannon nodded. Noticing a cold contentment in Sisken’s eyes, Balagir would have protested, but resistance would only have added heat to already simmering suspicion.
“Very well, the council is adjourned. We will meet at noon. Meanwhile, Beringal, I want a full report on the troops.”
“At once, Dunn…”
As Beringal’s litany droned on, Balagir followed Sisken out of the chamber. The askaba wasted not a moment to ensure Balagir was at his heels. They passed the same sour-faced guards on the palace steps, crossed the square, and entered the cool shadows of the askaba tower.
Despite several distasteful glances, no one sought to interfere with the high-ranking askaba.