Grimdark Magazine Issue #8 ePUB

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  Eribon felt Talgard's laughter echo through his mind, and scowled. ‘Clan Balanos needs me, and they know it, deep down.’

  ‘But you'd like them to be a little more open about their needs?’

  ‘Why not? I've earned it. I've served them, and served them well. Who broke the blockade around Senethon? Who saved Arix Gavron's life during that disaster out near Singoria? I've fought and bled while my so-called betters were turning a pretty step at court...’

  ‘...or pursuing midnight dalliances.’ Icarin laughed. ‘It's just as well you're not bitter, otherwise you'd go on about it all the time.’

  Eribon glared at his friend. Icarin had never understood his frustrations, though he pretended otherwise. And how could he? He didn't have to prove his worth day after day after day. Eribon was about to say as much when he realised that the corners of his friend's lips were quivering, as he tried to hold back a grin.

  ‘Careful,’ he growled. ‘We're not such good friends that you can throw insults like that around.’

  Icarin splayed the fingers of his right hand across his chest. ‘You'd call me out? Me?’

  ‘I would. And I'd give you the thrashing you so clearly deserve. You shoot like a blind drunk—In every sense of those words.’

  Icarin made a masterful attempt to look offended, but collapsed into guffaws of laughter.

  ‘Alright, so I've said all this before,’ Eribon said, laughing along with his friend. He clashed his tankard against Icarin's. ‘But that doesn't make it any less true. And it doesn't mean you've managed to change the subject. Something's bothering you, isn't it?’ He took a long swig of the spiced mead, savouring the sour aftertaste.

  Icarin's laughter faded as he glanced conspiratorially around. A wasted effort—the tavern was practically empty, save for a crowd of hauler crewers enjoying a raucous layover. ‘My uncle's suing for peace.’

  ‘There's no other way?’

  ‘None. At least we'll look like we're bargaining from a position of strength.’ Icarin winced, suddenly aware he'd said too much. ‘You must repeat nothing of this. Nothing at all, do you hear me?’

  ‘On my honour, it'll stay between us.’ Eribon gulped down another mouthful of the thick, sweet mead. ‘Do you want my advice?’

  Icarin smiled ruefully. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Of course you don't. I was being polite.’ Eribon leaned forward and placed the tankard on the table. ‘If there's truly nothing you can do, then put it from your mind—there's no sense tying yourself in knots.’

  Icarin shook his head. ‘That's exactly what Elza keeps telling me.’

  ‘Then I'm doubly sure. I never argue with a spectre, unless it's my own. Besides, she's right. Enjoy your wedding day. War is a cycle, you know that. Today, the Kerno have the better of you. Tomorrow? Well, maybe tomorrow there'll be a more sympathetic ear in the Balanos high command.’

  Icarin gave a weary smile and shook his head. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘One day, I'll have all the influence you could ever need, you'll see.’ Eribon shrugged. ‘I'm only sorry that day isn't today.’ He fished his gold-inlaid chrono out of pocket by its chain, and snapped it open. ‘Look, it's late, and you've a busy day ahead of you.’

  ‘You are coming to the ceremony, aren't you?’

  Eribon laughed. ‘What, you think I've flown all the way here just to abandon you? I'll be there. Come on, let's get you home.’

  * * *

  Now

  Eribon awoke in a dimly-lit room with dreary grey walls. The air stank of antiseptic, and the only sound was the gentle hum of the medical monitor at his bedside. His chest felt like a single, vast bruise. His extremities felt distant, numb.

  ‘Ah, you're awake.’

  Corvor loomed over the bed. She regarded Eribon with an air of disappointment. Somehow, her presence surprised him even less than her disapproval.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Aboard the Indomitable,’ she replied. ‘We could hardly leave you at the mercy of the Tarenis medicians, could we? Such a backward bunch.’

  The flagship? Eribon tried to piece together the jumbled images and sounds that formed his recent memory, but there were too many gaps. Experimentally, he pressed together the fingertips of his left hand. There was no sensation. None. He repeated the process with his right hand with the same lack of result.

  ‘What's wrong with my hands?’

  ‘The bullet grazed your spine. There was a great deal of neural damage, not all of it reparable. You'll never fly a javelin again. I'm afraid your career as a herald has come to an end.’

  Given what had happened the last time he'd sat in a pilot's seat, Eribon couldn't summon up much sadness at that. Then again, all of his thoughts felt slightly fuzzy. Painkillers, or another symptom of neural damage? ‘What about Icarin?’

  ‘He's alive, and in rather better condition than you. Made a botch of things, didn't you? I had to rescue the situation. With both of you crippled, Cerin Briganta—your adjudicator—declared the result a draw, and therefore unproven.’

  Eribon frowned. Such a thing was technically possible, but almost unheard of. ‘Why?’

  ‘Let us say only that she owed me a favour.’

  She almost certainly still did. Corvor wasn't the kind of woman to let debts be easily settled.

  ‘Icarin will challenge again.’

  ‘You really don't listen, do you? You're no longer a herald: he can't. The result of the duel, though not to anyone's liking, will stand. The Tarenis may suspect our involvement in their recent tragedy, but with the duel a draw, they can't prove it. More importantly, they can't prove it to the Kerno. I think we'll let them hammer away at each other for a while yet before getting properly involved.’

  Eribon regarded her stonily. ‘All this to keep them at one another's throats?’

  ‘Well, it seemed a shame to let such a useful war boil away to nothing. This way, the Tarenis will eventually be forced to seek our protection. Does that sound familiar at all? Just think, you and Icarin will be comrades again. Won't that be nice?’

  ‘I thought I wasn't a herald anymore.’

  ‘Oh, you're not, but I'm sure I'll find a use for you. I wouldn't get any ideas about free will, not yet. There's still your great-grandmother to consider.’ Corvor moved to the door. ‘Get some rest. I'll need you soon.’

  With a swirl of robes, she was gone. Eribon stared after her, clenching and unclenching a fist he could not feel.

  When the young Matthew Ward wasn’t reading of strange worlds in the works of C S Lewis, Tolkien and Douglas Hill, he was watching adventure and mystery in Doctor Who, and Richard Carpenter’s excellent Robin of Sherwood series.

  In 2002, he joined Games Workshop and spent the next decade developing characters, settings and stories for their Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 universes, as well as for a successful series of licensed books set in J.R.R Tolkien's Middle-earth.

  In 2014, Matthew embarked on an adventure to tell stories set in worlds of his own design. He firmly believes that there’s not enough magic in the world, and writes to entertain anyone who feels the same way. He lives near Nottingham with his extremely patient wife, and three attention-seeking cats.

  ISBN-13: ISBN: 978-0-9945214-5-3

  Copyright 2016 Grimdark Magazine