by Tim Stead
The second man hadn’t wasted time when he saw what was going on, and was coming in fast. Serhan struck the man’s sword hand with his staff, knocking the blade high, at the same time stepping forward with as much force as he could manage, driving his shoulder into the guard’s chest.
This gave him enough of an advantage, and a couple more blows disarmed the man and spun him round with the staff across his throat. He felt the guard’s hand move downwards and brought up a knee to block it.
“Touch that dagger and I’ll break your neck,” he said.
The guard stopped resisting.
By this time the first guard was back on his feet, although it was obvious he was having trouble with his knee and was still bent over. He advanced towards Serhan, sword held with deadly intent.
“Come much closer and your friend here is going to be in serious trouble.”
The guard stopped and eyed him with considerable malevolence. He was weighing the sword, trying to decide what to do.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Just fetch your officer.”
For a moment he thought the man was going to attack anyway.
“Just go and fetch the captain, eh, Colly?” the smaller guard said.
Colly seemed to relax, slid his sword back into its sheath, and limped into the gate without a backward glance. Serhan plucked the smaller guard’s dagger from his belt and released him, pushing him away from where his sword lay.
The guard sat down against the wall, easy now that the matter was out of his hands, and looked at Serhan.
“You fight pretty well with that stick,” he said. “Where did you learn?”
“Where I was taught.”
“Never seen it. Can you teach it?”
“Maybe.” Serhan smiled. “We’ll see what your officer says.” He lobbed the dagger back to the guard, who caught it deftly and put it back in its sheath. The tension was gone now. It was an officer problem.
The limping guard came back out with three other men. One of these, the tall one, Serhan thought, was obviously the officer. He was somehow very much in charge, though it was hard to tell from the uniforms. Something in the way he stood, perhaps, or the way the guards stood around him. He was nearly a foot taller than Serhan, thin and rangy with close cropped sandy hair and green eyes.
“You’ve been beating up my guards,” he said.
Serhan nodded. “I have come to offer my services to Gerique.”
“And they wouldn’t let you in. Well, you’ve got my attention. Do you want a position in the guard? It seems you have skills that would be useful.”
“Fighting isn’t what I do best.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “So. You’re a cook? A musician? What?”
“I’m a tactician, a strategist, a planner. I find solutions to problems.”
A couple of the guards looked at each other.
“You’re saying that you want to work with the Faer Karan, not just for them?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not wise. Do you know what they’re like?” The captain’s voice was calm, but the tone discouraging.
“I have a pretty good idea.”
There was a long pause while the officer looked at him. The guards were completely still and quiet. They were looking at him, too. He couldn’t read their expressions.
“All right.” The officer said abruptly. “You know this means that you’ll have to meet with them, and they’ll probably kill you for sport, but if that’s what you want, follow me.”
He followed the officer through the gate, and two of the guards walked behind him. They entered a large courtyard and crossed to a door on the far side. The captain gestured to Serhan to walk beside him.
“I hope you know what you’re getting into. Some advice: you do what they say. Exactly. And you never argue. They have short tempers and a taste for other people’s suffering. Most of the people here would do anything to avoid a face to face with the Faer Karan.” He was silent for a moment. “Look, are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
The officer shook his head. “Crazy. The colonel is the only one to go up there regularly, and he hates it.” He offered his hand. “Darius Grand, Captain of guard. You are?”
“Cal Serhan. I’m from the west. Out beyond the World’s End.”
“Rough country. Wish you’d go back there. Or I could make you a sergeant of the guard if you like. Your skills would justify that.”
“Thanks, but no.”
They went down three flights of stairs. There were no windows down here because they were in the heart of the rock itself. It was colder, but not damp and the air was smoky and stung his eyes a little, the only light coming from oil lamps.
They walked down a corridor and the captain banged on a large, solid looking door. It opened and there was another pair of guards on the other side.
“One for the lockup,” Grand said to them. They opened what was without doubt a cell door.
“You’ll wait here until the Faer Karan get around to you. It could be weeks.” He turned to the guards. “Look after this one, lads. He’s for upstairs.”
Serhan stepped into the cell and looked at it. There was a bed, a chair, and a hole in the floor. An oil lamp hung from a hook on the wall, and one of the guards lit it.
“Last chance,” Grand said.
“Thank you, Captain, but I’ll stick with it.”
Grand shook his head and stepped out of the cell. “Get him some food and a jug of ale,” he said to the guards. “And let me know when our masters send for him. I’ll take him up myself.”
Then he was gone. The cell door slammed. The big door at the end of the corridor shut with a clang and he was left with his own thoughts and the whispering of the guards outside. He sat on the chair and closed his eyes. Something that was a bit like fear and a bit more like excitement plucked at his nerves. He shivered.
Step one complete, he thought.
* * * *
About an hour later he heard the big door open again and voices outside in the passageway. The noises came closer and a loud voice outside said “Open it!”
Serhan stood up and faced the door as it opened.
A short and portly man stepped through the opening. He was wearing what was obviously an officer’s uniform, buttoned and braided to excess, but in every respect he was the opposite of Darius Grand.
Some men are big. Gris, the man who’d taught him stick fighting had been big, but Gris was like a slab of stone. This man’s chest was clearly in awe of his belly, even though he wasn’t exactly obese. He stood in the light of the lamp inspecting Serhan.
“I am Colonel Stil,” he announced eventually.
“Cal Serhan at your service, Colonel,” Serhan said.
“Ah, but you’re not, are you?” the colonel snapped.
“I’m sorry?”
“I know your type, Serhan.” He voiced the name carefully, like an insult. “You’re ambitious. You want power, and you think the Faer Karan are the way to get it.”
“I only wish to serve.”
“No you don’t. Nobody wants to serve. We do it because we have to, because it’s better than the alternative. If Captain Grand hadn’t already told the bastards that you were here I’d have you thrown from the walls.”
Serhan had never seen an adult quite as angry as the colonel. His face was red, his fists were balled. It was like seeing a child in a temper tantrum. But for all that anger, he didn’t move to strike. He was afraid. Not of Serhan himself, but of the Faer Karan. Afraid to do anything that might anger them, and also, perhaps, afraid that someone else might have their ear, might be preferred over him.
So here was an enemy.
“Colonel, I think you have mistaken my purpose. If I don’t die in the next few weeks, I hope that we have the chance to work together. I’m sure you can teach me a great deal about the Faer Karan, and the way things work around here.” It was an attempt to mollify, albeit a fairly clumsy
one.
The colonel seemed momentarily taken aback, and paused. There was something like a flicker of hope in his eyes, but his expression quickly hardened again.
“I shall be recommending that they burn you for sport,” he said, turned on his heel and walked out.
So yes, an enemy.
But if the Faer Karan knew their colonel, and he was sure that they did, they would understand and ignore anything he said. The offer of cooperation had been a mistake. Stil was not a man to share power. He was a man clinging to a ledge in a high wind, terrified that anyone up there with him would loosen his grip, and down he would fall.
He could learn more from the captain, anyway.
* * * *
The following day he was visited again.
Two women stepped through the door. One was about his age, and the other maybe twice that. They studied him for a while, and he studied them back. They were archers, he could see that from the uniforms, the wrist leathers and the quiver straps over their shoulders. The younger of the two could have been good looking, but she had cropped her hair and adopted a fierce expression. The older was clear eyed, neutral. She was trying to learn something from his appearance.
“Can you use a bow?” she asked eventually.
“I’ve hunted with one.”
“And did you hit what you shot at?”
Serhan laughed. “More often than not.”
“I am Cora Bantassin, Captain of Archers. This is my lieutenant, Sabra. We have been asked to determine if you have any such skill. Follow us.”
They went back through the great door, up the stairs and out into the courtyard. Serhan found the sunlight almost painful after a day of nothing but oil lamps, and squinted in the brightness.
A target had been set up at one end of the courtyard. A bow and a quiver of arrows lay on a table about fifty paces from the target and along the sides of this makeshift target range there sat, stood or lay about sixty men and women. The majority of them were guards of one sort or another, but some others were there also.
Captain Bantassin indicated the table and he walked slowly to it, letting his eyes adjust. The buzz of conversation that had quietened when he emerged from the stairs picked up again. He could see that some were laying bets. He noticed the smaller of the two guards that he had fought with at the gate, and the man nodded to him. He nodded back. No malice there.
High above the courtyard there were great windows set in the stone walls. Did demon eyes gaze down from behind the glass? They would be up there somewhere, the Faer Karan, and he wondered if they would be interested enough to watch.
He picked up the bow.
“It’s larger than my own,” he commented, stretching the bowstring. “The tension is higher.”
“Is that an excuse?”
“Maybe. Can I have three arrows to get the feel of it before you start counting?”
“That’s fair.”
“Wagers off on the first three arrows,” he called to the crowd in general. There was a small ripple of laughter, and he saw people smiling. They understood that he understood.
He picked up the first arrow and fitted it to the bow. The arrow, too, was a different weight. He drew it back so that his fingers were close to his ear and sighted along the shaft. He raised the bow a few degrees. About there. His fingers relaxed and the arrow flew through the air, striking the target near top in the outermost of six rings around the bull. He had underestimated the power of the bow.
He fitted the second arrow and took aim again. This one hit at the right height, and in the second ring, just to the right of the bull. He frowned. That should have hit square. Looking at the first arrow again, he saw that it, too, was a little to the right.
Placing the bow back on the table he walked slowly down the track that the arrows followed. About two thirds of the way to the target he felt a strong breeze on his left cheek and turned that way. He could see nothing that would cause the effect, and stood there for about a minute gauging it. The breeze was quite constant.
Walking back to the table he could see that the captain was smiling. So the little breeze was part of the test.
The third arrow hit the bull.
The next four arrows all hit the bull as well, but the fifth was deflected by the fletching of one of those already crowded in and struck the target in the next ring out.
There was a scattering of applause from the crowd. Money changed hands.
“Not bad,” Captain Bantassin said behind him. “I wouldn’t like to be a deer in your woods.”
“Oh it’s much harder to get a clear shot at a deer, Captain.”
She nodded. “Back to the cells for now, I’m afraid.” They walked back to the door trailing an escort of guards.
“Tell me, Serhan, do you know how to use a sword?”
“No. It’s just a metal stick to me.”
It was the captain’s turn to laugh. “I’ve heard about you and sticks,” she said.
They started down the stairs.
“Can you tell me anything about the Faer Karan, Captain?”
“Not much. Darius is your man for that. He’s taken our guard up against Faer Karan commanders a few times, and knows their minds better than most. He always seems to win, and Gerique values him highly.”
“He’s fought the Faer Karan?” Serhan was astonished.
“No. Matched wits with them would be a better way of putting it. It’s a game to them. Since they can’t die, they use us to determine who wins. It’s against the rules to have a go at our masters, though nothing seems to affect them anyway. Apparently it annoys them if you shoot at them, so we don’t.”
“Wise indeed.”
“So why did you come here?”
“To serve.”
“Who? The Faer Karan, or yourself?”
“Both to differing degrees, Captain.”
“Darius said you were a politician. A good one, too. A lot of people are hoping you’re going to make it.”
“But not Colonel Stil.”
“No, not him.” They had reached the door to his cell, and she held him back for a moment. “You worry me, Serhan. Nobody knows what you want, but we don’t want things messed around with. It works here. It’s not perfect, but it works.”
“I can’t even promise to be alive next week, captain.”
“But you have a plan.”
“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “But for now I’m playing it by ear.”
“And you’re not going to tell me.”
“Not now.”
He went into the cell and the door closed behind him again.
“Darius thinks you might be a good thing, Serhan,” she said from the other side of the door. “He’s normally a pretty good judge of character, and for what it’s worth I hope he’s right, but we’ll be watching you.”
The big door clanged shut.
Fair enough, he thought.
Closing his eyes he reached into his memory and pulled back images of the scene in the courtyard. His recall was so precise that he was able to study the detail as if the image was still before him.
He was sure there had been a shadow at that high window. A very large shadow.
He sat in the chair doing reruns of the day’s events until he was tired. Then he slept.
3 Faer Karan
He was roused from sleep by someone gently shaking his shoulder. For a moment he thought it was master Brial, that he was still in the village, but he opened his eyes to find Captain Grand bent over him. There was another guard in the cell close to the door.
“It’s now. They want to see you now,” Grand said.
Serhan sat up and rubbed his hands across his face. He felt tired and thick headed. He had been dragged up from the deepest of sleeps.
“What time of day is it?”
The captain grimaced. “After midnight, before dawn.”
So they wanted to see him at lowest ebb. Perhaps they had no low point themselves. Perhaps they never slept at all.
�
��Water?” he asked.
“I can do better than that,” Grand said. He reached back and the guard passed him a steaming cup. “Drink this,” he said. “It’s jaro, made from a root that grows around here. It’s said to promote alertness.”
Serhan took the cup and sniffed at it suspiciously. It had a pleasant, sweet odour. This was Grand, he reminded himself, a man that he had judged to be as straight as an arrow. If this were a drug or poison it would be colonel Stil offering it. I was trained to look for deception and evil, he thought, to be always on my guard against it, and my dark adapted eye will see shadows where there are none. This also I must guard against.
He sipped. The taste was unexpectedly bitter sweet. He liked it. He swallowed and felt the hot liquid warm him from the inside. He took another draught.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Now follow me.”
Serhan drained the cup and followed Grand through the door and up the stairs to the courtyard. At this time of night it was deserted and still. A light burned by the gate, and high above them there was evidence of lamplight in the big windows. The stars were unobscured by either clouds or light, a breathtaking display of cold brilliance, and their faint glow illuminated the world just enough to see. The air was warm. It was a beautiful night.
As he walked his head cleared, and the weight of sleep was banished.
Not a night that I wish to die, he thought, but I must be prepared to play my role, even to the point of death. He relaxed his mind, as he had been trained, into a state of watchful acceptance detached a little from the here and now. It would enable him to do his best without fear.
Up the stairs they went; two flights, four flights, six flights. There were no doors on this stair, he noted. It just went up.
He had learned his lessons well. Back in the valley, a place that was so remote that they had no name for it – simply the valley – he had dug in the fields for strength, and in the evenings they gave him more food than the others, and he felt guilt, refused to eat. Master Brial said to him, Eat. You are the sword with which we shall strike at our enemy, and that sword must be strong. He ate.