Grigayne checked on the Brevian soldiers. They’d sat down at a long table not so far away, throwing them an occasional glance. He then wondered when his father had last stood upon the King’s Rock.
Servants appeared carrying their meal; a heavy black pot of barely broth for two, cold slices of pink beef, hot bread, and soft butter. Grigayne was most thankful for the mug of ale placed before him and drained half of it in one long gulp.
“Missed that did ye?” Somerled asked.
Grigayne gave a satisfied sigh. “One grows tired of water in prolonged dragon company.”
“Aye,” Somerled added. He half opened his mouth as if to say more but stuffed in a chunk of bread instead. They ate in silence a little longer. It was most unlike his father and a sense of foreboding grew in Grigayne.
“Mother is safe and well?”
“What? Oh, yer mother? Aye, she’s fine – fine and well, o’ course. The demons never made it tae West Hearth.” He smiled then returned to his broth.
Grigayne glanced again to the soldiers. Each had a mug of ale, sipping it quietly and talking in low voices. They weren’t watching him and Somerled now, but their presence was like a bulbous red welt upon the nose.
“Perhaps we should move elsewhere?” Grigayne said. “To a more private setting?”
“Not right now.”
Grigayne leaned in. “Father, what is going on here? Who are those men?”
“They are our guests,” Somerled said in an equally hushed voice. “Our very honoured guests.”
“You’ve never let Brevian troops enter armed into your hall before.”
“Times change,” said Somerled. “Old things wane and new ways rise. Look at the dragons. They’re failing.”
“Hardly,” Grigayne said. “They’ll rebuild in time. And you still haven’t answered my question. Why let these soldiers in?”
“What makes ye think they’re soldiers?”
“It’s clearly weapons they carry. They treat them like our warriors treat their shields and axes. Though what they do I don’t know.”
“That’s a rare glimmer of innocence that is,” Somerled said. “I wish I didnae know what they did.”
Grigayne felt the corners of his mouth pull and twitch. Never had he seen his father so cowed, so lifeless. He jumped to his feet, knocking his empty ale mug over in the process. His sudden move drew the attention of the soldiers. A couple of them fingered their weapons carefully but did not hasten to rise themselves.
It was Somerled who did that. “Grigayne grieves at the suffering our people have endured in the war. It’s eaten right away at his sensibilities and his sense.” He turned to stare hard at Grigayne, urging him through his eyes to sit back down.
Grigayne had wanted to shout at the Brevian soldiers but his father’s fear had finally gotten to him. “My father speaks true,” he began, faking a teary, half-choked voice. “I find myself on the verge of tears. So much death. So many innocents. I’ve seen children dead upon the ground, their faces blue and cold—” He found he no longer needed to fake it. He’d seen some horrors over the last year. The body piles outside the town of Errin would haunt him forever. “And I would shed these tears were it not for strict custom among my people not to show weakness before guests.” He spoke imploring now to the soldiers. “Please, might you briefly step outside, so I may release my feelings and maintain my honour as an islander.”
The Brevians rolled their eyes but rose and trooped outside of the hall, disappearing from the whisky light and to the grey world beyond.
Grigayne smirked, delighted. “Do they know so little of us that they believed that?”
Somerled scowled. “Wit’ was the need in that?” He sounded far more like his usual self.
“Speak freely, father. Why do these soldiers frighten you?”
“Because ’av never felt so powerless.” Somerled sagged and sat back down. He placed his elbows on the table and planted his head in his hands. He rubbed at his face, then spoke again. “Arkus has informed me that the burden of war on the kingdom has been great.”
“On our people, most of all,” Grigayne said.
“Ach, there’s been plenty of devastation everywhere.”
“You never saw the war here,” Grigayne said. He wanted to say, ‘You never saw our people massacred, burned, their homes ruined,’ but he held back. It wasn’t Somerled’s place to witness these things first hand. He sighed heavily and said, “Sorry, father. Please go on.”
“To begin recuperating the losses of the war and fund reconstruction in the Boreac Mountains, the Cairlav Marshes and the Golden Crescent, there’s tae be more tax on produce high in alcohol’.” He spoke in a mock pompous accent, that was quite close to Grigayne’s own in truth. The very accent that he’d ensured Grigayne would have.
“Is that all?” Grigayne said.
“Of course not. A bit o’ bloody tax I can handle.” He growled and closed his eyes, apparently having to dig deep to find some inner strength to carry on. “King Arkus has also proclaimed that the powers o’ the Kingdom should be brought closer together, tae avoid a repeat of Castallan’s rebellion. As such, Arkus has encouraged all remaining nobles to sign a Charter of Unity.” Somerled’s voice was rising to a dangerously high pitch now. “A fine thing in theory to do. Another thing entirely to have us sign it.”
“What does it say?” Grigayne asked.
“As a sign of faith in the Kingdom of Brevia, all Lords will sacrifice any legal or inherited claim to the lands they possess. Instead, all land of the realm is now under the sole domain of the Crown of Brevia. In practice, we will all receive our lands and entitlements back as gifts. In practice, very little is likely to change. But… but…” Somerled was truly struggling now. Fury and shock were making him shake. Grigayne thought he knew what was coming. Only one thing could have stripped his father of all his former bearing.
“But you would give up all claim of sovereignty over the Splintering Isles,” Grigayne said. “Any chance for independence would be—”
“Over.”
Grigayne swallowed hard. “Father, have you signed this thing?”
“Aye,” Somerled shuddered.
Grigayne bit down on his fist, then thumped it on the table. “It’s only words. So, you’ve signed one piece of parchment. Another can undo it. This doesn’t destroy your dream.”
“Is it not also your dream?” Somerled said. He looked very intently at Grigayne.
“You know I’ve been torn on the matter,” Grigayne said. “I have thought it a strange battle to be fighting when there were greater problems in the world. But this underhand ploy does not sit well with me. Not at all.” Grigayne felt a hot anger flourish in him like never before. Arkus’ document was little better than a backhanded slap, a slight against his father, his family and his people. Arkus overstepped himself. Surely the other lords were just as furious? He was taking advantage of their weak position in the middle of a brutal war.
Grigayne pictured Arkus sitting on a plump cushion, his fingers coming together in a steeple, a smile curling up his face.
“When the war is over, I promise to aid in whatever way I can to undo this. I’ll put the voice you have given me too good use in the Assembly. I’m a proud islander, father, and I won’t have us treated like Lord Bog of the damned marshes.”
“I fear I’ve taken an irreversible step,” Somerled said. “Without a claim, what do we have now? Just desire or will? But how to assert that will?”
Grigayne pondered for a moment, then drew out his smaller axe from his belt and slammed it into the table. It quivered there for a moment, the steel lodged deeply into the wood.
“That’s how we can assert our will. The Splinters are far larger than any one region of the rest of the Kingdom. We sacked Brevia once before. Our numbers have always been one of our bargaining chips. No King in Brevia has tri
ed to push the boundary of their power here because of it.”
“You’d threaten him?”
“I’d make it clear that Brevia would have a hard time taking what it wants by force,” Grigayne said. “I’ve seen their so-called warriors in action. Our women would make them wet themselves. Besides, no one would stand for it if Arkus started killing lords who didn’t bend the knee to his whims.”
Somerled shook his head. “No anymore. Annandale’s been executed. By these new weapons no less. People are frightened. I’m frightened. Son, I’m afraid we’re beat.”
“Why? How?”
“The weapons are called muskets and will cut through any shield wall as if it wasnae’ there. They’re fuelled by that black powder I saw at the Bastion. Arkus must have been developing them for years… all in secret. All fer him.”
Grigayne struggled for words. This was indeed troubling news but there was a more pressing problem.
“Our immediate danger still lies in Rectar. To that end I’d like to take back as many warriors and resources—”
“Naw, that’s no happenin’,” Somerled said. “That boy king ran off east with his armies right when we needed him most. He did us nae favours leaving that bleedin’ Guardian behind. You can’t have forgotten that?”
“I’ll never forget the disaster at Eastguard,” Grigayne said. He turned his face to show the scarred tissue where a spectre had gouged at his cheek. “Never, father. But Darnuir was not wholly in his right mind at the time; an addiction to magic, I’m told. He’s better now and his head seems sewn on correctly this time. He’s calmer, more considered. In any case, it is he who will deliver us Rectar’s defeat, if such a thing is possible. I would help him do that. It’s in all of our interests, after all.”
Somerled shook his head more forcefully. “I forbid it. No more islanders will die on account o’ dragons. You say Darnuir wasn’t in his right mind before? Well, I see that as a good reason not tae trust his judgement, whether he’s better now or no. What’s to stop that happenin’ again? He made demands of us while his mind was addled. No. No, more of our blood shall be spent.”
“We have thousands of warriors in Aurisha already.”
“Then retrieve them.”
Grigayne stepped away from the table. Dismayed, he placed his hands behind his head and pulled his elbows in towards his face.
“I cannot do that. I won’t have us abandon the fight. That would hurt my honour as an islander.”
Somerled got back on his feet. “Am I not the Lord of the Isles, still? You will heed my orders.”
“I thought we weren’t lords of anything anymore,” Grigayne said bitterly. “Don’t let your anger at Arkus lead you to forsake the dragons just because it’s the one bit of authority you can cling to. That is true madness. And pettiness. I thought we were above that.”
Somerled stepped away from the table too. Grigayne was taller than him, he had been for years, but the look his father gave him made him feel eight years old. Grigayne had touched a nerve.
“Are you still capable of commanding our ships, or do I need to give the honour to an islander more loyal to their Lord’s will?”
Grigayne snorted, but when he spoke he restrained himself. “I am quite capable, father.”
“Good. Then you’ll scurry back to Aurisha and you’ll bring all our warriors and shield maidens home. Let the mighty Arkus handle this war on behalf of humanity. We’ve played our part.” Somerled skulked off and did not look back.
Grigayne remained rooted to the spot. What had just happened? His father had lost all backbone. And so quickly. Things were unravelling fast. What careful stability had existed for most of his life was being dismantled in a matter of months. Three islands of the Splinters lay in ruin; the traitor Castallan was dead, Lord Annandale was dead, Brevia was more powerful than ever, and the King of Dragons said he was relying on extra help from him, Grigayne. What could he do?
He could move for a start. Standing in Somerled’s empty hall, in the shadow of the ancient King’s Rock, only added to his sense of dismay. He pulled his axe free from the table and marched outside with it still in hand. Perhaps that’s why the Brevian soldiers raised their muskets when they saw him.
“You can return to your babysitting,” he spat. In a moment of daring he twirled the axe in his hand and the soldiers took more exacting aim at him. Staring down a black barrel, Grigayne placed the axe back at his belt and strode passed.
Half-drunk on anger and confusion, his feet guided him instinctively through Dalridia. Spring had brought bluebells and daffodils to life on the earthen rooftops of the city, which blurred into a green-blue-yellow haze as he strode over the waterways.
At the eastern gate of Dalridia he stopped to examine the gouges in the wood and the broken sections of the palisade maze; the city’s own scars of the war. The sight brought back the vivid memory of lashing rain, fighting on an empty belly, the manic cackling of demons and the cruel white smiles of the spectres. As he thought about the wound he’d received from that spectre with the flaming blue hair, a twinge of pain shot through his shoulder.
It had been Grigayne’s own account of the strange behaviour of the spectres that had prompted Darnuir to head east more quickly. Perhaps if he hadn’t told Darnuir what had happened, he would have stayed; Eastguard would have been liberated on the first attempt. Instead, Blaine had hastily sailed there simply to prove something to his own men and the islanders had paid another high price. Grigayne thought on this deeply as he descended the slope towards the beaches.
Maybe his father was right? Maybe their people owed Darnuir nothing more. Yet, that was unfair. Dalridia would have fallen were it not for Darnuir landing upon these very beaches and smashing the demon host.
He had made it to the edge of the shoreline now. The tide had retreated, leaving seaweed and stranded jellyfish in its wake. The day was warm enough to start baking this debris of the ocean, filling the air with a distasteful eggy smell.
Before boarding the Grey Fury, his family’s massive long ship, Grigayne scooped up a handful of pebbles and began tossing them into the sea. A well-rounded stone fell into the water with a satisfying plop. With the tide heading out, he’d have plenty of time to stew over his predicament.
He had most of the fleet of the Splintering Isles, more than enough, he had thought, to bring extra men and supplies back to Aurisha. They weren’t fully crewed. He’d left as many warriors in Aurisha as he dared, while still being able to cross the sea. He supposed it had all been for nothing. He’d return empty-handed to Darnuir; worse, he’d have to tell the King that he was to take his islanders away. The mere thought of it flushed his cheeks with shame.
He respected Darnuir, especially his handling of the murderous Light Bearers. Would he even be considering following his father’s orders if he’d accepted Darnuir’s invitation to join the Praetorian Guard? He didn’t know. He was just grateful not to be trapped in that position.
Another fine splash sounded as the last of his stones hit the water. It didn’t have the calming effect that he’d hoped for.
“Ye willnae catch fish like that, lad.” Grigayne knew that coarse voice well. He turned to face its source and smiled. Cayn was approaching him with a resilient bearing. Though windburnt and leathery, Cayn still had the energy of a far younger man, if not the nervous nature of someone speaking so openly to his lord. His missing hand prevented him from handling an oar, but his experience of the waters of the Splinters made him invaluable.
“Sumin’ troubling ye?”
“As ever, Captain Cayn. As ever.” Grigayne huffed, sniffed and regretted it immediately on account of the seaweed, then thought of asking for Cayn’s opinion. “Would you ever run from a fight?”
“We ran from Eastguard.”
“That’s different. We were retreating, not running with the intention of never coming back.”
Cayn shrugged. “S’not up to me mostly. I’ve rowed where a’ve been told. Fought when a’ve been told tae fight.”
“Alright, a different question,” said Grigayne. “You’re from the island of Baltyre, right? What would you have done if the demons had been poised to attack, but I told you we were pulling out all support. Would you be able to follow through?”
Cayn cocked his head and gave his scalp a good scratch. “Dun’t seem like something you’d do, lad. Nae point worrying over something you won’t ever do, I say.”
Grigayne gave a breathy laugh. “No, I suppose you’re right. But sometimes we are forced to do things we otherwise wouldn’t, aren’t we?” He thought heavily on his father and the disgraceful charter he’d been made to sign.
“Nah, I think that’s just excuses,” Cayn said. “Gotta live with yerself first and foremost. If ye cannae dae that, there’ll be no livin’ wae others.”
Grigayne wanted to think that was true, yet he suspected his conundrum was so far removed from the trials of daily life, it was at odds with sailor wisdom. As he said nothing more, Cayn took the chance to spit onto the still damp sand.
“So, what’s ol’ Somerled wanting ye tae dae then?”
“Something I fear I’ll have to do, whether I can live with it or not.” He resigned himself. “We’ll be heading back to Aurisha tomorrow.”
“By which way?” Cayn asked.
Grigayne smiled, bemused. As if there was a choice. He wanted to say, ‘East, naturally’ and chide Cayn about losing his senses, but then they could row south between Guffarne and the two Wicks, approach Aurisha from further south than before. They could pick up some food or other supplies that way at least, and by the time Somerled found out it would be too late.
Or – and Grigayne froze at the sudden thought – or, they could go west to Brevia first. His father hadn’t said to go immediately to Aurisha. He hadn’t specified a way. It was a poor excuse and perverse logic, but it lit a fire in him. Yes, he could take his fleet to Brevia and bring Darnuir back something even more valuable than island warriors.
The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian Page 25