by Duncan Lay
‘But…’
Martil kissed the top of her head. ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ he promised.
Merren would have joined in, but she could not escape from Barrett.
‘How could you, Merren? After what you said to me back in the woods—you did the same thing with Martil, didn’t you?’ he accused.
‘Don’t you dare accuse me of anything!’ Merren blazed back at him.
‘But Martil! Look what is happening—I warned you about this!’ Barrett would normally have backed away long before now, but the thought of Merren and Martil together was eating him up inside.
‘Wizard, you go too far! Have a care to what you say next!’ Merren said furiously.
Quiller or Alban might have thought to intervene—only Quiller was ripping into the younger priest.
‘Do you have any idea what you have done? This country is on a knife-edge as it is! If you had any suspicions, you should have raised them with me first!’
‘Suspicions? The Queen is pregnant! Why should I think it was anything other than proper?’ Alban growled.
‘And show some respect for the Queen, for Aroaril’s sake! Can you try and repair some of the damage?’ Quiller hissed.
Alban held up his hand for silence; in that pause they all heard knocking on the door. Outside, Jaret called: ‘There’s a group of Derthals approaching.’
‘Perfect timing,’ Merren said fiercely in the sudden silence. She turned on them all. ‘This did not happen. None of it. And if I hear of it in Norstalos, I know who to go looking for.’
Nobody spoke.
A moment later, Wilsen showed in a group of Derthal warriors, led by the one Martil recognised as the High Chief’s guard captain.
‘High Chief Sacrax will see you now,’ he grunted. ‘Follow.’
‘Ask him where we are going,’ Merren ordered Alban, and the priest, eager to make amends, hurried forwards, and barked out a question in Derthal.
The answer was brief, and Alban was able to turn with a smile.
‘It is in his private audience chamber. Just us, and a few guards. It must be that he has found the truth of Rath’s deception.’
Once more they collected Havell, left Argurium snoozing in the weak sunlight, and followed the Derthal guards back to the cave complex.
Unlike yesterday, there was plenty of activity in the Derthal camp. Out in the sun, young Derthal children played, chasing each other, while older male children were being taught how to use spears by a scarred Derthal warrior. Martil wondered why they did not try to throw the spears rather than thrust them, but supposed the balance was all wrong for throwing.
Derthal women were stretching and scraping animal skins, while others were heading off towards the distant forest, with baskets at their hips, still more were carrying waterskins back from a nearby brook, in a never-ending line.
They seemed happy enough, but it looked to be a hard, grim life up here, he reflected. He was trying to think about the Derthals so he did not think about Merren, and her marriage to Sendric. Because thinking of that made him want to draw the Dragon Sword and go hunting for the Berellians, to exorcise the massive anger, and hurt, and confusion inside him.
Then they plunged into the caves once more and were taken, not to the large cavern they had first seen, but to a smaller, more comfortable cave. Rushes made a crude carpet on the floor, while animal skins were hung over the walls and the horns from many deer decorated the edges.
Seated on a crude stool, not a throne this time, was the High Chief, who rose to greet them. Stools were brought for them, as was food: bowls of autumn berries and nuts.
When all were seated, and only a handful of guards remained stationed around the room, Sacrax bowed his head.
‘My guards captured two of Rath’s warriors, as well as finding Rath’s body. They did not want to tell me the truth, but soon they were eager to say all. I owe you the lives of my wives and children. Rath wanted them dead. If you had helped him, they would be dead,’ Sacrax said simply.
‘Rath must have been working for the Berellians,’ Martil said.
Sacrax turned his eyes on Martil, who met his gaze squarely.
‘The Queen’s warrior. You are smaller than I thought,’ Sacrax said thoughtfully. ‘I would like to see you fight.’
‘Join us and I’ll show you,’ Martil said harshly. ‘Turn on us and you might see more than you wished.’
Merren gave him a glare but Sacrax was laughing.
‘I like that,’ the Derthal admitted. ‘But we are not here to fight, we are here to talk. Your deeds at my house have earned you much. The dragon you have with you adds weight to your words. But I must hear exactly what you offer.’
Merren took a handful of berries and made a point of eating a couple of them; both Alban and Quiller had said that was a gesture of trust among the Derthals.
‘I am offering to correct a historic wrong. Your people were driven out of their lands, into these harsh mountains, because of one of my ancestors. Now I am offering your people the great northern forest, yours forever, written in our law, as well as recompense for the suffering you have gone through. There will be warm clothes for your people, as well as seeds and help with farming, should you wish. And we will offer medicine, and healers. Your people and mine shall live side by side, as good neighbours, not as enemies.’
‘That sounds good,’ Sacrax admitted. ‘But what is it you want?’
‘For us to live in peace, we must have peace. My people are about to be invaded by three armies. We are outnumbered. We need your warriors to protect us while we train a bigger army. Hopefully your warriors would not even need to fight, just help block the northern passes. But, without your warriors, we are doomed. And if that were to happen, there would be no peace, no chance for your people to ever leave the mountains. For those we fight will promise you much—no doubt they are offering you all the land you can take from the Norstalines. But they will not let you keep it. Once they have finished with us, then they will turn on you. They want the shiny metals too much to let you keep what you could take. You can, of course, refuse us both. But then you will never leave these mountains. If you want to lead your people out of this misery, then we offer the only way. Yes, perhaps Derthals will be in danger. But they will just be there to scare our enemies, not to fight.’
Sacrax looked thoughtful. ‘But what of the dragons? Will they help us?’
Havell shifted on his stool. ‘The dragons do not fight. They act only to preserve the magic. But they will promise help to the Derthals. For the next year, no Derthal mother will lose their baby, and no Derthal mother will die in childbirth.’
Sacrax grunted. ‘I have too many women and children already! Why do I want more?’
But Merren could see this offer intrigued him. She shuddered to think how many Derthal mothers and babies died up here. It made her think of the child inside her. She was not overly religious but she could not help but offer up a small prayer to Aroaril to preserve the child.
‘In addition,’ Havell continued, ‘myself and the dragon Argurium will watch over any battle. While we will not take part, our presence will no doubt act as encouragement to your side, and cause fear in your enemies.’
Sacrax helped himself to some berries. ‘Your offer is good, but it has one problem. What if we join you, and you are still defeated? Then your enemies will turn on us.’
‘We shall not lose. With your warriors, I can hold the passes long enough to train an army to defeat our enemies,’ Martil declared.
‘He carries the Dragon Sword. It has never been defeated in battle,’ Merren added.
Sacrax sighed.
‘I have a problem,’ he admitted. ‘Rath’s treachery makes me think the Berellians lie. But many of my chiefs like their words, like the idea of revenge on the Norstalines. Many, many deaths can be laid at your door. We lived in peace before you came, seeking the bright metals in the ground. Then you wanted more, wanted our grasslands. Then you wanted our forests,
then you wanted everything. That is many memories. Yes, we want our home back. But if I agree to help you, then many of my chiefs may not want to follow me. They do not care that my family was saved. They worry about themselves. The dispute among my people is too strong.’
They sat in silence for a long moment, thinking about his words.
‘Father Quiller told me how the Derthals decide a dispute the High Chief cannot solve,’ Martil said suddenly. ‘Trial by combat. The winner is seen to be speaking the truth.’
Sacrax nodded. ‘That is right.’
‘Then I shall fight the Berellian Champion. And your people will see that we speak the truth.’
‘No!’ Havell cried. ‘The Dragon Sword wielder is too valuable to risk!’
‘Good idea.’ Sacrax smiled.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Merren turned to Martil nervously.
‘What else can we do? We came here to win over the Derthals. This may be the only way to do it,’ Martil pointed out.
Sacrax nodded. ‘It is the only way. If you win, I shall be able to persuade my chiefs to march with you. If you lose, then I will let the others return to their fate in Norstalos, as thanks for saving my family.’
‘I accept. It will be a pleasure to kill that Berellian,’ Martil said immediately.
‘No!’ Havell protested again.
‘It won’t be a risk, elf,’ Martil told him. ‘No man can stop the Dragon Sword.’
Sacrax coughed. ‘You must fight not with your own weapons, but with a spear, as two Derthals.’
‘What?’ Merren gasped.
Sacrax took another handful of berries. ‘If you are to fight in the traditional manner, then it must be done properly. My chiefs must see which is the stronger side. For my people to believe it, you must fight as Derthals would, to prove you are worthy. If you will not fight, then the Derthals will stay in our mountains and let the men kill each other.’
Merren turned to Martil. ‘Have you used such a thing before?’
Martil glanced over to where Karia was working her way through a bowl of berries on her own. He ignored her question, for she would not like the answer.
‘We have no choice. I have to fight.’
‘We can leave. You heard him, the Derthals will stay here. At least we will have headed off an invasion from the north.’
‘But those passes! We can’t stop the Berellians and Tenochs without the Derthals.’
Merren looked into his eyes. ‘Perhaps there is another way…’
Martil shook his head angrily. ‘We both know there is no other way! Besides, you have all you need from me!’ Before she could argue with him, or stop him, he rose to his feet. ‘I accept your challenge. And when I have defeated the Berellian, you will join us.’
‘If you win, I will fight with you,’ Sacrax agreed, and surged to his feet. ‘You must rest. Fight this evening, when all my chiefs can see you. Food will be sent to you.’
‘And a Derthal spear?’ Martil asked.
‘You shall have your pick of spears at the fight. Not before,’ Sacrax promised. ‘I hope you win.’
With that he stood and stalked out of the room, followed by his guards.
‘Well, I suppose that could have been worse,’ Alban said thoughtfully.
‘I don’t want you to fight!’ Karia protested. ‘I don’t like watching that!’
‘Good, because you won’t be watching. You’ll be staying here with Father Quiller,’ Martil said around his mouthful of food.
True to his word, Sacrax had sent food: cooked venison, as well as more nuts and berries.
‘We should not eat too much,’ Alban warned. ‘A family will go hungry so you can stuff yourself.’
‘I bet the Berellians aren’t worrying about that,’ Martil grumbled, but allowed Alban to give half the food back to the Derthal women who had brought it inside the church.
‘I’m not happy!’ Karia announced loudly.
Martil swept her up into his arms and tickled her until her scowl turned into a reluctant laugh.
‘Go and find a saga you want me to read to you,’ he suggested.
Dragging her feet, Karia slouched over to the bags.
‘So what was this Berellian like?’ Martil asked quickly.
‘He was very fast,’ Merren said soberly. ‘He seemed to dance around our men. And he was deadly with the throwing knives.’
‘Well, he won’t have them,’ Barrett pointed out. ‘How does this trial by combat work?’
Alban cleared his throat. ‘A traditional Derthal fight sees two warriors step into a square marked out by branches, wearing only a deerskin and carrying only a spear. Only one can step out again. No others can enter the square.’
‘We can still just walk away,’ Merren said anxiously. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’
‘You mean you don’t want to leave your child without a father,’ Barrett muttered, then flushed as he realised what he had said out loud.
Merren had gone white. ‘What did you say?’ she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
‘My humblest apologies, your majesty, what I said was foolish and will never happen again,’ Barrett said hurriedly.
‘You are correct there. If I ever hear that again, you will be dismissed from my service. As it is, I don’t want to look upon you again this afternoon. You shall stay with Karia. You can work on something useful. Continue preparing that storm out to sea, to slow down the Tenochs.’
Barrett opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it and closed it with a snap.
‘So Barrett’s staying with me? Great!’ Karia said absently, as she walked through the adults to show a hefty saga to Martil. ‘Time to read now!’
Reading to Karia at least took Martil’s mind off the upcoming duel, although he kept missing words and Karia had to correct him. He had fought a Berellian Champion once before, a giant of a man called Hizek. Hizek had been massively built, with arms as thick as Martil’s thighs. All that muscle made him slow, and even though he was able to use a war axe in each hand, Martil wore him down. But this new Champion was also fast. Speed was everything in a duel. And while Martil feared no man with a blade in his hand, he had never fought with just a spear before. His mind replayed Rath’s brutal ambush of their guides.
‘You’re not concentrating!’ Karia chided.
‘Sorry.’ Martil put aside thoughts of sharp spears and got back to reading about a princess who had been turned into a swan.
27
He was playing a game of catch with Karia when a group of Derthal warriors arrived, led by the guard captain, who carried a deerskin in his hands.
Father Alban was fetched, and after a short conversation, he turned to Martil.
‘You must put this on and follow them. It is time for the fight,’ Alban advised.
‘I don’t want you to go!’ Karia wailed.
Martil kneeled down and hugged her close; she clutched him fiercely around the neck and would not let go.
‘Why do you have to keep fighting? Why can’t you just stay with me?’ she demanded tearfully.
Martil had no words for her. He had said goodbye to her once before, before Pilleth. He could not do so again. So he just hugged her close.
‘Come back,’ she begged.
He looked into her big brown eyes. ‘I promise to come back,’ he said softly. ‘Now you have to go with Barrett and Father Quiller.’
Reluctantly, she let go of him and allowed Father Quiller to take her inside the church.
Martil watched her go, saw her wave and blow him a kiss, and waved back. Then he took a deep breath.
‘How do I wear this thing?’ he asked.
With help from Alban, as well as some suggestions from the Derthal captain, the deerskin was wrapped around his waist, and tied in place. The Derthal captain grunted something and Alban chuckled.
‘And what was that?’ Martil growled.
‘He said you have many battle scars. He thinks that is good,’ Alban explained.
; Merren and Havell were summoned, Havell protesting fiercely.
‘What if he is killed? What are we to do then?’ the Elfaran grumbled.
‘You can fight on my behalf,’ Martil offered.
Havell glanced at the wicked spears their Derthal escort carried and shuddered.
‘I have to insist. You must not go through with this.’ The Elfaran grabbed Martil’s arm.
‘We have no choice,’ Martil hissed. ‘Perhaps you should have been a little more persuasive when we talked to the High Chief!’
Havell whitened. ‘That’s it. I am going to call Argurium, get her to take you away from here.’
This time it was Martil’s turn to grab the Elfaran’s arm. ‘You do that, and you are dooming a country, a continent, perhaps a world, to Zorva.’
‘Do you have another suggestion?’ Havell sniffed.
‘How quickly can you call Argurium?’
‘Usually I would call her name but it is likely to be noisy there. In that case,’ Havell produced a small horn from a pouch at his side, ‘I would use this.’
Martil nodded. ‘Watch the duel. If it looks as though I am going to lose, I shall signal you, and you can call the dragon. Happy?’
Havell looked at him carefully. ‘No. But your plan will be acceptable,’ he said stiffly.
Martil gave him a half smile, then let the Elfaran get ahead of him. Then he grabbed Jaret’s arm.
‘Stay close to the elf. Don’t let him blow that horn, whatever you do,’ he ordered.
‘But, sir…’
‘The elf will give up in the first heartbeat. There hasn’t been a Berellian born who can beat me. I’ll wear the man down eventually. Give me the time I need. Don’t fail me, Jaret! The Queen and I are depending on you!’
At this, Jaret straightened his back and nodded. ‘You can rely on me, sir,’ he promised.
Martil patted him on the back. That would fix the elf’s plans.
The area outside the caves formed a natural bowl, and Martil gaped as they walked down into it: thousands of Derthals, mostly warriors but a number of women as well, lined the sides, while a space in the centre had been stamped out, fenced with branches and lit by flaming torches at each corner.