‘Stay out of the pumpkin vines,’ he warned, before she could disturb the creature. ‘Come ’round this way, to me.’
‘What is it?’ she called.
‘Stink-badger. A big one.’ He glanced back in time to see his mother struggling to stand, with Itania in her arms and Tamaron clinging to her, weeping and bleeding.
Movement. This time it was Vittor running back to join them. He passed out of sight behind the smokehouse and chicken coop on his way around to them.
‘Everyone stand back,’ Ronnyn ordered. ‘Vella, pick up Tam. I’m going to try to drive it towards the corner and trap it.’ Where the chicken coop and smokehouse formed a right angle.
‘I can help,’ Aravelle insisted.
‘Help by picking up Tam.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the vines. He’d spotted movement under the leaves.
‘I’ll take Tam,’ Sasoria said. ‘Get the rake, Vella. Help Ronnyn.’
Vittor ran through the gate and up the path, taking a position on Ronnyn’s right. Along the way, he’d grabbed the hoe and Aravelle had the rake. But all of them had bare feet and legs, and the stink-badger could easily knock Vittor over.
‘Make noise. Scare it,’ Ronnyn told them. ‘Walk on each side of me, slightly behind me.’
They did, advancing with him across the pumpkin vines. He saw the way the leaves moved; the stink-badger was weaving from side to side as it backed away into the corner.
The the beast made a break for it, trying to get past Aravelle on the left.
Ronnyn went that way, cut it off and drove it before him. They could see it clearly, with its big body, sharp teeth, and scars from fights with the wild dogs.
They’d trapped it now.
‘Stay back.’ Ronnyn stepped in.
The creature reared up on its hind legs and bared its teeth. A pungent stench hit the back of Ronnyn’s throat. It made him gag. He went to swing, but another stink-badger came at him from the left, past Aravelle. It sank its teeth into his forearm, and he felt the muscle tear. The creature hung off his arm, nearly unbalancing him.
Seizing its chance, the first stink-badger came at Ronnyn. Vittor swung the hoe, clipping its rear leg as it leaped.
On his left, Aravelle brought the rake down hard, slamming it onto the other stink-badger’s eyes, forcing it to let Ronnyn go. She’d freed his left arm, but he’d dropped the axe, and when he bent down to grab it, his fingers wouldn’t work.
Vittor whimpered. Ronnyn looked up to see that the first stink-badger had aimed its foul spray at his little brother and Vittor was bent double retching. Defenceless.
Nothing could be allowed to hurt his family.
He grabbed the axe with his right hand. Time slowed. Everything became totally clear and sharp. Bringing the blade around in an arc, he struck the creature’s flank before it could attack Vittor. Hot blood sprayed him, seemed to empower him.
Holding the edge of her smock over her nose and mouth, Aravelle dragged Vittor out of danger.
The second stink-badger gave a horrible yowl as it came at Ronnyn again.
He slammed the axe down into the beast. Blood arced up.
Even mortally injured, the first stink-badger went for him again.
Ronnyn struck over and over, until both beasts had stopped moving. He was bathed in hot blood. Bright beads of blood gleamed like jewels on the broad green leaves.
He’d never felt more alive as he stood, gulping for breath.
From far away, he heard Itania whimper.
When he turned to the others, he found Vittor and Aravelle had backed off to join their mother and the little ones. They all stared at him as if they didn’t know him. As if they were afraid of him.
Then Vittor gave a whoop and a cheer.
Ronnyn glanced down to the two stink-badgers. They were mangled beyond recognition.
‘Vittor, come here.’ His mother’s voice sounded odd, or it might just be his ears. Everything, even the chickens’ familiar squawking, sounded far away. ‘Vittor, strip off those clothes. I’ll have to burn them. Then help me get Tam inside. His face needs stitching. Vella, go help Ronnyn.’
As his mother returned to the cottage with Itania in her arms, Vittor struggling to carry Tamaron beside her, Aravelle came closer.
She stopped a little way from him. ‘You can put the axe down now.’
He did, but it was hard to make his right hand unclench.
She pointed to his left arm. ‘You need stitches.’
His forearm was a mess. Strips of meat hung in tatters and he could see bone. The sharpness he’d felt during the attack left him as suddenly as it had come.
Aravelle pulled off her smock, revealing her knitted under-vest. Taking his injured arm, she wound the smock tightly around it and tied it off. ‘Hold your arm up high against your body.’
He did as he was told. His mind felt slow and thick, like honey on a winter’s day.
‘Don’t you faint,’ Aravelle warned. ‘I can’t carry you.’
He knew he should be indignant, but he couldn’t seem to get annoyed. ‘I’ll be all right.’ He slurred his words.
Aravelle picked up the rake and prodded what was left of the two stink-badgers. ‘You really made sure they were dead.’
‘Couldn’t let them hurt you or Vittor.’
She looked him over. Her knitted vest and breeches revealed the curves of her body. Funny, they were both bigger than their mother, but she still dressed them like children.
‘You stink something awful, and you’re covered in blood,’ Aravelle said. ‘It’s all through your hair. You need to wash up.’
He nodded. And just stood there.
She frowned and put the rake aside to guide him towards the cottage. She walked on his right side, her arm around his waist.
Ronnyn turned towards the cottage and the water barrel, but the world kept turning and he went down, vaguely aware of Aravelle trying to support him.
The next thing he knew he was inside, on the floor in front of the fire, stretched out on a blanket while Aravelle knelt next to him. She frowned in concentration as she bandaged his arm.
‘You’re awake, good.’ Aravelle was all business. ‘I rolled you onto a blanket and dragged you inside. Ma’s already sewn you up. Tam and Itania wouldn’t stop crying, so she climbed into bed with them and Da.’
He listened. It was quiet behind the partition. ‘Sounds like they’re all asleep.’
‘They are.’ Aravelle finished bandaging his arm. ‘There. Vittor, take this bowl and tip it out.’
As the six-year-old took the bowl of dirty water away, Aravelle poured hot water from the kettle into another bowl, then checked the temperature.
Ronnyn shifted. Was he naked? He felt the much-washed material of the feather-down quilt on his bare thighs. Had Aravelle stripped him? He flushed at the thought. He wasn’t a boy any more.
‘Let’s get that blood off your face,’ Aravelle said as she wrung out the cloth and turned back to him.
He caught her arm with his good hand. ‘How’s Tam? I wasn’t quick enough to get to him. Is he–’
‘Ma sewed up his bottom lip. He’ll have a scar, just like a real brotherhood warrior.’
‘You were like a warrior,’ Vittor said from the doorway. He came over to kneel next to Ronnyn. ‘You were ferocious. The way you swung that axe!’
Ronnyn grinned and glanced to Aravelle. Her mouth had pulled into a tight line of disapproval.
‘I had to kill them, Vella. Had to protect you and Vittor. They would have hung around and stolen our chickens. I–’
‘I know. You did the right thing.’ She sponged his face clean of dried blood. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes would not meet his.
Ronnyn tried to catch Aravelle’s eyes. ‘Vella?’
She glanced around as if looking for something to do. ‘Vittor, go fill the kettle. We could all do with some honey-tea.’
He jumped to his feet, eager to help. He grabbed the kettle and went to fill it, only to disc
over the water bucket was empty, so he took it outside to the rainwater barrel.
Ronnyn pulled himself up onto one elbow, then sat up, resting his back against the chest beside the hearth. ‘Vella, what’s wrong? Look at me.’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ But her gaze slid away from his.
‘I had to kill them.’
‘I know. It’s not that.’
‘Then what is it?’
She bit her bottom lip, sharp white teeth indenting the red curve.
Was she scared of him? He lifted his uninjured arm. His hand felt clumsy as he cupped her cheek. ‘I’d never hurt you.’
‘I know that. It’s just... I let that stink-badger get past me.’ She gulped back a sob and tears raced down her cheeks. ‘And it made a mess of your arm. You could be crippled for life because of me!’
And she sobbed as if her heart would break.
He pulled her down against his chest, felt the heat of her tears on his bare skin. With his good hand, he rubbed small circles on her back while she sobbed. It was not like Aravelle to let him comfort her, and he discovered he enjoyed it.
Too soon she pulled away, wiping her wet cheeks.
‘You still smell pretty bad,’ she said. Blowing her nose, she pushed damp hair from her red-rimmed eyes. This time, when she met his gaze, hers was determined. ‘I’ll work with you every day. I’ll massage the muscle. I’ll help you get the movement back in your fingers.’
He nodded. He didn’t really believe he’d be crippled. He’d get better, he always had. ‘And in the meantime, I can learn to use my right hand.’
Vittor came back. When he saw Aravelle’s tear-ravaged face, he put the bucket down and rushed over, demanding to know what was wrong.
‘Nothing.’ But fresh tears slid down her cheeks.
Vittor’s chin trembled and he shuddered as he drew in a breath. A sob escaped him.
‘Silly boy,’ Ronnyn said fondly, pulling him close.
As if this was a signal, Vittor succumbed to a storm of tears. Ronnyn smiled, as his little brother wept on his chest. He felt strong and powerful, protective. This must be what it felt like to be a man. ‘It’s over, and you were very brave.’
Aravelle put the kettle on. Soon the water was boiling merrily and the familiar smell of honey-tea filled the cottage. His injured arm throbbed with each beat of his heart, but Ronnyn felt good. He didn’t care what it cost him to protect the people he loved. And in that instant, he understood what had driven his father to kill the fisherman.
No price was too high to keep his family safe.
Chapter Twenty-Three
TOBAZIM PATROLLED THE ruined palace’s wall-walk. As the sun dipped towards the west, frustration drove his steps. It was midsummer’s eve, and over the next eight days, everyone would be celebrating, indulging in sanctioned trysting – and a fair amount of illicit trysting, from what he gathered.
But not him. The hand-of-force had done it again, sending the Malaunje warriors from the winery, along with the same dozen T’En adepts and initiates, to patrol the walls of both palaces. It was far more than they needed. Why, back when the city had first been attacked, he and Learon had...
The pain hit him, and the guilt.
He turned and gripped the stone, until he could control his gift.
Chariode’s palace came into focus. The exterior appeared fine, but inside it was ruined, like Kyredeon’s brotherhood.
The all-father had complained that he’d won Chariode’s brotherhood, but all he had to show for it was half a dozen young initiate warriors, a ruined palace, estates he would have to abandon, a missing shipping fleet, and over two dozen Malaunje non-combatants, who he had to shelter and feed, for which he blamed Tobazim.
But Tobazim didn’t care. He was glad he’d saved the women and children.
Now he understood why a high-ranking male like his old gift-tutor served out his days on a distant winery instead of taking his place in his brotherhood’s inner circle. His gift-tutor had chosen to banish himself. Sometimes exile was the best path.
The realisation surprised him.
Unfortunately for him, he no longer had the option of voluntary exile from Kyredeon’s palace. He was stuck in the city. What he needed was a shield-brother, someone at his back who he could trust with his life. Their gifts would augment each other, making them both more powerful. More power would protect them both from Kyredeon, but it would also attract his ire. It was a two-edged sword.
Taking a shield-brother was not something to be done lightly. It was for life. Sometimes when one died, the other died with him. And, as much as Tobazim needed to know there was someone he could place absolute trust in, he could not imagine binding just anyone to him. The bond of shield-brother, like the bond of devotee and T’En, was sacred and not to be entered into lightly.
All of which brought him back to this. He was alone in a brotherhood whose vindictive leaders had singled him out as a threat.
Just then Athlyn, Eryx and Haromyr joined him. Tobazim gestured to the free quarter, where they could hear singing and laughter.
‘If you associate with me, you’ll never rise in the brotherhood ranks. All you have to do is deny me and you could be taking part in the festivities.’
‘Tobazim...’ Athlyn whispered, hurt that he would even suggest it.
He could have kicked himself. If these brothers thought life impossible, they’d do something stupid and symbolic like Learon.
‘Just look at the city.’ Eryx gestured, changing the subject. ‘Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?’
Tobazim looked up. The white towers and domes climbed all the way to the sisterhoods’ palaces on the peak. Bathed in the setting sun’s rays, they appeared to be made of gold. No wonder King Charald and his barons wanted to capture the city. It was so perfect it took his breath away and made his gift stir. To build and create, that was his purpose.
‘I can’t believe we’re going to hand it over to the Mieren,’ Haromyr muttered.
‘We can build somewhere else,’ Tobazim said. ‘We can build a better city. A better T’Enatuath.’
‘That’s why we don’t deny you,’ Eryx said. ‘You give us hope.’
How could he, when he had none himself?
‘Tobazim?’ Maric called.
He crossed to the other side of the wall-walk.
The Malaunje warrior pointed across the lake, burnished by the setting sun. Tobazim sighted along Maric’s arm. He frowned. Was that a log coming this way? He narrowed his eyes against the glare. It was definitely being propelled by something.
‘What is it?’ Eryx asked.
The log continued to glide towards the city wall. It wasn’t heading just anywhere along the city wall, but specifically aiming for Chariode’s boat-house. When the log drew nearer, he spotted at least seven people hanging onto the side of it.
An arm signalled.
Tobazim waved back. ‘They’re probably from some distant estate and don’t know that we’ve reached an agreement with the Mieren king. If they’ve come here, to this section of wall...’ They would be from Chariode’s brotherhood, and they were in for a rude shock. He turned to the others. ‘Eryx, hold the wall. Athlyn and Haromyr, come with me.’
He led them down the steps, through the connecting courtyard to the boat-house. It was the longest day of the year and there was still enough light to see the lake beyond the grille, but inside the boat-house was dark.
Tobazim lit the lantern and swung the gate open.
The log edged closer until it bobbed gently against the city wall. One by one, the refugees let go and made their way in, past the moored barge to the steps, where Athlyn and Haromyr helped them out of the water.
Tobazim counted five Malaunje and two T’En. He didn’t recognise any of them. They all smelled of lakewater and looked exhausted, shivering in their wet, ragged clothing. One of the T’En was a big male, almost as tall as Learon, but the other T’En was their leader.
Tobazim swung the gate shut and
bolted it, then came back to the steps. As he returned, the leader’s gaze swept over Tobazim, then Haromyr and Athlyn.
Clearly suspicious, he moved in front of his men. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing in All-father Chariode’s boat-house?’
Tobazim hesitated, but could think of no easy way to say this. ‘Kyredeon claimed Chariode’s brotherhood.’
The big adept bristled. ‘Impossible!’
But the older one looked shaken. ‘For that to be true, our all-father and most of his high-ranking brothers would have to be dead.’ He searched Tobazim’s face, reading the truth there, and his lean cheeks blanched. ‘Do any still live who can vouch for me? I’m ship’s captain Ardonyx, returned from a two-year voyage of exploration. This is Adept Ionnyn and five of my sailors.’
‘When the Mieren stormed the city, Chariode’s brotherhood bore the brunt of the initial attack. All the high-ranking T’En died–’
‘What of the women and children?’ one of the Malaunje asked. ‘Where are they? Surely the Mieren didn’t...’
‘They killed...’ Tobazim remembered the bodies and could not go on. He swallowed. ‘Around two dozen women and children were rescued off the roof.’
‘So few?’ the sailor whispered.
There was silence for a moment as they digested the news.
Then Athlyn asked, ‘Why did you come in by the lake, when you could have walked down the causeway?’
‘Walked down...’ Ardonyx’s voice grew thick with anger. ‘When we landed nine days ago, we didn’t know anything was wrong. We’d sailed as far as the Lagoons of Perpetual Summer, surviving both storm and shoal. The last thing we expected was to be attacked in our home port. There was no warning. They set one of my ships alight. While we were distracted, they cut us down. This’ – he gestured to the others – ‘is all that’s left of two ships’ crews. Since then, we’ve travelled by night, avoiding everyone. When we got to the lake, we saw the tents and realised the city was besieged, so of course we approached by stealth.’
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