by D. M. Murray
Steel clanged, temporarily glinting cool in the blue hue of the moonlight before raging hot in the fire’s red glow. The flames spread from the pile of planks and barrels and onto the beams of the armoury.
Voices screamed as Thaskil slashed an overhead blow. Someone was crying for help. Thaskil hammered his sword strokes down on the militiaman, kicking and spraying spit through gritted teeth. The man could not match Thaskil’s fury as he battered him backwards.
The two other militiamen had swords drawn and spread out in a wide circle around him.
“Give it up, boy,” the big man he had been fighting said.
Thaskil realised he was laughing, then feigned an overhead strike. The big man raised his sword to parry the blow, but at the last moment, Thaskil’s sword altered direction and bit into the man’s wrist, severing his sword-hand. Thaskil kicked the man’s midriff, sending him onto his arse screaming.
The two other militiamen charged.
Thaskil spun to meet them, releasing the knife in a throw that caught one of the men in the cheek and sent him stumbling face-first towards the ground. Thaskil met the second’s blows with a series of quick parries. He replied with three close blows, turning the man around and causing him to step backwards towards the armoury. Thaskil pressed on with two high blows, sending the man backwards up the armoury steps until he eventually tripped over the screaming form of his comrade with cut ankles. The militiamen lay atop one another in a heap. Thaskil’s sword thumped into the man’s chest. The wounded man beneath began to squeal like a pig as the sword passed from the chest of one man and into the stomach of the other.
Thaskil’s face was a screwed up mask of hate as he twisted his blade, causing a whoosh of air to flow from the militiaman underneath the other. He withdrew his sword and stepped back towards the one-handed man on the street.
The man tried to stand, but Thaskil approached and slammed his sword pommel into the man’s temple, sending him to the ground. Thaskil looked around at the destruction surrounding him. Six men. Revenge is a stronger course of medicine than fear, I suppose.
The fire he started was burning wild now, having spread to the armoury. The flickering tongues of flames lapped hungrily about the building. The fire’s light danced on the street. He knelt down and bound the arms and feet of the unconscious militiaman using the man’s own belts. When he stood, the city guard approached.
“What’s going on here, Lieutenant?” one of the guards asked.
“These men are involved in a plot against the Free Provinces,” Thaskil replied. “We must take this one away for questioning. Bring him to the brig and lock him up on his own.” Thaskil’s eyes took on a hard look, holding that of the guardsman. “Make sure no one gets to him apart from me, understood?”
“Clearly, sir—”
A huge explosion of fire and stone ripped around them, and the night was blotted out in blackness.
*
The scout rode hard towards the king’s pavilion, having been let through the perimeter by his bodyguards. His horse’s mouth frothed as it breathed hard. The scout’s own breath rattled from his flared nostrils and open mouth. The scout risked a glance to the crucified body of Baron Altyel and wondered if soon he too would find himself feeding the crows, such was the mad king’s wrath. He swallowed hard and reined in, leaping off his horse in front of Grunnxe’s pavilion.
The scout made his way past the king’s personal guard and approached the main body of the pavilion, where the old king sat in council with his generals. The ever-present shadow of the Priestess hovered behind his throne. As usual, the sight of the Priestess sent a shiver down the scout’s spine, finishing as his bowels twisted.
“What is it?” Grunnxe growled.
The scout gulped at his breath; the desperate efforts of a drowning man. The generals looked nervously towards him.
“The wall, Your Highness,” the scout mumbled. “The wall at Apula. It’s been blown.”
“What?” Grunnxe roared, rising to his feet. “It’s too early!”
The king’s face turned red in fury and he made to move towards the scout. The Priestess reached out a gloved hand and held the shoulder of the mad king while whispering something in his ear.
The fury drained away and Grunnxe looked up at the scout. “Ready the forces, we march on Apula within the hour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The image of the knife plunging into Chentuck washed over Kalfinar’s mind again and again. He shoved the wool blanket back and swung his feet down onto the wooden floor of the cabin he shared with Broden.
“Can’t sleep?” Broden asked.
“No. You?”
“Nah.”
“I think I’ll get some air. Guess you’re staying put?”
“You know, I just might. The grain of the wood in the ceiling here is quite captivating.” Broden smirked.
Kalfinar stepped out onto the deck and past the night crew, making his way towards a quiet part of the ship. He stopped short of the steps to the aftercastle and leaned against the railing to watch the black water slide past the ship and turn to froth in its wake. The image of Chentuck’s lifeless body flashed in his mind. “Damn it!” Kalfinar snapped and thumped the railing.
He turned away from the inky water and walked towards Evelyne’s cabin. He paused for a moment and sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils. He knocked on the door and opened. Evelyne looked up from a chair, wiping away tears while beckoned Kalfinar in.
He stepped in and closed the door. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re sleeping in the cabin next door.”
“You should get some sleep too.”
“We all could do with some rest.” Evelyne said.
“Evelyne,” Kalfinar stepped closer to where she sat.
She looked up at him, the glisten of tears obvious once more on the rims of her eyes.
“I want to apologise for my part in—”
Evelyne stood from her seat. “No. This is not your doing.” Her voice had an edge to it and her face was set firm. Two angry tears broke from her eyes and fell to the floor from her pale cheeks. “Kal,” Evelyne stepped closer and took his hand in hers. “Chentuck was killed by the spirit. That was in no part your doing.” Her voice had softened and a gentle smile dawned on her face.
“But the jalsinum.” Kalfinar looked down at the floor, shame welling within.
“Was flushed from you by the child. It was the spirit that killed him.”
Kalfinar looked at Evelyne’s hand as it held his. Her skin was soft and warm. How she rubbed the top of his scarred and nicked hand with her thumb reminded him of how his wife used to when she held his hands. “He was a good man. He deserved better from me. I was wrong about him at the start of all this.” He looked back to Evelyne. She held his eyes with an intensity he was not used to. His stomach fluttered and the sense of shame returned. He forced himself to smile. “You know,” he said as he reached out with his other hand and held hers in his, “when we sat together on the ship and I held the girl as she slept, it was the happiest I had felt in years.”
Evelyne smiled.
“It felt like all of this fear and pain, it was stripped away and all we were left with was that moment in that room. It changed something in me.”
“It changed something in me too,” she replied.
Kalfinar held the gaze of her ice-blue eyes and felt her grip tighten. His heart began to race. He glanced at her lips as they parted and then back to her eyes. She had seen him. He moved his face closer to hers and felt her nervous breath hot on his face. “I feel like—”
She kissed him.
His hands broke from hers and wrapped around her waist as they kissed. His heart thundered while their lips worked together.
“Kalfinar!” came an urgent shout from the deck.
They broke from their kiss and stared at the door of the cabin as they held each other.
“I’m sorry,” Kalfinar said as he broke away from Evelyne. He moved towa
rds the door and opened it to see Broden standing on the deck. “What is it?”
“The Daughter of the People, she’s going to throw herself into the sea. Come quick.”
Kalfinar followed Broden as he bounded up the steps towards the rear of the poop deck. Evelyne followed behind.
“Don’t come any closer!” the Daughter of the People shouted at them and the few gathered crew as they arrived onto the poop deck. She stood with her back to the railing, looking at the faces of those standing before her.
“Why are you doing this?” Kalfinar asked, taking one step closer.
“Don’t,” she said in a cold tone. “Don’t come any closer.”
Kalfinar raised his palms to her and stayed where he was.
“I’d heard of you before we met,” she said, looking at Kalfinar. “I heard that you are a good man.”
A drunk and smoke-fuelled brawler. And a shitty excuse for a man. “Tell me,” Kalfinar asked. “How is it you came to know of me?”
“We have a mutual friend, Captain. He spoke much of your qualities. Qualities I have born witness to this very day. You and your companions, you are all very brave.”
“My lady, with respect, what does that have to do with why you are here?”
“Everything. Your friend, Bergnon, once served as the Free Provinces emissary to Canna. From time to time, he would visit.”
Kalfinar nodded. “He often spoke of his love of your country and your people.”
She shuddered and began to cry, as though her tears had been held back for an age. Kalfinar stepped towards her.
“No! Stay back.” With defiance, she wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. “Don’t try and stop me. Just let me say what I must.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am the reason you are betrayed. This is my fault.”
“What do you know of our betrayal?” Kalfinar’s tone hardened.
“The raiders came for me. To force my love.”
“Who is your love?” Kalfinar’s voice was low and hard. Don’t say his name, girl. Don’t let it be him.
“I’m sorry. Bergnon and I were married. It was in secret. They used me to get to him, and I’ve brought death to my people. My Mother. I’m sorry for everything.”
“No!” Evelyne roared as she sprinted towards the railing. She was too late.
The Daughter of the People heaved herself backwards and into the darkness of the night sea.
*
“Take another deep breath for me,” Olmat said as he placed his hands on Harruld’s chest. “That’s fine. You can put your shirt back on.”
“What’s the verdict?” Harruld asked as he pulled his shirt over his head, popping his hands through the arms and out the cuffs.
Olmat hid his concern as he washed his hands with his back to the governor. He dried them off and turned to his long-time friend. “You know as I do. The progression is steady.”
Harruld mouth squirmed into a wry smile. “Well, a case of when, rather than if.”
“When, rather than if,” Olmat repeated. “The same for us both.”
Harruld stood up sharply, heaved in a deep breath, and buttoned the front of his jerkin. “No point in worrying about the inevitable, is there?”
“No.” Olmat’s rheumy blue eyes stared at the floor. “I suppose not.” He looked up from the ground and saw that Harruld stood before him.
“What is it, Olmat?”
The old physician offered a meek smile. He felt his head wobble on his thin neck as he looked up. “I’m a little embarrassed to say so, but as it comes closer I’m afraid to die. I don’t want to go, but then I look at you and how stoic you are as you face it.” His eyes dropped to the floor again. “I just wish I had your courage.”
Harruld reached out and squeezed Olmat’s bony shoulders. “You’ve given every one of us who knows you your strength and courage. You’ve sacrificed everything for us and shown more fortitude than anyone I have ever known in doing so. Fear is natural, Olmat. It is being human, it—”
A knock on the door to Harruld’s study interrupted them.
“Come in,” Harruld shouted.
“My Lord,” the guardsman with the dented helmet came in puffing. “I’ve been ordered by General Subath to inform you that Lord Abbonan and his fleet have arrived. The lord is making his way here and will be with you before long.
“Excellent. Best you just send him straight in. I don’t want you denting the other side of your helmet.”
*
Lord Abbonan burst into the room without even a pause or a knock, followed by General Subath and another officer whose face was obscured by a bloody rag held over his nose.
Abbonan grinned and spread his arms. “Harruld, my old boy, how in the hells are you?”
Harruld laughed as he came around his desk and embraced the larger man. “Still alive, just about.” They broke their embrace and clasped hands. “By Dajda, it is good to see you, Abbonan. Take a seat.” Harruld ushered him towards a seat at the long table. “Subath, sit, please. And who is this?” Harruld asked of the officer with the bloody rag.
The officer removed the rag from his nose and saluted the Governor of Carte. Commander Lucius appeared to be sporting a freshly broken nose. “My Lord,” the Commander lisped.
Harruld strode towards the commander and, without stopping, smashed his fist into his broken nose. Lucius squawked, dropped to his knees, and fell over. A stream of fresh blood, mixed with black, clotted blood bubbled onto the floor.
“Take him to the infirmary,” Harruld ordered the guardsman. “When he comes to, see that he gets treatment for that.”
“Must say,” Abbonan said, “I’m glad you didn’t welcome me that way.”
Harruld turned back to his table and picked up a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his ring. “Subath, I presume it was you who broke that nose in the first place?”
“Aye,” Subath rasped. “Been wanting to do that for years. Figured I’d take advantage of my grand rank. Felt quite nice.”
“Aye, it did,” Harruld said as he sat into the high-backed chair at the head of the table. “But we’re short of officers, fine or otherwise. We can forget his resignation. Let that be the last wailing he gets.”
“My Lord,” Subath agreed, sticking his lip out in an act of mock petulance.
“So, I hear we’re to expect a spot of trouble?” Abbonan said.
Harruld grunted.
“Well,” Abbonan continued, “I’ve brought an additional twelve warships to patrol the bay, just in case any of the Solansian fleet shows up. It’s not much, but it strengthens the Carte fleet.”
Harruld scratched the figures down as Abbonan spoke.
“I’m sorry to say, however, I was only able to bring five thousand men. We can’t leave Terna totally exposed. I wish I could’ve brought more.”
“Nonsense, you’ve done more than enough,” Harruld said. “We’re awaiting troops from Enulin and Gerloup. In the meantime, with the swords you’ve brought, and the fleet of our northern boys, we are much stronger. And with Lord Abbonan, the Great Sea Wolf, at the fleet’s helm, we can rest easy in the face of raiders.”
“You flatter me,” Abbonan laughed. “It’s been a long time since I led a battle at sea. The Great Sea Wolf is more of a Parlour Wolf these days!”
“I’ve heard that said,” Harruld laughed, “but I’m glad to see you’ve come out of retirement for one last fight. Now, let’s get your men barracked and on orders. What’s the current status?”
“So far, the lads are holed up on the ships,” Abbonan replied. “We can start filtering them into the city and allocating them space at the walls, gatehouses, and towers, if that helps?”
“No,” Harruld replied, scratching down figures as he spoke. “You take your men and barrack them in the High Command. Subath will lead the men at the outer walls. I want men who know the city at the front.”
“Aye, sound enough,” Abbonan replied, casting a wink at Subath. “And of my
ships?”
“Be ready,” Harruld said grimly, looking up from his work. “The raiders may not be long in coming. We can’t let them take the harbour and unload their men. They’ll set a torch to everything.”
“We’ll be ready. We’ll have them sunk before they make it into the bay.”
*
Sarbien and two of the Tuannan shuffled back low towards Captain Tyrnan and his soldiers.
Being careful to minimize noise, Sarbien whispered, “There’s something happening down there. Looks like some kind of ceremony. I’ve seen this kind before.”
“Can we see?” Tyrnan asked.
Sarbien whispered, “Just bear it in mind, once you see it, it cannot be unseen.” Sarbien watched as the soldiers moved into position to see the actions below them. They did not watch for long. The soldiers stepped back to their positions and hunkered down, being careful their footfalls did not make noise. Even in the faint light that flooded up from the cavern below, Sarbien saw their faces were pale and drawn.
Captain Tyrnan glanced up at Sarbien with sorry eyes. “Some things cannot be unseen,” he whispered.
*
Sarbien watched as one of the Tuannan turned away from the sickening sight of the ceremony in the cavern below.
“Let him be,” Sarbien said to a Tuannan named Lughna, who had moved to help her friend. “Not all can take such a sight for long.”
Sarbien looked back into the cavern from the shadows of the rocks above. The large space was lit by hundreds of candles placed on ledges and in cavities amongst the rough walls. In the centre stood a large altar, its blood-stained plinth and sides etched with deep-cut runes and primitive imagery depicting creatures of tooth and claw.
Surrounding the altar stood two dozen holy people, clothed in a mix of black and white rough-hewn habits. They acted under the commands of one ragged-looking individual standing at the altar. He leaned over a devastated body.