The Seventh Friend (Book 1)

by Tim Stead

  “How shall we inform you, Deus?” The duke again. Narak suspected that Quinnial had already guessed. The young man was nodding to himself and showed no surprise at Narak’s words.

  “I will leave a wolf here, in my temple. Speak to it in the hour before the sun sets and I will hear your words.”

  “We shall honour it and keep it in good health, Deus,” Quinnial said.

  It was all that he wanted to ask, and business being finished the duke rose to the occasion and declared that there would be a banquet in honour of their guest. This was something that Narak had half expected, and dreaded completely. Yet he knew that he must attend. It was politics. There were no special circumstances that he could use to plead his absence.

  He was shown to a room where he could rest, though he needed none, and supplied with refreshments sufficient to render the banquet surplus to his requirements. Gifts were brought to his room, suits of clothes, gold, salt, spices shipped in from the Green Isles. Everything was valuable and splendid and worthless in his eyes. The trinkets would go to those of his household who pleased him, the clothes would be stored, the edibles would go to the kitchens where at least the cook would be delighted. He would be loaded down like a pack horse when he returned to Wolfguard.

  The banquet was equally tiresome. He was seated among the most senior lords and ladies who provided the dullest conversation and seemed to speak to him only to flatter and praise him. He missed the impertinent curiosity of youth, and wished that he were among the scions of the great houses and the pretty girls of the court who sat with them. He heard their laughter and saw the smiles. And yet if he were among them they would be different, they would ape their elders.

  Narak was seized by a sudden wave of sadness. He had sat here long ago with friends, their comradeship hard won, their respect earned. He remembered the duke, Duke Paradin, face spoiled by a broken nose and a long scar down the left side of his face. The scar had still been red and angry, but Paradin was drunk, roaring drunk and happy among the lords and knights of his army. He remembered the thud of Paradin’s fist on his back, a gesture devoid of fear. Paradin had been a friend. They had all been friends, drinking and feasting to their mighty victory so long ago.

  Even in his happiness there had been a shadow. Narak had already started to withdraw from them, to pull back from the revels into the forest and Wolfguard where people stayed forever young. He had cast aside friendship, walked away the very next day and never seen them again, too afraid to watch them grow old, dreading the bitterness in their eyes when he walked among them, still young, mirroring their children’s youth.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake.

  He sipped his wine, fed himself morsels of food, nodded, smiled, and thought again of Wolfguard.

  8. Tor Silas

  Havil pushed past the guards and slammed open the door of his father’s chamber unannounced. He threw his mail gloves and steel helmet onto the table with a clatter loud enough to wake the guard in the barracks below, and he barely had time to sit before the old man rushed from his bed chamber. King Raffin Hawkhand was dressed in no more than a loose gown, and barefoot on the cold stones, but he was not drowsy with sleep.

  “What news?” he demanded.

  “It has happened again, my king. Another patrol. Thirty-five men.”

  “None survived?”

  “None.”

  Raffin turned to the window and looked out at the frosty dawn sky. He seized the back of his neck with his right hand as though to massage away the stiffness of slumber, but Havil knew that he had not been asleep. The king his father was a big man, broad at the shoulder, bull necked, with a flat, hard, uncompromising face. He stood now, still as stone but strung tight as a bow, frustration writhing within the stillness, anger boiling him to action.

  “Damn,” he said. The word was spoken softly, and Havil understood. Some weeks ago a messenger had come from the Avilian duke in response to their complaint, a messenger who bore fair words, an avowal of innocence, and a thousand gold Avilian guineas. They had thought the words untrue, but the gesture a sign that the border troubles would end. Now they knew that it was not so.

  “I do not understand,” Havil said. “Why did he send gold if he continues to attack our patrols?”

  The king did not answer, but shouted for the guard. “Breakfast,” he ordered when the door opened. “Breakfast for two, at once.”

  “Lord King,” the man responded, and was gone.

  “What shall we do?” Havil asked. “Give the word and I will take a hundred of the Dragon Guard down to the border, and the killers will pay in blood.”

  “I do not think it wise, Havil,” the king said. “It may be what they want, and we cannot afford war. You know the state of the treasury.”

  It offended Havil that money should stand in the way of honour, but he knew that it must be so. Last summer had been a disaster for Berash. A great fire had kindled in the poor streets of Tor Silas, roared its way through the whole of the west side of the capital leaving two thousand dead and a third of the city gutted, blackened, and crushed. This was their first concern, and it had become their weakness. People had been unable to practice their trades. Shops and workshops were gone, tools were turned to ash and slag. Without help from the king thousands might have starved. They had been forced to buy in food from the provinces, to build new houses, to bring in new tools and materials from Telas and Avilian.

  The threat of war could not have come upon them at a worse time.

  “Then must we stand in the stocks, my king?” Havil was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.

  The king sat beside him, placed one of his massive hands on Havil’s arm. “We must be cunning, my son. Our troops are better than Avilian’s but they are few, and open war will bring our country to its knees. We will become a vassal state, and I will die before I see it happen.”

  “But if we show no will to resist they will grow ever bolder. We must do something!”

  The king sat still, staring again at the watercolour sky beyond the window, his breath making small clouds, his eyes unfocussed. Havil stayed his voice, knowing that his father was deep in thought. As Raffin sat and pondered men came with trays of food and placed them on the table, but the king did not move to acknowledge them.

  Hot drinks were poured. For Havil there was wine, watered, spiced and heated through. For the king they brought a tisane of Shepard’s Ear, Snowberries and Goldenroot, all dried, crushed and boiled in water. It was something that his physic had advised. Raffin had added honey to the recipe, declaring it otherwise undrinkable.

  “It is not as simple as it seems,” the king said eventually. “It may be that the Avilian duke does not know what transpires on the border. That would explain his actions. Our agents have indicated no plan for war exists. They are not moving troops to the marches. If the duke does not want war, then it may be that another Avilian lord acts against his will.”

  “The king?”

  “Unthinkable. He is a weak man, a fop who never stirs from Golt. Some other lord, perhaps, who wishes Bas Erinor for himself.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  The king smiled. “It is simple enough, Havil. We must find proof. We must capture them, send them to Bas Erinor in chains, and the duke will thank us.”

  “I shall prepare to leave at once, my king.” Havil stood, his energy returned, despair all swept away by the promise of action, but the king shook his head.

  “Patience, my son. You must learn to consider your actions. Think of the country that you will be riding in. Think of the men you will face. What will their numbers be? Their weapons? How will you capture them?”

  Havil sat again. It was not his custom to think deeply, but he was trying to acquire the habit. He knew that his father before him had been intemperate in his youth, but had chained his native rashness the better to do his duty as king. Havil followed on that difficult road.

  “Three times they have struck, and three times they have left none a
live, so we must assume that it is their plan to leave none alive. If that is so, then their force must be many times that of a patrol, perhaps a hundred men or more.” He looked to his father for approval, and the king nodded.

  “So we must shape our strategy the same way,” the king said.

  “Five hundred men – a small army. It will be difficult to move with stealth.”

  “Best not to move then.”

  “True, an ambush, but how do we draw them in if they seek to ambush our patrols?”

  The king said nothing

  “Later, I will deal with that later, but first the weapons. Most of our men are killed by arrows, so they have archers, many archers, and in such rough country they will be on foot,” he grimaced. “The Dragon Guard would be no use – too heavy, not agile enough.”

  “That is true.”

  “We will take archers. There must be infantry, too, but mounted, mobile, moving in groups so that their numbers are harder to guess. We will pick our ambush and await them. We will pick the spot that they will pick, something that suits their tactics, and we will lay an ambush for their ambush.”

  The king began to eat, sipping at his tisane between mouthfuls.

  “Eat, Havil. The rest of the day is time enough for great deeds, and breakfast will only make them greater. Use the time to think. Find the flaws in your plan. Try to imagine the mind of the enemy commander.”

  “I shall do my best, my king.”

  Havil obeyed, ate as though he would not see food again for a week, and all the time his head was in the border country. He had hunted there several times, and in quieter times he had done his duty patrolling those hills and forests. It was complicated country, wrapped around the clear waters of the Kadric River, decorated with waterfalls, hills, narrow valleys, forested ridges. It was perfect ambush country.

  When he had eaten he walked down to the barracks. There were officers whose advice he valued, men who had served more recently in the rough country, whose memories would be full of fresh detail.

  As he crossed close to the gates of his father’s castle a guard officer ran up to him and saluted.

  “What is it?”

  “Prince Havil, he is at the gate, my lord.”

  “Who is?” He glanced across and could see a small cluster of guardsmen gathered there. They seemed agitated, unsure of what to do.

  “Wolf Narak, my lord. He claims to be.”

  Havil strode towards the gate, and as he moved he drew the swords from his back. He wore them cross sheathed, in the style of Ohas, and as he neared the gate the guards parted and he saw a man half a head shorter than himself, swords strapped across his back in the same manner. The man was lean and wiry, stood confidently as he approached.

  “You wish to test me,” the man said, but Havil did not answer, and as he drew close the stranger drew his swords smoothly and stood ready, a smile on his face. Havil attacked.

  Things did not go as he expected. Every blow he struck was met with equal force, stayed in its path in a demonstration of brute resilience. Where his massive strength had served him in the past, it betrayed him now. This man, half his weight, shorter, thinner, smaller in every way, matched him blow for blow in defence, caught every thrust, met every cut. It was a deliberate challenge, devoid of subtlety.

  Havil tried to force himself forwards, relying on height and bulk, but the stranger turned him, stepped sideways and almost tripped him. The prince recovered his stance and tried to set himself again, but suddenly found himself on the defensive. Blows rained on his blades, beat him back a step, two steps, three. He tried to push forwards, but failed. It was like fighting against a wall, a wall that was falling on him.

  The speed of the exchanges increased. Havil realised that the stranger was attacking his blades, and not his body. It was an extraordinary thing to do. Such an attack required such hand speed and strength that it was impossible. And yet it was happening. He tried to step backwards more quickly, to disengage and find room to reset his stance, but he was followed, pressed even harder.

  The stranger was opening him up, forcing his arms wider and wider, exposing his chest and belly to whatever blow he chose to deliver.

  It was at this moment, in the knowledge that he was well beaten and could do nothing about it, that a thought came to Prince Havil. He was not accustomed to thinking with a blade in his hand, and it came as a shock. This was Wolf Narak. This was Wolf Narak, lord of the hunt, victor of Afael.

  Narak kicked him. With Havil’s blades pinned out of harms way he planted the sole of his foot in the prince’s belly with considerable force, and Havil took off backwards, travelling three or four yards through the air, landing heavily in the dust. One blade was knocked from his hand by the impact, and he clung to the other. He felt that his lungs had been bent, crushed inwards like a pewter mug, and he struggled to re-inflate them. His body was bent about his belly, and would not straighten. He looked up, gasping for air, and saw that Narak stood above him, swords now sheathed on his back. The wolf god was smiling, and holding out his hand. Havil took the hand, and found himself lifted to his feet like a child. He forced his body upright, but could not speak for lack of wind.

  “I admire your direct approach, Prince Havil,” Narak said. “It is a refreshing change from the nice and polite disbelief I have met elsewhere.”

  “Deus, I apologise,” he managed. Havil was a proud man, but Narak was a god. It was no shame to be beaten by such a one. Indeed, he could be proud that he had tried his skills against the bloodstained god whose feats on the battlefield were legendary. It was an honour to cross swords with Narak.

  “No need,” Narak reassured him. “I enjoyed the bout, and I am sure that it has settled any lingering doubts among your men concerning my identity. Will you take me to your father?”

  “At once, Deus.”

  He led the way. It was difficult at first to walk upright, but his wind returned quickly, and by the time they mounted the stair to his father’s chambers he was stepping lightly with no hint of the blow he had sustained.

  The guards outside the royal chamber barred his path. They knew Havil, but their loyalty was entirely to the king, and they were honour bound not to let a stranger pass. Havil obeyed the form.

  “Prince Havil with Wolf Narak seeking audience with the king,” he said.

  The guards looked startled, eyed the stranger with big eyes. One of them knocked heavily on the door and went inside. He was only gone a moment, barely had time to mutter the god’s name before the doors were flung open and King Raffin Hawkhand stood before them.

  The king had dressed, and now wore white riding breeches, black boots and a black and yellow tunic of silk and velvet. His eyes lingered on Havil just long enough to catch his slight nod, the confirmation that this man was who he claimed to be, and then settled on Narak. The wolf god stared back. For a moment the pause seemed too long, and Havil thought that his father would refuse to bow, but the moment passed and Raffin bent from the waist in a dignified acknowledgement of Narak’s status.

  “We are honoured by your presence, Deus,” he said.

  “As I am by your hospitality, King Raffin,” Narak presumed. “We need to speak. There is trouble, I believe, in the border country between here and Avilian?”

  “There is.” The king gestured that he should enter, and Havil followed. The guards left the room and took up their positions again. The door closed. “What is it that you know, Deus?”

  “Very little, I fear, but that it is none of Elyas work.”

  Raffin shared a glance with Havil. “We suspected that this might be so,” he said. “You have another in mind?”

  “Not with certainty. What do you intend to do?”

  Raffin hesitated. It was not in his nature to trust foreigners with his nation’s plans, but he seemed to quickly overcome his reluctance.

  “We plan to ambush the culprits. Those that we do not kill will reveal their master’s hand, and we shall inform Avilian as we see fit.”

>   Narak nodded. “It is a fair course of action, but there may be a quicker route to knowledge, lord king.”

  “Some magic, perhaps?” Raffin’s voice carried his scepticism.

  “Not at all,” Narak laughed. “It is a simple matter of observation.”

  “And what would you have us observe?”

  “Is there a man here who has seen the place of ambush, and how the dead lay?” Narak asked. It was Havil who replied.

  “Yes. Captain Pagelian has just returned with news of another attack.” It was Pagelian who had briefed Havil, sent him angry to his father’s chambers.” Do you wish to speak with him?”