by Tim Stead
Arbak said nothing. He twisted his head and spat. Narak took out his dagger and placed the blade in the fire.
“I have all night,” he said. “In fact I have nowhere to be for a week, so we have plenty of time. It’s a myth, you know, the business about not talking. Everyone talks. Heroes talk sooner or later. Usually sooner. So you will talk. Even if you hold out for a day and a night you will talk, and nobody will ever know how tough you were, how you stood more than any man before you, except me, and I’ll forget your name as soon as you’re dead. So you see how pointless it is?”
Narak took a drink from his water flask.
“Thirsty?” he asked. Arbak didn’t speak “You see – I don’t really want to do this. It’s messy and unpleasant and I don’t enjoy it, but I need to know how much and who for, and you’re the only man who can tell me. Think about that.”
He opened the small pack he’s been carrying with him and took out an apple, biting into it. He saw Arbak watching him and continued to eat. When he’d cleaned the apple core he threw it on the fire.
“I’ll tell you if you let me go,” Arbak growled.
“I can see you need more time,” Narak said. “So I’ll have a look in the mine. I’ve never seen a mine before. The wolves will keep an eye on you.”
The wolves had settled on the far side of the clearing. Some were dozing. Some were watching Arbak, and Arbak switched his gaze to meet theirs. He looked worried.
Narak walked across the clearing to the black opening. It was true. He’d never been in a mine before. Just to the right, inside the entrance there was a cluster of hooks and a small shelf. There were three lamps on the hooks and tinder and flint on the shelf. He lit a lamp and held it over his head. It was hardly needed here, the afternoon light flooding the first twenty feet of the tunnel, but as he moved deeper the darkness clamped down and he held the light up by his head to see where he was treading.
The reason for the clearing was apparent. Trees had been cut and trimmed to support the passage, two uprights to each cross beam. He edged forwards, and the tunnel split into two. He went left. Another hundred feet and he came to a shaft that vanished downwards. He held the lamp over the edge and looked down, kicked a stone into the darkness and heard it clatter at the bottom. There was a ladder here, a thing made of sticks tied together. He studied it for a while and decided against trusting his weight to it. If he wanted to go down there he’d tie off a rope and climb down that, but he didn’t see the point.
Outside again the sun was still shining, and Arbak was still swinging upside down from a branch. He walked over and sat down next to the man.
“Are those ladders really safe?” he asked.
Arbak stared at him for a moment before answering. “Do I look like a miner?”
“No, you look like a mercenary. Good pay?”
“Not enough.”
Narak rummaged through his pack again.
“Are you going to bore me to death?”
Narak was surprised at the man’s spirit. He took the knife out of the fire and pressed the glowing red blade to the back of Arbak’s thigh. There was a puff of smoke as it burned away the cloth. Arbak shouted and tried to twist away from the blade. Narak put it back in the fire.
“There’s a small problem with doing this,” he said. “Torturing someone is a process, and once I start I have to go through the whole thing, you see. I know that you’ll tell me something quite quickly, but I have no real way of knowing if that’s the truth or a lie, so I have to go on. After a while you’ll tell me something different, but again, I have no way of knowing if it’s true. Most people tell the truth either the first or second time, but again I have to keep going. It’s only later, much later, that I know what the truth is, so you see why I’m reluctant to start.”
“If I tell you, will you let me choose how I die?”
Narak carefully placed small pieces of wood on the fire, making sure that the flames were not too high. The best fire was one that glowed red, not a torrent of flame.
“Perhaps,” he said. “You’re not in a good position to bargain.”
“Will you give me a drink then?” Arbak was squinting against the lowering sun, running a dry tongue around dusty lips. His voice sounded dry.
“All right,” he said. He put a hand under the mercenary’s head and lifted him easily, tipping water into his mouth. Arbak swallowed greedily. After a few mouthfuls Narak took the water flask away and lowered him again.
“One thousand two hundred and thirty-eight pounds of ore.”
“Ore?”
“It’s what they shipped out of here.” Arbak said. “Please don’t ask me to tell you what yield.”
“How many wagons?”
“Three. They left a week ago. We were left behind to break up the camp.” Arbak seemed to have made a decision. He was talking easily now, not hesitating to answer Narak’s questions.”
“And who commanded this? Who will receive this ore?”
“I was never told,” Arbak said. “But it was Bel Arac. One of his people was here, telling everyone how to do their work. Mouth bigger than the mine. He talked about it all the time. Great things afoot, he said.”
There was a silence, Arbak swinging gently in the evening breeze. Narak watched him.
“Why did you decide to talk?”
“You believe me?”
“Yes.”
Arbak shrugged – a difficult thing to do hanging upside down. “My father always told me to die hard, to fight all the way and spit in death’s eye at the end, but I don’t see the point. Besides, I lasted an hour of the worst torture that Wolf Narak could throw at me. I hope you tell people that. And anyway, what use is a mercenary with one hand?”
Narak smiled. “How do you want to die, Arbak?”
“Old age?”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. The whole thing suddenly seemed ridiculous. He stood and kicked dirt over the fire. No need for it now. He retrieved his knife and stuck it in the soil to cool. He drew one of his swords.
“Before you go, Arbak, which one of you killed Perlaine?”
“That was her name?” Arbak waggled his head in the direction of the wolves and the mayhem they had caused. “Those two,” he said. “They shot her from behind. I was cooking lunch, and it was a damned good lunch, too. They were supposed to be keeping villagers away. They should have known better when they saw the wolf. Stupid…”
Narak’s blade flashed through the air and Arbak landed on the ground with a thump. He grimaced, tried to get his weight of his burned stump, succeeded and looked up at Narak and then down at his body. The rope that had held him suspended was cut.
“I seem to be alive,” he said.
“If I let you go what will you do?” Narak asked.
“Starve? I’ve got no trade.”
“Ever hold any rank?”
“Officer? No. Squad leader, sergeant, corporal. I usually get a squad of men.”
“Any skills?”
“I was good with a sword…”
“Not really. Average, I would say.” Arbak threw an uncomfortable look in his direction.
“Well, it hardly matters now,” he said. “And no. No other skills.”
“What would you do if you had money?” Narak was packing up his bag, watching the wolves.
“Money? How much?” Arbak was still sitting on the ground. He hadn’t moved since he’d been cut down.
“Enough.”
“Enough is a lot of money.” He thought for a moment. “A tavern. A nice one. Good food, too. Did I mention I was a good cook?”
“In passing.”
“Yes. A tavern. One with a cosy set of rooms over it. Nothing fancy, just a bedroom and a sitting room. And space for guests.” He ran out of words and sat looking at his feet. Narak tied the top of his bag shut and sat opposite him. He saw that Arbak was staring into space, a look of great weariness on his face.
“I know,” he said.
“You know?” Arbak look
ed at him with wide eyes.
“Yes. Tell me how it happened.”
“I didn’t lie,” Arbak insisted.
“Tell me.”
“Just as I said. Those two, Sigur and Venn, they were cousins, you know. Both good men with a bow, but stupid. They shot her and the wolf, came and told me. I went to look.” He rubbed his face fiercely with his hand. “She was still alive. They’d just left her to die. She was dying. One arrow had pierced a lung, one through the back of …”
Narak cut him off. “I saw the wounds.”
“You did? Of course you did. Sorry. Anyway, there was nothing to be done. She’d crawled to the body of the wolf, was lying against it. She was in a lot of pain and the wolf was dead. She asked me to end it for her.”
“She asked?”
“Well, I asked, she nodded.” Arbak suddenly looked up and met Narak’s gaze. “Pelion’s teeth, but she was a beauty. Even in death.” He shook his head. “What a waste.”
Narak didn’t say anything for a long time. It was Arbak who broke the silence.
“You couldn’t have saved her, could you?”
Narak shook his head. “No.” The mercenary seemed relieved.
“The rest you know. I stripped the body, tried to hide it with the wolf, burned the clothes. I knew you’d come. I hid the boys up on the slope, just a chance we could get an edge that way.” He shook his head again.
Narak sat still for a long time, looking at the ground between them. Now he knew that he had the truth, the full story of what had passed here. Arbak was just a paid blade, a man doing a job. He had done what was, in his own eyes, the decent thing. He’d ended the suffering of a dying woman. There was no malice in him beyond what was necessary for his profession. He was no fool. The simple trap he’d set might have had a chance of killing Narak if he hadn’t been alerted to it by the wolves. It was certain that he was finished as a mercenary, and it was something that the wolf god could turn to his own advantage.
He cut the bonds that held Arbak’s hands and feet and took a pebble out of his pocket. It was white with a vein of red running through it; a worthless piece of rock, but quite distinctive.
“Is there anywhere in Avilian you aren’t welcome?” he asked.
“One or two dwellings,” Arbak looked puzzled. He rubbed his wrist just above the cut. Narak guessed he was expecting some form of retribution, but he had no argument with this man. His enemy was Bel Arac.
“How do you feel about Bas Erinor?”
“Expensive, busy, I liked it last time I was there.”
“I want you to go there. I have work for you.”
Arbak brightened, and life came back into his eyes. “A job?”
“You said you wanted to run a tavern.”
“A tavern?”
“Stop repeating what I say. Take this,” he gave him the stone. “Show it at the house of Jessec Bosso, the money lender. He will give you the funds you need. Buy a tavern. Run it as best you can.”
“You want me to run a tavern for you?”
“For yourself. The tavern will be yours. The deed will be in your name. For me you will gather information, rumour, gossip. You will travel to Wolfguard every year in the summer, tell me what you know, how the city feels. If the arrangement proves satisfactory to me you will enjoy considerable wealth and a very long life.”
“I’m still sworn to Bel Arac,” Arbak said.
“It won’t be a problem, and such an oath is better honoured in the breach than the observance, believe me.” Because he is a traitor who seeks war with Berash, and war with the gods, and he’s going to get it sooner than he thinks.
“I need a surgeon,” Arbak said. Narak had to admit that the man was tough. All this time he hadn’t mentioned the severed and burned wrist, which must have pained him terribly. Many men would have been laid low by such an injury, but Arbak seemed able to ignore it. He tossed a purse of coins to the man. Several gold guineas, he knew, would be plenty.
“Pay for the best,” he said. “Get rid of those clothes. Dress like a prosperous man. It is what you have become.”
Arbak looked inside the purse and then looked up quickly. “My lord…”
“Deus is the proper title,” Narak said. “You are my man now, Arbak. You walk with the wolf. Treachery means death, loyalty is well rewarded, and if you die by another’s hand your death will be avenged.”
Narak translocated, and in an instant was back in the woods outside Wolfguard. Arbak, he knew, would be staring at a wolf. He did not worry too much about his new agent. The man was tough. He had three horses and a purse full of gold. He would survive.
He did wonder that he had not killed the man. By his own admission he had ended Perlaine’s life, but Narak could not help but like him. Arbak had faced his end well, and was clever enough to give himself a chance of avoiding it. He was resourceful, courageous, and cool headed.
He walked towards the gates of Wolfguard. Evening approached, and he needed to listen for news from Tor Silas and Bas Erinor. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the Marquis of Bel Arac.
13. Wolfguard to Bel Arac
A few hours ago Narak had been full of grim purpose, all focussed on the Marquis of Bel Arac and his inevitable demise, but now it was scattered, torn between three paths. When he had returned to Wolfguard there had been no doubt. Bel Arac had been mining blood silver. He was responsible for the death of Perlaine. He would pay for that with his life.
Simple.
And yet it was not. No sooner had he settled in to listen to the wolves that he had left at Bas Erinor and Tor Silas than he had heard the most extraordinary news.
Firstly, Prince Havil had been successful. He had ambushed the ambushers, sprung his trap and wiped out the force that had been attacking the Berashi border patrols, and he had prisoners. It was a swift and stunning victory. The message was not from Havil, but from the king, relaying a message brought by a rider. The most enigmatic part of the message, the piece that hooked Narak, was that the prisoners spoke neither Berashi nor Avilian. He wanted to know more, but Havil was not due back in Tor Silas until the evening of the next day, so he must wait.
Secondly, the news from Bas Erinor was even more intriguing. The message was from Quinnial, the duke’s second son, and it was simple. There was a Seth Yarra spy in the city – in the city of the gods, no less, and disguised as a priest. It was the first time the words had been uttered by another. Seth Yarra.
It made sense, of course. If there were any plans laid by the old enemy then they would want better information than last time. They had been surprised by Remard and the Benetheon. They had been beaten. One spy didn’t make a war, but adding up the three pieces of information that he had: Bel Arac, a Seth Yarra spy and the capture of troops neither Berashi nor Avilian on the border between those two countries – he was beginning to feel certain.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow he must make a choice. Bel Arac could wait. The spy was not caught, nor even proven, and Havil was still somewhere in the forests to the south of Tor Silas.
He had a clear sense that events were beginning to move, and that they would move quickly. And still he knew nothing. If he was lucky the next few days would bring answers to many of his questions, but he expected that ever more questions would be raised, more problems revealed, right to the point where battle would be joined and men died.
Whatever it was that he suspected, there was no apparent threat. Four hundred years ago Seth Yarra had come with an army, thousands upon thousands of men, swords, spears, bows, all marshalled by a ferocious discipline of which he had never seen the like. It was only the poor class of their commanders, their refusal to adapt, that had let the enemy be beaten, or perhaps the genius of Fox Remard. If they came again it would be with an even larger force, but their attention seemed to be focussed on Avilian, on Berash.
The candle on the table in front of him flickered and began to shrink into the last of its wax. He noticed that several of the candles around the room had failed, and he to
ok a handful from the basket beneath the table and set about lighting them, placing them in the appropriate niches. He had one more to place when he heard a noise in the room behind him. It was like a cough, but also quite different. Whatever, it was not an accidental noise, but a signal to attract his attention, and it was not made by the throat of a man. He didn’t turn.