The Seventh Friend (Book 1)

by Tim Stead

  The door was shut and barred. He kicked it and it burst open, the beam that had held it splintering across the stone flags of the floor. The great hall was much as he remembered it, high, well lit and richly adorned, but he had no time to see it. He counted twelve armoured men, swords drawn, standing between him and the Marquis’ high seat. The Marquis himself sat upon it, and smiled.

  Narak studied the rest of the room. He looked for loop holes where a bowman might be concealed, for men hidden in doorways, for tapestries that might conceal an archer of two, but there was nothing. Not one bow was trained on him. He smelled blood silver, and he knew that the swords were all tipped with it, edged with it.

  “What is your business here, Wolf Narak?” the Marquis asked. He was not a large man, but dressed like a prince, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair long, dark, brushed back from his forehead and bound in a queue behind his neck. He wore a sword, but had not drawn it.

  “You are a traitor, Bel Arac,” he said. “You have made alliance with Seth Yarra, you have broken the terms of the blood silver pact, and you have supplied arms to the enemy of your king.” The last was a guess. The arrows that had been used to kill Berashi border patrols must have come from somewhere, and this was the obvious place.

  “And you have rushed here full of indignation to punish me?”

  “Your men killed one of my own,” Narak replied. “Such a thing does not go unavenged.”

  “Then by all means, do your worst.”

  Narak looked around the room again, but he could see no surprises, no hidden traps. There were just twelve men, swords drawn. Could that be it? Bel Arac seemed so confident. He drew his swords and took a step back so that there was not enough room for anyone to get behind him. Fighting with a wall at your back made things simpler.

  “I have no wish to kill you,” he said to the men. “Lay down your blades and walk away.”

  The Marquis laughed. “Too many for you? So much for the fable of Afael!”

  “I’m not speaking to you, Bel Arac,” Narak replied. “Let these men answer for themselves. Will they die for a traitor?”

  “If they understood you they would tell you that they do not see it that way.”

  Bel Arac’s words caught him off guard. If they understood you? Then understanding came, like a drum roll, into his mind. Of course. Who could Bel Arac trust if he was betraying his own people? Who would insist on being here to mind their investment? When he looked into the eyes of the twelve men he saw nothing but hatred, and he knew why. They were Seth Yarra. Not only that, but they were the black clad monks who had fought so well at Afael, the cleansers, the killer priests of Seth Yarra.

  “Then let us begin,” he said.

  They were ready for a fight, but none of the Seth Yarra had seen Wolf Narak for four centuries, and they were not ready enough. He thrust with all his speed, flashing past the half raised blade of his nearest foe and put the tip neatly into the man’s neck above the collar of his armour. He turned the blade and stepped back in time to parry two fierce blows from the others.

  Eleven.

  Now three of them came at him at once. His position by the wall limited it to three, and though they were all skilled with a blade, Narak was better. He was faster, too, and he had thought about fighting in a thousand scenarios over hundreds of years. He had tried out dozens of theories with Caster in their practice hall, and now he would test them.

  In his mind he labelled his immediate opponents as Left, Middle and Right. He parried the cuts, deflected the thrusts, and waited. Picking his moment he stepped hard to the right, taking himself out of the reach of Left, parrying Middle and catching Right’s sword on his own blade, lifting it up. He disengaged from Middle and used that blade to attack Right, who was now undefended. He thrust into the man’s face, turned, and pushed himself back to the wall, parried, parried, cut.

  Ten.

  They were not going to get anywhere near him, blood silver or not. They were just too slow, and his position was too good. He tried the move again, going to the left this time, and again it worked and his blade took the leftmost cleanser in the throat.

  Nine.

  Just how slow witted were they? He tried again, this time to the right, but his target moved with him, disengaged and attacked again. So they did learn. Well, he could use that against them, too. He began a move to the right again, in exactly the same pattern, and Left followed him, coming into the gap, just a little less prepared than he should have been. Narak reversed his movement, barrelling into Left, knocking his sword to one side and wrapping his left arm around the man’s neck. He lifted and twisted, heard a satisfying crunch as the man’s neck broke, and threw his limp body at the others, knocking Middle down and forcing the others to step back. He pressed his advantage, stamping on Middle’s groin before driving his blade down into his neck. The remaining cleansers swarmed back and he allowed them the space, going back to his position by the wall.

  Seven.

  It would be more difficult now. They stood back from him, less eager to attack, and for a while it was almost sword tip to sword tip, the distances too great for anyone to inflict harm on anyone else, but if they sought to tire him they would be disappointed. He did not tire, could fight in this fashion for a day and a night. He wasn’t here to dance.

  He began to move forwards and backwards. Pressing into Middle, driving him out from the wall, and then falling back to his safe position, forcing them to follow him. The movement gave him greater possibilities. He began to attack the blades to each side of him as he moved, forcing them wider, allowing Middle the slightest of openings. Middle was a cautious man, and held back the first time, hesitated at the second opportunity, but the third time he could not resist and came in with a quick thrust, placing himself effectively one on one with Narak.

  He didn’t use the blade this time, but punched the hilt of his right hand sword into the man’s face, sending him backwards into the man behind him. They both fell to the ground, and the three to his left pulled back. Right stayed close, however, perhaps expecting him to step forwards again and attack Middle, but Narak now had unprecedented space, and attacked the close man, knocking Right’s sword away and putting a killing blow through his neck that pierced all the way through to the high collar of his armour.

  Six, and one of those still alive was no real threat, his nose broken, blood in his eyes.

  As yet no blade had touched him, and his confidence grew. He began to expand his style, showing off some of the more outrageous moves that he had practiced with Caster. He jumped, spun, kicked, punched. Everything became a weapon. He broke the neck of a man behind him with a prodigious blow from the pommel of his sword. He kicked the legs out from under another, disarmed a third, sending his blade clattering across the room. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “Are you ready for me, Bel Arac?” he called out. He killed another man with a blow that found the gap between his armour and his helmet, a space no more than half an inch at best. Now there were four, and he could see the shadow in their eyes. They knew that they were dead men. They were tiring and he was not. He battered them, kicked them, knocked them over, almost playing with them now.

  Then he stood back, made the gap between them an offering, a respite, and everything stopped. He looked at the four remaining men and gestured to them. Lay down your swords. Surrender. He saw two of the men exchange looks. A third, perhaps the oldest of the remaining four looked at him with hard eyes.

  “We will not bow to you, demon,” he said. He spoke Afalel, heavily accented, but clear enough.

  “I do not ask it,” Narak replied in the same tongue. “You are beaten. If you fight on you will die. I am offering you life.”

  “At what price? You will take our souls.”

  “One soul is enough for any man. I have no need of another. All I ask is that you lay down your blades.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not need to kill you. You do not need to die.”

  “It is a
trick.”

  “It is not. I have no need of tricks.”

  One of the other men interrupted, speaking to the one that had been speaking with Narak. His words were a question, but Narak did not know the language. A conversation began; an argument. He guessed it was between those who wished to live and fight another day, and those who desired to carry out their orders to the letter. He could imagine the words. Pragmatism versus honour: it was a debate as old as the art of war itself.

  “You can trust what he says. His word is the only thing stronger than his blade.”

  The voice came from the shattered doorway. It was the officer who had allowed him to pass into the keep, and there were others there; an audience. The officer spoke Afalel.

  It was timely reinforcement for the pragmatic side of the debate. One of the Seth Yarra took matters into his own hands and cast his blade to the ground. The Afalel speaker threatened him, but was in turn seized by another, who shook him and shouted at him.

  In a few moments the argument was won. The other swords were thrown down.

  “We will submit,” the older man said reluctantly. “And when this place is taken we will fight again.”

  “That is your choice,” Narak said. “But remember to whom you owe your life.”

  “We owe our lives to Seth Yarra,” the man declared.

  Narak shook his head. He spoke to the officer. “Take these four. Keep them locked below.”

  He looked for Bel Arac, but the Marquis was no longer in the great chair. He was nowhere to be seen. Reason said that he could not have passed through the main entrance to the chamber. Others would have seen, and he would have passed close enough for Narak to notice him. He ran the length of the hall and through the door behind the great chair into the private chambers.

  He was in a lavishly furnished room. There was no sign of the Marquis, but three doors, all closed, promised more. He kicked one open and found a bed chamber. It, too, was empty. He returned to the first room and tried the second door. A study. Papers lay scattered about, and he made a note to come back later. There might be some interesting correspondence here.

  The third door was also a dead end and an empty room. He had seen no other doors.

  Back in the main hall he found the officer still there, and a few of the others. The prisoners were gone.

  “The Marquis, did you see him come by you?”

  “No, Deus.”

  What then? Some form of magic? A concealment? Perhaps something simpler. He went back to the private rooms and stood in the middle of the first chamber. He could not become the wolf while wearing armour, even though the wolf would scent the traitor’s route in a moment. It would take too long, and there was another way.

  He allowed the veil to fall, taking on his full aspect as a god, the wolf and the man combined. Power flowed through him, a sun shone within his chest, flooding him with warmth. His eyes became sharper, his hearing more sensitive, and more importantly, he could smell like a wolf.

  He dropped to his knees and closed his eyes, casting for the trail. It was not hard to find, and he scrambled across the floor in an undignified half crawl that took him through the door of the bed chamber and up to the wall next to the bed. Here the trail ended.

  He rapped on the panel next to the bed. It replied with a hollow sound. He had no time to look for a mechanism. It would be artfully hidden somewhere on the bed, and could take hours to locate. He kicked the panel several times until it was nothing but matchwood, and revealed a dark opening about four feet high and two wide. He looked inside and saw that it gave onto a corridor, and then steps leading down. It was all in darkness, but with wolf eyes there was enough light to see his way. He squeezed through the broken panel and hurried down the stairs. They wound downwards to what he guessed was level with the ground, and then became another corridor. He could see light, and ran forwards.

  He emerged into the dim light of the stables, behind a stack of hay bales. The door, which closely resembled other parts of the stable walls, had been left open. He assumed the veil again, hiding his god aspect and walked swiftly into the stable yard. A groom was standing with a stable boy looking the other way.

  “In a hurry was he?”

  They jumped, startled by his sudden appearance.

  “Deus.” They chorused his title, knelt.

  “The Marquis?”

  “Gone, Deus,” the groom replied. “Just moments ago. He took the swiftest horse.”

  Narak could still hear the hooves clattering on cobbles as the Marquis rode out through the gate in the curtain wall. If he ran, if he ran really fast, he would get to the gate while the traitor was still in range of a thrown knife. He could throw a knife with great accuracy over a considerable distance.

  But Narak did not run. He stood and listened as the clattering hooves bore the Marquis along the street that led to the city gates. Bel Arac was a man alone now, and vengeance would be well served by waiting.

  Where would he go? Narak guessed south, south to the border and the force he expected to find there. They were close, and the Marquis could not yet have heard that they had been wiped out by Prince Havil. What then would he do when he discovered there was no safe haven to the south?

  Bel Arac would head for the nearest large force of Seth Yarra, he guessed. Now that would be an interesting direction to discover.

  He felt the wolves in the hills outside the city, felt them become aware of him.

  Follow this one.

  He gave them the scent.

  Follow and do not be seen. Follow no-pack, disperse. Be alone, each of you.

  Now he had to wait, and there was Havil in Tor Silas, and Quinnial in Bas Erinor.

  14. Tor Silas

  He chose Havil.

  He enjoyed Havil. Of all the princes, kings, lords and dukes he had met in the last month Havil reminded him most of the great warriors of the old alliance that had thrown back Seth Yarra. Havil was strong, honest, and his motives were simple. The people of Berash saw it to, and they loved their prince.

  He was welcomed in Tor Silas as Havil’s friend and ally. The guards were cheerful, and less in awe of him than he expected. They were treating him, he realised, as they treated their prince. They were also celebrating a victory. Havil had taken an army into the field and returned victorious. They did not yet know their enemy, but it was clear that the chance of war with Avilian was much reduced, and most were pleased by that.

  Havil came to meet him. That was the gesture of a friend. The big man was clearly still dusty from the road, and should have been bathing by the look and smell of him, but he strode down the stairs with a broad smile of his face and clenched his fist by way of a salute.

  “Victory, Deus!” he cried. Narak could not prevent the smile that came to his own lips.

  “It lightens my heart to hear you say it, Lord Prince,” he replied. “It went as you planned?”

  Havil did not bow, did not fawn upon him as others did, but there was no disrespect there, and Narak was glad of it. The prince was full of news and bursting to share it. They climbed the stairs to the King’s private apartments side by side.

  “I could not have wished for a better outcome. The surprise was complete, and most of their archers were down in the first two volleys. They were a hard lot, though. Fought well. I took few prisoners and lost a score of men.”

  “Have you determined who they are?”

  “I have not. The prisoners will not speak, or perhaps they cannot. They do not seem to understand what we say to them. They are willing enough to take food and water, but have to be shown it, and will not take the meaning when we tell them things they willingly do when we mime to them. I can make no sense of it when they speak among themselves.”

  “Not a word, eh?”

  “Worse than that. One of the prisoners bit out his own tongue and bled to death. He was already wounded and had suffered from loss of blood. Nothing we did could save him.”

  “It is to your credit that you tried. Do any of
your men speak Afalel?”

  “Afalel? That is what they gab in Afael, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “I do not know. I will have someone found. Do you think they are Afaeli?”

  “I think a few of them might know the tongue, but I doubt they are Afaeli. I have captured a few strangers of my own in the last few days, and some of them spoke it, but with a strange accent.”

  “Did they confess their origin, then?”

  “They did not. I think I know it, but forgive me for playing coy, lord prince. I would wish to speak with the prisoners when I have paid my respects to the king.”

  “Two with one blow, then. He is with the captured men.”