by CF WELBURN
“Horseshit! The only thing already written is your death sentence.”
“I know things that could save you! Things you could not begin to guess at.”
“Like what? We all get dressed up in bearskins, tattoo our faces and try to blend in?”
“I’ll only speak with Gladbrook.”
“Forget it.”
“If you’ll not help me, I’ll make it known you ignored my warnings. That you put you rivalry with your brother before your duty as a captain. I swear to you, the deaths of everyone here could be prevented, if only I’m allowed to speak with Gladbrook.”
“This is getting boring...” Kyrion said, reaching for his torch.
“Go fuck yourself, Kyrion.” Oben spat, finally venting. “Do your job, if you’re so good at it. You and me, we’re done.”
Kyrion stared at him for a long moment, then took his torch from the sconce, shook his head and strode from the cell.
“Just one more thing,” Oben said, hating himself for having to ask anything of this man. “If you’ll not help me, at least let me speak to Delia and Bayron before I am hanged.”
Kyrion turned, his eyes flat.
“They don’t want to see you.”
“I just want to say goodbye.”
“It’s not my choice,” he said, with a cold smile. “I needn’t explain myself to you, but since you persist, know this: It was Delia who wrote to me. It was she who asked for my help, who suggested we get married. You abandoned her in her lowest time. Left her in that bleak outpost. She needed someone strong, someone dependable, and she came to me. Bayron is happy here. He’s learnt how to read and write. He told me he was afraid of you. He told me to be careful when he found out I was visiting you. But I came. And if your words are not lies, if the Skalgs truly come, then what exactly have you achieved? Seems you’ve managed to make things fucking worse.”
“You’re mistaken…”
Kyrion looked like he would say more, but just shook his head sadly. “Goodbye, brother. I hope you find Mara in the Garden. And I hope she can forgive you.”
As his brother’s footfalls receded, Oben grabbed the bars and cried out.
“Make the right decision, Kyrion! People are going to die!”
Kyrion did not slow and in the distance a metal door slammed shut.
* * *
Oben fumed, tears of anger, of hatred and frustration finally brimming over. The calm he had struggled to keep in the confrontation was gone now. He balled his fists and kicked and raged at the walls until his knuckles bled.
Of all the challenges he had faced in the north, of all the degradation, humility, toil and pain, he’d never felt this low. To have killed a giant and then be defeated by a petty man without even a weapon drawn left him feeling hollow.
Deep down he knew he had no reason to doubt what Kyrion told him. Delia had always been stubborn. In their twelve years of marriage, he had never won an argument. She’d been angry when he had left, and time had exacerbated that. He had been a fool to imagine her missing him. That wasn’t Delia. It made sense she would look to Kyrion at Blanbury, and not the contrary. Kyrion had grown to hate Gilden and had likely not given it a thought in years.
But what pained Oben the most was that Bayron feared him. That his son’s final memory of his father would be that naked wretch with a noose about his neck. If only he had a moment to speak with him. To show him how much he loved him and explain that everything he had done, had been for him. But when he looked at his scarred, burnt, marked body, he realised a moment would not be enough.
Anyway, that was out of his hands now. As were a great many things. Ethra had been right. He was headed for the gallows and there was nothing he, nor Kyrion, nor even Gladbrook and a thousand shining Jade Knights could do to alter that.
He slumped in the corner of his cell. He didn’t weep. He even managed to sleep. He woke at intervals and saw the light creeping once more down the doorframe. Dawn, and his fate, were calling.
* * *
Whilst he waited, he thought of Justice and hoped she would have the good sense to run from Ortho. He thought of his axe and wondered how odd it must look in an armoury of standard stock. He thought of Kyrion abed with Delia, and Bayron in the next room, turning with nightmares of his demon father. His mind strayed to the north, and to Gulmorgon. He wondered if she had left yet. How much time Edale had before the war arrived. He found he no longer cared. He had been betrayed by those he had tried to defend, and had betrayed those who had come to believe in him. Perhaps he deserved this.
Had he gone north for Gilden? For Mara? For Old Gurney? For the dead horses? Or had he done it for himself, to spite his father, to refute his brother… A bit of both, he supposed, if he were being honest. And there was no better time for honesty than now.
As if to echo that thought the gaoler’s keys sounded down the passageway.
Oben looked up as a thin shadow fell across him.
“Get your arse up.” the guard snapped, throwing him some clothes.
He dressed, let them bind his hands and stumbled out into the light. At least he wasn’t going to be hanged naked.
He turned towards the gallows and took a deep breath. It was time to get this over with.
“Not that way.” the guard growled. “Into the trap. Now!”
“The trap?” Oben asked. He looked the opposite way down a narrow street onto a small cobbled courtyard behind the prison. Beneath a rustling tree, two horses attached to a carriage stamped impatiently.
“Aye.” the guard said, making a warding sign. “You’re off to Corwen. And good riddance to you.”
25
BROTHERS-AT-ARMS
The carriage bounced over a stone and snatched Oben from his memories.
More miles had come and gone. Five days had passed since they had left Blanbury; five cramped days in the carriage, suffering the unkind words of his countrymen and being ignored by his brother who rode ahead of the caravan. Now, they were nearing Corwen. Although he dreaded the outcome, he was relieved when the road levelled and became less bumpy. Eventually the road ran between farms and secluded dwellings, and the scent of sea brine peppered the air.
The Trinity temple stood high on a hill, visible even from over Corwen’s outer walls, every angle of its gold and jade roof catching the noon sun, each facet a flashing mirror.
Whilst Blanbury made Threlwich feel small, Corwen existed on an entirely different scale. Its walls were so thick he felt the chill of their shadow as they passed below the portcullis.
As they rolled down the main thoroughfare, crowds gathered to scream, curse, and spit at him, much like they had in Lanoc and Eisalhelm. Except this time, it stung more. Closer to home; closer to the bone.
* * *
The caravan parked in front of a three-story stone building, and Kyrion led Oben inside. They proceeded down a long, bright corridor. Jade Knights stood in every alcove along the hallway, unmoving as ornamental suits of armour. Tapestries depicting former rulers and interpretations of the Trinity hung on the walls. They entered a big audience chamber where Gladbrook and two other men sat on thrones on a dais. Several more Jade Knights stood around the walls, hands resting on hammers and spears. The room was well lit from four round windows, high up on each wall. The green and white tiled floor made their footsteps echo. There were several people sitting on wooden chairs set up just in front of the dais. All heads turned.
As they approached, Oben could not help reflect on how patriarchal Edalian society was. Skaligar and Taliskar had their fair share of fearsome warriors and clan chiefs, but in Taliskar Seri ruled and in Skaligar Gulmorgon governed absolute. Edale was run by men, and the three that sat staring down at him as though a pig had just burst into the palace and soiled itself, were the most important.
Oben had seen Lester Gladbrook a handful of times in Blanbury, buttering up the north’s resilience along the border. The years had not been kind to him. Or rather, had been too kind. He looked one roast boar away f
rom a heart attack. His layered robes, pink and purple, draped his huge frame like a tablecloth so his legs appeared spindly. His beard was grey, his moustaches long and fastidiously twisted. He cradled a long pipe in his outstretched hand, and on his head was a golden crown complimented by three peacock feathers.
Beside him, and tiny in comparison, was Golmin, the High Priest. Oben had never seen the man, but there was no mistaking him. He was garbed from head to toe in an emerald robe, with jutting lapels and reinforced shoulders. A thick chain hung about his neck, and he held a weighty, gold sceptre in his left hand. He was old, but not ancient. His nose long and flat, his eyes devoid of humour. His grey hair was swept back and contained beneath a flat, unremarkable cap, and his mouth was a thin down-curving line.
Finally, there was Dober, Prime Jade Knight, the Scythe, the Harvester’s Hand, and he looked every bit as imposing as the tales told. He was thick set and daunting in leather trousers and hose. Veins stood out on his pale forearms and he gripped a spiked war hammer in jade encrusted steel gauntlets. He stood as a cemetery yew, rooted, firm; living off of, and because of the dead.
Oben looked at Kyrion who had respectfully doffed his helm and bowed his head, and Oben quickly decided to do the same. Then he took a breath, lowered his head and waited. The only sound he heard for several moments was Gladbrook taking another crackling draw on his pipe and the quiet wheeze of his breathing.
At last Gladbrook spoke. “So, this is who all the fuss is about. Well, let’s get on with it, lunch is almost served.” He nodded to the High Priest who cleared his throat and spoke in a monotonous voice as depressing as his mien.
“This should not take long. Captain Granger, I assume there is a good reason you have brought this man before us, and not merely because he’s allegedly your brother.”
“There is, Your Grace,” Kyrion said. “And he is no longer my brother. I would have had him executed in Blanbury, but he might have something useful to share.”
“Very well. And can he speak? Or has he spent so long abroad he has turned as base as the other beasts?”
“I speak well enough. In both languages.”
The three men seemed perturbed that he would speak without being addressed.
Gladbrook waved his pipe and said, “You obviously have no interest in saving yourself. Admitting you have been living amongst and conversing with the heathens only seals your sentence.”
“I tell you, because it might save you.”
The men upon the dais shared glances, and Gladbrook smiled.
“If I may, High Priest, let him spin his tale. This should be good.”
Golmin nodded, “Speak.” he said.
Oben took a breath.
“The Taliskans come in great number to take the South.”
“Taliskans?” Gladbrook said with an arched brow.
“Skalgs,” Oben said. “We have been ignorant about our foes. They do not come from Skaligar, but from a land across the sea. Skaligar is but a rallying point. They’ve been delayed by rivalries and power struggles, but now stand united in their desire to conquer the South. Their goddess has prophesised that they will be victorious.”
“Their goddess.” Golmin repeated, his voice little more than a disdainful whisper.
“Yes. Whether we believe it or not, matters little. They believe it. Their strong faith has made them almost invincible. And this time they have no intention of returning north.”
“And what do they want?” Gladbrook asked. “Gold?”
“I think it’s more where and how you acquire the gold, that interests them.”
“So, they know about Penn.” Gladbrook said, airily.
“Yes.” Oben said, surprised to find anger in his voice. “They come for vengeance. The treaty at Tristleton was a trap. You betrayed them. They come for blood. Do the Trinity require slaves, now?”
“Pah. What did they expect? If they were not clever enough to smell a ruse, they deserve to be tricked.”
“Some had brothers, fathers, cousins that were slaughtered or taken to the mines. They will hold you to account.”
Gladbrook stiffened.
“It sounds like you agree with them. Tell me—I hardly know what to call you—farmer? Perhaps Skalg, or Taligan was it?”
“Taliskan.” Oben said through clenched teeth.
Gladbrook smiled.
“Tell me, Taligan. Did you know your dear brother here was responsible for escorting prisoners to the mines?”
Oben looked at Kyrion, hoping to see his brother deny it. Kyrion did not turn his head. “Oh dear.” Gladbrook said, sticking out his lower lip. “Seems there’s a little communication problem in the Granger family. I wonder how your new friends would feel knowing it was your brother enslaving theirs?”
Oben bit back a retort.
“If you release the prisoners, it may go some way to—”
“Oh, I’m afraid they’re probably all dead now. Inconvenient,” Gladbrook said with a frown, “but nobody works the mines for long.”
“You tortured them.”
“Of course!” he said. “Information, my little peasant man. We already know what you have come so far to tell us. I’d really hoped you’d have something fresher to share.”
Oben remembered the names he had left Gilden chanting. That information had come to him at Ma Rallier’s inn from a drunk tinker from Blanbury who had heard it from a trader from Corwen. The chain went back to the inquisitor and the screaming Skalgs on Penn.
Gladbrook sat back, his chair creaking.
“Let them come.” he said, bored.
“What are their numbers?” Golmin asked.
“I’d say some six or seven thousand. At least there was nearly that many in Threlwich. They’ll gather more as they come south, and if more are sent from Eisalhelm, then you could expect double.”
The High Priest’s grey skin paled.
“Impossible.”
“I would agree, had I not seen them. They are united.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve all heard of this fearsome Gulmorgon. He bleeds the same as the rest of them.” said Gladbrook.
“She is a respected leader.”
Oben allowed himself a small smile at the surprise on Gladbrook’s face. So, you don’t know everything, you fuckers.
“Her men are prepared to die for her.” he continued, “They are not as afraid of death as we are.”
When Dober broke his silence, his voice rumbled like thunder.
“Soldiers are soldiers, but Jade Knights would gladly die to rid this world of the godless.”
“Maybe,” Oben agreed, “but the battle will be costly on both sides.”
“And you propose to lessen this cost, is that it?” Gladbrook asked, sitting forward again.
Oben nodded and raised his tunic to show them his back. He did not need to see their faces to know what their silence meant.
“As you can see, I have been marked. Pure fluke, I assure you. I got hit by lightning in a storm. But they believe I am part of their prophecy. Absurd, I know. But they think they need me. They will trust me.”
Gladbrook laughed so hard he began to cough.
Golmin cleared his throat and said, “Assuming I don’t have that evil flayed from your back this instant, how would their trust in you help us?”
“I’d lead them into a trap. They believe I will help them conquer Edale. I’d tell them I’ve opened a door at the back of the keep. That will bring them into one place, where we can easily surround them. If not, be prepared for a siege. And whilst you are locked down, the rest of Edale will burn.”
“And if we hang your corpse from the wall?” Dober said. “Won’t that show them their prophecy was false? Won’t that shake their faith?”
“It would be too late by then. They’d already be here. You’d be trapped, and Blanbury, Kettley, Haygate, Overn would all be in ashes. Just as Gilden is.” He met Gladbrook’s eyes, letting him know exactly who he thought was to blame for that tragic failure.
&n
bsp; The indulgent lord may have been slovenly, but he was not slow and he swelled upon his chair.
“I have a suggestion.” he said. “Why don’t we test this ‘prophecy’ in a duel? The Skalg’s slave wins, then maybe there’s some weight to his words. We’ll send him out and see if he does not betray us. If he loses, then it will prove the Skalgs were misled. We’ll send them his head. Rattle them a bit.”
“You make a good point.” Golmin conceded.
Gladbrook clapped.
“And here I thought this morning was to be dull! Shall I have drinks sent in?”
Golmin shook his head and the lord’s smile faded, though not entirely.
Things had taken an unexpected turn. Oben hoped he had convinced them. He looked at Dober, whom he was certain would be named champion. Dober flexed his muscles and prepared to descend, Golmin stayed him with a shake of his head.
“Then who?” Gladbrook asked. He’d clearly hoped to catch a glimpse of that infamous hammer crushing Oben’s skull.
“Isn’t it plain?” Golmin said. “The two opponents already stand before us. Let brother fight brother. An apt and immediate solution.”
A smile spread across Gladbrook’s red lips.
Kyrion stirred uncomfortably.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, my lord, but my brother is a farmer, not a fighter. It would prove nothing.”
“Then do it.” Golmin said. “Did you think you were going to get away from this without reprimand? Bringing this… heathen into our presence? Your brother no less! You’ve jaded this room. Prove where your loyalty lies. And be quick about it!”
Kyrion’s shoulders sank.
“As you command, Your Grace. In the name of the Trinity.”
Oben swallowed.
“Might I at least have my axe?” he asked the High Priest.
“You’ll use a civilised weapon or none at all. If it pleases you, we’ll use the axe to remove your head once you’re dead.” With that he nodded to the nearest knight who stepped from his alcove and quickly pulled a sword from a rack behind him and handed it Oben.