by CF WELBURN
Oben turned it in his hand, weighed it. All of his training had been with an axe. It felt thin and too light. Like the sticks he had fought with as a child. He saw Kyrion observing him. That they didn’t like each other should have made it easier, but now in the moment, Oben didn’t have much of a stomach for killing his brother.
For a few moments, nothing happened. Then Kyrion snarled at Oben, and leapt, swinging his sword for Oben’s neck.
Oben deflected the blow, but the force staggered him, and he barely recovered in time to block the next. He shifted his weight on his back foot, and parried Kyrion’s next strike. Oben stepped in and around, and jabbed the point of his blade into his brother's lower back. Kyrion hissed, touched the wound and stared at the blood on his hand. He looked up slowly, as though seeing Oben for the first time.
He wiped the blood on his thigh, and flew into ringing strike upon clashing strike. Kyrion was vastly more skilled, but Oben’s defensive training kept the blood inside his body. Oben misstepped, and Kyrion slashed his shoulder. It did not bite deep but drew a vivid red line. Oben swung high, his brother ducked and the blade hissed over his head. Kyrion struck again, the cold metal slicing down Oben’s forearm. Oben winced and drew back, as the blood began to drip. Oben let out a low growl and barged into Kyrion’s stomach, knocking them both down in a clatter of broken chairs and shrieking onlookers.
Both had lost their weapons. Oben climbed up on Kyrion’s chest and pinned his arms with his knees, then he punched him in the face over and over, until Kyrion’s nose cracked and blood flowed from between his teeth and down his cheeks.
Kyrion howled and twisted, and threw Oben off him, then he jumped up and stomped on Oben’s ankle, kicked him in the side and again in the ribs.
Oben grappled his brother’s leg, and bit deep into his exposed calf between his boot and ridden up leathers. Kyrion yelled. Oben sprang back to his feet and smiled at his brother. All Kyrion’s training seemed to vanish in an instant and he rushed in. Oben grabbed him and they clung to each other, twisting, staggering, grunting, hooking legs, each trying to throw the other down.
Kyrion fell first, sprawling on the tile floor. Oben grabbed a heavy chair, raised it over his head. Thunder drummed in his temples, fire coursed through his veins; he turned to look up at the dais.
“What are you waiting for!” screamed Gladbrook, up and out of his seat.
“I won’t do it.” Oben said, casting the chair aside. “I won’t kill my brother.”
“Do it, or Dober will kill you both,” Golmin said.
“Kill me, and when all of Edale is in flames, it will be your fault. The blood will be on the Trinity’s hands.”
Golmin’s pinched face folded in on itself. He tried to speak, but was apparently at a loss for words. He waved at Dober, who nodded and leapt from the dais.
Suddenly Oben wished he hadn’t tossed away the chair.
If he could just get to his axe…
Whilst his back had been turned, Kyrion had retrieved his sword, and with a broken face full of blood, he roared and charged.
Oben readied his fists, but his brother blew past him and launched himself at the haft of Dober’s hammer. Oben rolled to the floor, snatched up his blade and leapt to his brother’s side.
Dober backhanded Kyrion sending him spinning around, stumbling backwards and landing him on his arse on the tiles. Dober spat on the floor and turned to glare at Oben. Oben’s borrowed sword would not be enough against the Jade Knight and his hammer. He needed his axe. He threw the sword at Dober’s head, and sprinted towards the dais. But the big man stomped after him. Oben leapt onto the low platform, but Gladbrook kicked the axe, and it spun down behind the dais. The fat lord waddled from the stage like a seal returning to the sea. Golmin, meanwhile, stood transfixed by the fight.
Dober hopped up onto the stage grinning fiercely. He raised his hammer. But Kyrion vaulted up and raked his blade across the knight's hamstrings, and the hammer came down wide, smashing through the wooden dais and getting caught on the long jagged splinters. The knight fell to his knees, spraying blood from the back of his leg, and tried to twist the hammerhead out of the hole.
Oben snatched the gold sceptre from the High Priest’s limp hand swung the heavy staff up and slammed it down on the back of Dober’s head, smashing the big knight’s skull and splattering everyone on the dais with red-and-grey gore. Once, twice, thrice. The skull cracked and crumpled; the sceptre dripped crimson. And still the big man, did not go down. He turned, lurched up onto his feet. Half of his head caved in. His eyes were red, his nose and mouth spurted blood, but he reached out his huge hands for Oben’s throat. Kyrion slashed the knight's hamstrings once more, deeper; they pinged like cut lute strings and the Scythe toppled to the floor, shaking the entire dais.
Oben scrambled over the edge of the dais and grabbed his axe, then he leapt back up and drove its broad blade into Dober’s back with a squelch.
There was a sudden calm. Oben wiped blood from his eyes. Then someone screamed. People were fleeing the room, Gladbrook amongst them. Kyrion stood ashen faced, staring from Dober's ravaged corpse to the dripping axe to Oben’s blood-splattered face.
Golmin had still not moved, his face covered with bits of brain.
“What have you done?” he muttered, shaking his head. “Knights!” he roared, and the two Jade Knights awoke as if from nightmares. They were slow to react. They seemed shocked and stared at Oben and then at the fallen Prime.
“We had better go.” Kyrion said; Oben thought that might not be a bad idea.
* * *
They leapt from the dais, ran out of the throne room, taking the small back door Gladbrook had. They sprinted down the corridor, scrambled over an ivy-trellised wall, across a street, between two buildings, through a fountained square, round another corner and over a small wall where they crouched breathlessly, listening. They heard nothing at first, then the squeal of a horn.
“Get gone,” Kyrion said, breathing hard, struggling to his feet.
“Wait. Where will you go?” Oben asked. “Come with me.”
“Never. I’ve loyal men in Blanbury. They’ll need me if the Skalgs come.”
“Don’t go back there. Don’t involve Delia and Bayron in this.”
“I’ll not abandon them.”
“The knights will come after you.”
“Because of you! I should have let Dober kill you.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Kyrion just hung his head, shook it.
“You’re not my enemy, Kyr. You’re my brother.”
Kyrion looked him up and down. When their eyes met, it was as though they were complete strangers.
“What did they do to you in the north?” he asked, coldly.
“They showed me what freedom is.”
Kyrion coughed and wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.
“You’ll never know freedom. They’ll come for you. The whole world will.”
“And for you.”
“I’ve my men, they will take me in. You should not have come back,” he said, shaking his head. “Goodbye… brother.”
Kyrion began staggering away.
“Wait.” Oben said, again. Kyrion paused, but did not turn. “Was it true what you said? About Delia and Bayron not wanting to see me? About them being afraid of me?”
Now Kyrion did turn.
“Would it matter if it wasn’t? Look at you. You’ve got my blood in your teeth! You’ve got a man’s brains in your fucking beard!” Kyrion looked like he suppressed a shudder. “Just stay the hell away from us.” he said, turned and limped down the street.
Oben watched him go, then looked down at his bloody hands.
Another horn blast rang out, nearer this time. He looked around and then ran the opposite way down the deserted alley.
26
BY TRUTH OR TRICKERY
Oben made it out of the city before word had reached the outer gate guards. He sloshed through a stream that stunk of
sewage and slunk away into the forest. Mounted soldiers and Jade Knights would be streaming out of the gate to hunt him down. A new realisation hit him like a fist in the stomach. He had nowhere to go. Gilden was gone; he’d be as hunted in Blanbury as he was in Corwen. Skaligar was out of the question, not that he had any desire to go back there. As he navigated the thickets, pausing occasionally to listen, he began to plan. Find the nearest house, steal some clothes, cut his hair and beard, bathe, and then head west. He might have to burn away the tattoo, but he’d get drunk for that. He could try Haygate on the west coast. He’d never been there. They didn’t know him. He doubted Gladbrook would have men looking for him that far west. In all likelihood they’d assume he would return to the Skalgs. But if the Taliskans did take the south, then they would certainly spread out. Would he be recognised? Everyone in Threlwich and Eisalhelm knew his face. The plan wasn’t perfect. But it was the only plan he had.
* * *
About a mile from the road the trees ran up against some sandstone cliffs. He climbed them slowly, winding back and forth along what must have been a goat path until he emerged above the forest. He guessed he was somewhere in Bikton Hills, a well-known sandstone range and the start of many trails that branched out across Edale. They were modest in height compared to the northern mountains, but tall enough to see miles in every direction.
To the south Corwen was a brown and grey stain on an otherwise green canvas. All three of the main roads that sprung from Corwen were crowded with wagons and travellers. Among them Oben picked out solitary, speeding destriers and knew knights were already looking for him outside the walls.
He crossed to the western side of the ridge, which was just now feeling the sun on its mossy, sandy stone.
When most of the afternoon had passed, he came upon a cave. He was so weary that the cobwebbed darkness looked inviting. It would keep him safe at least. He needed a good night’s sleep. Then he could continue towards Haygate in the morning.
He found a smooth shelf deep inside the cave, curled up, heard whatever animal had made this place its home scramble out passed him, and then he was asleep.
* * *
He slept uneasily, but he slept. He awoke, stiff and hungry, and foraged around the cave, but found nothing but small bones and spiders. He recalled the porridge Fara had given him and felt his mouth water. That would do. Nothing fancy, just something warm and filling. Horse, even.
Justice popped into his head for a moment, then faded. Leave her out of this. She’d suffered enough. Injustice, he should have called her. He hoped she would fare better than he.
* * *
He passed much of the morning walking just below the ridge in the hill’s dank shadow until he found a path leading down. He could make out a clutter of cottages about a league away. Not much, but the lazy smoke that rose from the largest building promised fire and food. Before he could move, however, he spotted a shadow to the north. Slowly his stomach began to turn. They were here. The Taliskans, thousands of them. They must have left when Gulmorgon had intended and had made good time. Distance made it impossible to judge their number, but it was clear they were more than had resided at Threlwich.
He glanced from that isolated village to the huge force. It looked like a pebble before an oncoming wave. He could not go back. The Persuasion would kill him on sight. No point heading towards those cottages, now, either: they were already as good as lost. Nor could he stay put. He was famished, cold, miserable… And the Taliskans wouldn’t kill him. They couldn’t. He was the Conduit! He could tell them the prophecy had made him come south alone. Not to warn the Edalians, but to mislead them… His mind churned, full of uncertain, nervous hope. He’d seen his death on the gallows and had avoided it, had proven Ethra wrong. For the first time in years he felt like his fate was in his own hands. He rubbed his face, checked his axe, and began to descend.
* * *
He met them halfway across that flat farming land. He'd decided to sit waiting for them, perched on a fence and smiling, as if all along this had been his plan.
“You took your time,” he called out, when the scouts rode up across the field. They slowed in surprise but did not smile when they saw him.
“Come with us,” the lead scout said. Oben hopped down from the fence, hoping his eagerness was noted.
He followed them back to their camp. There were many more of them then Oben had estimated from the hilltop. Hundreds of tents stretched from Bikton across the farmland to Bandale which he could see was on fire. Some of the soldiers were sparring in a circle just beyond the first ring of tents; another crew was readying a cook fire. Murmurs rose as he passed, warriors stopping what they were doing to watch him, or follow.
There must have been more than ten thousand Taliskans here. He noted mostly Ixna, Kazra, Ferra and even some Tanda among them. Then several smaller clans of which he could only name a few: Deyma, Tiandol, Ezra and Pelmi. He didn’t recognise many faces. They all recognised him.
Gulmorgon awaited him, having been informed of his arrival by a scout. She looked completely unfazed by his appearance. A great circle formed around them. Here, Oben saw several familiar faces. Gadziel and Lief were lurking, as always. Denrin, Griz’s replacement, looked flustered. Kavark, the blind seer was there leaning on his staff in the open door of Gulmorgon’s tent. In the crowd Oben picked out Blin, who met his eyes and shook her head. Ortho was there, looking miserable and with a broken nose. He hoped that meant Justice was also nearby. Then he spotted Tre and Arnor, who both held his eye for a moment then looked away. He hated to admit it, but it was more of a welcome than he had received in Gilden.
“You’re back.” Gulmorgon said, coldly.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, forcing a grin. “You know, you’d be much faster on horseback. Speaking of which, is my horse—”
She raised her hand and silenced him as effectively as a drawn blade.
“Beware his words, my lady.” Denrin warned at her elbow. “They’ve sent him. It’s a trap.”
But Gulmorgon was ever her own best counsel and shook her head.
“They’ve not sent him. They’ve rejected him.” She looked over his fresh wounds and starving eyes. It would have been pointless to deny it.
Gadziel barked a short laugh. “Then even more reason to be rid of the dog. He’s no doubt warned them of our coming.”
A murmur of approval swept around the circle. Oben noticed Blin said nothing.
“No doubt.” Gulmorgon repeated.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Denrin said.
“To see what he has to say for himself. We can’t kill him, and then interrogate him, can we? There has to be an order.”
“He’ll just spout more lies. We no longer need him. We’ve the numbers. Whether they know we're coming or not, they’ll not withstand us—”
Gulmorgon turned her gaze on Denrin, and her new counsellor withered.
“This is the Conduit. Everything he has done has been for a reason. His betrayal, his deceit, all of it has been part of the prophecy. And he still has more to do.”
Oben nodded.
“Hear me out and you can decide.”
There was no small amount of grumbling, but on the whole, most seemed intrigued at what he might say.
“Denrin was wrong.” he said, quietly.
“Speak up!” someone cried.
“You have achieved what no other Taliskans have,” he continued louder. “It is impressive, and surely the Edalians will be afraid. But they will not lose. Not if you attack them openly. They have three times your numbers in Corwen alone. The Persuasion are armoured and on horseback. Corwen has thick walls, lined with trebuchets, boiling pitch, archers. Attacking it, would be suicide. You could besiege the city, I suppose. But they’ll have provisions for the winter at least, probably longer, and soldiers from other cities could muster to worry your flanks. The South cannot be won this way.”
“Then how?” Denrin growled, glaring at him.
&
nbsp; “You must work with the people, integrate them. They are not your enemy. If there is any chance at peace after this, you will live side by side. You cannot kill them all. The Persuasion are your enemy. The temple priests and Gladbrook. Kill these tyrants, destroy the temple and you will be setting the people free. Edale will be yours and its people will share their lands.”
“Interesting,” Gulmorgon said. “You’re right, we can’t kill everyone. But it is not so simple. You southerners are blinded by your religion.”
“Most Edalians are. I was. But I’ve come to see the Persuasion for what they are. I have seen their greed, their cruelty. Others will see it too, if they are given a chance. They will realise that it is not their gods who are sated by their offerings, but their rulers. Their masters. The Persuasion are feared here almost as much as you are. They just haven’t realised who is their greatest enemy yet.”
“Good.” Gulmorgon said. “I assume you have a plan.”
“I do, but you’ll need to trust me. To do exactly as I say.”
“I’d sooner trust a Tanda,” spat Denrin.
“I’m with him on that, my lady.” Gadziel said.
“When I want advice, I’ll ask for it,” Gulmorgon said. “The Conduit can lie, he can cheat, he can deceive us… but in the end he will complete his function. It is his purpose, his reason. We will listen to him now. We will follow him. Be it by truth or trickery, he will lead us to victory.”
Whispers swept the circle’s periphery and heads nodded sagely.
“Speak Conduit,” Gulmorgon said, folding her arms. “Tell us your plan and we will do as you say.”
Oben looked around, swallowed and quietly began to talk.
* * *
The house was humbler than it had appeared from the high ridge, and the only sign of that regretfully missed breakfast was the lazy smoke that twisted on the soft breeze. It stood on the edge of the forest, besides a small stream. Some hens clucked in the dirt. Oben jumped down, tied Justice to a post and patted her. It was good to have her back. He’d deal with Ortho later. He nodded to Gulmorgon who watched from the trees, and then rapped the door thrice and waited.