He hoped, not for sympathy, but for a sense that he had received a suitable punishment for his former crime. ‘I am now sure that this dagger which we retrieved is one of the seven sacred weapons from the Battle of Alta, when our greatest hero, Bolivar the Bold, defeated the dread lord of Ishari.’
Rabigar paused here, stretching his arm out and gesturing to the statue of Bolivar in the Meeting Chamber, who held his great sword across his chest. He waited until his audience had turned to look at Bolivar before continuing.
‘Not only this, but we entered the lands of the Grand Caladri moments before their destruction by the forces of Arioc, retrieving a wizard’s staff, which I am sure is a second sacred weapon.’
There were gasps at this statement, but Rabigar continued.
‘Both weapons are now in Kalinth. As I speak, the Knights of Kalinth are moving to take control of their kingdom. You must know that an army of Drobax entered the Empire about two weeks past. Torinac said I came to warn you, and there is some truth to this. The Krykkers are in danger from Ishari, just like everyone else in Dalriya. But you already know that. No, I come, humbly, to summon the clans to war. A second great battle is coming. Bolivar’s Sword is needed to fight Ishari again. The Krykkers are needed to fight for Dalriya once more.’
Rabigar nodded to indicate that he had finished speaking.
Whispering broke out amongst the Krykkers seated in the chamber. The chieftains turned around in their seats, glaring at their followers to keep quiet. Several hands shot into the air. Rabigar looked around. Maragin’s hand was not one of them. By custom, he chose a chieftain who was likely to present a counter argument.
‘Guremar.’
‘Clan Plengas observes the arrogance of Din who dares to come here, a criminal and exile, and call the Krykkers to war. The Krykkers are under no threat and this is not our war. As for Din’s stories of sacred weapons, does he bring us any proof of this? No. Just the word of a murderer,’ finished Guremar, pointing directly at Rabigar.
‘Hakonin.’
‘We cannot close our eyes to the threat posed by Ishari. Who amongst us would have thought that the Grand Caladri could have been destroyed in a matter of days? Do not forget the conquest of Persala, or the invasion of the Empire. We Krykkers do not have such short memories as the other peoples of Dalriya. We know we are not safe from Ishari, even here in our mountains. The arrival of the sacred weapons cannot be ignored. That the messenger we hear this from is Din is irrelevant; it is the message itself that we must all heed.’
Hakonin looked around the chamber.
‘Porimin.’
Next to stand was not a chieftain but an old man, seated on one of the stone benches half way up the arena. Porimin made his way slowly down to the floor. He was well known as a historian of the Krykker people.
‘Hundreds of years ago,’ he began, his voice more fragile than those who had gone before, but still strong enough to carry to those listening. ‘Our ancestors helped to defeat Ishari at the battle of Alta. But they knew that the enemy wasn’t vanquished, and they recorded for us their accounts, and their warnings that the threat would need to be faced once more. We have kept these safe for generations, as we have kept Bolivar’s Sword, knowing that it would need to be used again. Given what we now know, it is hard to do anything but come to the conclusion that we are facing the very same threat they faced. The Krykkers must face it with courage, just as we did once before.’
The old man looked around the arena.
‘Torinac.’
Torinac took the floor.
‘I would like to remind those gathered of a messenger I received, sent from a Lord of the Grand Caladri, named Kelemen. He wanted to request safe haven in our lands for his people. If we agree to act, we should also consider our response to him. My clan has always defended the southern border of our lands. My view is that we should stand shoulder to shoulder with the Kalinthians and the Caladri in this war. I also believe that Din has shown bravery in coming here, and that his life should be spared.’
Torinac looked about the arena. His eyes widened somewhat. Rabigar followed his gaze. Maragin’s hand was raised.
‘Maragin,’ said Torinac softly.
Maragin stood slowly and walked to the centre of the arena. A hush fell over the moot. She looked around, looking the men about her in the eye. She was a formidable figure, and the longer she waited to speak, the more the tension in the chamber rose.
‘Din killed my chieftain and my father,’ she began. ‘He was rightly exiled from our lands but has returned nonetheless. On the other hand, we as a people must respond swiftly to a vicious enemy that would kill us, kill our children, stop our children’s children from coming into the world. To do this, we must be united. I propose we raise an army, just as Din has suggested. Further, Din’s punishment for breaking his exile is death: and this punishment must be carried out.’
Murmurs of agreement could be heard. There was little sign of dissent, such was Maragin’s moral authority on the issue.
‘However, to maintain unity I propose a solution. Din will lead us south to Kalinth, and serve the Krykkers one last time. His punishment of death will be postponed until he has done this.’
Rabigar looked around the assembly. Everywhere, from chieftains to followers, from one clan to the next, the Krykkers nodded in agreement. Hakonin raised his sword in the air.
‘War!’ he cried.
Guremar and Torinac raised their swords. Maragin, still in the centre of the arena, did the same. The other chieftains followed suit. The warriors of every clan raised their weapons.
‘War!’ they cried.
Rabigar breathed a sigh of relief. He had achieved his purpose in returning home. And, for a while at least, he had kept his life.
14
A Cloth of Gold
THERE WERE STRONG WINDS ON THE STEPPE, hurrying the clouds across the sky, but the sun still shone down. Edgar’s army, four thousand strong, and made up equally of men from South and North Magnia, was making good progress; but there was no shade to be found. The soil underfoot was bone dry, and the long grass was being blown about by the wind. It had been a couple of days since they had passed a stream safe enough to drink from, and the soldiers had been given strict orders to conserve the water in their skins.
The Middian Steppes were good land for husbandry. The tribes who lived here were used to roaming the landscape with their animals, mainly cattle and sheep, locating good pasture before moving on to a fresh area when the land had been used up. The tribes had lived this way for hundreds of years, and the presence of their big herds prevented trees and bushes from growing in most places. Edgar could look in every direction and see grassland for miles and miles.
The nomadic lifestyle of the Middians meant that they were in the saddle all day, and they were known for being amongst the best horsemen in Dalriya. It also meant that they were not rich, with far fewer towns than in Magnia, and no great cities such as they had in Brasingia or Persala. This combination meant that they were often recruited as mercenaries by merchants or warlords. On this occasion, the men of Frayne’s tribe had been recruited by the kingdom of Cordence, and would join with the Magnians under Edgar’s command. The rendezvous was supposed to be happening today, but so far there had been no sign of them.
‘Where are we?’ asked Edgar irritably.
Wilchard, Edgar’s chief steward, made a sighing sound, and pulled out a piece of parchment from a leather bag he carried around his shoulder. As he continued to ride, he laid the parchment down on his mount’s withers, and began to study his map of the area. The wind frustrated his efforts, flapping at the edges of the parchment. He persevered a bit longer, squinting his eyes at the lines and spidery writing which denoted the internal and external borders of the Steppe. He looked about him in a vain search for landmarks that might help his task, before turning back to Edgar.
‘I don’t know where we are,’ he said, equally irritated.
Edgar kept his face strai
ght as he watched Wilchard fold up the parchment and put it back in his bag. It was about a week ago, in a treaty signed at Wincandon in North Magnia, that Edgar had volunteered to lead a Southern army to Brasingia in support of Emperor Baldwin. Initially, he had decided to leave Wilchard behind in South Magnia to act as his regent, since he was Edgar’s most trusted and most able adviser. However, once the preparations for the army got under way, he changed his mind. The logistical complexities of raising an army, and keeping it fed and properly equipped, were a full-time job, and he needed Wilchard with him. The maintenance of this army had to be Edgar’s priority.
He turned to his left, where his chancellor, the wizard Ealdnoth, rode to one side of them, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Edgar had noticed that it was a trait of wizards to spend a lot of time in their own private world. His cousin, Soren, was just the same. His thoughts turned to Soren and Belwynn who had retrieved Toric’s Dagger from the Empire; only to head north into the lands of the Blood Caladri and disappear. Another situation he had no control over. He had to focus on the here and now.
‘Ealdnoth?’
‘Yes, Your Highness?’
‘We’ve just been wondering where we are?’
Ealdnoth frowned and looked around, as if such a troublesome question had never occurred to him before.
‘Well, I would think we hardly have to worry about finding the Middians, Your Highness. Surely they will find us?’
It was not an entirely satisfactory answer, and yet was sufficient to end the conversation.
In the end, Ealdnoth was proved to be correct. It was two hours later when a small group of riders could be seen heading towards them, coming from the northwest. As they approached, Edgar could see that it was a group of six men. They wore leather boots, and wraps around their waists, and little else. They were bare-chested, with the dark-skinned bodies and the long hair of the Middians, pulled back and tied behind them. Most carried spears. They came at quite a pace, and pulled up when they reached the front of the army. Frayne was not amongst them, but Edgar nudged his horse forwards, expecting there to be a message or discussion.
Instead one of the men raised his spear.
‘Follow!’ he shouted, before turning his horse around with one hand on the reins and kicking it forwards.
Edgar looked back and forth amongst his advisers.
‘I guess we follow them,’ he said, slightly bemused, and no one disagreed.
Two of the riders headed back in the direction they had come at some pace. The other four continued at a slower pace, but still too fast for Edgar’s army to keep up with, which had to travel at the speed of the carts which carried their supplies. Their carts were pulled by big strong horses, but they had heavy loads and had been walking all day. Their four guides turned around and rode back to the front of the Magnian forces, muttering and shaking their heads, before riding on at the same pace. This happened several times, on each occasion the Middians seemingly incapable of adjusting to the speed of Edgar’s army.
Eventually, the Magnians were led to the site where Frayne’s forces had made camp. Dotted around were the tents of the Middians, conical shaped and covered with animal skins. Soldiers lounged around in the grass and the smell of cooking meat made Edgar feel suddenly hungry. He was satisfied that the size of the Middian army looked equal to Edgar’s force of Magnians, which had been the original agreement made in Wincandon. To the south side of the camp, Edgar could see and hear a vast number of sheep and cattle which had been paddocked, giving it the feel of an outdoor market as much as a military camp.
One of the Middians had moved over to Edgar.
‘Frayne!’ he stated, jutting his spear in the direction of a large tent close by.
Edgar dismounted. Wilchard ordered the officers of the army to make camp, leaving an appropriate space between the Magnians and Middians to reduce the chances of conflict between the two groups. Together with Ealdnoth and Edgar’s ever present bodyguards, Leofwin and Brictwin, they walked over towards the tent to meet with Frayne, the chieftain. As they approached, Frayne saw them coming—he bounded out to greet Edgar, giving him a great hug.
‘You remember Ealdnoth, Wilchard—’ Edgar began.
‘Of course, of course,’ said Frayne, patting them all on the shoulder and gesturing that they should enter the tent. He clapped his hands and two girls ran off. Edgar hoped that they would be bringing food.
Two men stood up to greet Edgar as he entered the tent. Lord Emmett was a Thessian nobleman, representing Duke Coen. Lord Rosmont performed the same role for King Glanna of Cordence. Both men had signed the Treaty of Wincandon on behalf of their leaders, and had now been sent to accompany the army.
Edgar took a seat on the floor where cushions had been laid out. The other men did the same. There was not much room, so Leofwin and Brictwin remained outside the tent, keeping watch.
‘So, how have things gone since we last met?’ asked Edgar, primarily addressing Emmett, since he had been back to the Empire.
‘Things are more serious,’ began Emmett, and the grim faces of Rosmont and Frayne confirmed it.
‘Emeric has become more aggressive: our local forces on the border have fought several skirmishes. The Barissians have been coming off better. Emeric has committed more troops than Coen, and he’s taken several of our castles. Duke Coen has been waiting for you to arrive before pushing his main army north. But the Barissians are getting bolder, and look likely to invade in force any day now.
‘Duke Coen asks that we change our earlier meeting point of Lindhafen. Instead, he requests that you head north-east, and he will rendezvous with his army. Our joint forces will then be able to intercept Emeric’s army before it does further damage.’
Edgar shared a glance with Wilchard and Ealdnoth. Emmett made it sound like they would be in battle any day now.
‘How long do you think it will take us to reach the new rendezvous point?’ asked Wilchard.
‘Two days,’ said Frayne.
Emmett nodded in agreement.
Two days. Edgar felt his stomach tighten with anxiety. He let out a deep breath. He could be leading his troops into battle in two days’ time.
The serving girls returned to the tent, carrying dishes of spiced lamb. Edgar looked at the food. His appetite had disappeared.
Arioc was in a talkative mood this night. Some nights he would return to his chambers in a foul mood and he would use Moneva’s body, barely talking to her, before falling asleep. Those nights she feared for her life all over again. Other nights he was all charm and smiles, taking an interest in her, holding her close in the night.
‘What is Erkindrix like?’ began Moneva, feeling her way into the conversation. Pentas had asked her to use her position to influence Arioc. She knew she had to try.
Arioc was lying next to her on the bed, leaning back on his elbows. He laughed; it was a short, humourless sound. ‘I’ll have to introduce you to him. It’s an experience, believe me.’
‘Well?’
Arioc considered it. ‘The closest thing you can get to raw power. It both attracts and repels you at the same time...it’s hard to explain.’
Moneva studied Arioc carefully. He seemed partly in awe of his leader, partly greedy for that kind of power himself.
‘How old is he?’
‘He’s ancient. Centuries old. The magic has kept him alive.’
‘That’s not natural.’
Arioc smiled. ‘It’s not natural. Not natural at all. But then I can’t complain about my father living a long life, can I?’
‘Your father?’ asked Moneva, genuinely shocked.
‘So they say. No-one knows for sure. You’ve never heard the rumour?’
Moneva shook her head. ‘Why don’t you know? Has he never spoken to you about it?’
‘No. There is no reason to. I doubt whether he would remember.’
‘But—he’s never been a father to you?’
‘Ah, well now you are learning about the differenc
es between Isharites and humans, Moneva. Your father cared for you as a child but that’s not how we do things. I have several sons but I don’t owe them anything. I’ve brought them into the world; that is enough.’
‘Your mother?’
Arioc gave Moneva a strange look.
‘Do you know why I only have sons, Moneva?’
Moneva shook her head again.
‘It still amazes me how little your people know about us. In Ishari we have a saying, ‘know your enemy’. But you humans like to forget we exist. If you close your eyes for long enough, we will disappear. Like a bad dream.’
Moneva felt troubled by the conversation. There was some truth on the edge of her understanding.
‘You don’t have...’ she began, uncertainly. ‘There are no women, are there?’
‘You’ve got it,’ said Arioc, condescension clear in his voice. ‘Isharites are aliens here, in Dalriya. We should not be here. In your own words: it is not natural. One side effect of this is that when the first Isharites arrived in Dalriya, our women conceived no girls, only boys. Our womenfolk died out a long time ago. So, we now breed with humans like you. Human women make our babies, but still, they don’t conceive girls, only more boys.
‘My mother was a human slave. Erkindrix could have been the father. People gossip about it, but it doesn’t matter. He is one of the last of the pure blood Isharites. The rest of us are half-castes, or worse. That is one of the reasons he has been kept alive for so long.’
‘But even he must die sometime?’
Arioc shrugged. ‘Yes—he is half dead now.’
‘So what happens when he dies? Who will be the leader then? You?’
Arioc’s dry laugh returned. ‘It should be me—don’t you think? I’m the son. That’s how it works in your kingdoms, isn’t it?’
‘But not in Ishari?’
‘In Ishari the next person to sit on the throne will be the one who takes it.’
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 52
