by Alex Janaway
He took Arno round to the roosting barn and he landed with practiced ease. Jussi joined him a few moments later. They got to work, stripping the gear from their birds.
‘Need some help?’ asked Jenni, from the doorway.
‘It’s fine, we’re almost done,’ replied Owen.
‘Suit yourself,’ she said with a brief smile. ‘Where is everyone else?’
Her tone was easy and relaxed. And Owen knew it was completely forced.
‘On their way back. It went better than we hoped. He knelt and undid a strap, yanking it free and hauling off the saddle. Arno did a little wiggle, happy to be relieved of the weight. Owen carried it away to the shaped shelves on the far wall. ‘We lost two of the Erebeshi.’ He placed it down and turned to look at Jenni. Her lips were drawn tight. She locked eyes with him, and he looked back, holding her gaze. This was the way it was now.
‘And Ayolf got a hole right through his wing,’ he said, deliberately ending the moment.
‘Is he alright?’ she asked walking over to his stall.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Jussi. ‘Just a flesh wound. Still big and strong enough to get me back here. Weren’t you, boy?’ He pointed at the ragged area on his folded wing.
Jenni hissed through her teeth in sympathy. ‘We got some coneys, if they’d like? They’re hanging up just over there.’
‘Great,’ said Jussi. ‘Hey, Owen, you go ahead, I’ll feed them.’
‘Good plan,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll see you inside.’
He left Jussi fetching the rabbits, and together he and Jenni walked across the square to the hall. The children had disappeared back inside. A woman was carrying a basket down the steps. He could hear banging coming from the carpenter’s workshop next to the smithy. He looked towards the gate. It was shut and barred.
‘It’s quiet around here,’ he said.
‘Not so many of us around,’ she replied.
He supposed not.
‘How are they getting on?’ he asked, not needing to expand.
She shrugged.
‘Best as can be expected. Some are trying harder than others. A lot still keep to themselves, but they contribute.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Three of them had gone with Larsen. They had fought. That counted for something in his book.
They climbed the stairs, and entered the hall. Inside it was cool and gloomy, the firepit was banked low and a kettle hung over it.
‘Tea?’ she asked.
‘Ale?’
She smirked. ‘Ale.’
He took a place at the nearest table. Jenni returned with a jug and two cups. She set them down, took a seat and poured out the ale. She raised a cup and Owen followed suit. Then they drank.
‘It’s good to see you, Owen.’
‘It’s good to be back.’
‘But you didn’t need to be the one to escort Jussi home. The lad is old and bold enough to take care of himself. He’s grown up fast.’
‘He’s not that grown up,’ Owen said, smiling.
‘Perhaps not, but tell me anyway, why have you come back? And don’t say it’s because you’re worried about us,’ she said, wagging a finger at him.
Owen took another drink then set the cup down. He placed his arms out in front of him and laid them on the table, clasping his hands together.
‘You know better than anyone how I feel about this place. How I feel about the war, those we lost. You are all following me, even though I promised nothing more than a chance for vengeance. Not victory. Just a way to make them bleed. But that attack on the wood elves … we did well. I was pleased. But then I got to thinking. I want more. I want to win.’
Jenni picked up her mug, took a mouthful and then studied him over its rim.
‘How do we do that, Owen? Leave it a thousand years and breed like devils until we have the numbers? You don’t want to wait that long. So, tell me. What do you have in mind?’
Owen grinned. She was going to love this.
‘We need allies.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO – FILLION
Fillion nodded his thanks to the messenger, a young Servant employed by the Parliament, who carried a large satchel full of missives. Not such an unusual sight these days, what with things being as they were.
‘Here, take these,’ he said, in turn passing over a fistful of letters. Each one was addressed to another Servant of one of the Members, offering up small, often subtle insights into the mind of Patiir. It had come to him rather late, this revelation, that by association he wielded no small measure of influence. Since the troubles between elf and dwarf began he had been courted by plenty – always Servants and other functionaries – seeking information and leverage. Much of this he did with Patiir’s consent, but there were some things he undertook alone. His time spent learning the Members, their loyalties, rivalries and agendas had paid off, and he knew who he could reach out to, who might welcome his discreet contact. He had to admit, he was enjoying himself.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Have you heard what has happened?’ asked Ezra, framed by the doorway to Fillion’s office.
‘No. What?’
‘It’ll be in that pile.’
Fillion started to sort through the notes.
‘Just let me tell you,’ said Ezra, marching in and taking a seat.
‘Come in,’ said Fillion.
‘It’s the wood elves,’ said Ezra, ignoring the sarcasm. Like Fillion, Ezra had found himself in the thick of things and was in his element. Smug git.
‘What about them?’
‘They have been attacked.’ Ezra’s face grave but his eyes flashing with excitement.
What?
‘Who by?’
‘Humans.’
What?
‘How can that be? The slaves?’ he asked.
‘Who else can it be?’ asked Ezra. ‘They attacked a settlement right on the western borders of wood elf lands. Caused mayhem.’
Fillion scratched his head vigorously. How? Why? It made no sense.
‘But they were headed due west. Don’t tell me they made a detour.’
Ezra threw his hands up. ‘Who knows? These are just the first reports coming through. It’s all very sketchy and quite frankly damned confusing. They said they were hit by organised forces. Cavalry, fliers.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Fillion.
‘That’s what I said,’ agreed Ezra. ‘You were there, you saw. No such force exists.’
‘All the human armies were defeated, destroyed. And fliers? The Eagle Riders are all gone,’ said Fillion, doing his best to not sound rueful. ‘The reports are wrong.’
‘Try telling that to Kanyay,’ said Ezra.
Ah. Kanyay would not be taking this well.
‘Where is he?’ said Fillion as he stood up.
‘He was last seen heading towards the Palace.’
Fillion squeezed his eyes shut. He could imagine what was going on.
‘I’ll need to go find him before he punches someone.’ Fillion moved around his desk and made for the door.
‘As long as he doesn’t try to punch the King,’ said Ezra
Fillion stopped. ‘He just might.’
‘Then I must see it,’ Ezra announced, pushing past him.
Together they walked along the concourse, as crowded and purposeful as it always was. Many elves looked their way, some calling out questions relating to the attack. News, when it arrived at the seat of power, travelled fast, Fillion mused. He also wondered at this attack. It truly did not make any sense. The reports from the pursuing elven column, and what they had gleaned from the dwarves before they had stopped sharing information, was clear. The humans were heading resolutely westwards, trying to get as far away as they could. They had already lost so many, why would they risk any more? Perhaps some kind of splinter group or a diversionary force, deliberately buying time for the others? Or perhaps there was a simpler motivation, one he could easily recognise. They wanted to hurt the elves
and the dwarves and anyone else they could find. Kill as many as they could before they themselves were cut down. He could understand that, though his desire to die in the process had receded somewhat. He had other responsibilities now.
He and Ezra were on the boulevard heading towards the palace. Coming the other way, under the escort of four palace guards, was Kanyay, marching sullenly in the chevron-shaped box created by the four warriors, their helmet face-pieces locked in place. Clearly they were not taking any chances. Ezra leaned into Fillion and whispered quietly. ‘Let me do the talking.’ He held his hands up to stop them, and in response the lead guard ordered the squad to a halt. ‘I see you have found our friend,’ said Ezra. ‘We were just looking for him.’
‘And now you can say goodbye, Servant,’ replied the guard curtly. ‘He was detained trying to demand his way into the King’s residence with no invitation.’
‘Surely not an arrestable offence,’ said Ezra evenly.
‘It is when you aim a punch at one of my elves.’
‘Ah, regrettable,’ said Ezra with a sympathetic nod. ‘He is not in his right mind. He has had terrible news and wished to speak to the King.’
‘Then he should have gone through the proper channels,’ said the guard. ‘Now stand aside. A week in gaol and he may well see daylight again if he behaves.’ He made to step onwards but Ezra raised his hand again. Fillion could tell the guard’s hackles were up. His posture changed, his back straighter, ready to fight.
‘Indeed he should have, good sir, but as I said, he has received news that his people have suffered a devastating attack. By human renegades no less! Can you imagine? Tell me, did you fight? My colleague, the Servant to Member Patiir, was there. He can tell you all about the savagery of the humans.’ Fillion knew, as did Ezra, that the Palace guard had stayed at home – they had no part in the fighting, and he also knew that it grated on them. The guard opened his mouth to speak but Ezra ploughed on. ‘So you can imagine that both Member Patiir and my own Member, the good lady Tekla, have nothing but sympathy for our brother Servant’s situation. Hence our haste in coming to you. Even now they petition to see His Majesty.’ He reached out a hand and clasped the guard’s armoured shoulder. A ballsy move, Fillion had to admit. ‘You did absolutely the right thing in bringing him to us. And the King will, no doubt, be equally as concerned to see the representative of the wood elves to deliver his most heartfelt sorrow at the news. The King, after all, values the good relations of our woodland kin, no matter how … hot headed, they can sometimes be.’ The guard looked at Ezra’s hand. The Servant removed it slowly with a friendly smile.
Fillion watched and waited for the response, which was slow in coming. Ezra had effectively deployed his full arsenal of influence on this. The guard bored a hole into Ezra with his stare. The scowl behind his facemask evident from the squint of his eyes and the downward curve of his brows. Finally he nodded his assent with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Very well. You may have him. But be warned. If I see him lurking anywhere near the palace without an official invitation, he’ll be in chains for a month.’ He stepped to one side and motioned Kanyay forward. As the wood elf walked by he gave the guard his best shit-eating grin, his pointed teeth flashing white.
‘Kanyay, play nice,’ warned Fillion.
The guard led his squad away, muttering something about crazy wood elves.
Kanyay stood with his arms folded regarding the pair of them. ‘I suppose you want my thanks?’
‘Not at all,’ said Ezra. ‘We Servants need to look out for each other.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Fillion. ‘You do owe Ezra some gratitude. I would not have been so persuasive, and likely ended up in the gaol with you.’
Kanyay shook his head sourly. ‘Fine. Thank you, Ezra.’
The Servant inclined his head graciously. ‘You are most welcome. Now, perhaps you can tell us what you know of the tragic events that have unfolded.’
‘Very well. But I need a drink,’ said Kanyay.
Fillion was not surprised.
They repaired to The Silver Chalice, taking their usual booth. Ezra continued to accompany them, and as much as Fillion would have wanted to speak to Kanyay alone, he could not ignore the Servant’s intervention. Once a flagon of wine had been shared out and Kanyay had drunk his first measure in one go, he became a little more talkative.
‘A messenger came a little over an hour ago. A member of my own tribe. He had ridden for two days; his horse was all but dead under him. He brought tidings that struck my heart. The tribe of the Four Winds had been attacked, massacred. Barely half a dozen survivors escaped.’
‘And it was humans, you say?’ asked Ezra, leaning in close. Fillion noted he had not touched his wine.
‘Aye,’ said Kanyay bitterly. ‘Humans.’ He took another long drink, then slammed his cup down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Humans that those damned dwarves let escape.’
‘You are sure it was them?’ asked Fillion.
‘Who else could it be?’ Kanyay collected the flagon and poured himself a third.
‘But we heard something about fliers? Cavalry?’ added Ezra.
Kanyay waved a hand. ‘So he said, but that must be horseshit. There are no other humans left.’ He took another drink.
‘Kanyay, I am so saddened and sorry. If only we had acted sooner. If only we had made the dwarves see sense,’ said Fillion.
‘Too late, Sabin. It’s all too late. I wanted to see the King, I wanted to demand he do something. To show his support, to act!’
‘And I am sure he will,’ said Ezra.
‘You don’t understand, old one,’ said Kanyay, as Ezra raised an eyebrow at the epithet. ‘The news has spread to the wood elf tribes. They, I, want vengeance.’
‘We all want that,’ agreed Ezra, but Kanyay was looking directly at Fillion and he knew what that meant. ‘The King will order a larger mobilisation to hunt down these renegades,’ finished Ezra.
‘He doesn’t mean them,’ said Fillion, quietly.
‘We’ll hunt the humans down, be sure of it,’ said Kanyay. ‘It’s the fucking dwarves.’
‘Kanyay!’ said Ezra, in shock, whether from the language or the implication, Fillion wasn’t sure.
‘My people know. They know because I do my part. They know it was the dwarves who are to blame for this. My people will want blood.’
‘But Ambassador Marmus is your friend,’ said Ezra.
Kanyay was looking at Fillion again. Careful, Kanyay.
‘Yes he is my friend. And did I not also play my part for you, Sabin? For your Member? Did I not carry messages to him? Did I not speak for you?’
‘Yes, you did, Kanyay,’ said Fillion, trying to steer him away. ‘But–’
‘But nothing, Sabin. All your secret trysts and meetings with him do not count for anything. He says the elves are to blame, that they are at fault. Why he thinks that I cannot say, and I care even less,’ Kanyay said angrily. ‘The dwarves are to blame. My people will believe no differently.’
Fillion sat back. He glanced at Ezra. The old elf was looking right back at him. His face was set in an odd way, like he was looking at Fillion for the first time, like he was assessing him. Dammit, Kanyay. The wood elf had said too much. He had to fix this.
‘I only tried to keep relations going, Kanyay. Neither I nor Marmus want a war. There has been enough bloodshed already,’ he said passionately.
‘And there’ll be more, Sabin. Much more.’ Kanyay drained his mug. ‘I will not stay here any longer. My place is with my people. You can debate and argue, but we will prepare for vengeance. We will hunt down the humans and we will extract our due from the dwarves.’ He stood. ‘I do not blame you, Sabin. I do not even blame Marmus. But this path is set. Fare you well.’
Fillion rose and reached for Kanyay’s arm, but the elf shook him off.
‘Please, Kanyay,’ said Fillion. ‘There must be another way.’
Kanyay shook his head. ‘If you wish, seek m
e out, ride with us. You would be welcome.’ With that he stalked from the inn.
Fillion stood there for a moment, knowing the eyes of everyone were on him. He hoped Ezra took that final act as something sincere and honest. He heard Ezra stand up. The elf took position in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked stern.
‘Well, friend Sabin. Can things get much worse?’
‘I imagine they can,’ said Fillion heavily. He looked at the table and tilted his head towards the wine. ‘Will you join me?’
Ezra shook his head. ‘I will leave you to your thoughts. I believe Member Tekla will want to know what our woodland kin are planning. I think perhaps, you might consider doing the same for Member Patiir,’ he advised. ‘I will see you later, Sabin.’
Fillion bowed gently and Ezra inclined his head fractionally, an odd quirk to his lips, and then he, too, departed. Fillion returned to his seat and experienced a vague unease. Had Kanyay said too much in mentioning the secret meetings? Surely not. After all he had only been doing what Patiir had told him to do.
He looked into his cup and with a rotation of his hands swirled its contents, watching a little whirlpool form. Then he brought it to his lips and tipped back the contents, swallowing it in one go. Things had most certainly come to a head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – MICHAEL
A week after his battle with Eilion, Father Michael was roused from his slumber by a very agitated Father Llews.
‘Father Michael. We have arrived at the borders of New Tissan. I have come to collect you as requested.’
Father Michael nodded. ‘Thank you, Father. I am in your debt.’
Father Llews waved his hands. ‘Nonsense, nonsense. You must see this.’
Father Michael braced his arms against the travois and started to push himself up. Within moments two sets of large, muscular arms took hold of his and, surprisingly gently, took his weight. His two attendant Nidhal, one of whom was his old sparring partner Weguek, guided him upright. When he was steady, the older Nidhal handed him a crude but sturdy crutch. He looked at both his helpers in turn, and bowed his head. ‘Naska. Naska.’ Thank you. The Nidhal bowed theirs in return, then took up flanking positions just behind him as he turned to face the head of the column. Another Nidhal, this one skinny as a rake, his head, ears and nose covered in fetishes and bone piercings, hurried over and stood in front of Father Michael with a critical eye. It was Gantak, Nutaaq’s head shaman. He leaned close to inspect the tightly wrapped bandages around Father Michael’s torso. He reached out a digit and Father Michael tensed. The shaman growled and shook his head disapprovingly at Father Michael before pressing his finger on to the bandage. Father Michael hissed as the pain blossomed. Gantak appraised the dressing, obviously waiting to see if any leakage stained the cloth. Father Michael looked down. Nothing showed itself.
