by Mike Brooks
“You’re under my roof, you respect my rules,” Ngaiyu whispered hoarsely. “Ï’ll have you quiet, or you go back on the street tonight, and Ï keep your copper.” Thëy stood up and walked back across the floor, picking thëir way to thëir rocking chair with the near-silent expertise of one who knew the location of every creaking floorboard. Bone combs and hair oil or not, Ngaiyu didn’t play favourites when it came to keeping order.
Jeya lay back down and shut hér eyes.
“Jeya?”
Shé rolled over until shé was close enough to Damau to feel hér own breath reflected back off their skin. “If you get me kicked out of here…”
Damau still didn’t stop talking, but they lowered their voice to the very faintest of whispers. “Jeya, the house is huge.”
Jeya cast a glance over at Ngaiyu’s chair. There was more than one way to buy into a crew. You could approach with a fistful of money, but you could also tip them off to a lucrative score. It would need to be a bigger score, because it would be the crew taking the risk, but it could still set you up.
The city’s large houses could seem tempting for a thief, but rumour was they weren’t always as full of riches as they looked. You needed to be sure they were worth the risk. On the other hand, a yòuth that gave money away to a pickpocket probably wasn’t short of it.
In hér mind’s eye shé saw those eyes again, shaded beneath a rain hat. Jeya bit hér lip thoughtfully.
“Show me tomorrow.”
DAIMON
“LORD?” GADOR THE smith called uncertainly from behind one of the less solid parts of Black Keep’s walls, as Daimon and the Raiders approached. The lowborn still clutched weapons, but the steady, non-aggressive approach of the foreigners had confused them. Instead of preparing to fight, or fleeing, most of Black Keep waited to see what happened next.
Daimon unfastened his war mask and removed his helm to ensure they could all see his face, then shook his braids loose. Worried, curious eyes stared back at him. They’d drawn a wagon across the largest gap in the wall, but the grey stone was little more than eight cubits high in any case, and such makeshift barriers would do little to repel a determined assault. It was fortunate indeed Sattistutar hadn’t come here to pillage.
He hoped.
“People of Black Keep!” Daimon shouted, praying silently to Nari that his appraisal of Sattistutar’s intentions had been accurate. “The Raiders have come in such numbers that they could kill us all, but this is not their wish! This lord has spoken to their chief, and they wish only to settle here!”
“But Lord Daimon,” someone shouted, “how do we know they won’t kill us in our sleep?”
“We don’t!” Daimon replied, with a sidelong glance at Sattistutar. He realised such honestly might not encourage his people, and so hastily continued. “But when they came in this lord’s youth, a far smaller force attacked our home when we were better defended, and they used no such subterfuge then! Why should they use tricks today, when they have even less need of them?”
“Where is Lord Asrel?” a mellifluous male voice spoke up. Daimon frowned, scanning the wall until he saw the speaker: Shefal, the handsome son of a disgraced sar. The young man had a small freeholding that had once been his father’s, and never missed an opportunity to remind everyone Daimon had been lowborn, so long as he could do so surreptitiously. Privately, Daimon suspected Shefal had always resented not being adopted by Black Keep’s lord.
“Lords Asrel and Darel felt honour compelled them to die fighting,” Daimon admitted, “but no one needed to die today! Chief Sattistutar has spared their lives despite the fact Lord Asrel tried to kill her, and this lord takes that as evidence of her goodwill!”
“Those bastards killed your man’s wife!” a grey-haired man screamed, apparently unable to contain himself any longer. “You’d have us live alongside them!?”
“Aye, and your woman’s brother!”
“And your man’s husband!”
And so it begins. Daimon raised his hands. “What this lord would have you do has no bearing here! The Raiders have decided to settle in Blackcreek lands, and there is little we can do to stop them. No family will be turned out of their home; there are empty buildings enough within our walls.” He solemnly drew his shortblade. “Some may say this lord has forsaken his honour, but he swears on such honour as remains to him, and on his life itself, that he shall exact what revenge he can on these people if they prove false.”
To his surprise, and no small amount of apprehension, Sattistutar chose that moment to step forward and remove her own helm. She turned out to have hair the colour of ripe wheat, cut untidily short at the front and falling only to her shoulders at the rear.
“This man is Saana Sattistutar, Chief of Clan Brown Eagle!” she shouted, prompting no small amount of murmuring. “She give promise as chief: any Brown Eagle who hurts or steals from you will face this man!”
Daimon moved to her side and put his mouth close to her ear. “You do realise you are telling them that you are a man?”
“Nalon told this man that to say you are woman here is to say you are less than a man,” Sattistutar replied with a derisive snort. “Your tongue is…” She trailed off, but Daimon got the impression it was only because she didn’t know words that were sufficiently uncomplimentary. He bristled, but forced himself to remain calm. He would help no one by starting an argument over a savage mangling his language.
“They may be more inclined to believe you are peaceful if they see something other than warriors,” he said instead, eyeing the wall of giants with barbaric weapons behind her.
Sattistutar nodded, and turned to shout something. There was some muttering and shuffling, but then the mass of wooden shields parted to reveal a sort of Raider the folk of Black Keep hadn’t seen before. There were old folk and young children swaddled in blankets against the vicious chill of the late winter winds, and the sick and the lame. There were also able-bodied adults with no shield or weapon, carrying sacks or pulling rough wooden sledges loaded with the Raiders’ supplies; the seed and food Sattistutar had spoken of, as well as tools.
“Send them in first,” Daimon said, gesturing at the newcomers.
“Will they be safe?” Sattistutar demanded.
Daimon pulled his right gauntlet off, and rubbed at his eyes. “This lord has no idea, but we must start somewhere. They will be less threatening than your warriors, in any case.”
“You realise that if your people attack, this man’s warriors will attack also?”
Daimon looked at her, this pale-faced barbarian chieftain from across the ocean with hard, dark grey eyes like two pieces of flint, and snorted. “You didn’t expect this to be easy, did you?”
To his amazement, she laughed. “No.”
“Then we are in agreement.” He turned back to the walls. “Open the gates! Clear a way! And stay your hands from violence, unless you want to doom us all!”
This was the test. If his people held back and refused to acknowledge him, he had no idea how long Sattistutar would be content standing outside Black Keep’s modest walls like a beggar. He watched Shefal through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to say something foolish. No, not foolish; the man was no fool. Self-serving, rather.
Shefal’s lips pursed, but he held his tongue. Perhaps he didn’t want to draw the attention of a couple of hundred armed Raiders, especially when their chief could apparently speak and understand Naridan. Instead, with many uncertain glances at each other, some of the townsfolk began to disappear from the tumbledown ramparts.
“Come,” Daimon said to Sattistutar. “The Road Gate is on the west side. Your sledges won’t need to be lifted over the walls.”
Sattistutar made a sweeping motion with her arm and shouted something, which was echoed with truly startling volume by a rail-thin woman with two thick, greying braids and a face like an angry hatchet, who stood in the warriors’ front rank. The Brown Eagle clan milled confusedly for a few seconds, then began to shuffle towards where t
he north road terminated at Black Keep’s hard old gates of iron-studded white maple.
“What of these?” the Raider woman asked, gesturing towards where Asrel and Darel were still held by some of her armed companions. Neither his brother nor his father would look at him, for which Daimon was both grateful and angry. Everything he’d been taught since his adoption told him he’d brought great shame upon himself and his house, and had failed his people… but as yet, the Raiders hadn’t swept down on Black Keep and eviscerated the population. As yet, no one had died. Surely, surely that was better?
“Sar?” said the Raider woman.
He blinked, and pulled himself out of his brief lapse into self-doubt. The bones were cast, and he’d have to trust to luck, to Nari, and his ancestor spirits that they’d fall in his favour.
“Bring them, but do not harm them.” He thought for a second, then decided it couldn’t remain a secret for long in any case. “They are this lord’s father and brother.”
Sattistutar’s eyebrows climbed up her face, disappearing behind her ragged fringe. “One of them tried to kill you.”
“This lord’s father,” Daimon acknowledged, a hollow growing in his chest. He could read the confusion in her face, despite her alien features. “He felt his son had betrayed him, and abandoned honour.”
Sattistutar seemed to digest that, then nodded soberly. “This man sees now why you sars are so fearsome, if you must defend from your own families.”
“It’s not… Never mind.” Daimon sighed. “Bring them. A secure place must be found for them.”
“You fear they will try to kill you again?” Sattistutar asked as they began to skirt Black Keep’s wall amidst the jumble of slightly subdued-looking Raiders. Daimon supposed they weren’t used to meekly filing into a foreign town’s gate, and wondered for a moment if many of them would feel more confident about charging in, weapon in hand, knowing exactly what to expect.
“Perhaps,” he admitted, reminding himself that Sattistutar and her barbarians would know nothing of the sar’s honour code, “but they may also try to take their own lives out of shame for not dying in battle. This lord cannot allow them near a blade. The shame is this lord’s, not theirs, though they will not see it as such.”
“Many ways to die do not need blade,” Sattistutar pointed out.
“None they would take,” Daimon told her. “The only honourable death for a shamed sar is by a blade.”
“You are strange people,” Sattistutar said seriously. “There is much this man must learn.”
Those few words gave Daimon hope. He looked again at the collection of unarmed Raiders trudging towards Black Keep’s gates, and some certainty solidified in his gut. These people truly meant to settle and stay. He had not been deceived, had not betrayed his father’s trust for nothing. The Raiders could overwhelm Black Keep if they chose, but could not hope to withstand a force brought against them by the other nearby thanes, let alone if Marshal Brightwater were to rally the south. To survive here they would need to keep their heads low and, as the Brown Eagles’ chief had just acknowledged, learn.
He wondered if Sattistutar realised what leverage that gave him over her.
He pushed the thought from his mind. The head of the Raider column had reached Black Keep’s gates, and therefore the next obstacle to reaching sundown with no blood spilled. None of the barbarians seemed too eager to approach the entrance, which was unsurprising given that the gates were not yet opened.
“Come,” he said to Sattistutar, “it is time to show this lord’s people why they should not fear yours.” The Raider eyed him coolly, but followed as he strode up to the pale wood and thumped it with his gauntlet.
One of the double gates swung inwards, and Daimon found himself face-to-face with Gador. The smith was holding a spear, with a scabbarded sword tucked into his belt: not a longblade, but Gador was competent, and the weapons he forged were good quality.
“Lord?” the smith muttered, nervously eyeing the assembled Raiders beyond. “Should we send to Lenby for help?”
“And turn the entire town into hostages?” Daimon asked softly. “No, Gador. If a force arrives, this peace will break and many of us will not survive: the Raiders will not give us a chance to ally our strength to our countrymen and attack them from within. Our only hope is to make this work… but that applies to them, as well.” He waved a hand at a couple of fearful-looking Black Keepers. “Get that other gate open, men. And someone find Osred!”
“The steward, lord?” Gador looked confused.
“Aye,” Daimon confirmed. “The Raiders have food and seed, and this lord would see it stored with our own. Osred knows best how to manage such things.” He leaned closer to the smith and lowered his voice. “This lord must also press an urgent task upon you: sturdy bars to secure rooms at the keep. This lord’s father and brother cannot be thrown in the cells like common criminals, but cannot be left free while their actions may endanger us all.”
The smith swallowed audibly at the notion of being party to such an act, but took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, lord. This smith has bars at the forge that should suffice.”
The second door of the double gate creaked open. Daimon turned to face the Raiders who still lurked uncertainly beyond it.
“Enter then, if you truly come in peace!”
Sattistutar raised her voice, repeating what he assumed were his words in her own language, then stepped forwards. Her people followed her as though expecting a trap, but their chieftain seemed unafraid. Daimon wasn’t sure what that warranted more; grudging respect, or wariness.
SAANA
SAANA WASN’T SURE if she’d ever been so afraid.
Certainly, her one and only raiding trip, to this very town, had been full of fear. However, that had been largely blocked out by the roar of battle until only the faintest tint remained at the edges. The sheer press of combat had left no time for fear: there’d only been the strangely muted roar of voices, the thudding ache of her left arm as she’d caught blows on her shield, and the watery weakness of her right trying to swing an axe that seemed to weigh as much as a sleeping goat. Only when the sars had appeared with their deadly blades and their dragons, and the father of this Flatlander had eviscerated Njiven with the same ease she would gut a fish, had the fear rushed back. The tide was already turning by that time, and she was able to retreat towards the yolgus without having to face that particular nightmare.
Now, however, she was not one insignificant part of a screaming battle line led by Black Kal. Now she was the leader, and her people lacked the simple unity of purpose possessed by a raiding force. They’d held together on the sea voyage—they might be the children of Father Krayk, but even a fool knew the Dark Father wouldn’t hesitate to take down the unwary on his domain—but these were uncharted waters for them all. Save Nalon, perhaps, and even he’d received a frosty welcome from his birthland.
But what could she do, other than grit her teeth and walk into this maze of buildings? She hadn’t expected this to work so well. She’d expected to be rebuffed and attacked, forced to fight simply to find somewhere to live: that was why she’d chosen this small, isolated place. Now this Daimon Blackcreek had gone against his people’s customs and was allowing them to settle. She couldn’t work out if that made him a coward, or indeed whether she should care even if it did.
“Where would you have us go?” she asked Daimon hesitantly in his language, trying and failing to read his ruddy, flat features.
“First, to the town square,” he replied, after a moment’s thought. “We must see you, and you must see us.” He turned and led the way through Black Keep’s muddy streets, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the fear or hatred on the faces of most of his folk. Saana saw the expressions, however, and had no trouble reading them compared to their reserved lord. Her initial reaction was to clutch her weapons tighter and scowl back, but she curbed that instinct ferociously. She needed to convince them her clan really wasn’t going to slaughter them a
ll in their beds.
She looked at her people. Some of them looked relieved at how things were going, but most seemed as uneasy as the Flatlanders. A couple of the Unblooded looked positively sullen: they’d have to wait for another day to prove their worth in battle. Yelling at them to smile would hardly help, but…
Ristjaan passed by her, whistling tunelessly. It was about the only sign of stress the big man ever showed, and Saana swore he only did it to aggravate others so his own nerves were less apparent. However, it gave her an idea.
She grabbed Tsolga by the arm. “Start a song.”
“A what?” The horn-sounder looked at her as though she’d gone mad.
“A song,” Saana repeated. “Not a war chant. Something… softer. We need to show them we’re people. Only people sing.”
“Birds sing,” Tsolga pointed out.
Saana gave her a level look, which she hoped conveyed exactly how close she was to pushing the old woman over into the mud.
“Fine,” Tsolga sighed. “One of the Songs of Creation?”
“That would do nicely,” Saana said. Tsolga took a deep breath and tilted her head back, but instead of a braying battle command, an ululating wail issued forth.
It certainly attracted attention, from Naridan and Tjakorshi alike. It was only usually heard in the clan’s great longhouse during Long Night, when the seas raged, the gales howled, Father Krayk had swallowed the sun, and there was naught to do but keep the fires burning and huddle around them. Then the clan would pass the time with songs and tales, and oldest of all were the Songs of Creation.
Tsolga sang of the ocean, and Saana quickly joined in, despite the fact she’d never been the best singer: the ocean was chaos, after all. Others quickly took it up, a raucous chorus of voices, but then a purposeful current emerged from the noise. Saana sang a little quieter as some of the men began the part of Father Krayk, moving through the ancient oceans before time itself was born.
