by Mike Brooks
The swell of singing rang out through the buildings of Black Keep, and heads lifted to join in all along the line of the clan. The Songs of Creation weren’t sacred, the word Nalon had used to describe the Flatlander buildings devoted to their God-King, but every Brown Eagle knew them, and no one wanted to hear them sung poorly.
Crack! The first land was separated from the seabed by Father Krayk and pushed towards the surface. In the longhouse, the clan would clap at once, or slap their chests. Here, many struck weapons on their shields. Saana looked around, worried the Naridans would assume this was a prelude to an attack, but to her surprise and no small amount of satisfaction, she saw no sign of it. The locals seemed transfixed and, in many cases, curious.
Good. The more they know about us, the more they may think of us as like them. Saana broke into a jog, ruefully aware it would do little harm to her singing, and made her way to the head of the line. She reached it just as the first Brown Eagles followed Daimon Blackcreek into a paved square between buildings. On the far side was a narrow strip of water—a moat, Nalon had called it, a water channel used as a defence—and beyond this, over a short and narrow stone bridge, was the wall of Black Keep’s stronghouse. This, she presumed, was where the lords of Blackcreek lived. As someone who’d grown up in one end of a thatched longhouse, she had to concede the stone monstrosity was impressive.
Daimon Blackcreek looked uncertain, insofar as she could tell. She slapped one hand onto her sea leather as they reached the part where another land was born, ignoring the stinging in her palm, and walked over to him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Singing of how the world was created,” she replied. A thought occurred to her. “Do your people sing?”
“Do they…? Of course.”
“Well,” Saana said, watching her clan file into the square. “Once we came and brought death. Now we come and bring song.” She looked at him. “What are we to do now?”
“This lord must speak to his people. Not all were at the wall earlier.” He bit his lip as though in thought, and Saana was struck by how young he looked. She’d thought of him as a sar, first and foremost, but now she could see him as a callow youth. She would wager there were Unblooded in the Brown Eagle clan’s ranks not too much younger than this man with his hair in narrow braids.
He leaned slightly closer to her as the number of Brown Eagle voices in the square swelled the noise of singing. “Do your people farm? Do you sow crops?”
“This man said we brought seed,” she replied, confused. What did he think they intended to do with it? Where did he think it came from?
“Of course you did.” He made a gesture with his hand she didn’t quite understand, and she tried to remember to ask Nalon about it later. “This lord apologises.”
Saana snorted, unable to totally strangle off a laugh. Daimon’s face closed off again and he leaned back, and she realised he must be offended.
“This man is apologies as well,” she said soberly, then ruined the effect by snorting again. She tried to explain before this young sar decided to draw his sword again. “Here we stand, her people in your town, and we are falling over our…” She couldn’t remember the word she wanted, and fell into frustrated silence.
“Manners,” Daimon finished softly. A faint quirk at the corner of his mouth suggested he understood her meaning, and why she found it amusing. “A deadlier foe than either of us.”
Saana smiled in return. Perhaps not all sars were quite as harsh and humourless as Nalon had suggested. “You asked of farming.”
Daimon nodded. “It is spring, and the ground is thawing. This lord’s people are starting to turn the earth and plant seed. If you would settle here, you must help.”
“We have no wish to starve when winter comes,” Saana replied, watching the last of her clan enter the square. “We would do these things in Tjakorsha.”
“Good.” Black Keep folk were coming in after the clan, watching them with apprehension, but also curiosity. The song was drawing to a close, and Saana signalled Tsolga that she shouldn’t move into another. The old woman nodded and let out another high-pitched wail as the melody of Father Krayk sank back into the chaos of the ocean, the lands now standing proud and tall above the waves, and the clan fell silent.
“Go stand with your folk,” Daimon instructed her, turning away. Saana bristled at being given orders like she was one of his Flatlanders, but he was already several paces away and raising his voice. She contented herself with glaring at the back of his head, and did as he’d said.
“I’m impressed,” Ristjaan said, as she rejoined them. “We’re inside their walls and we didn’t even have to kill anyone!”
“There’s a reason she’s chief, you big idiot,” Tsolga told him sharply. “The real question is; how long will it last?”
“That’s my worry,” Saana admitted. “Still, this Daimon seems sensible.”
“Easy on the eye, too,” Tsolga cackled, pushing her fist through the fingers of her other hand.
“Tsolga!” Saana scowled at her. “He’s young enough to be your grandchild!”
“And since when has that stopped me?”
“Never,” Saana sighed. Zhanna appeared at her shoulder, and she turned to her daughter. “Thanks for reining in the Unblooded. I thought our hope was lost when Tsolga sounded the charge.”
Zhanna looked at her sullenly. “They’ll all think I’m a coward now, no matter what you said.”
“I pity the first one of them who calls you that to your face,” Saana replied, trying a smile. Zhanna just turned away and studied the shoulder of the clanswoman next to her, who stared straight ahead in turn rather than get involved in an argument between the chief and her daughter.
“I don’t see the problem,” Tsolga grinned, showing cracked and stained teeth, attempting to lighten the mood. “When the Dark Father wants me to stop chasing men, he’ll take me from this world. Until then, I reason I’m owed a bit of pleasure.”
“How come you’ve never looked my way?” Rist said, sounding hurt.
“I said ‘pleasure’, not ‘disappointment’. You think the women in this clan don’t talk to each other, boy?”
“Shut up, both of you,” Saana snapped as Rist laughed his nasty, tearing laugh again. The Black Keep folk had assembled in the square, facing across from the packed mass of the clan. There was no mistaking the difference in numbers: the Naridans were outnumbered by about three to one at Saana’s best guess, and most clearly didn’t fancy themselves as fighters. It would have been a slaughter had it come to it, even with the nominal protection of the walls. But where were the dragons?
Someone had pushed a wagon into the square, a rough wooden thing with wisps of straw still scattered on the bed, but Daimon Blackcreek clambered up onto it nonetheless. Thus visible to all, he began to speak.
“People of Black Keep! This lord has spoken to the chief of these folk from over the sea whom we know as Raiders. Tomorrow, they will lend their efforts to yours to till the soil, to gather firewood… We know of their skill in ships to come this far, they can fish with us as well. There is one among them, a man called Nalon, who was Naridan before they took him from a ship. He has lived with them and has married, much as Amonhuhe of the Mountains did when she married Bilha. I do not deny the Raiders have wounded us in the past, but they no longer wish to take what they need by force. Perhaps we can learn to live with them.”
Saana watched the people of Black Keep. There was much turning of heads and muttering with neighbours, not to mention distrustful glances across the square. However, she also saw some nods here and there, as well as what looked like a couple of disagreements. She took those as a good sign, too: if there was disagreement, hopefully not all of the Flatlanders wanted to slit her clan’s throats while they slept.
“Tonight, we will break bread together,” Daimon continued. “They have brought food, and this lord will have Osred open our stores.” A pleased-sounding ripple ran through the assembl
ed Naridans, but Saana didn’t think that was why Daimon had stopped speaking. She was proved correct when he took a deep breath and began again.
“Some of you may think it is not this lord’s place to make these decrees.” He seemed to be looking for a particular face in the crowd, but Saana had no idea who. “Lord Asrel is the Thane of Blackcreek. He wished to fight, even though we would have surely died. This lord also fears that had we fought, the killing would not have stopped with the three of us.” Daimon turned to look Saana in the eyes. “This lord would like his father and brother brought forth.”
By the Dark Father, you might have given me some warning. Saana turned to the uncomprehending mass of her clan and raised her voice. “Bring the sars out! We’ve got two of their chiefs here so make it nice and easy, don’t let them fall on their faces, but for the love of Kydozhar Fell-Axe, don’t let them grab a weapon!”
The two were escorted through the ranks, still held by Tjakorshi captors. Both only had one Brown Eagle on each arm though, so presumably they’d worn themselves out through struggling.
The Black Keep folk reacted predictably, a mix of gasps and outraged shouts, but Daimon held his hand up for quiet. “Father! No one has died, and your son does not believe anyone will. Do you still think we should attempt to drive these people from our land?”
“You are a wretch, without honour.” To Saana’s surprise, the older sar’s voice wasn’t a snarl of anger. It was simply level and heavy, as though stating unpleasant fact. “You are a traitor to this lord’s name, and to this land. He does not know what error of judgement drove him to choose you as a child, but he bitterly regrets it.”
Daimon’s jaw set, but Saana could see he’d been wounded by the words. “Then exile this son, if you must: he has no wish to be Thane of Blackcreek while you still live. But first swear to him, on your honour, that you will not doom your people by taking up your blade.”
“This lord will swear no such thing. He knows his duty, though it may cost his life.” The older man barked a hollow laugh. “You think you’ve saved this town? High Marshal Brightwater will hear of this, and he’ll come south! He’ll drive this scum into the sea, he’ll take your head, and he’ll probably execute half of Black Keep as an example!”
Daimon shook his head as worried mutters passed through the Black Keep folk. “You know we’re unlikely to see pedlars for a while yet, Father: only Amonhuhe’s folk come to trade before summer, and they won’t care who lives here so long as we have fish oil and salt to barter. Should the Marshal come south, we’ll have to ensure all he finds are hard-working folk, living in peace.” He moved his gaze slightly to the younger sar, the man he’d described as his brother, although Saana couldn’t see much of a resemblance. “Darel, are you with our father in this?”
“This lord is.”
Daimon’s face clouded. Saana wondered how much of that was due to the reply, and how much due to the wording. As she understood their strange, complicated language, Darel should have referred to himself as a brother. To say “lord” implied he now saw Daimon as beneath him.
“So be it,” Daimon said heavily. “Your brother will arrange for quarters in the keep to be secured.”
“You will not even let us take our lives in shame?” his father roared, suddenly trying to wrench free. To Saana’s great relief, her clansmen’s grip held true. “It is bad enough that you have forgotten honour, without taking it from us as well!”
“Your son hopes he can prove the wisdom of this course to you,” Daimon said soberly. He turned back to face the townsfolk, who’d been watching the exchange with apprehension. “Who here wishes this lord’s father and brother freed, to take up arms against the Raiders?”
There was an uncomfortable silence of shuffling feet and oblique glances. The villagers clearly felt caught between their lords, which didn’t seem like an enviable position to Saana. However, no one stepped forward to cry for the immediate release of the other two Blackcreeks, so Daimon nodded with finality.
“Let it be remembered that Daimon Blackcreek takes full responsibility for this decision, and all that follows. He will face High Marshal Brightwater, the God-King, or Nari Himself should he return to us, and ask them to attribute to him any blame they may feel rests on you.” He clapped his hands. “But now, we have work to do! Bring out the feasting tables, and build fires!”
“Lord Daimon!”
One of the Naridans had stepped forward, and Saana saw Daimon’s face drop as though he’d just bitten into a rotten fish.
“Shefal,” Daimon said, quickly restoring his blank expression. “You have something to say?”
“Lord Daimon, it may be as you say,” the man called Shefal said. He was smooth-cheeked and soft-faced, and entirely too skinny in Saana’s opinion. He’d never survive a harsh winter on Kainkoruuk. “Perhaps these Raiders have had a change of heart; perhaps they truly mean us no harm. But what have they shown us of that, other than not yet drawing their weapons on us?”
“You do not think that a significant change?” Daimon asked. His tone was light, but Saana could hear something lurking beneath it. There was dislike between the two of them, she could tell that much.
“What if they were willing to offer further assurance?” Shefal suggested. “A hostage, perhaps?”
Hostage. Saana didn’t know the word. She looked over her shoulder, trying to spot Nalon.
“Someone of value to them?” Shefal continued. “Your man is sure your people would feel safer if the Raiders knew your blade was always ready.”
That gave Saana all the context she needed. It wasn’t unheard of in Tjakorsha, although rarely done. Her immediate instinct was to refuse, but how could she expect the Naridans to believe her folk wouldn’t kill their entire town, if the clan wasn’t willing to put just one of their own lives in harm’s way?
“This warrior!”
Zhanna stepped forwards. Saana cursed and reached out desperately, but her daughter shook her hand off and twisted away, then took another three quick steps and faced Daimon.
“This warrior!” Zhanna smacked herself in the chest, then reversed her grip on her blackstone axe so it hung upside down from her fist: a gesture of peace, although Daimon wouldn’t know that. “Zhanna Saanastutar, chief daughter!”
Zhanna had been there when Nalon had taught Saana the tongue of his birthland. By the wind and waves, Saana had made Zhanna practise it with her! She’d not considered what her daughter might do with that knowledge. Now she watched in terror as Zhanna put her neck figuratively, and perhaps literally, under the exceptionally sharp blade of the man whose home they’d just walked into, with no more thought than when she’d dived off the Krayk’s Teeth at seven winters old to try to swim with a baby leviathan that had surfaced nearby. Saana’s heart had nearly stopped then, and she’d screamed herself hoarse at her daughter to come back. The terror she felt now was no less great, but she dared not show such weakness in front of the Naridans.
Daimon’s eyes flashed from Zhanna to Saana, back again, then to Shefal, then to Zhanna once more. He clearly understood what she’d said.
He nodded. “So be it. A room will be found for you.” He clapped his hands once more and jumped down from the wagon. “Come! Fire and tables!”
The Naridans began to mill into life. Saana knew she should be talking to her clan, explaining to them what had just been said, but instead she stormed forwards and grabbed her daughter by the shoulder. This time she kept her grip on the sea leather as Zhanna tried to twist away, and wrenched her around.
“What in the name of the Dark Father do you think you’re doing?” she growled, biting down on the end of the sentence so it didn’t become a scream of terrified rage.
“I’m helping!” Zhanna protested.
“Helping?!” Saana wanted to slap her daughter across the face, or possibly envelop her in the biggest hug imaginable and drag her away from the incomprehensibly foolish decision she’d just made. “Helping who?”
“You!”
This time Zhanna did manage to get her shoulder free, and she glared at Saana with fury that she’d dragged up from somewhere. “You can’t do it, the clan needs you. The Flatlanders want someone important to you, so we don’t kill them. It’s got to be me. No one else would do.”
Saana bit her lip in anger, but Zhanna actually had a point. It wasn’t even just about someone important to the clan—Tsolga might have sufficed, or one of the witches, or one of the elders—it had to be someone the Naridans would believe was important. The daughter of the chief would fulfil that role in a way that no one else would.
A suspicion bubbled up in her chest and slithered past her teeth before she could stop it. “Tell me you didn’t do this just because you didn’t get blooded today.”
Zhanna’s face set into the stubborn mask Saana had become more and more accustomed to. “They can’t call me a coward now. They can’t.”
Daimon was walking towards them. Saana readied herself to warn him of what would happen if he harmed her daughter… but wasn’t that the point? If her clan broke their word, Daimon would kill Zhanna. If Daimon harmed Zhanna, the clan would destroy Black Keep.
The sun hadn’t even dropped behind the mountains, and things were already going to the depths.
TILA
TILA HAD PAID close attention to her childhood lessons, as behoved the daughter of the God-King, and so she’d learned much about the world. There was, however, a difference between knowing something and experiencing it. The City of Islands was so warm. And disgustingly moist.
She watched the lumps of green-swathed rock growing larger as the southerly wind swept the Light of Fortune towards their destination. The ship was a merchantman, packed with sail, and the fastest she’d been able to commandeer. Even so, the voyage had taken a month, hopping cautiously up the coast.
