The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  Daimon didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and looked away from her out across the tables. “Did you lose many on your crossing?” he asked. There hadn’t been room for everyone inside the walls, so many of the clan were eating around fires in the great square beyond the gate.

  “Very few,” Saana replied proudly. “The voyage took less than ten, sick and old. Lodzuuk Waveborn was kind.”

  “Is that your god?” Daimon asked, and Saana laughed.

  “No! Lodzuuk Waveborn was a man of old, a mighty one. He split the First Child of the First Tree to make a ship, and braved the Dark Father’s realm to take it upon the waves. It is from him we have our skill at sailing.”

  “Who is this Dark Father?” Daimon asked. “This is your god, then?”

  “Father Krayk swims the seas and created the lands,” Saana said. “We are his children.”

  “And you think he keeps you safe?” Daimon asked. Saana laughed again.

  “The Dark Father keeps no one safe. But every day he has not chosen to take this man, and this man hopes his gaze falls elsewhere for many years yet.”

  Daimon shook his head. “He sounds a cruel god.”

  “Father Krayk is not cruel,” Saana retorted. “The sea is not cruel. The sea just is. So is Father Krayk. A fool does not respect the sea, and a fool will die there. A fool does not respect the Dark Father, and a fool will be taken by him.”

  “Are you calling this lord’s people fools?” Daimon asked, his tone growing slightly sharper.

  “How often do your ships sail out of sight of land?” Saana asked levelly.

  “This lord is no ship’s captain, but he does not think it happens often.”

  “Your people are not fools, then,” Saana replied, finishing her shorat. “To cross oceans as we do, without respecting the Dark Father… that would be foolish.”

  Between two rows of benches, a Naridan servant edged around the flickering fire while steadying a flagon of ale, with an expression of furious concentration. The footing was clearly uneven, though, since she tripped and fell. She managed to prevent the jug from smashing on the stone, but the ale itself sloshed out in a foaming brown wave…

  … and hit Ristjaan the Cleaver square in the back.

  All conversation around the big man abruptly ceased. Saana caught a brief glimpse of her friend’s expression slipping from jovial to furious as he swung around, one huge hand reaching for the monstrous steel axe that mercifully wasn’t there. The Naridan, still prostrate on the floor and clutching the jug, looked up with abrupt and abject terror.

  Saana sucked in a breath to shout Rist’s name, well aware it probably wouldn’t do any good. Daimon was rising, along with his steward. Ristjaan drew himself up to his full height, taller than anyone else within the walls.

  And then he laughed.

  Saana paused as that awful, tearing laugh rang out, and in that second Rist leaned down and hoisted the serving girl back to her feet, then ruffled her hair and sent her on her way with a gentle push. The girl staggered off, eyes wide in fright, but the danger was past. Ristjaan looked over at Saana and winked.

  “See, Chief?” he bellowed. “These folk can’t wait for me to get my clothes off!” He suited actions to words and hauled his tunic over his head, exposing a burly and hairy torso, then held it out towards the flames as though to start drying it, while a chorus of mirth and good-natured abuse rang out from the Tjakorshi benches.

  “Father Krayk bless you, you big oaf,” Saana muttered under her breath in her own language. Ristjaan wasn’t malicious, but he could be prickly. She’d have wagered he wouldn’t have been so forgiving with a Tjakorshi. Here, though, it seemed he didn’t want to risk what she’d worked so hard to achieve. She glanced sideways and saw Daimon puff his cheeks out in what seemed to be relief.

  “That could have been a lot worse,” the sar remarked, a sentiment Saana fervently agreed with. “Who is— Wait! You there! Stop!”

  A Naridan had stood, dagger in hand, and was heading for Ristjaan. Daimon’s shout attracted Rist’s attention, and he turned towards Saana’s table. He took in the armed Naridan approaching and his expression changed again. Saana had seen that face on him before, usually immediately before he swung an axe at someone.

  “Hold him!” Daimon barked, and two other Black Keep men lunged at their townsman and grabbed him. “You, man! What are you doing?” He frowned. “What is your name?”

  “Evram, lord,” the man replied. He didn’t struggle against the men holding him, but turned to face Daimon. He had touches of grey in his dark hair: Saana supposed him to be somewhere over forty winters, if Naridans aged like the Tjakorshi.

  “What are you doing, Evram?” Daimon demanded. Beyond Evram, Ristjaan was grimly pulling his still-damp tunic on again.

  “Lord, that man killed this servant’s brother!”

  DAIMON

  OF ALL THE things Daimon had hoped to hear from Evram’s mouth, that wasn’t one of them. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “How do you know this, Evram?”

  “These eyes saw him do it!” the man shouted, tears starting to well up. “When the Raiders last came here, that one cut poor Tan down with an axe near as tall as your man! And he laughed! Your man’s heard that damned laugh in his dreams! Your man thought he recognised the bastard, but held his tongue because he couldn’t be sure, it was so long ago, but when your man heard him laugh…” Evram was openly weeping now, the tears sparkling in firelight as they fell.

  “This servant is a good man, lord; he works hard in your fields when it’s his days to do so and he’s never taken what’s not his, he keeps the laws your father set, but he won’t stand for this! Your man will let them live here if they must, but not him! Not the bastard what killed this servant’s brother!”

  The big Raider called out in his own language, but Sattistutar snapped something at him and he subsided. Daimon hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. How would his father have handled this? Well, his father would already be dead, having fought a doomed battle against the Raiders outside Black Keep’s walls and possibly killing one if not both of the Brown Eagles who spoke a civilised language, so that thought hardly helped him.

  Nonetheless, his people were expectant. He’d already denied his father and brother the right to act according to their honour, what difference did it make if he did the same for this lowborn?

  The difference, he thought bitterly, was that Lord Asrel’s honour had required the deaths of the entire Brown Eagle clan. Evram wanted to take the life of just one, and would undoubtedly fail.

  But it was Daimon’s duty as lord to protect the lives of his people. He’d taken on that responsibility when he’d ordered his father and brother imprisoned. How could he pretend to be just if he let a killer go unpunished, and how could he be anything but a coward if he let one of his people die on a foreign blade?

  “Does anyone else recognise one of the Brown Eagle clan as someone who has killed one of us?” he asked, raising his voice. “Will anyone swear to Nari that they know it to be true?”

  One woman stood. Daimon vaguely recognised her as an alewife. Inba, perhaps? “Lord, this woman knows the big Raider too. It’s as Evram says: he killed Tan. This woman swears to Nari Himself that it’s true.”

  No one else stood, which was something. Daimon had suffered a brief vision of the courtyard being filled with hurled accusations, and descending into violence that would inevitably spell the end for his town. However, it didn’t help his current problem.

  There was only one thing for it. He turned to Saana Sattistutar. “You understood what has been said?”

  “Yes,” she replied grimly. “And you understand Ristjaan will him kill, if you let him fight?”

  “This lord does.” Daimon sighed. “Which is why Evram will not be the one fighting.”

  Sattistutar took a moment to get his meaning, but when she did her eyes widened in shock and fear. “You? He will kill you, too!”

  “We shall see,”
Daimon replied. In truth, he had no idea, but it could be argued that he’d only lived past the afternoon on borrowed time in any case. “Will you speak this lord’s words to him in your language?”

  “Nalon speaks our words better than this man speaks yours,” Sattistutar replied shortly, rising to her feet and shouting the man’s name. Nalon proved to be on one of the closest tables and came forward apprehensively, glancing nervously about him. Daimon heard the mutters from the Black Keep folk as they caught sight of him, dressed in Raider clothes and bearing their clan mark on his forehead, but still unmistakably a Naridan by birth.

  “This lord needs you to translate to the big man for me,” Daimon told him, without preamble. Nalon raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

  “Fine, but s’man’s staying out of arm’s length of him, in case you say something foolish and he gets it into his head to go for s’man.”

  “Something…?” Daimon bit down on an angry response. “You’d do well to remember who you’re talking to.”

  “You want s’man to go sit back down so you can reason with Ristjaan the Cleaver using grunts and hand signals? That’s fine.” Nalon shrugged. “Good luck.”

  Daimon reminded himself that Naridan or not, Nalon had never been a subject of Black Keep, and right now he was certainly considered part of the Brown Eagle clan. “Just translate this lord’s words and you can go back to your meal, if that’s your concern.”

  “Let’s get this over with, then.” Nalon turned his broad shoulders away from Daimon and strode towards the big man, who was still standing near the fire with an ominous expression on his large face. “Ristjaan!”

  The big Tjakorshi grunted something, then nodded to Daimon as he approached. It was odd, Daimon reflected briefly, that the Raider seemed more respectful than the man who’d grown up in these lands. Nalon and Ristjaan exchanged a couple of sentences, presumably establishing Nalon’s role, then Nalon turned to Daimon. “Go ahead.”

  “Tell him he’s been accused of killing that man’s brother, when his folk last raided here,” Daimon said, gesturing towards Evram. “This lord knows the same may be true of many in the Brown Eagle clan, but he is the only one this lord’s people remember for certain.”

  Nalon spoke with Ristjaan, whose response barely needed translating given the expressive shrug which accompanied it. “He says he may have done, but he can’t be sure.”

  “So he has raided here before?” Daimon asked, his last hope sinking.

  “Don’t even need to ask him that,” Nalon replied. “Heard him talking about it.”

  “Tell him his victim’s brother has demanded his life.”

  Another exchange. “He says the man’s welcome to try to take it, but he doesn’t feel like going to see the Dark Father today.” Nalon paused, glancing back at Ristjaan for a second while the big man fixed Daimon with a piercing stare. “Uh, the Dark Father is—”

  “This lord got the gist,” Daimon cut him off. “Sattistutar spoke of their god.” He took a deep breath. “Tell him that as that man’s chief, this lord will fight on his behalf.”

  Nalon’s eyes widened. “You’ll do what?”

  Daimon curled his lip. “Just translate it.”

  Nalon whistled softly under his breath, but turned to Ristjaan and spoke in Tjakorshi. Daimon wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been expecting—amusement perhaps, or instant aggression—but was taken aback when Ristjaan frowned at him and spoke urgently to Nalon.

  “He wants to know if you think that’s a good idea,” Nalon said. “He’s worried this will all go very wrong if he kills you.”

  That’s putting it mildly. “Thank him for his concern,” Daimon replied dryly, “but tell him that this lord doesn’t feel like going to see the Dark Father today.”

  Nalon opened his mouth as though to protest, then shut it again. He did, however take a step back from Ristjaan before speaking again. The big Raider’s brow furrowed further as Daimon’s words were translated, but then he let loose another of the coarse laughs that had brought them to this pass in the first place, and spoke again.

  “He says he has no…” Nalon paused, searching for a word. “Blood money, maybe? It’s a Tjakorshi thing, paying to settle an honour debt. Anyway, he doesn’t have any, so he can’t even offer that. So if you truly want to leave your people without their chief, he’ll go get his weapons and armour.”

  “We will fight in the square,” Daimon replied. At least the Raider hadn’t refused: Daimon had no idea what he would have done then.

  Nalon relayed that and Ristjaan grunted, then nodded at Daimon once more and turned to walk away. Daimon put the heat of the fire to his back and crossed the flagstones to where Evram still stood.

  “The man Ristjaan killed Evram’s brother Tan when he last came here,” he announced. “He does not deny it. He will not surrender his life as judgement, and Evram is no warrior to have a chance at taking it. This lord, however, is.”

  He saw a glimmer of hope in Evram’s features at about the same time he caught sight of sudden despair in Osred’s. The steward had fretted near to tears over the dilemma of which of his lords to support, and the notion he now might lose the one he’d stood with probably weighed heavily on him.

  “Evram, this is your honour,” Daimon said seriously. “This lord can take it on, but you have the right to face the man yourself, if you wish it.”

  “Lord,” Evram replied humbly, then seemed to struggle for words. He sheathed his dagger. “May Nari go with you, lord.”

  “So be it.” Daimon grabbed Osred by the sleeve, pulling the steward away from the others.

  “Lord, you will need your armour—”

  “This lord won’t be wearing it,” Daimon cut him off. The steward’s jaw dropped.

  “But lord—”

  “This lord has seen him fight, Osred. One blow to the head stunned Darel even wearing his helmet, and the next one would have killed him had our father not been there. The man has a steel axe, and is so strong that armour would only slow this lord down, it would not truly protect him. This lord knows what he is doing.” He hopes. “Then again, if it turns out that he does not, do as you see fit.”

  “Lord?”

  “Lords Asrel and Darel would doom this town,” Daimon said shortly, “and probably execute you for treason. All things considered, this lord recommends you don’t free them.”

  Osred swallowed, but nodded.

  “The Raiders’ chief…” Daimon continued, snatching a glance at Sattistutar, who was watching him with an expression that could have hewn stone. “She seems sensible, for a woman. You know as much about running Black Keep as this lord’s father. If this lord should fall, speak with Sattistutar. Make this work.”

  “Daimon.” Osred’s thin, pinched face looked more shocked than Daimon could ever remember. “This servant is not a thane! He’s not even a sar!”

  “You are a steward,” Daimon reminded him, “and a fine one, at that. This lord knows tales where stewards took over their lord’s lands after his death, until another was appointed. That’s what the title means.”

  “Perhaps,” Osred conceded desperately, “but never when there were two more lords locked up in the keep!”

  Daimon snorted humourlessly. “Then we’d both best hope this lord lives through the night, hadn’t we?”

  RIKKUT

  RIKKUT LED THE charge between the longhouses, his breath steaming and a grin on his face. This was where he felt alive and vital; where he could find the glory he craved, imposing The Golden’s will and breaking those that resisted it. This might have been Tyaszhin’s warband, but Rikkut Fireheart was already a named man at one-and-twenty, and there was still glory aplenty awaiting him.

  A Seal Rock clanswoman dived into her longhouse, then emerged with blackstone axe and shield in hand, but no helm on her head, or even a sea-leather jerkin to ward her from harm. She bellowed a war cry in her mush-mouthed Kainkoruuk accent and charged, her eyes filled with hatred and no expectation of survival. Rikku
t would have hated to disappoint her: he deflected the woman’s axe with his shield, feeling her weapon scrape across its surface, and swung low with his own, chopping into the side of his enemy’s left knee and spinning away. He wrenched his axe across her leg and the savage blackstone teeth tore through her furs, lacerated skin, sliced through sinew, grated across bone. The other warrior screamed, and sprawled into the mud, her injured leg unable to support the momentum Rikkut had neatly sidestepped.

  Rikkut’s next blow came up underneath her neck as she struggled to rise. It was a high tide wound, releasing the red waters within to flow freely, and that was an end to it, and to her.

  Parents tried to call children to them in panic, or villagers desperately gathered what valuables they had and ran for the trees. They didn’t get far, but that wasn’t Rikkut’s concern. He wasn’t after metal, or fire gems. He pressed on, at the head of a loose dozen fighters who’d elected to follow his lead.

  The clan chief here was Ludir Nekoszhin, known as Snowhair even since his youth, but his ice-blonde mane had long since faded to the pure white of age. The old man had organised his warriors around him, and let the buildings fill the gaps in the shieldwall. It wasn’t a bad plan when faced with superior numbers, but Ludir had never faced Rikkut Fireheart.

  There were eight shields ahead, with stern-faced and armoured warriors behind them. They were the chief’s Scarred; fighters who’d taken his personal mark, scored and inked into their skin as a symbol of loyalty. They wouldn’t yield while Snowhair still called for them to fight, and they would be hard to break down. Impossible to outflank, too: there were similar knots of warriors blocking the other three ways between the longhouses to where Snowhair stood, his thin voice exhorting his warriors to hold.

  Well, if he couldn’t go through them, Rikkut would have to go over. He scanned the faces around him and his eyes lit on two: Zheldu Stonejaw, a giantess as thick as two men and undefeated at wrist-wrestling, and Rodnjan, wiry but strong.