The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  Something blurred at Saana from her left. She whirled towards it, raising her axe even though she knew in that moment that she’d be too slow, wondering if this would be when her armour gave way before the ferocious power of these beasts.

  Bastion’s horns caught the predator and tossed it to the ground, whereupon the mighty war-dragon reared up and stomped down on it. There was a very final crunching noise, and the huge horned head turned back to face her.

  Saana whirled again, but the razorclaw she’d wounded had decided not to tangle with her, her axe or Bastion any further. She caught a glimpse of it slipping away between the tree trunks, and hoped fervently it would bleed out and die from its injury. There was the slapping sound of a man’s hand on a dragon’s neck, then a muffled thud as Blackcreek dismounted.

  “You are well?” the Naridan asked, approaching her. He had one of his spears in his hand, the end slick with dragon blood, and he was aiming it towards the downed beast Chara had landed on. The corpse-painter had managed to get up to one leg and was holding herself up against the tree, her face drawn with pain and white as fresh-washed wool. Saana was grateful the beast she’d wounded hadn’t lashed out as it fled, because Chara wouldn’t have been able to escape it.

  “I nearly fucking died,” Saana snapped at him. “Where in Father Krayk’s name—”

  She cut herself off. She was speaking in Tjakorshi. Blackcreek’s expression showed he didn’t understand the words, but had a pretty good idea of the content.

  She switched back to Naridan, trying to pull the unfamiliar language back into her head while she calmed her heart. “This man is not badly hurt.”

  “This lord regrets he could not help more,” Blackcreek said seriously. To her amazement he actually bowed, a proper bow, not just the nod of a lord. “Bastion is wilful, and likes to charge razorclaws. When one is already pierced on a horn it is still in front of him, so he sees no reason to stop quickly.”

  Saana looked over at the huge war-dragon, who’d decided the threat was over and wandered off a few paces to chew some moss.

  “You saved this man,” she said. “And,” she added, running her finger down the deep slash across her chest, “this armour saved her twice.” Would her sea leather have done the same job? Probably not. Besides, her own helm wouldn’t have protected her. The razorclaw’s jaws would have closed around the back of her neck, and that would have been it for Saana Sattistutar.

  She bowed in return to Blackcreek as she’d seen others do, her hands on her thighs to support her as much as anything else. By the Dark Father, but she ached! “You have this man’s thanks.”

  Blackcreek didn’t seem to know how to take that. He looked over at the last of the razorclaws. “And that one?”

  “Chara jumped on it,” Saana said simply. “She has hurt her leg.”

  “She jumped on it,” Blackcreek repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “From the tree.”

  “Yes,” Saana said again. Was it that hard to understand?

  Blackcreek walked over to the wheezing razorclaw, looked at it for a moment, then stabbed his spear into its neck. The beast twitched again, but otherwise made no move. Blackcreek shook his head, then looked up at Chara. “You jumped on this creature from the tree, with no weapons?”

  Chara looked at Saana, who translated. Then the corpse-painter looked back at Blackcreek and nodded.

  “Why?” the Naridan asked, apparently completely confused. “You must have broken its back, but you could not know that would happen. Were you so eager for death?”

  Saana translated that as well, then parsed Chara’s words into Naridan for Blackcreek’s benefit. “She says it was trying to kill her chief. Which it was,” she added.

  Blackcreek seemed to digest that for a moment or two. Then he wiped his spear blade off on a handful of moss and gave a whistle. Bastion trudged over in response: now he’d had the exercise of a trot into the forest, and had gored and trampled a couple of razorclaws, he seemed far more docile.

  “Come,” Blackcreek said, gesturing to Saana, “help your woman up onto him. She can barely stand, let alone walk. She will have to ride.”

  “You are letting our corpse-painter ride your father’s war-dragon?” Saana asked him, unable to believe her ears. Blackcreek actually laughed in response.

  “Saana Sattistutar, this lord saw the wound you dealt that razorclaw with the axe he lent you. It won’t survive long. Of all of us,” he slapped Bastion’s flank fondly, “this lord is the only one who has not killed a dragon today.

  “You will both be riding. This lord will walk.”

  DAIMON

  DAIMON WAS STARTING to regret his decision by the time they’d reached the edge of the Downwoods. In truth, the woman Chara had to ride: it would not only have been ignoble but also thoroughly impractical to suggest otherwise. Saana, however…

  Daimon trudged along, tugged in different directions by his honour. The Tjakorshi chief had faced down razorclaws instead of running away screaming, which was more than could be said for many a Naridan, and had actually dealt one a mortal blow. She lacked neither courage nor ability, that was clear. Daimon had merely ridden Bastion, and while the mighty war dragon had killed two razorclaws and undoubtedly saved them all, Daimon couldn’t help but feel his own contribution had been lacking. Bearing that in mind, it made perfect sense for him to offer Bastion’s back to Sattistutar. He would have done the same for any other warrior whose deeds were worthy of respect.

  And yet, she was Tjakorshi, the ancient enemy of his people: far more so here in the South than the Morlithians, for all that they’d killed the old God-King, or the meddling Alabans in the far north. Those were distant foes skirmishing along faraway borders he’d probably never see. The Tjakorshi were the blight of the spring and summer all along the south-eastern coast. How many stories had he heard of villages raided, settlements burned and harvests pillaged, leaving the lowborn dead or starving and even thanes forced to tighten their belts?

  Should he really be walking alongside Bastion like a lowly bodyservant to this woman? And yet, would it not be more dishonourable to take his seat back now? It would not only make a mockery of his earlier gesture, but show him to care more for appearances than deeds.

  This man has made his decision, and he will hold to it. It is far from the most momentous choice he has made recently.

  “Has she told you why she went into the forest?” Daimon asked Saana, as they emerged from under the last boughs.

  “She needed more of the flowers she uses for corpse-paint,” Saana replied.

  Daimon looked around at her in disbelief. “And she thought she would simply walk into the Downwoods to get some more?”

  “No, Blackcreek,” Saana said, her voice stern. “She says she showed some of your people the flowers and tried to ask if they knew them. She says one man pointed many times towards the trees.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Daimon muttered. “Any child knows the Downwoods are dangerous.”

  “One of your children, perhaps!” Saana snapped. “We have not such beasts in Tjakorsha!” She composed herself a little, although her tone didn’t lose any steel. “But yes, your people know of danger. Nalon heard your shepherds talk of razorclaws being near. This man has seen how your people look at Nalon; they do not trust or like him, even though he was born on these shores. If he has heard such talk, then surely all your people have. The man Chara spoke to knew of danger, and must have suspected Chara did not.”

  Daimon grimaced. “You think one of this lord’s people sent your corpse-painter into the Downwoods in the hope she would be attacked?”

  “Yes, Blackcreek, this man does.”

  “We shall have to see to that,” Daimon said. “But first, do you have amongst your number someone who knows how to set bones?”

  “Do you truly take us to be such savages?” Saana retorted. “Of course we do! Why, do you not?”

  Daimon fought down a surge of irritation. Did the woman take his pe
ople for fools? “We do, our apothecary. We shall go to his house when we get to the town.”

  “You do not think our healer will have the skill?” Saana demanded.

  “This lord does not know,” Daimon replied tightly. “However, perhaps they can each learn from the other, and Chara may benefit as a result. This lord also intended this as some recompense if one of his people was at fault.” He realised as he spoke that he wasn’t sure if Saana would understand “recompense”, but hoped the context would make it clear.

  Saana grunted a syllable Daimon didn’t recognise, perhaps some sort of utterance in her own language. “This man understands now, and is sorry for her sharp words.”

  “This lord accepts your apology,” Daimon replied. He hesitated, the sour taste of an unspoken apology in his own mouth. “And he… is sorry for suggesting your folk may not have a healer.” Even if they may indeed prove to know nothing of use. A notion struck him. “Is it one of your witches?”

  “Nalon should never have spoken to you of them,” Saana muttered. “It was not his place.”

  “It occurs to this lord that Nalon is rarely mindful of his place,” Daimon observed.

  Saana sighed. “He is not a bad man. This man thinks Nalon now believes both our peoples view him as being the other, and so he speaks harshly out of worry.” She paused. “But, he is an arse.”

  Daimon managed to choke back an undignified snort of laughter.

  They attracted attention along the north road from those working the fields. Few Naridans looked up for long: Daimon supposed they didn’t want him to see them not hard at work. The Tjakorshi, however, showed no such reluctance, and several downed their tools or hoisted them onto their shoulders to walk down to the road and shout to Saana in their language. Her responses frequently provoked laughter, and on one occasion raucous cheers.

  “What are you saying?” Daimon asked her eventually.

  “They ask whether Chara and this man are now sars,” Saana replied. “This man has told them that Chara broke her leg jumping out of a tree onto a monster that was going to kill this man, and you have allowed us to ride your dragon as neither of us can be trusted to walk.”

  “You allow them to speak to you in such a way?” Daimon asked, appalled. “And demean yourself in reply?”

  “This man’s father was not chief,” Saana said, “and her daughter will not be chief after her unless she proves herself worthy. There is no difference between our blood and theirs. Besides,” she added, “if this man cannot joke, she does not have the temper to be chief.”

  Daimon bit his tongue and didn’t respond. He supposed it was true enough, at that: the notion of noble blood was laughable when applied to the Tjakorshi, so there was no reason for them to show their chiefs the respect even the most minor Naridan noble would expect.

  The rain was coming down hard again by the time they reached Black Keep’s gates. Bastion’s great head was swinging low by now as he trudged doggedly on, his massive feet leaving depressions that instantly filled up to make new, regularly-shaped puddles on the road. Daimon patted the dragon encouragingly on his sodden flank and guided him to the apothecary’s cottage, just within the town’s walls, since Tevyel also made regular trips to the forest to gather the plants and herbs he needed for his remedies.

  “Tevyel!” Daimon shouted, hammering on the closed door with his gauntleted fist. “Open up, man!”

  The door was pulled open not by the apothecary but his daughter Henya, whose eyes widened when she saw Daimon, and widened further when Bastion snorted behind him. She dropped into a deep bow.

  “Lord!”

  “Henya, this lord has need of your father,” Daimon said briskly. He’d seen the girl a few times, including when Tevyel had come to the stronghouse once at the insistence of Daimon’s father to dose Darel for an ague he was suffering. She was a little younger than him, perhaps nineteen summers, and “pretty for a lowborn”, as Daimon’s father had casually commented to him. Daimon had precious little grounds for comparison, since the only noble girl he’d ever met had been Yarmina Darkspur, many years ago when they’d both been children, and before Lord Asrel had fallen out with her father. Still, Daimon could not deny that Henya was attractive. He might have even risked his father’s wrath and pursued her quietly, but he’d never seen any sign she was interested in men.

  “Who is it, Hen?” a voice shouted from within, and a moment later Tevyel himself appeared. He was somewhat portly, with grey flecks in his dark hair, and moved with a slight limp that even his own craft was apparently unable to cure. He had much the same reaction to seeing Daimon, right down to the deep bow.

  “Tevyel, we think this woman has broken her leg,” Daimon said, gesturing behind him. “She needs your help.”

  “This servant shall be pleased to assist, lord,” Tevyel replied, visibly swelling with pride. “Go, girl, clear the table and fetch splints, we shall need…”

  He tailed off as Saana Sattistutar slid ungracefully off Bastion’s back and helped Chara down after her. The corpse-painter gave a hissing gasp of agony as she landed, despite trying to take it on her good leg.

  “Lord, you surely cannot mean this servant to treat a savage?” Tevyel said hoarsely, staring at the two Tjakorshi women.

  “This savage can speak your tongue, healer,” Saana snapped, throwing Chara’s arm over her shoulder. Tevyel flinched.

  “See to her as you would any of our folk,” Daimon ordered him. “This lord has not rescued her from razorclaws to see her crippled.”

  “Razorclaws?” Tevyel swallowed. He stepped back. “Of course, lord. Please, bring her in.”

  Chara muttered something to Saana that didn’t sound happy. Saana looked at Daimon. “She says she wants this man to stay with her. She does not trust your healer.”

  Daimon nodded. “Very well. What is your healer’s name, and which house has he taken?”

  “Our healer is Kerrti,” Saana replied. “She has taken house with green door, three houses towards the gate.”

  Daimon accepted the correction wordlessly. A female Tjakorshi healer surely had to be one of their witches? He would watch her closely.

  “Tevyel,” he said as Saana helped Chara up the steps towards the door, “Chief Sattistutar will stay to translate. This lord will fetch the Tjakorshi healer to assist you.” He’d leave Saana to sort that particular mess out.

  Tevyel’s face creased further. “But Lord Daimon—”

  “Try not to antagonise her, Tevyel,” Daimon told the man. “She has already dealt a razorclaw its deathblow today.” The apothecary backed away open-mouthed, and Saana helped Chara into his house, with the girl Henya moving to support the corpse-painter on the other side.

  Daimon prepared to remount Bastion, rather than leave the dragon to wander while he slogged off to find Kerrti on foot, but a small group of townsfolk were gathering. They were a mix of Tjakorshi and Naridan, and Daimon noticed a face he recognised.

  “Nalon!”

  “Oh, here we bloody go…” Nalon muttered, none too quietly. “Yes, Lord Blackcreek?”

  He’d at least given Daimon an honorific this time. “Your chief needs the woman Kerrti to come to this house, and this lord lacks the language.”

  For once, Nalon made no complaint or mockery, merely nodding and hurrying off towards the gate. Daimon addressed the rest of them, conscious not all would understand his words. “A pack of razorclaws set upon one of the Tjakorshi when she ventured into the forest. We killed them”—a small lie about the stature of his deeds, but probably a necessary one—“yet there may be more, even so early in the year. Pass the word.”

  The Naridans hissed or muttered, and made the sign of the Mountain in front of their chests. The Tjakorshi were, to a one, staring at Bastion.

  “Lord!”

  Daimon turned to see Aftak the priest, staff in his right hand and a grim expression on what could be seen of his face above his beard. His left hand was plunged deep into the pocket of his robe.

&nbs
p; “Aftak?” Daimon asked, feeling apprehension pluck at him. The priest of Nari was neither a shy nor retiring character, but neither was he one to accost his lord so openly in public. “What is it?”

  “Shoo!” Aftak called to the assembled townsfolk, waving his staff. “Go, back to your tasks!” The Naridans obeyed him and the Tjakorshi, after a few exchanged glances, appeared to conclude it would be impolite to linger, and followed suit.

  “Your priest apologises, lord,” Aftak said, standing close to Daimon so their bodies would block the view of anyone still watching. “This could not wait.”

  He pulled his left hand out and opened it to reveal a dark, flat stone, into which had been scratched a series of lines making small, angular shapes. Daimon frowned.

  “What is this lord looking at?”

  “Old runes,” Aftak replied. “Your, uh…” He coughed into his fist, and for a moment looked more uncomfortable than Daimon ever remembered seeing him. Aftak was usually the source of discomfort in others. “Your brother might be able to tell us more. He has a goodly knowledge of such history.”

  “As this lord’s brother is not here,” Daimon said, “please explain why this stone concerns you.”

  “So far as this priest is aware, the old runes are only used now by those seeking to keep alive the rites of the Unmaker,” Aftak said soberly. “This priest found the stone buried on the south side of the plot taken by the Raider woman who recently died.”

  Daimon’s stomach clenched. South was where the Unmaker had fled, according to legend, and from where she still sent her stinging storms, despite having been banished by Nari from the lands of men. Of all directions, it was the most ill-omened. “You think this is a curse?”

  Aftak nodded. “This priest fears so.”

  Daimon glanced sideways. Nalon was hurrying back towards Tevyel’s house, accompanied by a young Tjakorshi woman carrying a leather satchel. That would presumably be Kerrti, their healer.