by Mike Brooks
“Speak of this to no one,” he instructed Aftak. “Find Kelarahel and tell him to come to the stronghouse. And give this lord the stone,” he added, holding out his hand.
“Would it not be better to smash it, to break whatever curse it holds?” Aftak asked, although he dropped the stone into Daimon’s hand.
“It will be done,” Daimon assured him. “But first, this lord must seek his brother’s counsel.”
PART THREE
HOW, THEN, SHOULDthis land be ordered?
The first concern must always be the defence of Narida. Though the Divine One hast scourged this land of demons from mountain to sea, the foul creatures may seek to return, and must be met with shining blade.
So too, must our land be guarded against those to whom the Divine One could not bring His wisdom. The sun-worshippers of the empty lands beyond the Pass of Torgallen and the marsh-peoples of the north languish in shadows of ignorance. True sons of Narida must ever be vigilant against their threat.
So too, must we watch for petty kings, such as the Divine One brought down before He turned to His greatest work. The lust for power that runs deep in man’s heart may resurface, and any who stray from knowing the Divine One’s blood as their Lord must be treated as harshly as any demon.
It is to men of war we must entrust our future: and men it must be, for the Unmaker was a she-demon of great power, and her most powerful adherents were the witches, and so we may judge that women will ever be weaker and more corrupted than men.
Before His departure from this world the Divine One disclosed to this general His wishes: that there be appointed four war-leaders, the Marshals, one for each of the Great Winds: the Northern, or Sun Marshal; the Western, or Mountain Marshal; the Southern, or Ice Marshal; and the Eastern, or Sea Marshal. Each shall govern an area of this land in the name of the God-King. He shall appoint beneath him thanes, each with his own area of land, and these thanes shall rule over the lowborn…
… The Marshals shall each command an armed body of men, the Great Army of their realm, who shall remain always ready. In times of great war, the thanes shall raise further levies from their lands, and shall lead them under the guidance of their Marshal…
… The Sea Marshal shall have his seat in the holy city of Idramar, and hold overall command of all the armies of Narida, save only if the God-King Himself sees fit to take on such a role. However, the Marshal should take all measures to ensure that this is not necessary…
… It is this general’s duty and honour, in accordance with the wishes of the Divine One, Nari, First And Only of His Name, stated to this general immediately prior to the Divine One’s passing from this world, that this general should henceforth assume the title of Eastern Marshal of Narida and take on the weighty responsibility of ensuring the safety and security of this land...
Extracts from a proclamation authored by Eastern Marshal Gemar Far Garadh in the eighteenth year of the God-King, immediately following the passing of the Divine Nari.
DAIMON
DAREL HAD SUCKED in his breath when Daimon had passed him the stone, and confirmed Aftak’s suspicions: the runes were in the old style, from before the days of Nari.
“Only demon-worshippers use them now,” he’d said warningly. “To think such a person lives in the town…!”
“Then how do you know of them?” Daimon had asked.
“Your brother reads, Daimon,” Darel had replied, not without a touch of his old aloofness. “Father has an old scroll detailing what a vigilant thane should look for. If we let knowledge of these foul practices fade from our memories, how can we know what to guard against?”
Kelarahel had answered Daimon’s summons, but the reeve hadn’t seemed as concerned as Daimon would have hoped. He’d scratched his nose as he looked at the rock, then shrugged.
“If enough Raiders sicken, maybe they’ll leave. ’Twouldn’t be a bad thing, surely?”
“This lord will not have such practices in his town,” Daimon had said, shocked. “No matter the target of them!”
“It is a great affront to Divine Nari, and his victory at Godspire,” Aftak had added ominously. Kelarahel had looked from one to the other of them and nodded, albeit slightly reluctantly.
“As you wish, lord. What are the reevesmen to look for?”
And there, Daimon had faltered, because he didn’t know. The Unmaker’s most powerful followers had always been women, but Daimon knew every Naridan in Black Keep by sight at least, even the women, and none carried the marks he’d always heard were associated with worship of the Queen of Demons. Many of the older folk bore pox scars, but that sickness had swept through all of Narida, more or less. It had claimed Daimon’s blood-parents, and none who’d sickened but survived had done so easily: if the pox had been the work of the Unmaker, as some claimed, those who bore its scars had surely suffered at her hand rather than worshipped her.
Kelarahel had left with vague instructions about seeking witches, and rather more specific ones to find out who’d directed the Tjakorshi’s corpse-painter to go into the forest, and Daimon had been left with many misgivings. He’d borrowed one of Gador’s hammers to smash the stone, then given the shards to Aftak to pray over and dispose of, but even that act hadn’t settled his mind. He’d walked back into the third yard of the stronghouse in a dark mood.
When the serving girl Tirtza appeared on the path before him, running and wide-eyed, Daimon’s longblade had left his sheath before he was even aware of laying his hand upon it. It was a shameful reaction, for a sar only drew his blade in necessity, not out of fear or alarm, but what was done was done.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“The Raider woman and her beast!” Tirtza sobbed as she reached him, pointing towards the women’s quarters. “She’s a witch!”
“Witch?” Daimon repeated, his chest tightening, but Tirtza was running again. He considered ordering her back to explain further, but the words died in his throat. Tirtza’s wounds from Duranen’s rattletails had only just healed enough for her to resume her duties, and she was still skittish: he’d be wasting his breath.
“Witch,” he muttered again, hurrying towards the women’s quarters, his mind in a whirl. It seemed like too much of a coincidence, but Zhanna surely wouldn’t know the runes of the Unmaker, or cause illness to her own people? She hadn’t even been able to leave the stronghouse!
Then again, Daimon only knew the Unmaker’s history in Narida. Witches in Narida worked evil magics against their countrymen, why should Tjakorshi witches be any different? And if Zhanna was a witch, perhaps she had ways of escaping the stronghouse. Nalon and Saana might claim Tjakorshi witches weren’t hostile, but perhaps they simply didn’t know the true witches lurking in their midst? By the Mountain, Saana was convinced there wasn’t a single person in her clan with eyes for their own gender, and Daimon would eat his left hand if that were true. Perhaps she was less perceptive than she might appear.
But still, for her own daughter to be a witch, and her not to know… That was hard to believe.
Unless Saana was one herself.
Daimon tried to push the thought to the back of his mind as he approached the women’s quarters, forcing himself to concentrate. He debated remaining quiet instead of calling out to announce himself, but decided against it. He was a lord of Narida in his own home, and he would not sneak up on a woman like an assassin.
“Zhanna!” he shouted, facing the building openly. “Are you there?”
There was no reply. Daimon waited, shifting his fingers slightly on the cord-wrapped grip of his longblade. In the birch tree above him a tiny wind drake sang a warning song at a rival, all rasping notes and belligerence.
“Zhanna?”
The door opened, and Zhanna Saanastutar frowned down at him from the porch. She didn’t look like a witch, Daimon had to admit. She noticed the naked blade in his hand, and her frown deepened.
“You want spar?”
He’d taught her that word, since it was better
than “fight-not-fight”, which she’d been using before. In return, so far, he’d learned how to introduce himself. That had taken more time than he’d expected, due mainly to the bizarre Tjakorshi concept of self, which had taken a lot of understanding. No wonder their society was so disordered: it was like each person was a piling to support a bridge, without the actual bridge to give structure and purpose.
He shook his head. “Where is your dragon?”
Zhanna looked perplexed, but clucked her tongue.
There was a scrabbling noise of claws on wood, and the rattletail runt bounded out of the door. It was significantly larger than when Daimon had handed it over to Zhanna, but it wasn’t the beast’s size that caused Daimon’s grip to tighten on his longblade: rattletails grew fast if fed well. It was the fact it wound itself between her legs and rubbed against her with every sign of affection.
Rattletails were ferocious pack predators who had to be cowed into submission from a young age, and even then would take your fingers off to get to food. Duranen was both huntmaster and kennelmaster because only he could truly control his beasts, especially once they’d brought down prey—which was what made them worth having in the first place—and even he walked a fine line. Daimon could remember a handful of times when Duranen had looked on the verge of disappearing under a pile of his own charges, before he’d reasserted dominance with his cudgel and some well-placed kicks.
Rattletails didn’t wind up against you like a child trying to get its mother’s attention, and they didn’t come when called unless you had meat for them. Such unnatural behaviour matched the tales he’d heard of familiars, where a witch would use her dark arts to increase the intelligence of a beast so it could do her bidding.
A witch, in this family’s stronghouse, brought here by this lord’s own hand. Nari forgive me. Though it may bring ruin upon us, she cannot be allowed to live.
ZHANNA
DAIMON WAS MOVING differently. He’d lost his usual stiffness and had settled into the balanced, fluid grace with which he’d fought Mama’s friend Rist, or when he and Zhanna sparred. It sat far better on him: at first Zhanna hadn’t understood why he masked it so often, but she was coming to the conclusion he was only himself with a blade in his hand, and the rest of the time his focus on being Naridan simply got in the way.
Which didn’t explain why he was acting so differently.
“What is problem?” she asked, gathering Thorn up. It was an instinctive action, but Daimon focused on the little dragon as it scrabbled around until it was perched on her shoulder.
“What witchcraft is this, that you can bend a dragon to your will?” Daimon demanded. He seemed more concerned than angry… but then again, Naridans were hard to read.
“What are words?” she asked. How useful it would be if he could actually speak a proper language!
“The dragon!” Daimon said, more sharply than usual. He was at the foot of the stairs up to her door now, and placed one foot on the lowest step. “How do you make it do what you want?’
“Am be mother,” Zhanna explained. It was a poor way of putting it, since she didn’t think she was incredibly overbearing in one breath yet unreasonably demanding with the next like her own mother, but such were the limitations of language. “Give food, give love.” Did the Naridans not take such care of their animals?
Daimon opened his mouth, but was interrupted by angry shouting from behind him. A group of his servants ran into view: Rotel and Menaken, the guards, with their spears; Gador the smith, holding one of his huge hammers; Duranen with his cudgel; and, bringing up the rear, Tavi, with the same broad-bladed spear he’d seized when the rattletails had attacked Tirtza.
They were all armed, all heading straight for her at speed, and at least some of these Naridans weren’t hard to read at all.
“There she is!” Duranen bellowed. The huntmaster’s eyes were fixed on her, and his lips drawn back from his teeth. “Don’t let her speak, lord! Kill the savage now!”
Kill me?! If Zhanna had her axe and shield to hand she’d have given Duranen a quick and painful lesson, but she was unarmed, and unprepared for such aggression. She shot a glance at the back of Daimon’s head, willing him to order his servant to stand down, but it was Gador the smith who grabbed hold of Duranen’s shoulder and dragged him to a halt just short of where Daimon stood.
“Unhand s’man, coward!” the huntmaster yelled, trying to shake himself free.
“Are you mad?” Gador shouted back. “If we kill the girl, the Raiders kill us all!”
Why is that the only reason not to kill me? Zhanna thought fervently. But yes, listen to him!
“She’s a witch!” Rotel protested.
“Tirtza saying so doesn’t make it true!” Tavi argued.
“Duranen!” Daimon said loudly, and his group of servants quietened somewhat. “The young rattletail comes at the girl’s command and sits happily upon her shoulder. Is this natural?”
“Not in any way, lord,” Duranen replied instantly. “They’re beasts, no two ways about it.”
“Or perhaps,” Tavi said, slowly and deliberately, “you don’t know as much about rattletails as you think.”
Gador, Rotel, and Menaken all went very quiet, and surreptitiously moved apart so that none of them stood between huntmaster and stablemaster. Zhanna had thought the two men didn’t like each other, and this certainly had the feeling of an old enmity abruptly voiced.
“Stick to your grass-eaters, Tavi,” Duranen sneered, staring Father Krayk’s own hail up at Zhanna. “Lord, the girl must be a witch. Your man should have known it when his rattletails ignored her, and went after Tirtza!”
“You told us you let them out because you thought the girl was familiar with them!” Tavi said, dragging his counterpart around to face him. “S’man took you for a fool, but he sees now that you’re a liar as well!”
Duranen shoved the shorter man away and hefted his cudgel, which Zhanna thought was foolish when facing someone with a spear. “Go kiss the Mountain, Tavi! Why do you love the savage so much, anyway? Have you been sneaking her into your bed at night?”
Tavi punched him in the face.
Duranen went down hard, but scrambled back to his feet and would likely have launched himself at Tavi had Rotel and Menaken not seized him to hold him back, while Gador put a meaty arm across the chest of Tavi to prevent the stablemaster following up on his first blow.
“Enough of this!” Daimon bellowed. “Duranen! You loosed the rattletails to hurt her? You lied to your lord?!”
Zhanna tried not to smirk. She’d suspected Duranen’s bad intentions, and it was immensely gratifying to see him confronted by his chief over it. Besides which, hadn’t he realised that she and Daimon had been becoming… well, not friends, perhaps, but sort of pre-friends?
“She’s a witch, lord!” Duranen protested, but Daimon raised his tip of his blade to the huntmaster’s throat.
“A witch, based on the fears of a serving girl terrified of rattletails as a result of your malice, and on the word of a man who lies to his lord!” Daimon spat. “How can this lord trust what you say? Perhaps Tavi has the truth of it; perhaps the girl is no witch, and you simply do not understand the beasts this lord’s father entrusted you with!” He pressed harder with his blade, until Zhanna could see Duranen’s skin dimpling under the pressure.
“Perhaps this lord should test your knowledge by locking you in a pen with your rattletails, without your cudgel,” Daimon bit out. “Would that be fitting?”
Duranen said nothing, but his eyes were wide. Rotel and Menaken looked distinctly uncomfortable as well, but they didn’t let go of him.
“Find Kelarahel,” Daimon instructed the guards, after a few more tense moments. “Duranen goes into the cells until this lord says otherwise.”
“She’s a witch, lord,” Duranen warned, with a venomous glance at Zhanna as Daimon sheathed his blade. “Beware she doesn’t enchant you!”
“Take him!” Daimon spat, and Rotel and Menaken
hauled Duranen away. Zhanna was almost disappointed: she’d have dearly loved to punch him herself before that happened.
“Lord,” Tavi spoke up. “Perhaps your man can help.”
Daimon glanced at Zhanna, as if to make sure she was still there, then looked at the stablemaster. “How?”
“Perhaps the girl has hit on something by accident,” Tavi said. “Your man knows dragons, at least the grass-eaters. There’s tricks to them, no doubt. If he talks to her, and can manage what she’s done with a different rattletail hatchling… well, it can’t be witchcraft then, can it?”
That was the second time someone had used that word about her. “What is witchcraft?” she demanded, as Thorn prowled from her right shoulder to her left.
A grimace crossed Daimon’s face. “Do you know what we mean by magic?”
“Maybe.” She looked at Tavi. “You have dragon magic, yes?”
“Of a sort,” Tavi grunted.
“Witchcraft is magic used to do things that should not be done,” Daimon said. “The penalty for it is death.” Zhanna wanted to ask by whose reckoning something shouldn’t be done, but held her tongue. In this land, at this time, it would undoubtedly be Daimon’s. She also knew that if he truly felt she needed to die then he would kill her, and take the consequences. Happily, he wasn’t swayed by the foolish notions of a hateful servant.
“Happy dragon, friendly dragon,” she said instead. “Why should not be done?”
Daimon looked between her and Tavi, then sighed. “Very well, Tavi. But she doesn’t see the hatchling you raise. You do that yourself. If you can do as she has, with her having had no opportunity to enchant the beast, then yes, she is no witch.”
Tavi bowed. “It shall be done, lord.’
“And to make sure she does not enchant you,” Daimon added, casting one more glance at Zhanna. “… this lord will join you.”
