by Mike Brooks
“Stand with Sar Omet,” the thane ordered Evram, pointing to the far end of the hall where a somewhat oversized, impressively decorated wooden chair sat on a dais. “Step forward and speak only when this lord commands it, do you understand?”
“Yes, lord,” Evram replied again, but the thane had already moved on, shouting instructions. It seemed the High Marshal’s arrival had caught Darkspur unprepared.
“Back to your duties,” Sar Omet ordered the two guards, who hurried away. The steward took Evram by the arm and propelled him across the floor, taking up station on the dais at the left side of the thane’s chair. A shout from the other end of the hall sent everyone scurrying: guards took up position at the edge of the hall, servants disappeared, and Thane Odem himself hurried back towards his chair. He’d only just reached it and sat down when the main doors began to creak open, casting daylight across the floor, into which loomed the long shadows of the new arrivals. The two heralds Evram had seen earlier were first across the threshold. They raised their trumpets, blew a repeating five-note refrain, and shouted as one:
“Marshal Kaldur Brightwater, Southern Marshal of Narida and Hand of Heaven, Trusted of the Divine God-King Natan Narida, Third of His name!”
Thane Odem rose from his chair, as though he hadn’t sat down on it scant moments before, and descended to the floor to greet the figure now entering his hall.
Kaldur Brightwater was as tall as Odem Darkspur, though not as broad; nor as old, Evram saw, when the High Marshal removed his helmet. He looked between thirty and forty summers, by Evram’s estimate, and had a handsomeness very much at odds with Odem’s bluff features.
“High Marshal,” the thane greeted him, bowing at the waist. “You do this thane great honour—”
“This marshal did not ride here to be greeted with words of honour, Darkspur,” Brightwater said, cutting him off. Evram felt Sar Omet stiffen.
“Your messenger brought grave tidings of Raiders who have not only landed on our shores, but settled,” Brightwater continued, as Thane Odem straightened. “This marshal gathered what force he could and rode south, and he finds you sitting in your hall, in your best robes?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. The fact the High Marshal was armoured at all was a subtle slight to the thane of Darkspur, since it implied his lands were unsafe. There were songs of blood rivalries that had started thanks to such insults. Thane Odem would have to swallow such unvoiced criticism from his commander, of course, but Brightwater had dressed in a way even the lowborn could interpret.
“This thane’s messenger must have made better time than anticipated,” the thane said, slightly hesitantly. “He assures you, lord, he is ready to ride with you.”
“This marshal does not understand why he is to ride with you at all,” Brightwater stated baldly. “He does not understand why you have not already dealt with this threat. This marshal anticipated he would arrive to evaluate your results, or provide assistance if the Raiders proved more numerous or ferocious than anticipated. Do you not have the numbers to engage them yourself?”
“Lord, if we may speak privately…” Thane Odem began.
“No, Darkspur,” Brightwater snapped, “we may not.”
Everyone surrounding them—the High Marshal’s sars, his household warriors and associated retainers, the Darkspur guards and servants—were all suddenly looking anywhere but directly at the two lords standing in the middle of the great hall.
“High Marshal,” Thane Odem said carefully. “It is true this thane currently has fewer fighting men at his disposal than usual—we have been responding to the mountain savages raiding farms in the foothills. However…”
He paused, eyeing the sars behind the High Marshal, then sighed. “However, this thane also wished to wait for you because the fugitive suggests the people of Black Keep have willingly accepted the Raiders, and that Daimon Blackcreek has betrayed his own people and His Divine Majesty. Since the bad blood between Darkspur and Blackcreek is well known…”
“You wished to ensure your actions were seen to be honourable, rather than risk fulfilling honour, then be accused of bias,” Brightwater finished bluntly. He waved a hand irritably. “Very well, we shall work with what we have. This marshal’s men should have a day to rest before they march again; he presumes that gives you sufficient time to make your own preparations.”
“Ample time, lord,” Thane Odem said, bowing. Both his words and his bow were stiff with repressed anger, but Brightwater either didn’t notice, or ignored it. “Darkspur’s steward has already made the arrangements. Did you wish to speak to the fugitive?”
“You have him here?” Brightwater replied, looking around. Sar Omet took that as his cue and tugged Evram out into the middle of the great hall. Evram wondered if a large part of the eagerness to present him was to change the subject and give the High Marshal less opportunity to criticise the thane of Darkspur in front of his own people, but that line of speculation didn’t help his nerves any.
This man is about to be presented to one of the five most powerful men in the country. His legs nearly gave way, but he managed to get close enough that his collapse onto one knee looked like an appropriate show of respect.
“Rise,” the High Marshal said. His voice had lost the sharp edge with which he’d spoken to Thane Odem, but Evram kept his eyes lowered as he stood.
“You are from Black Keep? The town itself?” Brightwater asked.
“Yes, lord,” Evram managed, husking out his response at the second try.
“You were there when the Raiders landed?”
“Yes lord, on the walls. Seventeen ships, there were.” He licked his dry lips nervously and kept his eyes fixed on the hem of the High Marshal’s robe.
“Look at this marshal, man.”
Evram looked up, cautiously, and Kaldur Brightwater’s sharp, dark eyes met his own. The High Marshal had clearly not neglected himself while on the march, as his cheeks and chin showed only the faintest hint of stubble. Evram was painfully aware of his own unkempt appearance when standing in front of this beautiful, gleaming warrior.
“Lord Darkspur says Daimon Blackcreek turned traitor,” Brightwater said calmly. “You saw this?”
“It… It was hard to see, lord,” Evram stammered. “They were a ways off, and it all happened so fast. Three Raiders came ahead with a flag of parley, and Lord Asrel and his sons went out to meet them. They must have spoken, since they stood close to each other for a time, then the Raiders drew weapons and attacked. It…” He swallowed. “It looked as though Lord Darel, that’s Lord Asrel’s older son—”
“His blood-son, yes?” the High Marshal interrupted, and Evram nodded.
“Even so, lord. He was struck down, and when Lord Asrel went to his aid, Lord Daimon seemed to strike his father from behind—”
“He struck him?” Brightwater pressed. “With a blade?”
“This servant can’t truly say, lord,” Evram said miserably. “But Lord Asrel fell. The rest of the Raiders charged, but with the other two lords down their chief called them off, and then they came to the walls with Lord Daimon. Lord Daimon bade us open the gates and said he’d allow the Raiders to settle in Black Keep, since otherwise they’d only kill us all anyway. The Raiders’ chief, she said—”
“She?” Brightwater interrupted. “These savages are led by a woman?”
“Yes lord,” Evram confirmed. “Speaks our tongue too, for there’s a Naridan in their number who must have taught it her.”
The High Marshal blinked in confusion. “She speaks… There is a Raider who speaks Naridan? And who was this poor wretch? Some manner of slave?”
“Not from what this servant could tell, lord,” Evram admitted. “He seemed to have maybe wed one of their women.”
Brightwater’s eyebrows shot up. “This is beyond anything this lord had imagined. But what happened to Lord Asrel and his son? Were they slain?”
“No lord,” Evram shook his head. “They still lived, but were held by th
e Raiders. Lord Daimon called upon his father to relent and to allow the Raiders to settle, but Lord Asrel refused. So Lord Daimon commanded his father and brother be confined to the stronghouse, or so this servant believes.”
“Nari’s teeth,” the High Marshal breathed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “The boy’s lost his mind. And his honour.” He shook his head sadly. “Such cowardice. It cannot be borne.”
Evram closed his eyes for a moment, commended his soul to the God-King for the impertinence he was about to show, then grabbed his courage before it fled.
“Lord, this servant begs you, let him say one more thing.”
Evram had thought the hall quiet already, but the aching silence echoing after his words demonstrated how wrong he’d been. He winced, expecting a longblade to clear its scabbard and strike him down for his temerity.
High Marshal Brightwater merely raised an eyebrow. “Speak then, man.”
“Lord, this servant is no judge of such things,” Evram hedged hastily, “but he doesn’t believe Lord Daimon has wholly abandoned his honour, for he challenged and struck down the Raiders’ most fearsome warrior on this servant’s behalf.”
There were some startled, albeit muted mutterings from Brightwater’s retinue, and the High Marshal himself frowned. “Indeed? How came this about?”
“A huge savage he was, lord. This servant remembered him from many years ago, when he slew Tan, this servant’s brother.” Evram squeezed his eyes shut again. He wasn’t sure what was more painful, these days: the memory of his brother’s death, or the fact he could no longer clearly recall Tan’s face. “This servant was going to challenge the man: he’d surely die, but this servant couldn’t stand to see him within our walls. But Lord Daimon stopped this servant, and told him he would take this honour debt on himself. Lord Daimon challenged the man, who accepted, and they fought, and…”
Evram puffed out his cheeks. It was a strange thing to be able to say, after a decade or more.
“And Lord Daimon killed him.”
The mutterings were louder now:
“… ridiculous notion…”
“… they have some sort of honour?”
“… boy may not be—”
Kaldur Brightwater held up one hand, and the chatter died away. He pursed his lips, and if anything the scrutiny of those sharp eyes got even more intense.
“How did the Raiders respond to the death of this man, their champion?”
“They weren’t happy, lord,” Evram admitted. “They wailed and cried, their chief most terribly, and we thought for a moment they were going to attack. But one of their old women shouted something and they calmed back down, of a sort. ’Twas that night this servant left, though, so he can’t speak for what may’ve occurred since.”
“There is more here we should discuss,” Brightwater stated briskly to Thane Odem. “In addition, there is… other news from the north, of which you may not be aware.” He glanced sideways at Evram for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “This lord will be retiring to the chambers you will have prepared for him.” He looked at Sar Omet, studying the man properly for the first time. “You are the steward here?”
“This thane’s cousin, lord,” Thane Odem said. “Sar Omet Darkspur.”
The High Marshal received this information with a slight nod that suggested he had no great interest in that detail. He pointed at Evram. “Have this man bathed, shaved and fed, then brought to this lord’s chambers.”
If Sar Omet was at all surprised by these orders, he didn’t show it. He snapped his fingers at two nearby servants, who hurried forward to lead Evram away.
As Evram stumbled, mind whirling, after his new guides, he caught sight of High Marshal Kaldur following Sar Omet towards another door at the rear of the great hall, while Odem Darkspur stood alone in the middle of the floor, his expression unreadable.
SAANA
NOT ALL THE Naridans played the Great Game, not even all the men: the old, young, and physically weak sat it out. Not all the Brown Eagle clan wanted to take part either, for the same reasons, or simply because they saw no point to it. Despite that, the teams drawn up at opposite ends of the town were larger than any present said they could remember since before the great plague.
Yaro had split his team, marked by red strips of cloth tied around the left arm, into two roughly equal halves: one half would guard the barrel, while the others were further subdivided into five groups, three with a ball and two to act as decoys. Saana was in a group with a ball, along with Otim, one of her fishers; Inkeru, captain of the South Wind; and, the Waveborn help her, Timmun, he who’d started the brawl that had set her and Blackcreek at each other’s throats. Of the Naridans with them she recognised Menaken, one of Daimon’s guards, and Young Elio, a fisherman, and son of Old Elio, also a fisherman and picked for the opposite team. Ganalel the guard was with them too, chewing his leaf and stabbing foul glances in her direction when he thought she wasn’t looking. Nalon had been picked by Gador, although Saana suspected that had been less about solidarity between iron-witches and more about Nalon being the only other person apart from herself who could translate instructions.
Something soared into the air from the direction of the main square: a blunted arrow, with strips of fluttering red and green cloth tied to it. The signal to start the game.
“Go!” Yaro yelled. He was in a different red group with a ball, and led them off at a run. Saana’s group followed, led by Menaken, but split off to hug the town wall as Yaro headed for the bakery. Yaro had sent one of the decoy groups, the largest of all, straight through the middle of the town, hollering and whooping as they went. It was an obvious distraction, but one the green team wouldn’t be able to ignore. Saana was quite surprised by the level of thought Yaro had given to his tactics, and wondered if Gador had been as thorough. This wasn’t quite the senseless mass brawl she’d anticipated, although of course they hadn’t made contact with the other team yet.
And suddenly, there they were. A mismatched group of Naridans and Tjakorshi blocked her way, with strips of green cloth tied around their arms. She recognised Evruk and Zalika, and someone further back who could have been Voraksh. A couple of the Naridans looked familiar, too: there was Ita, his expression warring between nervous and excited, and the stablemaster Tavi. There was no sign any of them had a ball; a blocking team, then.
The rules of the game were simple, but clear: grabbing, holding, trips, or throws were fine; punches, kicks, or headbutts were not; any use of something as a weapon would result in a flogging. The game was only to take place in the streets, anyone hurdling a fence to take a shortcut across a house’s land would be forced to pay the owner for damage, and the town wall was out of bounds. Since most of Black Keep’s streets weren’t wide, speed and positioning were critical, to avoid getting caught in a choke point where a few strong bodies could block the way.
“Straight through!” Menaken shouted, putting his head down and surging forwards. Saana didn’t like the look of their chances, but picked up her pace to match him. He had the ball, after all.
It was a bizarre sensation, to be charging bodily at a group of people when no one was armed. She felt oddly naked, even though she had no desire to hurt anyone lined up against her.
Well, perhaps Zalika, a little bit. They’d never liked each other much.
Menaken veered right, as close to the town wall as he could. He had the ball, and the main body of the group ranged against them shifted to meet him. The man was clearly a fool; he was simply giving himself less room to manoeuvre. Then, at the last moment, he threw the ball to his left.
Straight at Saana.
She caught it before it hit her face, more on instinct than anything else. Menaken collided with the waiting pile of opponents, now trying to distract as many as possible. Saana saw an opening and dived for it with a fierce grin. She dodged the grabbing fingers of one Naridan, shoved Zalika aside with her free hand and dumped the other woman onto her arse, bucked off someone unseen who tried t
o wrap their arms around her from the side…
… and was hit in the ribs by someone’s shoulder as they drove into her from the front, knocking the breath from her lungs and killing her momentum. She caught sight of a flash of red to her right and weakly tossed the ball. Timmun, of all people, snatched it out of the air, and was through and away with someone haring off in pursuit, but the rest of both groups remained locked in a struggle.
The man who’d stopped her was trying to drag her down to the ground, so Saana grabbed him around the waist and hoisted. She got his feet off the ground, but only briefly, and when he touched back down he locked his arms behind her knees and tugged. Now she fell backwards, losing what air she’d managed to claw back into her chest since he’d first hit her, and he ended up on top of her.
It was Tavi. The stablemaster flashed a triumphant smile at her, the first real expression she remembered seeing on his face, but then a shout went up that the ball had gone. He pushed himself up and away from her, ready to head off after Timmun.
Well, she wasn’t having that. Saana stretched out a leg and hooked her foot around his shin, tripping him as he turned, then scrambled up and threw herself on his back. Now their roles were reversed: her group needed to slow and delay their opponents as much as possible, to give Timmun the best chance of getting away.
Tavi twisted under her like a fresh-caught blue-fin in a net, all lean muscle and power. Looking after dragons all day must keep him strong, Saana thought briefly. He threw her partly off, but she grabbed his arm as he did so and pulled him onto his back, taking his legs out from under him, then jumped atop him once more and straddled him to hold him down. She cast a quick glance to her right to see how the rest of her group were doing and—
“Look out!”
It was Tavi who shouted: she felt it as well as heard it. Never mind that he was on the opposing team, the man’s alarm sounded genuine enough for instinct to take over. She threw herself to her right, away from the shape looming in her peripheral vision, and rolled up to her feet to find Ganalel stumbling forwards, the knife in his hand cutting through where her shoulders had been a moment before.
