The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  “Father,” he said out loud, “what will you do if you defeat Dai— uh, your son’s law-brother?”

  “Your father will turn his sword upon the barbarian woman, and then upon any other milk-faces he can reach until he is brought down,” his father grunted as they approached the gatehouse. “What else would you have him do?”

  Perhaps something that doesn’t lead to our inevitable deaths? Darel held his tongue, and contented himself with a curt nod in response to his father’s words. He wasn’t cut out to be a sar, and was rapidly coming to terms with that fact. He’d have given his life to defend his father, his brother, and his town from the Raiders, he was still certain of that. It had been easy, in the first days after Daimon’s betrayal, to imagine how he’d have fought against the onrushing horde had that monster with the axe not brought him down, even with the memory of the sudden fear and helplessness he’d felt when the giant had struck his helmet and sent his head swimming. He’d fight against an immediate threat rather than freeze and let his life be taken cheaply; he was confident of that much, at least.

  But the Raiders no longer seemed an immediate threat, and attacking them didn’t feel like a noble defence of his people. It felt more like when one of the field frillnecks had lost its mind a few years back and run loose, attacking and trampling three men before it could be brought down. Lord Asrel might be moving and speaking with purpose, but his proposed actions reminded Darel of a beast lashing out in pain, not the considered conduct of a warrior.

  Darel would have prayed to Nari, but he didn’t know if he should ask for courage to join his father, or to stop him. Courage and wisdom, perhaps?

  They passed into the castle’s first yard, and Darel caught sight of a pair of boots, just visible on the floor inside the guardhouse. That would be Malakel then, knifed and dragged out of sight. Darel tried to tell himself the man should never have done Daimon’s bidding anyway, and that his life had essentially been forfeit from that moment, but the logic rang hollow in his own head. There’d been no need for the man’s death, that was the problem: all it was going to lead to was more death.

  His father stormed on, through the gatehouse and over the drawbridge into the square, heedless of whether any of them were following. They were, of course, but Darel caught the glances Nadar, Yoon and Kelarahel were giving each other. Perhaps they were having second thoughts about how close they wanted to be to this. Shefal had no such misgivings, though, or at the very least was hiding them better.

  There was a sizeable crowd in the square, Naridan and Raider standing shoulder to shoulder in apparent harmony. Darel saw his father’s hand drop to the pommel of his longblade, and for a moment feared Lord Asrel was simply going to begin his campaign of vengeance on whichever Raiders were nearest, but then he began to push through the crowd. People turned with grunts of irritation at their passing, grunts that turned to expressions of shock as they saw who’d just shouldered them aside.

  Cheering and applause erupted, and Darel nearly jumped at the sudden noise. Were the townsfolk so glad to see his father free? Would they stand with him?

  Then he found himself at the inner edge of the crowd, and saw Daimon kissing the Raider chief, this Saana that he’d spoken of, and understanding settled deep into the pit of his stomach. They’d kissed. That meant the marriage had been completed.

  They were too late.

  “Traitor!” his father screamed, drawing his longblade with a flash of steel in the sun. Daimon jerked away from the kiss and reached for his own sword, but he was still bound to the Raider chief by his other hand and she lurched awkwardly with him as he shifted his balance. Daimon looked guilty, an expression Darel remembered from when they were boys and their father had caught him doing something or being somewhere he should not. The Raider’s face went flat and hard, nostrils flaring, even paler than was usual for the savages.

  “Priest, this is a sham and a blasphemy!” Darel’s father spat as a bubble of noise began to run through the crowd. He raised his blade to point it at Aftak. “Renounce this foolishness at once!”

  A frown crossed Aftak’s broad, whiskered face as he eyed Lord Asrel. “The ceremony has been completed, lord. Your son is married in the eyes of the God-King.”

  “You cannot truly believe this to be Nari’s will!” Darel’s father said, his eyes widening at the priest’s effrontery, but Aftak, the insolent old thundertooth, simply leaned on his staff.

  “This priest notices you didn’t get here in time to interrupt the ceremony, Lord Asrel, so he feels you’re perhaps mistaken.”

  “Father!” Daimon shouted. He’d undone the knot binding him to the Raider, Darel saw: it wasn’t needed now the ceremony had been concluded.

  “You will not address this lord in that manner!” Darel’s father thundered, turning his blade towards Daimon. “You are no son of his! You have betrayed everything the House of Blackcreek ever stood for!”

  “Really, lord?” Daimon asked. He’d dropped his left hand to the scabbard of his longblade now, but he gestured around them with his right. “Look about you. Do you see murder? Death? Suffering? Or do you see two peoples, aye, who have their differences, but who are beginning to learn to live together? Do you—”

  “I see cowards and fools,” Darel’s father snapped. “Cowards and fools led astray by an arrogant, ambitious whelp!”

  “Father,” Darel began, as an ugly muttering began to rise amongst the townsfolk. “Perhaps—”

  “We have enough land!” Daimon shouted, taking a step forwards. “We have enough houses! These people need those things from us, and we will benefit from that! This town has been half-empty for most of this man’s life, since the sickness that claimed his blood-parents. Do you not want Black Keep to thrive again?”

  “A corpse writhing with maggots does not thrive, no matter how vigorously they burrow in its flesh!” Asrel roared. “This lord tires of your craven words! He unnames you, casts you out of the House of Blackcreek, and calls upon you to answer his challenge to single combat!”

  Darel squeezed his eyes shut. “Father…”

  “Dishonour?” Saana the Raider chief shouted. Darel looked up again and saw that she too had taken a step forward, although she was still well out of range of a lunge from his father. “You speak of dishonour, Asrel of Blackcreek? You drew your weapon and attacked this man when she was under your own flag of truce! Your son saved your life with his actions!”

  That’s not going to help, you know.

  “Be silent, sea-witch,” Darel’s father snapped. “Well, boy? Will you hide behind this wailing savage, or will you do the first truly honourable thing of your miserable life and face this lord in combat?”

  “Do you not see this is foolishness?” Daimon asked sadly. “You attribute to honour what has its roots in pride.”

  “Honour does not change its nature based on what you wish it to be,” Lord Asrel spat. “Well, boy? If you will not face this lord, he must do what he can to scour these savages from his land.” He looked around him and Darel did the same, noting the fear of the Black Keep folk, and the confusion of the Raiders. It seemed none of them possessed their chief’s mastery of Naridan, and although they’d probably caught the gist of what was going on, they wouldn’t have registered Asrel’s threat.

  “They do not seem to be armed,” Darel’s father continued, a mocking tone entering his voice. “What say you, boy? How many do you think this lord can cut down? Five? Ten? Will they fight, do you suppose, or simply flee before—”

  “Enough!” Daimon shouted. “You have taken leave of your senses, your honour and any shred of decency you once possessed!” The Raider chief took his arm, speaking urgently in a voice too low for Darel to hear, but Daimon shrugged her off. “This man accepts your challenge, Asrel of Blackcreek! Clear the square! Clear the square!”

  The Naridans began to move backwards immediately, in a shuffle of feet and worried murmurings, retreating to the edges of the square and the mouths of the streets that opened onto i
t. The Raiders took a moment longer to realise what was happening, but had already started to follow by the time Saana bellowed out instructions in their tongue.

  “Father,” Darel said urgently, his stomach twisting. Would he really have attacked unarmed men and women? What about the children? “Father, this cannot end well.”

  “Your father knows, my son,” Asrel said solemnly. He took Darel by the shoulder with his free hand and looked into his eyes. Darel saw nothing in his father’s face but grim determination. “He knows. When either your father or the traitor fall, make your move. Kill their chief if you can, or as many of their warriors as you can reach if not. Anything we can do to weaken them for when our allies arrive will be of service to our country.”

  “Our allies?” Darel asked, grasping at his father’s last words even as his mind veered away from the ones that had come before them. “What allies?”

  “Did Shefal not tell you?” Asrel asked, glancing sideways at where the freeman had mingled with the rest of the crowd as they backed away. “He sent one of ours north to Darkspur on the night of our capture. Odem is a vainglorious fool, but he will come, and he must be close now. This lord does not relish the shame that will come with having him ride to our rescue, but better that than allowing these beasts to settle here.”

  Shefal. Darel felt his jaw tighten. It was in some respects a cunning ploy, and sending for aid was certainly what they would normally do in the face of a Raider attack. So why did it feel like a betrayal?

  Because Shefal always felt Father should have adopted him instead of Daimon, and made no secret of it, even if he never said it outright. And so this man has always disliked him. But is he not correct? Has he not done what a true son of Blackcreek should have done? Is Daimonnot the traitor?

  Darel couldn’t find the answer within himself, and that scared him.

  SAANA

  “THERE IS NO wisdom in accepting this challenge!” Saana hissed at Daimon. “He is but one man! This man could call for her warriors to arm themselves—”

  “He is one man already armed, in the middle of a crowd of people who are not,” Daimon replied grimly. “If he suspects treachery then he will attack, and people will die. Better that this man faces him as he demands.”

  “Did you not hear what you just said about pride and honour?” Saana asked bitterly. “He uses your pride to give him what he wants!”

  Daimon snorted. “Perhaps. But we stand on shifting ground, and honour is Narida’s foundation. If this man accepts the challenge, Black Keep’s people will see he is no coward and will hopefully still follow him. If this man refuses, he will have no honour and his people may decide his father holds the right of it. If we should send other warriors against Lord Asrel instead of this man facing him…” He shook his head. “It would not be right. It would not be accepted. We could spark the very fire we seek to avoid. Besides,” he added, “when last we sparred, this man could defeat his father two times out of three.”

  “You will not be sparring,” Saana said, swallowing the bile in her throat. “And those are not odds your wife likes when her husband’s life is at stake.”

  Daimon blinked, then smiled with genuine warmth. “Those are strange words to hear. But your husband thanks you for them.”

  “Your wife does not love you, Daimon of Blackcreek,” Saana told him honestly. “But she does respect you, and she appreciates what you have done for her people.” She reached up and cupped his face in her hand, drew her thumb along the line of his cheekbone. “She would prefer you not to die this day.”

  “Your husband is glad we agree on that,” Daimon replied, still smiling. Then the smile slipped, and he looked sideways. “You see your husband’s brother, Darel?”

  Saana nodded. There was no visual resemblance to Daimon, of course, but the round-faced man with the braided hair talking urgently to Asrel Blackcreek could be no one else. She’d barely seen his face on the day her clan had arrived at Black Keep, but there was enough of Asrel in Darel’s face for his identity to be obvious.

  “And Shefal?” Daimon added in a low voice. “In the green tunic, just to their left as we look at them?”

  Saana nodded again. She’d noticed the man around the town, and he’d already gained a reputation among her clan for being one of the most stand-offish Naridans.

  “Your husband would wager his blade Shefal is responsible for their sudden freedom,” Daimon said. “He has always resented your husband. Watch Shefal. And Darel. Your husband does not know what they may be planning.”

  Saana nodded. “Be careful, Daimon.”

  Daimon shrugged. “We may be beyond that, now.” He leaned in and kissed her for a moment, in a much more assured fashion than his startled reaction when she’d done the same thing to him earlier, and this time Saana got the impression he might actually become good at it, given practice. Then he broke the contact and stepped away, his face falling into the blank mask she’d become used to seeing on him, and turned towards his father. The two men approached each other across the square stones, longblades drawn.

  Ekham the shipwright grabbed her elbow, his dark-bearded face lined with worry and confusion. The witches had taken the news of Saana’s impending marriage with astonishment, and a certain amount of indignation that she hadn’t taken the witches’ counsel first, as would normally have been the case when a chief sought to marry. They’d eventually accepted that she could marry whomever she pleased, even if that was a Naridan, but she’d had to do a lot of fast talking to get them to accept her oaths about allowing men to lie with men, and women with women.

  Kerrti, who’d been avoiding the other witches since the Festival of Life, had merely smirked at Saana when she’d been told.

  “What’s happening?” Ekham asked. “Is this some Naridan marriage rite? Ritual combat? What’s going on?”

  Of course, most of her clan wouldn’t have understood the words shouted back and forth. Saana cursed silently. “That’s his father.”

  Ekham’s eyes widened. “The one who was locked up? Who wanted to kill us all?”

  “The same.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes.” Saana looked back at Daimon and Asrel. They were within a few paces of each other now, their longblades held out until they nearly touched. “We don’t know how he got out, but he’s challenged Daimon to an honour duel.”

  “These Naridans are crazy,” Ekham muttered.

  “I think you might be right,” Saana replied. She realised she was chewing her finger out of nervousness, and snatched her hand back down to her side. “But they’re all crazy, so Daimon has to play by their rules.”

  There was no sign or signal she could see. The two men just stood there, stationary, with their weapons outstretched as the moments elongated and one breath ran into another. Then, just when she thought they weren’t going to move at all, they both moved at once.

  Steel glittered as the two longblades flashed through the air, each seeking skin and each being turned back. There was a furious clatter of blows, a dozen cuts, parries and counter-cuts in the space of two heartbeats, and then Asrel and Daimon stepped apart again. Asrel held his blade low, while Daimon’s guard was vertical in front of his face.

  “By the Dark Father,” Ekham murmured in awe. “They’re not pissing about, are they?”

  This was totally different to when Daimon had fought Rist, Saana realised. That had been… awkward. Two warriors with different weapons and fighting styles, not to mention significantly differing levels of strength and speed, each trying to puzzle the other out. This was two men intimately familiar with each other’s style and weapon, only now they were fighting in deadly earnest for the first time.

  Asrel took a long, lunging step forward and slashed his blade upwards, but Daimon stepped back and knocked it aside. Asrel tried the same thing again, with the same result.

  “He’s not going to get him like that,” Ekham muttered. “Why try it?”

  Asrel lunged once more, and this time Daimon not onl
y batted his blade aside but stepped past his father, bringing his blade up into the guard position again as Asrel whirled to face him.

  “You’ve grown careless, lord,” Daimon said out loud. Asrel’s only response was a snort.

  “He’s not careless,” Saana muttered, grim realisation dawning. “He’s baiting you.”

  “What?” Ekham asked, confused.

  “Daimon could have cut him on that last pass,” Saana said. She was no expert on the swordsmanship of sars, but she was certain of it.

  “Why would the father leave himself open?” Ekham said.

  Saana shook her head as her gut twisted. Stupid Naridans and their stupid, stupid honour! “Asrel doesn’t care if he dies, he just wants an opening at Daimon. Asrel thinks he’s dead already. He’ll let Daimon kill him if he thinks he can strike back.”

  “So why didn’t Daimon take the cut?” Ekham asked. “Didn’t he see it?”

  Asrel advanced more cautiously now, then lunged from closer in. Once more the two blades flashed under the sun, steel ringing on steel, but this time Asrel pressed forward instead of allowing a break. Daimon’s blade blocked, blocked, parried another cut…

  “Low!” Saana shouted, as Daimon didn’t take the opening his father’s attacks left. “High! Oh, what are you doing?”

  Daimon slipped aside from his father’s downstroke, twisted his sword around Asrel’s blade and wrenched, but Asrel rolled with the move and came back to his feet, out of range of Daimon’s sword and with his own weapon still in his grasp.

  “Don’t try to his sword take, kill him!” Saana shouted in Naridan. “He’s trying to kill you!”

  “What?” Ekham demanded. “What are you saying?”

  “Daimon’s trying to win without hurting him,” Saana told him bitterly in Tjakorshi. Neither combatant had given any indication they’d heard her shout. “He just attempted to disarm him, when he could have taken his hand off.”