The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  Tila heard Alazar inhale as though to continue the discussion, but he apparently decided against it since he said nothing more. Marin probably needed to square some old debts, or perhaps make amends with former partners. Neither of the pair had been clear as to why they’d left Narida in the first place, although it wasn’t hard to guess. Alazar’s Brotherhood tattoo meant he’d worked as a sword for hire in Narida, but a blacksword would be the subject of suspicion everywhere in Tila’s country. He could have stopped wearing the sword, of course, but you might as well ask a sar to chop his own leg off. He’d probably be more likely to do that, in actual fact.

  “It is a good day,” Tila agreed to Marin’s original question. Not least because this princess will no longer need to share a ship with you. “Come, Barach: we should ready ourselves to go ashore.” She turned and made for the stairs that led to the captain’s cabin.

  Soon, she’d be off the sea and back into her element. And then, woe betide anyone, be they noble or criminal, who’d risked overstepping their authority while she’d been away.

  DAIMON

  DAIMON WAS NUMB.

  High Marshal Brightwater had not insisted that his punishment should be carried out immediately. Instead, Daimon had been allowed to aid his brother with organising the town, taking stock of who had been lost and who had survived. Besides Tavi, Black Keep had lost Yaro and Elka the fishermen, and Rotel the guard, father of Abbatane the stable girl. Nadon, son of Gador, had died after he’d taken up a weapon and followed Zhanna’s lead to attack the Raiders who’d been on the verge of killing Saana and her fighters. There were others as well, too many others, but strangely, Daimon found that the hardest one for him to take was Ganalel. He’d been killed while trying to defend his family with the one hand Daimon had left him.

  Daimon didn’t know enough of the Brown Eagle clan to say for sure who had died, but he recognised at least a couple of the faces laid out in the town square, ready to be sailed out to sea once Chara had finished with them. The corpse-painter’s leg was splinted up and she was in obvious pain, but she was grimly drawing her designs with the blue paint she had available to her. Daimon made a mental note to get someone to go and find some more of the blue flowers, then stopped in his tracks, sighed, and raised his voice.

  “Nalon?”

  Nalon’s left arm was bandaged from where he’d taken a wound, but otherwise he seemed as well as anyone else. He made his way over from where he’d been yelling orders at the members of Rikkut Fireheart’s raiding crew who’d surrendered. According to Saana, Tjakorshi who yielded in combat owed their captors service for a year and a day as thralls, and their honour would keep them to it unless they were mistreated. Currently they were hauling their own dead into a pile outside the gates to be burned—for they’d not get any rites to speed their soul to Father Krayk—and despite there being a lot of thralls, they’d showed no signs of trying to seize weapons or disobey instructions.

  “Aye?” Nalon asked, coming to a halt in front of Daimon.

  “Chara will need more of her flowers,” Daimon told him. “This lord needs you to organise that, because he will not be here to do so.”

  Nalon looked at him for a few moments, then nodded uncomfortably and blew out his moustaches. “Right you are. Right you are. S’man will, he will…” He looked around, then spat. “Ah, he’ll do it himself. At least knows what he’s looking for. Do you suppose the High Marshal will lend him a couple of soldiers in case of razorclaws?”

  “Find this lord’s brother, and get him to ask for you,” Daimon suggested. “This lord doubts the High Marshal is used to taking requests from former smith’s apprentices who have married into the Tjakorshi.”

  “Well, today seems a good day for him to learn,” Nalon replied. “No, no,” he added hastily, “s’man didn’t mean it. He likes his head—” He stopped speaking abruptly, and an expression of absolute mortification crossed his face. “He’ll get on and do that. He’ll go and do that now.”

  Daimon didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded, and turned away.

  “Lord Daimon?”

  He turned back.

  “Thank you,” Nalon said, somewhat wretchedly. He gestured around with his good arm. “Thank you for doing what you did, when we first came here. Otherwise this would have happened back then, and Fireheart’s bastards would have wiped us out when they got here. Thank you for keeping as many of us alive as you did.”

  “This lord just did not want to die,” Daimon replied bitterly. “And look where that got him. Executed in shame as an accursed kinslayer.”

  Nalon shook his head angrily. “Shamed according to Naridans, maybe. Not for us. Saving our chief, after fighting your own father to prevent him killing clansfolk? Nari’s teeth, s’man has heard songs sung of clan heroes who’ve done less.” He cursed in Tjakorshi and spat again. “See, this is why Narida is such goatshit. Good men get killed for doing the right thing. May Nari watch over you, Daimon Blackcreek.”

  He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply. In truth, Daimon wouldn’t have known what to say.

  As the sun set, Marshal Brightwater had his men bring out provisions from his supply wagons, and the food that had already been prepared for Daimon’s wedding feast was brought forth. Once more, Naridan and Tjakorshi sat and ate together in the first yard of the castle, although a pall of grief for those lost hung heavy over their heads.

  Daimon picked at his food. He was only barely aware of what was in front of him, even when he’d put it into his mouth. Saana sat to his left, and she was barely any less tense than he was.

  “It is not right,” she muttered angrily, too low to be heard by Brightwater, who sat on Daimon’s right at the centre of the head table.

  “It is what has to be,” Daimon murmured back, although his gut twisted at the thought. “This is our honour.”

  “Then your honour is a foolish thing,” Saana hissed.

  “Perhaps.” Daimon sighed. “But it is what it is. There are men and women in the town now who were trying to kill us today, yet you are confident their honour will hold them to do us no harm.”

  “It is true,” Saana said instantly. “Even the Clanless would not do such a thing.”

  “And this is how it must be for us,” Daimon told her. “This holds your husband. If he tries to escape it, he will still only die, and probably bring down death and ruin on you, and his brother, and anyone who tried to help him.”

  He looked past the High Marshal to where Darel sat at Brightwater’s right hand, as befitted a thane hosting an honoured guest. Darel didn’t look much better than Daimon felt, but he was eating with a sort of nervous energy, and his hands shook as he took a draught from his cup. He was also very definitely not looking at Kaldur Brightwater.

  He’s up to something. Daimon’s stomach tightened even further. Darel had almost been late to his place at the table: if not late enough to be an insult to the High Marshal, then certainly pushing it close. Daimon didn’t know what he’d been doing, either, although he’d come from within the castle. He closed his eyes and prayed to Nari. Please do not let Darel do anything stupid. Please do not let Darel do anything stupid…

  There was the scrape of wooden stool legs on the stone floor as Marshal Brightwater rose to his feet, and conversation quickly died away. Daimon opened his eyes and sat straight, his hands in his lap, staring ahead.

  “This has been a strange day,” Marshal Brightwater began. “Some of those people whom we thought of as no more than mindless savages have landed on our shores, and proved themselves to be worthy of our trust. The people of Black Keep, who along with many of our southern towns have long suffered at the hands of these Raiders, saw a way forward. This marshal raises his cup to the people of Black Keep.”

  He suited actions to words and drank, and all those assembled mirrored him: even the Brown Eagle clan, although they looked to have worked it out by seeing what the Naridans did.

  “This has been a sad day,” the High Marshal conti
nued. “Others came here today, bringing bloodshed and death. However, even though they claimed lives, they were thrown back by the bravery of those assembled against them. This marshal raises his cup to all those who fought these Raiders today, no matter from where they came.” He turned in a half-circle, taking in the whole yard, making no distinction between his own men, the Naridans of Black Keep, and the Brown Eagle clan. Daimon’s breath caught in his throat. He’d never imagined such a gesture.

  The High Marshal drank, and so did everyone else.

  “Finally,” Brightwater said, “this marshal has heard a tale of heroism. Of young folk who took up weapons and ran into battle to aid their elders.” He turned to look past Daimon, past Saana, to where Zhanna sat. “In fact, this marshal has heard that the leader of the Raiders who attacked today was slain by none other than the girl sitting to this marshal’s left. This marshal raises his cup to all those young warriors, including her.”

  Everyone drank. Zhanna tilted her head back to finish her drink and slammed her cup back down again, looking somewhat shocked.

  “Were you expecting that?” Saana muttered to Daimon.

  “No, your husband was not,” Daimon murmured in return. Beyond Darel, he could see Thane Odem, who looked just as displeased now as he had earlier. Daimon stared hard at the man, trying to imprint Odem’s expression on his memory. If he had to die, then he’d take some small pleasure in the fact that Odem Darkspur had been monumentally pissed off this day.

  “Now, however, this marshal faces a solemn duty that he cannot ignore,” Brightwater said, with what sounded like genuine remorse. “Daimon Blackcreek slew his father, and therefore he must be executed. Lord Daimon was instrumental not only in ensuring the harmony between Black Keep and its new denizens, but also in the defence of the town today, so this marshal takes no pleasure in this act. However, the law of the land is clear: the kinslayer is accursed.”

  The Southern Marshal turned to Daimon, looking down at him. “Daimon Blackcreek, this marshal allowed you to assist in the immediate matters of this town, but he can grant no more clemency. As accursed, you may not take your own life: to do so only invites greater shame. Take comfort, if you can, in the fact that your work here will endure beyond you.” He paused, and lowered his voice somewhat. “And also that this marshal’s blade is sharp, and that when he has had to fulfil this duty, he has never required more than one stroke.”

  Daimon took a breath to reply.

  “High Marshal!”

  It was Darel’s voice. Daimon looked over to see his law-brother had risen to his feet, in defiance of all protocol. Several of Brightwater’s sars rose as well, as if to restrain Darel, and angry mutterings swept through the High Marshal’s men.

  “Show respect, Blackcreek!” Brightwater barked, turning towards him. “And do not let filial affection blind you to the reality of the situation!”

  “High Marshal, your servant intends no disrespect, and he does not question your knowledge of the law,” Darel said quickly, dropping back onto his stool. “He merely believes you are not in possession of all pertinent facts!”

  Brightwater’s brows lowered, but he paused. “Indeed?”

  “High Marshal, you are aware Daimon was adopted by your servant’s father, Asrel Blackcreek,” Darel said.

  “Yes.”

  “Prior to the duel commencing,” Darel continued, shooting Daimon a quick glance, “your servant’s father stated clearly to Daimon, in the presence of a number of witnesses including his heir presumptive, and a priest of Nari, that he unnamed Daimon and cast him out of the House of Blackcreek.”

  Brightwater looked over his shoulder at Daimon. “Is that so?”

  It was indeed so, and Daimon’s heart twisted again at the reminder of the rage and disdain in his father’s face. Why would Darel bring this up now? Did his brother truly intend to shame him even more than he already was, before his head was struck off?

  “Your servant checked through the castle’s library before this meal,” Darel said, his voice loud enough to carry across the yard. “What he found in the documents of law we possess appears to corroborate his initial belief. Should your servant’s father have wished to disown his blood-son, he could only have done so by means of a signed, witnessed proclamation. However, unless a change has been made of which your servant is unaware, a law-son may be disowned by means of a simple statement to that effect in the presence of appropriate witnesses.”

  Daimon froze. He didn’t even dare breathe, in case he should somehow dishonour himself in some further manner that would make his death inevitable. He could see where Darel was going with this now.

  “If Daimon was no longer a member of the Blackcreek family prior to the honour duel commencing,” Darel continued, his voice shaking with nerves but still strong enough to be heard, “then, High Marshal, he did not slay his own father, and therefore cannot be a kinslayer.”

  A low bubble of conversation welled up, but Brightwater knocked his cup on the table twice, and it died back down immediately.

  “Priest!” Brightwater barked. “This marshal has seen you at this meal! Where are you?”

  Aftak rose from his place on the commoner’s benches, where he had sat in deference to the amount of lords and sars who needed seating on the high table. “Here, High Marshal.”

  “You were present during this exchange?” Brightwater demanded.

  “This priest was, High Marshal.”

  “And Lord Asrel uttered the words Lord Darel has just described?”

  Daimon saw Aftak’s mouth curl into a sly smile. “He did indeed, High Marshal.”

  A new swell of muttering filled the yard, louder than before, but Brightwater once again banged his cup on the table. “There will be quiet! Quiet!” As the noise died down, Daimon caught a glimpse of the brown-and-gold of Darkspur in motion beyond Darel.

  “Thane Odem,” Brightwater said, his tone neutral. “You have something you wish to add?”

  “High Marshal, that priest is a man of Blackcreek,” Thane Odem began. “His loyalty is—”

  “This priest’s loyalty is to Nari, and Nari alone!” Aftak roared, drowning out not only Odem but also the ugly grumbling that had arisen from the men around him. “What kind of lickspittle priests do you have at Darkspur, for you to suggest such a thing?!”

  “Quiet!” Brightwater bellowed, as three of Odem’s sars rose in the places to begin shouting angrily at Aftak. “The thane of Darkspur’s suggestion that a priest of Nari would lie in the service of his lord is not only an affront to the honour of the priest, but it borders on offending the God-King Himself!”

  Everyone from Darkspur immediately sat down, and Daimon had to bite down on his lip not to smile.

  “Or so this marshal would suspect,” Brightwater added, more calmly. “He would not, of course, wish to interfere in theological matters.”

  “This priest does not think Nari needs to concern Himself with such yammerings,” Aftak said darkly, glowering at Thane Odem from beneath his bushy brows. “This priest has spoken the truth to you, High Marshal: Lord Asrel spoke as Lord Darel claims.”

  “Thank you, priest,” Brightwater said, as Aftak sat. “In that case, bearing in mind this new information, the law is once again clear.” He removed his hand from the grip of his longblade.

  “Sar Daimon is no longer of the House of Blackcreek, as of the moment of Lord Asrel’s statement. As a result, he is no kinslayer: he was merely defending his unarmed wife from harm, as a sar would be expected to do.”

  Brightwater turned his head to look at Daimon, and Daimon was sure that he didn’t imagine the slight look of satisfaction and possibly even relief on the Southern Marshal’s face.

  “This marshal can see no evidence that a crime has been committed. Sar Daimon lives without shame, and no execution is required.”

  A great cheer went up from the yard as Brightwater retook his seat; or at least those parts of it where Black Keep folk were sat. Daimon heard Saana and Zhanna whooping be
side him, and the rest of the Brown Eagles joined in as Nalon hastily translated what had just occurred, but Daimon himself could barely muster the ability to continue sitting up straight, let alone shout or throw his hands in the air. In fact—

  Strong arms closed around his neck and nearly dragged him off his stool, and it took him a moment to realise that they belonged to his wife.

  “What are you doing?” he spluttered, trying to maintain some sort of balance and dignity.

  “You not dying is good!” Saana laughed into his ear. “Your wife can hug you!”

  “This is—” Daimon began, then broke off as Darel appeared from behind Marshal Brightwater. “You!”

  “You are welcome,” Darel said with a chuckle, and stooped to also throw his arms around Daimon’s neck.

  “It is not that your brother is not grateful,” Daimon managed, hugging him in return. “But you could have told him earlier!”

  “In all truth, your brother did not know for certain that it would work,” Darel said softly, so low that only Daimon could hear him. “The High Marshal might have seen it differently, or the law could have changed. Your brother thought it best not to offer what could turn out to be false hope, save at the last moment. And he also wanted the statement to be made in front of as many witnesses as possible,” he added, dropping his voice even further until it was barely a whisper.

  Daimon looked over Darel’s shoulder to where a fuming Odem Darkspur sat. The man had basically called for Daimon’s death, albeit via questioning Aftak’s testimony. Daimon didn’t know if the man’s enmity for him was a holdover from Odem’s dispute with Lord Asrel, if it stemmed from a disgust at the notion of allying with or marrying the Tjakorshi, or something else entirely. Nor, in fairness, did Daimon particularly care.

  “A good plan, brother,” he replied. “It would not do for someone to claim he had no knowledge of the judgement.” His mind caught up with his words, and he stiffened. “That is, lord. Not brother.”

  “Daimon,” Darel said chidingly. “We are still brothers.”