The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  “We cannot be brothers,” Daimon protested, although the words felt like they tore him apart as they left him. He’d been a Blackcreek for almost as long as he could remember, and the relief at his life being saved by Darel’s quick thinking was somewhat numbed by the shock of losing his family in a different way. “You just saved this sar’s life by pointing out how we are not brothers.”

  “Well, this lord has another plan,” Darel said to him with a wink, then straightened. “High Marshal?”

  “Lord Blackcreek? You have a question, now you have finished your…” Brightwater eyed Darel and Daimon somewhat disapprovingly. “Your display of affection?”

  “Yes, High Marshal,” Darel said, composing himself and bowing. “Your servant wishes to know, for the avoidance of doubt, whether you will be officially confirming him as the new Thane of Blackcreek.”

  Brightwater steepled his fingers. “This marshal can see no reason why that should not occur. Henceforth you are Darel, Thane of Blackcreek, with all the lands and duties that accompany it.”

  “Your servant is eternally grateful for your judgement,” Darel replied, with another bow. “And he asks leave to beg a boon of you.

  Brightwater raised his eyebrows. “Ask.”

  “Would you, as a Hand of Heaven and High Marshal of the South, give witness to your servant the Thane of Blackcreek’s statement, that he wishes Sar Daimon to become his law-brother, with immediate effect?”

  Daimon’s insides screwed up, and he felt Saana tense on his shoulder.

  “Lord Blackcreek, you have just cited legal precedent for why this man is no longer your law-brother,” Marshal Brightwater pointed out mildly. “Now you wish to reverse this?”

  “Yes, lord,” Darel said, his voice clear and true. “Your presence excepted, Sar Daimon is the wisest man your servant has met. For all the love your servant bore his father, Lord Asrel’s decision to disown Sar Daimon was one of several decisions he made in recent days that were motivated more by pride than by honour or wisdom. Your servant seeks to rectify this.”

  Brightwater’s eyes flickered from Darel to rest on Daimon, and Daimon felt the weight of his scrutiny. Then the High Marshal returned his gaze to Darel, and pursed his lips.

  “You have been confirmed as the Thane of Blackcreek, Lord Darel. Your household is your own business. Consider your statement witnessed.”

  Darel’s face was a picture of relief. “Thank you, lord.”

  Brightwater nodded and made as if to turn back to his meal, then paused and moved around on his stool until he was facing them properly. His expression darkened, and the flood of relief and joy that had washed through Daimon was abruptly stemmed. What had the High Marshal just remembered that would nullify Darel’s request?

  “Blackcreek… this marshal knows that news sometimes struggles to find its way this far south. Have you heard the rumours?”

  Darel looked blank. “Lord, your servant was imprisoned in his own stronghouse until today.” He glanced at Daimon. “Do you know of what the High Marshal speaks?”

  Daimon shook his head, perplexed. “Lord, we have seen no travellers since before the turn of the year. What rumours are these?”

  Kaldur Brightwater, for a wonder, looked momentarily uncertain. He glanced about them, as though to check no one was too close, then leaned in a fraction and lowered his voice.

  “They say Nari Himself has been reborn, in the north.”

  Daimon felt his mouth sag open, saw his expression mirrored on Darel’s face. Saana simply looked confused, and he couldn’t blame her.

  “We do not know if it is true, of course,” Brightwater admitted. “The Divine Rebirth was foretold, but to think of it happening in our lifetimes…” He shook his head slightly, perhaps not even aware of what he was doing.

  “The wild dragons have been bolder this year,” Daimon said uneasily, glancing at his brother.

  “At least the sun hasn’t disappeared!” Darel said, with what had to be forced cheerfulness.

  “Yes it has,” Saana cut in. “It disappears every year at Long Night!” All three Naridans looked at her, and she frowned in confusion. “Long Night does not happen here?”

  “Whatever the truth,” the High Marshal said after a moment, “discord may be inevitable. We must be strong, unified in purpose. This lord had to come and attend to the south of his realm to make sure there was no canker here that could spread if his attention is drawn northwards, as he feels it will be.

  “The day may come when we need all our blades to stand as one. A second Splintering could destroy Narida, or leave it open for our enemies to divide up as they see fit. The thanedom of Blackcreek must be true. This marshal wants you to come to Idramar with him, Lord Darel.”

  “Your—your servant?” Darel stammered, his hand flying to his mouth. “To Idramar?”

  “The world is changing,” Brightwater said, and Daimon saw his eyes lingering on Saana. “Change frightens some. This marshal’s word is law, but only so long as he is not overruled by the God-King. You should come to Idramar to present your case, to speak of the benefits of this new alliance, so that your succession can be ratified by the highest authority. That way, there can be no unpleasant repercussions that might divide the south.”

  “Your servant is honoured,” Darel said in a small voice. Daimon knew that was true: Darel had always wanted to visit Idramar, although he’d never thought he’d get the opportunity. “But should he not be attending to his people?”

  “This marshal was under the impression you had just re-adopted your brother,” Brightwater replied sharply. “Can he not manage affairs while you are away?”

  “Your servant would be happy to,” Daimon broke in. It was a lie—what he wanted more than anything else in the world was firstly to sleep, and secondly to hand the running of Black Keep over to Darel—but he couldn’t let Darel talk himself out of the High Marshal’s good graces.

  “Then it is settled,” Brightwater said. “We shall depart at the earliest convenience.”

  “Of course, lord,” Darel replied. “Might your servant be excused, to speak with his brother and law-sister?”

  “You may,” Brightwater said with a wave of his hand. This time he did turn back to his food, and Darel hastily backed away from the table towards the blocky shape of the guardhouse. Daimon rose and followed him, as did Saana. Zhanna, it seemed, was more interested in the remains of her meal.

  As soon as Darel stopped moving Daimon enveloped him in another hug, his vision blurring with tears for the second time that day.

  “Darel… you are the kindest and cleverest man your brother has ever known. He thanks you, with all his heart.”

  Darel smiled at him and Saana; an honest, genuine smile of pleasure. Daimon realised how much he’d missed that expression on his brother’s face, even just in the last two weeks.

  “Brother… law-sister… You saw past old enmities. You saw hope instead of conflict. The High Marshal is correct: the world has changed. You changed it.”

  His smile widened, and took on the faintest hint of mischief.

  “However, if you think your brother is going to let you get away with standing back and leaving him to deal with the aftermath alone, you are sorely mistaken…”

  EPILOGUE

  KULLOJAN SAKTSESZHIN STOOD and sweated.

  The Witchhouse was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, and thicker still with the heat from The Golden’s fires, but no one complained. No one dared. They stood, awkwardly and uncomfortably, while the master of all Tjakorsha sat and stared unblinking into the flames. Kullojan couldn’t say for sure how long he’d stood here, with other captains and those who had once been chiefs, but it was long enough that he’d had to surreptitiously shift his weight several times. No one wanted to move too obviously, though. No one wanted to risk breaking the draug’s concentration.

  The consequences for that were likely to be… unpleasant.

  “There.”

  The Golden spoke, reaching two fing
ers out into the flames, seeming not to feel their heat. “There, do you see?”

  The assembled captains shook their heads, Kullojan amongst them, with murmurs of “No, master.” The draug drew its hand back again, and tapped one finger against its body’s lips.

  “Fireheart has failed me.”

  Kullojan glanced sideways as his fellows. It was true that no ships had returned from the Flatlands, as the Snowbeard had called them, but from what the old man had said about the distances involved, that wasn’t surprising. Fireheart couldn’t have long made landfall, if he’d even reached it at all. But The Golden read the world in the flames of its fires, and it had never been wrong yet. Usually it had predicted its own victory over its next enemy, and although the outcome had sometimes appeared uncertain—Kullojan eyed the thick rope scar around The Golden’s neck—it had always been correct in the end.

  If the flames told The Golden that Fireheart had failed, then Kullojan wasn’t going to doubt it.

  “No matter,” The Golden continued, getting to its feet. “The world has changed since he left. Sattistutar’s belt is no longer important.”

  Kullojan frowned in confusion, but it was Kashallo Merngustutar who spoke up. “Master? Do you not need the belt to show that your rule is complete?” She pointed to where the belts of the other chiefs had been hung from the rafters; gently swaying straps of long-dead skin and old metal in which the faith of the Tjakorshi had once been placed.

  “I did not break the clans in order to rule you!” The Golden snapped, rising to its feet with an unworldly smoothness and fluidity. The assembled captains deliberately didn’t take a step backwards, but Kullojan knew he wasn’t the only one who’d wanted to.

  “I broke the clans in order to save you,” The Golden continued, its pale eyes sweeping up and down their line. “Do none of you understand that?”

  Kullojan mumbled “No, master,” along with the others. The Golden didn’t like those who stayed quiet in an effort to avoid censure.

  “The world is changing,” The Golden said, looking up at the Witchhouse’s roof as thought it could see beyond it to the stars above. Perhaps it could: Kullojan wouldn’t have wagered against it. “The spirits will wake, and they will bring fire, and death, and darkness, and everything you know will be shattered. But we will escape.”

  It looked back at them again, the reflection of flames dancing in its mask of gilt-chased steel.

  “We will give ourselves to the Dark Father, and his embrace will save us. Sattistutar may have been wiser than she knew. Give the order. Fell whatever trees are needed. Build ships, and weave sails.”

  “How many, master?” Kullojan asked, stunned.

  “Enough to carry us all,” The Golden told him, fixing him with that unblinking pale stare. “Enough to carry us all, Kullojan. Tjakorsha sails.

  “Let the world tremble.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  IN 2016 MY country held a referendum, and took a decision that made me angry enough to start writing the fantasy novel that I had not until that point dared to start writing, in case I messed up all the ideas that had been kicking around in my brain for twenty-odd years. Writing about how it is actually possible to find common ground with those different to you became more important to me than whether or not I was “ready” as a writer to tackle epic fantasy, so that’s one small positive I can take. I guess only time will tell if there will be any others.

  However, anger in itself is not enough to will a novel into being. First of all, I must pay tribute to my agent Rob Dinsdale, who took my story that perhaps wanders a little from the median line of fantasy, and is certainly a departure from the pulpy, no-frills, grimy space operas I was writing previously, and presented it to publishers with every assurance that I could follow through on this. And I need to give thanks to Jenni and her team at Orbit, and Michael and his team at Solaris, for deciding that this was something they were interested in, and for all the support that’s come along with that.

  I also need to thank those who read the manuscript at various stages and gave me their feedback on it. Jamie, Jeannette, Anna, Stewart, and those who have asked not to be named, but know who they are; your input was truly valued. Big thanks go out to Nye Redman-White, who helped me try to get some sort of unified feel to the names and words used in each culture, and to differentiate them from each other: any remaining irregularities can most certainly be laid at my door. Huge thanks to Gareth, who when I was bemoaning on Facebook the clumsiness of my attempts to denote gender in Alaba said “Why don’t you use diacritics?”, and thereby made those parts of the novel eminently more readable in one stroke. And thanks to Carrie, for being host and guide for a trip to the Royal Armouries in Leeds when I decided I needed to know more details about how different cultures have tried to kill each other with pointy things, and avoid being killed by said pointy things.

  There are undoubtedly many other people I should thank, the details of which have been lost in the blur of time that this novel has taken: far longer than anything else I’ve written – given it was mainly written in the edges and spare time around other projects, which themselves were being done in the time I wasn’t at work – and has been through various rewrites and restructurings. If you should have been thanked here and haven’t been, then please consider yourself thanked, and my apologies for my poor memory. I’d also like to extend my gratitude to the “community” of SFF authors and fans, particularly those at conventions, who have made “being an author” in the social sense so much fun. And of course, I’d like to thank everyone who’s bought my books: it means a lot (and not just 7.5% of the sale price).

  Finally, I need to thank my wife Janine, for sharing with me a life so stable and contented that I have plenty of time and energy for creativity, and for her part in making and keeping it that way.

  About the Author

  MIKE BROOKS IS the author of The God-King Chronicles epic fantasy series, the Keiko series of grimy space-opera novels, and various works for Games Workshop’s Black Library imprint including RITES OF PASSAGE and BRUTAL KUNNIN. He was born in Ipswich, Suffolk, and moved to Nottingham to go to university when he was eighteen, where he still lives with his wife, cats, and snakes. He worked in the homelessness sector for fifteen years before going full-time as an author, plays guitar and sings in a punk band, and DJs wherever anyone will tolerate him. He is queer, and partially deaf (no, that occurred naturally, and a long time before the punk band).

  Ten years ago, the Kinslayer returned from the darkness. His brutal Yorughan armies issued from the pits of the earth, crushing all resistance, leaving burnt earth and corruption behind. Thrones toppled and cities fell.

  And then he died.

  Celestaine—one of the heroes that destroyed him—has tasked herself with correcting the worst excesses of the Kinslayer’s brief reign, bringing light back to a broken world. With two Yorughan companions, she faces fanatics, war criminals and the Kinslayer’s former minions, as the fragile alliances of the War break down into feuding and greed.

  The Kinslayer may be gone, but he cast a long shadow: one from which she may never truly escape.

  “Great pace, compelling characters, some serious ethical arguments to make, and amazing action scenes. And it’s startlingly fun.”

  Tor.com

  “Tchaikovsky interleaves graphically violent scenes of war with penetrating philosophical insights.”

  The Guardian

  www.solarisbooks.com

  Dragons. Art. Revolution.

  Gyen Jebi isn’t a fighter or a subversive. They just want to paint.

  One day they’re jobless and desperate; the next, Jebi finds themself recruited by the Ministry of Armor to paint the mystical sigils that animate the occupying government’s automaton soldiers.

  But when Jebi discovers the depths of the Razanei government’s horrifying crimes—and the awful source of the magical pigments they use—they find they can no longer stay out of politics.

  What they can do is
steal Arazi, the ministry’s mighty dragon automaton, and find a way to fight…

  “An arresting tale of loyalty, identity, and the power of art... Lee’s masterful storytelling is sure to wow.” – Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Fiercely original.” – Adrian Tchaikovsky

  “Powerful. Unforgettable. This is another amazing piece of work, and I have the feeling I need to read it again to get it fully!” – Stephen Baxter

  www.solarisbooks.com

  The Gates of the World Book One

  Merchant, industrialist and explorer Trassan Kressind has an audacious plan – combining the might of magic and iron in the heart of a great ship to navigate an uncrossed ocean, seeking the city of the extinct Morfaan to uncover the secrets of their lost sciences.

  Ambition runs strongly in the Kressind family, and for each of Trassan’s siblings fate beckons. Soldier Rel is banished to a vital frontier, bureaucrat Garten balances responsibility with family loyalty, sister Katriona is determined to carve herself a place in a world of men, outcast Guis struggles to contain the energies of his soul, while priest Aarin dabbles in forbidden sorcery.

  The world is in turmoil as new money brings new power, and the old social order crumbles. And as mankind’s arts grow stronger, a terror from the ancient past awakens...