Cygan passed him a small cup. He downed it in one. As they drank, more and more new boats arrived; it seemed things had gone well for the other party, too. Things got louder and more raucous as the day progressed until finally sleep took nearly everyone and, despite Whitey’s ill-founded optimism, tomorrow finally arrived.
35
The Gorge of Unbearable Sorrow. That was its name in the old tongue. A place where disputes between the high born could be resolved. It was as narrow a cleft in the Earth as could be found, though it broadened to over thirty feet wide the nearer it got to the sea. Here, the cliffs soared to over two hundred feet high, great bulwarks of black rock against which the sea had been foundering for millennia. And the gorge split the cliffs in twain, running from the sea towards the forest, a great black chasm disappearing under the angry white foam that surged and soared high up the fissure every time the waves crashed through it.
Some quarter of a mile from the sea the rock had been worked by ancient craftsmen. A great broad stair had been carved at right angles to the gorge, leading down, down until opening on to a broad platform spreading out into the chasm itself. A similar stair had been carved into the opposite rock face, the two level surfaces of rock facing each other across the yawning abyss. The spray from the sea kept the rock wet and glistening, making it look rather like carved obsidian or freshly split coal.
The sheer rock faces abutting the broad shallow steps were carved with images of wolves, bears and soaring eagles, all enfolded within the coils of a great two-headed dragon. They had once been painted with various exotic colours but the actions of sea, wind and rain had long since worn these away. Now it was just the outlines, deep grooves in the diamond-hard stone that remained.
At the top of the western set of steps stood Itheya. Her hair had grown long again and was tied behind her in bands, just as Morgan had first beheld her all those weeks ago. She wore her golden torque and the diamond at her brow. The rest of her body was covered in a large green cloak that swathed her from neck to toe. She had replaced the lost ring in her ear and added a further one. She stared intently ahead of her, her lips thin and bloodless.
Opposite her, standing in the equivalent position the other side of the gorge, was her brother. He wore a similar cloak and his expression was equally strained. Behind them fanned out like the wings of some great bird were the rest of the tribe. The ground was open here; the forest did not spring up until over half a mile from the sea. The flautists played, the drummers drummed and the lyre players plucked delicately at their strings, a poignant counterpoint to the thundering sea and the screech of a thousand angry gulls.
She cast her mind back, to her father’s grave, a bare mound of earth covered with the first shoots of new grass and trailing creepers from which vestigial red berries were beginning to form. It was a strange place the Glade of the Mhezhen. There was always growth here; winter never halted things entirely, so, even as light flurries of snow fell softly on to their hair and shoulders, brother and sister surveyed a scene of tranquil greenery, the cold air suffused with the scents of dew and damp moss.
‘I don’t want to fight you,’ Itheya had said sadly. ‘What would Father say? How angry would he be?’
‘I don’t want to fight you, sister.’ Dramalliel’s eyes were half closed. ‘But neither can I back down. This is a struggle for the soul of our tribe, it is that important. You say I am doing this because I cannot fail those that support me, but it does not alter the fact that I think you are wrong.’
She laughed despite everything. ‘I am never wrong. But we are each as stubborn as the other and I see no alternative to the path we are heading down. This duel – I will not be trying to kill you and if you submit I will recall you from exile after a suitable minimum time has elapsed, maybe even less than a year. Would you be happy with that? Or would your silly pride not take it?’
‘A moot point, sister, for I will not be losing. Your exile will end when I find a fit husband for you; it may even be a human.’
She looked shocked. ‘You would marry me to a human?’
He smiled. ‘Once they sue for peace, you can marry their baron or whatever he is called – cement our military gains through marriage, that is something the humans understand.’
She knelt at her father’s grave, gently stroking the loose soil with her fingers. ‘It would be humiliating for me.’
He looked down on her, enjoying the small cruelty he was inflicting. ‘You would do it, though, if it were for the good of the tribe and I were leader and ordered you to do so.’
Her temper flared. She stood again and whirled around to face him. Her eyes were blazing. ‘I am not your chattel, brother, and I will not pollute myself with some human because it pleases your ego to see me disgraced. Culleneron has a cousin suitable for you; perhaps I could send you off to the Ometahan to spend the rest of your life with them. And now look.’ She turned away from him again. ‘We are arguing again! How is it possible to love and hate someone so much at the same time? You really are an infuriating man!’
He spoke again, his voice much quieter this time. ‘I am sorry, sister. It is strange that in a few days we may never see each other again. See the snow is getting thicker – do you wish to leave here for now?’
‘I will stay a little longer, in silence; I just wish to think of Father a while without squabbling and spoiling this place for him.’
And so they stood, watching the grave of their father as the snow fell and clothed the land in a blanket of silence.
Back at the gorge the music changed. The drumming became more frantic, the flutes’ pitch increased into a high wail. It was the signal for both of them. She unfastened her cloak and passed it to the man next to her, Tetrevenn, head of one of the first families and a loyal supporter of hers. She was wearing full-length leather armour, black in colour that fitted her body tightly while leaving her arms uncovered. Her golden belt, fashioned in the shape of several intertwined twisting snakes, was at her waist along with her knife, which she would not be using in this duel.
She started down the stairs, her heart pounding fit to burst. She was never the nervous type but now she could feel her fingers trembling at her sides and her breath coming in short shallow gasps. The absurdity of the situation, of her and her brother duelling; a fight that neither of them wanted but equally one that neither of them could back down from was becoming more and more apparent as time passed, but despite her racking her brain for a sensible way of avoiding this situation none had come to her. And now here she was. Here they both were. As she reached the lower steps, she was engulfed in shadow as the great buttresses of rock to her left and right closed in above her. At last the steps became slippery. She saw the ocean spray rise and fall ahead of her; the gorge was barely a stone’s throw away.
She cleared the last step. Ahead of her was a plinth of stone on which rested a sword, a shield and two discs maybe a foot in diameter which looked to be fashioned out of shining gold. She picked up the shield, which was circular and made out of some sort of tough hide, and slung it over her shoulder. The sword was curved with a thin blade that appeared to be fashioned out of intertwined shapes of gold and steel. Its hilt, too, was of gold with bright gems clustered at the pommel. It was an antique weapon, unsuited for battle, but with enough durability to withstand a duel such as this. Its scabbard was attached to a thin golden belt, which she fastened around her waist. Then she picked up the discs, the chakrams that could be hurled at the enemy. It was not her intention to kill, though, so she would aim to miss. Just.
Behind her, the tribal dignitaries and musicians had climbed some halfway down the stairs. The rest of the tribe stood at the top of the gorge looking down, jostling for the best view. The musicians started to play again. Itheya strode up to the very brink of the gorge and looked down at the broil and ferment of the sea below.
Her brother stood on the other side of the gorge, directly opposite her. The yawning chasm between them was around thirty feet in length, much too
wide to jump across, even for an agile elf. That problem had been mitigated, however, for the trunks of three great trees had been split into two and laid across the gap, flat side down, acting like six crude bridges. They had been spaced carefully so that the gap between each trunk was around five or six feet, wide enough for any misstep to lead to a rapid death in the violent waters beneath.
She readied the first chakram and waited for the blast of the great goat horn that Tetrevenn was now carrying, the signal to start the whole sorry charade. Deep breaths, Itheya, and compose yourself. She slipped off her boots, all the better to grip the bark on the makeshift bridges and waited, feeling a vein in her temple pulsing hard.
Then the horn sounded, and she heard her breath hiss through her clenched teeth as her brother hopped on to one of the logs. Before he could set himself fully she hurled the first chakram over the gorge aiming a foot or so above Dramalliel’s head. The brightly coloured disc swerved through the air before arcing towards him. It cleared him comfortably before hitting the stone steps behind him, striking sparks from the stone as it clattered noisily, before coming to rest at the junction of step and wall.
She sprang on to the second bridge from the right and waited for his riposte. It came quickly, the gold on the disc flaring briefly under the high sun above the gorge. She wondered by how far his attempt would miss her and watched it intently as it curved in the air towards her. It would be close, she thought, as its trajectory started to dip. She could hear it slicing the air as it sped closer and closer until finally she had to admit to a deeply unpalatable truth.
It wasn’t going to miss her at all.
She had less than a second to react before it sliced her head off. She sprang to her right on to the final log bridge on that side, trying to duck under the thing and retain her balance. She barely managed to do both, tottering briefly before righting herself. Behind her she heard the thing hit the stone platform with a frightful metallic clatter. She put her hand behind her. The chakram had sliced off nearly half of her pony tail.
It did not take too much to anger Itheya, especially where her brother was concerned, and that line had been crossed already. In temper, she hurled the other chakram aiming directly for his head. As she had just done, he seemed uncertain for a second, not knowing whether she was aiming to miss deliberately. He realised the truth soon enough, though, and leapt from bridge to bridge, leaving the chakram to pass him with a few feet to spare.
He moved forward closing the gap between them. He still had one chakram left and seemed determined not to waste his opportunity. She kept the distance between them, jumping from bridge to bridge to do so, feeling the rough bark under her feet, uneven and sometimes painful. Salt stung her eyes, causing her to blink frequently; she consoled herself with the thought that it would be the same for him. His final throw when it came she saw all the way, hopping clear from it as gracefully as a hunting cat.
All the chakrams had been used; both protagonists drew their swords and readied their shields. The shields had been painted with the green and gold of the tribe; the swords were a matched pair, catching the sun and glinting in gold and silver. The two of them circled each other patiently, blinking hard when the sun caught their eyes or created flares in the rising salt mist that made everything underfoot slippery and their leathers slick to the touch.
This was no human duel with its roaring crowd thirsty for blood and its fighters trying to overpower the other with a crudely swung blade. This was a ballet. The crowd here watched in respectful silence as brother and sister circled each other blades raised high and pointed directly at their opponent. Using instinct to guide them, they did not even look down as they jumped from bridge to bridge never taking their eyes off each other. Nearly an hour passed without a blow made in anger, their wet hair stuck to their heads, their feet red and sore, wet and cold, but neither of them seemed to notice. They moved in silence as the sea roared its fury beneath them.
Finally Dramalliel made a move. He sprang towards her bounding over each log, lithe and agile. Then he leapt. Not towards her but over her, clearing her head by over a foot. As he did so he swung his blade at her face taking a slice out of her raised shield. Then he landed several feet behind her, turning in an instant and raising his shield defensively. She turned to face him, stepping back a little.
‘Trying to impress the crowd?’ she said sardonically. ‘You leave yourself wide open doing that.’
‘Then why did you not strike me down?’ He did not take his eye off her for a second. ‘You had better not be holding back, I am certainly not.’
‘So I had noticed,’ she hissed. ‘Defend yourself then; let me see what you are made of.’
She leapt forward, blade raised and made to slice directly at her brother’s head. He parried, striking sparks from each sword as the blades clashed. The previous hour’s slow-build was replaced by a frenzy of swirling blades moving faster than the eye could follow. They parried, dodged, leapt from bridge to bridge in a breathless unrestrained assault. Both shields had been slashed and cut; both blades were notched; the sparks still flew and still neither could gain the advantage. At one point Itheya aped her brother, leaping clean over him as he slashed vainly at her feet. When she landed she reversed her blade, almost catching him as he advanced on her exposed back. Her sword even pierced his shield but stopped an inch from his chest. The duel continued.
The sun was beginning to slide into the west now; soon it would have dropped enough to plunge the gorge into semi-darkness where the churning sea would become black as night and the white spray about them would change to azure. They had been fighting for hours and ancient folk though they were, even they were starting to tire. The combat frenzy of earlier had been replaced by a more circumspect approach, each of them picking and choosing their time to strike. And still the tribe watched in silence.
Itheya could barely feel her fingers so wet and cold were they, but her aches and pains were incidental. Her focus was so intense that she did not hear the sea, did not notice the onlookers or the great cliffs that enfolded them both. It was just her, her brother, the six bridges and their weapons. Nothing else. Nothing.
She came at him again, wielding her blade in a blur of steel and gold. He defended with both sword and shield but then, with her final blow, she clove his shield clean in two. He leapt backwards, hurling the useless thing into the abyss and held the sword ahead of him breathing hard.
Casually she let her own shield drop into the sea and lifted her blade high to receive his next attack. ‘Getting tired? Ready to submit yet?’ She tried desperately not to show her own weariness as she made her remarks.
‘I have barely begun,’ he said cuttingly. He jumped slightly up and down on his bridge, limbering up for what he was to do next. As they faced each other, he started to run at her. She knew exactly what was coming.
He was going to leap over her again. She waited quietly, trying to anticipate when he was going to spring high above her. She timed it well and knelt down low as he did so. His blow sliced nothing but air; he was obviously surprised as he looked down and behind him at her, forgetting for a second to look to where he was landing.
She heard him land, heavily by the sound of it, and quickly got to her feet and swung round, blade poised ready for him.
She lowered it immediately, though. He was in trouble. He lay slumped over one of the bridges, struggling feebly, his face looking down at the sea. She sheathed her sword and ran over to him, turning him over and cradling his head in her arms, trying to see exactly what was wrong.
He still held his sword but the tip of the blade had snapped off and was stuck firmly in his chest close to his heart. His face was grey and pale and blood flecked his mouth and lips.
‘Spirits curse us both!’ she grimaced. ‘Hold on, brother, I will have to take the blade out before I can use my power on you.’
His head rolled a little as he looked at her. His words were halting. ‘No, sister, take the blade out and I will die; I can fe
el it.’
‘Then I will try to heal what I can now,’ she said, trying to remain calm. ‘If I can patch you up a little now, I can get you off the bridge where better healers can look at you.’ She moved her hand over his chest ready to call her magic forth.
To her surprise he released his sword and stopped her hand, grabbing her wrist firmly. ‘Stop. Do not do that.’
She was perplexed. ‘Why ever not?’
His breath came in ragged gasps. ‘Because I do not want you to. Let me have my way just this once. Just this once.’
Her jaw hardened. ‘No. Do not be silly. I am not letting you die. Let me heal you. We can forget your exile; there must be a way around it.’
His grip on her wrist tightened. He leaned closer to her, spitting blood on to her armour. ‘No! It is not that, sister! It never has been; how little you understand.’
She suddenly started to tremble a little. ‘Then enlighten me, please.’
He gave the slightest of smiles. ‘Ah, my sweet, radiant big sister, always the cleverest, the most beautiful, fastest with a blade and always first in our father’s affections. Do you have any idea what it is to always be second in everything? Of course, you do not. I have lived my life in your shadow, my girl – from the moment I killed mother as she brought me into this world.’
She stroked his soaking hair, pulling it clear from his brow. ‘Do not say such a thing! Mother died because Zhun called her to him, nothing more than that. And I do not know how much it means but you have never been second to me. I love you, brother; people that love each other argue and fight, but ultimately none of that matters purely because they love each other. Now let me heal you!’
The Forgotten War Page 123
