by Tim Stead
They came to the door and went it. It was no better inside. The tables looked old, and when they chose one and sat down it rocked gently from side to side. The chairs were hard.
However dismal the tavern appeared to Narak it seemed to be doing a fair trade. There were about twenty men sitting around at the various tables, talking and drinking. Narak noticed at once that they were all young men, or young enough to be considered dangerous. None of them sat alone, and there were no women in the tavern, which was unusual. He smiled to himself.
“Well, Drammen, shall we see how vile the ale is?”
Drammen went to the bar and brought back a couple of mugs of beer. They were not good, but not especially bad. It seemed a shame to Narak to have something that partly redeemed this otherwise perfectly awful tavern.
“You will know our man when he comes?” he asked.
“Aye. But he’s not here as yet. We’re a little early, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” But he thought otherwise. This place was a trap, and he suspected that their man was already here, waiting and watching, but that was all right. Narak welcomed confrontation.
He toyed with his ale, not drinking it, but watching the men around him as discreetly as possible. They were watching him right back in exactly the same way.
They didn’t have to wait long. About ten minutes after they sat down a man came down the stairs. He looked every bit what you’d expect Wolf Narak to look like. He was simply dressed, good boots, thick white cotton trousers and a brown leather coat. Twin blades were strapped to the back of it in the Ohas style. Narak was impressed. The man had done his research, but he was a good century out of date. Since he had become dragon kin and been gifted a pair of dragon steel blades he never wore them. It seemed pointless.
The false wolf approached them and took a seat at their table. He sat opposite them, against the wall, which Narak thought was odd. It limited his ability to run away. You would have thought a man like that would keep his exits clear.
“So, Drammen, who is this you’ve brought me?” he asked.
Drammen leaned forwards and spoke in a low voice. “If anyone can kill the king, he can,” he said.
“That’s what you said about the three, and two of them are dead and one can’t be found.”
Drammen shrugged. “This is different.”
The false wolf eyed Narak. “He looks useful, but so did the others.”
Narak decided he’s had enough of being talked about. “Do you mind if I ask a question, Lord Wolf?” he said.
The man raised an eyebrow. “It speaks,” he said. “Ask your question.”
Narak sat back in his chair. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. “I was wondering why you didn’t kill the king yourself?”
The false wolf frowned. “I explained that to Drammen. I can’t be seen to be involved in this. It must be done so that no hint of suspicion falls on Col Boran.”
It was a ludicrous thing to say. There were twenty men in this room alone that would testify that Wolf Narak had ordered the death of the king, planting the blame squarely on Col Boran.
“You haven’t thought this through very well, have you?” he asked. The false wolf stared at him. The room grew a little quieter. The man leaned towards Narak, but Narak caught a flicker of the eyes to something behind him.
“What you don’t understand, assassin, is that…”
Narak spun round in his chair, knocking it away and at the same time took on his aspect. He felt the strength surge through his body, and reached up with superhuman speed to catch the axe blade swinging towards his neck. The axe stopped in mid air. The man holding it lurched off balance and Narak used the blade to pull the attacker off his feet. As he fell forwards Narak kicked out with his right foot, striking the axe man in the chest. He took off, crashing into the wall of the tavern and falling onto a table which promptly broke in two, depositing the man on the floor and scattering the three who had been sitting around it.
Now there was no more pretending to be done.
He flipped the axe around so that he held the handle and drew his blade. He faced the tavern full of men. Most of them had also drawn their blades.
“It’s time to run away,” he said. “I am willing to allow that you have been deceived by this one,” he gestured over his shoulder. “But if you raise your blades against me there will be no second chance.”
The door opened and more than half a dozen men bolted into the street. They were the ones who showed common sense. Three of the remaining men attacked him.
In all his years Narak had never understood it, but this always happened. There were always some in a crowd of mercenaries like this who wanted to fight, even when reason dictated otherwise. In a choice between flight and death they chose death. Maybe it was an honour thing, but Narak doubted it. These men were not steeped in the Karimic virtues.
He sidestepped the first blow instinctively, and swung the flat of the axe blade into a man’s head hard enough to kill him. The next man struck at him, but he simply ignored the blow and ran the third man through with his blade, then spun, using the movement to pull his blade free while at the same time striking the second man with the axe, a killing blow. He stood facing the room again. The three men had lasted about five seconds.
The brief clash seemed to have convinced some of the waverers. The room emptied rapidly into the street.
“Narak!”
He turned again, and found Drammen pointing to the stairs. The false wolf had edged around the table and was now fleeing up the staircase. For a moment he considered throwing the axe, but he wanted this man alive. He wanted him to answer questions because he didn’t believe that this one was the end of the trail. This Durander mage was just another hireling.
He ran, taking the steps four at a time.
The stairway turned twice, and when he took the second turn he saw his quarry duck into a doorway down the corridor. In three steps he was there, barrelling into the door frame, breaking it. He expected to see what he saw, but it still gave him pause.
There was a drawing on the wall, but it was unlike any other – it was also a door way leading to some other place. Beyond he could see the mage sprawled on the floor having just jumped through, and as Narak straightened up the man scrambled to his feet.
Narak jumped.
The mage made it to his feet at the same moment and gestured desperately at the door, shouting a command.
Narak entered the doorway.
The door snapped shut.
It was like teeth snapping shut on a steel knife. When Narak had become dragon kin he had become impervious to magic. He could no longer be moved, changed or trapped by it, and the Abadonist’s door met the impossibility in the only way it could. It spat him out in the direction he was travelling, and he was thrown across the floor and crashed into the far wall.
The impact would certainly have stunned a mortal man, might even have killed him, but Narak rebounded from the wall and rolled to his feet. Even so, the Abadonist had already fled. Narak went after him. Outside the door he was in a short corridor, and he could see the man, just ten paces away, running for his life.
One more corner, and Narak burst out just a step behind him onto a rooftop, and he almost stopped. Almost.
He took the extra step and seized the man’s collar, lifting him off his feet and holding him suspended, half choking, at arm’s length. Then he stopped, and stared. High above him the white peaks of the Dragon’s back looked down, and below them defying all reason, lay the palace of the god mage.
He was in Col Boran.
33 The Second Gift
Francis suspected that he was getting paranoid. He saw shadows everywhere. When someone glanced at him in the street he thought they were watching him. Several times he’d stopped and waited, certain that he was being followed. It never came to anything, but he stayed clear of Johan’s old rooms for several days, just in case.
Eventually he convinced himself that he was imagining things. Neither
of the dukes knew his name. If they did he would have been dead by now.
On the fourth day he decided that he needed to check on his investment and went back to where he’d left the prince, by a series of detours through the city. When he reached the street he stopped and sat on a doorstep and watched the people come and go, but he saw nothing to arouse his suspicions. When he was satisfied that everything was safe he went to the front door and slipped inside.
It was a building of rented rooms, and Johan’s place was up one flight of stairs. He walked up and knocked on the door.
“It’s Francis,” he said.
He heard steps inside and the door opened a crack. It was the old man. “Haven’t seen you for a while,” he said.
Francis held up a bag full of food. “I brought food,” he said. “And money.”
Calitanto opened the door and let him in. The prince was sitting by the window staring out at the street. He looked bored. Anyone would be bored locked up in these rooms for four days. It was no better than Calitanto’s house – probably worse.
Francis put the food on the table. It was poor fare, he supposed, compared to what the prince must be accustomed to, but the boy’s face lit up. “You brought eggs,” he said. “I like eggs.”
Calitanto put the food away carefully, and Francis saw that there was little left from his last visit. He put a small purse of coins on the table. “You can go out and buy your own food,” he said. It should be safe if the p… if Jackan stays inside. Nobody’s looking for you.”
“We can’t stay here for ever,” Calitanto said.
“Just until things are sorted out,” Francis assured him.
“And how long will that be?”
Francis shrugged. “They say that Derali’s regiment is marching on the city and Falini’s already here, so things will be hotting up soon enough.”
“A siege?” Prince Rubel was with them now, hungry for news.
“I don’t think it will come to that,” Francis said. “Falini is too intemperate. He will go out to meet Derali in the open. There will be a battle.”
“He’d be a fool to leave the protection of the walls,” Calitanto said. “It goes against all sense.”
“Well, I do not see the city regiments joining either side in any case,” Francis said.
“They will join you?”
“So it seems.”
There was a noise downstairs, a loud noise. Francis held up his hand to quieten his companions and cocked his head to listen. He heard a man’s voice and a woman shouting, and then again the loud noise – a door being broken down.
Someone was searching the house. He didn’t think it would be for anything other than the prince.
Francis rushed to the window and looked out. It was no use. All of Johan’s windows looked out the same way, onto the main street. He hadn’t chosen this place with thoughts of escape. It was supposed to be a place that nobody knew, but somehow they had found it.
“They followed you here,” Calitanto said.
“They don’t even know who I am,” Francis snapped back. “We have to get out of here.”
Given time he could have broken through the wall at the back, escaped through someone else’s dwelling, but that would take minutes, and already he could hear a tread on the stairs outside. He had seconds left.
Francis drew his dagger, and Calitanto pulled out a long sword – not a perfect weapon for close quarters fighting, but a lot better than nothing. He turned to the prince.
“Go into the other room.”
Rubel obeyed.
A boot crashed into the door. It held, surprisingly, but not for long. A second blow threw it open and revealed three men standing on the small landing. They eyed Calitanto and Francis for a moment, but the odds certainly seemed to favour them.
“Put the pig sticker away, old man,” their leader said.
The old soldier didn’t reply, but raised the blade to point at the man’s throat. The man sighed.
“We just want the boy,” he said. “Step aside and nobody has to die.”
“You thought I’d just hand him over?” Calitanto’s voice was scornful.
“No, not really,” the man said. He attacked, and it was quickly apparent that he was a useful sword hand. The old soldier was forced back towards the wall, and the other two stepped into the room, one of them coming for Francis. Francis knew that he couldn’t fight men like this. They were trained, he was not. His weapon was no match for theirs. He only had one option if he wanted to stay alive.
Francis called his gift.
He had to hand it to them. They were no fools. As soon as he disappeared from view the attacker closest to him lunged forwards sweeping his blade through the space that Francis had occupied a moment before. But Francis had already moved, jumping back and to the side. Even so, he had to duck again almost at once as the man turned, sweeping the empty areas of the room with his blade, using it like a blind man’s cane to search for him.
He had never faced a man like this before. He had to be quiet as well or the man would hear him and attack the noise. He pushed his back against the wall and sidled slowly past the questing blade, trying to get behind his attacker. It took a couple of attempts to avoid being found or cut, but eventually he slipped past.
Francis wasted no time. He drove his dagger into the man’s back with all his strength. It was a killing blow, it had to be, but the soldier had one last surprise. He swung around even as he died and struck Francis with the pommel of his sword before collapsing to the ground. Francis fell back, stunned by the blow. He could feel blood trickling down his cheek.
He looked up. Calitanto was bleeding, too. The old soldier was fighting desperately to stay alive, but it was a losing battle. Francis struggled to his feet again. He felt dizzy, had to put a hand out to the wall to steady himself.
He stooped and picked up the fallen man’s blade. He wasn’t going to be caught the same way twice. He lurched forwards and stabbed Calitanto’s attacker. It wasn’t as convincing a blow as the first, but it was enough. The man staggered, his guard dropped, and Calitanto ran him through.
Francis pushed past the falling man and into the other room. The third man had gone in there, looking for Rubel. As soon as Francis stepped through the door it was obvious he’d found him. He was standing over the prince, sword in hand, and there was blood on the blade.
It seemed that he was too late, but Francis leapt forwards and hacked at the man’s neck with his blade. The third soldier was cut down, and Francis let his gift go and knelt beside the prince. It was plain that he was still alive, but also plain that his injuries were fatal.
The boy was in pain, but his eyes were open and he seemed quite clear headed.
“You are the shadow warrior,” he said.
Francis nodded. He was angry, and sad, and he felt guilty. He had said that he would hide the boy, that he would protect him, and it had been less than a week ago. His failure was manifest.
Calitanto staggered into the room. He was bleeding from several wounds and looked even older than he was.
“My prince,” he said.
Francis closed his eyes. This man, too, he had betrayed. His own interests were damaged, and those of Dock Ward, and the people of Afael. He had failed. Even with his gift he had failed.
There was a wound in the boy’s belly, a nasty deep gash out of which blood welled, soaking his clothes, seeping into the floorboards beneath. There were less serious cuts on his arms and chest, indicating that the prince had tried to defend himself, arms against a sword.
He put his hand on the prince’s arm and met his gaze. “I’m sorry, Prince Rubel,” he said.
Something moved inside him, or that’s how it felt. Power surged up his arms, like the warmth he felt when he called his gift. He could almost see it, reaching out to the boy dying on the floor before him. There was a moment when he could have snatched his hand away and stopped it. Indeed, he could have broken his link with Rubel at any time, but he didn’t. He wanted
to help the boy. He let it happen.
The warmth reached his fingers and left him. That was something he hadn’t expected. The strength was leaking out of him through his hands, flowing into the prince.
The blood stopped flowing. He could see it, like a well with the level falling, the blood receded. The skin began to grow back across the torn flesh. Francis felt dizzy, but he was almost mesmerised by the sight of the healing wound. This was another gift, a second gift. He had never heard of such a thing.
It became difficult to breath.
Perhaps there was some danger in this. He could die himself if too much of his strength went into the boy. He tried to pull back, but he was weak, so weak that he was barely able to support his weight with his arms. He rolled to the left, and it worked, his hand was pulled from the prince’s arm and he lay looking up at the ceiling, gasping like a fish, and darkness played at the edges of his vision.
“What’s wrong?” Calitanto asked, leaning over him. But Francis couldn’t reply. There was hardly enough breath in him to draw the next, and his eyes were filling with lights, scattering from the darkness, and Calitanto was fading, becoming no more than a shadow, and then less than that, just a voice, a plaintive voice.
“Francis? Francis…?”
34 Kirrith
Sithmaree caught Callista at breakfast. It was probably deliberate. Callista had made a point of being up an hour before the Snake’s house usually stirred. In fact she had been forced to knock on the kitchen doors to rouse enough people to make her breakfast. She would have done the job herself, only she did not know where to find anything, and she was in a hurry.
“You are early again,” Sithmaree said as she seated herself with a flourish opposite Callista.
“I have grown fond of the morning air,” she replied.
“And you have been making new friends,” the snake commented.
“New friends?”
“They say that you were talking with Bane yesterday.”
How was it that everybody in Col Boran knew everybody else’s business? Callista had been a mile from the nearest building and she had not seen one person on her walk to the hill or on her way back. Bane was difficult to ignore, but how could people have known that they spoke?
