by Tim Stead
So they fought again, and this time Karim used the weakness he had seen in the warrior, and stepped the other way. Working his sword through the man’s guard he injured him.
Once again he raised his blade and stopped the fight.
“You see now that it is hopeless,” Karim said. “If we fight on you will die. Now will you tell me the secret of the box?”
“My oath is not weakened by loss of blood,” the warrior said.
For a final time they fought, and Karim used his skill to wound the warrior once more, and so grievous was the wound that the warrior fell, and looked likely to fulfil his oath.
Karim stepped past him to the great chest and lifted the lid.
Within he saw nothing but a small blue bottle, no larger than his thumb, sitting in the middle of the box. He reached down and picked it up. He turned to the wounded warrior.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It is your heart’s desire,” the man said.
“How can my heart’s desire be this little blue bottle, or even what lies within it?”
“I do not know,” the warrior said. “But drink it and you will receive that which you desire most in all the world.”
Karim looked at the bottle. He removed the tiny cork and sniffed at the blue liquid that swirled within it, but the liquid had no scent.
What thing was it that he most desired? There were many things. He desired fame, which he had in abundance. He desired skill with the blade, which he had just demonstrated was already his. He desired to bring honour to his king, which he had done many times. Perhaps there would be love one day, but until he laid eyes on the woman he would not know to wish for her. He desired to wander the world in search of wonders and adventure, and so he did. Honour, he supposed, was his heart’s desire – to live with honour, fight with honour. He had everything he could wish for.
So he was a fool. He had fought for something that he already possessed, and by winning it, he had lost it. There was no honour in killing a man who stood by his oath. The huge warrior had not opposed him in any way, had not stood in his path other than in this matter of his foolish desire to know a secret that he already knew.
Karim knelt beside the warrior.
“You have taught me a great lesson, sir,” he said.
“I feel that the cost has been high,” the warrior replied.
“I am sorry to have wounded you so grievously,” Karim said. “But perhaps all is not lost.” He uncorked the blue bottle once more and offered it to the fallen warrior. “Drink,” he said.
“I cannot,” the warrior declared. “The prize is yours, and fairly won.”
“It may yet preserve your life if you drink,” Karim said.
Once more the warrior refused. “It is not for me to steal the prize even if it saves me, for what then must I protect?”
“I understand,” Karim said.
He lifted the bottle to his lips and drained every drop. He found it tasteless, and as soon as he had emptied it he placed the cork back in the bottle, and to his amazement saw it fill once more. He carried it back to the chest and once more placed it within. He closed the lid.
Karim turned back to the warrior and found him once more upon his feet, his blade sheathed, his face filled with joy.
“You have learned your lesson well,” the warrior said.
“It was well taught indeed,” Karim replied. “I placed my desires above the honour of another man, and almost lost my own honour in consequence. I shall remember it.”
And so Karim walked from the clearing in the forest in search of wonders and adventures, of which there were many in his long and honourable life.
From “The Ten Tales of Karim” Author unknown.
A Translation by the Learned Scholar Jorril Marras
Sage advisor to the Royal Court of Berash.
*
Narak could feel the tension rising as they drew closer to the city of the gods. Bas Erinor could be seen from twenty miles to the east, the castle and the temples rising majestically above the dark mass of the low city. With the wind in the west he could smell it, too. He had always liked Bas Erinor. It was the most populous city in the kingdoms, the busiest, the most chaotic.
They stopped on a hilltop for their midday. The king seemed less confident now, as though the presence of the city sapped his nerve.
“I’ve never seen it,” he confided to Narak. “I should have come before, in better times, but I never felt it was my place to come.”
“It’s a new city every time I visit,” Narak said. “But always the same.”
Dunsandel had joined them. The king had invited him to ride with them, and Narak thought that wise. It did the men good to see their commander ride with the king. It would help to cement their loyalty.
“It frightens me, the city,” Dunsandel said. “Too many people, too many… currents. I don’t trust so many people gathered in one place.”
“You’re from the north?” Narak asked.
“Aye, born and bred,” he said. “A great house is really just a village that knows its place,” he added. Narak liked Bas Erinor exactly because it didn’t know its place. It was loyal enough when things were good, but the low city was governable simply because it wished to be governed. That consent was wearing a little thin if Cain’s reports were to be believed.
“The city governs the duke as much as he governs it,” Narak said. “Perhaps more so. Trouble arises when he fails to remember that.”
“Karimic virtue,” the king said. “Power and duty tied together.”
“You still believe the old teachings?” Dunsandel asked.
“True wisdom never loses its shine, Marquis,” Degoran replied.
Narak was with the king on this. Karimic virtue may go in and out of fashion, but it was always there, a silent judge that rulers were wise to heed. It was the yardstick by which Narak judged himself.
The immediate situation was more pressing, however.
“Who did Alwain leave in charge?” Narak asked.
“His brother, Drassel.”
“Drassel? I don’t know the man,” the king said.
“Earl Drassel, to be more proper. He’s ten years Alwain’s junior, and about the same in temperament. He won’t be happy to see you.”
“Will he be foolish?” Narak asked.
Dunsandel shrugged. “It’s possible. He’s untested, and not especially bright.”
“Do you think he’d be intimidated by a show of strength?” Narak asked.
“He’s got five hundred men in the castle, at least, and if he gets the gates closed he could hold out against an army.” Dunsandel looked at Narak. “Excepting yourself, of course.”
“Well, there’s no way we can surprise him,” the king said. “If he hasn’t seen us by now he will before we’re within a mile of the city.”
An army, perhaps, but one man could ride along the road to Bas Erinor and be ignored. One man could ride up the divine stair, and come to the gates of the castle itself without any alarm being raised. It might matter how the king entered the city. If they left a trail of bodies, smashed gates, and general mayhem then it would feel like an invasion, but if they rode calmly up to the City of the Gods and into the castle bailey it would seem right and natural.
It was a choice. Narak’s chosen duty was to protect the king. Would he be straying too far from that task if he eased the king’s progress? It would mean leaving the king, but he was sure that Dunsandel would not betray them. The marquis had seen him fight, and knew well his reputation for retribution.
“I will go alone,” he said. “Wait an hour, then follow me. I will keep the gates open.”
The king glanced across at Dunsandel. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“You will be quite safe, King Degoran,” Narak assured him. “The marquis and his men have seen how I deal with traitors and will do their utmost to see you safe to the city.”
It was a thinly veiled threat, and probably not necessary, but he saw the marqu
is nod. “An hour, then,” he said. “We could use the rest, I suppose.”
Narak mounted his horse and left them at once. He rode back down to the road and made haste towards the city. He needed to arrive well before the hour was up. He had three sets of gates to deal with.
*
The city gate was thrown open to travellers. Narak approached with no real haste. The time for that was past. He rode as if he had all day, knowing that the guards at the gate would see him as just another dusty traveller upon a dusty horse. There were four of them, two standing each side, slouched in the way that men who spend hours on their feet slouch all over the world. He knew that there would be more nearby. There was a guardhouse near the gate that would house another dozen at least.
He rode to the gate and once beneath its arch he slid from his horse. That was enough to bring the guards upright, and their commander, a sergeant, stepped forwards with a hand on the hilt of his sword. He eyed Narak and saw what there was to see – a man with twin blades and good boots with a fine horse.
“Your business?” he asked, and then as an afterthought, “sir.”
There was a quick way of doing this and a slow way. Narak chose the quick way. He drew one of his blades and let the gate guards see a little of his aspect. It was enough to drive the sergeant back two paces.
“I am Wolf Narak,” he told them. “The gates are not to be closed.” Just to be certain he strode to the left hand gate. It had three brass hinges, thick and well made. He struck at the two lowest, cutting through the metal as though it was cheese, and the gate sagged. It would take fifty men to lift it, and so would remain open at least until Degoran and his men passed into the city.
“Our orders are to close the gate against any body of men greater than ten,” the sergeant said, eyeing the shattered hinges.
“There is no danger to the city,” Narak told him. “You have my word on it.”
The sergeant nodded. “Good enough for me,” he said. “But others may think differently.”
Narak swung back up on his horse.
“Polish your boots, sergeant,” he said. “Your king approaches.”
With that he rode off down the broad road that led to the divine stair, passing the familiar fine stone buildings that lined it. He had allies here, and men that worked for him, but now he was bound for the city of the gods, and rode heedless of custom up the broad stair, the few citizens upon it drawing to the sides as he passed.
At the top there was another gate, another set of guards. This time they were alerted by his horse’s hoofbeats, and blocked the way. Narak dismounted once more.
“By what right do you ride the divine stair?” a guard demanded. It was a privilege, Narak knew, that was afforded only to the mighty. He considered himself qualified.
“I am Wolf Narak,” he said, and again employed the merest glimpse of his aspect as surety that they would believe him. These gates almost never closed, only in wartime, but Narak knew that this was a war of sorts – a war between different visions of Avilian.
The guard in charge saluted, but did not get out of the way.
“Greetings, Deus,” he said. “What business brings you to Bas Erinor?”
It was bold of him to ask. Narak’s temple lay not more than two hundred paces to the north of these gates. By the people’s reckoning he was a god.
“You will not close these gates today,” he said.
The guard glanced at his companions. “Our orders are plain enough, Deus,” he said.
Narak drew one blade. “You would deny me?” he asked.
“It is not within my power,” the guard said. He took half a step back. “But I have my duty, and I have my orders.”
Narak sighed. He stepped to one side and looked at the hinges. The arrangement was the same as at the city gates – three brass assemblies that had replaced the old rusted iron in the last great war when it had seemed possible that Bas Erinor itself might be attacked. He attacked them, reducing the bottom two to scrap metal. That would be enough to stop them closing for a day or two.
The guard looked at the damage. He shrugged.
“A man can only do what a man can do,” he said. “The gates will remain open. May I ask why, Deus?”
Bold again. He did not remember the city guards being so bold, but then they had no memory of him. It was all just stories to them.
Narak decided that he no longer needed the horse. “Mind this animal for me,” he said. “The gates are open for the king.”
He left the gate and walked across the city of the gods towards the looming bulk of the castle. It dominated the south end of the plateau, tall stone walls facing the north, though he knew that the south side was protected by the drop down to the low city – better than any wall.
At last he came to the castle gates. Nobody could have come here faster than he, for he had taken the only road and he had not been overtaken. Yet it almost seemed that they were waiting for him. The castle gates were shut. Great wooden doors barred the way, and beyond that, Narak knew, lay a steel portcullis. A man stood atop the wall looking down on him.
It was tempting to draw his blades again. Dragon steel would make short work of this barrier, but Narak was curious.
“Open the gates,” he called up.
The man on the wall peered down on him. Narak could see that he was finely dressed, so not a guard or soldier.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“I am Wolf Narak, Lord of Col Boran, and you are Drassel, Alwain’s brother. Open the gates.”
“You will forgive me, Deus, if I do not. There may be some threat to the kingdom, it seems. We must protect ourselves.”
Again. This always happened. He had been away too long and men had forgotten him, who he was, what he could do. They thought him no more than a myth, a story, or at best an exaggeration.
“There is no threat,” Narak said. “You have my word on it. Now open the gates.”
The man on the wall smiled and shrugged.
Narak allowed his anger to dissipate. The Narak of a hundred years ago would have killed Drassel, but he was no longer that man. It was at least partly his own fault.
He measured the wall with his eye. It was twenty feet high, the stones polished smooth to deny an attacker a grip of any kind. It could not be climbed. Narak made sure that his blades were firmly sheathed, flexed his knees and jumped.
Narak had become used to the strength in his body. A vertical jump of twenty feet was nowhere near the limits of his physical prowess, but Drassel was clearly shocked, and Narak took some pleasure in that. He landed next to the duke’s brother with an impact that cracked a paving slab and threw up a cloud of dust, and Drassel shrank away from him.
“Now will you order the gates opened, or must I do it myself?”
“I was only doing my brother’s bidding,” Drassel said. He was still backing away, and Narak thought that at any moment he might turn and run. It was amazing how many futile things men did when they were afraid.
“Will you open the gate?” Narak asked, probably for the last time, he was growing impatient.
“Of course. I will, Deus. Just give me time to go down and speak to the guards.” He turned, and though he didn’t actually run his gait could hardly be described as a walk. Drassel vanished down the staircase of the nearest tower.
Narak stepped off the wall and landed with a crash inside the castle just before the gate. One of the guards dropped a spear. Another drew his blade. The other three just stared.
“Put that thing away,” Narak said to the man with the sword. “I’m not here to kill you. Drassel is coming to tell you to open the gate.”
“You are the Wolf,” one of the men said. Not a difficult thing to guess in Narak’s opinion, but it was surprising how few did.”
“I am,” he agreed.
Nobody else spoke until Drassel emerged, breathless, from the tower. He stopped when he saw Narak, his eyes measuring the drop from the wall. “Open the gate,” he said.
“You heard me,” Drassel said. “Open the gate.”
The guards hesitated. They had clearly been given conflicting orders in no uncertain terms, but Narak’s presence may have been the decider. They went inside and the sounds of a winch being turned were followed by the portcullis creeping upwards into the arch above.
Once that was secure the guards came out again and shot the great bolts that held the outer door closed. They did this with short, square hammers, driving the bolts a few inches at a time. That done they swung the gates open and fastened them back against the castle walls. Narak watched them return cautiously to their posts. He scanned the walls above them and either side of the gate, seeing nothing that suggested further danger. He moved to the centre of the gate and positioned himself beneath the portcullis. If it fell he would not let it touch the ground, and now he was satisfied that all three gates would remain open for the king.
Now all he had to do was wait.
50 Afael Falls
Position, in the end, had proven decisive.
Falini had won.
Francis had made his way north and climbed onto the roof of a high building a few dozen yards from the walls with a clear view over both armies. He employed his gift so that nobody would be tempted to take a shot at him, and sat and watched the whole thing.
It looked bad for Falini at first. Derali’s men breached the city by surprise, forcing the east gate, but they were pushed back by a spirited cavalry charge. A few hundred were cut off inside the city, and cut down by bows and more cavalry.
That seemed to have been enough for Falini to find his courage, and his men poured out of the city, launching a sweeping attack on enemy lines. For a while it looked as though he had sent out too few men, and it was Derali’s turn to rally, pursuing Falini’s cavalry back towards the walls.
That was when it happened. Falini’s horsemen didn’t flee through the gate, but swung parallel to the wall and formed a line. Derali’s attackers rode at them, but several hundred archers rose up from behind the city wall and put four withering volleys into the charging men. Then the cavalry went at them again and they broke.
