by Tim Stead
51 The Letter
It was impossible, of course, for the hundreds of soldiers of the King’s regiment and the Seventh Friend, who had travelled with them, to ride up the divine stair. Even so, Narak was surprised how few the king and Dunsandel had brought with them. He counted ten. They rode at a leisurely pace as they approached the castle gate, Dunsandel on the king’s left and the ten men following two abreast.
Narak expected nothing. He was Wolf Narak, after all. No man would risk his anger. This was the one thing that made his reputation as an unparalleled butcher acceptable. It stayed a man’s hand when otherwise some crime might be done.
Not this time.
They were still fifty paces from the gate when Dunsandel leaned over towards the king and seized him by the coat, pulling him across and down. A knife appeared in his hand and he put it to the king’s throat. It was well done, quickly and skilfully, and Narak had no time to do more than take one step.
“Hold or I’ll kill him,” Dunsandel called.
Narak measured the distance between them. It was too far. Not even he could reach Dunsandel before the king died. He wondered that the man should be so bold. He had signed his own death warrant by this act.
“What do you want, Dunsandel?” he called back.
“You’re a man of honour, Deus, or so they say,” Dunsandel said.
“Which puts me in foreign company here,” Narak replied.
“I won’t kill him if you swear me an oath, Lord Wolf.”
“An oath?”
“Aye, your most sacred oath.”
“An oath breaker asks for an oath? Well it’s original. What words would you have me speak?”
“Swear that the king will not enter the castle, that you will escort him back to Golt this very day.”
“You mistake the servant for the master, Dunsandel. The king does as he wishes.”
“He will obey you, Deus, if you advise him so. He will be bound by your honour.”
He was probably right, Narak thought. If Narak swore an oath the king would respect it, but he was loath to do so. It was a defeat, in a way, a defeat of his purpose and the king’s. But did it have to be? Narak knew that purpose, though not its detail, and he could see it through another way.
“And another thing,” Dunsandel called. “You must swear not to kill me.”
Narak smiled to himself. The man was no fool. Without such an oath he would have killed the man as soon as the king was released.
“I will say the words, Dunsandel,” he said, “but I require a witness. Who holds the court of justice here? I think it may be Hesterion. Call him here.”
“The dragon?” Even from fifty paces he could see Dunsandel blanch. Most folk were still afraid of dragons. “You can’t be serious?”
“No dragon, no oath, and then you will die,” Narak said. “It is little enough to ask.” He turned to the commander of the guard at the gate. “Will you fetch Hesterion for us?” he asked.
The man stared at him for a moment, as though not quite believing the question, then nodded and spoke to two of his men who ran off past the king, making for the divine stair. It would be a while before they returned. The dragon court at Bas Erinor was east of the city. Narak turned to the guard commander once more.
“Do you have any wine?” he asked. It was not uncommon for there to be a bottle or two in the gate house, or that had certainly been the case in Duke Quinnial’s time. The guard nodded.
“Aye, there is, Deus. May we offer you a cup?”
“I would be grateful,” Narak responded, and the cup duly appeared. He sipped it. “Will you not join me, Captain?” Narak wasn’t sure whether the captain actually wanted a drink, or if he was afraid to offend Narak by refusing, but he had one in his hand quickly enough. They sipped in silence for a minute, staring at the King of Avilian pulled across a horse’s neck with a knife at his throat.
“This doesn’t sit well with me,” Narak commented. He employed a conversational tone, but even that seemed to make the guard captain nervous. He coughed, but didn’t reply. Narak decided not to press the point. If he wanted someone else to kill Dunsandel he was sure he could find a great many volunteers.
A beating of the air announced the arrival of Hesterion the dragon, rising vertically above the walls of the divine city, gusting the dirt about them with his vast pinions. He manoeuvred across the short distance from the abyss beyond the wall and settled on the arch above the gate with a rouse of leather wings.
“Narak, I was summoned in your name,” he said. “Is there some matter here pertaining to judgement or truth?”
“There is,” Narak replied. “This man, the one who holds the King of Avilian by the neck, has asked me to swear to take the king back to Golt and to spare his life.”
“You wish me to verify the oath?”
“And to observe the behaviour of the man Dunsandel who holds the king.” He had said enough. This incident could no longer be denied. Narak turned to the renegade lord. “Dunsandel, I will swear your oath if you will tell me one thing, truthfully, before Hesterion’s wisdom.”
“What is it that you would know?”
“Who do you serve? Is it the Duke of Bas Erinor or the person of Alwain?”
“They are the same,” Dunsandel replied.
“They are not,” Narak said. “I am asking if your loyalty is to the man or the office.”
“Bas Erinor commands and I obey,” Dunsandel said. “I have no personal loyalty to Alwain.”
Narak turned to the dragon. “So?”
“He does not lie,” Hesterion said.
“Then I will swear the oath,” Narak replied, and he did. He swore an honest oath on what he held most dear that he would take the king back to Golt, that the king would not enter the castle, and that he would foreswear his vengeance for Dunsandel’s treachery against his king.
When he had spoken there was a long pause, almost as though Dunsandel was afraid to trust his life to something less certain than his blade at the king’s throat, but he snatched the blade away and released Degoran who promptly spurred his mount forwards to where Narak waited, reigning in just short of the castle gates.
“I wish you had not sworn,” the king said. His face was red with anger. “I would rather see us both dead than that traitor alive.”
“I am here to protect you, King Degoran,” Narak said. “How would it look to lose you not a thousand paces from my own temple? Besides,” he smiled at the king, “there is another way. Give me the letter.”
“Letter?”
“Aye, the one you have been nursing all the way from Golt.”
The king looked embarrassed to be so transparent, but he handed the document to Narak and Narak held it up so that Hesterion could see it.
“It bears the king’s seal,” he said. “And the king himself will verify the words written here.”
Dunsandel looked alarmed, but Hesterion leaned forwards with keen interest – a dull task for the dragon was about to become interesting perhaps.
Narak broke the seal with a thumb. He opened the document and read the first few lines with a smile, and then a frown. He glanced up at the king.
“You cannot do this,” he said.
“I have consulted with scholars,” Degoran said. “Ask your dragon – he knows the law as well as any. Read it.”
Narak shrugged. He had thought the king’s move clever. Now he knew that it was either stupid or brilliant. Hesterion would know which.
He began to read aloud.
“I, King Degoran of Avilian, hereby declare and confirm that Alwain, Duke of Bas Erinor and lord of that estate is hereby degraded and removed from that exact office, and will hereafter be name Earl of the Green March and Lord of the East, and will hold those lands in perpetuity, and his heirs after him, on the condition that he acquiesces to this command. If he rebels then he and all his heirs are degraded to the common stock and he himself sentenced to whatever judgement his successor shall make on him.
�
�Furthermore,” Narak cleared his throat. “Furthermore I do hereby declare that the office of Duke of Bas Erinor and all its privileges and duties shall hereafter be bestowed upon the Lord Cain Arbak of Waterhill, the Victor of Fal Verdan, The Victor of the White Road, First Colonel of the Seventh Friend and loyal subject of this realm.”
Dunsandel spurred his horse forwards. “You can’t give Bas Erinor to a Farheim!” he cried.
“He is a lord of Avilian,” Degoran retorted. “He qualifies.”
“His allegiance is to Col Boran,” Dunsandel protested.
Narak looked up at the white dragon perched above them. “Well?” he asked.
“I see no impediment,” Hesterion said. “The law prohibits an allegiance to a foreign crown, but Col Boran is not a kingdom. There is no mention of Farheim, and though he is the first of his line to hold the title this is not forbidden either. The law states only that he may not succeed in the title from the man that raised him up, nor in the reign of the king that confirmed him, and that the line must have existed for fifty years.”
“It is folly,” Dunsandel said. “He could live a thousand years!”
“I don’t see that it’s a problem,” Narak said. “But there may be an issue that we’ll have to deal with.”
The king frowned. He already knew. “You think she won’t permit it?”
“I have no idea,” Narak said. He looked up at Hesterion again. “Hesterion…”
“Kirrith knows, he will tell Eran Pascha,” the dragon said. Narak knew that dragons shared something, but the speed of the communication was something that even he had not expected. She would know what Degoran had done within minutes.
There would be a reaction. He wondered what it would be.
52 Parley
Sandaray had been right. His brief conference with Alwain had confirmed that the duke was unwilling to cross the bridge to talk to the Berashis. He expressed disappointment that the colonel had surrendered the territorial advantage, and did so in a manner that Sandaray considered offensive. The colonel didn’t care. The talks would be smoother without Alwain’s belligerence.
As midday approached he dressed in his formal uniform, buckled on a long sword and sent for Willan. The major appeared promptly, already dressed for the occasion.
“What do you think?” the colonel asked.
Willan shrugged. “It’s hard to say. They seemed almost casual, but I imagine they’re going to resist anything we ask for.”
Sandaray agreed. It was only common sense to try to get something out of a parley, and the Berashis would want some concession, even if it was only symbolic. It was his duty to resist that.
They picked up two of Willan’s men outside the tent and strolled down to the bridge. It was a solid structure, but old. It spanned the river gorge in a single arch, a difficult and expensive way to build, so at some time this must have been an important crossing point. Sandaray wondered why. There was no town here on either side, not even the ruins of a town. Yet another mystery for a people who had lost their history in war, he supposed. This bridge might date back to the days of the Sillish Empire, or the Kingdom – he wasn’t clear enough on the ancient geography to know which had held this land.
The Berashi’s were waiting for them.
Colonel Tragil himself was standing at the head of a small group of officers. He looked older than Sandaray had expected – more like a genial uncle than a commanding officer. He stepped forward to meet them.
“Colonel Sandaray,” the count held out his hand. Sandaray took it.
“Count Tragil, it is an honour to meet you,” Sandaray replied.
“Please walk with me,” the Berashi said. “We have refreshments and chairs set out at the top of the rise.”
They sat at the top of a small hill. There was a table with a generous meal laid out on it, and men served wine as soon as they sat. The view from this slight elevation was good. Sandaray could see most of Avilian’s army laid out in neat rows, smell the smoke of their camp fires. A squadron of cavalry was exercising in the open meadows beyond. They looked proficient.
“Do you know who built the bridge?” he asked.
“I am not sure,” Tragil said. “Is your interest engineering or history?”
“History,” Sandaray confirmed. “I’m no builder.”
This was already the most relaxed meeting he had ever attended with supposedly enemy officers. Tragil seemed to be in no hurry to get down to business, and Sandaray didn’t mind. It was a sunny day with a light southerly breeze and sitting around drinking wine and discussing history seemed a finer way of passing the time than fighting.
“It’s certainly not Berashi by tradition,” Tragil said. “I think it predates us.”
“It’s a fine piece of work. Do you know why it’s here?” He caught Willan giving him a curious look. This was supposed to be a parley about ending the standoff, but Sandaray wasn’t in a hurry.
“A good question,” Tragil said. “There are some ruins about a day’s ride from here, just stumps of walls really, but they must have been substantial once – a fortress perhaps. The bridge may be connected, though that’s just speculation.”
“And why are you here, Count Tragil?”
Tragil smiled. “The border has been a little porous of late,” he said. “Many of your people have crossed into Berash. The numbers are becoming unmanageable.”
“You need an army to stop a few farmers crossing the bridge? I had thought the Berashi army somewhat more effective.”
Tragil’s smile broadened. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” he said.
“So why are you really here?”
Tragil sipped his wine.
“What do you think of Duke Alwain?” he asked.
“Count Tragil, if I had an opinion of the duke I certainly wouldn’t share it with a Berashi colonel.”
“If you had a poor opinion, yes, but praise is nothing to hide.”
Well, Tragil had him there, Sandaray supposed.
“If you wish to make that assumption…”
“And why is he not here? Why did he send you?”
“That is his choice, colonel. Do your officers question your orders? Do you question yours?”
Tragil shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said.
“Lack of discipline is not an Avilian problem,” Sandaray said. He knew it wasn’t a Berashi one either, but the count’s attempts to get him to speak badly of Alwain annoyed him, triggered his patriotic response.
“He’s a fool,” Tragil said. “A clown. An idiot.”
Sandaray put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You cannot insult the commander of the Avilian army and expect it to go unanswered,” he said.
Tragil shook his head. “I apologise,” he said. “My intention was not to inflame your patriotic fervour. I thought that perhaps we could talk as two officers, and not an Avilian and a Berashi.” He shrugged again. “But perhaps not.”
Sandaray was annoyed once more, but this time with himself. There had been a chance there to learn the truth. But the least of it was that he knew Willan’s assertion to be correct. This all had something to do with Alwain.
“I am commanded to ask you to leave,” he said. “To return to your barracks and cease your threat to our border.”
“Fine. We’ll leave tomorrow,” Tragil said.
“What?” The offer was so abrupt, so unexpected that Sandaray thought he had misheard.
“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Tragil repeated. “Of course there’ll be two companies of archers left behind to watch the bridge, but they’ll be no threat.”
“Tomorrow? Just like that?”
“Yes. We’ve done what we needed to do.”
“And what was that?”
Tragil shook his head. “Go back to Bas Erinor, Colonel Sandaray, and you may yet discover our purpose.”
He glanced across at Willan, and found his major with a worried look on his face. Something had happened here, and something else in Bas Erinor. He did not doub
t it, and it had something to do with Alwain.
“What have you done?” he asked, not expecting a reply.
“Avilian and Berash are allies,” Tragil said. “We have not shed each other’s blood since the second Great War. We have acted only in that spirit.”
Sandaray stood. “We have what we came for,” he said. Willan stood. “We will return and report our success to the duke.”
“As you wish,” Tragil said. “But you can stay for midday if you like. The cook is quite adept.”
Sandaray had lost his appetite. There was some plot or trick afoot and he had only the vaguest idea of what it might be, but if it had to do with Alwain, then there was danger. The man had powerful allies, and though Tragil might be right – Alwain was a fool – he was a powerful one.
As he walked back across the bridge with Willan and their small escort he lowered his voice so only the major could hear.
“None of this to Alwain,” he said. “Just the bare bones – they agreed to withdraw. That’s it.”
They took a few steps before Willan replied.
“We have to talk about it,” he said.
“Later. When I’ve spoken to Alwain.”
Willan nodded, and they reached the Avilian side of the bridge.
53 The Lord of Afael
Keron’s place was a tip. Francis himself wasn’t the tidiest of men, but he had a notion that everything in his room had a place and sometimes he put them there. Keron appeared to believe in a purely random arrangement. Francis had been forced to nest among the big man’s cast off clothes, pushing aside an assortment of odd boots to make room for his head.
Even in such chaos he had slept most of the day. He awoke to the sound and smell of cooking eggs and the fading light of evening pushing past the curtains into the room.
“Still alive then,” Keron said when he stirred.
Francis pulled his boots on and stood up. He ached all over as though he’d been in some sort of street brawl. He looked out the window.
“I slept all day,” he said.
“Aye, like the dead.”
The smell of the food made his mouth water, and he gladly accepted a plate from Keron. He ate quickly, feeling better for every mouthful. There was cold sausage as well, and he ate as much as he was offered, washing it down with cold water.
