by Tim Stead
None of them had claimed the prize.
But Narak was not simply avoiding the arrows.
As each shaft flew at him he struck it with an angled blade, redirecting it towards one or other of the posts. He was getting good at it, too. The posts behind him now bristled with arrows.
Degoran could not decide if he was more amazed by the Wolf’s speed or his precision. At times the blades blurred, and at times they hardly seemed to move at all, just twitching into the path of each arrow, caressing it onto a new path with a sharp metallic sound.
He drifted down the upper terrace, moving closer to the four archers, wondering what they made of it. He could see that they were talking, and as he drew closer he heard their words above the thrum of their bowstrings.
“I fancy that gold coin,” he heard one of them say. “What do you think?”
“I think we’ll have to make do with our pay,” another said.
“Maybe. Do you think he can cut four at once? I mean, he’s only got two blades.”
“Aye, it’s a thought.”
All the time they were speaking they were shooting. Plucking arrows from a basket placed at the right hand, drawing and letting fly. It was smooth and professional, but it was random. Each archer shot at his own preferred rate.
“Together, then?”
“We have to pick our quarters,” the first man said. “I’ll go up and right.”
Degoran heard each in turn name a quarter, and he wondered if archers talked like this in battle, swapping notes, making plans. He supposed it was possible, but he’d never fought in a battle. He made a mental note to ask Narak. The Wolf would know.
“Four,” the first archer called. Degoran saw two of the others pause, delaying their shot. “One, two, three,” all four bows drew on three, as though a single hand pulled on the strings. “Four.”
The four arrows flew as one. It seemed impossible, for a moment, that Narak could touch all four arrows, but only for a moment. Degoran watched as the Wolf checked his movement. Narak had seen what the archers had done, that all four arrows would arrive at the same time, and he changed the motion of his blades. Instead of short, swift adjustments he now swept both blades forwards with invisible speed. They connected with the upper two arrows at full stretch, swinging back and down to touch the lower shafts after they had passed his body. The king watched, awe struck, as all four arrows embedded themselves in the posts.
The archers were still counting.
“Four.” Another set of arrows flew.
Narak repeated his movement, but with a subtle variation. As he struck the upper arrows he ducked his head slightly, and the shafts crossed behind his head so that the right hand arrow struck the left hand post and vice versa. He did the same with the lower arrows.
The feat was so astonishing, and so unexpected that Degoran could not help himself. He applauded.
“Bravo!” he called. The archers stopped their count and lowered their bows. Narak looked up at him.
“That’s enough for the day,” the Wolf said. He sheathed his blades, went to the archers and thanked them, tossing each man a gold coin. “Well earned,” he said. He walked back along the terrace, up the steps and joined Degoran.
“That was most impressive,” the king said.
“I hope so.”
Degoran raised an eyebrow. “Who were you trying to impress?”
“Anyone,” Narak said. “Everyone.”
“I don’t understand.”
Narak didn’t reply at once. He helped himself to a cup of wine from the king’s table and looked out over the city of Golt. There was still a forest of banners out there, the proud politics of the great houses of Avilian. But the king had noticed, and he was sure that it had not escaped Narak’s keen eye, that a number of towers had withdrawn their flags and stood unmoved in the sea breeze.
The king waited patiently.
“It’s difficult to explain,” Narak said at last. “Men fear me. I see it in their eyes when they know who and what I am, but they fear me in the way that they used to, in the days before dragons came again. There was always a chance then, a blood silver blade or a tipped arrow might be enough. Not now. Now there is no chance, no hope.”
Narak sipped his wine. The king waited, certain there was more.
“There is pleasure in doing something well, King Degoran. When I was young I was a hunter, and I took pride in every arrow that struck true, every meal I provided, every trap that caught, every pelt I brought home to warm the winter. Now,” he shrugged. “Now I kill people. I do it very well, and there is a pleasure in it. I enjoy killing men, but it is like wine, there’s good and bad killing, and remorse for overindulging. Men who drink too much are ruined by it, and so it may be with killing. I want men to know that there is no hope, that to face me is certain death, that there is no point to it. Do you understand?”
“You don’t want to kill them,” Degoran said.
Narak shook his head, and his smile seemed a little bitter. “I do. That is the whole point. But if I gave free rein to my desires what would I become?” He sipped his wine again, not expecting an answer and Degoran gave him none. Narak looked at his empty cup. “So you see why I must drink only good wine,” he said.
68 Callista
Civil war. Callista did not know two other words that sat so ill together. It seemed certain, from what news she could get, that Afael was descending into that particular catastrophe.
Her home county, far to the north of the city, seemed likely to escape harm, but Afael city itself had been seized by populists, the king had been assassinated and the dukes were gathering what remained of their forces for a counter strike.
She found that she still cared. The memories of a happy childhood still yielded affection for the place, even for the city. She had visited with her parents on several occasions and found the capital ramshackle but exciting, full of sounds and sights quite alien to her rural ears and eyes.
Sithmaree was going there.
It was a surprise to everyone, including Jidian, but of course the Eagle was going with her.
“What are you going to do there?” Callista asked.
“Help,” Sithmaree replied. She was directing her servants, gathering what she would need for a comfortable journey.
“Who? How?”
Sithmaree stopped what she was doing and sat down. “You ask a great many questions,” she said. “And I have no answers for you. We will speak to the dukes, those that remain, and try to determine what has happened, and then we will decide how we can help.”
“Shouldn’t you speak to the populists as well?” Callista asked not because she thought there was merit in their cause, but from a sense of fairness.
Sithmaree snorted. “Populists? A rabble by any name – I am surprised that you would suggest it. Who would we talk to?”
“I don’t know,” Callista admitted. “But there must be someone.”
“We need to find the rightful heir and restore order,” the Snake said. “And we shall.”
“And if the people do not wish it?” She was arguing because it irritated her to see so one-sided an approach. The populists could not have taken the city without some degree of popular support. How could they? It didn’t seem right to dismiss them so entirely. There must have been some cause, some root for the current flowering of dissent.
But Sithmaree’s mind was closed. That was obvious. She would need something compelling to open it again. Callista knew that now was not the time, and so withdrew her questions and left Sithmaree to prepare, walking out of Col Boran once more, taking the southerly path that led to the seat upon the low hill. She sat in the afternoon sun for a while, thinking. She, too, wanted to help and it was in her power to do so if she had the wisdom.
Callista was no longer the child she had been when she came to Col Boran. She had passed the test, and in recent weeks had begun to master her lessons. She was now a god mage in more than name.
Having power brought troubles of
its own. She itched to use it, to stretch out her hand and make things other than what they were, but at the same time she had absorbed Pascha’s lessons, the knowledge that her kind had nearly destroyed the world through arrogance and greed and selfishness.
But there was no point to it all if the power remained forever unused. She did not understand why she could not use it for good causes, to heal the sick, to put right so much that was wrong.
‘One man’s wrong is another’s right’, Pascha had said. ‘If the Seth Yarra wars taught us one thing it was that.’
She understood. You could not take sides, but surely healing a sick child wasn’t taking sides?
‘Throw them a bone and they will demand steak.’ There was an answer for every question, a caution for every good intention, but surely there was something she could do without tipping the kingdoms into war and chaos, without seizing the reins of power for ever and dooming all to another mage war?
Was she, then, the frozen woman of Shadow’s cryptic utterance? Was Pascha? Both? Had it been warning her not to be like Pascha?
To these questions she had no answers.
One thing she could do was observe. She could find out the truth, and then she could reveal it to Sithmaree, to Pascha, even to Wolf Narak. She could observe from a distance, and she already had the skill to travel anywhere she wished in an instant, to disguise herself, to remain unseen in a crowd. Surely there was no way she could change the world by simply watching it?
She stood up from her reverie and saw that it was already late. The sun was dipping behind the Dragon’s Back. Far above her in the darkening sky a dragon wheeled across the peaks. It was Bane, but he did not come to her. He flew southwards towards the kingdoms, flying with strong and steady beats of his massive wings.
She felt abandoned to see him go, which was odd. She had never thought of him as a friend.
She turned and walked back towards Col Boran.
1 – The Test
2 – Col Boran
3 – Mordo
4 – Callista
5 – Dock Ward
6 – Bas Erinor
7 – The Serpent’s Ward
8 – First Bridge
9 – The King
10 – The Messengers
11 – A Dark Night
12 – Golt
13 – The Books
14 – A Walk Among the Flowers
15 – A New Approach
16 – The Candidates
17 – The Forests of Golt
18 – The Thief Gift
19 – Favour
20 – The Loyal Blade
21 – J
22 – The Great Plain
23 – The Paymaster
24 – A Dishonest Man
25 – Misjudgement
26 – Shadow
27 – Doorways
28 – Certainty
29 – Safe House
30 – Golt Castle
31 – Dragon Gift
32 – Abadon
33 – The Second Gift
34 – Kirrith
35 – Fated Luck
36 – The General
37 – Inevitability
38 – Blood for Blood
39 – The Pack
40 – The Time
41 – The Killer
42 – Departure
43 – Apprentice
44 – Callista’s Test
45 – The Road to Bas Erinor
46 – An Accident
47 – Eran Callista
48 – The Border
49 – Bas Erinor
50 – Afael Falls
51 – The Letter
52 – Parley
53 – The Lord of Afael
54 – Cain Arbak
55 – Trouble
56 – The Duke of Bas Erinor
57 – The Great Choosing
58 – Mordo’s Trick
59 – The Council Meets
60 – The Oaken Shield
61 – The Discovery of a Crime
62 – North
63 – Duplicity
64 – The Disappearing Man
65 – Kordanis Hold
66 – The Hand of Circumstance
67 – The Wolf
68 – Callista
