The Sacred Band

by David Anthony Durham

  Calrach’s mouth cracked open, full of mirth and large, even teeth. “None of that, little girl. I have too many uses for my manhood. I have sons to make. Many sons to make. When they are still but babes I will tell them how I killed Princess Mena Akaran with a naked blade. They will like the tale. I know it.”

  “You’d be dead already if you weren’t dressed in that suit,” Mena said. “What sort of thing is that for Numrek to wear? I thought you were warriors not afraid to die.”

  “Warriors enjoy slaughter. Warriors bring pain to others. Warriors find a war. I have done this. All this I will do, and bring joy to myself.”

  “Fine. Please yourself.”

  Calrach plucked the devil’s forks from his belt, a short, three-pronged metal weapon. Mena knew the weapons from her practice of the Third Form. Calrach was no Bethenri, though, and the King’s Trust no normal sword. He stepped forward, brushing back black hair as long and flowing as any Mein’s. He gestured casually that he would fight them both at once.

  Mena could feel Elya in the air above her, watching, begging to come to her, but she held her back. “I killed Greduc, you know.”

  “I have heard this but don’t believe it.”

  “I enjoyed it. He and the other Numrek cried like girls.”

  “I don’t think so. But anyway, that doesn’t matter. You killed Greduc, but I am not him. I’m Calrach. Calrraaacccchhhhh!” He bellowed the name, then added in a softer, matter-of-fact voice, “Come, let’s fight.”

  Mena and Perrin moved without speaking. They circled to opposite sides of the giant. Calrach turned sideways to them, offering a weapon to each. The princess attacked first. She snapped her sword out. It was a quick motion, intended to catch him off guard, but her blade had hardly moved before he caught it with his devil’s forks. He twisted his wrist, pinching her blade between one of the tines and the main stem. He made it look casual, but Mena could feel the strength of his forearm. He released the tension a moment and slid the fork up her blade, testing it even as he looked the other way and parried Perrin’s flurry of swordplay.

  Savagely, Mena yanked the King’s Trust free. She hated the touch of those metal fingers on her sword. She came in again. Calrach called out as he blocked her and Perrin, as he shifted and dodged, high and then low. He spoke Auldek, sounding like he was praising them or teasing them, commenting on their technique like an adult taunting a child. It was infuriating, but he was too fast, too aware of what she or Perrin was going to try next. Mena varied her attacks. She searched for weaknesses. She fought against her instincts and did things surprising even to her. None of it worked, save to amuse the warrior. So frustrated, she forgot that she and Perrin were still living along with him, fighting him—though it took two of them—a draw.

  A glob of pitch landed near them. It broke their dance as they all jumped back. Its mother whoomped down a second later, far enough away that they were safe from the splash. The Numrek stepped over the edge of the flaming puddle with a disdainful glance at it, as if it were animal dung. He said something, gesturing with the fingers of his sword hand. He seemed to be explaining that the falling pitch was not his fault. Mena and Perrin circled, keeping him between them.

  I’ve killed Numrek, she said to herself. Don’t forget that. “Perrin—I’ve killed Numrek. This is no Auldek. He has only one life.”

  “Let’s take it, then,” Perrin replied.

  Calrach did not make that easy for them. “I’m my clan leader!” he shouted. “You know what that means? It means I’m not Greduc. Not Crannog. Who am I?”

  A smug bastard who needs to die, Mena thought. And then—why not—she repeated the answer out loud. This was all taking too long, the two of them stuck here fighting one man, when there were so many others. I want you dead, bastard. It should be possible. It should happen right now! So thinking, she swung low, hoping to take out his legs, at least to break them or injure them. Calrach jumped over her blade like a child over a rope. In midair, he caught Perrin’s sword in his forks. His toes touched down for a moment, but he leaped again, spinning and landing a kick on Mena’s head. Though the force of the blow sent her reeling, she watched Calrach bring his sword down on the flat of Perrin’s trapped blade. With a resonant crack, the tip of it twirled away.

  Released, Perrin sprawled backward. He landed beside the puddle of burning pitch. He did not rise immediately, and Mena feinted to draw the Numrek’s attention. It worked, but it made her head swim. She tried not to show it, but she saw two Calrachs. One stepped out of the other and both of them spoke to her in Auldek. She heard that arrogant, boulder-grinding voice doubled. She watched him set two pairs of fists, weapons clenched in them, on his two waists. Two grins.

  “Calrach,” she said. She had something else to follow it, but forgot it in effort not to stumble. “Calrach …”

  Behind him two versions of Perrin rose. Calrach noticed them. Both of him turned and rushed toward them. Both of them dropped their devil’s forks and cocked their swords far back, two-handed.

  “Cal …”

  The two Perrins turned, both of them holding flaming swords. They snapped out their blades at exactly the same time, in a manner that sent two lines of pitch from the sword through the air, scorching a path right into both Calrachs’ faces. They howled, and in howling merged into one. Calrach dropped his sword and wiped at his face, but that only made his hand come away flaming as well. Perrin stared at him, horrified by what he had done, his sword still on fire.

  Mena walked forward. She raised her sword and thrust it with both arms and the full weight of her body. The blade pierced Calrach’s flaming face, into his skull cavity, and beyond. His head flew back as the point hit the back of his skull. Mena, still dizzy, clamped her gloved hand over the naked blade just in front of his face. She yanked it back and forth, cutting whatever was inside his skull to scrambled ribbons. He toppled, arms thrashing. Mena went with him, riding his chest all the way to the ground.

  She rolled away and lay for a moment on her back. Through panting breaths, she said what she had started to before, without knowing that she would finish it: “I killed Greduc. And … I killed … Calrach.”

  “Are you hurt?” Perrin asked, as she rose. He still held his broken sword, smoking now and blackened. He looked strangely sheepish, considering the carnage they had just lived through.

  Mena shook her head. Regretted it. Flexed her jaw instead. She wiped sweat from her forehead, and then realized too late that she had smeared her face with blood. “Perrin, we’re overrun. We must organize a retreat. We’ll have to get everyone to head for the stashes we left for the return. Everybody who can make it and all the wounded who …”

  That was as far as she got before another Auldek strode into view. Mena recognized her immediately. She groaned inside.

  Sabeer.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Once he drew near enough to see that something was amiss, Sire Lethel asked, “What, exactly, is going on here?”

  Dariel had never met this particular leagueman, nor had he seen any leagueman in person since the massacre that Sire Neen had dragged him into. Lethel looked just as strange as any of them ever did. His cone-shaped head had been wrapped for this occasion with a silken red fabric. His shoulders were narrow, chest birdlike, and arms so thin it surprised Dariel they carried enough muscle to animate them. The two jagged lines of his eyebrows gave him an expression of almost explosive surprise. Quite a contrast to the grim pucker his lips made.

  I know things about your kind that you may not even know yourself, Dariel thought. He had seen a vision of them up in the Sky Mount. Nearly dead. Diseased and insane. Did Lethel even know that it was the Lothan Aklun who had first bound his head and fed him a diet of mist? Probably not. Not with, surely, the clarity of vision that Dariel had: both from what Nâ Gâmen had shown him and because he actually carried some of the Sky Watcher within him. Yes, he was tranquil enough that he let the heat of his resentment for the league roil up just t
hat little bit more. Controlled, calm, satisfying.

  Lethel had arrived as scheduled for his meeting with the Anet leader, Dukish. Lethel and his Ishtat strolled into the open-air courtyard quite at ease this time. Lethel approached, his eyes drifting around so casually that they did not settle on Dukish until he was but a few strides from him. At that point, he stuttered to a halt, only then noticing that Dukish was not simply relaxing in the chair, as was his wont. He had been gagged, bound at the wrists and ankles, and set on a stool, not looking relaxed at all. Instead of his trusted Anet and Antok ruffians surrounding him, Mór, Tunnel, Birké, Anira, and Dariel flanked Dukish. Judging by the way Lethel’s eyes scanned them all, he was only noticing this just now.

  “The situation in Avina has changed somewhat since last you spoke with Dukish,” Mór said. Her voice was clipped, official. There was a tension in it, but it was the tension of the control she was keeping over her voice.

  Dariel realized how hard this must be for them. All of them had been but children when a leagueman just like this one stripped them of all they knew and changed their lives forever.

  “Not more infighting and discord,” Lethel said. “Dukish, you assured me you had a firm grasp on Avina. I’m disappointed.” Perhaps he was. He tutted at Dukish’s misfortune, already putting any sign of surprise behind him. His gaze drifted up and down Mór’s lean figure, as appraising as a wealthy customer at a brothel. “You are rather lovely! Do tell me you’re the one in charge now. That’s an improvement I can acknowledge right away. What do they call you?”

  “I am Mór of the Free People. As you were told, Dukish did not—”

  “Mór of the Free People!” Lethel exclaimed. He glanced at the Ishtat next him. “We know that name, don’t we? The bird woman said something about Mór before we shot her.” Turning back to Mór, he added, “How is she faring, by the way? It looked to be a nasty wound. In the chest, wasn’t it? We would have looked after her, but your lot bundled her away.”

  Mór held her anger. She had not introduced herself as Skylene’s lover but as Mór of the Free People. She held the dignity of that in her jaw and neck when she said, “As you were told last time, Dukish did not speak for us. He has been deposed, stripped of authority. The disunity he tried to sow in Avina is a thing of the past. We are here only to tell you that Ushen Brae is not a place for you. This is the home of the Free People. We have earned this place, and we will never be slaves again.”

  Lethel tilted his head back, squinting a little as he took her in. “Oh, I don’t know that I would say ‘never.’ That’s rather a long time. Who can say such a thing for certain?”

  Glancing around, Lethel seemed to only then realize that a chair had not been set out for him. He motioned an Ishtat closer, whispered something, and then waited as the man stepped forward, hands raised to indicate his harmlessness. He moved to the side of Dukish, which brought him close to the stretch of Tunnel’s bare gray chest. He made a visible effort not to look. Instead, he put his hands against Dukish’s shoulder and shoved him from the stool. Dukish landed hard on his side, groaning and struggling on the paving stones.

  Dariel could not help laughing, though he half hid it behind his hand.

  The man lifted the stool and set it down for Lethel to occupy.

  “Now, let’s get past the bluster, shall we? Is it really you I’m to negotiate with?” he said to Mór. “If so, I’d much rather do it back on my soul vessel. I’d zip you right off the barrier isles. We could talk there. In the baths, perhaps?”

  Amusement gone again, Dariel was starting to find Lethel’s lecherous remarks aggravating. He inched forward a little bit, itching to enter the conversation.

  “There is nothing to negotiate,” Mór said.

  “There’s always something to negotiate. You just haven’t thought about it yet. Listen, let’s do this. Let’s leave Dukish in the past. He’s yesterday. I’ve nothing against dealing with the Free People, especially if—as you say—you really do speak for the whole lot of you here in Avina. How about that?”

  “No,” Mór said.

  Lethel rolled his eyes. “Must you make this difficult? Life would be very much harder for you without us. I mean, honestly, in half a year you could be running your own estates, with staffs of new slaves doing all the work.”

  “Slavery has no future here.”

  “You’re still not understanding. The league has no desire to enslave you. We’ll enrich you. You won’t be slaves! Nothing of the sort. You’ll be masters.” He said this last sentence with a flourish and a grin that showed he believed he had won the point.

  “You’re the one who’s thick,” Mór said, her voice snapping. “Inside your head, at least. Listen. Ushen Brae is a land of free people now. We are the rightful inhabitants of Avina, and of Ushen Brae. Both the mainland and the barrier isles. The league must leave. If you don’t, you’ll end as badly as your Sire Neen did.”

  “Sire Neen? Don’t talk about Neen with me. He was a fool. I’m not. Do you know, Dukish made me a gift of Neen’s ashes. Thank you for that, Dukish. I smoked them mixed with the water of my mist pipe. Neen was smoother than I would have imagined. Slightly nutty, with a tar undertone that was not entirely pleasant, but soft on the palate despite that. I blew little particles of my uncle out into the world with each exhalation. That’s what I think of Neen.”

  “You have a month to withdraw,” Mór said.

  One of the Ishtat behind Lethel tried to get his attention, but the leagueman ignored him. “A moon cycle, you say? What happens after that?”

  Edging her words with something like longing, Mór said, “You will find yourself at war with us.”

  “Do you know how absurd this all sounds?” Lethel looked around as if for support from another, but finding none he came back to himself. “ ‘Rightful inhabitants …’ Quite absurd, I assure you. Mór of the Free People, this is going nowhere. You’ll want to back away from talk of war. Right now, already, just out there on the barrier isles, we have several thousand Ishtat Inspectorate soldiers. Two, three thousand. Something like that.” A guard bent and whispered to him. “Three thousand four hundred and ninety nine, I’m told. One unfortunate got knocked in the head—some dock accident. They die much harder on the battlefield. In addition to that—and this you wouldn’t know anything about—we have four thousand more troops just recently arrived, all of them trained since birth to kill when we say kill. We have soul vessel transports enough to move all of them, anytime we want, against the tides or winds, with complete control. We could deposit all of them at the wall of Avina at exactly the same moment, if we wished. Consider that before you declare war.” He began to cross his arms as if he would give them time to think it through, but then he snapped them out before the gesture was complete. “What makes you think you can wage war on the league? Nobody wages war on the league!”

  “I have,” Dariel said. He stepped forward, coming around Tunnel’s bulk into better view of the leagueman.

  Lethel glanced at him, and then away, dismissive. Then back. The thin line of one of his plucked eyebrows expressed his skepticism that the answer to the question was of consequence, but he asked, “Who are you?”

  “We’ve never met,” Dariel said, “but I imagine you’ve cursed my name many times already. I plan to give you reason to do so again.”

  The eyebrows did not drop, but the face beneath them sobered. “You’re not—”

  “Prince Dariel Akaran. Hello, Lethel. I know, I’ve gone a bit native. Tattoos and such. And this—” He gestured at the rune on his forehead. “You would need to have been there to understand. I’m pleased to learn that you weren’t on Sire Fen’s warship when I dropped a pill in it. Or on the platforms when I blew them up. Or in the soul catcher when I destroyed that. Or on that soul vessel that I set alight down near Sumerled. Why does that please me? Because you’re still alive to be killed. I may be afloat in Ushen Brae, but, Lethel”—Dariel bent a little closer; the Ishtat bristled in response—“I sti
ll loathe the league. More now than ever.”

  For the first time, Lethel’s face went blank. No readable emotion on it. Neither mirth nor arrogance, nor anything like fear. He said, “I could have my crossbowmen kill you right here and now.”

  “You probably could,” Dariel agreed, “but you wouldn’t make it from here alive yourself. You are outnumbered.” He nodded that Lethel should take note of all the people who poured into the courtyard as they spoke. “Your Ishtat tried to mention it to you, but you were distracted.”

  His eyes on the prince, Lethel spoke to Mór. “This man is one of you?”

  Mór did not hesitate. “Yes.”

  “This changes everything.” Lethel looked away from Dariel. His cheek twitched, and it was clearly with some effort that he kept emotion from his face. “This man is an enemy of the league. He’s a war criminal. A brigand. A murderer. Mór, here are the new terms I offer you. You give me Dariel Akaran. That’s it. If you don’t, I’ll bring armies down upon you. You have no—”

  “You can’t have Dariel,” Mór said. “He’s one of us.”

  “Rhuin Fá!” Tunnel said it first, but others echoed it, both in their group and around the wider circle.

  “You’ve disappointed me,” Lethel said, shaking his head. “All of you have, but so be it.” He stood and drew himself up. Chin raised, he pronounced, “You leave me no other choice. On behalf of the league, I declare the inhabitants of Ushen Brae enemies. We will settle this through clash of arms. Will you impede us as we depart?”

  After glancing at Dariel, Mór said, “No. Go safely. We’ll kill you later.”

  Turning, Lethel said, “You want war? You have it.”

  “I’ve never heard sweeter words from a leagueman’s mouth,” Dariel said.

  “He makes good talk sometimes,” Tunnel said, watching the group exit. Turning to Dariel, he asked, “Now what? You have a plan, yes?”

  Dariel waited until he knew Mór would be away for several hours. She stayed amazingly busy—especially in making their preparations for the league invasion—but she came and went from her chores to check on Skylene so often that he chose his moment carefully. She was crazy with grief. She hid it well, but all who knew her saw it. Skylene was dying, and she was taking Mór’s heart with her.