by S J Hartland
Gendrick laughed; an unpleasant, caustic echo on stone.
Aric spun, hands fisted at his thighs. “What is wrong with you?”
“What do you think is wrong with me? You, dear brother. It’s bad enough Azenor pathetically pleading for this abomination. Seems she acquired a taste for his sort.”
“Take that back. Or I’ll ram those words down your throat.”
Gendrick thrust his hands to his hips. “Why do you think her captors didn’t kill her? Why does she look at him as she does? She debased herself with a thing that’s not human anymore. Just a monster who’ll succumb to his sordid, unnatural instincts if he hasn’t already.”
“You always did have a foul mind, Gendrick.”
“I dreamt of her,” Kaell said. Torchlight lit eyes hazed with memory. “Azenor. Even before we met.”
Dreamt of her. Aingear clutched at the wall, her neck moist with sweat. So simple, yet so unexpected. Something bound him and Azenor. Use it and she could also bind Kaell to the Isles gods.
“Priestess, are you unwell?” Aric took her arm to steady her.
Aingear brushed off his hand. She faced Kaell. “Is Gendrick right? Are you and Azenor—” She licked dry lips. “Are you lovers?”
Kaell edged back as if escaping her words. “No,” he said, his voice quiet.
“I’ve had enough of this.” Gendrick drew his blade. “I’ll take off his head. Right now. Then we’ll be safe.”
Safe? Aingear laughed, an empty rattle without merriment. With Roaran’s magic destroyed? With the usurper king about to march on Tide’s End. Safe? Not yet.
“I have need of him,” she said. “The gods chose him. Now I understand why.”
Aric
Shadows blurred in the tower room’s eight corners. Moonlight bled into pale candlelight spilling upon shelves of books. A breeze scented of salt and sea sifted Aric’s hair as he bent over dispatches. The thud of hammers echoed.
He knuckled the table’s age-worn wood. Unease churned in his gut. His plan had to work. It simply had to. All the same, it was a risk letting Dal-Gorma fall without a fight.
But why sacrifice men defending a town not walled by stone? No, let Cathmor have it. Then let him march to Tide’s End, sit in his tent and drink wine, grow tired of the flies, the dysentery and leave. To find trouble waiting.
Aric smoothed a map with his palm. Cathmor’s siege engines trundled from Dal-Gorma. His men harried the transport, taking out a few guards at night then melting away.
Spark panic, he ordered. Don’t stay to fight. Still, he lost men. Cathmor lost more. But he had more to begin with. Thanks to the Damadar Ice lord, Rolland.
With a weary sigh, Aric rose, stretched and wandered to the window.
There were two figures on the sea path below. Aingear and a man. Aric pressed his palms into the sill, his neck prickling with unease. It wasn’t just because of the high priestess’ stiff-backed stance, her arms crossed in a barrier.
That man. Something uncanny about him. Seithin steel gleamed at his hip, ice-blue. Moonlight lit curious insignia—a bird, a circlet, a blindfolded figure—stitched into his leather doublet beneath a cloak billowing off powerfully built shoulders.
A sea bird meant the god Saarn. So an Isles man. The circlet. A king or prince.
Aric’s scalp crept. Who dared wear such a doublet? Who exactly stood below?
Beating wings broke above the incoming tide’s rumble. A raven flapped into a crevice. Aric stared through it. He knew that insignia from somewhere.
He spun, grabbed a book from the shelves, sat and flicked pages.
Perfumed night deepened. His candle guttered. He put a taper to a new one.
A blinded man. Where did he see it? A crest, a shield. In the king’s hall? A mural.
His breath stalled. Yes, a mural. But not in Dal-Kanu.
Aric snatched up a candle. His heels tapped stone in the stairwell, an eerie midnight echo. Even the hammers beating metal in the forge, the wooden arms of mangonels creaking on the breakwaters hushed.
At the entrance to the hall, he hesitated. Already he wrestled with Azenor’s uncomfortable story. Did he want to learn another dangerous truth? No. Not at all. But his duty was to understand, to decide if what he uncovered threatened the Isles.
Resolved, he pushed through doors and lifted the candle to the wall.
King Rainer mocked him from the mural.
But Aric looked not at Rainer, but at the man kneeling at his side, sword spilled, hand clasping a seeping wound.
A man whose tunic bore an insignia not yet this king’s, but one an artist years after Roaran’s death painted with hindsight.
A bird. A circlet. A blindfolded man wielding a sword.
Aric reeled a step. Impossible.
Shadows ran about him. The wind hunted and howled. Beneath the walls, waves rolled like thunderheads. Aric hardly heard them. His thoughts whirled in disbelief.
At a footstep, he spun.
His brother waved a torch. “You look like you expected a ghost.”
Not a ghost. The dead. “You startled me.”
Gendrick poked the torch at the mural. “I never liked this. When I’m lord, I’ll have it painted over. There are other heroes besides Rainer and Roaran. The Ice Rider, for one.”
“They pale beside Roaran.” Aric struggled to control his rising disquiet. “A capable, strong king who united Telor against formidable enemies. A mystic.”
That was it. The blindfolded man. A seer’s sign. No other Telorian king used this insignia.
Except this was nonsense. Roaran was long dead. Not stalking the sea path.
Gendrick snorted. “Whatever you say, Aric. You always liked old stories.”
Aric slid his brother a look. “Why are you about?”
“A messenger just rode in. Dal-Gorma fell to the king a few hours ago.”
“As expected. Pairas? Is he returned?”
Gendrick hesitated.
“Gendrick?”
His brother sighed. “The messenger says he fell wounded. No sign of him.”
Aric braced a hand against the wall, his legs unsteady. “No,” he muttered. “No. Pairas knows what he’s about. He’s an excellent bladesman. He’s on his way here.”
“Just like the king,” Gendrick said. “Before you head to your bed, best hear everything the messenger has to say.”
“Oh?”
“The king’s advance force already reached the forest.” Gendrick grinned wearily. “Let the games begin. Cathmor can’t invest us because we hold the sea. But sometime tomorrow we’ll be officially besieged.”
Heath
The flap rippled in a thin wind. A swirling of sea fog escaped into Heath’s tent along with the aroma of smoke from cook fires and the ocean’s brine.
Salt and sweat. The distinctive perfume of the Isles. It clung to his garments even at dawn when he’d wandered to the edge of the king’s camp to stare up at Tide’s End, majestic above the marble wasteland of grey sea and drifting storm clouds.
It coated his skin as he sat in his tent now, unable to concentrate on words in a book, wondering how long before the king’s engines breached this bastion of the Isles.
Only a handful of days ago, Dal-Gorma fell. Now the dull, dull business of besieging proper castles began. What he wouldn’t give for diverting nonsense. Perhaps he could pick a fight, insult some pimply lord?
A hand appeared through the flap. The king’s field captain Bora pushed uninvited through canvas ahead of the king’s interrogator.
Bellicent Blackstone flung a bound, hooded man down. Kicked him so he groaned.
“The king wants you to question him.” Bora studied his knife hilt, disinterested. “He says you have a taste for this sort of thing.”
Heath considered Bora with displeasure. A furtive rat with squinting, dead eyes and a mail-clad, thick body that might be strong but was far from elegant.
“I have a taste for many bloody things.” Cutting up rats, for one. “
Who is this? Someone close to Aric? High-born?” He clicked his tongue. “Very careless, falling into our hands.”
“This man fell wounded at Dal-Gorma. Townsfolk hid him in a cellar.”
At a shout outside, Bora glanced at the tent opening. Laughter broke out, then a clang of iron and more yelling. Ringing steel was common in a besiegers’ encampment as men sought to pass the time.
Bora shrugged. Yawned. “Someone betrayed him for a fistful of silver.”
“Greedy, these Isles traitors,” said Heath.
“The king thinks a less brutal approach might work better with this prisoner. If there’s anything left when you’re done, give him to Blackstone.”
“My lord, give me the traitor now.” Blackstone edged forward, just as cloud shadowed the tent. Dramatic, except the laden air and scent of rain heralded more cursed thunderheads. Summer in the Isles: Sweat sticky on Heath’s thighs, the air too hot to breathe. Endless storms.
“I like your enthusiasm for your work,” Heath said. Not much else about Blackstone pleased him. “But a subtler hand first. Let’s see what we have, shall we?”
Bora whipped the hood off. The prisoner pushed to his knees, blinked.
Heath’s fingers curled around his hilt. This was a surprise. Not unwelcome. Intriguing.
He laughed aloud, tempted to ruffle the captive’s hair. Hard to tell this man’s pain-gaunt, bruised face was once handsome. A dirty cloth crudely bandaged his thigh; his body as ripped as his bloody tunic.
“I know him, my lord,” Blackstone said in that oily voice of hers. “His father is the lord of Mar-marin. The rock in the sea. A drunkard and a fool.”
Heath tilted an eyebrow. “The father or the son? Never mind. I know him too. Pairas Morgan.” He shot the bleeding man an amused look. “Aric’s captain.”
Pairas slowly lifted his head. His eyes stretched with alarm, then anger. “You.” He tried to lunge at Heath, but Bora pressed him to his knees.
Heath only laughed again with genuine pleasure. Unfinished business this. The gods surely loved him. Why else gift a man with wit and skill? Tolerable looks. Then return to him the one man he foolishly spared. Yes, his gods favoured him.
Judith always warned fate slapped the prideful down. Maybe. But not today.
Pairas swiped his split lips with a bloody sleeve. He glared at Heath. “The king wants you to question me? Just the low task I’d expect for an Ice lord.”
“Such a busy boy. Acquiring useless nonsense.”
“I should have recognised that brooch at once. Or at least recognised the arrogance.”
“Where’s the insult in that? Try again, captain. Use smaller words so I understand.”
Pairas sneered. “Why waste my breath? Your sort is impervious to words.”
Heath crouched. When he touched the man’s jaw, Pairas flinched.
“I’m sorry to see you in pain, Pairas. May I call you that? I feel close to you. Very intimate drugging a man and dragging him into your bedchamber to question him.”
He shot his companions a quick look, realising he’d revealed too much.
“Fists?” He turned Pairas’ head. “The physician can make you all pretty again.”
“If I answer your questions you’ll tend my wounds?” Pairas spat at the ground. “I’m loyal to my king. Do you think I care what you do to me? I’ll bleed out before I help you.”
“Pairas, really. I won’t let you bleed out. But bleed, yes.” Heath rose. Pity someone else had to make Pairas bleed. Judith’s little spell spoilt all his fun. “I wish you told me you enjoyed punishment. That could add a layer of perversion to our friendship.”
Snarling, Pairas tried to spring at him again. Bora thrust him down.
Heath sighed. “I admire loyalty, captain. Really, I do. I am infinitely loyal to my family. But answer me this: Why did Aric send you to hold Dal-Gorma? Why are you a prisoner when your fearless commander hides behind strong walls? I call that misplaced loyalty.”
Pairas mumbled: “We didn’t intend to hold Dal-Gorma.”
“So Aric ordered you to delay us then slip away? You didn’t manage the slip away bit so well, Pairas. Nor the delay bit. We smashed the town in two days.”
Pairas looked at the ground, his face tight with anger.
“I think Aric let us overrun Dal-Gorma while he took a hard look at our numbers. What now? Will he cower in Tide’s End until we give up the siege? Or march against us?”
Pairas lifted his head. His stare stabbed with hatred. “You’ll learn nothing from me.”
“My good captain. There’s no Judith with her soft heart to save you today. You see this woman here? Her name is Bellicent Blackstone.”
Pairas shrank back onto his heels.
“You’re famous, Blackstone. He’s heard of you.”
“I know what she did to Aric. She’s a monster,” Pairas said.
“So the misguided might say. What do you say, Blackstone?”
“I am an artist, my lord. I enjoy a challenge.”
“And the captain will present you with one?”
“If only, my lord. This one looks half broken already.” Blackstone passed low-lidded eyes over the captive, assessing. “Still, we’ll find some amusing games to play.”
“You play,” said Heath. “I’ll watch.”
Heath presented at the king’s pavilion, his skin soap-scented, hair damp, boots cleaned of Pairas’ blood. He wore clothes well. If men misjudged him as a pampered nobleman they quickly learned their mistake when he effortlessly—oh, and elegantly, he hoped—ran them through with steel.
In fact, the deception suited him well. A man might hide all manner of ambitious plots behind a guileless smile and a crisp, clean tunic.
He found the king and Cael-Carren bent over maps. Cathmor edged up a brow.
“He’s said nothing useful yet, Your Grace. I left him with Blackstone.”
The king nodded. “He’ll break. They always do. Surprising Aric so readily surrendered Dal-Gorma. He sent only a small force to hold the town.”
“Aric Caelan is practical,” Heath said. “Dal-Gorma could not be defended. Besides, he knows Tide’s End is the only prize. Take Tide’s End and you take the Isles.”
Cathmor’s shrewd eyes flickered. “According to gossip, you know Aric.”
Heath lifted and dropped his fire dancer’s shoulders.
“As a boy, I journeyed with my brother Velleran to the Isles. Our elders talked, leaving Aric and I together. We had a common interest in sword-play. And fishing.”
“Do you know enough of my cousin to outguess him?”
“I knew him only a few days. Aric wielded a sword well, even then. An excellent fisherman.” Heath extended his arms to show the size of the catch. “Though surely we grapple not only with Aric’s intelligence but his father and elder brother’s.”
Cael-Carren jeered. “Have you ice in your ears? Aric Caelan commands the Isles.”
“Gendrick is his father’s heir,” Cathmor instructed. “The role of Isles commander falls to the best soldier and tactician. A Serravan tradition.”
Heath scratched an artfully stubbled chin as he puzzled over this. “Curious. Does this strange system work I wonder? If I tried to order Velleran about he’d slit my throat.”
“I doubt that.” Cathmor unfolded a smile entirely without warmth. “You are a fire dancer. A violent man. I’m surprised you didn’t stay to torment our captive yourself.”
“I watched for a bit, just to maintain my brutish reputation and all that. Truthfully, Your Grace, I prefer those I torment to be able to defend themselves with steel. Still, I’ll lash Pairas with my tongue if Blackstone fails.”
Cathmor scolded with a wagging finger. “Such lack of faith. Bellicent is thorough.”
“And if the captain survives? He’s of good birth. You’ll ransom him to his father?” For Judith’s sake, Heath hoped so. She seemed irrationally fond of this man.
“Or just hang him,” Cael-Carren muttered.
/> Cathmor grimaced. “Hang a nobleman? The law forbids it. Though—” He tapped a finger against tight lips. “It says nothing about hurling him over Tide’s End’s walls from a trebuchet.”
“You’re serious?” Heath looked from one to the other. Neither smiled. “You’re serious,” he repeated. First excrement, now Isles captains. War seemed much simpler in the Icelands.
“Your Grace?” A soldier appeared at the tent entrance.
Cathmor whirled. “What news?”
“Vraymorg just rode into camp. With your Grand Constable. You wished to be told.”
Vraymorg. A prickle of anticipation ran along Heath’s backbone. He remembered leaning elbows on a castle balustrade as a silence fell at this man’s name. How the Queen of Cahir said only, “He is very beautiful.”
“Yes, yes.” Cathmor flicked an impatient hand. “Have Vraymorg attend me at once.”
Cael-Carren touched his sleeve. “You’ll offend Caelmarsh if you don’t receive him first.”
The king flashed that cold smile. “Vraymorg sent word ahead he possesses dangerous and secret information. I want to hear it at once.”
“Dangerous and secret?” Heath arched his brows. “About what?”
Cathmor shrugged. “I have no idea, Damadar. But let’s hear what Vraymorg says then call Caelmarsh in so he can spray accusations. Sometimes he hits a curious mark.”
A sharp tongue, a sharper temper and sharper yet with a blade.
That was Vraymorg’s reputation.
A hard man who held the Mountains against ghouls, against the Cahireans with their schemes to invade, against Varee slavers who robbed merchants travelling through the great gorge of their furs, their jewels, their silk and their sons and daughters.
Heath didn’t expect this striking creature who thrust inside with an unconscious swagger. A man too ornamental and too young to be the king’s sword in those cursed Mountains.
He certainly looked out of place in a muddy camp of tents. With that haughty, defiant mouth, those impressive shoulders, that sweep of attractive stubble darkening his jaw, he belonged on a Quisnaf woman’s arm. Prized, pampered, protected.
