Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘Kriukath,’ Kest repeated. ‘I think it might mean . . . craven? ­Cowardice?’

  Reyek nodded, but then tilted his head and frowned as if the word wasn’t quite right. His tongue worked its way awkwardly inside his mouth and finally he said, ‘En-sab-ard-ena-shun.’

  ‘Ensue what?’ Brasti said.

  ‘I think he means “insubordination”,’ Kest replied.

  Reyek grinned. ‘En-sab-ard-ena-shun, yes. I speak you language good.’

  I looked up at Reyek. ‘Seriously? You speak all of ten words in our tongue and one of them is insubordination?’

  The big man nodded. ‘I speak you language good.’

  ‘Not that good,’ Brasti said, peering towards the square, ‘because I don’t think insubordination is what he meant.’

  The two fighters approached each other and only then could I make out the blond hair and beard on the unarmed shirtless man walking to his death.

  It was Morn.

  *

  The big brute calling himself the Magdan gave a roar and Morn skipped back a step and crouched low to keep out of the way of that heavy doubled-bladed axe. His opponent laughed and gazed out at the crowds of warriors lining the square as if waiting for them to cheer him on. A few did, but the rest stood in solemn silence. Perhaps they were wondering how mighty a Warlord could truly be if he had to find his amusement in the slaughter of an unarmed man. Morn stayed on the balls of his feet, knees bent, ready to move quickly once his enemy started his attack.

  The Magdan shouted something at the crowd, the guttural words sounding as much like growls as words to my ignorant ears. ‘Something about keeping their traditions alive,’ Kest said. ‘And I think . . .’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Brasti said, ‘a lot of stuff about breaking backs and crushing spleens and various stomping-on of limbs?’

  ‘That’s not . . . actually, some of that’s pretty close.’

  ‘Focus,’ I told them. ‘We need to find a way to get Morn out of this mess before it’s too late.’

  Damn you, Morn. The reason I’d ordered you to fake an injury was so you could help us escape when we inevitably got captured, not the other way around. But after months of searching for my fellow Greatcoats, I was damned if I’d let the first one to turn up at Aramor end up dead in this frozen hellhole.

  I followed Kest’s eyes as he scanned the crowd, the square, the buildings in the compound. He kept returning to the dozens of Avarean warriors all around us. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him, Falcio.’

  ‘You always—’

  ‘It’s not just a matter of being outnumbered,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘The terrain doesn’t favour us. There’s nowhere to run and nothing to use as a distraction that won’t get us killed quicker than Morn.’

  ‘You could give a speech,’ Brasti said. ‘Oh, but you don’t speak Avarean.’

  ‘Really not helpful,’ I said, and turned my thoughts to what we carried in our coats. I had amberlight, which could spark a decent fire, but wouldn’t do much good in this cold. The bracers in my breast pocket were half-full of the lightweight throwing knives I preferred, but I doubted they’d penetrate the fur of our enemies’ cloaks, never mind the thicker leather armour underneath. There were climbing spikes, sharpened caltrops, yellow-fen oil to darken skin for night work, green periden powder to blind an enemy – all good things to get out of a jam, but nothing that was going to get through so many enemies in time to help Morn.

  ‘You watch,’ Reyek said to me, grabbing my head and turning it back towards the square. The Magdan had finished his little speech about devouring his opponent’s entrails and now the real fight was about to begin.

  Brasti scowled at Reyek. ‘So much for Avarean courage.’

  Reyek smiled as if he’d just given him a compliment. ‘The Magdan mighty.’

  In a last moment of silence, the warriors assembled around the square halted their soft, rumbling song, the big brute in the square stopped talking and Morn shouted something in reply, his voice sounding perilously small by comparison. ‘What did he say?’ I asked Kest, but by then the answer no longer mattered, for the Magdan shouted and ran for Morn, swinging his heavy twin-headed axe up high over his head, then bringing it back down in a perfect diagonal arc – harder by far to dodge than a straight vertical blow. But somehow Morn had managed to leap up and to his left, passing over the axe blade and coming down the other side, then somersaulting and coming back up on his feet before spinning around to face his enemy once again.

  The instant the fight had begun, the song had changed as well, becoming a fast, almost rousing chorus. ‘It’s “Seven for a Thousand”,’ Kest said, tilting his head just slightly as he listened.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘It’s—’ Kest paused to listen again. ‘I think it’s the story about seven Avarean warriors facing off against a thousand enemies. It’s about courage in the face of impossible odds.’

  Sure, like a massive axe-wielding brute bravely fighting an injured and unarmed man.

  The Magdan gave a loud, barking laugh and cried out, just a single word this time, before once again lifting his axe up high and launching into a series of whirling manoeuvres both terrifying in their ferocity and strangely beautiful in their efficiency. The big man made it look elegant, as though his weapon were a puppet he’d set to dancing for the audience. Morn was fast, and far better at this than I would have been, ducking and dodging, staying in close when he could, leaping away when there was no other choice. Step by step, though, the Magdan was driving him across the square, forcing him back towards the spearmen. Again and again Morn narrowly avoided death, but even from this distance, I could almost count the moves left to him. In three, maybe four strikes at most, he was going to be dead.

  I stood uselessly. I was the First Cantor of the Greatcoats: it was my job to protect my people, to think past the obstacles and find a solution even when one didn’t appear possible.

  Brasti tried to turn away, not wanting to witness the butchery the moment Morn stumbled, but Reyek grabbed his jaw and forced it back around. ‘You watch.’

  ‘Why?’ Brasti demanded. ‘Is this “Magdan” of yours so vain that he thinks killing an unarmed man will impress us somehow?’

  ‘You stupid,’ Reyek grunted.

  The Magdan continued to press his attack, now wielding his axe in a figure-of-eight pattern to force Morn closer to the edge of the training square, giving him no chance to escape to right or left. I reached into my coat for the yellow-fen oil. If nothing else, I could try to distract them long enough to run onto the square – that might give Morn a moment to catch his breath. If they like stories about seven fearless warriors facing a thousand enemies, maybe they’ll appreciate one suicidal idiot running at them while screaming like a maniac.

  Kest caught my arm. ‘Falcio, something’s not right.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Morn’s moving too slowly.’

  ‘He’s tiring, you idiot,’ Brasti said.

  Kest shook his head. ‘Look at him. He’s not breathing hard – if he were desperate, his movements would be rushed. He’s not panting, his eyes are clear. Falcio, I think he’s waiting for his moment.’

  A hoarse laugh escaped my lips. ‘Then he’s spent too long in these damned mountains,’ I said, pointing to the massive black-haired monster pursuing him. ‘The Magdan’s about to decapitate him with that bloody axe!’

  Reyek looked over at me, a confused expression on his face as he tried to make sense of my words. ‘You say stupid things. Magdan—’

  I missed whatever it was he was saying next because the low-level roar of the crowd grew into a cacophony of shouting and cheering as the black-haired brute raised his weapon up high. His opponent had nowhere left to run. The sunlight overhead glinted on the axe blade in that brief instant before it came crashing do
wn on Morn, who was now far too close to dodge. But instead, Morn stepped forward, placed his hands around the Magdan’s arms and lifted a foot to hip-height – I thought he was going to kick his opponent, though I couldn’t work out what that would achieve – but instead Morn fell backwards, still gripping the Magdan’s thick arms, and they went over like a wheel, propelled by the bigger man’s momentum. The spearmen guarding the square were suddenly forced to back up a step, and in the blink of an eye, the Magdan was on his back with Morn on top of him – and with a great heave, Morn tore the axe from the stunned man’s hands and brought it over his head so their positions were reversed. Without a moment’s hesitation or mercy, Morn brought the axe blade down on the black-haired man, cleaving his face in two.

  Even from this distance my eyes closed reflexively to avoid the spray of blood. When I opened them again I saw Morn, his chest now dripping red, pushing his foot against the remains of his enemy’s chin to tear the axe free. He turned to the crowd and held it up high.

  Silence enveloped the square, just for a second, then the warriors began cheering, the shouts so loud I thought the snow would cascade off the mountains, sweeping us all away in an avalanche.

  Morn pumped his fist in the air as he walked towards us, his eyes seeking me out – and it was only then I realised what it was the Avareans were chanting.

  ‘Magdan! Magdan! Magdan!’

  Reyek pounded me on the back. ‘See? I say to you, the Magdan mighty.’

  Morn discarded the axe and stood before Kest, Brasti and me. ‘Smile, Falcio,’ he said. ‘I’m about to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Warlord

  The cheering and celebration continued all around us, and as they left the square some Avareans even smiled at me, as if Morn’s victory had settled some long-running argument between us, fought over beer and boasts in the local tavern.

  He isn’t an outsider to them.

  That realisation shook me to my core. I’d always believed the Avareans to be barbarians: tribes of inbred mountain men steeped in brutality and bloodshed in the name of their clans. I doubt you could find five people in all of Tristia who had a different impression of them.

  Morn wiped the sweat and blood from his bare chest with a towel, then reached for the shirt and coat being handed to him by a grinning man.

  Kest was watching as a quartet of warriors carried the corpse of the black-haired brute from the field. ‘Insubordination.’

  Reyek nodded, clapping him on the back. ‘En-sab-ard-ena-shun!’

  So that really was one of the ten Tristian words he knew.

  ‘You’ll have questions, I imagine,’ Morn said, picking up the discarded towel and wiping his face. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much of a sweat you can build up, even in this cold.’

  He said something to Reyek, who ran off and returned with our weapons. Kest strapped his shield across his back, though he was still watching Morn and I could see him re-evaluating our fellow Greatcoat in that strange mathematical way of his. ‘I would have thought the thinner air at this altitude would be the greater challenge.’

  Morn chuckled. ‘Of course you would be the one to notice that, Kest.’ He tossed the towel to Reyek. ‘The body gets used to it after a while, but I’ll admit I was worried that perhaps I’d spent too long away bringing you here.’ He tilted his head back and took in a series of staggered breaths through his nostrils. ‘Fortunately, there are ways to adapt more quickly.’

  ‘That old man you talked about,’ I said. ‘He really was Rangieri?’

  He nodded. ‘Yimris could do things that would amaze you. Walk for days without rest, sleep in ice-cold snow without getting frostbite – one time I came upon him and his heartbeat was so slow that I thought for sure he’d died in the night. I actually started crying. All of a sudden one of his eyes opened and he said, “Rangieri don’t waste water,” and then went back to sleep.’

  I knew almost nothing about the Rangieri – even less than I did about the Bardatti or the Dashini. All these ancient Orders with their secret ways . . . what was it all for?

  ‘That’s a nice story, Morn,’ Brasti said. ‘Is it supposed to make us ignore the fact that you apparently fucked off and became an Avarean Warlord while no one was looking?’

  Reyek, who’d been watching us through the squinting eyes of someone trying to keep up with a conversation he couldn’t hope to follow, nonetheless caught the edge in Brasti’s words. He cuffed him across the back of the head and said, ‘I speak you language good. You speak to the Magdan good.’

  ‘Jas beyat, Reyek,’ Morn said, motioning for him to be calm. ‘Jas beyat.’

  ‘“Rest easy”,’ Kest translated.

  ‘Yeah, I figured,’ I said.

  It’s not as if I’m uneducated. I’m fluent in modern and archaic Tristian, I can manage a fair bit of Shan and can even puzzle out ancient Tristian if need be, which I promise is a lot more than most people. But this language of grunts and growls and words that all sounded like they meant, ‘Come over here so I can beat your brains in’? I felt woefully unprepared for this mission. Then again, I’m supposed to be a bloody Tristian magistrate. What business do I have in this Gods-forsaken country?

  ‘Brasti’s right,’ I said. ‘What in all the hells are you doing here, Morn?’

  His eyes narrowed – only momentarily, but long enough for me to see he didn’t appreciate being questioned. I supposed that came with the territory: he was a Warlord and he’d just killed the last man who’d challenged his authority. But Morn’s jovial smile quickly returned. ‘Now that is a much longer story than we have time for right now.’

  All right, so you don’t want to talk about it – is that because you’re waiting until we’re alone? Or because you just don’t want us to know?

  ‘Wait, let me have a try.’ Brasti turned to Morn. ‘You went north as the King ordered and almost died in the mountains, only to be saved by the old Rangieri, who taught you his ways. Somehow you wound up in a duel with an Avarean Warlord who underestimated how dangerous you were because he’d never fought a Greatcoat before – even one who mostly fights with a big stick with a knife stuck on the end.’

  ‘Brasti . . .’ I warned, but he ignored me.

  Gesturing at Reyek, he went on, ‘Then you convinced a bunch of these great big bastards to follow you, and using a combination of the tactics we learned in the Greatcoats and somehow finding a way to bring Shan steel weapons to Avares, you gradually took over several other warbands.’ He poked a finger at Morn’s chest. ‘How am I doing so far?’

  Morn had to wave off Reyek a second time, then admitted, ‘Pretty damned close, actually.’

  Brasti turned to Kest. ‘See, I can be clever, too, sometimes.’

  ‘You should try to do it more often,’ he replied.

  Morn gave a big, deep-throated laugh. ‘Ah, see? This is what I missed. The three of you! Your little travelling comedy routine, the masterful heroics, the speeches.’ He looked down at me. ‘Those things don’t work quite so well in the north.’ Without another word he took off for one of the large wooden buildings inside of the compound, not even bothering to make sure we followed. Mind you, he didn’t need to, because several of his warriors immediately started prodding us with their spears until we set out after him.

  ‘The Avareans aren’t like us, Falcio,’ Morn said as he walked. ‘War isn’t a means to an end for them; it’s not an act of anger or hatred. It’s religion. It’s the way they show their worth to their Gods, and the way they measure one another. There are no games, no politics.’

  ‘You sound as if you admire them,’ Kest said, keeping an eye on the men behind us.

  Morn stopped, forcing us to do the same. ‘I do, in a way. There’s a kind of . . . purity to their ways that’s different to anything we have back home. Justice is absolute for them, unyielding. It
’s a far cry from all the corruption and manipulation we deal with in Tristia.’ He glanced back at me. ‘I’ll bet you think that’s terribly militaristic, don’t you, Falcio?’

  I hate it when people know exactly what I’m thinking.

  The inside of the building was larger than I’d expected. The walls, beams and supports that held it all together were made of massive logs. The men, women and children we’d come over the mountains with were being attended by Avarean warriors, men and women, who were feeding them and dealing with the wounds of the injured.

  ‘The Avareans are remarkably skilled healers,’ Morn commented.

  ‘That’s charitable of them,’ Brasti said. ‘Do they have to bandage one wound for every five people they eat?’

  ‘You still don’t get it,’ Morn said. ‘Those people who came over the mountains with you? They risked everything to get here. The Avareans call that rokhan.’

  ‘“Spirit”?’ Kest asked.

  ‘Almost: mix courage and daring and faith all into one and you have rokhan. To an Avarean, it isn’t a favour or even a duty to feed and care for someone with rokhan. It’s an honour.’

  I looked at the men and women of this place, struggling to reconcile Morn’s words with the impressions I’d grown up with. Apparently Brasti found it impossible. ‘All sounds very admirable,’ he said, ‘except I don’t recall Avarean warbands ever taking prisoners when they’ve attacked Tristian villages. They kill them all.’

  ‘Kill cowards,’ Reyek rumbled from behind me.

  I turned. ‘Cowards? They’re farmers and craftspeople, not soldiers.’

  The big man showed me his teeth. ‘They not fight. Cowards.’

  ‘I told you, the Avareans respect courage and daring,’ Morn explained. ‘They treat their prisoners commensurate with the degree to which they are willing to face fear. Put up a brave fight? Show them rokhan? They’ll still wipe out your army, but they’ll treat your people almost as equals. Retreat, or surrender? Then you die, and all your kin become slaves and sometimes worse.’