by Mok, DK
He let go with a gasp. Elhan stared at the wound on her hand.
“Is it supposed to still be there?” she said.
She glanced at Seris, pale and sweating.
“I mean, thank you,” she said.
“It’s stopped bleeding. And it won’t get infected. It should heal pretty quickly.”
Seris wiped a trickle of sweat from his eyes.
“Kaligara said we should head for the Tigrath,” he said. “You know how to get there?”
“It’s a long walk. Think you can cope?”
“We can’t exactly turn back now.” Seris wondered what Falon would make of the reports that would undoubtedly filter back to him. Then again, that’s what you got when you sent inexperienced adventurers.
He glanced at Elhan, who was still staring at her palm.
“Something wrong?”
“No,” said Elhan, closing her hand.
The message tower had coded it “Proximity Report”. That meant no one would want to be in close proximity when Falon read it. Which was why Qara was going to just quietly leave it on his desk at two in the morning.
Qara crept into the deserted study and placed the parchment conspicuously on top of several maps and broken quills. Tomorrow, Falon would demand to know who’d left it there, but by the time he found her, the corona of his temper would have cooled to manageable levels. Qara turned at a soft noise, her gaze scanning the dark room. After a pause, she walked to the window, and looked down at the moonlit scene. A figure darted about on the roof of an adjoining tower, sword drawn, slicing at invisible foes.
This was not a good sign.
The keep was a maze of rooftops and towers, cascading like irregularly stepped terraces. It was not the most practical design, but it made for a very dramatic skyline. Qara trod softly down the castle hallway, nodding to a night guard as she turned towards the outer archway. She took a slow breath and pushed quietly through the door.
Falon stood in the centre of the wide, stone roof, his back towards her, his sword shining like a slice of moonlight. His shoulders heaved, and his shirt stuck damply to his skin. He turned at the sound of the door closing.
“A bit early in the day, even for you, isn’t it, Corwen?” said Falon.
“I was just passing by. Saw the light on, so to speak.”
Falon flicked the sweat from his hair, his eyes catching the light from his sword.
“Worried, Qara?”
“Your Highness—”
“Worried I’ll slip up? Worried I’ll lose my focus, make a bad call? Do something I really…shouldn’t?”
Well, thought Qara, you’re on the roof at two in the morning, waving your sword around, with your shirt half-undone. It doesn’t look promising.
“Draw,” said Falon suddenly.
“Your Highness,” said Qara stiffly.
“Draw.” The word flowed into a growl.
There were times when Qara wondered what it would have been like had she stayed at Corwen. If, instead of riding patrols through pelting rain, dealing with hecklers throwing rotten vegetables, she’d become the lady of Corwen Manor, receiving elegant visitors and plotting political intrigue over tea and cake. As Qara drew her sword, stars reflected in the polished blade, she was very glad she hadn’t.
She turned slightly, raising her sword in a classic duelling stance. Falon stepped forward, mirroring her position, and he tapped her blade with his own. He lunged immediately and Qara smoothly deflected the blow.
“Everyone’s saying, ‘How convenient for you’,” spat Falon. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be organising a search party for your own brother while the king and half the army are heaven knows where and treacherous forces are stirring dissent in every major city? That’s not ‘convenient’. ‘Convenient’ is having the right change for a bag of apples.”
Falon punctuated every few words with a violent swing, his sword clashing against Qara’s as she parried and sidestepped.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be carousing in the streets and having illegitimate children,” said Falon. “Instead, I’m trying to negotiate tithes, allocate the treasury, and prevent several dozen uncles and aunts I don’t even like from assassinating each other.”
“I’m sure you could still have illegitimate children.” Qara swung her sword to meet Falon’s.
“What’s the good of power if you don’t have time to enjoy it? I don’t train, I don’t ride, I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel like strangling someone. All because my idiot brother can’t even walk in a straight line!”
There were several things Qara disliked about Falon. One of which was the fact that, occasionally, he could defeat her in a duel. She was the superior technical swordsman, but some days, when he was in one of his moods—
A resounding clang tore across the parapets, and Qara’s sword spun over the flagstones, clattering away into the darkness. She clenched her stinging hand, standing at the point of Falon’s blade. There was a hint of something savage in his eyes, and at times like this, Qara found it difficult to believe that he and Valamon were brothers. Falon exhaled slowly.
“I’m sorry. I’ll fetch it.”
He jogged into the shadows and returned with her sword. Qara guessed that now was not a good time to mention the events at Horizon’s Gate.
Falon sighed.
“Do you go carousing, Qara?”
“Only on weekends, Your Highness.”
“They should keep him. It’d serve them right.”
Falon looked out across the silent city, towards the fields and hills beyond.
“They’ll find him, Falon.”
His sword slid sharply into its scabbard.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Whatever they bring back will still be useless.”
Valamon had been hoping there’d be convenient servant girls to befriend, or disgruntled guards to turn, but the only people who ever visited his cell were Barrat, Amoriel, and a gaoler called Lurt. Barrat came every few days to check the cell for signs of attempted escape, and to let Valamon wash and shave. However, despite Valamon’s polite patter and oblique questioning, the general refused to be drawn into conversation.
Amoriel came intermittently to pace slowly outside his cell, like a tiger circling a cage of obese lambs. However, she too ignored Valamon’s questions, responding only with sinister taunts. Lurt was the one who brought him gruel, when he remembered. And Valamon’s attempts to engage him in conversation had elicited only incoherent mutterings and, once, a long rant about telepathic horses.
Still, none of this had discouraged Valamon from trying to use the hessian sacks to sand away the granite beneath his cell door. He believed that, given several hundred years, he might wear away enough of the stone to crawl under the bars. He had to admit it wasn’t a good plan, but when all you had to work with were potato sacks, plans tended to range from the unlikely to the ridiculous.
Then again, he told himself, being kidnapped by a sorceress, incarcerated by an Eruduin general, and punched by an enigmatic warrior-lord were also highly improbable events, yet had nonetheless happened. It did trouble him to see so disparate a group in cooperation, especially since the history books depicted the Eruduin as a bloodthirsty, arrogant people. Valamon remembered one childhood tale of a mighty Eruduin king who captured a frail, hermetic sorceress and tried to force her into aiding him in his battles. In the end, she was rescued by a fellow sorceress—a wily woman who traded places with her and tricked the king into a foolish wager, binding him into servitude.
Valamon had never been sure whether the lesson of the story was about hubris or gambling, but he’d conscientiously avoided both. In general, he didn’t believe in luck. He believed in patience, perseverance, and, currently, hessian.
However, things took a turn for the worse when a cadre of unfamiliar soldiers turned up one day instead of Lurt, stating only that he was to come with them. He knew things were getting even worse when they insisted on securing his
wrists tightly with manacles and then pulled a hood over his head. Valamon wondered whether now was the time to struggle, but judging by the blade pressed into his back, there could only be one outcome to that course of action.
He stumbled as they shoved him through uneven corridors, herding him roughly up spiralling stairs. Valamon had hoped that, when the time came, he’d face death with dignity. That in this last gesture, he wouldn’t bring shame to his family. However, as his shackled wrists were stretched high above his head and tethered to a hanging chain, Valamon couldn’t help feeling that they’d only be disappointed.
The guards left without a word. A metal door clanged shut, and their muffled footsteps faded across the stone. From the tight echo, Valamon deduced that he was in a small cell, enclosed by four solid walls. The stone floor was rough beneath his feet, and a heavy chain clanked overhead. He stood on his toes, trying to unhook his manacles, but all he could feel were unyielding loops of iron. He wondered whether this was the oubliette, or whether the room was going to start filling with water. Or scorpions.
Valamon pulled down on the manacles, putting his entire weight on his wrists. He wondered how many bones in his hands he’d have to break to free himself, and whether he was capable of doing it. He was certain Falon wouldn’t hesitate. Then again, Falon wouldn’t be in this situation. Falon wasn’t in this situation.
Valamon gritted his teeth as the iron dug into his flesh, the manacles sliding upwards just a fraction. He jerked suddenly as the hood was pulled from his head, and he instinctively tried to step back, managing only to skid awkwardly on the floor. As he blinked in the torchlight, he realised with mild embarrassment that he hadn’t been alone in the room.
His surroundings resolved into a cramped, windowless cell, the walls spattered with dried blood. A small wooden table sat to one side, covered with an array of indistinct objects. Standing before him, far too close for comfort, was a familiar armoured figure, the flames reflected in her half-mask.
“Lord Haska,” said Valamon, his voice catching slightly.
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions. Shall we see how good you are at answering them?”
Haska reached over and pulled the table into view. Aggressive-looking implements glinted in tidy rows, some of them resembling midwifery equipment. With some difficulty, Valamon dragged his gaze from the implements. Standing almost nose to nose with Haska, he noticed that she was as tall as he was, and she actually didn’t look much older than him.
He could feel cold sweat soaking through his shirt, and his lungs were having difficulty absorbing air.
“Ever been interrogated?” said Haska.
Valamon’s brain attempted to flee, which unfortunately left him with a somewhat blank expression.
“I suppose exams don’t count.”
“And you know I’m not afraid to hurt you.”
“I think we established that.”
“Good.” Haska picked up a long, thin blade.
The cell door swung open, and Barrat stood in the doorway.
“Yes?” said Haska irritably, not turning around.
“I’m doing that thing you asked me to do,” said Barrat.
“I said…if I got carried away.”
Barrat paused.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Haska looked at Valamon, her eyes burning cold.
“When his screaming starts to distress the horses.”
FIVE
Dry heat raked across the desert sands, blanketing the landscape in a watery haze. After Horizon’s Gate, Seris and Elhan had walked until the forest turned to fields, then they hitched on farming wagons until the fields turned to plains, and finally, they’d joined a caravan of camel traders until the plains turned into hot, blinding desert.
Seris was starting to wonder if Elhan actually knew where they were going, and he almost dreaded to ask, in case she suddenly said “Oh, are you still here?” It was as though they’d wandered into an alien world, where the sun was fifty times larger and infinitely more malevolent. Seris’s skin was crusted with the powdery sediment of sweat, and he felt faintly delirious from dehydration. He was therefore not entirely sure if he was hallucinating when the caravan crested a sweeping dune and below them sprawled a city of brightly coloured canvas and tawny sandstone.
Tigrath was a desert hub—it had been a crossroads between the southern ports and the northern kingdoms, when there had still been northern kingdoms, but now it was the last major Talgaran city before the borderlands to the west. Traders, merchants, mercenaries, and fugitives found refuge in Tigrath, a colourful oasis in a monochrome landscape.
“Is it supposed to be this hot?” said Seris as they trudged into the city, passing beneath a massive carved arch the colour of afternoon light.
“You think this is hot?” said Elhan. “The lava pits of Helbor, now that was hot.”
As they strolled through the eclectic throng, merchants garbed in rich silks mingled with scarred buccaneers, while fleet-footed men tried to sell sundials from long, loose coats. Canopied market stalls lined the sandy streets, and itinerant dealers did brisk trade, ready to pick up their barrow carts and bolt at the first sign of the local Talgaran soldiers.
Seris’s gaze trawled over trays brimming with exotic tokens and curious artefacts. Opalescent pendants carved from chalcedony, intricate silver talismans pressed with runes, baskets overflowing with delicately carved soapstone animals, and bowls of pungent spices.
“Is this for eating or wearing?” Seris held up something resembling a lumpy biscuit, but with four clasps around the rim.
The leathery shopkeeper turned unblinking eyes towards Seris.
“That’s Trevor,” said the shopkeeper.
It occurred to Seris that those clasps could also be feet, and that those decorative beads could actually be eyes. Angry eyes. He put down the desert creature quickly.
“Elhan, if you wanted to get a gift for someone, but not something boring, offensive, or venomous…”
Seris trailed off, noticing that Elhan’s clothing was bulging in odd places. She appeared to be deeply engrossed in a glassy bowl of tropical fish, and it took a moment for her to realise that Seris was talking to her.
“Sulim, did you say?” said Elhan casually.
A finch flew out of her sleeve.
“Never mind.”
Sulim proved to be an easy woman to find. Everything passed through Sulim eventually, so the saying went. Every lord, every merchant, every guild, trader, and bootlegger had need of mercenaries at some point, although few would admit it. No one led the mercenaries, and certainly no one controlled them, but Sulim could make things happen. Some saw her as a facilitator—someone who could muster appropriate resources and direct your queries to someone who was just the right degree of discreet, dangerous, or insane to suit your requirements.
Her tent was a dusty umber, the size of a royal pavilion. Thick, taut ropes secured the canvas, and there was a sense of understated activity amongst the figures milling around outside. They had the air of swords-for-hire, casually looking you over as you passed, quietly calculating how much they’d charge to put a blade between your shoulders.
“Three coppers,” muttered one to her companion as Seris passed.
The vicinity fell silent as Elhan approached the tent, and the silence grew deeper when she found her way barred by a scimitar and an axe. The two guards flanking the entrance barely looked at Elhan, their weapons crossed firmly before her.
“We’re here on official business,” said Seris.
“Man, has that ever worked for you?” said Elhan.
“I live in hope.”
Elhan eyed the guards, weighing up the muscular swordswoman and the armoured, axe-bearing man.
“I normally don’t give you a choice,” said Elhan, “but if I don’t, my companion here is going to yip at me for days. So, do you want to stand aside, or do you want to see what happens if you don’t stand aside?”
There
was a silence as several dozen mercenaries placed unspoken bets with each other. The taller guard tilted her head towards her colleague.
“Twenty-five gold,” murmured the woman.
The man in the leather armour looked Elhan slowly up and down, then gave a lazy smile.
“Fifteen.”
There was a beat, and before Seris could react—before anyone could react—there were a blur, a gust of air, and a cut-off cry. The tall guard stood stunned and empty-handed, her sword plunged into the ground to the hilt. The armoured man was… Well, he just wasn’t there.
Seris stared at the empty spot where the man had been. Elhan swivelled dark, buzzing eyes towards the remaining guard.
“Tell Sulim we’d like to see her.” Elhan tipped a sly glance skyward. “Wanna see if you can pass on the message before your friend lands?”
One might have been forgiven for thinking it was incredibly fortunate, as the falling guard did, that his highly terminal descent was broken by the robust canvas of Sulim’s tent. The random mercenary who happened to be standing in what turned out to be an inauspicious spot inside the tent, however, wouldn’t share this view when he regained consciousness.
Sulim seemed to feel the same way. She didn’t look up as Elhan and Seris entered, continuing to inspect branded crates, barrels, and earthenware jars piled throughout the busy room.
“You put a hole in my tent,” said Sulim curtly.
“I could have put one in your guard instead,” said Elhan.
“That would have been less expensive.”
Seris was still absorbing the fact that not only did the tent have rooms, but also corridors, and possibly an attic.
“We’ll make it up to you,” said Seris.
“That was never in question.” Sulim gestured to two rangy assistants. “Rugs to Athos. Sarcophagus to Gelen—if he doesn’t show, let the occupant out and give it Gelen’s address.”
Seris decided they should make it up to Sulim as soon as possible. He watched as she continued around the room, her dramatically kohled eyes darting over shipping marks and cargo stamps. Sulim’s black hair was closely shaved into geometric rows along her scalp, and her mismatched armour gave the impression she’d kept the best pieces from an inordinate number of sets. The occasional faded scar raked over her deep olive skin, but they all said the same thing: “I’m alive, which is more than I can say for the other guy.”
