The Bloodstained God (Book 2)

by Tim Stead

  This day he had been going through the city from smithy to smithy checking on the progress of the wire making, the first step in his temporary wall. He had organised new labour for each of them, and every skilled man had more helping hands than he knew what to do with. At midday there had been a rider from the forests on the plateau north of the city. He had two hundred men out there felling and dressing trees, and all was going well. It was carnage for the forest, of course, but there were other forests and he needed five thousand stout logs.

  Even now there were wagons loaded with logs rolling through Berash, getting as close to the White Road as snows would allow, stacking and covering the wood, heading back again for more. Those same wagons would carry the wire frames in the spring.

  He held a growing conviction that he would succeed. He would get to the pass, build the wall, and hold it.

  “Sir, there is a problem at the door.”

  Cain looked up from his reverie and saw that it was one of Bargil’s doormen. The man stood respectfully distant.

  “A problem?”

  The Duke of Carillon is without, sir. He had four men with him and they are armed. They will not give up their swords.”

  Carillon. It was a place to the north, a domain close to the Afaeli border. Skal had mentioned that the man had been watching them train, that he had been critical. What had he called him? Bizmael. That was the family name.

  “I will come,” he said. The doorman looked relieved. Cain understood that. The nobility often refused to abide by rules made by others, and it was perilous for common men to oppose them.

  He levered himself from his stool and followed to the inn’s door. This was one of the few occasions he was glad to be a lord. Even if he was so far below Carillon as to be barely acknowledged he could not be brushed aside with impunity.

  Outside the door there was some sort of standoff. Cain identified Carillon almost at once. He was dressed almost like a clown, so colourful and extravagant was his garb. He stood in the middle of the road with four guardsmen dressed in blue and gold livery, each and every one of them bearing a sword, and hands on hilts. Opposite them stood Bargil, Cain’s ex-dragon guard doorkeeper. His hand was close to his hilt, but not resting on it. He was half a head taller than the guardsmen, and to Cain it looked like the lesser men were afraid. He did not think the less of them for that. Despite his limp Tane Bargil was a formidable man.

  “There you are, innkeeper,” Carillon said. “This foreigner bars my way. Have him stand aside at once.”

  To call him innkeeper was an insult, and Cain guessed intended to be so. He should be addressed by one of his ranks; either colonel or lord would have been polite. Cain wasn’t pricked by it, though. He was an innkeeper, and unashamed of it.

  “Forgive me, my lord Carillon, but he is merely enforcing the rules of the house. No swords to be carried within. I do not make exceptions.”

  The Duke turned a scornful eye on him. “I am a duke of Avilian, you surely do not expect me to go unprotected in this den of thieves?”

  Another insult – but Cain smiled. The man’s taunts were as clumsy as his fashion sense.

  “This is a well behaved house, my lord,” he replied. “The lord Quinnial did not feel the need of escort when he visited us.”

  “Quinnial is a boy and knows no better,” Carillon scoffed. Cain would have given a hundred guineas to hear him say that in Duke Aidon’s hearing, or even Quinnial’s. Cain’s statement, that Quinnial, the Duke of Bas Erinor’s brother and currently heir to the seat, had needed no escort should have satisfied any man. Carillon knew who Cain was, that he had shed blood for Avilian, that he commanded a regiment. He knew all this, and so the performance was a deliberate provocation. This lord was part of that faction that objected to his rapid rise, to the honorific of ‘general’, to his close association with foreigners.

  “I would be happy to escort you myself, my lord,” Cain said. It was a handsome offer; almost a debasement of his own status, and Carillon looked at him sharply, as though he thought some joke was being made at his expense, but Cain smiled pleasantly and held a hand out to the door.

  Suddenly the duke was flustered. “No,” he said. “I have changed my mind. I will seek entertainment elsewhere tonight.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” Cain said. He watched as the duke withdrew, walking away with his escort. When they turned the corner and were lost from sight he turned to Bargil. “Pity,” he said.

  “Pity? The man’s an ass,” Bargil said.

  “The ass is a duke, Tane,” Cain admonished him. “At least pretend to respect the rank, if not the man.”

  Bargil shook his head. “I can’t separate them, my lord,” he said. Bargil never called him lord, so he was making a point. “And I don’t know why you should put up with such behaviour.”

  “I don’t feel insulted,” Cain said. “And just think what an hour or two of Sheyani’s music would have done to him.”

  “Aye, that’s a fair point,” Bargil agreed.

  Cain went back into the Seventh Friend. The friendly noise of the tavern washed over him. From the other side of the room Sheyani caught his eye, lifted a brow in enquiry, but Cain just smiled at her and nodded. Nothing amiss. He took the copper disc from around his neck, the charm that made him immune to her magic, and allowed the power of the music to wash his cares away.

  How fortunate to have this release, he thought. How sweet life is.

  18. Blood

  Narak sat quietly in the stern of the boat and let the rhythm of the oars lull him. He was at ease again. He no longer dreaded the spring. Arbak’s instant wall had given them a chance, and a chance was all he had ever asked of life. It was such a clever idea. Some day he would get the colonel to tell him how he had come to it. The man had mentioned a pig and a basket of nuts, and the basket made sense, he supposed. The wire cages were a sort of basket, but he was curious about the pig.

  “Something has changed, Narak of the forest.” The herald was sitting in the bow, and Narak became aware that the man had been studying him.

  “It has,” he admitted.

  “Your war goes well?”

  “It goes not at all. Winter and walls stand between us and our foe.”

  “Yes. I remember that you said,” the old man raised a sceptical eyebrow. “The road is blocked by much solid water.”

  “Snow.”

  “Which is solid water. Or so you say. I have never seen solid water.”

  Narak opened his mouth to explain that snow was not exactly solid. Ice was solid, but snow was like feather down, fell from the skies like the ash from a fire and covered everything in a soft, cold, white blanket. But what would be the point? The only way to understand snow was to see it, to touch and taste it, to roll in it as a child and know that it was wet and cold and soft.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  The herald shook his head. “Well, I have some news for you. I should probably not say it, but you will know soon enough. A messenger has come from the north. When your Narala arrived here with the wolf and spoke your name he was dispatched to learn what he could of you from the northern isles where merchants call. He came back to the island of the Sei not two hours ago.”

  “Then he will have two sets of tales, I expect,” Narak said. “One from my allies and one from those who oppose me.”

  “You do not seem troubled.”

  “Why should I be?”

  “You should not, if it is truth that you have told.”

  “Then you see the evidence of your own eyes. I do not lie.”

  The old man nodded again. “I see it,” he said. “And I should tell you that I once sat with others in the hall of decision, that I was Sei Feras Tiar, the king of blood and fire, and if I sat there still I would look favourably on your plea. But the one who sits there now does not see with clear eyes. He is blinded by pride. You will have some difficulty there, I fear.”

  “Do you have advice?”

  “I am your herald. I speak your wor
ds and guide you to the Sei. Such is my duty. But I will give you advice because that, too, is a sort of guiding. If he challenges you, accept the challenge, if you believe that you can win. Kill him.”

  “Kill him?” Narak was surprised.

  “He will oppose you no matter what the sense of it. He is a fine warrior, but a poor father to the people.”

  “And if I kill him?”

  “Right of conquest. You will be the new Sei for the span of two moons. It is the custom.”

  Narak closed his eyes for a moment. He had been diplomatic. He had reined himself in, borne insults, behaved well, and all the time he could have pulled his blades, cut the man’s head off and had his own way.

  “Narala did not tell me this,” he said.

  “Perhaps she doubts your prowess,” the herald suggested.

  The wolf shook his head. “No,” he said. “She does not doubt. I think perhaps she believes I have killed too many men. I do not enjoy it, but I will do what has to be done. I always have.”

  The herald spoke no more, and they were rowed the rest of the way in silence. Narak looked at the turquoise water and the flashes of colour beneath the boat as the fish paraded their jewellery. It was such a beautiful place, the Green Isles, once you got used to the damned heat. He preferred the forest, of course. That was his place. But this, too, had its attractions. The people were friendly enough once they got over his pale skin, and he liked their easy way with life, having no great regard for birth or blood, no love of formality. He liked the land, too. The abrupt islands that leaped out of the sea, steep green slopes clothed in thick, hot forest, the flat reefs and atolls, all sand and palms. He liked the thunder, too, that broke every day in the afternoon; the quick, heavy rain, fresh and cool, that washed the land clean.

  He trailed a hand in the water. It was barely cool, but enough to be pleasant against his skin. Everything here smelled of salt, which was strange, because salt has no smell. As a wolf he knew this as much as any creature, yet it had always seemed to him that he could smell the salt in other things, in blood, in the sea, and everywhere here.

  They rounded the island and the rickety dock on the kings’ island came into view. There was a man sitting on the end of it, a line in his hand, trying to catch fish. He was wearing nothing but the simple waist wrap that was so common here. He had one leg pulled up close to his body and the other dangled over the sea, his body leaning against a bleached wooden post. It was a perfect expression of the Isles. The man could be a king, or he could be nobody of consequence at all. In some way it was all the same here.

  “We are here,” the herald said.

  The oars were shipped, the boat bumped gently against the jetty and a rope was passed up. Narak and the herald stepped out of the boat onto the jetty’s planking. The herald led the way again as they walked the sandy path that led to the double stockade and the Sei.

  It was all familiar this time. The basic formalities were completed and he stepped into the hall of decision to find that only two of the Sei were present. The seat of Sei Feras Tiar was unoccupied. Sei Mun saw the question on his face.

  “He will not attend,” the old king said. “He says that he is offended by your lies, but it is regrettable that he is not here, because today we have learned the truth, and the truth is close to what you have spoken.”

  “Close?”

  The Sei waved a dismissive hand. “The truth is woven cloth, Wolf Narak. No man holds more than his own strand.”

  “True enough,” Narak conceded. “So the decision is no?”

  The old man shook his head. “The decision is unmade. Sei Feras Tiar will not cast his vote until he speaks to you again. He awaits you on his island. You may choose not to go there, but what we have heard tells us that you have little to fear.”

  “And what have you heard, Sei Mun?”

  “That you are more than you have claimed here. That you are hundreds of years old. That you are the victor of Afael. That you are a god. That no man can stand against your blades. That plain steel cannot harm you. We have also heard of the evil that these Seth Yarra have done in their war, and even the Telans who come to the northern isles do not speak well of them. There is much fear.”

  “And Sei Feras Tiar has not heard this?”

  “He has not. Though the herald is the son of his brother, the word was brought here first, and the man awaits without this wall. He will go with you to the Isle of War if you choose to go there. If it serves you at all, both of us here have made it plain to him that we will agree to assist you, should he acquiesce.”

  “I thank you for that, Sei Mun,” Narak said. He bowed his head for a moment, a gesture of respect. So the king of blood and fire still wished to test him. Well, he would wait until the herald had told his tale, and if the Sei still wished to fight he would oblige him.

  “I will go to the Isle of War,” he told them.

  “And will you kill him?” the third Sei asked. He had been silent up until this moment, but now he leaned forwards, keen for an answer.

  “If he wishes it,” Narak replied.

  “Ha, a good answer. I never liked the man.” He sat back again, a grim smile on his face. So the war king was not a well loved man. It was not a surprise after what his herald had said to him. Narak himself had taken a dislike to the man almost as soon as he had spoken. It is hard to like someone who insults you on your first acquaintance. Only a braggart and a bully would behave in such a manner.

  “Well, then. Our business is finished I believe,” Sei Mun said. He leaned back in his chair once more.

  Narak bowed again and retreated from the inner stockade. Outside he found his own herald waiting with a much younger man. This must be the Sei’s nephew, he guessed. He was young, but not as young as Narak had expected. He was full grown, broad shouldered, with an open face. His hair was close cropped and he wore a sword at his waist, a broad bladed thing like all the soldiers carried in the Isles. He must have recognised Narak, or expected him. Whatever, he bowed deeply.

  “Deus, I am honoured to meet you,” he said. He had a pleasant voice, smooth and deep, and Narak was so amused to once again hear the formal form of address that he smiled.

  “And I you,” he replied. “Will you tell me your name?”

  “I am Hiralo, a commander in the shoal of the round finned shark.”

  The old herald stepped forwards. “I will leave you now,” he said. “This one has a boat and oars of his own and will take you from here.”

  “How do you know where I’m going?” Narak asked.

  The old man laughed. “I think it is time for the wolf to hunt,” he said.

  Hiralo led him back down the path, though he knew the way well enough by now. He walked quietly beside the young man, not thinking about the encounter ahead of him. He had fought many men and never lost. Or not since he had learned his art from Caster. It was how they had begun, he and the swordmaster. For all his strength and speed Caster had beaten him, and if not for his resistance to cold steel he would have been grievously injured many times in that bout. So he had offered the man a job, teacher to the gods, and wealth undreamed of by a man of his station.

  They had become friends. Through hours of practice, sparring, talking and drinking together, they had come to know each other well, and Narak had warmed to his teacher’s robust humour and his generosity of spirit.

  They came to the dock. The young commander’s boat was moored the other side of the jetty from the herald’s. It was larger and boasted six oarsmen, each of whom was dressed in a red wrap of good cloth and wore a broad blade at the waist. They greeted their commander with muted affection and respect, which Narak took to be a sign of the man’s quality. Himself, they treated with caution, neither staring at him nor ignoring him, but he saw their curious glances. They, too, had heard who he was, what he was.

  The boat pulled away strongly, making for the gap in the reef.

  “How far to the Isle of War, commander?” he asked.

  “It is th
e other side of the isle of supplicants, Deus,” Hiralo said. “It will take us the best part of an hour.”

  A long way, then, as these island distances went. He sat back in the stern of the boat and admired the view once more. The heat made him sleepy, and he allowed his mind to wander. The rhythm of the oars in the water, the rattle of the oarlocks as the blades drew back, it was all a sort of music that reminded him of the cadences of the forest. Seabirds cried overhead, gulls questing for food, and he could hear the screeching of parrots from the forests of the island that they were passing. There was a faint thunder as the swell spent itself on the reef.