by Tim Stead
He had made the door; he had possessed the skill; and she had stepped through into a back alley in Bas Erinor, the largest city in the world, and the only place where the heir to the occult throne could pass unnoticed. Her father had told her that it was a dangerous city, a place thronged with foreigners, with Avilians whose place it was, but also Telans, Berashis, and Afaelis. Duranders were rare. They did not like the closeness or the anarchy of the low city. She, too, did not like them. She hated the city, but she had survived. She had gold and she was not foolish, but in the end it had not been enough. She had been attacked, robbed, raped, thrown into the street with no more than her skin and a few rags and her pipes. She had been in the habit of hiding her pipes because she was afraid that someone would know them, would know her by them, and so they had not been stolen.
She had tracked down the men who had destroyed her honour, and she had killed them. It was something she had never confessed to Cain. After that she had been prepared to die, fatherless, friendless, shattered by the rough side of the city.
Then there was Cain.
Every man is a tune, her father had said. They have rhythm, they have many different songs, but to each there is a single defining tune, and once you can hear that you can judge a man. She had learned the skill. When you know a man’s tune you can make him dance, like a stringed puppet. It was a powerful thing, to know a man’s tune.
But Cain; she had seen Cain’s tune almost at once. She had been crouching in misery, hiding in the dark, waiting for death, and he had appeared, the light shining behind him. She had been afraid at first. He was Avilian, like the men who had attacked her, but Cain was not those men. His tune was sweet, and clear, and sad. It was the finest music she had ever heard. Even her father had been flawed compared to Cain. Here was the man she could serve, could trust, could even, perhaps, love.
She had not been proven wrong. In all the time she had known him she had not dared to put his tune to the pipes, for she doubted her skill to play it. More than that, she had never wanted to change him. She had no desire to make him do anything that was not of his own will. It would have been an act of barbarism to interfere with such music.
Each man is a thing made by his life, she had been taught. The things he sees, the things he does, and the things he does not do are all building blocks, but there is a tune beneath it all, a foundation. That foundation may become corrupted, life might build away from it and so the heart of a man could be hidden from his own eyes, but it was always there.
Cain had been such a man. His life had been hard, and he had been schooled in brutal and unforgiving places. Yet the foundation had remained, and when the Wolf had plucked him from the brink of destruction he had been freed from all the lies that he had built, from the way that he had believed himself to be. He had become Cain, the Cain she knew. She saw the tune in everything he did, in the way he hesitated before picking up a cup, touching the lip of it with a finger before gripping it, the small pause before he spoke, the way he shook his head slightly before accepting the inevitable things that he did not like. It was in the words he spoke, in his smile, in the way he scratched the back of his head.
She wanted to live because of Cain. Her music, which was hidden from her, was counterpoint to Cain’s, she was certain. There was no discord between them, and each somehow made the other better. She wanted to live so that the perfect song could continue.
So she had blocked the door.
Wood is useful to a water mage. When it is wet it swells, and the force it exerts is huge – far greater than a man’s strength. Sheyani had taken all the water she had been given and placed it in the door, and the door had swollen against the stone frame. Even if they wanted to open it, her captors would be unable to do so.
So she had slept for a while, locked into her cell by key and water, safe, for a while, to wait for Narak. When she woke again she had lost all sense of time, and she sat with her oil lamp and its single yellow flame, waiting for them to come to kill her, waiting for Narak to rescue her.
They came first.
She heard voices, then bolts drawn and louder voices. She could pick out three men, one servile, one blustering, and one that frightened her. The servile voice was a guard, or an officer of the guard. The blusterer she recognised as Carillon. The third man was a stranger, but his voice dominated the others, and his presence filled the space beyond her door, pressed on it like a physical force.
“Why did you put her down here, my lord?” the third voice asked. They were the first words she could make out. The man used Carillon’s title like a whip to beat him. In that voice respect seemed like mockery.
“She is a high born woman,” Carillon said. “She has the blood, even if she is not Avilian. One cannot simply execute one of high blood, certainly not a woman.”
“Can one not?” the voice asked, and the suggestion was that such a thing should be as easy as breaking an egg.
“Not if one has any honour,” Carillon said. There was no reply but a vaguely threatening silence. “Not that I mean to say…”
“Shut up,” the voice said. “I know what you mean, and I know what you are. You should have done this as I told you to do it, and we would all be safer.”
“Sir, I am a duke of Avilian,” Carillon blustered. “You will not speak to me like that.”
The voice ignored him. “Is the door locked?” it asked.
“Locked and bolted, my lord,” the guard replied.
“Open it.”
Sheyani sat in the chair and watched the door. She heard the scrape of the bolts being drawn back. She heard the rattle of the key entering the lock and the clunk as the key turned the tumblers. There was a long pause.
“It seems to be stuck, my lord,” the guard said.
“Stuck?”
“Yes, my lord. I cannot open it.”
Sheyani listened as hands, then shoulders were pressed and driven against the wood, but the door held firm. It was a thick door, and built to resist. She heard grunts and the sound of feet kicking the planks.
“Get out of the way.” It was the third voice, and something in it made Sheyani shrink away. She shifted to the back of the cell. She could hear a trace of this man’s music in his voice, a hint of his tune, and it frightened her.
Something struck the door like a battering ram. She saw the wood deform, bulging at the impact. She knew then that what stood on the other side of the wood was no man. Nothing human could strike with such force. She heard the guard cry out in fear.
The door was struck again. A piece of metal flew off one of the hinges and the door shrieked in protest, moving slightly in its frame. How many more blows like that could it stand? One or two, she guessed, and then whatever stood outside would come in, and she would die.
Another massive impact cracked one of the planks, splinters flowering along the edge of the rift, the door howling in pain as it shifted again in the embrace of the door frame.
There was another noise. A door slamming open, running steps.
“My lord!”
“What?” The question came from Carillon, and she could hear the quake in his voice. The duke was scared.
“The Wolf, my lord. He approaches the gate.”
“Narak is here?” The third voice again, surprised, perhaps even a little worried. It was certainly unwelcome news.
“He is here, my lord,” the new voice said. “He has demanded entry and the men are afraid to deny him.”
“I must leave,” the frightening voice was suddenly less confident. Sheyani could hear anxiety and urgency.
“There is no escape now, Lord Hesham,” Carillon said. “We must face him together.”
“No escape? For you perhaps, but I shall face Narak at a time and place of my own choosing, and it is not here and it is not now.”
Steps retreated, and there was a silence before the cell door.
“What shall we do, my lord?” It was the guard who spoke eventually.
“I fear that we shall die,”
Carillon said. “Let us at least see if we can die well.” There was a rapping on the door. “Are you in there, Lady Sheyani?”
Sheyani did not reply for a moment. She was still shaking. She took a deep breath, feeling a flood of relief that the thing beyond the door was gone. What stood there now was a man.
“I am here, Lord Carillon,” she said.
“You will remember that I did not have you killed,” he said.
“I have a good memory, Lord Carillon,” she replied. After a brief silence she heard steps again; the sound of more than one person retreated up towards the castle proper. She did not hear the outer door close, or the sound of bolts being drawn.
She waited.
* * * *
The thousand men had been no problem at all for Narak. He had not even drawn his blades. Their commanding officer, a short, muscular major who went by the name of Enhanis, met him as he approached their tents from the forest, flanked by a coterie of junior officers. Enhanis was respectful. There was no question but that he knew Narak by sight. He had been one of the men who fought at Finchbeak Road.
“Deus, we are honoured by your presence,” he said, and bowed deeply.
Narak had been prepared to fight his way to the castle gates, but he was pleased by this unexpected civility. “Good day to you, major,” he looked around at the tents and the squat, threatening bulk of the castle behind them. “What are you doing here?”
“Obeying the orders of my lord,” Enhanis replied.
“Your men are promised to the army of Avilian,” Narak said. “When will you march to join them? The winter is fading, Major.”
“When I have orders to do so, Deus,” the major replied. From his tone and his look Narak judged that the major was eager for those orders.
“And what does your lord fear that he holds you back from war?”
“I cannot say, Deus. But he has told us to prevent any from passing along this road to High Stone.”
“Will you prevent me from passing?” Narak asked, but his tone said will you try. The major glanced sideways at his officers and licked his lips.
“How could any loyal Avilian lord object to a visit from the god of wolves, Deus?” he asked. “You may pass, of course.”
Narak smiled at that. The major knew the game that his lord was playing, or suspected it at least, and was not prepared to get his men killed in such a foolish cause. Or maybe he was just not prepared to see his men die. The employment of the word loyal was evidence enough for Narak, though.
“You await orders. I bring you my command and that of Bas Erinor. You are to break camp at once and march to join the army with all prudent speed. Do you need your lord to confirm this?”
“Your word is good enough for me, Deus.”
“I wish you life and victory, Major.”
“Life and victory, Deus.” Enhanis saluted and stepped carefully aside as Narak walked past. The Wolf could hear him beginning to issue orders as he walked on. These soldiers would be on the road within an hour, and they would be glad to be gone.
He walked across the open ground until he came to the gates of High Stone. They were strong gates, slabs of iron-studded oak behind a thick portcullis, and the wall radiated obstinacy. He watched the men on the wall watching him approach, but by the time he stood before the gate it was still closed.
He stepped back so that he could see the heads of the men looking down.
“You know who I am,” he called up. “Open the gates.”
There was an exchange of low voices up above him. They were trying to decide what to do, and perhaps they needed a little pointer. If Carillon himself was not on the wall the decision to open the gates or not would lie with an officer who might be swayed. Narak took another few steps back until he was certain that he was in plain view. He looked up at them.
“Your lord needs to answer a charge of treason,” he called up. “I am here to lay that charge. I admire your loyalty, but if you are steadfast you will stand or fall with your lord. Is that clear?” To add emphasis he reached back and griped the pommels of his swords.
The whispered conversation was momentarily more urgent, but apparently it was quickly resolved.
“We will open the gates, Deus,” a voice called down. Orders were called, and there was a sound of ropes creaking with tension and the metal grille rose slowly from the ground, retreating into the wall above. When it was fully lifted he heard a bar being slid out of its brackets on the other side of the gate, which swung slowly open. It took about two minutes to open the whole thing. Looking at it Narak wondered if he could have forced such a gate. He thought not. He would have had to climb to wall, which looked difficult indeed.
He walked through.
This was a simple but effective fortress. There was a single curtain wall, a single gate, protected, he now saw by a triple layer of portcullis, gate, and portcullis. The walls were thick, perhaps eight feet front to back, and apart from a few stick and straw lean-tos in the bailey, there was only the squat and menacing keep within. The keep door proper was at the top of a wooden stair that could be cut away or burned in a siege, leaving it isolated twenty feet above ground level.
There was another door set in the keep wall at ground level, and it was from this door that he saw Carillon hurrying towards him. He stood and waited for the duke. Technically the duke of Carillon was the third most important figure in the realm of Avilian after the king and the Duke of Bas Erinor. He had fought well at Finchbeak road, standing alongside his men when other great lords urged them on from behind. Carillon was no coward, but now he looked scared, though he did his best to hide it. He strode with his head up, meeting Narak’s gaze, but his thumbs twisted in his belt and his back was a little too stiff.
“Deus, you are welcome here,” he said.
“Where is she?” Narak was not prepared to play the game. There were other things that he should be doing.
“The Lady Sheyani? She is below, she is quite unharmed.”
“Show me.”
The duke nodded and led the way back across the bailey to the lower door. They went down the steps. It was a dungeon. There was no other word to describe the place, even if the doors were open. Everything was over made and the doors wore bolts inside and out. Like the rest of High Stone it was perfectly suited to its function.
Carillon pointed to a closed door.
“Open it,” Narak said.
“We cannot, Deus. It is sealed from within.”
Narak stepped close to the door. “Sheyani?” he called. “I am here. You may release the door.” He could smell the magic that held it shut, but what surprised him more than anything was the condition of the wood. One of the hinges was shattered and the thick planks were cracked and bowed. He put his hand against the wood. There was the faintest trace of blood silver in the air, as though it had been there not long ago, but now was gone away. This door could not have held a child captive in its current condition, so this had been done since Sheyani had been placed there, by something keen to reach her.
“How do I know that it is really you?” Sheyani sounded frightened, but Narak knew that he needed to move quickly if he was going to keep his promises. He seized the door by the small grille in its upper quarter and pulled on it. The wood split, and part of the door came away in his hand, the rest collapsing loudly onto the stone flags.
“Because you can see me,” he said, peering into the gloom.
She stepped out into the brighter light of the guard chamber, spared a glance at Carillon, and then turned to face Narak. She dropped to one knee, bowing her head.
“I thank you for my life, god of wolves,” she said. Narak touched her on the shoulder. It was rare that someone showed the proper gratitude these days, and he was moved. He felt an unexpected rush of warmth towards the tiny Durander. Cain had chosen well with this one. She was special. She reminded him a little of Narala in the early years when the Isler had struggled to shed her more formal ways.
“Sheyani, what happened h
ere?” He indicated the shattered door.
“There was another here,” Sheyani said, looking again at Carillon. “He went by the name of Lord Hesham, but he was no man. He was this one’s master.” There was a faint bluster from Carillon, but they ignored him.
“No man? What do you mean?”
“He was like you, Deus, but also not like you.”
“Benetheon?”
Sheyani shook her head. “I do not think so, Deus.”
Narak turned to Carillon. “What is Lord Hesham?” he demanded.
