by Tim Stead
The eagle turned towards him and began to descend. It took him a moment to realise that it was flying straight towards him as though he had become its chosen prey. He backed slowly away from the wall, but the eagle kept coming, getting quickly lower and seeming larger every second.
By the time it set down in the courtyard before him he had measured the wingspan at eight feet or more, and he and his escort and retreated to the archway, watching in wonder as the huge bird roused its feathers and examined them with an imperial stare.
A moment later it was gone, and a man stood before them. A name sprang at once into Jerac’s mind. Jidian. Jidian the god of eagles. This was him. He was a tall man, nobly built, and a powerful bow was slung over one shoulder. Jerac knelt.
“Deus,” he said. “It is an honour.”
The guard, who had apparently not connected the eagle and the man scrambled to imitate Jerac.
“Take me to the duke,” Jidian said. “At once.”
This was the guard’s duty, not Jerac’s, and he set himself to follow the two as a rearguard, keeping a respectful distance behind the god.
A noise behind him, a soft creak, made him turn.
Another man stood there where a moment ago there had been nobody, and the sight set Jerac’s blood racing. The man was dressed in black and green, and his head was completely encased in a metal helmet. There was a slit for the eyes, and perforations where the ears should be. The man was holding a bow, and the soft creak he had heard was the drawing of the bowstring.
Jerac had less than a second to decide what to do. There was no time for reason, for weighing the matter or conscious thought. He leapt. Jerac jumped not towards the bowman – he was too far away – but across so that his body blocked the path of the arrow to Jidian’s back.
At the same time he leaped he shouted, and as he shouted he saw the arrow fly from the bow. It struck him in the chest, and he felt it snap a rib, twist within him, and rip out through his back. He was spun around by the impact, and saw the arrow hit a pillar and break apart.
He had never known anything so painful as that arrow tearing a hole through his body. For a moment he could not think. Breath would not flow back into his lungs, and he lay on his back, gaping like a fish. His eyes continued to function, though, and he saw Jidian turn, see the bowman, and unsling his own bow. It was a race that Jidian won by a mile. The eagle god moved quickly and smoothly, bringing his arrow up and releasing in one polished movement. His arrow struck the masked bowman in the throat, knocking him back.
The arrow bounced away. The bowman was unharmed. He righted himself and fitted a second arrow to his string. Jerac had never seen anything like it. Nor had Jidian, apparently.
“In the name of all the gods, who are you?” Jidian demanded. The masked bowman didn’t reply, but raised his bow.
Jerac found that the pain had gone. He drew in breath and was about to shout to Jidian, to tell him to run, but his hand came upon the tip of the bowman’s first arrow, the one that had passed through him and struck a pillar. It must have bounced back.
He seized the point, turned his body as quickly as he could, and hurled it with all his strength. His aim could not have been better. The point caught the bowman in the throat, and this time he felt it. The arrow that he was preparing to shoot soared upwards and hit the outer wall of the castle, falling harmlessly into a shrub. The bowman staggered back, ripping the point loose. It hadn’t done a lot of damage, but Jerac could see the brightness of blood.
Jidian leaped over him. His intention was clear. He wanted to close with the masked bowman and overcome him by sheer brute strength, his arrows being useless. He moved quickly, faster than any man Jerac had ever seen.
The bowman saw him coming. He didn’t try to string another arrow, nor did he draw a blade. Neither of these things could have been done quickly enough to save him. Instead he took a quick step backwards and launched himself over the low wall. Jerac was shocked. There was nothing beyond the wall but a cliff, and two hundred feet below that the streets of the low city. He jumped up and ran to the wall himself, arriving there a few paces behind Jidian.
There was nothing. He could see no body, no signs of alarm below, no broken tiles. It was as though the bowman had never been there. He looked up to find Jidian and the castle guard were both staring at him.
“You were hit,” the guard said. “That arrow went through you.”
“No it didn’t,” Jerac protested. “It was just a glancing blow. A scratch. Would I be walking if it had gone through me?” The guard shrugged. The logic was inescapable, but Jidian still stared at him for a moment. Jerac was as shocked as they were. The arrow had gone through him. He’d felt it. He’d felt every inch of it tearing at his lungs and heart, breaking his ribs, but now he was whole. He had no explanation. But Jerac knew that he couldn’t admit it.
“What’s your name?” the Eagle asked.
“Corporal Jerac Fane, Seventh Friend, Deus,” he replied, bowing.
“Well, help me find that arrow he lost, corporal,” Jidian said. Jerac had seen where it fell and went to the bush and pulled it out. It was a very fine arrow. The ones the archers used on the training ground were workmanlike objects, straight and sharp and properly fletched, but this was quite different. It glittered in his hand. He held it out and Jidian took it carefully. He sniffed it, held it against his skin.
“Blood silver,” he said.
Jerac knew what blood silver was. It was the god killing stuff, the one weakness of the Benetheon. The bowman had come to kill Jidian, and from the way the arrow tip had cut him, the bowman was Benetheon also. Perhaps. Jerac didn’t know enough about gods to be sure.
Jidian tucked the blood silver arrow in with his own. “I must see the duke at once,” he said.
The guard had recovered enough to lead the way, and he did so quickly, striding down the remaining corridors until they hurried up a stair to a chamber in which a number of men waited. Jidian clearly considered himself above this. He walked directly to the door of the audience chamber itself and pushed through the door.
Jerac didn’t dare follow. What a god may dare a corporal may not.
* * * *
Quin was hearing evidence. Three days back and he was dealing with the most unpleasant of his many duties. There were men to be tried for treason, and one of them was Kaylis Faste, whom he had once counted among his friends. He did not doubt their guilt. They were complicit to some degree in the murder of his brother and the attempted murder of Quin himself and Cain and Sheyani Arbak.
The evidence suggested more than a simple plot, however. Hesham had been the lynch pin, it seemed. He was the only one who had known all facets of the thing, the one who had arranged a Seth Yarra ambush for Cain, the kidnapping of Sheyani, the assassins who had tried to kill Quin and succeeded in killing Aidon. If it had succeeded there would have been chaos.
Carillon would have been duke here, and he could not think of a man less fit for the role. Carillon was also implicated. He had known about the kidnapping, his men had carried it out, but if the Wolf’s writing was to be believed he had not known about the ambush or Seth Yarra. He could not doubt the Wolf. Carillon was foolish and vain enough to believe in his own merit, but he was no traitor to Avilian.
Still, it made no difference. Treason or murder, the punishment would be the same.
The door crashed open, his guards scattered as a large, powerful figure brushed them aside. They reached for their blades; those that had fallen regained their feet and leaped forwards to attack. Quin had only seen Jidian a few times, but once seen, never forgotten. He waved his men back and they halted, reluctantly pulled back.
“Deus, I am honoured by your visit,” he said.
Jidian looked angry. His face was red and he stood quivering on the flagstones. Lucky they held back, Quin thought. He looked about ready for a fight.
“Lord Duke,” he said. “I come with grave news. Seth Yarra have landed in Afael, and in Avilian. Seventeen ships have
put men ashore and more sail off the coast. Doubtless there will be other landings.”
“Landings?” Quin was stunned. He had expected Seth Yarra to stay the other side of the Dragon’s Back until spring. “Where?”
“Everywhere,” Jidian said.
“Exactly where?” Quin insisted.
“Six hundred are between here and Golt. Four hundred east of Golt, two groups of six hundred are loose in Berash, one marching west along the coast and another north towards Tor Silas, eight hundred have been landed north of Afael City and march south. They may intend to besiege the city. Four hundred more are camped on the border with Afael, building a fortification.”
“And other ships?”
“As near as I can tell there are another ten – about a thousand men if they carry their usual cargo – ready to be landed where their masters deem best.”
Quin closed his eyes for a moment. This was a disaster. He knew that Narak was away, doing something mysterious in the frozen lands which might benefit them all, but he was needed here. Quin was too young to lead the alliance. He could not imagine King Raffin ceding command to a nineteen year old, nor Afael for that matter, but Raffin would not take the field and the Afaeli king was an amateur. So who? Havil? Havil was a great soldier, but too bold.
He wished for a moment that Skal was this side of the Dragon’s back. He was one of the few commanders Quin trusted to act with caution and intelligence. Cain was another, of course, but the rest of them had come to rely on the Wolf too much.
He turned to the men he had been speaking with. “I’m, sorry, but this matter must wait again.” He could see from their faces that they agreed. To a man they looked shaken by Jidian’s news.
“Bring me maps,” he said. “Send a messenger for Cain. He’ll be at Waterhill by now. Bring him and the Lady Sheyani as quickly as you can. Send riders north to the army. Bring a thousand of them south to Bas Erinor and the others are to approach, but camp sixty miles north.” Men ran to convey his orders.
“I will fight with you,” Jidian said.
Of course. Quin expected that, but which you would he fight with. Quin was going to have to scatter his forces all over the kingdom. It was what they wanted. He could see that, but there was no other response he could make.
The one sure thing was that he needed time to think, and time was in short supply. The eagle had told him that Seth Yarra had already landed. Even as he stood here there would be messengers riding in from east and west, riding to Tor Silas and Afael with the same news.
“There is one more matter that I must bring to your attention,” Jidian said.
A man had returned with maps and was making space on the table so that they could be unrolled. Quin walked to the window. Jidian came with him. “What is that?” he asked.
“There is a man outside called Jerac Fane.”
“Fane?” the name pricked his memory. Of course, the man who had saved Maryal. “He’s here?”
Jidian seemed surprised. “You know of him already?”
“Of course. He saved the duchess’s life. He was coming here today to be rewarded, though I don’t know what I can give him. What is he to you?” Jidian laughed. It was a shocking thing for him to do given the news he had brought, and given the grave subject of their discussion. “Something amuses you?” he asked.
“Indeed it does, Duke Quinnial,” Jidian said. “Not ten minutes ago the same Jerac Fane saved my life. Twice. It seems he makes a habit of it.”
“You were attacked?” Quin was aghast. One of the Benetheon attacked in Bas Erinor castle? It shamed his house.
“I was, but not by any man,” Jidian drew forth an arrow from his quiver and showed it to Quin. Quin studied it for a moment. It glittered like powdered ice, and felt cool in his hand. He had never held blood silver before, but he guessed.
“And the assassin?”
“Gone.” Jidian told him how the man had thrown himself from the walls, but vanished without trace.
“Why do you think he hides his face?” Quin asked. “If it is Lord Hesham then I have seen him plain enough. He was here in the castle. He spoke to me.”
“Perhaps he does not fear that you should know his face,” Jidian replied. “It is a wonder that he did not kill you while he was here.”
Quin didn’t like to think of that. If Hesham was the monster that Sheyani said then he could have caused untold mayhem in Bas Erinor, but he had not. Hesham had slipped quietly away and left others to do his low work. Whatever the reason, Quin was grateful that it was so.
“Well,” Jidian said. “I think we should speak to this Jerac Fane. Don’t you?”
“Aye, the war will wait an hour,”
Fifteen - Sara
It was mid morning when a mob of horses pounded to a halt across the gravel outside the library window, men shouted, and harnesses jingled. Sara was dragged from the distant world of her current book. There were no scholars in the house, and none due for a week, and Sara had finally completed the catalogue just five days previously so that this was, for her, the first genuine week of leisure she had enjoyed since arriving at the house.
She went to the window and looked out. She only had a partial view of the front from this here, but she could see several of the horses and their riders, and they looked familiar. That was odd, because they were clearly soldiers, and she know no soldiers, except for Tilian…
It was Tilian, back with the men. She recognised them now. Under that soldier’s veneer the men were the same foresters that he’d been training before they left.
She ran to the door, then stepped back and looked down at her clothes. Well, she wasn’t dressed to receive visitors, not in the way that might be expected of her, but she was presentable enough. She brushed a few creases away and then strode out of the room.
In the stable yard all was chaos. The men had left largely on foot, and had come back apparently each with his own mount. They looked different. Their swords no longer tripped them, and they moved with a brisk efficiency that was quite foreign to Latter Fetch. Sara couldn’t see Tilian. If he was among the men he must already be in the stables.
She bumped into a man and turned to see an officer’s markings. For a moment she thought it must be Tilian, but it couldn’t be. Tilian was shorter. She recognised the face.
“Brodan,” she said. “It is Brodan, isn’t it?”
“Aye, Lady Sara,” he said, puffing up a bit. “Lieutenant Brodan.”
For a moment she was seized by a terrible thought. If Brodan was lieutenant what had happened to Tilian? Was he dead? She imagined him slain in some battle, lying unburied on some cold and distant field.
“Is he all right?” she asked.
Brodan looked puzzled for a moment. “Our Lord is with his regiment in Telas,” he said. “I thought you would have heard.”
“Tilian,” she corrected him. “Is Tilian all right?”
Now Brodan smiled, and his smile put her at ease before his words. It was a broad, happy smile. “Aye, better than,” the forester said. “Captain Sir Tilian Henn, knighted by the duke himself, has gone down to Bas Erinor to pick up our pay.”
Knighted. She had not imagined such a thing. What had Tilian done to get knighted?
“Sir Tilian?”
“A hero,” Brodan said. “All of us heroes. We defeated the Seth Yarra army, just us and a couple of dozen clay feet from the regiment.” She looked at him again. She could see a trace of hardness that hadn’t been there before. Brodan had been a shy young man, well liked but quiet and self effacing. Now he was more confident. He stood among the men as their leader. How much had Tilian changed?
“You must tell me the tale,” she said. “You seem to have lost nobody,” she added, looking round at the men.
“Giras,” Brodan said. “We lost Giras and a city man in the great forest. It was a small loss, by way of a battle, but we felt it all the same.”
She nodded. “I am sorry to hear it, Brodan. Will you dine with me tomorrow night and tell m
e about it? I’m sure you’ll want to rest tonight.”
Brodan smiled again. “Aye, I will, My Lady.”
She left the men to their horses. A couple of them saw her and bowed respectfully, but most were too busy, and she retreated once more to her library, feeling the twin emotions of disappointment and relief. She had thought to see Tilian again. In all this time she had not forgotten him, and remembered him almost every day, his sense of honour and his sincere, unsmiling face at dinner.
Sara knew she had been cruel to him. At the time she had not thought it, but she had been ignorant and unschooled. Books, she had learned, were the province of manners, a land in which good and evil, right and wrong were always as plain as the black and white pages they wandered through.
