by Tim Stead
The simplest thing was to ask her.
He went through the kitchen door. It was busy. The kitchens were always busy now, feeding the lords and their retinues in shifts. There was a cook close to the door carving meat.
“Did you see Margalay pass through?” he asked.
“Margalay? Yes, my lord. She went to collect a basket of fragrant herbs for my lady’s chamber.”
“She told you this?”
“She did, my lord.” That was a surprise, in a way. Margalay had no reason to tell the cook anything. As Honaria’s maid she outranked him and this man was not even the master of the kitchen.
He left the kitchens and hurried up to their tower chambers. He looked in their sitting room first, but there was no sign of Margalay or the herbs she had brought. He went through to the bed chamber and found it just as they had left it that morning. He went up the stairs to his work room – a small space, but he had to have somewhere to deal with estate business.
There was nothing here, either. He went through to the last room, his wife’s work chamber. It was larger than his own. In her own way, Honaria was a scholar. She read a great deal and corresponded with people across the kingdoms. She also embroidered with great skill, played several musical instruments, and spoke three languages. To Durander eyes she was worthless because she was a mute, lacked the talent that made a mage, but in every other way she was remarkable.
He paused in her room. Margalay should have been here with the fresh herbs she’d picked to scent the room, but she was not. Even so, Callan lingered. He loved this room. The smells, the colours, the touch of Honaria’s hand on every smallest thing here enchanted him.
It was not a tidy room. He picked up one of the letters scattered across her desk. It was from a historian in Tor Silas, a Berashi, discussing some point from a book he’d never heard of. He put the letter down. Next to the desk was a piece of embroidery. It looked finished, so he picked it up and examined it. The image was four red birds in flight around a yellow flower. It was executed with consummate skill. Callan smiled and ran his thumb over the stitching, feeling the smooth silken threads. He put it down again – then snatched it up once more.
The embroidery had been resting on a metal device that looked a little like a watering can without the rose. He knew what it was at once. He picked it up and sniffed at the spout. White Ivy. This was the very instrument that had been used to drug Lord Umber’s family before they were slaughtered. But what was it doing here in Honaria’s work room?
He was not stupid enough to miss the obvious implication – that his wife had done the killings – but he refused to believe it. Honaria had no cause, and he was certain that, if she had indeed been an Abadonist, she would never have been so idiotic as to leave this thing in her room. Someone else had put it there.
He heard shouting downstairs and threw the embroidery over the far kettle before hurrying to see what new alarm had arisen. He found Dardanel in their sitting room.
“What?” he demanded.
“Another killing,” the steward said.
“Who?”
“It’s Lady Blackwood, my lord. She drowned.”
“Drowned?”
“In a corridor in the servant’s quarters, my lord.”
Callan followed Dardanel out of his chambers. Another death and this time it could not be put down to an Abadonist. He wondered when panic would set in.
29 Beyond the Wall
Kelcotel flew quickly. This flight did not steal the breath as his precipitous dive had done, but they were closer to the ground and the speed was the more exhilarating for that. They cleared the city walls by no more than twenty feet and the dragon rose into a stall so that they dropped gently on the very top of the keep of Golt Castle.
Narak jumped down, but waited while Enali clambered the length of the great wing with more care. She looked flushed with excitement but afraid at the same time. They had both seen the army marching on Golt but, unlike Narak, she was afraid of it. She would learn, he supposed, not to fear such things.
He caught himself in that thought. She would only learn if she became one of his, and he had already made the assumption. It was what she had been seeking and he had no doubt that he could find a use for a clever, beautiful and well-connected young woman.
“Enali, you have been of some service today,” he said.
She glanced at the bloody jacket he was carrying under one arm. “I can only think that you are mocking me, Deus,” she replied. “I did nothing.”
“You showed courage and intelligence. When there was a question of it, you were inclined to show mercy, and you spotted the stall man before I did. That’s a rare thing.” He dug in his pocket and held out an offering. “Here.”
“I have no need…”
“It is not a coin, Enali.”
She looked uncomprehending for a moment, then smiled like the child she was.
“A ring?”
He dropped it into her outstretched hand, a wolf’s head ring. It was no more than a symbol, but potent enough.
“You are mine, Enali Canterissa,” he said. “You have my favour. You will live many years, know perfect heath, and if you die you will be avenged.”
She knelt. For some reason they always did that, even though Narak had let it be known that he disliked the gesture.
“Stand,” he said. “I have a task for you. Take this.” He held out the bloody jacket and she accepted it gingerly, holding it so that the blood did not mark her clothes. “Take it to the king, tell him what had happened, and that I have gone to the city gates to deal with the problem he has there.”
“The king will not see me,” she said.
Narak smiled. “Mention my name. Do you remember what Narian told us? The name of the plotter?”
“Yes. It was Tarn Reldon, a junior armourer.”
“Good. Tell him that as well.”
By now a small group of soldiers had appeared on the roof, but they were staying well clear of Narak and the dragon. Kelcotel looked at them.
“I think I make them nervous,” he said. “Best I should be on my way.”
Enali bowed to the dragon.
“My thanks, Lord Kelcotel, for the honour you have done me.”
“It was no great trouble,” the dragon said. He turned to Narak. “At least she’s polite,” he said, and plunged off the edge of the keep.
“Remember,” Narak said. “Be proud, be humble, be honest.” Then he, too, stepped off the battlements and plunged towards the courtyard below. Enali couldn’t help herself. She leaned out to see him land in the courtyard below like a cannon ball. There was a crack as a paving stone split beneath him, and then he was off, running like a wolf towards the castle gates.
She turned and looked at the guards. If anything, they seemed as nervous as she felt. She took a deep breath and walked over to the door where they waited.
“Wolf Narak sends me with a gift for the king, and news of a traitor.”
The man in charge nodded. Enali wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a bow.
“Follow me, My Lady,” he said.
*
Narak reached the gate a good hour before the approaching army. He spoke to the gate captain, took up a position on top of the tower and watched them come.
They approached in good order and Narak counted them as they came. He reckoned eight hundred horse and a thousand foot. They might have been enough to take the city if Narak had not been here, but they were really here to kill one man – King Degoran.
He waited. They set up a camp and raised a rather large and ornate tent towards the rear. That was the signal for Narak to move. Now he knew where to find their commander.
Jumping from the wall would have been showy, and Narak liked being showy, but this time he chose to use the gate. The gate captain found a white cloth he could use as a flag of truce and he left the city by the postern. It wasn’t a long walk and he drew attention almost at once. Two hundred paces from the gate he was faced by a dozen
men, and he still didn’t know which regiment he was dealing with.
“State your business,” a belligerent lieutenant demanded.
“My business is with your commander,” Narak said.
“And why should Colonel Pomeroy waste his time on you?”
Narak smiled. It was both good news and bad news. Pomeroy was known to him. The colonel’s reputation for bombast and recklessness preceded him everywhere. His lord was one of Alwain’s greatest supporters. It would be good to be rid of him. On the other hand, it made it more likely that a lot of people would die today.
“I am Wolf Narak,” he said. “And I assure you that Pomeroy will want to see me – if only from a safe distance.”
His words caused some unease among Pomeroy’s men, but they parted and walked beside him towards the fancy tent. One of them ran ahead, presumably to inform the colonel of his visitor. That suspicion was confirmed when they drew near. A line of armoured men, swords drawn, had been placed between Narak and Pomeroy’s quarters. The colonel himself had taken a seat by a table outside the tent and poured himself a glass of wine. It was a gesture, a piece of bravado which showed Narak that Pomeroy had completely failed to grasp the situation. He wasn’t surprised. Pomeroy wasn’t renowned for his grasp of anything.
“So, you are Wolf Narak,” the colonel said. He was so far away that he had to raise his voice.
“I am,” Narak replied.
“Have you come to surrender the king?” Pomeroy asked.
“No.” Narak was beginning to enjoy himself. These men might be innocent after a fashion, but they were following a fool and he would give them their chance to run. He was sure that many of them would take it.
“Then you have come to fight two thousand men?”
“No,” Narak said. “I have come to give you a chance to run away.”
Pomeroy laughed, and Narak had to give the man credit. It sounded genuine.
“Perhaps if I killed a couple of dozen, just to show you how it’s going to go?” Narak suggested.
“I outnumber you two thousand to one. Why would I give up such an advantage?”
Narak gestured behind him. “I have a walled city, a castle and the best part of a thousand men. Why would I give up that?”
“You’re trying to bluff me.”
“No. Not one of Degoran’s men is going to die today, and none of yours have to. Just pack up and run back to Alwain. I promise I won’t kill any of you.”
Pomeroy drained his wine glass and gestured for it to be refilled. While the soldier-servant was pouring he spoke:
“I grow bored with this,” he said. “Kill him.”
Narak assumed his aspect. He knew what he looked like when he did – a bizarre chimera, a mixture of man and wolf and dragon, scaled, frightening and most of all quite impervious to any weapon these men could wield. He smelled blood silver. A century ago he might have feared that, but that was before Kirrith had gifted him his dragon nature. Now the arrows bounced off, the blades skidded across his impenetrable skin.
Narak drew his blades. He stepped forwards into the mass of armoured men before him and cut them down. His swords were another gift from the dragon Kirrith, their dragon steel edges cut through common steel as though it were butter. They cut through armour and flesh, cloth and bone. Men screamed and died, but Narak was just clearing the path to his true objective.
Pomeroy saw him coming and tried to escape, but a single prodigious leap put Narak by his side and he picked up the colonel by the front of his ridiculous uniform.
“No!” Whether it was disbelief or a plea for mercy Narak couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. He thrust his blade into Pomeroy’s belly, twisted it and brought it out through the top of the man’s head, cutting him almost completely in half. He dropped the corpse and turned to face the soldiers surrounding him.
“Now run,” he said.
But he could hear the sound of horses’ hooves, and the infantry parted to reveal a full-blooded cavalry charge coming straight at him.
Narak sighed. He raised his blades and ran to meet them.
*
The soldiers led Enali down into the heart of Golt Castle. She was from an aristocratic family, albeit a minor one, but she had never been here. It was more functional than she had ever imagined. The walls were naked stone. The guttering torches were few. Lower down they entered a more familiar world. There were carpets and tapestries, furniture carved with exquisite representations of men and women, dragons and gods.
There were people here, too, servants and soldiers. Excitement and fear were in the air. It was evident that the castle already knew of the approaching army.
They came to a guarded door.
“Wait here,” the lieutenant said.
“Should the king wait to hear the Wolf’s words, to receive his gift?” she asked. Be bold, Narak had said. Be humble.
“I must announce you,” the soldier said.
“Then tell the king that Narak’s messenger awaits.”
The man went through the guarded doors and after a short while came out again.
“King Degoran will see you now.”
She was escorted into the king’s private chamber to find the monarch poring over a map. He looked up when she came in and examined her. She could see that his eyes lingered on the bloody jacket and on the wolf’s head ring that she wore.
“Speak,” he said.
Enali let the jacket fall and the battered head rolled out onto the floor. “A gift from Narak, Lord King. It is the head of Narian the innkeeper who plotted to poison your arrows. The man he paid to do the deed is Tarn Reldon, a junior armourer.”
Degoran smiled. “The Wolf’s justice is swift and certain. Mine will be more leisurely.” He turned to one of his guards. “Have Narian’s wife arrested and the tavern closed.”
“My Lord,” Enali raised her voice and it worked, the man the king had instructed stopped and waited. “Lord King, Narak declared the wife innocent and promised Narian that his wife should keep the tavern.”
Degoran frowned. “Indeed,” he said. “And what are promises made to the dead that we should honour them?”
“The promises of a god are not to be lightly set aside, Lord King,” Enali said. It was the nearest to a threat she could make herself deliver. “Especially when that god is even now at the city gates dealing with the problem you have there.”
Degoran’s face cleared. “Truly? Narak goes to fight?”
“I do not know what he intends, but it may be so.”
The King turned from her with a smile on his face. “Captain! Arrange an escort. We go to the city walls, to the gate. This meeting we will witness.” He turned back to Enali. “You will come too. If Narak fights it is a sight not to be missed.”
It took time, of course, for the royal party to assemble and move beyond the castle. It was so long, in fact, that Enali thought that they would have missed any fighting, but when they climbed the walls they were still in time to see Narak, escorted by two dozen soldiers and carrying a flag of truce, approach an ornate tent.
“Pomeroy,” the king said. “I’d recognise that fop’s tent anywhere.”
They couldn’t hear the words, but it was evident that Narak was talking with Pomeroy, and that went on for a while.
“Are you a student of History?” Degoran asked.
“I’ve studied a little,” Enali said.
“Then I will tell you more. Narak has not fought since the second Great War. He fought at Finchbeak and again at Fal Verdan, but during that war he changed. My scholars are not certain, but they believe it had something to do with the return of the dragons. Those swords he carries are special, too. A gift from Kirrith, they say.”
The uneasy tension in Pomeroy’s camp broke suddenly. A hail of arrows was loosed at Narak’s solitary figure and he responded, apparently unscathed, by carving through the colonel’s guards and killing the colonel in a most decisive manner.
Enali hoped that would be an end of it, but Po
meroy’s cavalry, all of them, bore down on the Wolf in an impressive tide of lances and raised swords.
Degoran had been right. Enali knew that this was something she would never forget. It was like a rock in a river. The cavalry broke apart around the wolf god. Many of the horses shied away and Narak spared them, cutting the men from their saddles as they passed. But one horse ploughed straight into him, and Enali feared that he would be knocked aside, but it was the horse that was thrown, as if it weighed no more than a cat, high into the air. Its rider flew even higher, arcing fifty feet above the slaughter to crash to earth among his dead comrades.
At the sight of this some of the cavalry turned and fled to the north, but still others came on and were met with destruction.
“He is death’s recruiting sergeant, is he not?” Degoran whispered. He too, was in awe. The white blades flashed ceaselessly amidst the carnage and in ten minutes it was done. Men fled in every direction, but mostly to the north, and the scene of the battle was a terrible sight with just one figure upright, standing close to Pomeroy’s tent which, by some miracle, also remained standing.
“Take him water,” Degoran snapped. “Enough to bathe. And fresh clothes.”
Even from here Enali could see that Narak’s clothes were cut to ribbons and soaked through with the blood of his enemies. So it must have been at Afael, she thought, except that at Afael he had worn armour.
She hurried down the steps and out through the postern. She felt that it was important that she should be with him now. She wasn’t sure why, but she had just seen hundreds of men die, and that was a terrible thing.
Perhaps it was what they had seen, but she soon outstripped the others and came first to Narak’s side, well ahead of those that Degoran had sent. She did not find what she expected. Narak seemed almost broken by what he had done. He stood motionless among the dead squadrons, the disembowelled horses and butchered men, his eyes dull, his blades hanging loosely from his hands.
