by Tim Stead
“So, Dunst, they tell me you fought at Golt.”
“I… Yes, My Lord, I did.”
Now that the subject had been broached the rest of the table grew quiet.
“How did Pomeroy fall?” Alwain asked.
Dunst glanced up and down the table. “He was one of the first to die, My Lord, killed by Wolf Narak.”
“The first? Did nobody defend him?”
“His personal guard, some twenty men in plate, preceded him, My Lord. We attacked at once.”
“You attacked? Two thousand men?”
“Yes, My Lord,”
“And how many men did Narak have with him?”
“He was alone, My Lord,” Dunst said, and at that point you could have heard a penny falling on grass.
“Two thousand against one? Do you take me for a fool, Captain? No man can stand against two thousand.”
“I beg your pardon, My Lord, and I mean no offence, but Narak is not a man.”
Haliman had expected this. He’d heard the same tale from some of Fargas’s men before they were sent to die on Bas Erinor’s walls. Alwain must have heard it too, but chosen to disbelieve it.
“You didn’t run?” Alwain asked.
“Again, begging your pardon, My Lord, but it would have been hard after Narak cut off my leg.”
There was a stifled laugh from one end of the table. Alwain ignored it.
“So how did this injury come about, Captain?”
“I was on horseback. We charged. His blade cut through my leg, through my horse and killed a man on the other side. My horse… was thrown aside. After that I don’t remember much. Someone tied a tourniquet on my thigh, the wound was cauterised. The first thing I recall with any clarity is being on the back of a wagon in the woods north of the city.”
“So men could have sallied out from the city,” Alwain said.
Dunst shook his head. “Why would they, My Lord? They were not needed. I had the tale from a hundred men who lived. No blade, no arrow could harm him. I saw them fail with my own eyes, and we had blood silver. My Lord, he cannot be killed and he slew a thousand men almost as quickly as they came at him.”
Alwain had coloured during Dunst’s speech. Haliman knew that he did not like to be contradicted, and certainly not by a junior officer. But to the colonel’s surprise he did not shout. He sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Dunst’s face.
“So, Haliman,” he said. “Do you think he is telling the truth?”
“He has no reason to lie, My Lord,” Haliman said.
“Perhaps he does, perhaps he doesn’t,” Alwain said. “Did you not say that Fetherhill had betrayed us?”
That was a difficult charge to answer. “My Lord, this man wears your uniform, he was gravely injured in your service, and his tale is no different from any other man that faced Narak at Golt.”
Alwain nodded and picked up his wine. “True, true, but it’s what he told us about this Fane that interests me. Can we trust it?”
“Does it matter?” Haliman said, knowing that it did. He believed Dunst, and had good reason. His cavalrymen had found other witnesses who corroborated the captain’s story. But perhaps he could use Alwain’s disbelief. If he did, it would be a card he wanted to play later. “He’s coming with us. If he’s been false, we’ll know soon enough.”
“Yes. Good.” Alwain sipped his wine. “We’ll keep an eye on you, Captain Dunst.”
“By all means,” Dunst said. “Keep two. I’ve told no lies.”
Alwain looked at him a moment longer then turned away, leaning towards the man beside him. “I’m glad we brought our own wine with us,” he said. “Fetherhill hasn’t proven very hospitable.”
There was a ripple of forced laughter and the tension dissolved. Haliman sighed and leaned back. It some ways being Alwain’s colonel was like managing a wilful child. His lord required rewards and excuses to do the right thing when it contradicted his baser instincts. Well, it would be over soon enough, one way or the other.
79 Fire
Narak paced the halls. He was restless. But that was the wrong word. He felt a pressure inside him. It was an urge, or like an urge, but he couldn’t pick in what direction it drove him. It had been growing in him for days. In some ways it was like the feeling he had before a battle, the need for it to start, to draw his blades, to kill. There were subtle differences. He could see no cause. Everything in Golt Castle was peaceful and he was among friends.
He went back to his room and was drawn to the window with its views over the castle walls.
Not high enough. He didn’t know why it wasn’t high enough, but that was how he felt. That was what his restlessness told him. He left his room and climbed the tower. Up here the wind was blowing in from the sea bringing a familiar smell of salt and seaweed. He turned to face it and took a deep breath. The wind was good. It eased the feeling inside him a little.
He stepped up into a crenel and from there onto a merlon. He looked down. The paved bailey was a hundred feet below him, but for Narak it wasn’t a fatal drop. In his full aspect he could fall that far and further in perfect safety.
The wind enticed him. He liked the feel of it, but it wasn’t enough.
He opened his arms and fell. The wind became a roar in his ears, pulling his hair back, filling his mouth, making his eyes water.
Narak changed.
Everything changed.
He knew at once that he would never be able to describe the feeling. The wind became a whisper, the rushing air a sweet caress and, eyes wide, he could see everything.
He opened his wings and the downwards rush became speed. He soared out over the bailey wall, raced across the town and out towards the sea.
Wings. Narak had wings. It was inevitable, of course. When he had been just a wolf, he could be the wolf or the man. He could choose, or he could be both. Now he was wolf, man and dragon and, somehow, he had never thought to be the dragon alone.
Now he was.
It was extraordinary. The moonlit night was like day, and he could see for miles. He climbed, but it made almost no difference. The higher he flew the more he could see. Waves breaking on the shoreline, the glistening pebbles, the dark strands of seaweed. He was hundreds of feet above them and he could see each pebble almost as though he held it in his hand.
He wheeled and turned back towards Golt.
The castle, the city and even the guards on the walls all leaped into view. He could see a man dozing at his post, the steam rising from a cup of tea through a window in the guardhouse by the gate.
But Narak was too small. He had become a Narak sized dragon, and that was wrong. Dragons should be huge, intimidating, big enough to strike awe by size alone.
He grew larger. He could feel his wings stretching, his talons swelling, his head broadening out, his strength growing ever greater. He felt more alive than he had for years. This was new. He was doing things he could never have done before.
He breathed in and thought of fire. He breathed out and the sky lit up around him, an ocean of flame. He beat his wings and flew up, straight up into the sky until Golt was a glittering coin on the edge of the sea. It was cold up here. He could feel it, but he was not cold.
He dipped one wing, banked and rolled. Somehow he knew how to fly, how to be a dragon. It was wonderful.
For another hour he rode the high winds, revelling in what he could become, but eventually, sated with the novelty of it, he folded his wings and fell back towards the ground. As he gathered speed, he tried to imagine what he could do with this new form. He could certainly travel faster, and it seemed to him that he could think more clearly. As a wolf his mind had been simpler, his intelligence dulled, but as a dragon it seemed sharper. Thoughts came to him with the clarity of a spring day. He could point his mind at confusion and, like a lamp in the dark, it made sense of it. It felt like he had woken up.
The city was rushing up to meet him. He opened his wings and finished his descent with a spiral, swinging away from the c
ity and then back again, slowing, shrinking himself again to man size.
He raced towards the window of his room and at the last moment folded his wings and changed again, became Narak.
He passed through the window without touching the sides and skidded to a halt against the far wall, the carpet rucking under his feet.
He stopped and breathed in.
There was someone else in the room.
“That was very impressive,” she said. “How long have you been able to do that?”
“Pascha?”
“Of course.”
Narak’s skin tingled with life, his hair was thick with wind. “I found out tonight. For some reason my body wanted to explore being a dragon. Perhaps it couldn’t before.”
“Perhaps.” She lit a lamp. Pascha was sitting in a chair by the door. She was casually dressed in green cottons, her red hair tied back. “You realise you’ve scared most of the people of Golt half to death?”
“Scared them? How?”
Pascha smiled and shook her head. “You really have no idea. Do you? Come here and I’ll show you. I watched you up there and I can give you that memory.”
Narak crossed the room and knelt down by her chair. She put a hand on his head.
“Close your eyes.”
He closed them and suddenly he was looking out of the window, up into the sky, and there was a dragon there.
“Gods!”
“Just watch,” Pascha said.
The dragon was huge, but more than that, it was on fire. It wore flames like feathers, as though Kelcotel had caught fire, but there was no smoke. Narak watched as the image of his dragon-self climbed away into the sky, tumbling impossibly upwards like a living firework.
The vision ended. Narak blinked in the lamplight.
“Amazing,” he said, unable to keep a smile from his face.
“You never had much time for prophecy, did you?”
“There’s no such thing,” Narak said. “The future isn’t written and most of what passes for prophecy is gibberish. You can twist it to mean almost anything after the fact.”
“But others do believe it. You’ve never read Ugari’s ‘As Cacatano’, ‘The Harbingers’?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s written in Sillish – from the time before the god-mage wars. You’ve got people muttering about Adelir Ferrant, The Promise of Fire.”
Adelir. That’s what the dragons had called him. The promise. He hadn’t known the word was Sillish. It had just been a word that came into his head unbidden.
“Why? What has that got to do with me?”
Ugari says, and I quote the translation: “The promise of fire will fly above the golden city.”
“That could mean anything.”
“Golt is the Sillish for gold.”
“Golt didn’t exist then.”
“That’s sort of the point of prophecy,” Pascha said.
“It’s still gibberish,” Narak said. “I’m sure you can pick a line from Ugari to fit what you had for dinner if you try hard enough.”
Pascha smiled. “Probably,” she said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that people are talking about it.”
“So what legend is this?”
“The end of the world.”
“I’m supposed to end the world?” Narak asked.
“You can’t claim credit for everything,” Pascha said, smiling again. “You’re a harbinger, that’s all.”
“I’m not a harbinger,” Narak said. “I’m a dragon – if I choose to be.” He poured himself a cup of wine. “Why are you here?”
Pascha frowned. “You know, I almost forgot. Degoran isn’t safe.”
“What do you mean? What threatens him?”
“There is another god-mage, not Callista. Someone else. He’s been creating Farheim. Fane ran across them at Red Hill. They wiped out the garrison there. The mage himself was at Fetherhill. He tried to kill the Lord and his family. I think he was behind the attacks at High Stone as well.”
Narak shook his head. “But that means he’s attacking both sides. Why?”
“I don’t know, but the attacks on Red Hill are being blamed on Fane. Perhaps that’s what he wanted.”
“There’s nobody left to blame it on here if he tries to kill Degoran.”
“You won’t be able to stop him, Narak.”
“Maybe.”
“He’s a god-mage. He could bring down Golt Castle if he wished.”
“Maybe. But he hasn’t yet.”
Pascha stared at him. “You think you can beat a god-mage?” Narak shrugged. Pascha continued to stare, but her eyes weren’t really looking at him, more through him. She closed her eyes, sighed, and opened them again. “You are different,” she said.
“Different from what?”
“From the others. When I look at Jidian I can see how he was made. The same with Caster and Skal. They’re like people with… with things tied onto them. The dragons too, even Kirrith. I can see how all of them were made. But not you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Everyone else, everything else that was created by magic is like a bundle of wires that can be picked apart, but you – it’s more like you’ve been forged into a single, natural thing.”
“Does that make me better?”
Pascha shrugged. “I have no idea. But it’s beside the point. I’ll watch you and Degoran, and try to keep an eye on Cain as well. If our mystery god-mage steps out again I’ll be waiting.”
“That’s good to know. It feels better when you have my back.” He stepped over to her and took her hands, raising her out of the chair. They embraced, holding each other in silence for a while.
“I’m afraid, Narak,” she said.
“You’re a god-mage.”
“And you’re Wolf Narak the Fire Dragon. Even so, I hope we come out of this alive. I have doubts. He’s very powerful.”
“So are you, and you have Callista.”
“That’s true.”
They looked at each other for a moment. Narak wondered how he’d lived centuries believing that she hated him.
“I should get back,” she said.
“And I should check on the king.”
She nodded. “Soon, then.” She vanished, leaving a little spiral of dust swirling on the floor. Narak drained his cup of wine, straightened his jacket and went to see the king.
80 Blood Valley
Cain had insisted on a tight line since the incident at Waterhill. His army marched in battle readiness, his scouts moved ahead and on both sides. He even had a squadron trailing a mile behind. There would be no surprises.
They were, by his calculation, two days in the wake of Alwain’s army. Alwain was moving quickly, which seemed out of character, and Cain had no choice but to do the same. He’d halved the midday rest and marched from the first glimmers of dawn until the sun touched the horizon. His men were getting tired, but the same must be true of Alwain’s. The danger was that Alwain would stop at Fetherhill and rest, but he didn’t think that was likely. Fane had planned to abandon the castle. There would be no cause to stop there.
He rode in the middle of the column with Sheyani. She piped endurance, giving the men the will to plod on endlessly. The music didn’t make them any less tired, but it did make them not mind it. It even seemed to lift the horses’ spirits.
He’d allowed Caster to position himself, and the swordmaster rode the column, ranging the length of it every hour or so. That should have been Cain’s job, but Caster had fought for hours on the wall, and the men who’d survived that last battle looked to him now. It was hardly surprising. The Farheim version of Caster was a sort of shadow of Wolf Narak.
The first sign of trouble was a scout riding back down the column. He was riding quickly, which suggested he had something of consequence to report. He turned in next to Cain.
“Sir, Captain Lockwell reports men on the road ahead.”
“How many?”
&nbs
p; “About fifty, sir, but there could be more.”
Fifty men were no cause for alarm, but they could be a part of Alwain’s rearguard. That would be a problem.
“How far ahead?”
“About a mile, sir. Less than half an hour before the column reaches them.”
“What are they doing?”
“Waiting, sir, or that’s how it looks to the captain.”
Waiting for us, Cain thought. But why?
“You’re sure they’re soldiers?”
“Yes, sir. Advanced scouts reported swords and armour.”
“Any colours?”
“Black, sir. They’re all dressed in black. No banners.”
“And are they aware of us?”
“The captain sends that his advanced scouts have been seen, sir.”
Cain wanted to tell the man to stop calling him ‘sir’ in every sentence, but his irritation was a distraction. He made the decision quickly.
“I’ll ride forwards.” He turned to Catto. “Send a message to Lord Caster. Tell him he is to ride to the van.”
Catto nodded and pulled his horse back into the front rank behind them. He spoke briefly to a rider and then drew alongside Cain again. The rider peeled off and rode toward the rear.
“Well, let’s go and see what these men want of us,” Cain said and rode out of the column, cantering alongside it towards Fetherhill. The castle should still be a day’s ride ahead, so what these men were doing was a mystery. Perhaps they had deserted from Alwain.
It took a while to ride forwards, and Cain took the opportunity to gauge the mood of his army. They seemed in remarkably high spirits considering how tired they must be and what lay ahead of them. Some units even cheered as he went past.
Captain Lockwell was waiting for him, riding with a group of twenty men a hundred yards ahead of the column.
“What news?” Cain asked.
“They’re still there, General,” the captain said. “They’ve formed a single line across the valley. It looks like they mean to fight.”
