The Jalakh Bow

by Jamie Edmundson

  A voice in her head. But not like Soren’s. Not words, even. More like thoughts, or ideas. Belwynn clasped the sides of her head, sinking to her knees.

  Theron and Tycho both stood at once, turning to her with concern.

  ‘What is it Belwynn?’ Theron asked.

  ‘A voice! I don’t know-’

  Since Elana’s death she felt different. Something had changed. Was she going mad?

  You know who I am, Belwynn.

  They travelled mostly in silence, Dorian hunched over the reins, staring ahead as if in a trance, the two horses clip-clopping their way along the road south from Heractus. Straton had tried to make conversation, but his younger brother wasn’t interested, seemed to be locked away in his own private world. The back of the cart was empty, save for an item, the same size and shape as a body, wrapped up in canvas.

  ‘Just ignore it,’ Dorian had told him when he had spotted Straton looking at it.

  So Straton didn’t look at the item in the back of the cart, ignored the smell of rancid meat, didn’t interact with his brother. He sat there, and thought. He’d never been much of one for thinking—he’d never pretended otherwise. He was a doer, and that was how he liked it. But in the last few months he’d been forced, with no company but his own, to think. A lot of the time he thought about Theron, of the various punishments he could inflict on him when he was defeated. But instead, he knew he had to think more clearly about how to defeat him. He had thought he had done it, escaping with Ampelios, raising an army together, allying with Euthymius. But Theron had beaten them. That had hurt.

  Defeating Theron was his greatest desire. But Euthymius and Ampelios were dead. How was he going to raise an army again, with no support but from his brother, who seemed to be suffering from some kind of brain-sickness?

  The cart stopped and Straton’s eyes flew open. He’d drifted off to sleep, lulled by the movement of the cart and the lack of conversation.

  ‘We’re here,’ Dorian said.

  Where was here? Straton looked about, still befuddled from sleep. Then he saw the elegant spires of the High Tower, seat of the Knights of the Kalinth. What was Dorian doing, leaving Heractus just to go to the headquarters of their enemies?

  ‘Get down,’ Dorian added.

  Nervous of his brother, Straton got down and followed him round to the back of the cart. Oh no. He had hoped he would be able to forget about the contents of the canvas sacking, but Dorian reached over and grabbed an edge, sliding it along the cart towards them.

  ‘Help me with this.’

  Straton took the weight on one end, holding what was unmistakably the legs of some victim his mad brother had slaughtered.

  They carried the body about a hundred feet into the woods by the side of the road. Straton stood panting with the exertion. His brother seemed unaffected. In fact—

  ‘Go back to the cart and wait for me. I won’t be long.’

  This was now getting too odd to just go along with.

  ‘Dorian, let’s get out of here. We’ll raise an army together, fight the Knights.’

  ‘Yes,’ his brother replied. ‘We’ll do all that. I just have one thing to do here first. Wait in the cart for me.’

  This was ridiculous. He had a good mind to drive off and leave Dorian here. If it was anyone else but his own flesh and blood he would already have done so by now. As it was, he would give him one last part of the hour to get back, then that was that, brother or no.

  A rustling sound from the trees made him turn. At last, Dorian had returned, and he had brought someone.

  Straton recognised Galenos, Grand Master of the Knights, or at least that had been his title before he was replaced by Sebastian and imprisoned in the High Tower. Dorian guided the man over to their cart. Straton had met him enough times over the years to know it was Galenos, but he looked different. Thinner and frailer than the man who had enjoyed his position as the second most powerful individual in Kalinth. Well, no doubt Straton had looked better before his captivity.

  Dorian indicated that Galenos should get into the back of the cart. The old Grand Master looked anxiously from Dorian to Straton. Straton thrust a thumb towards the back of the cart.

  ‘Get in,’ he said. If Galenos thought he was going to give up his seat in the front he was sorely mistaken. Straton was just pleased that Dorian had left the dead body in the woods.

  They climbed into the cart.

  ‘Galenos has agreed to help you to become king,’ said Dorian.

  Straton turned to Galenos who gave an anxious nod.

  ‘Many thanks, Grand Master. In return I shall ensure that you are fully returned to your rightful position, and that the traitors, Counts Sebastian and Theron, are hunted down and executed.’

  He smiled magnanimously, frowning when Galenos didn’t respond.

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ the old man managed at last.

  Straton held back a shake of the dead. It seemed like the old man had lost it. Still, not such a bad thing for him to have an enfeebled Grand Master when he took the throne.

  ‘This will help us to bring many knights to our cause,’ said Dorian. ‘But we will need more soldiers.’

  ‘Yes, well I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Straton proudly. ‘With Ampelios dead, the biggest landholder in Kalinth is Count Diodorus. He fought against me last time, but maybe he can be persuaded to switch sides.’

  ‘I’m sure he can be.’

  The Jalakh Bow

  XVIII

  ZARED WAS GIVEN THE LEADERSHIP of those who would enter Baserno. With him went Clarin and the rest of their group, plus ten of Mark’s soldiers, led by the big spearman, Duilio. It was a big enough number for a fight if it came to that. Mark would wait for them outside Baserno with the rest of his force. If their attempt to get the Shield led to disaster, he would still be around to continue the resistance to the Isharites.

  Thick, curved walls greeted them as they approached the capital, interrupted by squat round towers. It looked impregnable, and yet the rumour was that Arioc and Shira of Haskany had taken the city in a day. Clarin would have liked to witness such a feat.

  They passed through the West Gate, lodged between two of the round towers, in one large group. Zared claimed that they were a unit of the Isharite army ordered to the capital. They were waved through with little fuss. Clarin didn’t know whether the guards at the gate believed them, or were somehow in on the deception. Recent events had made it clear that he didn’t have much control over what happened in Persala. He had to go with it, hoping that they somehow got their hands on the Shield.

  A wide road took them in a straight line from the gate towards Baserno’s Central Square. Clarin gawped at the great city. They passed statues of Persaleian gods and heroes at regular intervals along the route. The buildings they passed were constructed of white marble, with gloriously tall pillars everywhere. Carved creatures appeared on the pillars and walls, leering down at them as they passed. And huge windows, everywhere. Clarin had never seen so many all in one place—indeed, was convinced that nowhere else in Dalriya could rival it.

  It was odd. There was no obvious sign that it was a city under occupation. The buildings and statues had not been despoiled. No foreign soldiers patrolled the streets. There was no symbol of Isharite power that Clarin could see. He thought of the walls of Samir Durg, sparkling with diatine crystals, and of the huge towers they had fought through on the walls of the Isharite fortress. The Isharites had made no effort to turn Baserno into an Isharite city. It seemed that once the Persaleians had capitulated, the Isharites had largely ignored them.

  Then he realised what the difference was. Baserno was quiet, the streets half empty. He compared it to Essenberg, the great city of the Empire. In Essenberg, there was constant noise, movement, bustle, at any time of day and long into the night. Baserno was sedate; polite. Where had its people gone? Some into the army, some sent to the mines in Samir Durg, others Toric only knew where. Nowhere nice. Visually, Baserno had been le
ft virtually untouched, but the people who actually made it a city had been scattered. They were walking through a diminished version of Baserno—a museum—not the real city at all.

  When they arrived at the Central Square, Clarin’s jaw dropped a second time. He could see Rudy and Jurgen, and the Barbarians, sharing awed expressions. For some reason he had been expecting to see the Imperial Palace, the Temple of Ludovis, and that would be it. Instead, he found himself looking at a huge square filled with buildings that would each be the centre of attention in virtually any other city. There were a dozen temples altogether. Then there were monuments, obelisks, giant statues, theatres, fountains, bathhouses and a large circus with a race track. It made Clarin wonder why one city would need all this for itself. And it made him realise that all the other cities of Persala he had seen were attempts to copy Baserno. Inferior versions of this city had been spawned for miles in every direction, aping the design and layout, unable to come close to matching the grandiosity.

  The population of Baserno was reduced, that much was plain, but nonetheless thousands of citizens were still crammed into the Square. This was where people met to socialise and do business. Vendors hawked their wares, many selling from within the temple precincts which were hubs of noisy activity. Their group of twenty-eight was not so many that it made a difference to the atmosphere. Those that did pay attention to their arrival were the street peddlers who approached them with their goods or shouted out their offers as they walked past.

  They stopped when they reached the huge, rectangular site that was the Temple of Ludovis. Tall pillars stretched to the sky, holding up a substantial peaked roof. Through the gaps between the pillars, Clarin could see a walled building.

  ‘Some of us need to go in,’ Zared said quietly to those around him, ‘ascertain the situation. The rest be ready to move in if they don’t hear anything. No more than an hour afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll lead the second group,’ offered Duilio, one hand clutching his huge spear. ‘Me and my men are more the fighting type than the talking type.’

  Clarin thought he may have found a kindred spirit, but nonetheless he offered to go in with Zared. He wanted to play a full part in finding the Shield.

  So it was that Zared, Clarin and Cyprian took the steps up to the Temple, while Duilio and the rest waited for them outside.

  Up the steps and past the pillars was an area set aside for stallholders, positioned either side of the route into the main building. It was busy, and they found themselves squeezing through a throng of shoppers before they got to the open doors of the main temple building. Zared didn’t pause, marching straight inside and accosting one of the priests.

  Clarin looked around the interior of the building. Smaller pillars ran up the length of the building, with decorative arches between them. They supported a gallery above, from where people looked down over the main space. The floor was made from coloured mosaics, natural scenes with animals and plants decorated the edges of the floor, while in the centre were scenes featuring Persaleian men and women, or perhaps their gods. An altar to Ludovis stood in an open space at the far end of the building. Statues lined the walls, each one given its own alcove with a pair of pillars and a peaked roof. The altar and the statues drew worshippers, but all about the space Baserno citizens mixed with the orange robed priests of Ludovis.

  Zared caught Clarin’s eye and gestured that he should follow. The priest led them towards the far corner of the temple. They approached a second priest, talking quietly with two visitors. He was short, broad-shouldered, with hair turning grey. He glanced their way, continuing his conversation. They waited patiently before he extricated himself from his conversation. The first priest whispered in his ear before leaving them to it.

  ‘Prince Zared,’ he said, tilting his head in a small bow.

  ‘Flamen Aulus,’ Zared replied. ‘Thank you for seeing us.’

  ‘Of course. Any news of your father?’

  ‘He is well. I am representing him today.’

  ‘I see. I am pleased to hear of your father’s health. These are truly difficult times. I understand that you have come looking for the Persaleian Shield?’

  ‘Correct. These are my friends, Cyprian and Clarin. We escaped from Samir Durg last year.’

  Aulus raised his eyebrows at the news.

  ‘We have made contact with other groups outside Persala. There is an alliance to defeat Ishari. To do so, we need the Shield.’

  ‘The Persaleian Shield has been in the hands of Ludovis since time immemorial. During that time some have sought to claim it, but it has never been given up.’

  ‘Now is the time to do so,’ Clarin found himself saying.

  ‘So you say,’ Aulus responded frostily. ‘Only a select few even know of its existence. What has prompted the interest?’

  ‘Other weapons have already been collected,’ Clarin said. ‘The Dagger of the Lippers, the Sword of the Krykkers, the Staff of the Caladri. It is time for the humans to make their contribution.’

  Aulus looked at them, his expression giving nothing away.

  ‘I will give you a chance to claim it,’ he said at last. ‘If what you say is true, and it is the will of Ludovis, it will be yours to wield. Come,’ he said, starting off.

  ‘Where to?’ asked Zared.

  ‘The treasures of the Temple are not kept in the Temple. That would be very foolish. We are not fools, Prince Zared.’

  When they exited the Temple, Aulus was quick to spot the rest of their force lounging about outside.

  ‘I hope there are no plans to take our treasure by force,’ he said sternly. ‘That would not work. The Shield is in a secret location. I don’t know where it is. You could pull all the nails from my hands and feet, pull out all of my teeth, and I wouldn’t tell you, because I don’t know.’

  ‘Please, Flamen Aulus,’ said Zared, visibly taken aback by his words. ‘We are not here to take it by force, I assure you. Those men are here for our protection. This is dangerous work we are about.’

  ‘Very well. Then you will ensure that we are not followed.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Zared’s eyes shifted in his head at the predicament. ‘Cyprian, stay with the others. Impress on them the need to stay exactly where they are.’

  Cyprian nodded and headed over to begin speaking with Duilio and the others.

  Oh shit, Clarin said to himself. We’re on our own.

  Aulus led them north out of the Central Square, up what must be the Great Road. The road stretched from Haskany in the north to Cordence in the south, one of the great legacies of the Empire the Persaleians had created. It made Clarin wonder who else had passed this way, which great emperors and armies had set off from Baserno to conquer the other peoples of Dalriya.

  Soon, though, Aulus took them off the Great Road, right then left, then right again. The streets of Baserno all ran parallel to one another, so while Clarin didn’t feel completely lost, it became hard to spot recognisable features, as one street looked much like the next. They were walking through a residential area. The houses were still built from the same beautiful marble as the rest of the city, but it was eerily quiet, as if most of them were empty.

  Finally, Aulus led them to an unexceptional looking house half way down the street. Clarin had to admit, it was a better place for the priests to hide a treasure than in the temple itself.

  Aulus approached the wooden door and knocked, slowly, five times. They waited. Clarin wanted to ask who lived here, but that would be revealed soon enough. Patience was needed.

  Eventually they heard the noise of several locks sliding open and the door was opened. An old man appeared before them. He had unkempt hair and a long, straggly beard. His clothes looked like they hadn’t had a wash since last spring.

  ‘Aulus,’ he said in a croaky voice, as if not used to speaking.

  ‘I bring visitors who would speak with you, Ennius. This is Prince Zared, son of King Mark.’

  Ennius stared suspiciously at
Zared, then gave a harrumph. ‘Mark was a usurper, traitor to the imperial line. He brought this catastrophe on us!’

  Zared stared wide-eyed at the old man, before recovering somewhat. ‘I am not here to discuss politics,’ he said.

  ‘And who is this lump?’ Ennius asked.

  ‘I am Clarin.’

  ‘Clarin who? Clarin from where?’

  ‘I am from Magnia.’

  ‘A Magnian, by Ludovis!’ Ennius declared, bushy grey eyebrows rising up and down. ‘The only people in all of Dalriya to resist the Persaleian Empire! If they were all as big as you, I can begin to understand why. Come in, then,’ he said, turning around and disappearing inside his house.

  They followed Ennius into his front room. A small fire in the grate gave out smoke and not much heat. There were enough chairs for all to take a seat. Ennius didn’t offer food or drink, instead he sat waiting for someone to start.

  ‘Zared and Clarin have requested the Shield of Persala,’ Aulus explained.

  ‘Very well,’ said Ennius, apparently unimpressed by the news. ‘That’s simple enough. Just give me a name. Tell me who wants it and it’s yours.’

  Clarin thought about it. Was it some kind of riddle? Who wanted it? Well, he did. He had come all this way for the Shield. And what was more, he fancied wielding it, too. Soren had the staff, Moneva the dagger. Why shouldn’t he have the shield?

  ‘Clarin,’ he said.

  Ennius turned to Aulus. ‘He comes all the way from Magnia, dares to ask for our Shield, and then gives me his own name? Why have you brought these fools here?’

  Oh, Clarin said to himself. That’s clearly not what he was looking for.

  ‘King Mark,’ said Zared.

  Ennius gave another harrumph and turned away from them all, staring into the fire.

  Zared looked to Clarin in mute desperation.

  Think, Clarin, he told himself. Who wanted the Shield? Who wanted the weapons?

  ‘Madria,’ he said.