Raucous shrieks closer at hand suddenly deafened him. Nedi was completely surrounded by fluttering wings and screeching birds of every size and colour. Had they been startled from their roosts by the noise?
As he ducked the countless scratching talons and piercing beaks, he froze, astonished. All his terror of being so high above the ground, all his fears for his family’s fate vanished like morning dew. He could see the eagle despite the swirling cloud of birds. Only it wasn’t the rough-hewn brass effigy which he had carried up here.
The golden metal bird was a thing of beauty, precise in every lifelike detail. It perched, wings raised and angled, ready to plunge from the sky to seize some unsuspecting prey. Its hooked beak gaped. Its eyes shone bright as diamonds. It turned its head to look at Nedi with a fierce hunter’s gaze.
The other birds swooped down to fill the castle courtyard. The garrison men shouted and cursed, flailing with their hands and hackbuts. It did no good. From hedge sparrows to crag crows, the birds clawed and pecked and shat all over the River Kingdom men and their weapons.
When the flock dispersed as suddenly as it had appeared, the courtyard was deserted. Nedi saw that the men had fled back into their barracks. Some had held onto their weapons but more had let the precious hackbuts fall to the ground. Powder spilled over the cobbles along with lengths of alchemist’s twine, all now soiled and useless.
Someone had opened the castle gate! He saw the townsfolk crowding into the courtyard. Soon the men were banging on the doors all around. The garrison emerged with their hands raised in surrender. A knot of richly clad River Kingdom men were swiftly surrounded by Hatalys’ leading craftsmen and merchants. They broke into several earnest conversations.
Nedi looked down outside the castle again. The crowd was still growing. More and more people were coming to see this marvel and to join in the triumphant cheering.
They were pointing up at the eagle. Now it looked just the same as it had done when it was first revealed. It didn’t matter. From that distance no one could see it was ugly and crude.
Nedi contemplated the effigy. Had he imagined the living bronze’s magical beauty? No, he hadn’t. He could go to his deathbed as an old, old man, quite sure of what he had seen. Though he didn’t think he would tell anyone. Not and be mocked for a fool like Thulle.
Firstly though, if he was to live to be a greybeard, he must get safely down from this perilous perch. Nedi considered his options and decided to climb slowly and carefully down to the battlements and wait there until someone came to show him the proper route through the castle.
It wasn’t until he was safely on the wall walk that a profoundly unnerving thought struck him. If the eagle’s magic had summoned the birds to overwhelm the garrison, did that mean the rest of Thulle’s tales were true? Could the Horned God’s priests truly conjure up monsters?
Nedi looked up at the eagle and a golden shimmer blinded him. For an instant he thought he saw the bird transformed once again. As he blinked, he fervently hoped that was a promise of the eagle’s aid, if the River Kingdom’s masked priests could really call on such sorcery and try to reclaim Hatalys for the Paramount King.
All Hail to the Oak
Anne Nicholls
Kataljid ran towards the scream. All that stood between her and its source was the high wall of the mansion that was her gaol. Vines clotted darkly on the garden-side of the smooth marble. Somewhere outside, lonely footsteps echoed in the late-night citadel. They halted at that frightened shriek.
Kilting up her robes, she scrambled up to the top and reached instinctively for the sword that should have been hanging at her waist. But of course guests of the Empire – or hostages – weren’t allowed weapons, not here in the capital itself. Surprise would have to be enough. From within the foliage Kataljid scanned the moon-shadowed square.
Three youths surrounded a fourth, a boy shorter than she was. She couldn’t see him clearly. One lout stood stolidly on the boy’s feet, trapping them. Another, built like an ox, held their victim’s arms behind his back. The third darted in from the side, thrusting a burning brand at his head. Sparks fizzed along his black curls with a stink of burning hair. The youth hated himself for that scream, she could see it in the way his face worked. Wait! It was Salrivos! Her gut contracted at this threat to her only friend. She was so focussed on him that she didn’t notice a figure hiding behind the dried-up fountain.
Kataljid leaped and screeched a war cry. Not until she was plunging through the air did she realise the one with the brand was the empress’ son but it was too late. She was among them.
Shocked, the Rovalans were easy prey. The massive one at the back tumbled, pulling their victim down. The fat one in front lost his balance, crashing onto Salrivos’ ribs. She heard the crack of bone.
But the third, Prince Torturer Herricus, stumbled back, keeping his feet more by luck than judgment. It took him a heartbeat to remember his firebrand and bring it into play.
By then she was inside his reach. Inside the stench of musk and sweat and jasmine. She slammed her elbow into the prince’s throat. Flames whisked past a handspan from her eyes. He toppled, haloed by a shower of sparks. His head rang against the flagstones, a horrible sound. She was already somersaulting over his body while his friends were still groaning. The fat one scrabbled for a jewelled dagger. Kataljid kicked him under the chin and swivelled to face the emperor’s boy but he was scrambling away, calling for his slaves. New footsteps now, running towards them, and shouts of alarm.
Dragging the rescued lad free, she hauled him into the souk. Salrivos had half-fainted with the pain. It took all her strength to hustle him along. At last she crouched behind a stack of trestles and yanked him down. He tussled but she got one hand over his mouth and held him until any sound of pursuit faded in the night.
“It’s all right, you’re safe now,” she said finally, releasing him.
He shoved her away. “You stupid mare!” he gasped. “I’ll never be safe again!”
Kataljid goggled.
“You don’t get it, do you? Saved by a girl, and an acorn-eater at that! Things were bad enough before but the prince and his gang will really have it in for me now. I doubt you’ll last the night. Go away!”
“Acorn-eater?”
“You figure it out. If the prince doesn’t kill you first.” He limped off into the darkness and she could have wept. Another hostage, he’d been the only one who was genuinely kind to her at the empress’ reception that had finished scant hours before.
Her heart sank. “You’re welcome,” she muttered, and turned her mind to the formidable task of finding her way back inside the Lion Mansion, preferably without Princess Nalix realising she’d escaped in the first place. Which, considering the height of the walls, the soldiers at the lighted gates and the wreck of the silks the princess had made her wear wasn’t going to be easy. “Remember your position” would be the least of it.
Princess Nalix, roused from her bed by the guard who caught Kataljid sneaking in, grimaced with such fury her make-up cracked. The tirade she launched scarcely covered the sound of a man sniggering from her rooms.
“Remember your position”: that was why her guardian cancelled all the getting-to-know-you rides and picnics for the next three months. The tale had got out, of course. Rovalan gossips were quick to tell how a cowardly hostage in the heart of the citadel needed saving from a single acorn-eating thief. Apparently Prince Herricus had stayed up late debating with his tutor, sorry not to have been there to impale the intruder, doubtless some lower-city scum. Thankfully her name wasn’t mentioned.
As the days lengthened into sweltering summer, Kataljid was forced to spend her time cooped up with Laratus, the princess’ chief eunuch. Who despised her. Instead of parties she got lonely lessons in deportment, manners, poetry and heraldry. On top of grammar, history and dancing with stiff old tutors who looked like they had a spike shoved up their –
She barely stopped the thought in time to keep it behind her teet
h. Prince Herricus and Salvrivos weren’t the only ones she’d offended, goddess alone knew how. Now she wasn’t even allowed to play ball with the guard-captain’s daughter, the only other girl in the Lion Mansion anywhere near her age.
Chewing the end of her stylus, Kataljid gazed blindly out of the window, recalling the day the galley had brought her here, wondering yet again how everything had gone so wrong.
It had started that first day when she was green off the boat, when they hustled her to the Guests of Empire Reception. Her Rovalan had been halting. She’d missed half of what people said to her, and most of what happened around. How she’d blushed when one of the dainty girls hissed, “Lumbering barbarian!” in a mock whisper that carried across the throne room. The girl - the empress’ daughter, it turned out - giggled, and so did the group round her. Glaring at them, Princess Nalix chivvied Kataljid away, but the sniggers broke out again at their backs. It was the princess’ furious tirade back at the mansion that had driven Katalid to take refuge in the night-scented garden. Where she’d heard a scream that had lost her any chance of an ally in this hostile heart of Empire. She was fifteen, a humble disciple of the goddess, never meant for the lethal dance of politics. Was it any wonder she set out to fail her lessons when all that awaited was the bearpit they called a court?
At first sight of the capital Kataljid’s jaw had dropped open. The eunuch who’d been rowed to the last port to begin her ‘taming’ cleared his throat. His name was Laratus, and he nagged from dawn to dusk. As the galley passed the lighthouse, sunrise painted the city on the cliffs in gold and red and black. It towered above her, a bewildering sprawl of buildings spilling down to the sea. She’d never imagined there were this many people in the world.
Kataljid clamped her jaw. She stared down at her short, shaven-headed tormentor, well aware of his intentions: to groom her as quickly as he could for life as a marriageable pawn. No doubt Laratus would be freed as a reward. While she practised stumbling around in their stupid flowing gowns, the crew laid bets he’d stay a slave for a very long time.
“Don’t gape, my lady,” the eunuch said. “It doesn’t do to look as if you don’t belong.”
But Kataljid knew she didn’t. They could dress her in satin and wind her hair with pearls but this hive of palaces and commerce was nothing like her wild homeland. Here the highest point was not a mountain but The Castle. So many emperors had forced towers and turrets onto the place that it seemed crowned with spears. It hung brooding over its reflection in the blue waters. Kataljid’s hand twitched to where her sword was no longer at her side. She stifled the motion but Laratus had seen it.
“Have no fear, my lady. Your slaves will protect you.”
She arched a blonde eyebrow. “You mistake,” she said, in clumsy Rovalan. “I was trying decide where I go first, Theatre of Acarius or hunting in the park.”
“A good recover, my lady, worthy of one much older than yourself.” Before she could protest he added smoothly, “In fact you will go to the Lion Mansion so that Princess Nalix can see you properly attired for the empress’ reception. See that?” He pointed to a line of tiny coloured flags onshore. “They set it up the instant we rounded the lighthouse. That means it’s to be this afternoon. You must be the last to arrive.”
Kataljid seldom traded on her rank but she’d had enough of the unsufferable old prune. “I am a princess, Laratus,” she said carefully. “I decide for myself.”
“Indeed, my lady, but here you are one princess among many. No doubt you will wish to refresh yourself before entering the citadel.” He turned away, all solicitude, and beckoned slaves to take the girl in hand. She’d never felt so insignificant.
The mansion turned out to be a fortress with Lion mosaics everywhere. A lot of them seemed to be made of gold. Kataljid had thought her father’s feasting hall was big but the Great Hall overwhelmed her. It had colonnades and side-aisles, a minstrel’s gallery and a dais. Which held so many statues and paintings that she felt trapped in a giant’s jewel-box. She was afraid to move. It hadn’t been half a day yet and already the princess’ shrieks of, “Be careful! That screen cost two talents” or “Don’t you know that vase is a personal gift from the emperor?” had her on edge. Yet again she emerged from behind a screen in her latest change of robes and squirmed beneath Princess Nalix’s contempt.
“Well, Candis –”
“Kataljid.”
“I told you, child, from now on you are Candis. What civilised person could get their tongue round that tangle of grunts?” The princess pinched her painted mouth and walked around her, twitching aside the folds that hid the Lion sigil. “I suppose that will have to do. All the other hostages arrived days ago.”
“I couldn’t help the storm!”
“Hush, child. We cannot keep the empress waiting any longer. And do try to keep that – that acorn-eater’s accent under control.” She swept out to the forecourt where a line of guards surrrounded a long box on poles, and climbed into it. Laratus shoved the newly-named Candis in after her.
Acorn-eater? She didn’t know that word. She’d have to find a bilingual scribe to tell her what it meant. There was nothing she’d ask of that eunuch, not even a translation.
Kataljid hated the confines of the litter. Trapped within its carven screens, her keeper’s perfume was stifling. When she went to open one, Nalix said sharply, “No, no, Candis. It does not do for you to show yourself to the populace.” Almost under her breath the older woman added, “At least not until you’ve stopped behaving like an ape.”
Kataljid seethed. “Did you say something?”
“Did you say something, your highness,” Nalix corrected.
A dagger thunked into one of the screens. As the litter lurched into a lumpen run the door fell open. Kataljid almost tipped out onto the cobbles. Amidst shouts and the clash of steel Princess Nalix clawed her back with surprising strength. One of the bearers slammed the panel shut. Gasping and hauling herself to a crouch, Kataljid tried to peer out but she was jolted too much. All she glimpsed was a thin man sinking beneath a tide of swords, shouting she didn’t know what. Then the litter rounded a corner.
“What was that about?” asked Kataljid, groping for a knife she’d hidden under her sash. It wasn’t easy. The litter was at a steep angle. She heard shouts and the bearers panting like bellows because they were climbing the last part of the hill.
“Nothing,” Nalix snapped, hanging on to a strap. “Hand over that knife. Or do you want us arrested? We’re nearly at The Castle. Sit properly and for the gods’ sake straighten your stole. It’s covering the emblems of our houses. If you must hide your little nut-tree that’s up to you but don’t, please, obscure our Lion.”
“That’s not a nut-tree!” Kataljid protested. “It’s the Shield of Oakland.”
“Which, you’ll notice, is beneath the Lion of Empire. Ah, we’re here.”
The Castle towered over the citadel, much as Kataljid felt she towered over the swarms of Rovalans. Passed by gate sentries and hall sentries and sentries at various doors, the litter finally bumped to a halt. Kataljid, peeping through the carvings, saw only a segment of the courtyard. From somewhere out of sight she heard the scrape of swords drawn from scabbards. She jumped out, crouching, ready to defend the princess with her life.
And heard a crowd gasp then ripple with laughter. It echoed, shocking pigeons into noisy flight. The honour guard resheathed their weapons. Princess Nalix stepped from the litter, straight-faced. The amusement died.
Everyone on the steps behind straightened from their bows as Princess Nalix stalked through them to the pavilion at the top. Hot-faced and feeling gawkier than ever, Kataljid was righting her headdress when Laratus scuttled up.
He adjusted Kataljid’s robes, all the time darting looks at a woman in red who waited under the Lion canopy. Everyone else stood in a great fan-shape with her at the focus. The rubies on her tiara shook with suppressed hilarity. Laratus stifled a groan.
Kataljid blew aside a stray
lock of hair and raised her chin. Red-faced, she said in halting Rovalan, “Enough, Laratus. I’ll not apologise for my training. It saved my life in hunting.”
“But it’s going to make life in Rovala a tad awkward.”
Kataljid wanted to shrink so she didn’t stand head and shoulders above everyone else. Instead she drew herself up and swept past the eunuch. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you, Laratus?”
But her haughtiness failed. At that exact moment the courtiers shouted, “All hail to the Lion!” and the eunuch dragged her into a bow.
That was when she first saw him. Oh, not the emperor. He sent his regrets but Princess Nalix had already told her not to expect him at a presentation of minor hostages. Guests. They’d be met by Empress Haladra and her son, Crown Prince Herricus.
On the top stair Kataljid stopped. Princess Nalix chivvied her towards the crimson-robed empress, who was her much-younger half-sister. Beside her, looking away to hide his mirth, stood a youth dressed in cloth of gold with sigils of the Lion House. He couldn’t stop his shoulders heaving.
No, the boy ahead of Kataljid in the reception line was the one who caught her gaze. Not only was he good-looking, he seemed as nervous as she felt. He was wreathed in cheap scent that tried to copy the prince’s musk and jasmine. His looks were exotic, and he was dwarfed by the gaudy courtiers. At first his shortness made her think he was younger than she was, then she saw fuzz sprouting from the neck of his tunic. His curls were the darkest she’d ever seen, his skin a warm gold. When he turned to stare curiously around, his guardian elbowed him and he snapped almost to attention. A flush stained his neck. He polished his sandals on the back of his legs. His guardian, probably a general if all that gilded armour was anything to go by, nudged him crossly. The boy moved forward as though his feet weren’t quite connected to the floor. His bow to the imperial family stopped just short of grovelling. His patron nodded, making the gilded feathers on his helmet flutter.
Legends: Stories in Honor of David Gemmell Page 16
