The Warrior's Bond

by Juliet McKenna

  “Devoir! Casuel! Back off and get the Duty Cohort,” I yelled with a force that tore at my throat.

  Devoir looked back over his shoulder but the confusion blocking the road made reversing impossible.

  “Camarl is hurt!” Temar shouted with equal urgency. Allin caught sight of Messire kneeling beside the prostrate Esquire, her jaw dropping before she turned to relay information to Demoiselle Avila and Casuel, one hand gesturing.

  “Temar!” I moved swiftly to intercept one man scrambling over the debris of scaffolding with evil in his eyes and a sword in each hand. Temar was about to follow but a hail of stones and juggling balls from two acrobats appearing in the mouth of an alleyway forced him to duck and dodge backwards. Temar snatched up a piece of broken panelling from the carriage to protect his head, moving to shield Messire and Camarl with his body.

  The man facing me dropped to a wrestler’s crouch. He had the brutish and battered face of a prizefighter but he had two blades and, for all I knew, was perfectly able to use them. He thrust at me, each hand in turn, clumsy strokes but fast and unhesitating. Moving back I felt splintered wood treacherous beneath the soft half-boots I was wearing. I took a two-handed grip on my sword and went in hard, circling the blade round and back on itself, half parrying, half attacking. Swordplay learned for the stage made a novice of the man, who instinctively fell into the trap of anticipating my strokes and moving to parry too early. Now I had the initiative I tempted him into an upward sweep and then ripped a sudden sideways cut underneath his arms. As I sliced his chest open his arms flung back in nerveless shock and I wrenched my blade up still further, tearing the notched steel into his bull neck. He collapsed, gurgling through a spray of blood.

  I wiped drops off my face to see Temar smashing his improvised buckler into the head of some new attacker. The man turned and would have escaped down the nearby alley but the jugglers blocked his way and I realised they had their own problems. A swarm of what looked like ruddy, greyish hornets swirled around them, but there was no buzzing and whenever one of the dots darted in to land on cloth smoke rose briefly from black scorch marks. Angry red blisters appeared on the jugglers’ exposed hands and faces, raised by scarlet sparks glowing and vanishing so swiftly they deceived the eye. I saw Allin still hanging on grimly to Devoir’s frivolous gig, plump face intent with hatred as she glared at the acrobats. An empty brazier some way beyond the alley was smoking emptily but for a fading crimson light.

  Devoir had beaten his horse into trembling submission, the poor beast too terrified to know whether it should flee forwards or back. Demoiselle Avila was struggling down from the back, Casuel wringing anguished hands as he followed her, cowering inside his ostentatious robe. Avila ignored the commotion all around as she headed straight for the doorway behind me. Temar ran forward to draw her into our frail circle of protection as fast as he could.

  I’d have gone too but a vicious fistfight erupted in front of me, stones and broken wood hurled indiscriminately from the sidelines, and it was all I could do to stop the combatants falling over me, the Sieur, the Esquire. Temar and I were jostled from all sides, unable to tell hapless Festival-goers from murderous masqueraders, so forced to drive all comers off with harsh words and harder blows. Casuel yelped with outrage as I stood on his foot, but that served him right for trying to shelter between me and Temar. A stinging pain licked around the back of my neck.

  “Shit, Devoir, watch that cursed whip!” But I forgave the musician when I saw he was laying about with it to keep the brawl from crushing Demoiselle Avila and the Sieur as they knelt in the doorway, busy with Esquire Camarl’s wounds.

  A brazen note pierced the tumult, Den Janaquel’s horns finally giving notice of their imminent arrival. The strident signal came again, warning everyone to get clear or face the consequences. Efforts to struggle free of the fighting redoubled all around us and I saw several masqueraders ripping off their masks in hopes of disappearing into the anonymous crowd.

  But three weren’t abandoning their disguises and I wondered just who they might be, hacking a way through the turmoil with vicious swords, the bland wooden faces of folk tale heroes still tied on tight. They were heading for the alley opposite.

  “Temar!” I yelled, pointing, as the crush around us lessened.

  “Run them to earth, Ryshad!” The Sieur was at my elbow, a sword in his hand, Master Devoir with him, whip ready.

  Temar and I used sword pommels, flat blades, fists and elbows to try to force a path to intercept the bastards. We were just too late and the three men hared down the alley, turning into a ginnel running between the backs of the close-packed buildings. I was after them like a loosed courser, Temar hard on my heels.

  “Just run, man,” he was raging, and I realised we’d caught Casuel up in the pursuit. With the narrow alley giving him nowhere to step aside to let Temar pass, all he could do was run with us.

  The masqueraders were holding their distance but only at the cost of running at full tilt, not daring to try any doors or gates into yards or outhouses. Using every effort I could summon I was gaining, and I heard Temar behind me mercilessly driving Casuel on with ever fouler curses. The masqueraders turned a sharp corner into a wide alley. As I skidded after them, I realised the far end opened into a walled yard. A broad stone arch was carved with archaic flourishes, vines heavy with leaves and fruit on either side of open gates. I recognised it for the yard behind the Popinjay and frustration burned in my heaving chest. If they got out into the busy northern end of the Primeway, we’d lose the bastards for certain.

  “Bring that down!” I turned to yell hoarsely at Casuel who was leaning in the corner of a wall, half doubled up, one hand clutching his throat. “Block their way!”

  “Noseless sons of pox-rotted whores!” spat Temar, racing past me.

  That youth had been spending too much time with mercenaries. But I had no breath to say so and I ran after him.

  Ahead of us the first masquerader was nearly into the yard, but just as I thought he’d escaped us the carved vines reached out from either side of the arch. They laced themselves together, coiling around each other, quicker than the eye could comprehend. A barrier of pale strands blocked the villain’s way but he was running too fast to stop himself slamming into the crisscross of writhing stone. The tangle knotted and twined around him, each tendril swelling into a branch reaching up and outwards. Tugged this way and that the man struggled frantically, yelling in terror as he was lifted clear of the ground. His cries of fear turned to anguish as his body was twisted with audible wrenching, sinew and bone no match for the implacable pull of the rippling lattice. A final hideous snap silenced his howls, leaving his body hanging contorted in the coils of the warped vines.

  The second man had stumbled to a halt a scant arm’s length away but in the moment he took to recover his balance a yellow limb snaked out from the living archway. Leaves once wrought from solid rock waved softly as the sinuous vine coiled around his legs. The man screamed in horror and hacked at the curling stem but his blade simply struck sparks from the stone. A second tendril darted out to wrap itself round his sword arm, smothering it. As he tore at it with frantic, bleeding nails, new shoots sprouted to snarl around the hand he’d had free a breath before. New leaves budded and opened all over the intertwining stems now rooting his feet to the ground. But the vines binding his arms were still curling upwards in an insane parody of growth, racking the man ever more painfully. He shrieked some inarticulate curse with his last strangled gasps as the heedless branches forced him backwards in an agonising curve. His spine snapped like a dry stick.

  All this happened in no more time than it took me and Temar to catch up to the third man. He was frozen in horror, but hearing our steps behind him he whirled round, eyes white rimmed with panic visible even through the holes in his mask. He was too appalled to raise his sword and I was too surprised. With a move nine parts instinct to one part training I punched him up beneath the rim of the mask, catching him full in the so
ft flesh beneath his jaw. He collapsed to his knees, choking and pawing at his throat.

  “Let’s see who you are, you shit.” As I yanked at the knotted ribbons holding on the concealing mask, I noticed for the first time that his clothes weren’t the usual masquerader’s shoddy pretence of noble dress. He was wearing the real thing, well-cut silk and expensive broadcloth. The hair I pulled out as it caught in the ribbons of the mask was perfumed with expensive pomade.

  “Kreve Tor Bezaemar?” No wonder he had wanted to get away, identity hidden beneath this charade. Temar raised his sword in outrage and moved behind the kneeling man. “Stand clear, Ryshad, and I will have this cur’s head off!”

  The last thing I wanted was the bastard going free to launch some new attack some other day, but I couldn’t allow that. “No!” I stepped between Temar and the still wheezing Esquire, eyes shut and tears pouring down his face.

  “I have the right.” Temar glared at me.

  “Yes, you do,” I agreed. “But let the Emperor sanction his death. Wait until he’s stood his trial in full view of every House in Toremal. That’ll discredit Tor Bezaemar so thoroughly their Name won’t aspire to the throne for fifty generations!”

  “And if your advocates and their weasel words find him some excuse, some escape?” Temar challenged hotly.

  “It won’t happen,” I caught Temar’s sword hand, speaking with absolute conviction. “He raised open murder against two Sieurs in direct defiance of Imperial decrees given not half a day since. That’s treason against the good order of the Empire and he’ll die for it, trust me.” Ignoring Kreve’s hoarse gasps I shoved the bastard on to his front and rested a heavy foot on his back.

  Temar looked unconvinced but lowered his sword.

  “If we’re going to cut his head off, I’ll do it,” I offered with savage humour as I released his hands. “The Sieur D’Alsennin shouldn’t soil his hands with such vermin’s blood. And why don’t you see who else Cas caught in his snare?”

  “I suppose I may as well,” Temar agreed once a glance convinced him the incapacitated Kreve was going nowhere. Lifting the lolling head of the second man to die, he pulled off his mask with difficulty. “Firon Den Thasnet,” he called back over his shoulder. “I suppose we should have expected that.”

  “I don’t see Saedrin calling us to answer for him.” I glanced up as I secured Kreve Tor Bezaemar’s hands behind his back with the ribbons cut from his mask. “Who’s the other one?”

  Temar looked up uncertainly at the man hanging some way above him. “My compliments to Master Devoir, but I am not about to try climbing this. Can you bring him down, Casuel?”

  “I’m not sure I can.” The mage had come to stand next to me, white-faced at his own achievement.

  “You must know how you did that?” I looked curiously at the wizard.

  “Of course,” retorted Casuel with frosty dignity. “In general terms, at least.” His poise melted as he stared up at his handiwork. “I suppose we’ll have to tell the Archmage about this, will we?”

  The rear door to the Popinjay was opening slowly. After a long moment of hesitation on the threshold Banch advanced reluctantly into the yard, Ezinna urging him on with a savage hiss. He looked appalled at the enchanted forest sprouting from his ancient arch. At least it couldn’t really be seen from the street, I realised with belated relief. Magic as dramatic as this would hardly suit the Emperor’s declared prejudice against wizardry. We’d best get the evidence out of sight before it became a wonder for half the city to gawp at.

  “We’ll get it back to how it was,” I shouted to Banch, giving Casuel a dig in the ribs. The wizard was still gazing in some bemusement at the leaves and fruit, now all immobile unyielding stone again.

  “You can stuff that where your mother never kissed you,” rejoined Banch shakily. “Take a sledgehammer to it. I want it broken and carted away before the day’s out, and I don’t want so much as the dust from mortar left behind.”

  “The magic is quite passed away,” protested Casuel indignantly.

  “I want it gone, all of it!” Banch turned on his heel, pushing Ezinna back inside and slamming the door behind him.

  I looked at Casuel. “Can you break it down?”

  “I suppose so,” he said a trifle sulkily. Scowling he rubbed his hands together, palms flat. Amber light sparked from his fingertips, incandescent shards of magic flying through the air to land on the coiled stone. Hairline cracks began spreading across the yellow stems, golden light darkening to a burning ochre as fractures gaped wider and wider, dust falling first, then small chips, finally pieces of stone as big as a man’s fist. Temar backed away hurriedly and the body of the first man to die fell to the ground in a broken heap.

  Temar moved forward with a cautious eye lest any masonry fall on his head. He shook his head when he’d ripped away the attacker’s mask. “I do not know the man.”

  “No, nor me.” I stared down at the face now slack in death. “Probably some minor Esquire, promised the sun, the moons and the stars in between by Kreve. Still, at least we’ve got him to face Imperial justice.”

  Temar looked towards the prostrate villain. “Not if he dies on us. How hard did you hit him?”

  I was horrified to see Tor Bezaemar’s face suffused with blood, his breath little more than a thready gurgle. “Shit, I must have broken his windpipe.” Not checking on him had been a novice’s mistake, for all I’d been distracted by Casuel’s little display.

  “Take him to Demoiselle Avila,” suggested Temar.

  “At once,” I agreed. “Cas, clear this all up and fast.”

  “I hardly think—” he began indignantly.

  “Do you want the Emperor asking Planir for an explanation?” I demanded. I held Kreve Tor Bezaemar under the arms while Temar caught up his legs. The bastard was an unwieldy burden and the distance back seemed thrice as far as we’d originally run, but fear for his worthless hide spurred us on.

  We stepped out on to the Graceway to find a solid phalanx in Den Janaquel livery surrounding Messire and Camarl, sworn men with staffs levelled and sergeants-at-arms carrying unsheathed swords. More of the Cohort had the road blocked off for some distance in either direction and those caught inside the cordon were only being set free when two other people could vouch for their name and business. Several erstwhile masqueraders and acrobats were face down in the dust, trussed up like roasting fowl.

  A number of sworn men moved towards us. I nodded with some difficulty at my armring, sweating freely. “Where’s the Demoiselle Tor Arrial? We need her at once.”

  “She’s busy with the injured.” Allin stopped as she went past with a steaming cup in each hand. “Can I get you a tisane?”

  “Get Demoiselle Avila,” I told her flatly. “Otherwise this man dies and Tor Bezaemar escapes all punishment.”

  Allin thrust the cups at a startled man-at-arms and raced off, hitching up her skirts. Temar and I laid the stricken Kreve down as gently as we could and looked guiltily at each other. Demoiselle Avila appeared and knelt beside the stricken youth without a word. Laying gentle hands on his throat, she began murmuring some rhythmical enchantment that soon had the dark colour fading from his face. As the Esquire’s ribs laboured to draw air into his starved lungs my own breathing eased, along with the apprehension I could see mirrored in Temar’s expression.

  “I take it he turned out to be the worm in the apple?” Avila sat back on her heels, heedless of the filth on her gown, lace overdress torn in a handful of places. Her thin face was weary but the gleam in her eyes promised ill for Tor Bezaemar. “I would rather be using my energies to tend the innocent injured.”

  “Ryshad tells me it is for the Emperor to judge him,” Temar said, still rather mutinously.

  “Quite so, though you seem to have done a fair job in the meanwhile.” Den Janaquel men parted to let Messire D’Olbriot through. He looked down at Kreve, who was still insensible, eyes closed. “I’d say you have your revenge on Dirindal now, D’Alsennin. Sh
e’s pinned all the hopes of the House on this lad since he first grew out of soft shoes.”

  Temar looked suddenly disconcerted and sudden memories, not my own, assailed me. Temar had carried the burden of his grandsire’s expectation throughout his turbulent youth and that in part is what had driven him to Kellarin.

  “Is Esquire Camarl all right?” I asked abruptly.

  “Thanks to my lady Tor Arrial.” Messire’s poise was unmarred despite the lavish smears of blood darkening on his elegant clothes. “As soon as Den Janaquel can get us a coach, shall we go back to the residence? We’re hardly dressed for dining out now, and I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” He brushed at a swathe of dust on one leg and I saw a faint tremor in his hand.

  “What happens to him?” Temar demanded, prodding Kreve with a hostile toe.

  “Den Janaquel’s men will take care of him,” the Sieur promised with steely authority. “Their House is no friend to Tor Bezaemar, and they know well enough that the Emperor will have their necks stretched if anything goes awry.”

  It galled me to leave Kreve in someone else’s custody, but as a proven man in Den Janaquel’s colours arrived with a carriage for the Sieur I had no choice. At least the grim expressions on the faces all around the unconscious Tor Bezaemar reassured me that these men would be as good as their sworn word.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Sieur Endris D’Olbriot has caused this annal to be recorded and charges all who come after him to continue this work, in the sacred Name of Saedrin, Keeper of the Keys to the Otherworld, whose judgement every man must face

  As Winter Solstice brings this year to a close, I do not know how to record a date, since all calendars are meaningless in the chaos that overwhelms us. The best I can offer is my recollection that this is the twenty-eighth year since the final solstice of Nemith the Last, also known as the Reckless. After the trials of this last generation I wonder if my father and uncles would have so rudely pulled even so wretched a ruler from his throne if they had suspected the calamities that would befall us. Should our once respected forebears be condemned as reckless in their turn? Do we suffer as a result of their impiety or does Raeponin weigh our own transgressions and finding us wanting, give Poldrion the nod to loose misfortune upon us?