The Edict

by P. J. Keyworth

  Over the North Sea, the two suns following the train of dusk, finally dropped their red heads down. Darkness descended unbidden over moorlands that stretched for miles beside the rolling waves, and crickets sang out their evening ballad from under the purple heather.

  The Reluwyn thief, rising as darkness fell, stood halfway down one of the moorland hills listening to the sounds from the dirt track below. The parched earth of that ground was a perfect medium for carrying every sound. The heather-heads trembled as though they feared what was coming, the crickets were silenced.

  Drawing back the wide cuff of his coat, he pulled an old friend from a leather holder on his forearm. In the moonlight, the small dagger reflected his sharp nose and dark eyes as he stabbed it into the stony hillside.

  A three-day-old beard he had no intention of shaving blunted the hard lines of his square jaw. Dropping to his knees, he crouched until his ear was very close to the knife. His raven locks fell across his temple as he blocked out other noise with both hands.

  Thud. Thud. Thud. One, no wait... a two-horse carriage. A heavy one judging by the vibrations, although it travelled at speed. He raised his head from the knife, dark eyes taking in the road below. At that pace it would only be a short while before the carriage came round that corner, and the driver would surely slow his horses to avoid the risk of turning over the carriage. That worked well for the thief. That worked perfectly.

  He closed his eyes in the evening breeze, smelling the brine on the air that came up from the sea. Taking a deep breath, he let out a long, low whistle. That done, he tugged his dagger free of the dirt and returned it to its holder, rising as he did so.

  Thin drabs of clouds were strewn across the star-laden canopy, obscuring the brilliant burning diamonds in places. The moon, just escaping the veil, let down a soft silvery light, casting the landscape in an eerie grey. Through this metallic world Dainus moved with fluidity. His great smooth flanks tensed repeatedly through his grand stride. His thick-crested neck let wild an ebony mane like black fire. His lustrous hooves met the rough heathery ground assuredly, although he moved with such rapidity. He responded to his master’s summons like the flash of dark lightning.

  Reaching the head of the hill on which his master stood, the horse slid with practiced skill to a timely halt, hocks sliding beneath him, hooves digging into the soil, skin quivering in the night air as he surveyed the valley below. He was as a night phantom: a shadow on the skyline, a trick of the light.

  The thief’s broad shoulders were straight and unflinching, his feet firmly planted on the side of the slope. With his back turned, he would have appeared ignorant of Dainus’ presence, but for his hand beckoning the horse closer. Dainus picked his way slowly down the slope, barely making a sound, until his muzzle touched his master’s outstretched hand.

  The track still stood empty, but he saw the moonlight glinting off a carriage window on a distant bend in the road. The black horse’s ears pricked up, listening to the far-off sounds of the wheels. Master and beast waited, the only movement around them was the wind in the heather and the carriage on the road.

  With an unexpected suddenness, the thief deftly grasped the reins and launched himself into the saddle. Without waiting he drew a blade from beneath the folds of his coat. It sliced through the air, its double edge ending in a viciously sharp point. He twirled it unconsciously, licking his lips, tightening his grip.

  The shift in weight was imperceptible, but the horse knew his master’s will, gathering his haunches and bounding forwards down the hill.

  Before they reached the track, the carriage appeared at the bend of the road. Saliva flecked with blood foamed at the horses’ mouths as they cantered around the corner, the carriage leaning over, the fat driver squealing in dismay.

  The thief did not expect the speed. He cursed the driver and adjusted his course. Dainus’ head swung sideways, shifting the weight to his left as he swerved. His master didn’t take his eye from the goal, riding on despite the change.

  For a moment, the carriage seemed as though it would topple down the hill, but the horses stayed true to their course. The lumbering vehicle threw itself back onto all four wheels, jolting and thudding before settling.

  The moment had come. The thief held his sword high, and seconds before colliding with the vehicle, let out an almighty cry.

  The astonished driver, who had been distracted by steering the carriage, faced the oncoming rider headlong. His eyes widened and his hands froze on the reins, before he sprang to life, urging his horses on in an attempt to outrun the highwayman.

  But the thief had not misplaced his trust in Dainus. The fearless beast kept on course and swung in front of the carriage rearing as he did so. The carriage horses slid to a shocked halt, one rearing in response, the other trying to bolt. The harness that had born the strain of the carriage's two-wheeled trip around the hillside finally gave up. Leather cracked and snapped. One horse escaped as the other wheeled around in circles, his bridle caught in the wreckage. The carriage shafts were forced into the dirt by the momentum, as the driver flew from his seat onto the ground.

  Dainus hop-skipped out of the broken carriage’s way, the thief staying in the saddle as the vehicle came to a final halt. The highwayman could not afford to lose his advantage: if there were guards inside, they would use their first opportunity to attack. The minutes ticked by but no one came out.

  Dainus pranced in agitation, impatient to charge again. The thief reined him in and then dismounted. If anyone was in the carriage, they were in no fit state to fight. He let Dainus go and continued on foot. He was stilled by a groan coming from the foot of the opposite hill. The highwayman turned, approaching the noise cautiously. There was a tangled heap showered in shards of wood from the carriage shafts. When he got close, the thief could see the twisted form of the carriage driver. He cast his eyes over the body, its legs bent at inhuman angles and its face bruised and bloody.

  “Mercy…” whispered the man, “Mercy…”

  The thief was an ominous shadow to the driver, perhaps death had come to take him. A muscle jerked in the thief’s jaw, he moved the blade in his hand, the point coming up under the driver’s chin. One push, and the man would be dead. Temptation lingered and then the thief moved swiftly, turning the blade, kneeling and knocking the driver out with its black handle.

  Something creaked by the carriage. The highwayman was quick to swing round, his sharp eyes picking out a dazed figure clinging haphazardly to the carriage door, swinging back and forth, unable to steady himself. The thief advanced. Poles to which the horses had been lashed were shattered, shards of the wood strewn everywhere and several of them crackled under his heavy boots. The stranger glanced up in acknowledgement of the thief’s presence, muttering something inaudible.

  The highwayman came to a halt before the traveller, his cloak falling in heavy folds around him. Dark eyes took in an elderly man crowned with a ring of straggly grey hair. With age, the missing hair must have long migrated to his chin, to form a very long beard.

  But it wasn’t the traveller’s hair or face, no, it was his attire that made the highwayman take a step back. He glanced around now, to ensure that no one else was present, then looked back at the man. He took in the deep navy of the silk tunic, the silver length of cloth that hung from each shoulder, the gold emblem of Emrilion pinned to the chest. This man was from the palace in Emril city. This man was a Reluwyn courtier.

  People in the Northern Moor villages had long spoken of Reluwyn officials moving in the Kingdom, travelling far, carrying messages. The tittle-tattle had grown increasingly louder since the noose had tightened around racial differences. All of Emrilion were interested to know exactly what their Prince and High Councillor were planning. And even with his current nomadic existence, the thief had heard whispers.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter who the stranger was. His rank had proved that there was precious cargo inside this vehicle.

  “You shall never get away with this,” t
he old man’s voice scraped like metal on stone.

  The thief’s eyes flicked from the open door of the carriage to the man’s face. He said nothing.

  “I ride under the protection of the Reluwyn High Council.”

  Still the thief remained silent.

  “Under the High Councillor Garesh!” The man’s voice rose higher, courage winning against fear. “Under the Prince himself – he shall not let you go unpunished.”

  The thief’s body tensed. His fingers were tight on the handle of his sword and he no longer leaned back on one leg. He set his thin lips in an uncompromising line, and his eyes blackened. “The Prince does not concern me, old man. But your cargo does.”

  Harsh rasping laughter sounded out. The man looked pained but he chose defiance. The thief would have admired his spirit if there wasn’t still work to do.

  “We carry nothing but the Prince’s laws. He shall punish you for this. Your body shall hang on the gates of Emril city for the vultures to peck at.”

  “I think not.” With that the thief did to him as he had done to the driver. The old man crumpled readily, his hands released from the door, his frame falling in the dirt.

  Leaving the man behind, the thief determinedly followed the point of his sword into the carriage. The silk curtains billowed fitfully in the evening breeze; the cushions all thrown about in disarray. The carriage lay empty of inhabitants, empty of the treasure he’d hoped to find.

  He sheathed his sword and began picking up cushions, throwing them into a pile, searching for anything of worth. His hands hit the wooden seat, ran along it, until they felt something cold, colder than wood. He drew out a silver box. Returning to the moonlight to examine it, the thief recognized the royal crest: a desert wildcat, like the Alakvalto Shifters of old had favoured when protection had been needed in the Tao desert. Pausing only briefly to take this in, the thief turned to opening the box.

  It was locked. Perhaps if he could manage to smash off the crest, at least the silver box might fetch a little. Instead, the thief placed it on the ground and went to rifle the dead man’s pockets for a key. His guess was right and before long he found what he was looking for. He unlocked the box, lifting up the lid. He cursed loudly. There was nothing in it but a paper sealed with dark red wax, stamped with the same wildcat emblem.

  He broke it open seeing large archaic scrawls in old nomadic Reluwyn threading their way across the pages:

  Provinces of Emrilion,

  By royal proclamation, from the court of the Lord Prince Trevisian Alakvalto of the Kingdom of Emrilion, under the charge of lord High Councillor Garesh, all Kingdoms loyal to Emrilion, the Reluwyn, Meir Elves, Chieftains and Radichi Warriors, are to cease all trade and communication with the Laowyn.

  A group of Laowyn, claiming to speak for their people, claiming they are a resistance against the Kingdom of Emrilion, are the root of insurrection within the Laowyn People. They are in direct conflict with Lord Prince Trevisian and the High Councillor Garesh and all free peoples of the Kingdom of Emrilion. No toleration shall be given to the Laowyn, no mercy shown, and no commercial interactions are henceforth permitted.

  Any man, woman, or child found in contravention of this Edict, shall be found guilty of rebellion against the Lord High Crown Prince of Emrilion and sentenced to death by beheading.

  This proclamation is being sent to every corner of Emrilion. All Laowyn who read this proclamation shall know that further insurrection will result in swift and crushing retribution with no further mercy shown. The Great Kingdom of Emrilion will not bow to rebellion.

  By order of High Councillor Garesh.

  Lord Prince Trevisian Alakvalto, Son of King Emril of the Kingdom of Emrilion.

  The thief crumpled the paper in his hands, dropping it in the dirt of the roadside. This was no concern of his.

  Chapter 2

  “Oh, you complete wretch!” Kiara’s eyes flashed at her uncle who stood, sombrely watching the painful proceedings with a judgmental countenance.

  “You’re horrible! It’s not as though I was the instigator - they were!” She drew in a gasp of air as Djeck ran another wet rag across the wound to clean it. “We’re oppressed, when will you realise it uncle? You yourself have said the Reluwyn have been tightening the straps at our throats ever since we were conquered. We’ve been subsumed into an empire that is not our own.”

  “You speak as if you were there twenty years ago.” Zephenesh was teasing her, Kiara could see the left side of his mouth twitching.

  “Amuse yourself at my expense, why not? In this house at least one Laowyn won’t bow to the Reluwyn’s cruelty.”

  Zephenesh turned away, hiding his face from her. Curse him! Why did he not care? Why wouldn’t he do something, anything, to stand against them?

  “They were taking children, Uncle.” Her voice became quiet with concern. “They were taking Laowyn children for their slaves. They say,” she stumbled, half in pain, half in distress. “They say that when they take us they remove our mark, that which makes us Laowyn. They just cut it out.”

  “Dogs,” Djeck muttered.

  If Zephenesh heard, he made no indication. Instead he came forward and moved the shoulder of her tunic aside.

  “Your Ensper is still blue, healthy.”

  “They don’t understand us and so they persecute us. They don’t trust us because we have a Great Spirit and they don’t. But the Spirit has given me the ability to fight them, in whatever way I can, so don’t judge me, Zephenesh! Don’t judge me!”

  She jerked away, causing the bandage to tighten around her leg far quicker than was desirable. “Be careful!” She winced a little as Djeck finished tying the linen.

  “It’s the price you pay for mischief,” said the servant with typical elvish venom.

  “So what happened to the dogs, the ones you curse?” hissed Kiara.

  “I may curse them, but I will never condone a woman fighting. I’m no fool.” Djeck was bustling around now, his rapid movements as sudden as flinching. Kiara was used to it. Djeck had been subjected to the Reluwyn’s punishments when the Meir Elves were suppressed. How could beatings with willow rods be just, when all the Meir Elves had done was participate in their usual harvest fayre? And that was just for the common elven folk – the leaders had seen worse. Contravention of Reluwyn laws which suppressed local customs had always met with harsh reprisals. That’s why Kiara hated the Reluwyn, hated the council, and hated the Prince.

  “But you’re foolish enough to doubt me. To doubt my hate, Djeck. Just because you do not stand in immediate danger doesn’t mean you should do nothing, that we should do nothing!” Unlike those who didn’t know her, the fierceness in those blue eyes did not daunt Djeck, not after this many years in Zephenesh’s household.

  “Neither is it clever to be completely reckless!” Zephenesh exploded. His usually calm demeanour fractured. “You were no match for one Imperial Guard, let alone more, no matter how many Laowyn they were harassing.”

  Now it was Zephenesh’s turn to berate Kiara, Djeck resumed his normal chores.

  “Our responsibility is to obey the rulers of this world, and to trust that the Great Spirit has control over them. We must trust he will protect us.”

  “And maybe he gave me the ability to fight - to protect myself and others! What do you say to that, Uncle?”

  “I only taught you how to use a blade because I thought it prudent.” Zephenesh cast his hands up, although his face remained expressionless. “You are giving me cause to regret it!”

  “Now you do not think it prudent? In the midst of this… this… suppression!” The sarcasm had quickly given in to fervour and Zephenesh had to give up. He had given up rather often lately.

  Soon the noise in the small forest home was reduced to just the banging of pots, as Djeck heated meal and honey for breakfast. Zephenesh, having given in to silence, walked around the dwelling with his hands tucked in his sleeves, and every now and then turned to survey his glowering niece.

&
nbsp; Breakfast, when served, was a silent and awkward affair. Kiara didn’t lift her eyes from her plate, uncle and elf exchanged glances, and the meal was consumed quickly by all. Once it was over Kiara watched her uncle walk out the door. He would be going for one of his long walks no doubt. She would not see him again until the afternoon.

  “A new proclamation reached Miresh yesterday,” said Djeck, not looking up from scrubbing a saucepan. “I couldn’t find you to tell you, and I didn’t see you again until you came through the door with that knife stuck in you,” he said accusingly. “All your people are considered to be in rebellion, although it’s only the Laowyn Resistance that causes insurrection. All trade and commercial activity between the Laowyn and other races is prohibited. The Reluwyn plan to crush you through economic means.”

  The anger boiled up in Kiara again. Righteous indignation coursed through her and she wanted to rise up and cry out. Her injured leg prevented her, so instead she slammed a fist down onto the reclining table making a spoon jump and rattle.

  “How long before we are starving do you think, Djeck?”

  “A while yet, Kiara, a while yet.”

  “And yet my uncle is content to do nothing.”

  Djeck made a face at that but said nothing, carrying on his vigorous scrubbing in sullen silence. With a stab of sympathy Kiara realised that in choosing to continue his service here, Djeck was most likely choosing the same fate as the Laowyn.

  She sighed in frustration at his silence. “It will get worse, I am sure of it. I just wish more of us would rise up against it before we are all condemned to die!”

  “Oh, stop your sour talk!” snapped Djeck.