by Tim Stead
“I don’t know. That depends on what it can do.”
“If we don’t know what it is, we have no tactics, no drill for the men. It’s chaos.”
Serhan realised that they were right. With no idea of what to expect, all Darius and Cora could do was guess, and hope that their subordinates would react quickly to any adjustments that might be needed. In the heat of battle that was a poor strategy – communications were difficult, even in a small force.
“So the unexpected is my area of expertise?”
“So far,” Cora said.
“That’s the deal, then. I’ll deal with the wizard, whatever that turns out to be, and you manage what happens afterwards.”
“That sounds like a plan. Your sort of plan, anyway.” Darius said.
He couldn’t complain. They had got used to him winging it, solving problems when they had to be solved. When Darius Grand described it as his sort of plan, he meant no plan at all. He didn’t often feel that he needed a plan, and positively avoided it most of the time. A plan was rigid, and he liked to be flexible, using variable means to ever changing ends.
“I’d like to know how he finds these things out. Does it have spies?”
“Oh yes, I thought you’d know that by now,” Darius seemed surprised. “He has people in most of the large towns, probably all of them. They do it out of fear, and because they get a certain amount of protection. Colonel Stil coordinates it.”
“Stil? I wondered what more he had to offer.”
“You should be careful of him, Cal,” Cora said. She looked worried. “He really doesn’t like the influence that you have. He doesn’t even like us speaking with you, and if it wasn’t the wish of the Faer Karani he would forbid it.”
“You think he would dare to move against me? Gerique would be angry, and I think that would be enough to stay his hand.” He wondered about the colonel. He had almost dismissed him from his tactical thinking. The man had access to Gerique, but could not interfere in any way with his work. He hardly ever saw or spoke to the colonel and all their exchanges were brief and functional apart from the odd insult. It probably suited Gerique to keep them at odds.
“Not directly,” Cora said, “but he is not a direct man by nature. He seems full of bluster and anger, but there is a lot underneath that he keeps hidden.”
“As long as I keep Gerique happy things should go smoothly.”
“Yes. We hope so, anyway,” Darius agreed.
“One more piece of gossip that you should be aware of,” Cora said. “I heard from one of the castle staff last night that The Faer Karan may have brought a Shan to White Rock.”
“A Shan?” Really loud alarm bells were going off inside Serhan’s head.
“Yes. Late last night they were called out to put it into quarters on the east side of the keep. Nobody else stays up there, so it will be completely alone.”
“You’re sure it was a Shan?”
“The man that told me was pretty sure. His guess was that it came through a black door from Cabarissa, because it came out of the Faer Karan quarters. It was small, he said, about a foot shorter than you, and wrapped up in a grey robe so that it was impossible to see its face. It didn’t speak at all.”
“What does Gerique want a Shan for?”
“Your guess is probably better than mine, but they do render service to the Faer Karan from time to time. The orders to quarter it, and where, came from the colonel, by the way, not that knowing that will ease your mind.”
“You’re worried, Cal,” Darius observed.
“Yes, because I have no idea what this is about. You know what the Shan can do?”
“Not first hand, but there’s talk they can see a man’s thoughts,” Darius said. “Perhaps even see the past and the future.”
“Quite. I don’t want anybody knowing what I know, where I’ve been and what I’ve done, and least of all what I want.”
“Then you’ll have to stay clear of it,” Cora said. “Anyway, you two are off to Sorocaba tomorrow, so I suggest you get some sleep. I certainly need it.” She drained the cup of wine in front of her and left them. Darius poured another cup for Serhan.
“You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I won’t deny it. There are a lot of things in my head that I don’t want Gerique to know.”
“Not much you can do except stay out of the way, get out of White Rock as often as you can. You’ve got the freedom of action and enough excuses to be somewhere else.”
They left it there. Serhan didn’t really want to talk about it any more. He had to think, and returned to his own rooms to do so.
The Shan were an ancient race, and lived apart from men on the island of Cabarissa where they practiced their strange skills. They were physically small, and weak, and there were no great Shan warriors. They were no match for men, had no inclination to war, and saw no glory in it, people said. He had heard that there were a hundred thousand of them on Cabarissa, and that they built cities of stone and crystal in which they dwelled in comparative peace. The old Kings of the south were supposed to have extended their protection to the Shan because they were willing to serve the Kings in return. They were used as truth tellers. You could not lie to a Shan, and you could not hide a secret from them.
The stories that Serhan had been told insisted that skin to skin contact was necessary for the hearing of thoughts to take place, but that was the only defence. Master Brial, back in the valley, had painted the Shan as an evil race, accomplices to tyrants and betrayers of the just, but Serhan had not quite believed it. He had thought for a long time about what it must be like to be defenceless. There were so many more men, and they were so much stronger and more warlike. He preferred to think that Brial was a man for whom secrets were necessary, and the existence of the Shan was an offence to him.
He pushed open the door to his rooms and noticed that the handle was slightly sticky. It annoyed him that those whose job it was to clean had missed something so obvious. He washed his hands in a bowl of water and lay down on his bed, but sleep would not come for a long time. He thought about the town of Sorocaba. It was large for Gerique’s domain, with a population of five thousand or more. Dragan, the punisher, would have levelled the place, so in a way he was saving thousands of lives, or would do so if he was successful.
He did not believe that a genuine wizard existed in Sorocaba. They were an extinct breed, wiped out in a few days by the Faer Karan nearly four hundred years ago. If some knowledge had been preserved it would be trivial, similar to his own, and he knew that the wisdom he had gleaned from Gerique would serve him well. The ring was also an advantage.
There was a noise outside his room. He lay very still and listened. It sounded as though someone were scratching at his door. Then it stopped. He rolled off his bed and walked quietly across the room, pulling the door open suddenly.
There was nothing outside, just empty stone hallways and a single oil lamp. He listened again for a full minute, but didn’t hear anything more, so he closed the door and went back to bed. His stomach felt bad. He guessed that the wine had not been that good, but it did not disturb him enough to prevent sleep claiming him at last.
It was several hours later that he awoke again, and realised that he was dying.
His body was bathed in sweat and his arms were incredibly heavy. He could not move his legs at all, and blood was beating loudly in his ears. He was seized by panic, and thrashed around as best he could, trying to get out of the bed, but then stopped.
What good would getting out of the bed do? Could he reach the door? No. Could he call out? He tried his voice, but it was very weak, and he doubted that it would be heard beyond the door. So what could he do to save himself?
Before he knew that he must know what was wrong with him, and a few moments of calm thought put it together. It was not the wine. He had been poisoned. Not so bad, then. He focussed all his remaining strength and reached back into his memory, bringing out the spell of heal
ing that both Balgoan and Gerique had used to fix his broken limbs. He knew that the spell itself might kill him if it drew too much of his reserves away, but there was no other option.
He spoke the words clearly, perfectly, and felt the rush of heat through his limbs and chest. It was gone. The weakness passed and his legs felt light again. He sat on the edge of the bed and sucked in air. He felt drained and the sweat made him cold, so he pulled a blanket round his shoulders.
Who had done this? His thoughts went back to the cup of wine he had taken from Darius. There was no motive there, and Darius was a friend. He put that to one side. He had once thought that if anyone was going to poison him it would be Colonel Stil, but he could not see how it had been done. He had eaten nothing that had not been from the common pot, and drunk nothing except water from the well and Darius’s wine.
He remembered the sticky feeling on the door handle. Poison? He went to the door and opened it, ran his hand across the handle again. It was polished and smooth. Well, that explained the noises he had heard outside the door. Someone had waited until he had retired, and was assumed to be sleeping, and then removed all trace of the poison.
But this was beyond the art of Colonel Stil. He would have had to employ somebody with great skill and… the Shan! Now he remembered other stories that he had been told. The Shan were supposed to be masters of medicinal herbs and poisons. They were sometimes employed to heal in the old kingdoms, but just as often to kill. There was never any proof, but the stories persisted. So Stil had used a Shan to try to assassinate him. It was a bold move. Cora had been right, the man had hidden and sinister depths. On the other hand, he did not think that Gerique would have agreed to this. It was just possible that the Faer Karani had set him a test, but he did not think it likely, so the Shan must be here for some other purpose. It had been brought in through the Faer Karan area of the castle, probably by a black door, so Gerique would know that it was here, and there would be some reason. The Shan would be here until its official purpose was achieved.
It was awkward for Stil, he thought, that the Shan was still around, and so was he. If the thing was here to expose him, to test him, then Colonel Stil would have waited until that particular test had been passed or failed before making his play, so now he reasoned that he could feel safer in that regard as well.
It was too much to think of now. He needed sleep for the long day tomorrow, and there would be plenty of time to think on the journey.
* * * *
In the morning he deliberately delayed going down to join the assembling troops until the last possible moment. He dressed at a leisurely pace, and fifteen minutes before they were due to depart he sauntered into the castle courtyard where the troops, a hundred of them, were completing their preparations. He was very pleased to see that Colonel Still was also there, and although he controlled his reaction very well, it was clear that he was both surprised and fearful at Serhan’s appearance.
“You’re late,” Darius said.
“Sorry. I slept very deeply last night, for some reason.” He made sure that the colonel could hear his voice. He walked over to where he was standing. On his way down to the courtyard he had picked up a dab of honey and placed it in the palm of his hand, smearing it so that it was sticky. “You look pale, colonel. Are you well?”
“I am very well,” Stil replied.
Serhan took his hand and shook it, seeing the reaction in his eyes as he felt the stickiness of the grip. He had been correct in thinking that Stil was behind it.
“Look after the place for us while we’re gone, Colonel,” he said. “Our lord relies on you for so much.”
“Yes, of course,” a very pale Stil disengaged his hand hurriedly and headed quickly across the courtyard to the doorway leading to the east wing, where the Shan was concealed.
Darius tapped him on the shoulder. “What was all that about?” he asked in a low voice. “Stil looked scared of you.”
“Private joke,” Serhan said. He laughed. “Shall we go?”
12 A Ruin
Travelling to war was relaxing for Darius Grand. He never made rigid plans. That would come later. Instead he daydreamed the situations that he might find himself in, even the very worst, and what he would do in each one. He was riding with a body of one hundred trained soldiers towards a town of five thousand, all of whom would probably be glad for him not to be there, so there would be plenty of opportunities for disaster.
He liked to think that he understood people, and his instincts told him that the citizens of Sorocaba would not want to fight. Nobody ever wanted to fight, not even his troops, and not even Grand himself. Sometimes it was necessary, and sometimes people got carried away by fear, and sometimes by anger or grief.
If these people did fight, and it was possible, then it would be because they had been given reason to do so, a cause. That would be the wizard – Serhan’s responsibility. If the wizard was removed from the equation, then he was sure that he could work things out with minimum carnage.
As he rode alongside Serhan he looked at his colleague and friend – yes, he had begun to regard the young man as a friend – from time to time. He was relaxed, too, and that was a good thing. It was especially good for the troops who looked at their two relaxed and confident commanders, and relaxed themselves. They trusted Serhan and their captain to come up with a plan.
Grand himself did not feel that Serhan had a plan. He never did. Grand understood this, because he could never formulate a plan until he had enough information, had seen the lie of the land, gauged his enemy’s strength and resolve. These were all unknowns that he was usually able to determine in short order, and then a plan would emerge naturally from this information, even if that plan was to wait, or retreat.
Serhan planned and acted at the same time, it seemed. He did the same thing as Grand did, but he did it with blinding speed, between words, between strokes of a sword, and he was almost always right. He admired this ability, especially as the man was so young.
On the afternoon of the first day out from White Rock they rode up a long track that climbed the face of a scarp and emerged onto the back slope close to a ruin. It was hundreds of years old, from the time before the Faer Karan, but Serhan seemed interested in it. He was always interested in old things, always asked questions.
“What is that place?” he asked.
“Some sort of defensive position,” Grand replied. “It was destroyed hundreds of years ago. It is a forbidden place, now.”
“Forbidden? By whom?”
“Tradition. Probably by the Faer Karan originally.”
“I’d like to look at it.”
Grand looked up at the sun. They still had a couple of hours good light left, but he was in no hurry to get to Sorocaba, so he nodded. “All right,” he said. He called up his sergeant and told him to make camp on the edge of the woods a couple of hundred yards away. There was a spring there, and it was well sheltered from the wind. He picked five men to come with them.
As they rode up to the ruin Grand surveyed it. The woods came much closer to the line of the scarp here, fifty yards or so from the ruin. He was sure that they had not been so close when the thing was built. It would have been an easy place for an attacking force to hide. The foundations that remained showed that there had been a thick wall surrounding the keep, and as they approached he could see scorch marks on the broken stone from the last attack on the place, still present after four centuries. A portion of the inner tower was still standing, and dark doors and windows gaped at them. It was a little more than a storey high.
They dismounted and Serhan made his way towards the doorway. Grand followed, wondering what it was about the place that interested him.
“Someone died here,” Serhan said as Grand came up beside him.
“A few people I should think,” Grand replied.
“No. Someone important. Such force against what’s little more than a guard post. Any guard contingent would have surrendered to the Faer Karan.”
Serhan turned and looked towards the forest, the way the door faced, as though he was trying to see the view as it had been seen then. Grand studied the walls. It had been a well built place.
There was a shout of alarm from one of their men, and Grand reached for his sword, only to be roughly pushed by Serhan. He stumbled to his knees. There was the distinctive sound of an arrow striking home, and running feet. He picked himself up and looked around. Two of his men were running towards them; three others were running at the tree line with swords drawn.
“Are you all right?” one of the men asked anxiously.
“I’ll be fine,” Serhan said. “The mail must have taken the force out of the arrow.”
The arrow in question was lying on the ground. It was iron tipped.
“What happened?” Grand asked.
“Some bastard popped up in the woods over there and loosed an arrow at you. Captain Serhan stepped in front of it. The others have gone to fetch him.”
“Signal the troops in the camp to move out and cut them off, I want to interrogate them,” Grand said. He turned to Serhan as the men moved away to obey his order. “That was a foolish thing to do. The arrow could easily have killed you.”
Serhan would not meet his eyes for a moment. “My armour is better than yours, I think.”
That was nonsense. They both had standard guard issue mail.
Another shout and they looked up. Three men were running towards them from the tree line, pursued by the three guards. The two that had been with them moments before were now too far away to help. Grand and Serhan drew their swords at the same time, and the oncoming men slowed a little. Grand could tell at a glance that they were not bandits. There was no armour, and their weapons were bows and daggers. Hunters, probably.
“Alive, Darius, we want them alive,” Serhan said.
Grand nodded. No point in killing hunters.
One of the three picked an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bow as he ran. They both saw him do it.
