‘Do you recognise this?’
Corvor placed a thin golden disc on the table. Its embossed spiral serpent gleamed in the light of the synthflames.
‘Arix Gavron's seal.’
‘Precisely. He has decreed there is no dishonour in this mission.’
‘That's not for him to decide. I'll intercept the convoy, but in Balanos crimson.’
Corvor folded her arms. ‘I was afraid you'd take this stance. Arix Gavron disagreed. He's always been a sentimental judge of character, and fonder of you Merrixes than he should be. A monarch has that privilege.’
Talgard stirred for the first time in hours. <
I'll be damned if I do. But nonetheless, Eribon fought to control his temper. There had been something in Talgard's voice—something akin to fear. What possible hold could a shadow have over a spectre? ‘I'll happily discuss the matter with the arix.’
‘I said he was sentimental, not stupid.’ Reaching into a pocket, Corvor produced a slender datascreen. ‘Perhaps this will change your mind, where an arix's command will not.’
Eribon felt Talgard stir, a swirl of unidentifiable thoughts echoing through his mind. It was a spectre's equivalent of fidgeting. Warily, he took the datascreen. ‘What is this?’
‘See for yourself.’
Eribon thumbed the screen into life. There were hundreds of files, too many to properly register; a mix of interrogation records, espionage reports and witness statements, all of them over a hundred years old. One name cropped up again and again: Elioni Merrix. His great-grandmother, and the last arix of Clan Merrix. ‘I don't understand.’
Corvor's lips drew back over her teeth in a predatory smile. ‘What you hold in your hand is the complete, airtight proof that your great-grandmother orchestrated a conspiracy to break the power of the Sened.’
‘I don't believe it.’ Eribon's reaction was instinctive—anything to ward off the sudden chill in his bones.
‘I assure you, it's quite genuine. But I would say that, wouldn't I?’
‘Why does it matter? She's been dead for decades. This “conspiracy” of yours must be nearly a hundred years old.’
‘Were you not listening? A herald's sins are his alone, but the arix is the clan. Your grandmother's trespasses, however distant, are yours, and those of all others who bear her name, or her blood.’ Corvor stepped forward, jabbing a finger at eye level to emphasise her points. ‘You will do as instructed, or I will bring this information before the Sened. Your entire family—from your sister and her children to distant cousins whose names you've never even heard—will be stripped of rank and wealth. They'll be shipped to Galadon, and spend the rest of their days as munitions-factory workers. I understand life expectancy there can be as much as forty years.’
Eribon clenched his teeth. ‘I won't let that happen.’
‘Oh, my dear, you can't prevent it. If there's one thing sure to unite the Sened's vocators, it's outrage. If it's of any consolation, I expect the arix to speak passionately on your behalf. He feels things very deeply, as you know. It will change nothing.’
‘He doesn't know about this, then?’
‘Not unless he has to.’
Eribon ripped the datareader's memcrystal clear, and rolled it back and forth in his hand. ‘And this is the only copy?’
‘You're certainly free to believe that.’ Without waiting for an answer, Corvor raised her hood and moved towards the door.
‘Wait,’ said Eribon, still staring at the memcrystal. ‘Why me?’
Corvor chuckled dryly. ‘Because, despite your manner, you're one of our most accomplished pilots. There are others, of course, but we'd... Well, we'd miss them more.’
Eribon scarcely noticed the shadow's departure, lost in a whirl of thoughts. That he was considered expendable was hardly a surprise—heralds died in their clan's service all the time—but to hear it expressed so openly was jarring, nonetheless. To strike a blow against the Kerno was all well and good, but to do so under false colours? It went against everything he lived for. Heralds bore their raiment openly and without fear, representing the clan in open war, as well as the quieter political battles of the Sened. That he was being ordered—no, blackmailed—Into undertaking a mission whilst masquerading as a member of another clan...
Eribon felt as if the apartment's walls were collapsing in around him. With a cry of frustration, he hurled the memcrystal across the room. It struck the tiled refectory wall, and shattered into a dozen glinting fragments. If only his great-grandmother's guilt could be so easily destroyed. ‘And what do you know about all this?’
Talgard said nothing.
‘Don't you dare try and hide from me! Tell me!’
<
‘How can you say that? How can you know?’
<
Eribon closed his eyes, trying to fight back the rising sense of betrayal. ‘Why didn't she tell me? Why didn't you tell me?’
<
Eribon recalled his mother's insistence on observing the traditional Merrix feast days, to the point of refusing to attend Balanos ceremonies when the timing clashed. Even an armed escort hadn't been able to persuade her. In his mind's eye, Eribon saw her on the steps of their hall, threatening to shoot down any Balanos warden who crossed the threshold. He'd never understood how she'd survived such defiance. For the first time, he realised she hadn't.
‘And you?’ he asked quietly. ‘Why didn't you tell me?’
<
Talgard spoke so solemnly that, for the first time since their bonding, Eribon actually felt sympathy for his disembodied advisor. Moving to the window, he stared out across the city to Castle Valda. He wished now that he'd accepted Icarin's offer of lodging—Corvor wouldn't have dared approach him in a Tarenis stronghold.
‘How many lives rest on this?’
<
‘Don't be difficult, Talgard. I'm really not in the mood.’
The spectre hesitated. <
‘Then I don't have a choice, do I?’
<
* * *
Now
Eribon was drenched within seconds of entering the courtyard, the heavy cloth of his crimson uniform greedily soaking up every raindrop. The rain hissed down as if the storm clouds wished to wash all trace of Valda into the sea. A dozen paces away, across the puddled flagstones, Icarin and his retinue fared no better—not that it was any consolation.
You should have told me about my great-grandmother.
<
Talgard didn't understand. Probably he never would. We'll never know now, will we?
Riona Tarenis splashed across the courtyard to meet him, her fine blonde hair plastered to her skull by the rain. ‘Have you no second to support your claim?’ Her clipped tone didn't begin to conceal her worry. She'd already buried one husband, little more than a year back. One day into a new marriage, and she stood fair chance of being widowed before dusk.
Eribon shook his head. ‘Let's get this over with.’
It was hardly proper to fight a duel without another herald to witness the outcome on his behalf, but he wasn't in the mood to stand on ceremony. Besides, his only friend in Valda was also his opponent.
At Riona's gesture, he walked to the courtyard's centre and stood back-to-back with Icarin. He checked that his holster was unlatched and that his pistol
moved freely. Speed was everything—he'd seen too many duels end badly because a muzzle had snagged on the draw.
‘Heralds, on my first signal you will take ten paces.’ It was the Brigantan woman who spoke. Her thick braids had survived the deluge better than Riona's hair, yet she looked more uncomfortable than anyone else. Probably, she wasn't happy at being involved, but a herald from a neutral clan legitimised the contest in a way that a hundred witnesses from Clan Tarenis would not. ‘On my second, you will turn and fire. If this first attempt does not resolve the matter, we will repeat until there is resolution. Are you prepared?’
Eribon nodded. The motion dislodged water from his hair, and sent droplets dribbling down his face.
‘Then may Queen Dian be your judge.’
The Brigantan fired a shot skyward. The sound of it echoed around the courtyard like thunder. Eribon was on the move before it faded, silently counting out each stride.
One. Two. Three. Four.
He wasn't afraid. He'd often accused Icarin of shooting like a blind drunk.
Five. Six. Seven.
The truth was, Icarin was a lousy gunslinger. Not inaccurate as such, but he took too much time over his shots.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
A second gunshot echoed across the courtyard. Eribon spun around, careful not to lose his footing upon the rain-slick stones.
* * *
One Day Earlier
The javelin gunship shuddered as it swept out of the mists of otherspace and into the starry void of Karagon's outer orbit. Shifting against the flight harness straps, Eribon glanced at the glowing green sense-grid, tallying the readings with the sight through his gunship's for'ard viewport. Seven ships, a little more than twenty kilometres away, all of them in midnight blue. He looked closer: six targas—squat, humpbacked fighter-craft, piloted by commoners. Taken individually, Eribon knew they were no match for a herald's javelin, but in a swarm...? The Seventh vessel was easily ten times the size of Eribon's gunship, with graceful curves and gilded traceries on its out-swept double hull.
‘Dian,’ breathed Eribon. ‘Is that a stellar yacht?’
<
The comm crackled into life. ‘Unidentified javelin, transmit your clearance code.’
<
‘I don't know.’ Eribon shook his head. ‘Are we broadcasting a Tarenis ID?’
<
Eribon looked at the sense-grid. Sure enough, the targas had formed a flying wedge. Beyond, the stellar yacht was driving hard in the opposite direction, putting as much distance as possible between itself and Eribon's javelin.
‘Unidentified javelin, transmit your clearance code, or you will be destroyed.’
There it was again. Why were the Kerno even giving him the chance to avoid a fight? It didn't matter. There was nothing he could say that they'd want to hear, and no way he could turn back now. Eribon threw full power to the drive, and the javelin leapt towards the incoming Kerno fighters.
<
‘It doesn't matter. We'll be gone long before reinforcements arrive.’
Streams of brilliant light exploded across the starscape as the targas opened fire. Eribon threw his javelin into a port-wise roll. A handful of plasma shells spattered against his forward shields. The bulk passed away to starboard. The targas corrected at once, their streams of fire tracking towards Eribon's javelin.
<
One of the targas passed across Eribon's crosshairs. He squeezed the flight yoke's triggers, sending a double stream of plasma shells stitching across the lead targa. Its hull flared blue, but the shields held. The pilot's nerve did not. He broke formation, hauling hard to starboard.
Eribon fought to stay calm. It had all been a little too close for comfort, but he was damned if he'd admit it. ‘Give me an intercept heading for that yacht.’
<
The javelin took another pair of hammer blows before it escaped out of the targas' range, but the shields held. Barely. The fleeing yacht grew larger in Eribon's canopy. It had been built for luxury, not speed.
<
Eribon started in surprise. ‘That was fast.’ The first of the mist-wreathed gates was opening directly beyond the fleeing yacht. There was no sign of the incoming vessel, not yet. If the yacht reached the gate... ‘Can you give me any more power?’
<
‘What about the other gate?’
<
Ahead, the otherspace gate pulsed. A vessel emerged, lightning clawing at its egg-shaped hull. It was vast, dwarfing the fleeing yacht, its sleek lines made ragged by unfurled shield-sails and rigging lines.
‘A void galleon. It's almost a shame they're too late.’
The crosshairs on Eribon's canopy shifted from red to green. He squeezed the triggers. A three-second burst of shredders dropped the yacht's shields; another split its catamaran hull right down the middle.
<
A quick look at the sense-grid confirmed that Talgard wasn't kidding—at least thirty targas were bearing down on them. ‘It doesn't matter. We're done here.’ Eribon brought his gunship around in on another pass, shredders pounding at the drifting hulls until they imploded. ‘Open a gate. We're leaving.’
<
‘Any danger to us?’
<
Eribon frowned. That made no sense. A Tarenis flotilla, in approximately the same configuration as the ill-fated Kerno one...
<
Suddenly it all came together. A yawning gulf sucked at Eribon's chest. His fingers tightened on the flight yoke, as if he could somehow, through willpower, force away that awful hollow feeling. But he couldn't. As his javelin slipped into otherspace, he realised he wasn't going to make it to Icarin's wedding after all.
* * *
Now
Eribon slipped the pistol free from its holster. A heartbeat, and the sights were centred on Icarin's forehead. His friend's gun had scarcely cleared its holster.
One shot and it would all be over. Quick. Clean.
Eribon's finger closed on the trigger. Rain dribbled across his wrist.
<
But Eribon knew he couldn't. It didn't matter what it cost him or what proof it gave the Tarenis. He couldn't kill Icarin—the thought of that final betrayal clawed at his guts. At the last moment, he twitched the pistol aside, and the plasma bullet meant for the centre of his friend's brow instead scored a bloody line along his scalp.
Icarin collapsed with a scream, his pistol discharging as he fell.
When Eribon came to, he was lying on his back, staring up at the stormy sky. Everything felt so far away. He heard Riona shouting in alarm, but the sound was muffled, as if from a distant room. Craning his neck, he glimpsed the charred hole just below his ribcage. The heat of Icarin's plasma bullet had cauterised some of the wound, but there was still blood. Too much blood. Eribon let his pistol clatter to the flagstones, and pressed numb fingers to his chest. The strain on his neck became too much, and he let his head fall back. The Brigantan woman leaned over him. He saw her lips moving, but heard nothing over the beating of his heart. He tried to speak, but no words passed his lips.
Then came the darkness.
; * * *
Three Days Earlier
The mechtrite servitor was as dilapidated as everything else in the Sabre's Edge. The wooden tray in its corroded hands shuddered with every uneven step. Eribon whisked the tankards off the tray, and set them on the table. As the automaton began its unsteady retreat, he sank into the creaking leather armchair and rubbed at bleary eyes.
Icarin grinned. ‘I thought we'd end up wearing those.’
‘That thought had occurred to me.’ Eribon raised his tankard. ‘To health, and to wedded bliss.’
Icarin copied the gesture. ‘To health. And to bliss.’
‘If I might say so, old friend, you're lacking in cheer. Having second thoughts?’
‘None at all. I didn't go through all that unpleasantness with my uncle to back down now.’
Eribon snorted. ‘Your uncle's a fool.’
‘My uncle's the arix of Clan Tarenis. Like all monarchs, he worries too much about his heir marrying beneath himself.’
‘Then I'm right: he's a fool. Riona's an accomplished herald, and has easily twice your brains. Quibbling over ancestry is... undignified.’
Icarin shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, are we still talking about Riona, or someone else's struggles with an ungrateful clan?’
Eribon felt Talgard's laughter echo through his mind, and scowled. ‘Clan Balanos needs me, and they know it, deep down.’
‘But you'd like them to be a little more open about their needs?’
‘Why not? I've earned it. I've served them, and served them well. Who broke the blockade around Senethon? Who saved Arix Gavron's life during that disaster out near Singoria? I've fought and bled while my so-called betters were turning a pretty step at court...’
‘...or pursuing midnight dalliances.’ Icarin laughed. ‘It's just as well you're not bitter, otherwise you'd go on about it all the time.’
Eribon glared at his friend. Icarin had never understood his frustrations, though he pretended otherwise. And how could he? He didn't have to prove his worth day after day after day. Eribon was about to say as much when he realised that the corners of his friend's lips were quivering, as he tried to hold back a grin.
Grimdark Magazine Issue #8 MOBI Page 9
