by RJ Baker
His daughter worried him. He felt for her, loved her, but could only see in her the proof of his own weakness. Again and again he blamed the hedgings for her existence, although he seemed unsure which was to blame. Sometimes it was Fitchgrass, others Dark Ungar, Coil the Yellower or Blue Watta. He spoke of his fear of becoming a shatter-spirit, tied to the land. Then the focus changed from hedgings to Arnst and a growing sureness that Arnst had given his spirit to Dark Ungar. Strange proofs were given, odd and disjointed ideas, bizarre diagrams scrawled across the pages. Connections had been made between seemingly innocent occurrences: on one page a lost ring, a dying soldier and a bad pie had taken on peculiar weight in Darvin’s consciousness. Before me I saw a mind unravelling as the world that he had known and been secure in also came apart. Then I found the page where he rejoiced in Arnst’s death, called himself a true servant of the gods, a man who “carried out their will no matter the cost.”
Among his ravings another name appeared, first intermittently, then more and more regularly. In one place it had been written and then “Dark Ungar’s Servant” written over it. Again and again I found this conjunction, sometimes scored through so fiercely that the pen had torn the page and the one below it.
Rufra.
Rufra the betrayer. king of the hedgings. Rufra ap Vythyr, murderer of innocents. Rufra ap Vythyr, servant of Dark Ungar.
On another page I found the word “traitor” and the name of Gwyre’s priest, Coilynn, written together and pierced by lines drawn to look like thorns. No Nonman had killed Coilynn. Darvin had taken her life, judging her enthusiasm for Rufra’s ways evidence she also served Dark Ungar. He called her a “needful sacrifice” and went on to write of the need for the “final sacrifice to bring about the rebirth of the gods.”
I threw the book aside. Below it was a box wrapped in grey wool, the same rag Coilynn had ripped up to make a healers’ flag from. When I shook it out, it revealed itself as a bloodstained grey robe, like the one worn by the priest seen in the drinking tent. The box was the sort a warrior may keep an expensive sword in. I opened it. Wool lined, and in the wool the indented shape of two blades, the first an ornate sword. I remembered how the butcher had said Forven Aguirri had had his sword taken from him, and I had thought nothing of it. But now it was clear that the ornate blade used to kill Arnst was not his own; it had been Darvin’s. Below the indentation of the sword was the shape of a much smaller blade, a Landsmen’s knife. A knife used for sacrifice.
And that knife was also gone.
“Where is Darvin?” I asked the acolyte. He sneered at me and then I was on him, my blade at his throat. “Tell me where Darvin is or I will kill you here and now!” He was young, no more than a child really, and his eyes were wide with terror. “Tell me!” I shook him hard.
“G-gone!” he said.
“Gone where?”
“The king leaves for battle,” he said innocently, unaware of the cold shiver his words sent through me. “Darvin is gone to carry out the sacrifices for war and to pronounce the final blessing on him.”
“The final blessing. Boy, you should pray to the dead gods for a small mercy.”
And then, again, I found myself running.
Chapter 28
The camp was thick with people and the atmosphere high with a mixture of excitement and fear. I pushed through crowds, desperate to get to Rufra, and heard many voices, some sure and loud, talking about how Rufra could not lose, others sad and tearful as they said goodbye to loved ones hurrying to join the rapidly growing ranks of Rufra’s army. I heard parents talking to children in low voices, assuring them everything would be all right when they were just as unsure and scared themselves. People crowded in from all sides to block my way, a thick stream drawn to the low hill outside the camp where Rufra would be blessed and make the speech everyone wanted to hear, the one where he would assure them they were safe and that he would win. I was familiar with the unsettled feelings of people whose warriors were about to fight and understood their need to feel like they had not chosen the wrong side – that they were not all destined to become thankful if Tomas won. They were not of course. If Tomas won he and Neander would simply wipe them out to save having to feed them.
It was probably for the best that I was not expected to make any speeches.
I gave up trying to push through. My attempt at speed was doing nothing but riling up the people around me, and in an atmosphere that was such an odd mixture of elation and tension it wouldn’t take much to start a riot. So I let myself become one with the crowd approaching Rufra’s cavalry and the front ranks of his army. On their mounts the Riders were awe-inspiring, their armour polished and shining, gilding glinting on the animal’s antlers and coloured loyalty flags strung on moonwood wands bounced and twisted in the air, giving a strange air of jollity to the business of war.
The crowd was brought to a halt by a line of Rufra’s guards standing shoulder to shoulder, their shields painted with his flying lizard and locked to create a ring around the low hill. Atop the hill sat Rufra on his mount, dressed in silver armour and a long golden cloak that fell from his shoulders. Neliu was just behind him. On his right was Cearis holding Rufra’s bonemount, the skull of his childhood mount Imbalance, strewn with rags and streamers which fluttered in the air with the promise of death. On his other side, and nearer to me, was Boros, his halfmount standard raised above him. The armour of his mount archers was less bright in the sun, their bearing less impressive than Cearis’ cavalry though I knew they were just as important to Rufra, if not more so. Boros was the only person wearing his visor down, his ruined face replaced by a metal replica of what it had once been – achingly beautiful. Behind Cearis and Boros’s Riders was Danfoth the Meredari, armoured in black on a black mount, and with him ten men and women in the black rags of Arnst’s followers. To the right sat Aydor, on his mount and looking every inch as arrogant and haughty as I remembered. He wore my warhammer, and I felt a moment of resentment that he stood at Rufra’s side, and fear that he would betray us all. I saw no sign of Nywulf, which worried me. Of them all he was the only one I thought likely to recognise a threat in time to do something about it.
But would even Nywulf suspect a priest?
In front of them all was a scaffold and stage hastily erected from rough wood and old branches to create a platform high enough for Rufra to be seen by the entire crowd when he took his blessing. Across the front of the stage danced hobby dolls made of last year’s straw, starting to sag and blacken where old blood stained them; above the stage some recently cut pear tree branches bent under the weight of the luck-bread tied to them.
From the bottom of the hill on the left I could see a procession of priests and acolytes, led by Darvin, making its solemn way up the hill – their solemnity somewhat spoiled by Gusteffa who danced and cavorted before them. Gabran the Smith led a contingent of troops in clearing the crowd to make a corridor for the priests, and in the resulting crush I was barely able to breathe, let alone move.
“Gabran!” I screamed, willing him to hear me, and when I got no reaction I mentally cursed his wide-brimmed helmet and the ridiculously over-the-top crest of purple lizard feathers that crowned it. “Gabran!” Did he turn for a moment, looking for a voice he half-recognised in the churning crowd? I could not be sure, but as I could barely move I had little option but to continue to shout. When Gabran did not hear me, I called to Gusteffa capering before the priest. She saw me. Even among the throng she somehow heard me and caught my eye.
“Stop Darvin! Gusteffa! Do not let Darvin near Rufra!” But she must not have been able to make out my words and all I received was a smile and wink. Fitchgrass curse the crowd. I shouted more loudly, forcing air from my lungs. “Stop the blessing!”
A man in front of me, huge and black-bearded, turned on me angrily.
“Traitor! You would curse the king by sending him to battle without a blessing?”
I opened my mouth to tell him who I was and a fist hit me in the kidneys
from behind. I buckled, only the weight of the crowd kept me up. Someone stamped on my club foot and I had to fight to suppress a scream of agony. A woman in front of me hissed “Traitor!” and elbowed me in the face, opening a cut above my eye, and then blows were raining down as the cowled figure of Darvin passed at the head of the procession, a smoking burner held high, the scent of the perfumed smoke strong enough to cut through the stink of sweat from the crowd. I was knocked to the ground and more kicks were aimed at me. The press of the crowd hampered my attackers and though they kicked at me they could not swing their legs back enough to do real damage. Soon they would realise it and start stamping, and then I would be finished.
A foot came at my head and I grabbed it with both hands, giving it a vicious twist and being rewarded with a scream of pain. The owner of the foot fell beside me. I grabbed his body, twisting so it was on top of me and in the confusion I wriggled backwards from under him. Some were aware of what I was doing. Cries of “Stop the traitor” went up, and I saw legs pumping up and down, stamping on the man I had felled. A foot found my hand and I had to bite down to stifle a cry. As the foot lifted to come down again I twisted so it missed and delivered a punch to the back of my attacker’s knee, making the leg buckle. The woman went down, I used her body to drag myself up.
“Traitor,” I cried and delivered a kick to her stomach. Others took over where I had left off and I pushed myself away from the scuffle, trying to see where Darvin was as a group of soldiers pushed their way into the crowd to keep the peace.
The procession had stopped in front of Rufra. His cavalry and mount archers were in two loose rings around the scaffold: the cavalry Riders in the outer ring had their swords out and held loosely at the sides of their mounts ready to salute their king; the mount archers created an inner ring and held their bows ready to do the same. It was not lost on me that this was also a show of strength and an efficient way to protect the king should there be any threat from the crowd.
Only I knew the threat would not come from outside.
Rufra slid down from his mount and there were cheers: “Rufra! King Rufra! Long life to the king! Bread for the king!” My friend raised his arms and smiled at the crowd, nodding and slowly spinning on the spot. He had the uncanny talent of appearing to look right at you, but when I waved and tried to attract his attention his gaze simply passed over me. I tensed as Darvin and the procession of priests walked past Rufra, but Darvin only ascended the scaffold and watched as the king followed. I pushed my way forward, no longer caring about those I upset. Darvin not only intended to kill the king but he intended to make a spectacle of it. I forced my way through the crowd on a wave of abuse and shouts – I was all sharp elbows and knees – and wondered if Darvin was also the spy. But if so how did Darvin pass on his information to Neander and Tomas? And more, how did Darvin know of Rufra’s military plans? Did he have an accomplice in Rufra’s council?
It did not matter, not now, not this second. Rufra went to his knees before Darvin, arranging his golden cloak around himself. The crowd chanted the syllables of his name and they beat urgently in my ears – “Ru-fra! Ru-fra! Ru-fra!” Before me was a wall of soldiers. Getting though the crowd was one thing, getting past them another. And once I was past them I would face the cavalry and mount archers. Would they recognise me in time or would they simply react? How would they know I was not an assassin? If Nywulf had been there I could have relied on him to be quick enough to protect Rufra. But now?
I trusted no one.
Darvin raised his arms to speak, and the crowd fell silent.
“We stand here –” he did not sound like a madman, he sounded calm and sure “– in the midst of chaos and death. Let us not think death is the natural way of the Tired Lands. Life was once in balance, until the gods died, and we mourn their passing every day. But, at the same time, let us not forget that death and sacrifice are necessary – why else would Xus the unseen live on?” Behind him a pig was led forward, garlanded in straw dolls and flowers, but the sacrifice to be offered by Darvin was far more valuable than any pig. I found myself pushed up against the shield of the soldier in front of me. He held his shield well, locked into the shield next to it, in his other hand he held a spear. I looked for a weakness to exploit. “We have all made sacrifices, but Dark Ungar continues to whisper in the ears of those who should know better!” Darvin produced a knife from inside his robes.
The crowd screamed their agreement and surged forward, crushing me against the shield and forcing the soldier one step back.
“Tomas! Curse Tomas!” screamed out all around me.
Only I saw that Darvin held the bent knife of a Landsman.
“Curse all those who forsake the way of the gods!” shouted Darvin, and now I could hear the sharp edge of the fanatic in his voice, the raw cut of obsession. At the same time I saw, in the faces of those around the king, an unconscious knowledge that something was wrong; Boros’s metal face tilted slightly, as if he heard an off-key sound; the bonemount that Cearis held dipped a little; Neliu’s hand touched the hilt of her blade.
Inla, the priest of Mayel, passed Darvin the halter of the sacrificial pig, and he jerked the creature forward. “King Rufra,” shouted Darvin; my breath stuck in my chest, my muscles froze – a ring of armed men and women stood between me and a murderer – “make the salute of the old ways.” Rufra raised his head, exposing his bare throat to Darvin’s blade.
Breathe out.
“And now,” said Darvin quietly, though his voice carried easily across a crowd suddenly silent with anticipation, “with my blade I make the final sacrifice. I close our ears to the hungers of the hedgings. I act sure in the rising of the gods. With my blade I bring balance with blood.” He raised the blade.
And let go of the pig.
Breathe in.
Everything slowed.
Grabbing the spear of the guard before me, pulling him forward and off balance. Digging my left foot in above the knee of the man on my left. He squeals in pain as I push myself higher. Right foot on the hip of the woman on my right. She screams and starts to fall.
Rufra’s eyes are closed as he waits for a blessing that will never come.
The knife is coming down.
My left foot on the rim of the guard’s shield, using it and his spear to propel myself up and forwards over his head. I try to keep hold of the spear, but the guardsman is well trained. Though my move has taken him by surprise he keeps a tight hold of his weapon, and it slides from my grasp. The sharp tip cuts the palm of my hand and steals some of my forward momentum, sending me sprawling.
The muscles in my bruised legs and back are on fire.
The pig is screaming as it falls from the scaffold.
The knife is coming down.
Those nearest Rufra react: Cearis pushing the bonemount into the hands of the Rider nearest to her and going for her sword; Boros spurring his mount forward; Neliu’s mouth opens in shock. The two Riders in front of me pulling their mounts round to face me, antlered heads coming down, razor-sharp gilding flashing in the sun.
The knife is coming down.
I let myself fall, rolling onto the ground and my tumbling momentum carries me forward over the damp and slippery grass. I hear shouting, screaming, crying. I feel the disturbed air on the back of my neck as antlers pass over my head. In the corner of my eye I can see mounts rearing, bringing slashing claws and spurs into play, but I am already up, running towards the threat.
Boros is leaning into his mount.
Cearis has her sword half drawn.
Neliu is mounting the scaffold steps.
A mount archer is drawing his bow and aiming at me.
And the knife is coming down.
Tumbling, forward and up. A bow aimed – strung and barely taut – I grab the stirrup of the mount archer’s saddle. Other archers are swinging round, bringing bows to bear.
Everything is so slow. The progress of Darvin’s knife is measured in blinks of my eye, a glance of time.
/> Pulling myself up the stirrup as the Rider tries to lower his bow. Other hand on the quiver strung forward on his saddle. Heave. Upward! Using his armour like a ladder. Shoulder into his face, foot over his in the stirrup. Bow twisted from his hand and into mine, my momentum carries me, pushing him backwards off the saddle. He fights for balance. One foot on the shoulder of his mount, and the arrow I barely even know I plucked from his quiver flashes up into the bow. My other foot on the Rider’s chest. I stand tall, high above his mount and everyone else. The falling Rider’s hand locks around my leg and I feel gravity, remorseless, as he falls, bringing me down with him.
I have no time.
No time for fear.
Draw.
No room for fear.
Aim.
I am the instrument.
Loose.
I am the weapon.
DrawAimLoose.
I hear the arrow’s impact. See it take Darvin in the throat, a killing shot, and he falls backwards off the stage. The blade in his hand snatched away a finger’s breadth before it bites into Rufra’s neck.
And I’m falling, landing heavily on top of the mount archer whose weapon I stole, the wind knocked from both of us. I am unable to move as a soldier runs at me, his spear ready to strike, and only the iron discipline instilled in him by years of training saves me from death as Cearis shouts, “Stop! Stop! He saved the king! He saved the king!”
Underneath me the mount archer is groaning, and all around is chaos. I struggle to my feet, aching all over.
Cearis takes my arm and helps me up.
“Girton, are you hurt?”
Everything hurts.
“I need a healer.”
I need my master.
“I have betrayed Rufra,” she said, her face stark, on the edge of breaking.
