Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “Of course,” Guyen said. He’d watched runners at work. As play went on around them, they ventured into the arena, dragging injured players to safety and dealing with wounded horses. It was a dangerous job, but very well-paid, and if he could prove himself, it would increase his chances of getting on that coach. Now seemed a good time to broach the subject. “Selius, I heard the team are on the road this Aylesday?”

  “That’s right. What of it?”

  “I was wondering—might I offer my services? I need the coin.”

  The grounds marshal stroked his chin. “Well, we do need more hands. No one wants to travel to the backwaters. Do a good job today and we’ll see. How does that sound?”

  “Fair, Selius.”

  “Fair I am, Yorkov, never let it be said otherwise.” He kicked a clump of hay over some fresh muck. “Right, I need someone to prepare the flashbangs for the match. Can you do that?”

  Reluctantly, Guyen admitted he could. He’d assisted Dasuza before, priming the grenades the home team randomly allocated all players before every match. It was a precarious job, but he had to get on that coach and that meant doing whatever he was told today. Suitably appreciative, Selius waved him off.

  The armoury was the size of a banqueting hall, the walls cold stone, the haphazard timbers set in them flaky. No one was about. Oil light twinkled on glinting racks of lances, swords and plate armour prepared for the match, and a vast mural dominated a wall—a battle scene between two Flags teams, one in the golden colours of the Outlaws. The plaque below denoted the match the cup final of 1688. Guyen stood at a worryingly pockmarked table, a pile of empty shells like metal goose eggs in a crate beside him. Each shell required filling with gunpowder and lime, then a trigger end cap fitted. The explosive’s strength was regulated to produce sound and light rather than anything more dangerous like shrapnel, and only a solid impact would fire the mixture, but silly mistakes were best avoided, so he summoned Toulesh for maximum concentration.

  Sweat soon beaded on his forehead. It would have been better if his hands were fully recovered, but apart from some lime irritation, an hour later he’d screwed on the last cap without mishap. He loosed Toulesh to inspect the weapons rack and sat on a bench for a well-earned breather. Eyes sliding up to the grand mural, he fell into the painting, experiencing the battle for himself through the artistry of the brushstrokes.

  A gravelled bass voice spoke behind him. “Ah, the glory days.”

  Guyen jumped up. It was one of the players, no run-of-the-mill bannerman or back line defender though. Shevrin Vadil stared up at the mural. “The Knights of Kasimar,” he rumbled. “Our greatest ever opponents. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  Guyen steeled himself. He’d not be a bootlicker. Vadil was just a person, same as everyone. “I haven’t heard of them, sir Knight.” The words came out in an embarrassing mumble.

  “You wouldn’t have,” Vadil said. “War team they were, ran out of a fort upstream on the Galt. The army abandoned it to the bulrushes decades ago.” He nodded admiringly. “Fiercest men that ever played the game.”

  “They look it,” Guyen agreed. The faces portrayed in the painting were positively brutal.

  Vadil cracked his knuckles. “You know where my saddle is, lad? I need to check it.”

  “Yes, sir Knight.” Guyen retrieved it from its peg, easily identifying it by the gold lettering emblazoned on the leather.

  Vadil inspected it, testing the host of straps designed to hold his weapons. He picked up a halberd, slotting it into place. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Yorkov, sir Knight.”

  “And what do you do when you’re not in this cesspit?”

  How would this go down? “I’m a Devotee,” Guyen said.

  Vadil darkened. “What kind of Devotee?”

  “A Bindcrafter, sir Knight.”

  “Ah.” The Outlaw’s brow unfurled. “So you know all about Faze enhancements then? Maybe you could give my helm the once-over. I don’t feel that zip of anger I used to.”

  “Perhaps the timing’s out,” Guyen suggested. “I can certainly take a look.”

  “Marvellous.” He beamed. “Can you hold a staff?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “A staff—I’ll have you spar with me. I need to get my eye in.”

  This sounded a terrible idea. Toulesh rolled up his sleeves, adopting a fighting stance. Ha! Easy for you, you won’t be the one getting your skull cracked open. Vadil threw a pole over from one of the racks. Guyen caught it. Strong oak, six feet long. They’d practised with similar as kids in their vigilante days. That was a long time ago though.

  “Go easy on the boy,” Selius called over from the door. Two other players appeared, leaning up against the wall. They watched, puffing on their pipes.

  “En garde!” Vadil declared.

  This was surreal. Guyen brought the shaft up in a block. The knight looked suitably impressed. They exchanged several attacks, but the watching players smirked. The Outlaw was humouring him. Eventually, he lost interest, batting the stick away. His pole end pressed up under Guyen’s chin.

  “I’d offer to make a Flags player out of you if I didn’t like you so much, Bindcrafter.” He boomed a gut-rumbling laugh. “Right, I have an appointment with a lady. It’s good to get it out of the way before a big match.” He thrust his staff over and marched off, chuckling to himself. The storm has left the room.

  A fierce army of men and horses streamed through Junction’s back gate. The Knights of Jacinth had arrived from Pravos, a rich trading city on the west coast. Towering fighters rode beastly stallions, and giant wagons filled with weapons trundled past. Then came the pitmen, other team officials, and more horses, these in wagons themselves, blinkered heads bobbing over their half-doors. Two players rode by in polished bronze plate etched with crimson lines, the expensive helms swinging from their saddles Faze-enhanced for sure.

  “Dirty bastards,” Selius bristled.

  “Who are they?” Guyen asked.

  “Bloody Krykov twins,” Selius said. “Not an honourable bone in their bodies, those two.”

  Ah, yes. The merciless and staggeringly violent Krykov twins. They were names in the world of Flags.

  Selius turned to him. “I’m putting you pitchside with Dasuza. He’ll tell you what to do. Just be careful, I’ve got a bad feeling about this game. I’d hate to lose you on your first outing.”

  A spike of trepidation pricked. “You did say two silvers a match, didn’t you?” Guyen asked. That was good money. He might even afford a new shirt.

  “That’s the rate, Yorkov.” Dasuza skulked into view. “Hey,” Selius bawled. “Suza, over here.”

  Dasuza walked up. “Apologies for my tardiness, grounds marshal. I was unavoidably delayed.”

  “What was it this time? Women or booze?”

  “A bit of both.”

  Selius shook his head despairingly. “Giorgi’s not turned up again so you’re with Yorkov. Look after him.”

  “Anything you say, Selius.”

  The grounds marshal trudged off towards the stables, muttering about a lack of respect amongst the youth.

  “How are you?” Dasuza asked.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “You got anything for me?”

  Guyen relayed what he’d learned from the Krellen—that the rebels were in league with Echelists within the Devotions and that Cotes had been exchanging correspondence with them.

  Dasuza looked thoughtful. “Cotes, eh? Now there’s a coincidence. Word is, he’s been meeting with Devere.”

  Guyen blinked. “You think Devere’s in on it? He’s not Echelista, is he?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  It wouldn’t surprise you either.

  “Come on,” Dasuza said. “I’d best send news.”

  They headed into the Guts, finding their way to the office. Dasuza took his codebook out and began composing a message. Guyen peered over his shoulder. “What are yo
u doing?” he asked.

  “Sending the news,” Dasuza said.

  “What’s that?” Guyen pointed to the open page in the book. It contained a table, one row for every letter of the alphabet, each row its own line of random characters.

  “The Viola code,” Dasuza said. “It’s how we encrypt messages sent around the Network at the moment. You should take a copy.”

  “What if someone finds it?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Won’t do any good without the key.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Dasuza dipped his quill in the inkpot. “All messages have a sender, Yorkov—Viola someone—Madame Viola Butterfield, Viola Smirch, whatever… The family name is unique to every communication. Anyway, you take the fourth letter in the family name and look it up on the top row, then each first letter of every word changes. It’s only the first letter in any word that’s important. Arse and apple turn out the same.”

  “Sounds painful,” Guyen quipped. Dasuza rolled his eyes. “Can I look?” Guyen asked. The pitman shrugged, pushing the book towards him. Guyen scanned the page, stroking a button on his jacket as a memory aid before handing it back.

  “Quick reader, eh?” Dasuza observed. He continued his composition.

  Guyen considered him. “Hey, Suza, you think the Network would help me and my family leave the country?”

  “We need you, Yorkov. You’d have to ask Dalrik.”

  “And where is our esteemed employer?”

  “Who knows.” Dasuza picked up a candle to make a seal for the missive. “Get yourself off to the armoury,” he said. “I’ll be along in ten.”

  Guyen left him dripping wax and trudged across the arena floor, watched by the crowds gathering in the terraces. Dalrik’s long absences were starting to offend. Globes! The man could be dead for all he knew. Skirting wafting fumes coming from the bubbling tar pit, he found his way back to the armoury, now teaming with activity. By the time Dasuza arrived, he’d already gathered the required vestments from the quartermaster. Runners, it turned out, wore nearly as much protection as the players. The bulky, padded britches and heavy mail tunic apparently reduced the risk of being trampled by the horses. Surely being able to run faster would be a more effective strategy though?

  Twenty minutes later, he stood beside Dasuza in the home bunker at the side of the hexagonal pitch. The atmosphere was hostile, chants reverberating in time to clacking, booming drums, acrid smoke swirling across the arena like the cook fires of a breakfasting army camp. Tinhats lined up with shields and cudgels, separating the pitch from the drunk spectators in the crush beyond, as young children peered excitedly out through gaps in the fence. A Jacinth pitman glared over from the opposition bunker, no love lost in a Jacinth–Outlaws grudge match.

  The drumming grew louder, and a spine-tingling roar rose up. The Outlaws processed into the arena, the bannerman and five shell team marching ahead of the twelve mounted knights. Their golden armour flashed, silhouetting a murder of axes, maces, spears and lances. At the opposite end of the arena, Jacinth formed up to a wave of jeers. The crowd chanted Vadil’s name, and the huge man turned in the saddle, arms outstretched, snorting stallion pawing at the ground. He lapped up the adulation for just the right length of time, the master showman, then pulled down his visor.

  A robed figure high up in the referee’s box raised his bugle. The crowd hushed. Some players gestured faith signs to their gods. Others, like Vadil, stared calmly ahead. The big man’s helmet glinted, blue nether light developing around it as the clamour rose. Golden nether light darted across the arena floor, intersecting in angry twisters, premonitions of the coming violence. Guyen summoned Toulesh and the world solidified, the clamour quietening, visions fading away.

  The bugle sounded, breaking the spell, and the match roared into full motion, men and mounts thundering past. The cavalry crashed into each other at the centre of the arena and the crowd bayed for blood. The shell teams took up defensive formations around their respective bannermen. Metal raked metal, bangs from eager grenades echoing around the hexium, as hooves pounded the dirt and men screamed under the effort of their heavy weapons. Soon, harrying attacks gave way to choreographed pincer movements, each side alternately forcing the other back.

  By the time the hexium clock struck for the first third, each team had won a flag. Guyen handed the reins of an injured horse to a disgusted-looking groom, another for the glue factory, then hurried back to the bunker, pulling up briefly as an Outlaw thundered out through a gate to re-join the war on a new horse. Fuck. He’d underestimated this. No wonder Selius paid danger money. He dived onto the bench beside Dasuza. The pitman offered a grim nod and returned his attention to the game. Vadil was on fire today. As always, he moved like metal poetry, rage growing as the game progressed, his Faze-enhanced helm doing its work. However, unlike the tiring players around him whose movements noticeably slowed, he only quickened his attacks. That was real stamina right there—a man from tough streets far removed from the pampered world of the Devotions.

  As the clock struck at the midpoint, things got proper ugly. It happened in slow motion, almost ahead of time, the flashbang flying from an Outlaw’s hand like a sorcerer’s spell. Boom. It exploded in a Jacinth knight’s face, horse rearing, man falling, horse stamping its rider’s head.

  The man lay still, blood puddling around his helm.

  Two Jacinth runners sprinted towards him, the crowd’s murderous chants ringing out after them. Even before they reached their casualty, the Krykov twins exacted swift revenge, funnelling the offending Outlaw knight towards the tar pit. The doomed player jumped clear, but his horse let out a gut-wrenching scream, legs buckling in the mire. The crowd sent derisory shouts, their anger at the referees swamping any concern for another crippled man on the floor—whose foot now pointed in altogether the wrong direction.

  Dasuza picked up his end of the stretcher. “Let’s go,” he yelled.

  They sprinted into the arena, battle playing out all around. The sounds of the crowd faded. Just a beating heart. Panting breath. Guyen stumbled over a discarded lance, almost landing on his face, as a thrown hand axe missed his head by inches. Bang. Another explosion. Then they were suddenly upon the prone man, the stink of the tar pit and burning horse flesh thick in the air. They threw the stretcher down, rolling the Outlaw onto it.

  “My leg!” he roared. “My damn leg!”

  The arsehole weighed a ton. A little gratitude wouldn’t have gone amiss. Guyen picked up his end of the stretcher and they stumbled towards the surgeon’s corner, the man screaming blue murder all the way. They dropped him in front of a healer and made their way back for the horse. The poor creature flailed in the tar, snorting weakly. It was unbearable. Dasuza buried a machete in its head. It was the only humane thing to do.

  And so it went on—ferrying injured players, doing what they could for the horses, though they mainly lay where they fell. This was sure to go down as one of the bloodiest matches in Outlaws history. The giant Faze clock signalled six minutes remaining. Only seven Outlaw knights left, and half the shell team. The bannerman looked beat. And still only a flag apiece—all to play for.

  Guyen flinched as a Jacinth spear pinged off the side of the bunker. He swore. “Are they trying to kill us?”

  “They’re not trying not to,” Dasuza returned.

  Vadil led the line, maniacal, deadly and unassailable in his determination for the winning flag. His name rang out through the terraces, and he turned in the saddle, lapping up the praise. The crowd’s tone flipped, sudden desperate cries. Clang. One of the Krykov twins caught him with a blow to the head, mace hammering his helm like a blacksmith’s anvil. The Outlaw slumped in the saddle. The crowd gasped.

  “What do we do?” Guyen demanded. Dasuza appeared frozen. Vadil’s horse galloped in circles, the big Sendali dangling from it like a puppet. Horrified Outlaws fans roared, as Jacinth supporters jeered. Their knights broke the Outlaw defence, charging the shell team. Vadil’s stall
ion careered towards the tar pit.

  Guyen yanked Dasuza’s tunic. “Come on, let’s go!” The pitman snapped from his stupor and they took off through a haze of smoke and sawdust. Meeting horse and unconscious rider at the centre of the arena, a rescue looked difficult, the beast moving too fast to catch hold of. Guyen jumped aside as it charged towards him. Bang. Another flash, and the horse reared up at Dasuza. This was a chance. Guyen jumped for the saddle, and using Vadil’s foot as a stirrup, threw himself up in front of the limp rider. He hugged the creature’s neck for dear life, grasping for the reins, and pulled up hard. Miraculously, the horse calmed. Dasuza caught its bridle. Holding half on to the horse, half on to Vadil, Guyen gritted his teeth, praying to the gods his luck would hold. It did, and Dasuza delivered them safely to the surgeon’s corner. Guyen climbed down, and the healers disentangled Vadil from his saddle straps, easing him to the ground, then removed his helm, pouring water over his head.

  Selius offered a slap on the back. “Well done, Yorkov!”

  The bugle sounded. Guyen whipped round. A Jacinth knight waved the Outlaws banner victoriously over his head as a contingent of crimson-clad supporters roared with delight.

  Vadil’s eyes flicked open. He peered up in surprise. “Where’s my horse?” he bellowed. “What’s the score?”

  The hexium clock struck. Game over.

  There would be no final for the Outlaws this season.

  The Book of Talents

  The Siege of Jalibar

  A response to the despatches of Commander Freidarik Tigon of the First Sendal Joint Operations Force, from Prime Culturalist Isaar, retrieved from the Wizenhall in Carmain, hg.1320

  Dear brother,

  Thank you for your recent report of Althuisan advances on Jalibar. It is clear our enemy will desist only upon the complete destruction of our fledgling state.

  Your account of the slaughter of the inhabitants of Vaar and Gork troubles me deeply and has swayed the Dukes of the Lowlands to our banner. They agree to relieve Jalibar and halt the Althuisan advance. Faylon will contribute three brigades, his best archers amongst them, and Galatine promises two cavalry battalions. I have convened a joint command to coordinate our forces in the north, granted the blessings and power of my hand. It is my hope you will receive reinforcements before the moon’s wane.