All eyes turned to Talus, Bran's included. For a moment, Talus was lost for words: a new sensation, and not one he cared for. 'I have nothing more to ask you, Tharn,' he said at last. 'In answer to your questions, I believe I am close to knowing who the murderer is.'
Was that true? Talus really didn't know. He'd thought everything depended upon who had been where on the night of the king's murder, and who might have been sufficiently motivated to plunge a bonespike into his chest. But where did Gantor's death fit in? And what about Farrum?
His thoughts buzzed. Like a swarm of bees, they moved, made patterns. The patterns were part-formed and tantalising. In time they would merge to become answers, truth. He was almost there, he could sense it. But he was almost out of time.
'There is one more thing I must do,' he said.
'Who?' said Bran. 'We've seen everyone now.'
'Can it wait until after the procession?' said Tharn.
'I fear not,' Talus replied. 'I must go to the beach immediately, in the hope that the woman hidden in Farrum's boat is still there. I need to see her.'
Tharn looked mystified. 'What do you mean? What woman?'
'Alayin.'
Lethriel gasped. Tharn drew back his lips to expose his teeth. 'The venomous snake! She has come to gloat because my father is dead.' His eyes grew wide. 'Or perhaps my father is dead because she is here!'
'Alayin did not kill your father,' said Talus. 'And neither did Farrum.'
'He's right,' said Bran. 'Think about it. Farrum's boat arrived after your father was killed. They can't possibly have ...'
Tharn was having none of it. Shoving Bran aside, he stormed out of the house and into the fog. Lethriel followed him at a run.
'This day is full of surprises,' said Talus. 'Come, Bran, we must stop him before he does something reckless.'
They set off in pursuit. The fog enfolded them; so did the sound of the mourning song. Sudden claustrophobia gripped Talus. They were trapped here on Creyak. The island had swallowed them whole. They were doomed to circle its covered passages for eternity, seeking answers that were forever just out of reach.
The main thoroughfare that led all the way from the entrance maze to the burial cairn was packed tight with people. Their faces were all painted white. They floated in the mist like spirits from the next world. It was they who were singing.
Talus spotted Tharn muscling his way through the crowd. Lethriel was right behind him, trying to hold him back; he had to shake her off constantly. Cabarrath appeared and shouted something in Tharn's ear. Tharn yelled something back to his brother, but their cries were lost in the uproar.
The procession started to break apart. The mourning song fragmented. White faces swivelled in surprise as Tharn ploughed his way along the passage, gathering men along the way.
Talus and Bran followed in Tharn's wake. Giving up her efforts to stop Tharn, Lethriel fell back to join them. Bran scooped his arm around her, protecting her from the jostling bodies.
'Why didn't you tell me about Alayin?' Lethriel shouted. 'I could have stopped all this.'
'We didn't think it would cause this much trouble,' Bran yelled back.
'Be quiet and keep up,' said Talus. He had no time for their bleating. 'I believe Tharn may be about to make a terrible mistake.'
Tharn and his supporters—Fethan had joined them now—rounded a corner and stopped short. Farrum and his boatmen were blocking the path.
'Stand aside,' said Tharn. By now the singing had completely died away. Tharn's words echoed down the passage, clear for all to hear.
'Where are you going?' said Farrum. 'This is my island. I will go where I choose. Not that it's any of your concern.'
'It concerns me when one of my men is assaulted and left for dead!'
Farrum jerked his arm forward. He was holding a bulky man by the scruff of his neck. The man's head lolled. There was a purple bruise on the front of his head and a line of vomit running down his chin and into his furs.
'Nobody attacked him,' Bran called. 'He's drunk.'
'Drunk enough to club himself on the head, I suppose?' said Farrum.
'He fell down,' said Bran. 'Smell his breath if you don't believe me.'
Glowering, Farrum looked from Bran to Tharn and back again. He bent his head to Lath's and sniffed. With a growl, he shoved the big man aside.
'Let me pass,' said Tharn.
'Oh, I think not, boy.'
'Stand aside, Farrum. You have no right to power here.'
From behind Tharn there came an answering rumble: the voice of Creyak rising behind its king-to-be.
'What would you do?' said Farrum. His white hair and massive white beard almost seemed part of the fog. He looked very old. But the expression on his face was that of a wolf: wild and wary.
'I would go to the beach,' Tharn replied. 'There is something in your boat I wish to see.'
'My poor boy, I believe your grief for your father has blinded you to the ...'
'Do not play with me, old man. You know exactly what I am talking about.'
Farrum's mouth twitched, sending tremors through the line of scars on his cheeks. 'And if I do not stand aside?'
'Then I will kill you.'
The crowd sighed.
'Your father abhorred violence.'
'My father is dead.' Farrum muttered something to his men. Talus felt Bran tense beside him.
'This is not your fight, my friend,' Talus murmured.
'It could be.' Bran pulled Lethriel harder against him. She didn't resist.
But there was no fight. Farrum stepped aside, extended his arm along the passage and bowed his head.
'You are right, of course,' said the old man. 'Creyak is your domain. It is not my place to tell you what to do. I will just say this to you, Tharn: have a care.'
Tharn pressed forward, dragging his retinue with him. He passed Farrum without giving him a second glance. The rest of the crowd dithered uncertainly, then followed.
Without waiting for his companions, Talus hurried after them.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
For the third time, Bran found himself on the icy path to the Creyak beach. Both times before he'd been alone; now he was surrounded by an angry mob. And Lethriel was at his side.
The fog lingered, damp and fluid in the pale afternoon light. It was like running along the bed of the sea, with all the weight of the ocean pressed down on top of him. As they hit the beach, Lethriel's hand caught Bran's own, and held it. Their feet crunched in unison on the shingle.
Briefly, the fog obscured everything. Then the prow of the Sleeth boat reared out of the blankness, looking just as it had before except now it had not one figurehead but two: perched high on the weather-rail beside the carved wolf's-head, was Alayin.
Invisible in the fog, the sea hissed.
Tharn had run ahead of his brothers. On seeing Alayin he skidded to a halt. Pebbles flew around his feet as he flailed his arms for balance.
'Alayin!' he shouted. 'What have you done?'
'I demand sanctuary!' Alayin called down. 'My father brought me here against my will. Will you protect me from him?'
Tharn's brothers caught up and formed a half-circle behind the king-to-be. Bran came to a halt a short distance away. Lethriel let go his hand but stayed close. Talus materialised from nowhere and took up station at Bran's left side. Farrum, his men and the white-faced villagers of Creyak were still pouring down from the path behind them.
'I don't understand,' panted Bran. 'She's had every chance to escape.'
'She lied to you about her reasons for being here,' said Talus. 'This is simply another lie.'
Tharn marched up to the boat, crouched and sprang. Arms extended, he grabbed the boat's weather-rail and hauled himself up. Cornered, Alayin cowered against the wolf's head.
'Cabarrath!' Tharn called. 'Fethan!'
The two brothers ran to stand beneath the prow. When they were in place, Tharn seized Alayin round the waist and hurled her off. She landed in their arms
, struggled to free herself and fell awkwardly on her ankle. She cried out in pain.
'Get your hands off my daughter!'
Farrum, puffing a little from the exertion, strode up to Cabarrath and cuffed him across the cheek. He had to reach up to do it. Cabarrath staggered back—old as he was, Farrum was no weakling. Before Cabarrath could retaliate, Fethan had drawn his bonespike. He crouched, ready to strike.
'Leave him!' roared Tharn. He jumped down from the boat, landing square in front of Farrum. 'Alayin, stand up.'
'I can't,' she said. 'My ankle ...'
'Stand up!'
Bran had been gripped by the scene playing itself out in the fog. Now he became aware of Talus sidling forwards. What was the bard planning?
Tharn grabbed Alayin's arm and hauled her to her feet.
'Tell us again what you said,' he barked. 'So your father can hear.'
Alayin hesitated. 'I'm sorry, father,' she said. 'I know this isn't what you ... wanted for me.
But I must tell the truth.'
'She doesn't know the meaning of the word,' muttered Lethriel.
'The truth is all that matters, girl,' said Farrum. 'Just tell it!'
'I choose to be here,' Alayin said. 'On Creyak. That is all.'
'I don't believe you,' said Tharn, shaking her. He glared at Farrum. 'Why did you come? Why did you both come?'
'A good question,' said Talus. He was now ten paces beyond the spot where Bran and Lethriel stood, and still advancing.
'Talus,' Bran hissed. But the bard ignored him.
Farrum squared his shoulders and surveyed the crowd that had by now gathered around the boat. All possible escape routes were cut off. He stood with his daughter facing the sons of Hashath in an open arena walled with bodies.
'Let her go,' he said, ignoring Alayin and speaking directly to Tharn.
Farrum's men pushed their way out of the crowd. One by one, they lined up behind their king. Even Lath was there, bruised and shamefaced.
'You are behind all this, Farrum,' said Tharn slowly. 'I do not understand how this can be. But I feel it. I know it. You are behind all of it.'
Farrum set his feet wide apart and planted his hands on his hips. The whalebones hanging from his belt sent deep musical notes through the mist. 'You're a fool, Tharn. Just like your father. I wasn't even here when Hashath died.'
'My father was many things,' said Tharn. 'But he was no fool. Tell your men to step back.'
'Why? So you and your brothers can kill me?'
'My brothers will do the same. There will just be the two of us.'
Tharn shoved Alayin towards Cabarrath, who caught her—more tenderly than Fethan might have done, Bran suspected. The two brothers marched her back to where Arak and Sigathon were waiting. Farrum's men retreated too, leaving Tharn and Farrum face to face in the swirling fog beneath the prow of the boat from Sleeth.
Bran held his breath ... and let it out with a gasp as Talus strolled directly between the two adversaries.
'Excuse me,' he said.
Bran thought the old man would pound Talus into the shingle, but Farrum simply endured the bard's passage, although his entire body was quaking.
'Thank you,' said Talus.
He walked all the way over to where the king's sons were standing. Cabarrath had placed Alayin into the custody of Arak. The lad's hands were bunched tight in the thick ivory furs she wore and the wiry muscles in his arms were tense. He looked scared and uncertain, as if he'd rather be anywhere but here.
Ignoring her captors, Talus brushed back Alayin's fur hood to expose her scarred face. Her expression contorted; for a moment Bran thought she was going to spit at him. Instead she simply endured his scrutiny. The rest of the crowd—Tharn and Farrum among them—looked on bemused.
Finally Talus nodded. Then he retraced his steps to stand beside Bran again.
'What were you thinking?' said Bran. 'They're ready to kill each other.'
'All the more reason to make haste.'
Talus looked anything but hasty, Bran thought. If anything, the bard looked utterly relaxed.
'You know, don't you?' Bran said. 'I don't know how, but you know. You know who killed the king.'
'Perhaps,' Talus replied. Bran felt Lethriel's hand clutch his arm. 'Yes, I believe I may. But this tree has many roots, and I have yet to expose them all.'
'Tell us!' said Lethriel. 'You must tell us, so that we ...'
A low rumble passed through the crowd. Bran looked back at the boat. Both Tharn and Farrum had shed the furs restricting their upper bodies. Tharn's chest was broad and solid; Farrum's was white and thin, but corded with muscle.
Tharn hefted a stone axe with an ornate carved handle. The head was blue-grey flint. It was much more beautiful than Bran's own, workmanlike weapon. Tharn circled Farrum, his knees bent, sweat steaming from his skin despite the bitter cold of the damp winter air.
Farrum's weapon was strange. He must have been hiding it beneath his long robe. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a sturdy branch. But, as the old man turned it in his hand, a thin black blade was revealed set deep into the wood. The blade was barely the width of a man's thumb, but it ran almost the entire length of the branch. Bran had thought Tharn's axe-head finely wrought—in its own peculiar way this was exquisite.
'What is that?' he said to Talus.
'An obsidian swathe,' Talus replied. 'Obsidian is volcanic glass. Very sharp.'
'You've seen one before?'
'Long ago, in another place. That weapon does not belong here. I would be very interested to know where Farrum got it.'
The two men continued to size each other up. Tharn tossed his axe from hand to hand.
There was a grim smile on his face. Farrum's expression was lost in both the fog and the cloud-like mass of his snowy hair and beard.
The crowd watched in silence. The air tasted of anticipation.
Just when it seemed the adversaries would continue their dance forever, Tharn struck, feinting first left before powering his axe to the right with furious intent. Farrum dodged easily. Bran had already seen how fast the old man could move; did Tharn really know what he was letting himself in for?
The dance resumed. Tongues of fog licked the combatants' legs. Again Tharn attacked; again Farrum slipped aside. A silent shiver shook the crowd. Tharn wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
'Will you run from me all day, old man?' he said.
'I will do what I must,' Farrum replied.
Farrum's arm came round in a blur, swinging his curious weapon straight at Tharn's head.
Tharn ducked. The glossy black cutting edge of the swathe whistled as it sliced through the air ... and cut several hairs from Tharn's head. Farrum laughed.
'One blow is all it'll take, boy. I'd love to see your head roll!'
Tharn bellowed and ran at him, axe whirling. The Creyak king-to-be was quick too, despite his stocky build. Farrum parried. The two weapons clashed. Farrum's obsidian blade struck sparks from Tharn's axe-head. The impact was accompanied by a high melodic ringing. Flint chips showered round the two men.
They parted. Farrum took a step back towards his boat. Tharn followed, sinking to a running crouch that took him under Farrum's swinging arm. He drove the wooden handle of his axe into Farrum's chest. The old man grunted and hammered his swathe down on Tharn's shoulder. In the crowd, someone cried out. Bran waited for Tharn's severed arm to drop to the ground.
But Farrum had struck with the blunt side of the swathe. Cursing, he spun the weapon and brought it down again. Except now Tharn was behind him, having converted the momentum of his turn into a tremendous swing of his axe. Farrum leaped sideways, and the flint axe-head swished past his spine by less than the span of a hand.
Someone shouted Tharn's name. One of the boatmen responded: 'Farrum!'. More cries rose until the whole crowd was roaring. Then the opponents came together again and a hush descended.
This time it was Farrum who attacked first, driving the swathe towa
rds Tharn's face. Tharn blocked it just in time; the lethal glass blade bit deep into the axe handle. The two weapons locked together. Farrum tried to pull the swathe free, but Tharn was stronger. With a great bellow he heaved his arm back and wrested the swathe from Farrum's grip. The peculiar weapon clattered across the shingle to land at the feet of Tharn's watching brothers. Fethan picked it up, regarding it with something approaching awe.
The villagers shouted approval. Farrum's boatmen started backing away. Hands emerged from the crowd to restrain them. Tharn stalked towards Farrum, who was retreating with his hands raised, palms out. When the old man fetched up against the hull of the boat, he let his arms fall to his sides again.
'Make it quick, boy,' he said.
Tharn raised his axe. There was a chunk missing from the handle where the swathe had eaten into it. The blade too was notched, but it still looked deadly sharp.
'This is a mistake,' said Talus. He took a step forward.
The bard had already interrupted Tharn once. Bran tried to imagine what the king-to-be would do to the bard if he tried it again. After seeing the way Tharn fought, he didn't have to try too hard.
But enough blood had been shed on Creyak lately. 'Tharn!' Bran shouted, pushing past Talus. 'Let the old man live!'
The villagers watched, incredulous, as Bran raced across the shingle to where Tharn stood with his axe in the air and Farrum's life laid bare before him. The fog was no longer an ocean but a lake of sticky resin, holding Bran back; surely he'd left it too late.
But Tharn held still. When Bran finally reached him, and clamped his good hand on Tharn's wrist, the king-to-be put up no resistance. Perhaps he'd wanted to be stopped.
'Do not kill this man,' Bran said.
'Who are you to tell me what to do?' Tharn's muscles bunched under Bran's fingers.
'If you won't take the words from me,' said Bran, 'take them from the bard.'
Tharn's eyes looked for—and found—Talus. The bard nodded, clasped his hands together and executed a small bow.
'You've pulled Farrum's claws,' said Bran. 'He's safe now.'
Talus and the Frozen King Page 15
