Half-hidden among them was a smooth, pale form. Caught in a shaft of moonlight, it looked like a beached whale.
It was Farrum's boat.
The fog closed in again. Lethriel was waving to him from the top of the ridge. He hurried to meet her.
'I saw the boat,' he said when he reached her. 'Farrum hasn't left after all.'
Lethriel forced him into a crouch and pressed her fingers to his lips.
'Keep quiet,' she hissed. 'Look there.'
Beyond the ridge rose the twisted wooden pillars of the henge. Rimed with ice, they twinkled in the moonlight. Their shadows were long and blue on the snow. Bran shuddered. They looked like deformed giants gathered for some unimagineable ritual.
Farrum's boatmen were ranged around the great boulder that dominated the middle of the henge. At their head was Farrum himself. A man lay sprawled on the boulder. Farrum's obsidian swathe was at his throat.
The man on the boulder was Mishina.
'What's going on?' said Bran.
'Farrum's been busy,' Lethriel replied. 'He must have repaired the boat and moved it to keep it safe, then brought his men back here.'
'So much for not having any boatbuilders on his crew. How did Mishina get here?'
'I don't know. Maybe Farrum sent men back to fetch him, or left them behind in the first place.'
'It explains why you didn't see him by the totem pit.'
'It doesn't matter. What matters is that.'
She pointed beyond the henge's far perimeter, where a second ridge rose in a row of jagged stone teeth. More men stood there: a long line of them, their white faces floating like pale flames before the starry sky. They carried wooden spears tipped with sharp flint heads. As Bran watched, the line grew longer and deeper. This was Creyak unleashed and ready for battle.
A man forced his way through to the front of the line. It was Tharn. Across his shoulders he wore a huge, black fleece that made him look twice his normal size. He carried an axe so big he needed both hands to hold it. The moon's light sculpted the furious look on his face. Unlike his warriors, he wore no paint at all.
A breath or two later, Tharn was joined by Arak. He held an axe much smaller than Tharn's; he still looked ready to topple under its weight. His furs were caked in Sigathon's blood. He looked terrified.
'A lot happened while I was knocked out,' said Bran.
'I think things have just started to move fast.'
Tharn took a step forward. Now he was balanced on the very edge of the ridge overlooking the henge.
'Let Mishina go!' he boomed. His voice echoed around the guardian wooden pillars. 'Your lives will be spared.'
'You're a worse liar than your father was,' Farrum called back. 'I know you mean to kill me.'
'Tell me why I should not!'
'Because I'm the one who's going to give the commands, and you're the one who's going to obey. If not ... your shaman is dead.'
As far as Bran could determine, Tharn's men outnumbered Farrum's by at least five to one.
They also held the high ground. If Tharn chose to attack now, the battle would be over in just a few brutal breaths.
And Mishina would be the first to die. 'Tharn won't risk Mishina's life,' whispered Lethriel. 'Not if he wants to stay king.'
She was right, of course. The shaman was the spiritual heart of the island village. If Mishina died, Creyak would instantly lose its link to the afterdream. A new shaman would be found eventually, but—with everything that had happened over recent days—Creyak needed Mishina now. Continuity was everything. If Tharn's first act as king was to sacrifice Mishina to a rival warlord, his reign would be over before it had begun.
'What do you want?' said Tharn. His voice was unwavering. The head of his axe was a lethal crescent of light.
'I want you to admit the truth about your father's death,' said Farrum. 'Then I want you to step back and let your people decide what happens next.'
A ripple went through the line of Creyak warriors. Through the unnaturally clear air, Bran heard their feet crunching in the snow.
'You are a spider, Farrum' said Tharn. 'You spin lies and treachery and deceit. Now you try to cast your web as a fisherman casts his net.'
'Clever words. But you're not so clever.'
'Let the shaman go and then go yourself, Farrum. Or I swear my axe will take off your head.'
'Killing talk from a killing son. Better be careful, boy.'
'You speak in riddles.'
'I speak the truth. Killing comes naturally to you, Tharn. Is that why it was so easy for you to kill your father?'
A gasp went up from Tharn's men. Some brandished their weapons at Farrum; others stared unbelieving at their king. Tharn sent a glare that swept from one end of the line to the other. His axe shook in his hand. A few heads lowered in shame, but most remained high and resolute.
'More lies!' Tharn sounded uneasy.
'No!' said Farrum. 'Just the truth.'
'What does Farrum think he's doing?' said Bran. 'What does he really want?'
'Farrum wants what he's always wanted,' said Lethriel.
'And what's that?'
'Everything.'
Opposite Tharn and his warriors, not far from where Bran and Lethriel were crouched, was a prominent outcrop of rock. The rock's strange curves, and its dusting of snow, made it seem to glow with its own internal light. To Bran's eyes it looked a little like a wolf's head, and so it reminded him in turn of the prow of Farrum's boat.
Two figures had climbed up on to the rock; if it really had been a wolf, they would have been standing on the tip of its snout. One was Talus, the other was Alayin.
Noosed around Alayin's neck was a short length of rope. The other end of the rope was in Talus's left hand. In his right hand he held something long and slender: a bonespike. Talus rotated the weapon, allowing a small engraved mark shaped like a gull to flash in the moonlight. This was Gantor's bonespike: the very weapon that had killed the king.
Bran's heart lurched in his chest. 'What in Mir's name is he playing at?' He surged forward, but Lethriel grabbed him, held him back.
'Wait,' she said. 'We have to wait.'
'But what's he doing? Do you know what he's doing?'
'No. But we have to trust him.'
They weren't the only ones looking at Talus. Farrum had turned his head towards the wolf-rock, as had Tharn. Both men looked both furious and confused. Talus, however, looked entirely at peace. For all she was his captive, Alayin too seemed composed: her hands were clasped in front of her and her scarred face was entirely without expression. Her hood was thrown back; under the moonlight, her close-cropped scalp looked as bald as Talus's.
'Bard!' shouted Tharn. It came out as a curse, a plea for help, a cry of anguish, all at the same time.
'I have to agree with Farrum,' said Talus. His voice filled the henge from one side to the other. Tharn's grip tightened on his axe until his knuckles turned white. 'But only when he says that we need to hear the truth,' Talus added. He looked unreasonably relaxed.
'Let my daughter go,' growled Farrum. He buried his fingers deep in Mishina's hair and tipped back his head. The obsidian blade hovered over the shaman's exposed neck.
'I think I will keep Alayin here,' said Talus, 'for a little while at least.'
'What do you want?' said Tharn.
Talus's eyebrows went up. 'Have I not already said? I want the truth. But first ... Farrum, will you please summon the rest of your men, so that everyone can see what they are up against?'
Tharn's men looked at each other, clearly mystified. Farrum's face contracted into a grimace.
'What men?' said Bran. 'What's he talking about?'
'Ssh,' said Lethriel.
'If they do not come out, Farrum,' said Talus, waving the bonespike for all to see, 'your daughter will bleed from her throat until she dies.'
Bran couldn't believe what he was seeing. He'd never known Talus even carry a weapon, let alone brandish one. Yet he saw no fear in Alayi
n's eyes, nor did she make any attempt to escape.
Had Talus drugged her?
One of Farrum's boatmen muttered something. Farrum elbowed him aside, pursed his lips and gave three clear whistles, two high in pitch, one low. There was a pause. Then, one by one, a troop of men wearing close-fitting sealskin appeared at the henge's northern perimeter. To Bran they appeared to condense out of the night. All bore scars on their faces; all carried clubs and knives.
'Where did they come from?' said Bran.
Tharn's men tightened their line. They, like Farrum's hidden warriors, looked grim and ready to fight. Between them, the two armies now encircled the henge almost completely. Bran was suddenly, acutely aware of how vulnerable he and Lethriel were here. And how exposed Talus had made both himself and Alayin.
'I'm going to put a stop to this,' said Bran, standing. Once more, Lethriel pulled him down. 'No,' she said. 'The bard is about to speak again.'
'And what good will that do?'
Incredibly, she smiled. 'Isn't it what he does best?'
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Talus had addressed bigger crowds, but he'd never had an audience so divided, with each half intent on killing the other. Whatever story he chose to tell them, it would have to be a good one.
Except this was more than just a story. It was the solution to the puzzle that had plagued him since his arrival on Creyak just two days before.
It was the truth.
'Once there was a king,' he began. 'This king—whose name was Hashath—loved his people very much. He feared for them too. His fear was so great that he decided that the only way to keep his people safe was to shut out the rest of the world.
'So Hashath made a home for his people on an island, and he called it Creyak. He made them safe there, and he also made rules by which to live. Hashath built Creyak up from nothing and, when his work was done, he stopped. He liked what he'd achieved and wanted it never to change. He fixed Creyak in its place so that nothing would change. He froze it, and its people, and himself at their head.
'He became the frozen king.'
The words came readily. Talus let them pour out, relishing the sensation that his mouth was the mouth of a river and that the water gushing through it had come down from some high unknown peak, and that he was only its channel.
'The king had six sons. Like everyone else in Creyak, they were forced to live by his rules. The strictest rule of all was that no son could take a woman, not until he himself was king. It was hard for them all, but especially for the younger ones, who grew up knowing that, as long as their brothers remained alive, they might neither marry nor take the crown.
'Hashath worked hard to maintain the peace he had created on this island of Creyak. But still he had his enemies. Greatest among these was a man he had played with as a child. This man's name was Farrum. Unlike Hashath, who looked inwards, Farrum looked out, out into the world. Hashath was a man interested only in protecting his borders; Farrum, on the other hand, was a conqueror. Long after he was driven from his home, he was driven by a burning desire to return.
'To return to Creyak, and to make it his own.'
Talus wondered how Farrum would react to his words. With this last part, he'd strayed from truth to speculation. Although Mishina had told him about the feud between the two rival kings, Talus could only guess at Farrum's motivations.
The vivid scarlet flooding Farrum's scarred cheeks told him he'd guessed well.
'But Farrum needed to be clever,' Talus continued. 'He knew it is not enough simply to kill a king and take his kingdom. Invasions are violent, brutal things. They breed resentment and fear.
Sooner or later, those Farrum had conquered would fight back. No, victory did not mean defeating the people of Creyak. It meant winning them over. Farrum needed to do more than just kill a king.
He needed to control one.'
Farrum had had enough. He brandished his obsidian swathe high over the subdued Mishina.
'Are you finished prattling, bard?' he shouted. 'If you are, I'll save you the trouble of finishing your story and finish the shaman right here and now.'
'Stay your hand!' Talus roared. Every man in earshot flinched: Tharn and his men on the south side of the henge; Farrum's on the north; the small group of boatmen clustered round the sacrificial boulder; Farrum himself. And Bran and Lethriel too, of course, hiding behind the ridge of rock to his right. Talus was glad to see them alive and well.
He caught Bran's eye and winked, hoping the gesture carried more confidence than he felt.
For a long, held breath, Farrum held his black blade aloft. Talus waited. Finally, Farrum lowered his weapon. Some of the onlookers sighed. If Mishina was going to escape, this was his chance. Talus saw Bran watching the shaman, saw the surprise on his companion's face as he realised Mishina wasn't moving.
Talus wasn't surprised at all.
'I sense impatience,' he said, 'so I will bring my story swiftly to an end. So far, I have told you only truths you might have worked out for yourselves—if you did not know them already. The truth about Hashath's murder is different. It is hard to see. But see it I have.'
He paused. The snow shimmered and the stars revolved in the sky.
'There is a man among you,' he said. 'A man who, two nights ago, approached the king of Creyak from behind and drove a bonespike between his ribs, killing him within a breath or two. This man then dragged the king's body out into the arena and fled the scene.'
Tharn stepped forward between two of the henge's wind-ravaged pillars. Each of the wooden posts stood twice his height, yet somehow he seemed to dwarf them and everything around him. Talus had never seen a man look more hungry.
'But --' Talus raised one finger '-- the story is not quite as simple as that. No man commits murder without a reason. And no man kills a king unless he is insane, or unless something—or someone—gives him both the courage and the tools to do so.'
Talus tugged gently on the rope he was holding. Alayin stepped forward like a dutiful slave.
To the watching crowd, she would seem tethered by the neck, unable to escape. In reality, the rope lay in loose loops over her shoulders. Talus needed no knots to keep Farrum's daughter at his side.
Not when she'd joined him of her own free will.
'Are you ready?' he murmured.
'Just finish your tale, bard,' said Alayin. 'I will do what I must.'
She too was watching Farrum. The hate in her eyes saddened Talus. Truth cut deeper than any blade he knew. Yet he had no choice but to wield it.
'Our killer had a goal, you see,' Talus said. 'Something he wanted more than anything in this world—or in any other. Murdering the king was his first step along the path to that goal. But, to reach the end, he would have to do more. He would have to kill each of his five brothers, one after the other. Gantor, ever the loner, was easy. Sigathon's death, I suspect, happened more by fortune than planning. Because by now the whole plan was coming apart. Is that not right, Farrum?'
The old warlord glared at the bard. Wind ruffled his cloud of white hair. 'I don't know what you mean.'
'You do. Because you are the force that gave the killer the courage he needed to kill.'
Talus licked his lips. It was the bard's job to lead his audience down unknown paths. He'd done that well enough so far. But the sensation of control was just an illusion. At any moment the audience might look round and realise where they were.
When that happened, there was no telling what they might do.
'You, Farrum,' Talus repeated. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tharn take another step forward. 'But the courage you supplied was not enough. The killer also needed tools. They were supplied by another. By the man who lies in front of you, Farrum, and who you have no intention of killing at all. Stand up, Mishina, and tell your new king what you know, and what you did. Put aside your so-called spirits and show us what is real.'
Tharn beckoned Arak to his side. The young man came dutifully forward. He looked like a minia
ture version of his brother and king, except where Tharn stood immobile, Arak's body snapped with tiny tremors he seemed unable to control.
There was no sign of Fethan.
Farrum's blade had lowered again. Moving like a snake, Mishina wriggled out from beneath it. Once he was clear, he dropped lightly from the boulder and shook himself down. His painted face cracked with an expression that might have been anger or amusement—Talus couldn't tell which.
Then the shaman punched Farrum clean on the point of his jaw. The old man staggered back, but made no attempt to retaliate.
'Spit out your words, Talus!' Mishina shouted. 'You have come this far. Let us see how far you dare to go!'
The buzzing in Talus's head—which during his speech had dulled to a gentle drone—went completely away. He had no desire to speak again. The silence both inside himself and across the henge was too blissful. The sensation of peace wouldn't last; it never did. But for now, briefly, he savoured it. 'Very well.' He forced the words out. 'If you will no speak, I must. However strong the killer's urges might have been, he still needed a way to overcome the taboo of killing the king. You, Mishina, gave him that. You supplied him with the intoxicating greycaps he needed to take away his fears.'
Mishina laughed. 'Your thoughts are muddled, bard. You have still not told us why this killer did what he did.'
'Two reasons, one of which would lead to the other.'
Another laugh. 'As I said, you are a muddled man.'
Talus felt a prickle of irritation in the skin of his back. But he would not let this so-called magic man goad him.
'The first reason,' he said, 'was simply to take the place of king. You see, the killer was one of Hashath's sons.'
This was a truth Talus had lived with for some time. Not so most of the watching crowd.
Gasps and cries rose up on clouds of vapour. Flint weapons rang as their blades clashed together.
Talus raised his hand. 'The second reason was far stronger.'
'Stronger than the urge to become king?' said Mishina. 'What would a man desire more than that?'
Without prompting, Alayin took another step forward. Now, like Talus, she was poised right on the edge of the rocky crag. She spread her arms. The white of her bearskin shone in the moonlight.
Talus and the Frozen King Page 19
