by Tim Stead
They changed course and headed for the castle’s copious dungeons. They were a remnant of an age when the king of Berash was not a kind man, and that unkindness had passed down a black line of kings with a fondness for the suffering of others. The darkness was long dead in the line of Berash, however, and it had been a well governed state since long before the Great War.
So it was that Havil led Narak into a complex of dark and unpleasant corridors that wove past empty rooms and open doors, the shame of which had long since perished. They came to a better lit section where they found guards, the king, and a clutch of prisoners.
There were seven in all. They were currently being questioned by the king, but to little effect. His questions were met with a surly silence.
The prisoners were arrayed in a dispirited group, eyes cast down, several of them still stained in the blood of their fallen comrades, and the majority wounded in some minor way, and the wounds not treated with more than a dirty bandage.
The king broke off his questioning when he saw Havil and Narak.
“Deus, as you see we have had some success, but I cannot get a thing from these men. They are not Avilian, or at least not born there. They do not speak a word of it.”
“Will you permit me to question them?”
“As you wish.” The king’s acquiescence was not without reservation, but Narak did not fret if the king felt his authority usurped. He wanted a quick resolution.
Narak moved into the circle of light where the prisoners could see him. He had left the armour back at Wolfguard and now appeared in good boots, breeches, a heavy white cotton tunic, and the ever present swords strapped across his back. He studied them for a moment, and one of two of them looked up to see the cause of the break in the king’s harangue and saw him. He spoke in Afalel.
“Hear me now, soldiers of Seth Yarra,” he said.
Two heads jerked upwards. He had hoped for one, but this was better. He guessed that Afalel was the only language that they had of the tongues of Terras, and that many had learned it before this incursion had begun.
“I am your judge,” he said to them. “I will judge you as I judged your forefathers before you. I am Narak the Wolf, victor of Afael, the one that you fear most, next to your own defeated god.”
The two prisoners who understood him stared, and the others looked from Narak to them and back again. One of them asked a question in a language Narak did not know, and got no answer.
“You are a man,” one of them said. He spoke Afalel with an even thicker accent than the cleanser he had captured in Bel Arac.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“I am Jod, son of Lim,” the soldier replied. He was a thick set creature with dark hair and eyes, features common to most Seth Yarra. His eyes were deep set, and his unshaven face was so abundantly hairy that he reminded Narak of a bear. His cheek had been cut in the battle, and the side of his head was bruised purple. Taken while he was unconscious, Narak guessed.
“Jod son of Lim, if I seem to be a man it is because I choose to appear that way.”
“Your mouth is tainted,” the prisoner said. It took a moment for Narak to understand. The man was accusing him of lying. He smiled.
“The twelve that you sent to Bel Arac believed me.”
Jod was visible taken aback by that. He squinted at Narak, and the other Afalel speaker said something to him. He replied, then turned back to Narak.
“How do you know of this?” he asked. Jod had little idea of subtlety, it seemed. He was not up to playing games around the truth.
“I killed eight of them. The others yielded.” He turned to Havil and Raffin and spoke in Berashi. “I discovered that the Marquis of Bel Arac was the traitor, lord king. He was guarded by twelve knights. He escaped, or thinks he did, but he will serve my purpose yet. He is followed.”
“What do you hope he will reveal?” Raffin asked.
“He comes towards the border to join this band, but they are destroyed. Once he learns this he will go elsewhere. It is that elsewhere that I wish to know. Another force of Seth Yarra, perhaps.”
“Seth Yarra? You have confirmed this?” Raffin looked worried, as well he might. To replace the prospect of war with Avilian with a conflict against an even greater foe was no relief at all.
“I have confirmed it, lord king. These men are Seth Yarra. The knights at Bel Arac were Seth Yarra – the priests they call cleansers – but as yet there is no indication of a large force. If there is an army to oppose, it remains concealed.”
Narak turned back to the prisoners. Jod and the other Afalel speaker were watching him carefully, but he did not think they understood what he said to Raffin. Perhaps they had heard him say the words Seth Yarra. That alone would tell them nothing.
“Your words are taint,” Jod said again.
Narak ignored him. “What is your rank?” he asked.
The man was guarded, but the guards were relaxed and the prisoners were not bound. Jod chose this moment to attack Narak, throwing himself forwards with teeth bared and fists clenched, uttering a sound remarkably like a wolf’s snarl. Narak avoided him easily, stepping to one side and planting a firm blow in the man’s gut. Jod collapsed at his feet, completely winded, and struggled to claw his way upright. The guards grabbed him roughly, embarrassed by their lapse.
“Well, that was pointless,” Narak said. “Put him in a cell on his own, far enough from here that he cannot hear what passes.”
Jod was dragged out of the circle of light and the other prisoners looked at Narak.
“What will you do with him?” It was the other Afalel speaker who asked.
“Not much. He will not be harmed,” Narak replied. “What is your name?”
“I am Marik son of Aseth.”
“You speak Afalel more ably than Jod. Your accent is better. Are you his commander?”
Marik smiled. It was the first time he had seen a Seth Yarra smile, and it made him look more like a man. He had come to think of them as automata, he realised, men who followed single tracks from which they could not deviate.
“No,” Marik said. “I am Arish, he is Shenda. That means that he is senior in rank to me.”
The terms were unfamiliar, but Marik seemed quite willing to talk. He lacked the varnish of hatred that so characterised Jod.
“Arish?”
“I am second in a squad of twenty men. Shenda is first in such a squad, but we are of different squads.” A shadow crossed the man’s eyes. He was remembering his squad, perhaps, and his commander. All dead. Narak felt sympathy, but it did not trouble him much. It was that nature of war that men died, and it was not a war that any of the kingdoms had started. These men had come to destroy all that he held dear. On the other hand he did not hold the motive against any individual. They were men doing what they were told to do, perhaps even what they believed was right. That, too, was the nature of war.
“And yet you are a more educated man,” he said.
Marik looked surprised. “How do you know this?”
“The way you speak. The way you look. You were intended for something other than a common soldier.”
“Yes,” Marik acknowledged. “The priesthood.”
“A master of the rule, then, not a cleanser.”
“You are astute,” Marik said. “I studied the rule for many years, but in the end I was not suited to that service.” He paused. Narak waited. “Are you really Fenris Godkiller?”
“It is what your people call me. I am Wolf Narak.”
“You should forgive Jod. He cannot help himself. There is a bounty of promise on your head, and to the very faithful it cannot be resisted.”
“What is a bounty of promise?”
“The one that slays you is raised up to sit by Seth Yarra himself. One who dies in the attempt is assured of good standing in the halls of the dead.”
Narak looked at the man, but could see no trace of irony or humour on his face. Marik, and by implication Jod, believed that they would go elsewh
ere when they died, to another world. It was a belief that he had encountered before. Some of the peoples of the Green Isles believed it, and the people of the old north had held the same credo. Narak believed otherwise. The dead were dead. The living were temporarily more fortunate.
“Where is your army?” he asked.
Marik looked at him for moment, perhaps startled by the abrupt question, although he must have expected it sooner or later.
“I do not know,” he said.
“Or you will not tell.”
“I would not tell you willingly if I knew, but I know that my resolve could be broken. My commanders were wise enough to know this. I do not know. Jod does not know. None of us know.”
It made sense. These men must have been considered expendable. They were no more than a distraction, a thorn in the side of Berash, a throw of the dice, a gamble that so small a force could cause war or bad blood between two of the most able kingdoms. They might have weakened the alliance before it had been made. The plan had failed, but not by much. A hand less steady than Raffin’s might have taken Berash to war with Avilian.
“I believe you,” he said. He called for a seat and sat in it opposite to Marik. It was a gesture. Gestures were important. They were often as effective as threats, more effective than words, and a great deal simpler. By sitting opposite Marik he was showing respect, accepting him in some sense as an equal.
“I confess that I am curious. Surely the priesthood is a great honour. It is certainly considered so here in Terras, at least by the priests. Why did you not complete your studies?”
“Answering such a question will serve neither of us,” Marik suggested.
Reluctance to answer was also revealing in a man who had seemed at ease a moment before. There was some shame to the matter, Narak thought, but would he or any other man of the kingdoms count it shameful?
“You were expelled,” he said.
Marik would not meet his gaze and did not attempt to deny his statement.
“You could not overcome a flaw in your character,” Narak went on. He was guessing, but even the slender glimpse of Marik’s character that the young man had allowed told him that he was right. “You ask too many questions. You do not accept what they tell you simply because they tell you it is so. You ask for proof.”
Marik looked increasingly alarmed as Narak spoke. “Is this some magic that you have?” he demanded. “How can you know?”
”No magic. There is no need of it. I have met such men before, and may once have been so afflicted myself, in my youth.”
“You are a demon.”
“I am not.”
Marik stared at him for the better part of a minute, and neither of them spoke. The young man was obviously troubled, but as time passed his expression grew calmer, and he managed to look the wolf god in the eye.
“I believe you,” he said.
“You believe me?” Narak was pleased by the irony.
“Yes. I believe that you are not a demon.”
“Isn’t that heresy? Your almost brother priests believe it absolutely.” He raised an eyebrow, and saw Marik smile again.
“I do not know what you are,” he said. “But I have seen how these others regard you, how the men here behave. I see respect, not fear.”
“Are you changing sides, Marik?”
“No. I have never been on a side. I am subject to the god’s rule. There is no choice. I do as I am told because to do otherwise is unwise. There are consequences.”
“I think we shall talk more of this.” Narak stood and approached Raffin. He switched back to Berashi. “Lord King, have the others taken to a common cell where they can entertain each other. Treat them better than they deserve, and do not let this one or the other that was taken away mix with them. Keep this one away from the others, and treat him well. He may be most important to our cause.”
The prisoners were conducted to their accommodations, with some reassurance to Marik that they would speak again, and soon.
“So what have you learned?” Raffin asked when they were safely away..
“Not a great deal. The first one, the one that attacked me, is a junior officer, and the second is equivalent to a sergeant, but an overeducated, dissatisfied, questioning sergeant. He will talk, but will be better persuaded by honesty and fairness, I think. Neither of them knows anything of strategic value, but Marik, the sergeant, will tell me much of Seth Yarra, how they are organised, what tactics they train, and much else of peripheral value. Treat him as a friend, but be cautious. He is intelligent, and not yet our man.”
Raffin nodded. There was reluctance in his face, and Narak understood. He was a king, an absolute monarch, and he was being told what to do by another. It was a trespass on his authority, and it was taking place under the eyes of castle guards who would doubtless convey the scene to anyone they could. It was a mistake, taken in the wider view, for Narak to act this way, but he was in a hurry, and he was quite certain that Raffin would not mutiny at such a time. Uttering the words Seth Yarra was surety enough.
Now he must be gone. Quinnial and Bas Erinor awaited. There was a spy to catch.
15. Bas Erinor
Maryal knelt before the altar of the wolf god in the half darkness of his temple. She had come every day since her disastrous betrothal to Skal, and every day she had wept and prayed that it should be undone. The wolf had watched her. It sat now, slumped against the wall to her left, eyes half closed, tongue lolling. When she was silent she could hear its breath. The place was filled by its wolf smell.
These last few days had been like summer, a hot week jammed uncomfortably among the cool days of autumn, and the temple was hotter still. The wolf suffered. She brought it water and spoke to it, but she dare not touch. It was a wild creature, a hunter, and would not welcome familiarity. Quinnial had said as much.
One of the candles guttered, close to failing, and she took another from a basket by the altar and went to replace it. She lit the wick of the new from the flame of the old and extinguished the latter by slowly lowering the base of the new onto the dying fire. She nestled it into the molten wax, making sure that it was upright.
“You are Maryal.”
She turned, surprised. He hand went to her mouth, which in turn opened without managing a sound, let alone a reply.
The wolf was gone. For a moment she imagined it running free again in some cooler place, relieved, but it was the man that had taken its place that held her gaze. He was average. Average height, average looks, average hair, but she knew who he was. His clothes were casual, almost peasant like. There were no silks and satins, no brash colours, just cotton, and dull, un-dyed cotton at that. He wore two swords across his back, hilts protruding above his shoulders like horns. He looked at her and smiled.
He was Wolf Narak.
She fell to her knees again, but this did not please him. She heard a sigh, a couple of steps, and a hand took hold of her shoulder, raising her up.
“You are Maryal, yes?”
“I am, Deus.” She did not dare to meet his eyes.
“Come with me.”
He led her out of the temple into the sunlight, and they walked briskly through the city of gods in the direction of the Duke’s castle. She trailed behind him, and after a while he stopped and gestured her to his side.
“Walk beside me,” he said. “You are not a slave.” His tone was not happy. He wasn’t angry, but perhaps frustrated, perhaps irritated. She did as she was told, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. She sensed people looking at them. One or two recognised him, she thought. She heard exclamations. Fingers pointed. A few people began to follow them but Narak seemed not to notice.
They came to the castle gates. The guards knew at once who he was, and of course they knew her. He told them that he was here to speak with the Duke, which they expected, and that he wished to speak particularly with the lords Quinnial and Skal, which they did not. A runner was sent.
“If you will follow me, Deus?” The guard of
ficer hesitated and looked pointedly at Maryal. She was the daughter of an officer, but not generally welcome in the councils of the great.
“She will come with me,” Narak said.
The guard nodded and led the way. Maryal was unsure if she should continue to walk beside him, but he seemed to want it so, and she did her best to oblige. She could not help but hope, even though she hardly dared. For Narak to interfere in the betrothal of someone of middle rank would be both unheard of and improper. It would be a terrible breach of the Duke’s prerogative, not to mention the King’s. It would cause trouble and bad feeling. Yet she had prayed for it. It was what she wanted above all things, and so she hoped.
