by Tim Stead
They came to the Duke’s chambers and were admitted. The duke frowned to see her at Narak’s side, but the wolf god told him that she was there at his wish, and for a good reason, and so she was permitted, and permitted herself a continuation of hope.
Lord Skal arrived next, was announced, and entered the chamber. He had clearly expected Narak, was forewarned, and had donned his most humble aspect. He was quite unsettled, though, to see Maryal there, and for a moment was quite transparently annoyed. He regained himself quickly, but Narak was a god. He would have seen the lapse, and that pleased Maryal more than it perhaps should.
Skal took a seat and kept silent, since neither of his betters chose to address a word in his direction.
Quinnial arrived last of all. He looked surprised, worried, and then surprised again when he caught sight of Maryal, and then worried again.
Narak stirred from his chair, stood before them all.
“I come with grave news,” he said. “I can confirm Lord Quinnial’s fears. Seth Yarra are among us.” He was watching them all, she saw, but especially Skal. Her unwanted fiancé looked shocked, even more, she thought, than Quin or the Duke. “I have come fresh from Tor Silas, and bring news that Prince Havil has engaged a force of Seth Yarra and defeated them by dint of cunning and prowess of arms. Most are dead. A handful of prisoners are taken.”
“This is good news and bad,” the Duke cried. “Seth Yarra are among us?”
“They are. I found still more within the borders of Avilian,” Narak said. He turned and looked directly at Skal. “I found them at Bel Arac,” he said.
There was a moment of silent disbelief. The Duke and Quin both turned to look at Skal, and Maryal could not help herself. She, too, turned to stare. Skal had gone pale as a boiled chicken. To his credit he met the gaze of both the Duke and the wolf god, and gritted his teeth to speak.
“You think that I and my father had some part in this? I assure you…”
“Your father had fled,” Narak interrupted. “His guilt is certain.”
“No!” Skal struck the table before him with his fist.
“Yes. He had twelve Seth Yarra knights to protect him. He thought himself safe because he had broken the blood silver pact, sent miners to gather the metal and armed our enemies. He thought twelve blood silver blades were enough to keep him safe, but they were not.”
“I know my father,” Skal said. “He is loyal to Avilian, loyal to the crown.”
“It did not seem so to me. He sat in his high chair and shouted mocking words over the heads of the Seth Yarra assassins. When he saw that they would fail he took to a horse and fled.”
Skal looked angry. His customary calm was storm torn to rags, his face red, his eyes staring. His fists clenched. For a moment Maryal thought that he would reach for the blade that hung at his side. He had used it, or the threat of it, to settle so many arguments in his favour. From somewhere he found enough control to stay his hand. Some whisper in his brain said to him that this was not a man he could bully.
“I do not believe it,” he said. Skal knew well what the consequences of his father’s treachery would be.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Narak asked. His voice was quiet and cold. “If so you had better be prepared to defend your words with your blade.”
Maryal looked away to avoid smiling. Skal had done this so many times to others that it was balm to her soul to see it done back to him. There was no justice in unequal blades, but somehow she believed that Narak would not kill the young lord even if he drew, because she believed he was innocent of treachery. He was devastated by it. There was a lost look in Skal’s eyes that suggested he did not understand or believe what was happening to him. A dark shadow was falling over everything he was, or owned, or desired.
“No, Deus,” Skal said, his voice quiet and beaten.
Narak turned to the Duke. “Judgement,” he said.
The Duke and Quin wore similar expressions. The conversation had moved too fast for their emotions to keep up. They heard and understood the words, but the rain of revelations and the possible consequences had left them numb.
“Judgement,” Duke Elyas repeated, as if trying to understand the word. He straightened in his chair, turned his eyes on Skal. “There is only one thing that I can do. The gift of Bel Arac is the King’s. I must send to the king and tell him what has come to pass. We must await his judgement. However, I cannot see any outcome other than the dissolution of the house of Bel Arac. A new Marquis will be selected, a new family raised up. Lord Skal, you retain your junior title until we have word from the king, but you will be held under house arrest within this castle. You will not be permitted to speak to any without my express permission. Your family is shamed and all obligations to it are voided.”
Maryal could hardly believe the words. Her prayers had been answered, and Narak had known it. That was why she was here. The betrothal was broken by Bel Arac’s shame.
As if reading her mind Narak turned to her.
“You should go to your father now,” he said. “Tell him what you have seen and heard.”
She stood, bowed briefly to the Duke, to Narak and left the room with a glance at Quin and a glow filling her heart.
* * * *
When Maryal had left them the Duke summoned guards and a sullen and silent Skal was led from the room. His protestations were all used up. Narak could see equal parts of anger and disbelief on his face. There would be a time for Skal to be forgiven, but it was not now, and it would not be Narak who forgave him.
That small business taken care of, Narak turned back to the Duke.
“We have another fish to fry,” he said. “The spy.”
Elyas glanced at Quinnial, and the glance held more warmth than the wolf god had seen between the two at their previous meeting. He wondered at that.
“A priest, Deus. I saw him in the rain but could not make out the robes he wore. They were darkened with the water,” Quinnial said.
“Ashmaren,” Narak said.
“It’s possible.”
“It is certain. Think about it. Think about the dogs. There never was an illness in Telas Alt.” Narak sat back and watched their faces. The Duke was slow getting there – a couple of seconds. Quinnial understood as soon as he stopped speaking.
“Bring me the high priest of Ashmaren,” the Duke said. The two guards inside the door left. Two others took their place. The duke turned to Narak. “We had no way of knowing, Deus. No priest of Ashmaren would worship Seth Yarra.”
“What is a priest of Ashmaren, my lord?” Quinnial asked. “A man who wears robes and speaks certain words.”
The duke looked at his son and then smiled. “You are right, of course,” he said. “Perhaps we have grown dull witted after so many years without war.”
“It was the lie about Telas Alt that gave him away. He could expect you not to know what has occurred the other side of the Dragon’s Back, and he gambled that I would not know, keeping myself to Wolfguard as I do.”
The guards came back and announced the High Priest of Ashmaren. Baltho Hermandis was clearly discomfited by the summons. It was unexpected, and the unexpected was always trouble. He entered the room carefully, and his face showed even less joy at the presence of Wolf Narak. He stood in what Narak guessed was a pose of wisdom and condescension, his hand clasped together in front of him, his head bowed slightly and slightly turned to one side. His eyes focussed on the duke, denying the presence of Narak.
Narak knew that the Ashmareni had no time for him. He had been called a half god, a made creature, a chimera. They resented his real and physical presence when they had nothing but promises, rituals and stone. Now he watched the high priest trying to come to terms with what sat before him. They had not met before, but Narak quickly decided he was not fond of the man.
“My lord,” he said to the duke. “You have summoned me, and I have come. How may I serve?”
“You have betrayed us, Hermandis.”
Even Narak though
t that a little harsh. The Duke, it seemed, had a desire to poke the pompous old man. Hermandis responded true to type.
“My lord, I have not!” The priest was vehement. His eyes flashed with conviction.
“You have worked in the cause of Seth Yarra,” the duke accused.
“Never!”
“Then you are a fool.”
Hermandis opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He was in a position where he had to be careful what he admitted and what he denied. If it was a choice between traitor and fool, then fool it must be.
“I have always acted in the best interests of the people of Bas Erinor, the people of Avilian, and the king.” He said.
“And this nonsense with the disease and the dogs?”
“Nonsense? We have clear evidence. The illness retreated when the dogs were killed. The merchants approved…” He stopped talking and for a moment looked quite blank. Narak could not stop himself from smiling. “It was a lie?”
“So it seems,” the duke said. “There never was an illness in Telas Alt.”
Now Hermandis knew his course, and seized on it with extraordinary enthusiasm.
“Pelas Simal,” he said. “That is the man’s name. The name he goes by. He came to us from Telas,” he said. “I have indeed been a fool, my lord. He was most plausible, a clever man. Seth Yarra you say?”
“My son saw him with a Seth Yarra blade.”
Hermandis glanced across at Quinnial, and for a moment his eyes flicked further, touching Narak. The Wolf had not spoken a word.
“Send for him,” the high priest suggested. “He will be in temple. He has a cell in the east wing, above the chapel of the stillborn.”
The duke gestured to the guards, and the same two that had brought Hermandis left at the run. The spy was named. He would be brought before them. Narak wondered if it would be so easy. The city of gods would be awash with tales of his return, and he did not doubt that news had reached the temple of Ashmaren. The spy, the one that called himself Pelas Simal, would have had every chance to run if he suspected himself unmasked.
The high priest continued to try to improve his position, inventing quite the most impressive array of excuses and reasons for his failure to see through the spy, but it was clear from the duke’s dry comments that Hermandis had lost the trust of his lord. He would no longer be accepted as a councillor to the duke, and that in turn called for a new high priest. Hermandis had provided the perfect pretext for his own removal. It did not trouble Narak, even though he did not think another would have done better in the circumstances.
The guards came back. There was no sign of the priest Simal in the temple of Ashmaren. They had found priestly robes, the amulet that declared his status, all cast upon the bed. Nothing else was in the room.
“He has run,” Narak said.
“We will hunt him down, Deus,” the duke assured him.
“There is no need,” Narak replied. “I thought that he might flee, and I have made provision. In a few minutes there will be wolves at the gates. I have called them. They will follow the man wherever he has gone.”
They left the duke’s chambers and went to the gates of the castle. Several uneasy guardsmen were facing off against a pair of wolves. Swords had not been drawn, but hands were close to hilts. There was no way that a guardsman would kill a wolf, not with Wolf Narak in the castle, but they were sworn to keep the gate. They relaxed when they saw him approach.
“First we must go to the temple,” Narak said. “His robes are left there, and these trackers need a scent to follow. I hope there will not be a problem?” He looked at the high priest. He expected some protest at wolves entering Ashmaren’s holy place, and even more when he did, but he had the high priest where he wanted him. If the man did anything to impede the pursuit he would look like a traitor.
Hermandis nodded his reluctant consent, managing to turn his face to Narak without looking directly at him.
The priests at the temple gates were shocked, but Hermandis waved them aside and silenced them with a look. He had authority here. Every priest and acolyte was bound to his word by oath. They gathered a wake of red and white robes as they mounted the stairs and made their way to the spy’s cell. The duke followed closely behind the high priest and Narak followed them, walking beside Quinnial. The wolves followed his heels like obedient dogs, all their wildness banished by his presence.
The cell was clean and empty apart from the robe and the amulet. Narak studied the room carefully, and he sensed that all was not as it should be. Why leave the robe here? He must have known that it would be useful to his pursuers. Clearly there was a simple logic. The robe and amulet were all that could mark him as a priest of Ashmaren, and nobody would look twice at a man in breeches, boots and tunic walking down the stair from the city of gods. He would be one among many. But to leave it here was almost an invitation to follow. How much better to have discarded these things in a place where they might not be found or identified for days?
“You are sure that this is his robe, and not another’s?” Narak asked.
Hermandis shrugged, but one of the priests that had followed them from the door stepped forwards and examined the robe, passing in through his hands. He stopped and pointed to a tear on the hem.
“It is his,” the priest said. “This tear he made moving wood to the fires below. It was caught on a splinter on the door frame.
So it was his. Narak picked it up and showed it to the wolves.
This scent. Find the man. Walk.
The wolves breathed the spy’s scent and cast about the doorway, almost immediately stepping through. It was strong. They did not even bend their muzzles to the ground, but walked head up down the corridor.
“They will keep an easy pace,” Narak said as he stepped out after them. Now the last were first. The wolves led, Narak followed with Quinnial and the duke after them. Hermandis brought up the rear.
They left the temple, and the red and white robes were left behind. They would have followed, but Hermandis shook his head and they reluctantly fell back. The wolves led them directly to the high city gates, and the guards there sprang to attention. The duke attached two of them to the company and they went down the great stair. People pressed to the sides to allow them to pass. Narak saw fear, amazement, even worship in the eyes of the pilgrims. They knew him and they knew the duke. How they knew him he could only guess; the swords perhaps, but more likely the wolves that led them, or perhaps a combination of the two. He heard his name spoken. From the corner of his eye he saw fingers pointing. He had learned to block it out once before, but the skill had deserted him, and the attention distracted him. He did not like it.
At the foot of the great stair they plunged into the city, taking alleys and small lanes, turning and twisting through the poorer parts of the low city. It did not bother Narak, but he could see the Duke was troubled. He had only two guardsmen with him, and this was a place without law.
They turned down another alley, similar to a dozen others they had threaded, and Narak heard the brief hum of a bow string. He saw the arrow and stepped easily out of its path.
Go. Hold him. Do not kill.
The wolves raced ahead. One of the guards behind him swore. He turned to see that the man had not been as quick. The arrow had embedded itself in his upper arm, but it was not a serious injury. He turned back to the road and ran after the wolves. He saw that they were heading for a house not very distant, for an open window that was a good vantage point for a bowman.
A second arrow flew from the window. The spy was not shooting at the wolves, but at Narak himself. It was what Narak expected. Mindful of the important people behind him he reached up a hand and snatched the arrow out of the air. Its impetus threw him slightly off balance, but at the same moment he saw the wolves fly through the window into the threatening darkness beyond. He cast the arrow aside and in a dozen long paces he reached the window himself, and dived through it with swords drawn.
When he rolled back to hi
s feet he saw that his blades were unnecessary. The spy lay in a corner of the room well away from the broken remains of the bow. The wolves bared their teeth mere inches from his face, and he was pinned against the wall by his fear.
He was a small man, a nondescript figure. He had short dark hair and unremarkable rounded features. He was dressed in the simplest, most common style of clothing. He looked up as Narak sheathed his twin swords.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked.
Narak laughed. The others were at the window, forcing their way through the door. He turned to the duke. “Have him taken up to the castle,” he said. “I want to question him.”
* * * *
It was an hour before Narak saw the spy again. He’d taken his time, insisted that they all eat a generous lunch, take a couple of glasses of wine. The Duke was impatient, but Quinnial ate, drank, and watched him. Quinnial was learning his game.
