by Tim Stead
The old man was talking with Remard. His memory of the occasion was sharp as a knife. Remard looked harassed; Pelion looked tired and frustrated. Some lesson was being taught, and Remard was struggling to satisfy Pelion that he had learned it.
He made no apology for interrupting them, but put the bottle on the table with three glasses and pulled the cork.
“It’s the best I could find,” he said.
Pelion said nothing at first, but his eyes had sparkled as he watched Narak pour the wine. He had taken the glass and sipped, closing his eyes to enjoy the flavour and complexity of the drink. When he opened them he smiled at Narak.
“When there is something that must be done, it is you that will do it,” he had said. And so the legend began. Narak was Pelion’s favoured one, Narak was Pelion’s heir, all for the price of a bottle of wine.
He pushed his memories aside and looked once more at the Bren Moraine.
“You have strayed from the path, Bren Moraine,” he said.
The Bren twitched with fury. Narak had admonished him in front of the perfect witness, and it was a grave insult, but for all that he was not afraid. If the Bren attacked him he was still capable of tearing it limb from limb. Any one of the Bren was no match for him, weapons or no.
“How dare you presume to know Pelion’s mind, you half thing,” the Bren stormed. “We are the chosen, we carry his purpose forwards.”
“I will leave now,” Narak said. “Your curiosity is satisfied, I take it, and so is mine. If you will permit the Ashet to guide me back to Wolfguard?”
The creature glared at him, but did not speak. It gestured with one spiked arm and the Bren Ashet turned at once and stepped from the room. Without a backward glance Narak followed.
He remembered the smell now; the smell of the Bren. He had liked it then. It dragged back those distant times when he had been just a man, a man learning to be a god. They had been difficult times, but there were happy memories, too.
The Bren Ashet led him back the way they had come. He could probably have found the way himself, at least as far as the quick road, but he followed the Ashet faithfully until they were in deserted, empty tunnels.
“Thank you,” he said.
The Ashet slowed for a moment, and then picked up its pace again. It did not turn its head of acknowledge his words in any way.
“I know that you told me more than you were supposed to,” he said.
The Bren stopped and looked at him. “I did not,” it said. “There was authority.”
“Not from that one.”
“No.”
“One greater than that?” Narak was curious. Some other Bren had interfered, and it was not a trivial interference.
“Yes, perhaps” the Ashet said.
“Which of the Bren gave you authority?”
“The first. The Bren Alar.”
“I do not know the Bren Alar,” he said. He had never heard the name, and the title was intriguing. The First? The first of all the Bren? The creature that Pelion had made before all others. “What are the Bren Alar like?”
“I am not permitted to say.”
“But you are permitted to mention them, by name.”
“Yes.”
The Bren carried on in silence, walking swiftly along the empty tunnels. Narak followed. He did not want to. He wanted to stop and talk, to question the Ashet about the nature of the Bren Alar. He tried to imaging what Pelion might have created, his first new life. What would the old man be aiming for? Perhaps on a first try he would not be too ambitious, a simple creature; something that could walk and talk, learn to better itself.
No, that was wrong. Narak would do that. Narak had doubts, he was careful with new things, he was unsure. Pelion would have been bold. He would have reached for perfection. Yet he had failed. If not, then why were the Bren Alar put aside? Why were the Bren in all their many forms created at all?
Now that was an interesting conjecture. The Bren Alar, at least some of them, at least one, still existed, and the Bren Alar felt differently about Pelion’s law. It, or they, were more in tune with the spirit than the letter.
“Can you carry a message to the Bren Alar?” he asked.
“It are aware of all that has passed between you and the Moraine, and between you and the Ashet. If you speak words to me, it will know.”
“I am grateful to the Bren Alar,” he said.
“It is not meaningful,” the Bren said. “The Bren Alar interprets the law. It adjust the actions of the others.”
Singular, then. Just one. “Can you tell me about the law, what it is?” he asked.
“The law is known only to the Bren, and so it shall remain. The law belongs to the Bren. It is what we are.” The reply had the feel of a litany, oft repeated. He would get nothing out of the Ashet. At least he now knew that there was a law, and clearly the continued existence of the six kingdoms was in some way aided by its provisions. That alone was worth knowing.
They came to the quick road again. He felt it before he saw it. The Bren stood on the threshold and spoke several words in its own tongue, and again Narak tried to memorise them as the creature spoke. He imagined that the same words, spoken correctly at the mouth of any of the Bren Quick Roads would take him back to Wolfguard, and that was a valuable thing to know.
They stepped through together, and on the other side the smell of the Bren was gone, the air was warmer, and the great cave opened up before them. The Bren led him across the uneven floor of the cave to the foot of the corkscrew stair.
They ascended to the lair, the stone opening at the Bren’s touch as though it were no more than a curtain, and now he was back on familiar ground.
The Bren took up a position close to the secret door, and he knew that when he looked for it again the creature would be gone, or at least not visible to his eyes. He had gained knowledge, but no comfort from his excursion. Nothing he had learned would help the battle against Seth Yarra, and he was less sure of the Bren.
So be it. It was time to travel; time to fetch swords and armour. No more would be gained by waiting here, and he was eager to begin.
30. Siege
Sunrise. It had been snowing during the night. An armada of tents rode at anchor in a sea of white, the dark Avilian canvas, double peaked, stood out most of all. The soldiers had left the snow on their roofs during the night. There was not much of it, not enough to collapse the tents, and it kept them warm. Now they were out brushing it away before the cook fires and sunshine melted it. It gave the tents a magpie look.
Narak stood with Jiddian on a rise just to the east of the camp. From their vantage point he could see the Seth Yarra camp, its walls, the island that had been made part of it, and beyond that he could make out the masts of three wind ships. The island was not big. He guessed it was twenty acres. The channel between the island and the mainland was wide enough to be a problem for an attacking force, a hundred and fifty yards of killing ground, a natural moat too deep to wade, and men could not swim it in full armour.
The Seth Yarra had boats. They looked more like barges. He could see them drawn up on the shore of the mainland, and ropes connected them to the island. It was an efficient scheme for a swift retreat to their secondary positions.
“A tough nut to crack,” Jiddian said.
Narak nodded. “You see the barges,” he said. “Clever. Very clever.”
“They can be across to the island almost at a run,” Jiddian agreed. “And we’d have to start all over again. They mean to hold this position.”
“For a time,” Narak said. “They are here to conquer, and they will not do that hiding behind walls.”
“When they come out we will unleash Havil’s Dragon Guard on them, and that will make them think again.”
“They are waiting, Jiddian. They believe that we will grow impatient and attack, and they will diminish us until they can break out and defeat us, but we shall see how great their patience is. Walk with me.”
Narak set out across the sn
ow patched grass towards the Seth Yarra camp, and Jiddian walked with him. They stopped about a hundred yards short of a bow shot. Several ambitious arrows fell short of where they had stopped.
“They are hungry for our blood, God of Eagles. One that I questioned told me that they were guaranteed eternal life if they killed us. Seeing us here it must be hard for them to resist riding out to take our heads. Shall we provoke them more?”
Jiddian laughed. “You have a tricky mind, wolf lord.” He unslung his great bow. Out of bowshot for a man was not out of bowshot for the eagle god. He picked an arrow from his quiver and put it to the bowstring. “What shall I kill?”
Narak looked at the camp. The walls were manned by troops of an ordinary kind. He could see their tabards of black and green. They would be easy prey, and each one that fell would weaken the resolve of the others, but he did not dislike the ordinary soldiers. They were like the mercenary Arbak who he had spared. They were men of their land, brought by others to do a job of work.
Further back there was a pavilion, an open tent in which men sat and surveyed the scene. These men were all garbed in black. He could see their heads move as they talked among themselves, and he studied them for a while.
“Well?” Jiddian asked.
“A moment.” He continued to watch. There would never be another chance like this. The Seth Yarra thought that they were safely out of bowshot, and they behaved without guile. A man entered the pavilion and stood before one of the seated men, the third from the left. He spoke. Narak could see the gestures he made to emphasise his words. The seated man replied, and the other nodded and ran to obey.
“You see the pavilion?” he asked.
“I see it.”
“The seated men, dressed in black. They are cleansers, and probably senior officers in Seth Yarra’s army.”
“One of them, then.”
“The third from the left,” Narak said. “Shoot the third from the left.”
Jiddian bent the bow. For a moment he stood like a rock, not breathing, and Narak felt the wind die away. Such is the power of a lord of the air that even the winds obey. The arrow released with a sound almost like a thud, a bit like the ringing of a bell, and the arrow flew over the Seth Yarra walls, arcing high through the cold morning air. It was a thing of beauty, an perfect instrument of death, and it followed its path unerringly. The third man from the left in the Seth Yarra pavilion folded over and struck the ground. He was immediately engulfed by his fellows, others fled, running crouched over in fear for their lives.
Narak watched as chaos quickly became order. They were disciplined, he had to concede that much. Commands were shouted and men who had been idly standing about in the open rapidly disappeared behind shelters of canvas and wood, anything that obscured line of sight. There would be no more easy targets, at least not among the black clad commanders.
He watched again. Things settled. Heads were held lower, but he could still see men. They, after all, were required to watch. He saw a tent canvas, stretched where a body leaned against it. He pointed it out to Jiddian.
“I see it.”
The bow drew again, and a second arrow cut the clean air. A second man died.
“I have only thirty arrows, Narak,” Jiddian said as he picked another from its quiver. “We cannot kill them all.”
“One more will do. It does not matter – pick one from the walls.”
Jiddian fitted the arrow to the string, but lowered the bow again as a horseman approached from their own encampment. Narak turned to look at the man. He was an officer of the Dragon Guard.
“Prince Havil’s compliments, Deus,” the man said pulling off a smart salute even as he reined in the horse. “There are ten riders arrived, asking for you. They are Duranders, Deus.”
“It is good news,” Narak said. “Now sit still a moment.” He nodded to Jiddian, who raised his bow again and after a moment of stillness loosed a third arrow. A man cried out behind the walls. They saw heads pull down even lower.
“Enough for now,” Narak said. “Stay here a while, Jiddian, take aim a few times, but waste no more arrows. We will take a few more lives tomorrow.”
He strode back down the hill to the camp, the officer riding beside him.
“I have never seen such a shot, Deus,” he said. There was wonder in his voice, but the pleasure the man took in seeing Jiddian kill irritated Narak.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“I am Thoris, Deus, Major of the Dragon Guard.”
“Major Thoris, you will see many things in the days to come that you have never seen the like of before, and by the time we have finished our work you will pray never to see them again.”
“Yes, Deus.”
In the camp he could see the Duranders at once. They stood apart from the soldiers of the east like a circus carnival at a funeral, a rainbow of colour on a grey morning. They were still mounted, surrounded by dozens of curious and suspicious troops. The crowds parted as Narak approached.
“You are most welcome here, Mages of Durandar,” he said. He made sure that the considerable warmth in his voice could be heard by all who stood nearby. The Mage at the head of the small troop dismounted, and the others followed him. He wore a green cloak, the colour of a spring leaves, caught about his shoulders with a large and ornate silver brooch. Beneath it he wore a fine wool tunic crossed by a scarlet silk sash. There was a blade at his hip, a furiously decorated piece of steel with a dozen emeralds set in the pommel.
The green cloaked mage bowed deeply, more than was perhaps necessary given his high station among his own people.
“Deus, we are honoured to serve your need. Hammerdan White Cloak sends his highest regards and his good wishes for your venture here.”
Narak invited them to sit with him in his tent, and served them wine and what food he could command. They were indeed a varied group; six men and four women, each bearing a cloak of the colour that represented their path. The leader, Fadim, followed the path of Karesh, and as such was skilled in weather magic.
He explained his strategy to them, as far as he needed them to know it.
“I want them to be afraid,” he said. “And I want them to be angry and frustrated. Anything that will crush their spirits, weaken their judgement, will serve our cause. If it is possible I want it to rain on their camp all day every day. I want storms to lash their ships. I want their water to sour, their grain to rot. I want them to forget glory and dream of home, wherever that may be.”
“The weather, Deus, may be influenced,” Fadim said. “But it may not be controlled. It may be impossible to do as you ask.” Narak saw the others nodding. He knew this, of course. These mages were not even shadows of the man they worshipped. Pelion could have sunk the Seth Yarra island into the sea, scoured the land with lightning, burned them all from the face of the land, but these men and women negotiated with rather than commanded the elements.
“Wind, then? Can you prevent the rain? Drive it off the coast so that none falls on their camp?” It was a tactic that he disliked, but depriving men of water would certainly drive them out from behind the walls.
The Durander smiled. “We can do that, Deus.”
There was a stream that flowed down the valley and into their camp, but it was not a great deal of water for twenty-five thousand men, and streams could be diverted. He had no doubt that they had stored water, but again, with so many men it would not see them through more than a few days if all other supplies were cut off.
The plan was set, but Narak was not in a hurry. He did not want Seth Yarra’s army to march before he had trampled their spirit and weakened their discipline. That would take many days.
He had a hatful of strategies to try. Jiddian’s bow was the first of many. Each day he would go with Jiddian to the slopes above the Seth Yarra camp, and three arrows would fall on the camp, killing three men. It was a pinprick, but such a thing would prey on the minds of the ordinary soldiers, sitting and waiting for the arrows to fall. The weather
would be on their side, too. Dry winds would blow from the plains, sucking the moisture from men’s skins, making them thirsty, and they would have to be rationed – another source of irritation. Narak himself would sit above their camp, he would have a wolf banner made and don his red armour so that they were in no doubt who their tormentor was.
Each night he drew four hundred men from the ranks and had them eat and drink their fill in full sight of Seth Yarra. He got them drunk, had them sing ribald songs and stage wrestling matches. The sound of their laughter carried easily to the enemy – another pinprick.
He had the poison that the spy Keb had used; the poison that had made people ill without killing them. He watched the enemy carefully, and determined when they drew water from the stream, and a short while before the usual hour he emptied half the poison into the stream, sending the rest after it a few days later. Sickness in the camp would be terrifying, packed in close as they were.
