by Tim Stead
He didn’t know what to expect, but Narak did not hesitate. He strode the few steps between them and threw his arms around Arbak as though he were a long lost brother. The force of his embrace was enough to drive the breath out of Arbak’s lungs.
“You did it,” he said.
It was not until this moment that Cain Arbak had felt the weight of the Wolf’s uncertainty. Narak had not expected him to hold the wall. It had all been just a desperate throw of the dice, a handful of soldiers and a regiment of poorly trained levy men against an army of ten thousand. Yet Arbak himself had never doubted that they would succeed until the disaster of the previous night. Why? Because defeat was unthinkable? He had been on the losing side before – more often than he cared to remember – but this time victory had seemed certain.
When Narak released him he sank to one knee, bowed his head.
“The glory belongs to these men, Deus,” he said. “They have matched the best of men in their deeds and in their spirit.”
“So it may seem to you, General,” Narak replied. “But an army draws its spirit from its commander, and these men have fought with legendary spirit.” He turned towards the men on the wall, raising his voice so that all could hear. “I am proud of each man here, of those that have died and those that yet live. I am proud that you bear my name, and I grant you all the right. You are the Wolves of Fal Verdan, and shall bear that name in honour for the rest of your lives.”
The men cheered. There’s nothing like a victorious army for cheering, Arbak reflected.
He could not help but notice a coolness between Narak and Passerina, quite in contrast to the eagerness he had seen just moments before. Now she stood back on her heels, her arms folded across her chest. They exchanged a look that he could not read. There was a whole story there somewhere, one that he did not know, and perhaps did not wish to know. The Wolf did not speak to her, but instead nodded, an acknowledgement of her help, and something else perhaps.
“Major Tragil?”
The Berashi stepped forwards at Narak’s calling. He bowed.
“Deus, I am Tragil,” he said.
“You have engineers?”
“Some. Some were lost.”
“How quickly can you fix the gate so that you can lift it?”
“A couple of days, Deus.”
“As quickly as you can, then, colonel. These men,” and here he gestured at the Telan force beyond the wall. “They need to come into Berash.” Arbak saw the worry on Tragil’s face and so did Narak. The Berashi was reluctant to open his gate again for Telans, and Arbak could understand that. “Your king has agreed to it,” Narak said. “They have given up their homes and land to fight on our side. Their families wait in the woods to come through and make a new life here with us until their homeland is swept of the enemy. It is the least that we can do.”
“Deus,” Arbak interrupted. “Who are they?”
“Their commander is Lord Filamon, keeper of the northern marches of Telas. Two other lords have marched with him, Kebra and Lisanderan, who are loyal to him. The army is the Telan northern levy, what they call the army of the land, the Felyan. If they stay the other side of the wall they will be destroyed to a man by Seth Yarra and their southern allies, though I think the alliance will dissolve when the Telans discover what Seth Yarra has in mind for them.”
Tragil was not curious. “I will see to it at once,” he said, and left them.
Arbak was surprised that his question had been fully answered. It was unlike the Wolf to be so forthcoming. But then he had to admit that he didn’t know the wolf god that well – just a couple of meetings that had made him a cripple, a wealthy man, and now a general. Perhaps it would be better not to attempt to predict so unpredictable a creature.
He walked with Narak, climbing down the steep stair, feeling the eyes of all the men on the two of them. It could do no harm, the mercenary in him thought, that he was seen walking side by side with the Wolf, that he had been embraced by the god on the wall before his army. It was the sort of thing that people spoke of. They would believe the two of them were friends, when in reality he still doubted the bond between them, especially when the ache in his severed wrist kept him awake on cold nights.
“The King is coming,” Narak said. “King Raffin. He will join the army as it passes through Berash, and he wishes to speak with you, so you must wait here until the army comes.” He smiled. “I hope it not too great a burden.”
“It is an honour,” Arbak replied, but he knew that he was unconvincing.
“I confess that I have wronged you, Cain Arbak. I sent you to hold the wall in the hope that you would succeed, but I had no faith in you. You did better than I thought you would – as well as any general I could have chosen – and I am grateful for your success. Raffin, too is grateful, and you must permit the great to display their gratitude, but with all humility.” He laughed. “You must be grateful for our gratitude.”
“I shall do my best, Deus.”
Narak slapped him on the back. “Now you can forget all about it. You have earned a rest, and a celebration. There will be a lot of that in the next few weeks. You must learn to put up with it.”
It was true enough. In the following days a great deal of wine was drunk, and Arbak sank his share of it. He ate more that he needed and slept late. Now that Narak was here nobody looked to him for orders. He felt unnecessary, but he did not mind. It was pleasant to be just a man again, and he even managed to find some pleasure in his undeserved reputation as an astute warrior. He had become a respected man, a man who people looked to for answers and advice, a man that common men dipped their heads to as they passed. For Cain Arbak it was an uncomfortable thing. In his own eyes he was still one of them, one of the men who half bowed in his presence. He was still a sergeant.
In truth he drank too much, and when he rose each day he felt dried out, thick headed and faintly ill. He drank water and ate nothing but fruit until mid day when he would take a walk down to the wall. On the third day, a little later than promised, the great stone was harnessed to its counter weight again, and Tragil was able to raise the gate to let the Telans through.
Arbak happened to be there. It was certainly a spectacle. They were led through by their Lord, the one Narak had called Filamon. He was a big man, broad shouldered with a full, black beard. His armour was plate, much like a knight of Avilian or a soldier of the Dragon Guard, but he wore a typical Telan broad brimmed helmet, atypically decorated so that from the side it resembled a wolf’s head, with silver and gold inlaid into the steel and rubies the size of a man’s thumbnail for eyes. Over his armour he wore a heavy woollen cloak, such as a noble born man might wear in winter, dyed night black to match his beard. He was an impressive sight, and as he rode he looked about him as though keen to see what kind of men his new allies might be, such men as had held this gate against ten thousand for so long.
Arbak felt Filamon’s eyes linger on his own face for a moment, but no longer. He wore no markings to suggest his rank, and he supposed that he passed for just another soldier out of armour, bearing a sword.
The Telans trailed through the gate for an hour. First the cavalry, then archers, and after them the infantry, but it did not stop there. They had brought everything they could carry, and wagon after wagon rumbled under the wall, loaded with women, children and just about anything else that could be fitted into or tied to the sides of a four wheeled conveyance. Arbak even saw a wine press, bound down with a dozen stout ropes.
Telans and their wine, he thought.
“They’ve come to stay.”
He turned and saw Tragil standing next to him, watching the precession. The Berashi looked easy. He wasn’t worried any more about letting Telans through his gate, or not these ones, anyway.
“It looks that way,” he replied.
Tragil stood for a moment as if he had something more to say, but whatever it might have been remained unspoken. He smiled, laid a hand on Arbak’s shoulder for a moment, then turned and
walked up the gorge towards the camp with slow weary steps.
The first part of the army arrived the next day.
Arbak learned the news when Sheyani woke him, gently shaking his shoulder until he opened gummy eyes, ran a dry tongue around his mouth and looked at her. She had done something to her eyes was his first thought. There was colour on her eyelids. Blue. He tried to smile, but thought better of it and reached for a jug of water that he kept beside his mattress.
“You must get up, Sheshay,” she said. “The King is coming.”
“Now?”
“Soldiers have come. They are Berashi and they say the king follows. He rides with the Dragon Guard.”
Arbak swallowed several mouthfuls of water and sat up. He felt a little nauseous, his mouth watered suddenly, and his brow prickled with cold sweat. He had drunk far too much the previous night. He closed his eyes for a moment. The world was not spinning, but something unpleasant was crouching in his gut, waiting to escape.
“Drink this.” Sheyani offered him a cup in which she had brewed something hot. He sipped it, thinking it was a tea, but the bitter taste surprised him. “Drink it,” she insisted. “It will make you feel better.”
He scrubbed his face and took another sip. Sheyani sat across the tent from him and picked up her pipes. She played a quiet tune, and between her music and the tisane he could feel the sickness retreating from his body. In five minutes he was beginning to feel hungry.
“I did not know that you were good with herbs, Sheyani,” he said. “It seems that there are many things about you that I do not know.” They had not spoken of it since the night a man had tried to kill her, since he discovered what Esh Baradan meant.
“You are angry with me, Sheshay.”
“No.” He spoke automatically, then again in a more considered tone. “No, I am not angry with you. It is just that I do not understand everything. There are so many surprises.” She said nothing, and would not meet his eyes. He put his hand against his chest, over his heart. “You are important to me, Sheyani. Here. But you are a King’s daughter, a mage of Durander, and I am a creature of the low city. My father was nothing, a man who did what work he could find, sweeping, carrying, the basest blood.” He did not know why he was telling her this. It could only complicate things.
“We do not measure a man by his bloodline in Durandar,” she said. “A man is what he does, not what his ancestors have done.” She met his eyes. “And you have done much, City Councillor, General Cain Arbak. You are a wealthy man, a father to the men who fight under you.” She took his hand in hers, holding it between them so that he could feel the warmth of her flesh surrounding his. “These are the things that must be counted,” she said. “In Durander we have a saying, that a great man is one who can swim in the ocean and not get wet. You are such a man.”
“You have always been kind to me, Sheyani,” he said.
She laughed. She laughed like a child, delighted and unrestrained, and in a moment she had flung her arms around his neck. She held him for a moment, and he hardly dared to breathe, but put his hand gently on her shoulder. After a moment she pulled away, still smiling.
“I will fetch you breakfast, Sheshay,” she announced.
“No,” he said. “You do too much for me already. I will eat in the mess tent. The walk will help to wake me up.”
He left her in the tent and stepped out into the cold morning air. It was going to be another winter diamond of a day; blue sky, bright sun, a scent of snow in the air. The only thing that spoiled it was the sweet smell of burning. The Telans had cleared up the killing ground while they waited for the gate to be repaired. They had built pyres of cut wood and fallen men, poured oil over them and lit them. Everything now carried their smell. He walked across the camp. It was bigger now, he saw. New tents had been raised, a new suburb of their tent city. They were high, Berashi tents with low wings for sleeping. They were more elegant than the boxy, utilitarian Avilian tents. He guessed that no more than five hundred men had come. He wondered what the place would look like with another fifteen thousand men.
The mess tent was half empty. It was in fact a collection of boxy Avilian tents placed together with the sides lifted so that it was like a forest of poles supporting a sea of canvas waves. Tables, each big enough for eight men to sit at, scattered themselves about the space. To one side men prepared food. Even as late as this there were two dozen men eating here. The smell of cooked food was powerful enough to banish the scent of pyre smoke, and Arbak felt his appetite surge.
Men half stood as he crossed to the cook fires, and he waved them down again, collected a large plate of fried vegetables and a pitcher of weak beer and looked for a suitable seat.
She was sitting on the far side of the space, so he had not seen her when he came in. Her red hair, even tied back, was like a warning signal, and all the tables around her were vacant. On an impulse he walked over to where Passerina sat and took the bench opposite.
She looked up at him, stared for a moment, and then lowered her eyes to her food again. “I did not invite you to sit with me,” she said.
“It is the custom of the mess, Deus,” he replied. “A wagon boy may sit next to a king.”
She ate in silence. Arbak thought he detected a slight quickening of her pace as though she wanted to be away from him.
“You blame me for the death of Perlaine, Deus,” he said. She looked up again, and he thought he detected the smallest indication of surprise that he had raised the subject.
“You killed her,” she said.
“I do not deny it,” he replied. “But I would like to ask you one question.”
She stopped eating and looked at him, her eyes trying to know what he intended, so he knew she was curious, that she would hear what he wanted to say.
“You may ask your question.”
“It begins with a story.”
Passerina put down her knife and looked across the table, giving him her undivided attention. Perhaps he had been wrong to do this.
“Tell your story,” she said.
“I worked for a traitor,” he said. “This in itself could be considered a crime, but among the mighty men are judged by their loyalty, not by their moral sense, and so I was loyal, my master being a man with gold. I was a mercenary.
“This traitor had achieved his purpose, but he wanted to brush his trail clean, and so he left a squad of men behind, just three as it happens, to clean away the signs of his crime, the evidence that he had ever been there. It was a trivial job, really. I was reliable, so he left me and two foolish boys who were good with bows but lacked the common sense of a starling. We did the idiot job that was assigned to us. We burned things, swept the dust, broke down what had been built, and every day the two bowmen went hunting in the forest because we liked to eat venison and coney. It was an easy job; light duties you might say.
“Then the boys came back without any game. They were wide eyed, breathing hard, flushed. They said they’d shot and killed a spy – a woman walking in the woods nearby with a wolf at her side.
“You and I, we know better. We know that one who walks with a wolf serves Narak, and you don’t stick arrows in Narak’s people. It only leads to one thing.
“I was afraid, but the boys were idiots, so I went into the woods and looked where they said they’d killed her, and there she was, but not dead like they’d said. They’d hit her all right. Two or three arrows, I can’t remember. Only one in the wolf, but the wolf was dead. She was dying. One arrow through the belly, another through the lung. The lower had stuck in her spine, and if nothing else she was bleeding to death, drowning in her own blood, and you know what a belly wound is like if you’ve seen a friend die of one.
“I knew she was dying, and she knew it too. I could see it in her eyes. Most people are afraid when they’re dying, but not her.” Telling the story brought it back. The woman lying on the ground, her upper body across the wolf. There was blood on her lips, bubbles of blood, and a sucking sound every ti
me she drew breath. Tiny flecks of blood were scattered across her pale, alabaster face, some smeared and others like little rubies on snow. She’d met his eyes. A brief examination told him that the wounds were fatal. There was nothing left for her but pain and death. He’d seen in her eyes that she knew that. Do you want me to end it? He’d asked the question. She had nodded. There was no mistake. Even so he’d asked a second time. Are you sure? She nodded again. Knowing that she wanted to die, knowing that it was the right thing to do and that there was no help for her, even then it had been a hard thing to do. Very hard. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
