Besieged (56 page)

‘Janzten thinks she’s too young for me.’

Sorne thought so too, but he wasn’t foolish enough to say it. ‘Have you eaten, sire? Call the barons in, toast Nitzane and Marantza, make it clear they’ve done exactly what you wanted them to do.’

‘Good idea. Organise it. Then come back here. Norholtz is having trouble with the Maygharians. I should send you there to advise him. You have a fine head for strategy.’

It was the closest the king had come to praising Sorne, but he didn’t want to leave Chalcedonia, not when he’d only just come home.

Chapter Forty-Five

S
ORNE CLIMBED THE
path that circled the pinnacle, followed by Captain Aintzo and three of his holy-swords. The spire of black rock was the height of a six-storey tower; each turn of the path took them another storey higher.

Eight years ago, while crossing Chalcedonia, Sorne had peeped out of the closed-cart and seen this pinnacle, or one similar: great spires of rock that rose out of the rich, rolling countryside. Straight and tall, it was almost as if they were constructed, rather than natural. When the sun struck the sheer rock, they shone like black glass. Trees and bushes clung to the crevices. Some of the pinnacles were unclimbable. On this one, stairs had been cut, following the natural crevices or carved into the sheer rock. He was lucky he didn’t suffer from a fear of falling.

According to Zabier, it was possible to reach the gods on the pinnacle’s flat top any time of the year. That did not reassure Sorne; he touched his mother’s torc, where it lay just below the hollow of his throat. The blue stone’s glow would tell him when empyrean beasts were present. Under his robe, over the centre of his breastbone, lay the silver disk. He had placed a vest between it and his skin, because he wanted the power to last. Even so, he could still feel it pulsing softly. Every time he thought of it, he felt a mixture of longing and self-contempt.

One thing was clear; deliberate gift-infusion was much more powerful than residual gift essence.

He was puffing slightly when he reached the top of the pinnacle. It was almost flat, with a dip on the far side.

From up here, he could see the sun setting far away beyond the sea. But it wasn’t until he went right to the edge that he could see the field below the pinnacle, where Charald had pitched their tents. They would spend the night there, drinking and celebrating his betrothal.

As Sorne watched, another baron rode in with a party of followers. His men began unloading the carts while he and his good wife made their way to see the king. Even from up here, Sorne recognised Marantza’s tall frame, and he was glad to see that Charald had taken his advice and invited them to the ceremony, which had been delayed to allow them to travel.

‘Where do we set up, Warrior’s-voice?’

Sorne returned to his holy-swords. ‘Put the table here, about halfway. The barons and officials will stand back there.’

He had chosen these four True-men because they had been with him when he had his last vision and knew what to expect. Tonight he would impress the barons and church leaders, and consolidate his place in Chalcedonia as King Charald’s advisor. He wished Izteben could be here.

Reminded of how his brother had died, Sorne ran through the process of the ritual one last time. He drew the knife Oskane had given him. ‘I’ll prick my skin and rub blood on the sacrifice. Where is it?’

‘Here.’ Captain Aintzo opened the small, lead-lined chest to reveal two silver arm-torcs. They had been tied together on the end of a long silk scarf.

Sorne could feel their residual gift essence. It was weak compared with the silver disk, but once he added his blood it would be enough.

‘Good, put the chest here.’ Sorne indicated the table. ‘When I feel the Warrior’s presence, I’ll make the offering. Don’t get between me and the god. His touch will send you mad, or he may take you in place of the offering. Am I clear?’

They all looked suitably solemn. He wondered if he should add anything more to impress them with the danger of the ritual, but they already seemed tense enough. He glanced at the setting sun, trying to judge how long they had until full dark.

‘You go down and start escorting them up. I’ll stay here and meditate.’

He needed time to come up with a suitable vision that would reconcile Baron Janzten with the idea of giving his daughter to King Charald. As far as Charald was concerned, he didn’t see why winning the king’s favour wasn’t enough for Janzten. There were half a dozen barons who would have happily pimped their daughters as the king’s mistress, let alone his wife, to win Charald’s favour.

Sorne shook his head. Charald just happened to have taken a fancy to the daughter of the one principled baron in Chalcedonia.

As he sat and contemplated his vision, he thought of Izteben and whether Chalcedonia would have been different had he lived.

What had Sorne achieved?

He’d been behind the conquering of five kingdoms and the reclamation of a sixth. He personally held a position of power, but Valendia had spent her childhood hidden from the sight of True-men, and his kind were no closer to being accepted. He could not change men’s hearts and minds unless they wanted to change.

Izteben was right, to effect true change you first needed to attain power, but if you became too powerful it could promote more fear.

Sorne was no closer to a solution, when he heard voices. His holy-swords were escorting the barons and church leaders up the stairs. Sorne retreated to the top of the pinnacle and readied himself. As the dignitaries kept arriving, he grew uneasy. There were so many of them. What if the empyrean beast charged him and people scattered? They could fall to their deaths. He spotted Zabier and tried to get his attention, but the Father’s-voice was distracted by one of the arrivals and didn’t see him.

More and more people arrived, shuffling forward until these in the front row reached his table. A southern baron went to pick up his ceremonial knife and Sorne hastily retrieved it. He beckoned Captain Aintzo, who appeared as nervous as he felt. ‘Watch the table. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Sorne wanted to cancel the offering and stage it in a safer place, or at least with fewer people. If he could get the Father’s-voice to back him, the king might agree. Finding King Charald wasn’t hard; his big voice boomed out. It was getting through the crowd who were gathered around him that was a struggle. Sorne discovered Baron Janzten and his daughter, Jaraile, with the king, as well as Nitzane and Marantza, but no sign of Zabier. There he was, several rows back, trying to get to the front.

Charald caught sight of Sorne. ‘Here’s the Warrior’s-voice. Are we ready to start?’ He nudged Jaraile’s father. ‘After this, Janzten, you will never doubt I have the Warrior’s favour.’ And he pulled Jaraile close to plant a kiss on her lips
.

‘Sire–’

‘That’s pretty,’ Jaraile said. She reached up to Sorne’s throat where his mother’s torc was glowing, which meant...

Sorne spun around, thrusting through the crowd. What was going on? He had not even started the ceremony.

Captain Aintzo stood next to the table with two of Sorne’s holy-swords. The third had taken a bowl down to the far end and appeared to be dipping a brush in it and sprinkling the contents on the ground.

This wasn’t part of the ceremony.

As Sorne watched in disbelief, the liquid hit the ground and sizzled, and a growing darkness blotted out the evening stars behind the holy-sword.

‘Get out of there,’ Sorne called. He felt the build-up of power and knew he was running out of time. ‘Quick, give me the offering.’ Raising his voice, Sorne shouted over the chatter of the gathered crowd. ‘Warrior, Greatest of the Seven, I seek your guidance...’

Sorne broke off as one of the holy-swords yelped in fright. Sorne spun around to see the man with the bowl had spilled its contents on his robe. That was not wine. That was blood; Malaunje blood, he guessed. Where had it come from?

The holy-sword’s body jerked as he was lifted off the ground. He writhed once, twice, then went still and winked out of existence.

‘Quick.’ Sorne thrust his hand out to his captain. ‘Give me the offering, Aintzo!’

The two remaining holy-swords grabbed his arms, pulling him around to face the captain.

Aintzo picked up Sorne’s ceremonial dagger. ‘A True-man should be the Warrior’s-voice, not some tainted half-blood. Hold him.’

Sorne gasped in pain as Aintzo drove the knife into his belly.

‘Now throw him to the god.’

Sorne gasped and bent double as he felt the blood run through his fingers. Aintzo turned to face the crowd. Some looked on in horror, but many were pleased to see Sorne brought down.

‘Warrior, Greatest of the Seven, I seek your guidance for King Charald, High King of the Secluded Sea...’ Aintzo began, holding the bloodied knife above his head.

Desperate, Sorne let himself become a dead weight as his captors dragged him backwards. He twisted to the right, slapping his bloodied hand in his captor’s face. The holy-sword let him go and pulled back. Darkness took him, lifting the man off his feet. He writhed in desperation, then disappeared.

The remaining holy-sword dropped Sorne’s arm and backed away.

Sorne smeared blood on his skin, then thrust him towards the darkness. Ignoring the man’s shrill scream, Sorne stumbled up the slope towards Aintzo and the table. Surely it had not been this steep before.

Aintzo turned and raised the knife. But Sorne wasn’t attacking him, he wanted the T’En artefact. He snatched it before the captain could strike him. Something caught him around the waist, lifting him off his feet. The chest flew open and the arm-torcs tumbled out. They stopped tumbling in mid-air.

Aintzo screamed as the empyrean beast snatched him, too. Sorne felt a bone-numbing chill enter his body through the belly wound. He felt himself weakening and knew the beast was feeding on his life force. The world no longer looked real; the crowd appeared as beacons of warmth. He was cold. So cold...

He’d pushed his luck too far, Graelen was right. Graelen!

His muscles felt sluggish as he reached up inside his robe. The moment his bare hand closed on the silver disk, warmth ran down his arm, giving him strength. He snapped the chain and threw the disk over his left shoulder towards the beast.

It had barely left his fingers when there was a flash so bright it burned.

Something slapped the side of his face and he was flung towards the edge of the pinnacle.

He barely had time to think,
so this is how it feels to die
, before he collided with the stone and the whiteness expanded to fill his mind.

S
ORNE WOKE TO
weeping and wailing. The world swung above him: stars, tree branches, more stars... he was being carried on a cloak, almost at a run. The top half of a tent flashed past. He was in the camp. There was Nitzane’s new standard.

‘Can you hear me?’ Marantza asked, leaning over him. She searched his face, her expression anxious.

He tried to speak, but his throat felt raw. Swallowing was agony.

‘Don’t worry. We’ve got you,’ Nitzane said, leaning over him on the other side. They entered a tent and someone lit a lamp.

They deposited him on a bedroll. Marantza knelt beside him and picked up a knife, and he wondered why they’d bothered to save him if they were going to cut this throat. But she began cutting his clothing off.

‘Get some watered wine,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘And honey and yoghurt.’

It seemed a strange combination. He had to turn his head to see her as he tried to tell her his stomach wound was the most pressing problem. He felt cold, as if he would never get warm again.

‘He’s trying to speak,’ Nitzane said.

Sorne swallowed and winced.

Someone produced a bowl of honey. Marantza stirred it into a bowl of yoghurt, then told a servant to feed him. After the first mouthful, the pain in his throat eased.

Sorne became aware of men shouting outside the tent.

‘You’ve been badly burned,’ she told him.

‘Cold,’ he croaked.

She and Nitzane exchanged looks.

‘I’m going to sponge the burns clean and cover them with honey,’ Marantza explained. She spoke slowly and clearly, as if he was stupid.

‘Knife wound,’ he managed to gasp, gesturing to his stomach.

Someone had taken his left arm. He could feel them bathing it, and turned his head to look. A livid red mark ran down the inside of his arm to the elbow.

‘Better check the knife wound,’ Nitzane said. ‘No point bathing the burns if he bleeds to death.’

‘I’m not stupid,’ Marantza snapped. ‘That’s the first thing I checked. The bleeding’s stopped. See.’ She flicked his robe back.

Sorne heard King Charald shouting, something about the Warrior and being High King. His exact words were lost in the din.

Marantza and Nitzane looked at his stomach wound, then up to each other, their faces carefully neutral. Before Sorne could ask what was wrong, a servant came running in.

‘The king’s in a rage. The barons are saying the Warrior has turned against him. Charald’s demanding the Warrior’s-voice reveal his vision.’

They all looked to Sorne.

‘Help me up.’

‘You can’t–’ Marantza began.

‘He has to,’ Nitzane told her, even as he helped haul Sorne to his feet.

The robe dropped around his waist. He couldn’t see out of his left eye. He kept a hand pressed to his belly wound, not sure if he could walk. Blood covered his breeches, which were only held up by his hand. ‘Can’t go like this.’

‘Strip him,’ Marantza ordered.

He steadied himself on her shoulders as Nitzane and the servants peeled off his clothes. Lifting his feet so they could take off his boots was a challenge. Looking down he saw the white puckered skin of the belly wound, which hung open but did not bleed. He’d seen such wounds on dead men and that frightened him more than the thought of being blind in one eye.

‘I can’t get the torc off,’ Nitzane said. ‘The metal’s melted.’