Blood Song (85 page)

“What will you do if you gain victory tomorrow?” I asked, aware I was slurring a little. “Will you return to your Realm? Do you think King Malcius will welcome you?”

He pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I think we both know there will be no victory for me here, whatever transpires tomorrow. Good night, my lord.”

I refilled my cup, listening to him climb the stairs and make his way to one of the bedrooms. I marvelled that he could sleep, knowing that without the wine’s assistance I was unlikely to find any rest this night. And yet I knew he would sleep soundly, untroubled by fearful nightmares, untroubled by guilt.

“Would you have hated him, Seliesen?” I asked aloud, hoping he was among the ghosts crowding this house. “I doubt it. Grist for another poem, no doubt. You always did relish their company, these sword swinging brutes, though you could never truly be one of them. Learn their tricks, learn to ride, learn to make pretty patterns with that sabre they gave you. But you never learned to fight, did you?” Tears were coming now. Here I was, a drunken scribbler weeping in a house of ghosts. “You never learned to fight, you bastard.”

Among the few attractions the Meldenean Islands have to offer the more educated visitor are the many impressive ruins to be found on the coastline of the larger isles. Although varying in scale and purpose they display a uniformity of design and articulation clearly indicative of construction by a single culture, an ancient race possessed of an aesthetic sophistication and elegance entirely absent from the archipelago’s modern inhabitants.

By far the most impressive surviving example of this once great architecture is the amphitheatre situated some two miles from the Meldenean capital. Carved from a depression in the red-veined yellow marble cliffs on the island’s southern shore, the amphitheatre has proven immune to the depredations wrought by successive generations of islanders who display scant reluctance in cannibalising other sites for building materials. A great bowl of terraced seating looking down upon a wide oval stage where, no doubt, great oratory, poetry and drama had once been the delight of a more enlightened audience, the amphitheatre was now the perfect venue for modern islanders to publicly execute miscreants or watch men fight to the death.

We had been roused by the Shield’s crew just as dawn broke over the city. They explained it would be best if we were conveyed to the venue before the populace woke to throng the streets and bay their hatred at the City Burner’s spawn.

As I had come to expect, Al Sorna showed no outward concern as we waited for the sun to climb to its midway place in the sky. He sat in the lowermost tier, sword resting beside him as he gazed out to sea. A stiff breeze was blowing from the south although the absence of cloud foretold a day free of rain. I wondered if Al Sorna felt it was a good day to meet his death.

The Lady Emeren arrived an hour short of noon, accompanied by two more of the Shield’s crewmen, dressed simply as always in a plain white and black robe, her fine features unadorned by paint or jewellery. But for the sapphire ring on her finger there was no outward sign of her rank, however, her innate dignity and poise were unchanged. I rose to greet her as she strode into the oval arena, bowing formally. “My Lady Emeren.”

“Lord Verniers.” Her voice had lost none of the rich timbre I remembered, coloured by a faint trace of the peculiar lilting accent unique to those raised in the Emperor’s court. I was struck once again by her beauty, the flawless skin, the full lips and bright green eyes. She had long been regarded as the perfection of Alpiran womanhood, as dutiful as she was comely, daughter of a noble blood-line and favoured by the Emperor since girlhood, educated at court alongside his own sons, a daughter to him in all but name. When Seliesen was called to his destiny it was inevitable that they would marry. Who else was worthy of her after all?

“You are well?” I asked. “You have suffered no mistreatment, I trust.”

“My captors have been more than generous.” Her gaze shifted to the Hope Killer and I saw again the expression of cold, fathomless malice that marred her perfect features whenever she spoke of him. Al Sorna returned her gaze with a short incline of his head, his face showing only the mildest interest.

“There are no guards with you,” the Lady Emeren observed.

“The prisoner gave his word to the Emperor that he would meet the Shield’s challenge. Guards were not deemed necessary.”

“I see. My son is well?”

“Very. Happily at play last I saw him. I know he hungers for your return. As do we all.”

Her eyes flashed at me, burning with almost the same flame of hatred she showed to the Hope Killer, and I found I could not meet them.
She always knew,
I recalled.
Why would she not hate me too?

“When I return to the Empire my son and I will continue to live in quiet seclusion,” the Lady Emeren told me. “I desire no return to court. Nor do I expect any thanks for finally securing justice for my husband.”

I sighed heavily. “So it’s true then? This circumstance is your doing.”

“The Meldeneans desire justice too. The Shield watched his parents and brothers burn to death before his eyes. His assistance required little persuasion. These Northmen have a rare gift for stoking hatred in others.”

“And do you really believe your hatred will die with him? What if it doesn’t? What comfort will you find then?”

Her green eyes narrowed. “Do not preach at me, scribe. You are a godless man, we both know it.”

“So it’s to the gods you look for comfort now? Begging gifts from heedless stone. Seliesen would have wept…”

Her sapphire ring left a cut on my cheek as she slapped me. I staggered a little. She was a strong woman and felt no need of restraint. “Do not speak my husband’s name!”

Many words came to me then as I stood clutching my bleeding face, many bile-filled, loathsome words sure to cut her to the core with lacerating truth. But meeting her blazing eyes I felt the words die in my breast, my anger shrivelling and flying away on the seaborne wind, replaced by a depth of pity and regret I knew had always lurked in my soul.

I gave her another formal bow. “I am sorry to have caused you any distress, lady.” I turned and walked to where the Hope Killer sat, placing myself next to him, two guilty men awaiting sentence.

“I can stitch that if you like,” Al Sorna offered as I held a lace kerchief to the cut on my cheek. “It’ll scar otherwise.”

I shook my head, watching the Lady Emeren take her place at the far end of the first tier, her gaze studiously avoiding mine. “I earned it.”

The Shield arrived shortly afterwards, leading a company of spear-bearing crewmen who quickly moved to take up positions around the arena. No doubt he was keen that his moment of revenge should proceed without any assistance from the crowd now beginning to throng the seats. Their mood was tense rather than celebratory, many pairs of eyes bore into Al Sorna’s back but there were no curses or catcalls, making me wonder if the Shield had made efforts to ensure the event at least bore some semblance of civilisation.

What absurd comedy this is,
I thought.
To pardon a man for a crime he did commit so he can face retribution for one he had no part in.

Last to arrive were the Ship Lords, eight men of middle or advanced years dressed in what I assumed passed for finery in the isles. These were the wealthiest men in the Islands, elevated to the governing council by virtue of the number of ships they owned, a singular form of government that had survived surprisingly well for over four centuries. They took their places on the raised long marble dais at the far end of the arena, eight large oak-wood chairs having already been placed there for their comfort.

One of the Ship Lords remained standing, a wiry man, dressed more simply than his fellows, but with soft leather gloves on both hands. I sensed Al Sorna shift next to me. “Carval Nurin,” he said.

“The captain of the Red Falcon,” I recalled.

He nodded. “Bluestone buys a lot of ships it seems.”

Nurin waited for the hum of the crowd to die down, his expressionless gaze lingering on Al Sorna for a moment before he raised his voice to speak, “We come to witness resolution of challenge to single combat. The Ship Lords Council formally recognises this challenge to be fair and lawful. There will be no punishment for any blood spilled this day. Who speaks for the challenger?”

One of the Shield’s crew stepped forward, a large, bearded man with a blue scarf on his head denoting his rank as first mate. “I do, my lords.”

Nurin’s gaze turned to me. “And for the challenged?”

I rose and walked to the centre of the arena. “I do.”

Nurin’s expression faltered a little at the lack of an honorific in my response but he continued smoothly. “By law we are required to enquire of both parties if this matter can be resolved without bloodshed.”

The first mate spoke first, voice raised, addressing the crowd rather than the Ship Lords. “My Captain’s dishonour is too great. Although a peaceful man by nature the souls of his murdered kin cry out for justice!”

There was a growl of agreement from the audience, threatening to build into a cacophony of rage until a glare from Carval Nurin caused it to subside. He looked down at me. “And does the challenged wish to resolve this matter peacefully?”

I glanced back at Al Sorna and found him looking up at the sky. Following his gaze I saw a bird circling above, a sea eagle judging from the wingspan. It turned and wheeled in the cloudless sky, borne by the warm air rising from the cliff, above all this, above our sordid public murder. For I now knew this was murder, there was no justice here.

“My lord!” Carval Nurin prompted, his voice hard with annoyance.

I watched the eagle fold its wings and dive below the cliff face.
Beautiful.
“Just get it over with,” I said, turning and walking back to my seat without a backward glance.

There was a curious expression on Al Sorna’s face as I returned to my seat. Perhaps he was amused by my refusal to play along with this travesty. Later, in my more deluded moments, I wondered if there might have been some admiration there, some small measure of respect. But that, of course, is absurd.

“The combatants will take their place!” Carval Nurin announced.

Al Sorna stood, hefting his hateful sword. There was a brief hesitation as he placed his hand on the hilt, I noted the flex of his fingers before he drew the blade from the scabbard. His face was devoid of amusement now, dark eyes seeming to drink in the sight of the steel shining in the sun, his expression unreadable. After a second he placed the scabbard next to me and walked to the centre of the arena.

The Shield came forward, his sabre bared, blond hair tied back with a leather thong, clad simply in sailors garb of plain cotton shirt, buckskin trews and sturdy leather boots. His clothes may have been simple but he wore them like a prince, easily outshining the finery of the assembled Ship Lords, exuding grave nobility and physical prowess, a lion in search of justice for its murdered pride. The good humour he had displayed at the harbour was gone now and he regarded Al Sorna with a cold, predatory judgement.

Al Sorna took his place opposite, meeting the Shield's gaze without demur, showing the same effortless inability to be outshone. He stood with his sword held low, legs parted in line with his shoulders, a slight crouch to his back.

Carval Nurin raised his voice again. “Begin!”

It happened almost before Nurin’s command had ended, so fast it was a moment before I, and the crowd, realised what had occurred. Al Sorna
moved.
He moved in a way I had never seen a man move before, like the eagle diving below the cliff edge, or the orcas swooping on the salmon when we left Linesh, a fluid blur of speed and a single flickering slash of metal.

The Shield’s sabre must have been fashioned of quality steel judging by the rich ringing sound it made as it skittered away across the arena, leaving him standing there unarmed and defenceless.

The silence was total.

Al Sorna straightened, offering the Shield a grim smile. “You were holding it wrong.”

The Shield’s face showed a brief spasm of either rage or fear, but he mastered it quickly. Saying nothing, awaiting death and refusing to beg.

“There was much laughter in your house,” Al Sorna told him. “When your father returned from distant shores with presents and tales of adventure, you would gather around with your brothers and listen, hungering for manhood and rejoicing in his love. But he never told you of the murders he committed, honest sailors pitched to the sharks from the decks of their own ships, nor the women he raped when they raided the Realm’s southern shore. You loved your father, but you loved a lie.”

The Shield bared his teeth in a feral grimace of hate. “Just finish it!”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Al Sorna went on. “You were just a boy. There was nothing you could do. You were right to run…”

The Shield’s composure shattered, an enraged roar erupting from his lips, charging forward, hands reaching for Al Sorna’s throat. The northman side-stepped the charge and slammed the palm of his hand into the Shield’s temple, felling him to the arena floor where he lay still and immobile.

Al Sorna turned and walked back to his seat, retrieving the scabbard and sheathing his sword. The crowd were beginning to react now, mostly in shock, but with a tinge of anger that I knew would only grow.