Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) (46 page)

I am Faer Karan. What do I want with a sword?

He accepted it, and held it awkwardly for a moment. He was not used to holding weapons.

“Thank you,” he said. They seemed to want more. He struggled to find something to say. “Your city was fair indeed. With effort it will be fair again. I will help. Now I must go about this task.” He turned to Candros. “Where we stopped yesterday, take me there.”

Finn Candros led him through the crowd, and the man seemed proud, puffed up to be so employed. When they were clear of the crowd, and only a few dozen followed them through the streets he spoke to Candros.

“Is anything else expected of me?”

“No, my lord. The honour is for services already done.”

So that was done with.

He moved through the city, and buildings were restored as he went. He found that he was also correcting things, improving things, even repairing potholes in the roads. These were things that he had not been asked to do.

It was the price.

There was something inside him now. It was a piece of the city of Pek, and Finn Candros, and the old man, and all the staring, smiling, grateful people. This place of white buildings, mazy streets and rustling gardens freshened by the sea breeze, it was inside him now. He was part of it, and it was part of him. Even if he never returned here it would be so.

It was the very thing that Gerique had failed to grasp. The greatest of all the Faer Karan had seen that love was the key to power, but he had not understood that it was also a chain, attached at both ends.

As night approached he left the city, returning to Ocean’s Gate. He took with him the ornamental sword that the people had given him, and laid it carefully on a shelf in his private chamber.

Serhan dissolved the black door and hefted the pack onto his back. It felt like an old companion, almost forgotten. Grass and scrub covered the hillside around him, and a gentle breeze whispered and rustled, but even the moving air felt hot. Small insects clicked and scraped a dry chorus. Otherwise it was quiet.

He walked across the slope, heading west. He walked because he felt like walking. It was how the adventure had begun. He moved quickly in spite of the heat, turning north-west into a long valley, and following that, climbing steadily up to a saddle between two bare, rocky peaks. His muscles warmed and his heart quickened. He felt sweat run down his face and took pleasure in it. After about an hour he reached the saddle. His legs felt used again, and his lungs clear.

Now he could look down into another valley. There were tents there, and fires. Even at this distance he could smell the smoke and the faint, familiar seduction of cooking meat. He was hungry. He paused only for a moment, and then went on, down towards the encampment. It was not long before they spotted him, and he could see them streaming from the tents in his direction. He waved to them, and they waved back. These were his friends, the original band of the Kastan Delor that he had met with Seer Jud, and now he needed them.

After the delights of a joyous greeting, a few cups of rough country wine and a hearty if not particularly refined meal he sat with Jat and, as night settled over the camp, discussed the hunting, the weather, and the comings and goings of other clans of the Kastan Delor. He had timed his visit well. In a few days they would be gathering for the Crefas, a sort of market, meeting and games attended by many of the bands. This was the highlight of the year, and it would last for at least a week, with some arriving days before others, so that there was a constant coming and going of Shan.

He had known about this, but had been unsure of the date, because the Shan themselves were unsure. Each clan had their own way of knowing the time, and it had to do with sunsets, sunrises, various marker rocks and peaks and positions from which to observe them.

He asked Jat if he could go with them to the Crefas.

“You are our clan friend, you are my friend, of course you may come,” Jat replied, but there was an uneasiness about the way he spoke, and he looked away.

“The other tribes,” Serhan asked. “They will not welcome me?”

“You are a man,” Jat said simply.

“Then it is best that I come alone.”

“It is best, good friend, if you do not come at all. You may be a great warrior, but there will be hundreds at the Crefas.”

“I must go. I have a gift to give the Kastan Delor, and it must be given to many.”

“A gift?”

“There are men coming, Jat, men who do not seek your friendship. They fear the weak kindred who live without weapons because these ones can see inside them and know the truth. I must give this gift before they come, and time is short.”

“We do not fear men,” Jat said.

“There will be hundreds of them, my friend. They are faster than you and stronger than you. They will carry long swords and bows, and will seek only your death. There will be no truce offered, and none left to tell the tales of your valour. The Shan will end.”

“End?”

“If they can, they will kill all of you, even the children.”

“I do not understand. Why would they do this?” He sounded sceptical.

Serhan looked into the fire, and for a long time he did not answer. He could not expect Jat to understand. Men had lived so long in fear, so long without ambition, so long without power. They had learned to fear the truth, and learned, too, that the exercise of brutal strength was an effective path to power. Now that the Faer Karan were gone they were striking out in all directions, and the Shan were blamed. After all, they had played a part in the suppression of mankind, and their word had plucked many a secret from unwilling, careful men, and sent them to their deaths.

He did not blame the Shan. They had only done what was necessary to survive, and survival was more important than morality. He accepted that, although he suspected that the Shan had been surviving for so long that it had become their purpose.

“An evil possesses them,” he told Jat. “It is an evil that the Faer Karan have laid upon them, and it will take time for that to pass, for men to become kind again.”

“Then we must fight.”

“I agree, but you must be stronger than you are.”

“How can this be? The numbers of the Kastan Delor are slow to increase.”

“It is magic, Jat.”

“None of the Shan can do magic, my friend. It is blind to us.”

“I can gift you this one thing.”

Jat looked uncomfortable again. He shook his head.

“I am not sure, friend Serhan. I know that you intend no harm, but the Kastan Delor distrust magic. It is…” and it was Jat’s turn to look into the fire, “evil.”

Serhan took out his dagger and laid it beside the fire. It was a beautiful weapon, and the firelight played games along its exquisite engraved blade. It was decorated with a snake whose tail was the blade’s tip and whose head, adorned with ruby eyes, formed the golden hilt. Jat studied it appreciatively.

“Is this knife evil, Jat?”

“I see your point,” Jat said. “It is the deed that is evil, or the one who holds the knife, and so with magic, but magic makes things other than they are, than they should be.”

He was surprised that Jat had seen the direction of his argument so quickly. He chided himself for underestimating the Shan. He had begun to characterise Jat as innocent, almost simple, but it was not so.

“As your fire does to the meat we have eaten,” he said. “Magic is not an unnatural thing. It is just another face of nature.”

“I cannot disagree with you. I know nothing of magic, but I can tell you that the warriors of the Kastan Delor would rather die in battle than be touched by magic.”

“If it is so, then that is what will happen.”

“But, friend Serhan, if you have this power why do you not use it to turn these men aside?”

“I could do this,” he conceded. “But I will not.”

“You would let us die?”

“I offer you a remedy. The path I have chosen is a difficult one, and there will be a time when I am not here to defend the Shan. Who then will you turn to?”

The Shan looked at him for a long moment.

“Like a father,” he said, “you want us to make our own way, to stand by ourselves. I will have to think on this.”

So they parted that evening, and in the morning when Jat arose and went to seek Serhan with his answer the mage had gone, leaving in the night, and none had seen him depart.

*              *              *              *

Three days later Jat’s clan was at the Crefas. It was a big, sprawling mass of Shan. Two hundred tents scattered almost at random along the shores of a great lake surrounded by jagged peaks of dark rock. A hundred fires burned day and night, and every day new clans came and others departed through the four passes that led into the great valley. This was their traditional place, and if the Kastan Delor had a city, this was it. This was a place for settling old grudges, making new alliances, trading, courtship, and the telling of tales. It was the culmination of the year.

There were no regular pathways through the tent city, but large open spaces had been left in its midst, and in these arenas most of the feasting, fighting and tale telling took place. The Kastan Delor loved their stories, and each year the histories of the tribes were swapped, the most eloquent of the tellers speaking before audiences of more than a hundred. It was chaos, and it stank.

At mid afternoon, or a little past, some of the Shan spied a lone figure approaching down one of the four paths. They called out to others, pointed. Soon there were many Shan looking and pointing. It was clearly not a Shan that approached.

As their numbers increased and the figure came closer the sky darkened. Great slate coloured clouds rolled quickly across what had been a clear, bright expanse of blue just minutes before. A wind picked up and blew across the lake, tugging at the tents, making the fires sway and roar, putting dust into the eyes of the watchers. As the figure drew ever closer lightning began to strike down from the clouds, blasting the peaks of the mountains around them. Thunder hammered at their ears, seemingly coming from just above them.

Lightning struck at the man, too, as he entered the fringes of the camp, but it did not kill him, or even slow his steps. It danced around him like a billowing cloak, and the Kastan Delor moved hastily out of his way. He passed through the camp, walking steadily, not looking at them, until he reached the greatest of the clearings, where he stopped.

Lightning struck again, hitting the ground just before him, and when the light and dust cleared there was a stone chair on the spot where it had struck. He sat, and the Kastan Delor gathered around him, keeping a good distance. They were a curious people, and not deficient in courage.

He sat for some minutes, head bowed, silent, until it seemed that all the Shan at the Crefas were crowded into the great space, and then he lifted his head and looked around at them, his eyes dark, and his expression grim. The wind died away, and the dark clouds began slowly to disperse.

“I am the Mage Lord Cal Serhan,” he said, and his voice was strong and resonant. All heard him clearly, and they wondered at that. “I am the master of White Rock, conqueror of the Faer Karan, death mate to the Seer Sage Rin Percan Sylbastinorette, named by her Frateri Moru, father of the fourth age of this world, holder of the key, and wielder of the great sword Soul Eater. I am tribe friend to the Kastan Delor Seech, and I come to tell you a great tale.”

“You are a man,” a voice said, and immediately an argument broke out. Should a man be allowed to speak at the Crefas? It was quickly clear that curiosity was winning the battle with protocol, and eventually an ornately dressed Shan stepped into the space before him.

“I am tribe master Cut of the Kastan Delor Pren, Chosen Arbitrator of the Crefas. My ruling is that we will hear your tale. It is the will of the Kastan Delor.”

So Serhan told them his tale, full as it was with betrayal, sacrifice, heroism, and conflict. He used all his skill and they sat and stood in a great circle around him, listening in silence, captivated by what seemed the great story of the age. He told them of the vast city of Samara, heart of the world, described its shining buildings, its great harbour and its lost glories, and they saw the place. His words summoned pictures in their heads. They saw the Seer Sage Rin, old and wise, brave and noble in her sacrifice. They saw the passing of Dragan, and the great struggle with Gerique, mightiest of all, and they saw the armies of Sarata, cresting the ridges to the north and east of Samara, felt the thunder of hooves, and were awed by their numbers.

So, too they saw the fall of that army; over two thousand men swallowed by the red and brown dust on the plains of Samara, and they looked on the teller of the tale with new eyes.

“And now I have come here to this place,” he finished.

There was a murmuring in the crowd.

“Is that the end of your tale?” tribe master Cut asked.

“No,” Serhan replied. “The tale goes on, but there are two endings, and I do not know which will come to pass, but you can tell me.”

“We? The Kastan Delor do not know your tale, Mage Lord.”

“Yet you will decide it.”

There was a great stirring among the crowds. They were not used to riddles in their tales, but still their attention was bound to it.

“How will this be?”

“I shall tell you both endings, briefly, and you will tell me which one you prefer.”

“It is unusual,” the chosen arbitrator remarked, “but I judge the mood of the Crefas to be in favour. Please go on.”

Serhan looked round at the Shan. They waited eagerly on his words, their faces bright with interest. Some held hands with partners; other leaned on the shoulders of comrades, but all waited, anxiously, for the tale to continue.

“Even now,” he began, “as we sit here passing a pleasant afternoon in the sun, there are men in the city of Darna who mean you harm. Ten sound and well built ships lie in that town’s fine harbour, and men come and go, carrying food, swords, arrows, bows. They are strong men, soldiers skilled with the sword, archers who can pin a glove to a door at a hundred paces. They are free of their masters, the Faer Karan, and their hatred and frustration has boiled over. They want to be masters, now. They want to kill, to conquer, to step in the blood of their enemies. They want new land, lordships, and adventures and they are coming here. In less than ten days those ten ships will be sails off the coast of Cabarissa.

“They will land on one of the empty, quiet northern beaches, and nobody will be there because the beaches are far from the towns of your weaker kin, and the Kastan Delor stay in the mountains for the winter where it is dry, and the pleasures of the Crefas may be enjoyed.

“After camping for a day, or perhaps two, they will assemble their wagons and saddle their horses and move east, passing by Kenrak Point and coming at last to the homes of the Shan. They will kill all that they see, and loot the houses, finally burning them, kicking down the walls, smashing all that they cannot take with them. When they are done they will sweep along the coast to the easternmost end of the island, and all will fall before them, for the lowland Shan cannot fight. They will send envoys to the men, and the envoys will be laughed at and slain, and it will go on, all along the south coast the Shan will perish until the men come to their greatest prize, the Shan city of Jerohal.