The Bloodstained God (Book 2) (53 page)

“Yet we are a kingdom in peril,” she went on. “We are scattered, we are bloody, but we are not defeated. Our enemy is strong, but we are also strong. Our enemy is determined, but we are more determined. Our enemy is confident, but we are certain of victory!” Skal could see movement among the Telan soldiers. This was just what they wanted to hear. They had tasted victory at Fal Verdan, they had tasted it here, and they wanted more. Hestia stepped to the man with the torch, but instead of the flame she took his sword. She raised it above her head.

“I am your queen. I have fought beside you. I have tasted Seth Yarra blood. I claim the throne, by the right of blood I claim it, by the right of presence I claim it, by the right of wisdom I claim it! Who will follow me now to Telas Alt and drive these dogs once and for all time from our city?”

A couple of the nobles exchanged glances. They had not been expecting this, but the soldiery were thumping their lances into the ground, banging swords on shields. Several of the nobles moved to stand at her side, and Skal went with them. Those that remained did so only for a moment, then they, too, stood with her. Hestia drove the sword into the ground and took the flame from its bearer, touched it to Terresh’s funeral pyre and watched as the fire took hold. The wind quickly turned it into a roaring tower of heat and light.

Once this was done the soldiers began to file away, one row at a time they peeled off the back and marched in good order back to the camp. When they had gone the nobility followed them and Emmar, who stood beside Skal indicated that he, too, should leave.

“She will be alone with him until the fire is done,” he said.

So they left, and for hours Hestia stood before the fire and watched her husband burn.

Narak sat back and closed his eyes. He was alone at last, a glass of fine wine in one hand and a good meal in his belly.

It was over. He had won.

There was not enough time now for the Seth Yarra to change the outcome of the war. He knew that the Bren would strike on the last day of spring. On that day Seth Yarra would cease to be a problem for the six kingdoms, for Narak, for anyone at all.

They would land more men. They would build up their forces again during the winter and they would march once more on either the Green Road or the White. It did not matter. In the north he could hold them for the few days of fighting that could be fitted in. Even if they came to the Green Road in winter he could hold them there. He had the men, he had the weapons.

Now he was with the army and moving south with them once more. If Skal had done as Pascha said he might, and marched on Telas Alt with Hestia, then there was even some hope they could follow through and prevent another landing, but even that did not matter.

He had won.

But winning did not bring with it a feeling of triumph. It was supposed to, he knew. The end of the Great War four hundred years ago had been the same. He had felt nothing joyous. Remard had been killed, and his own personal show of savagery on the final day had diminished him in his own eyes. He had not thought himself capable of such rage and brutality. With time he had come to accept it. It was a part of him that was more human than wolf, but mingled the wolf’s lack of sentiment with a very human thirst for revenge. That particular beast had surfaced again when Narala had been killed, quite senselessly, by the Sei Feras Tiar. That ungovernable rage had felt justified at the time, but with a cooler head he did not choose to dwell on it. The memories made him uncomfortable.

Wolfguard would not be the same without Narala and Perlaine. The two of them had been like spice in the daily fare of his life. The thought had occurred to him that he should be abroad in the world more, and perhaps find another Perlaine, another Narala, of maybe some entirely different delight who could be raised up and live forever with him in Wolfguard.

Somehow it seemed unfair to do so. It did not appeal. After all, in the end what had it done for Perlaine and Narala? And there was a point at which life became a habit and not a joy. It was a point that he had passed, though he could not remember when, only that it had been a long time ago.

What joy he had was in the forest, and with the wolves.

He drained the cup of wine, enjoying the taste. He had emptied two bottles, but remained stubbornly sober. He felt tired. He had not slept for over a week, but that was not entirely unusual. He did not want to sleep. If he did he would be plagued by dragon dreams, visions of a path leading north to a mountain with a crooked shoulder and the thing that waited there.

It was remarkable that he had not yet shared the secret of the Bren with another. Nobody but he knew of their hidden army, their promise to deal with Seth Yarra. But what they had told him had been far from the whole truth. He was certain now that the Bren intended to wipe Seth Yarra from the face of the earth. He did not know why, but the thought disturbed him.

He was happy enough to defeat them, to destroy their armies. Those men were sent against him. They sought to destroy
him
, and it was only reasonable that he should respond in kind. Yet he had seen those images, through Bren eyes, of a city in a strange land, of houses and lights, and behind the houses and lights there were people, men, women and children who worked and loved and played, he supposed, as did the people of the kingdoms. When he thought of what the Bren might do there it did not sit well with him.

Yet what could he do? Wolf Narak could not oppose the Bren, could not changed their collective mind. They had made it plain to him that they did not hold him or any of the Benetheon in high regard. It seemed that Pelion’s law was the only thing that stood between men and total extermination, and he did not even know the words of that law.

His melancholy chain of thought was broken by a slap on the tent canvas. It was late. He had retired. Who would disturb him now?

“Come.”

A guard’s head poked through.

“Deus, there is a messenger.”

“At this hour?”

“He has just arrived, and I saw the lamp was lit…”

“From?”

“From…” the head ducked out again, but was back in a moment. “Latter Fetch, Deus. The messenger is from Latter Fetch.”

The name meant something to him. He struggled to place it for a moment, and then remembered. Tilian Henn and his men had been from Latter Fetch – still were, he supposed. It was Skal Hebberd’s estate. A message from Lord Skal? But he was off somewhere with a bunch of Telans trying to retake Telas Alt.

“Bring them in,” he said, but just in case he reached down and pulled his blade so that it rested against the chair an inch from his right hand, then he sat back. It did not pay to be careless, even a god had to watch for assassins these days.

The guard lifted the tent flap and ushered in a man. He was no soldier, and no assassin. That was obvious at once. A groom, perhaps. He bowed. He bowed again, and kept it up, like a broken branch in a gusty wind. He was a small man, thin, with brown, unwashed hair that flopped as he bowed. His eyes had dared a glance, but now were firmly fixed upon the floor.

“Who sent you?” Narak asked.

“The Lady Sara,” the man said.

Narak was puzzled. He didn’t know anyone by that name. “Stop bowing and stand straight,” he commanded. “Who is Lady Sara?”

The man stood upright, and for a moment met Narak’s eye. “She is blood cousin to Lord Skal of Latter Fetch, Deus,” the man said. “She sends you a gift.”

“A gift?” In a life that brought very few genuine surprises, this was a surprise. Nobody sent him gifts. “What is it?” he asked.

“A book, Deus.” The man took it from under his cloak. It was not especially large, and wrapped carefully in leather. The man held it out to him, and he took it. “There is a letter, also,” the messenger said.

The letter was handed over, a roll of parchment that crackled in his hand. He held it a moment, scenting it. There was a smell of books, leather, horses, and perhaps a hint of roses. He broke the seal, a simple wax coin with no design, and stretched the paper out on his knee.

To Narak, Benetheon God of Wolves, Lord of the Forest, Master of the hunt, humble greetings.

Well, he liked that. It was the old greeting, from before Afael. He read on.

This gift is sent in the hope that it will please you. It is a fine copy of an ancient book, and scholars say that it is older than the Benetheon itself, though the words have been copied many times. It is a book about the mage lords, the mage emperor, and Pelion himself. Believing that you knew and spoke with Pelion as I have been told, I thought that this book might hold some small interest for you, and that you might one day look kindly upon its sender.

It was signed by the Lady Sara Brough of Latter Fetch.

Well, the message was plain enough, and honest. He put the letter to one side and unwrapped the book. It was a finely made volume, bound in soft black leather with the title imprinted in silver. He read the title, opened the book and flicked through the heavy, cream tinted pages. It was a quality piece, for sure, and the penmanship was among the finest he had seen.

“Guardsman,” he said. “Take this man to the mess tents and see that he is well fed given wine to drink at my order, and you,” he turned to the messenger. “You may return to Latter Fetch and tell your Lady Sara that I have received her gift and that it pleased me. It shall come with me to Wolfguard.”

He watched them leave. It was fortuitous, he thought. He did not want to sleep and there was little else to do but brood and drink. This would be the perfect distraction. He could read the hours of darkness away. In all his time he could not recall having seen this title, so it would be something new, and he would look kindly indeed upon this Lady Sara if their paths ever crossed.

He settled back in his chair with the book balanced on his knee and turned to the first page.

Skal was shaken roughly awake and for a moment he did not remember where he was. His hand found the hilt of his sword and he sat up.
It came to him quickly. He was in his tent somewhere on the road to Telas Alt.

“You are needed, Lord Skal,” a voice said.

It was still dark. The light above him resolved itself into a lamp, and the face beside the lamp was Captain Emmar’s. Skal blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand. He was still half in a dream.

“Captain Emmar?”

“The queen needs you,” the captain said.

That was enough to get Skal moving. He pulled on his boots and buckled his sword belt as quickly as he could, pushing the heaviness of sleep away. His mouth felt like he’d been eating dirt, and he was vaguely annoyed with Emmar. The man could have had the courtesy to bring him a hot drink, at least. When he was dressed he poured a cup of cold water from a jug and swallowed it down, splashed a little on his face and tried to smooth down his unruly hair.

Once outside they moved quickly through the camp, navigating through the tents by the light of Emmar’s lamp and the occasional glow from dying fires and the few other lamps that remained lit. The camp was asleep. Skal could see the stars, but the night was not cold. It was truly summer now. The clean air finally woke him completely, and he wondered what was happening.

They arrived at Hestia’s tent to find it brightly lit and a small gathering outside. Skal got a mixed reception of looks from the Telans. Some looked at him with hope and others with resentment. These were the same men who had walked with Hestia, the nobility and the officers of her army.

“What’s going on?” he asked Emmar.

The Telan shook his head. “Go in,” he said.

Skal went in. There were three people in the tent. One was Hestia, her back turned to the entrance, another was one of the lords that had been with her at Terresh’s burning, and the third he did not know, but he recognised the type. He was a young man, lean and poised, and he eyed Skal with a look that Skal had seen before, an appraising look, a look that measured him.

“Queen Hestia, you summoned me?”

She turned. Skal could see anger on her face, but it was not directed at him. Her expression softened to concern as soon as she saw him.

“Lord Skal,” she said. “Will you be my champion?”

Skal hesitated. It was a startlingly direct request, but he did not really want to get involved in Telan politics. “What is the issue?” he asked.

The Telan lord sniggered ungraciously, thinking perhaps that his reluctance decided the issue, and he saw the young man smile.

“This man challenges my claim to the Lion Throne,” she said, indicating the lord with a flick of her hand. Skal could see now that she was afraid. It was well hidden, but her eyes were wide, her tone was controlled, and there was tension beneath it. “To defend my right I must either fight him, or my champion must fight his champion.”

And if you fight him you will be killed, Skal thought.

“And the contest is to the death?” he asked, knowing the answer. These were Telans, after all.

“It is,” the nameless lord confirmed. “And the death of both,” he added.

Both. If he failed he would be dead and Hestia would be dead. “Is there no Telan who will stand for you, Queen Hestia?” he asked.

“There are a dozen, Lord Skal, but none of them would survive an encounter with Dadano – he is Lord Crelian’s hired killer, an Avilian like yourself.”

Skal looked at the young man again. The younger son of a minor noble house, perhaps. A man who had been Avilian long enough to gain skill at fencing and taken that skill elsewhere to make his fortune. Dadano was a year or two older than Skal. His face was clean of scars, but not pretty despite that.

“Lord Crelian,” Skal addressed the older man. “What is your reason for opposing Queen Hestia’s claim?”

“Are you afraid to fight, colonel?” the man replied.

“No,” he replied. “We need all the men we have to kill Seth Yarra, and I do not want to kill you unless I must. Your reason?”

For a moment there was doubt in the lord’s eyes, but he spoke boldly to dispel it. “She is a woman. A woman has never held the Lion Throne, and none ever shall.”

Skal looked at him. That was it? For some reason the image of Sara Brough came to him, fighting tooth and nail against the bailiffs, and covered in blood after she had slain Elejine and nearly died of it. He thought of Sheyani, playing her pipes by the walls of Fal Verdan while arrows fell around her, and he thought of Passerina.

“I will be your champion, Queen Hestia,” he said. He was rewarded with a smile.

“Prepare the ground,” she said. “By law this must be decided before dawn.”

There was a bustle outside, and Skal was suddenly out of the tent and surrounded by anxious men, Emmar among them. “You have accepted?” he asked.

“I have. How good is this Dadano?”

“Good enough to have killed seventeen men,” Emmar said. Seventeen was a big number. Skal had killed men in battle, but never in a fencing match, though he had excelled at fencing in Bas Erinor. Had he overreached himself? The men continued to press around him.

“Why are you crowding me?” he asked.

“You are her champion. If he kills you she will die. He may do it any way, by bow if he pleases now that you have accepted. Until we get you to the trial ground you are not safe.”

Skal insisted that they went to his tent first, and once there he picked up his shield and dagger, changed into clothes more suited to war. He picked up his breastplate.

“You may not wear armour,” Emmar said. “It is forbidden.”

Skal tossed it down on his bed. “Then let us go to the trial ground,” he said. “And we will see what this man Dadano knows of fencing.”

They made it to the trial ground without incident. It was a flat patch of ground in the valley below Terresh’s pyre, and the smell of smoke lingered here. Eight braziers had been set out and lit, and many more lamps had been brought. Yet again it seemed that none of the common soldiery of Telas were to witness this.

Skal was not completely ignorant of what was going on. He had studied Telan ascension rites as a boy. He knew of the right to challenge, a ritual similar to what went on in Durandar. Indeed, he had been taught that Avilian itself had once had such a right, but it had been abandoned a thousand years ago. He had never expected to take part in such a barbaric entertainment.

Dadano was waiting for him, sword unsheathed, standing easy on one side of the area demarked by the braziers with Crelian by his side. Hestia, too, was waiting. She stood with other lords who Skal supposed supported her claim.

“You are ready to fight, Lord Skal?” It was Crelian who asked. Skal, suddenly abandoned by his cluster of Telans, stood alone by one of the braziers. He drew his own sword and dagger.

“I am ready,” he replied, and stepped forwards, raising his sword to a guard position, taking a balanced stance. Dadano stepped away from Crelian, moving sideways. It was the simplest opening ploy, trying to turn Skal side on, so he followed, stepping the opposite way, keeping his blade on a true line between them, keeping the angle of his body constant.

Dadano was used to fighting Telans. That might give Skal an advantage. Dadano would have had little need to innovate, and if he went by the book his first move would be to try a quick thrust, a flat out attack, and then withdraw to see how it had fared. He would expect to have the initiative. The standard Telan response, Skal reasoned, would be either to die or, if still alive, to launch a precipitous attack, throwing caution to the winds.

He began to step and feint. A quick step forwards, followed by a feint, then a step to the left. He left some of his false attacks short and others long, almost to full stretch. Dadano adjusted quickly, but the initiative had changed. He was waiting to see what Skal would do next. At the same time he was forced to beat aside each feint as though it was the real thing, because that was the point of step and feint, he was training Dadano to be lazy. If he became lazy he would die.

Skal began to step left and back, widening the gap and forcing Dadano to follow him forwards, but after a couple of steps Dadano reversed, stepping to Skal’s right and forwards deeply, thrusting quickly at what should have been a small opening, but Skal was too good for that, and was quickly inside his opponent’s blade, mounting an attack of his own and Dadano had to jump back to save himself.

It was all a dance. Neither of them expected to score a hit in these opening minutes. They were feeling each other out, getting an idea of how fast and how able each man was compared to the other, and Skal was pleased. Dadano was quick, but no quicker than him, and his forms were imperfect, curved where they should be straight, too low when they should be high.

Skal knew he was going to win. He was the better blade. Dadano knew it, too. Skal could see it in the other man’s eyes, the creased brow, the tension in his hand. But Dadano wasn’t ready to die just yet. He launched a strong attack, followed it up with a second, and when he should have withdrawn he stepped forwards again, close inside Skal’s blade. The move made his own sword useless, and Skal blocked the possibility of a strike with a dagger.

Dadano used the pommel of his sword as a club and hit Skal in the face. It wasn’t a killing blow, not even a serious injury, but it knocked Skal off balance and Dadano attacked again, quick and deadly, meaning to finish it there and then.

If Skal had not fought on the wall, if he had not been injured before and passed, if only briefly, beyond the expectation of life, Dadano’s trick might have worked and he would have died. But Skal could ignore the wound to his face. He could ride the surprise and not lose his composure. He rolled, throwing himself backwards away from the attack, thinking his way through the move, tucking into a ball and unfolding as he came out of it, legs braced and ready with his blade to meet the rushing Dadano.

His blade was perfectly positioned, straight and flat, and his opponent ran onto it, driving it into his own body with the momentum of his charge. Skal deflected Dadano’s blade with his dagger, and avoided the other man’s dagger thrust by twisting his body away to the right. He pulled his sword free and stepped away, watching as the other man fell to his knees.

Dadano stayed there for a moment before falling forwards once more onto his face, dead. It had been a perfect move, an ideal response to the unorthodox. Skal wiped his blades and put them away. He became aware of his small audience again, and he saw something new in their eyes. They had all been afraid of Dadano, or at least knew that they could not face him on their own.

Hestia came to his side.

“It seems that I owe you my life twice over, Lord Skal,” she said. He could see them leading Lord Crelian away to whatever death they deemed appropriate, and it was still not dawn. Skal looked at her. There was a line to be drawn here, he thought. She was a remarkable woman, but he was not hers. He was not her hired killer as Dadano had been Crelian’s.

“Do not put me in that position again, Queen Hestia,” he said. He kept his voice low so that the others could not hear.

She looked at him for a moment, open mouthed. “I see,” she said, and there was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “I will do my best…”

“I killed Dadano because Crelian was wrong. You are the preferred choice to lead Telas, but I am not your champion. It was a barbaric ritual, and a waste of two men. I am your ally, Queen Hestia, but Crelian was also my ally, as was Dadano. Seth Yarra are my enemy, and I am not yours to bid.”

“I did not think that you were,” she replied.

“Yet you must have known that Crelian would challenge, and that he had Dadano at his side. Who did you think would face him?”

“I hoped that he would not,” she said.

“You used me, Queen Hestia. Do not think that I am too foolish to see it. I will not be used again.” He turned and left her standing among the Braziers and walked back to his tent. The stars were still out and he was tired. He wondered if speaking so plainly was the right thing to do. Narak had called her the mistress of the crooked path, and it was a path that Skal himself had followed. He knew it well and its corners hid nothing from him. He would support her, he had promised that, and he would see her in Telas Alt once more, but he would not trust her again.