Authors: Anthony Ryan
“This challenge is not concluded, Lord Vaelin!” Carval Nurin called above the rising tumult.
Al Sorna turned, walking to where Lady Emeren sat, shocked and staring at him in rigid frustration. “My Lady, are you ready to depart this place?”
“This contest is to the death!” Nurin shouted. “If you leave this man alive you dishonour him in the eyes of the Isles for all time.”
Al Sorna turned away from the Lady Emeren with a gracious bow. “Honour?” he asked Nurin. “Honour is just a word. You can’t eat it or drink it and yet everywhere I go men talk of it endlessly, and they all tell a different tale of what it actually means. For the Alpirans it’s all about duty, the Renfaelins think it’s the same as courage. In these islands it appears it means killing a son for a crime committed by his father then slaughtering a helpless man when the pantomime fails to go to plan.”
It was strange, but the crowd fell silent as he spoke, even though his voice wasn’t particularly loud the amphitheatre carried it effortlessly to all those present, and somehow their anger and disappointed bloodlust abated.
“I offer no excuse for my father’s actions. Nor can I offer any contrition. He burned a city on the orders of his king, it was wrong but I had no hand in it. In any case, spilling my blood will leave no mark on a man who died three years ago, peacefully in his bed with his wife and daughter at his side. There is no vengeance to be had on a corpse long since given to the fire. Now give me what I came for or kill me and have done.”
My gaze shifted to the spear-bearing guards, seeing hesitation as they exchanged glances and cast wary eyes at the crowd, now possessed of a rising murmur of confusion.
“KILL HIM!” It was the Lady Emeren, on her feet now, striding towards Al Sorna, finger pointed in accusation, snarling. “KILL THE MURDERING SAVAGE!”
“You have no voice here, woman!” Nurin told her, voice hard in rebuke. “This is the business of men.”
“Men?” Her laugh was harsh, near hysterical as she rounded on Nurin. “The only man here lies unconscious and unavenged. Cowards, I call you. Faithless pirate scum! Where is the justice I was promised?”
“You were promised a challenge,” Nurin told her. He looked at Al Sorna for a long moment before lifting his gaze to the crowd, his voice rising. “And it is concluded. We are pirates it is true, for the gods gave us all the oceans as our hunting grounds, but they also gave us the law with which we govern these Isles and the law holds true in all things or it means nothing. Vaelin Al Sorna stands as victor in this challenge under the terms of the law. He has committed no crime in the Isles and is therefore free to go.” He turned back to the Lady Emeren. “Pirates we are, but scum we are not. And you, Lady,
are also free to go.”
We were marched to the end of the mole and told to wait whilst they arranged passage for us with the few foreign vessels in port. A large detachment of spearmen stood guard across the quay to discourage any last minute vengeance from the townsfolk, although I judged the mood of the crowd at the conclusion of the challenge to be subdued, more disappointed than outraged. The guards ignored us and it was plain our departure would be marked with no ceremony. I have to say it was an awkward circumstance to linger there with the two of them, the Lady Emeren prowling the dock, arms tightly folded against her breast, Al Sorna sitting silently on a spice barrel, and me, praying for the turn of the tide and blessed release from this place.
“This does not end here, Northman!” the Lady Emeren burst out after an hour of silent pacing. She approached to within a few feet of him, glaring, hating. “Have no dream of escape from me. This earth is not broad enough to hide from…”
“It’s a terrible thing,” Al Sorna cut in. “When love turns to hate.”
Her baleful visage froze as if he had stabbed her.
“I knew a man once,” Al Sorna continued, “who loved a woman very much. But he had a duty to perform, a duty he knew would cost him his life, and hers too if she stayed with him. And so he tricked her and had her taken far away. Sometimes that man tries to cast his thoughts across the ocean, to see if the love they shared has turned to hate, but he finds only distant echoes of her fierce compassion, a life saved here, a kindness done there, like smoke trailing after a blazing torch. And so he wonders, does she hate me? For she has much to forgive, and between lovers,” his gaze switched from her to me, “betrayal is always the worst sin.”
The cut on my cheek burned, guilt and grief mingling in my breast amidst a torrent of memory. Seliesen when he first came to court, the way his smile always seemed to bring the sun, the Emperor giving the honour of his education in court matters to me, his early stumbling attempts at etiquette, listening to his latest poems far into the night, the fierce jealousy when Emeren made her feelings known, and the shameful triumph when he began to forsake her company for mine. And his death... The endless grief I thought would consume me.
Al Sorna had seen it all, I knew it. Somehow, there was nothing hidden from his jet eyes.
Al Sorna rose and stepped towards the Lady Emeren, making her flinch, not in hatred I knew, but fear. What else had he seen? What else would he say? Kneeling before her he spoke in clear, formal tones, “My Lady, I offer my apology for taking your husband’s life.”
It took her a moment to master her fear. “And will you offer your own in recompense?”
“I cannot, my lady.”
“Then your apology is as empty as your heart, Northman. And my hatred is undimmed.”
They found a vessel from the Northern Reaches for Al Sorna, ships from the Unified Realm’s northmost holdings apparently enjoy rights of anchorage in Meldenean waters denied their countrymen. I had heard and read a little of the Reaches, how it was home to peoples of varied ancestry, and was therefore unsurprised to find the crew mostly dark-skinned with the broad features common in the Empire’s south-western provinces. I walked with Al Sorna to the ship’s berth, leaving the Lady Emeren rigidly immobile at the end of the mole. She stared out to sea, refusing to grace the Northman with another word.
“You should heed her,” I told him as we neared the gangplank. “Her vendetta won’t end here.”
He glanced over at the still form of the Lady, sighing in regret. “Then she is to be pitied.”
“We thought we were sending you here to your death, but all we have done is set you free. As you knew we would, I’m sure. Ell-Nestra never had a chance. Why didn’t you kill him?”
His black eyes met mine with the piercing, questing gaze I knew saw far too much. “At my trial Lord Velsus asked me how many lives I had taken, I honestly couldn’t tell him. I’ve killed many times, the good, the bad, cowards and heroes, thieves and… poets.” His eyes became downcast and I wondered if this was my apology. “Even friends. And I’m sick of it.” He looked down at the sheathed sword in his hand. “I hope to never draw this again.”
He didn’t linger, made no offer of his hand or any word of farewell, simply turning and making his way up the gangplank. The vessel’s captain greeted him with a deep bow, his face lit with a naked awe shared by the surrounding crew. The Northman’s legend had flown far it seemed, even though these men hailed from a place long distant from the Realm’s heartland, his name clearly carried a great meaning.
What waits for him?
I wondered.
In a Realm where he is no longer merely a man.
The ship departed within the hour, leaving half its cargo unloaded on the docks, keen to be away with its prize. I stood at the end of the mole with the Lady Emeren, watching the Hope Killer sail away. I could see him for a time, a tall figure at the prow of the ship. I fancied he may have glanced back at us, just once, perhaps even have raised a hand in a wave, but he was too far away to be sure. Once free of the harbour the ship unfurled to full sail and was soon vanished beyond the headland, heading east with all speed.
“You should forget him,” I told the Lady Emeren. “This obsession will be your ruin. Go home and raise your son. I beg you.”
I was appalled to see she was crying, tears streaming from her eyes, although her face was rigidly devoid of expression. Her voice was a whisper, but fierce as ever, “Not until the gods claim me, and even then I'll find a way to send my vengeance through the veil.”
In longer games, where the Liar’s Attack or one of the other openings outlined above has failed, the complexity of Keschet is fully revealed. The following chapters will examine the most effective stratagems to be employed in the long game, beginning with The Bowman’s Switch, taking its name from a manoeuvre employed by Alpiran horse archers. Like the Liar’s Attack, The Bowman’s Switch employs misdirection but also retains the potential for exploiting unforeseen opportunity. A skilled player can move offensively against two objectives, leaving their opponent ignorant of the ultimate target until the most fruitful opportunity presents itself.
Author unknown,
Keschet – Rules and Strategies
, Great Library of the Unified Realm.
He took Spit and rode westward, keeping to the shoreline, finding a campsite sheltered in the lee of a large grass-topped dune. He gathered driftwood for a fire and cut grass for kindling. The stems were dried by the sea breeze and lit at the first touch of the flint. The fire grew high and bright, embers rising like fireflies into the early evening sky. In the distance the lights of Linesh seemed to burn brighter still and he could hear music mingled with the sound of many voices raised in celebration.
“After all we did for them,” he told Spit, holding a candy up for the war horse to chomp on. “War, plague and months of fear. Hard to believe they’re happy to see us go.”
If Spit cared anything for irony it was expressed in a loud snort of annoyance as he jerked his head away. “Wait.” Vaelin caught hold of the reins and unfastened the bridle before moving to lift the saddle from his back. Shorn of the encumbrance Spit cantered away across the dunes, kicking through the sand and tossing his head. Vaelin watched him play in the surf as the sky dimmed and a bright full moon rose to paint the dunes a familiar silver blue.
Like snow drifts in the height of winter.
Spit came trotting back as the last glimmer of daylight faded, standing expectantly at the edge of the light cast by the fire, awaiting the nightly ritual of grooming and tethering. “No,” Vaelin said. “We’re done. Time to go.”
Spit nickered uncertainly, forehoof kicking sand.
Vaelin went to him, slapped a hand on his flank, stepping back quickly to avoid the retaliatory kick as Spit reared, whinnying in anger, teeth bared. “Go on you hateful beast!” Vaelin shouted, gesticulating wildly. “GO!”
And he was gone, galloping away in a blur of silver blue sand, his parting whinny resounding in the night air. “Go on you bloody nag,” Vaelin whispered with a smile.
There was little else to occupy his time so he sat, feeding the fire, recalling that day atop the battlements at the High Keep when he watched Dentos approach the gate without Nortah and knew everything was about to change.
Nortah… Dentos… Two brothers lost and about to lose another.
It was only a slight change in the wind bringing a faint scent of sweat and brine. He closed his eyes, hearing the soft scrape of feet on sand, approaching from the west, making no pretence of stealth.
And why would he? We are brothers after all.
He opened his eyes to regard the figure standing opposite. “Hello Barkus.”
Barkus slumped down in front of the fire, raising his hands to the flames. His muscle thick arms were bare as he wore only a cotton vest and trews, his feet shorn of boots and his hair matted with sea water. His only weapon was his axe, strapped across his back with leather thongs. “Faith!” he grunted. “Haven’t been this cold since the Martishe.”
“Must’ve been a hard swim.”
“Right enough. We were three miles out before I realised you’d gulled me, brother. The ship's captain took some hard persuading before he'd sail his boat back to shore.” He shook his head, droplets flying from his long hair. “Sailing off to the Far West with Sister Sherin. As if you’d pass up a chance to sacrifice yourself.”
Vaelin watched Barkus’s hands, saw how they were free of any tremble although it was cold enough to make his breath steam.
“That was the deal, right?” Barkus went on. “We get to live and they get you?”
“And Prince Malcius is returned to the Realm.”
Barkus frowned. “He’s alive?”
“I was sparing with the truth in getting you all out of the city without any fuss.”
The large brother grunted again. “How long till they come for you?”
“First light.”
“Time enough to rest up then.” He unslung his axe from his back, setting it down close by. “How many do you think they’ll send?”
Vaelin shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
“Against the two of us they better send a whole regiment.” He looked up at Vaelin, puzzled. “Where’s your sword, brother?”
“I gave it to Governor Aruan.”
“Not the brightest idea you’ve had. How do you intend to fight?”
“I don’t. In accordance with the king’s word I will surrender myself to Alpiran custody.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“I don’t think so. According to the Fifth Book of the Cumbraelin god I still have many more people to kill.”
“Pah!” Barkus spat into the fire. “Prophecies are bullshit. Superstition for god-worshippers. You took their Hope, they’ll kill you right enough. Just a question of how long they take over it.” He met Vaelin’s eyes. “I can’t stand by and watch them take you, brother.”
“Then leave.”
“You know I can’t do that either. Don’t you think I lost enough brothers already? Nortah, Frentis, Dentos - ”