By early afternoon, the Defenders were ready to move out. That morning, the camp had been the size of a small town. Now there was nothing left but a large area of trampled grass to mark their passing. He knew they had been setting up and pulling down the camp each day while they travelled north from the Citadel. The late Lord Setenton enjoyed his creature comforts and would have it no other way, but in the two weeks they had spent camped on the plain they had settled in so comfortably, Damin found it hard to believe they could dismantle it all with such speed.
His own Raiders took less time to organise, but they were fewer and had been travelling much more lightly than the Defenders. Almodavar had had them ready to leave hours ago. What kept them here now were the Kariens.
His men formed a mounted ring around the captured knights, bows strung, arrows at the ready, waiting for one of them to break. Damin didn’t know why they were holding the Kariens here while the Defenders went on ahead, and a part of him was afraid to ask. He knew as well as anyone the dilemma these
prisoners posed. That the Defenders were leaving them behind did not augur well for their future.
Karien they might be, but Damin held no personal grudge against them. They all seemed woefully young and inexperienced to him. The oldest of them could not have been more than twenty. He prayed fervently that R’shiel didn’t expect him to slaughter these children in cold blood.
“What are we waiting for?”
Adrina rode up beside him with her slave close behind. She was wrapped in a warm cloak against the cold and looked anxious to get moving. She had been remarkably quiet since their conversation on the edge of the camp this morning. That worried Damin a little. She was undoubtedly plotting something and it probably involved him and a lot of blood. He should have kept his big mouth shut.
“We’re waiting for R’shiel, I think. And for the Defenders to move out.”
“Where is the demon child, anyway?”
Damin shrugged. “Nobody’s seen her for hours.”
Adrina looked at the nervous Kariens. They had been pushed into a tight cluster, ringed by the Raiders and to a man they wore expressions of uncertainty. Damin could imagine what was going through their minds.
“What’s going to happen to them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not going to…”
“Kill them? I wish I knew.” He turned in the saddle at the sound of hoofs and found Denjon and Linst riding towards them at a canter. The red-coated Defenders reined in when they reached them.
“We’re ready to move out,” Denjon informed them.
“How’s Tarja?”
“Much the same. He’s in one of the wagons with a medic. We’ll be setting a hard pace, I’m afraid, but it can’t be avoided.”
“How long will it take you to reach the border?”
“About six weeks,” the captain replied. “We could get there sooner if we dumped the supply wagons, but I’m loath to do that, for obvious reasons. We’ll only resort to that if we’re being pursued.” The captain glanced meaningfully at the Karien prisoners. “I hope this works.”
“You hope what works?” Adrina asked.
“R’shiel’s grandiose plan for turning the Kariens back,” he said.
“And what is that, exactly?”
“We don’t know and I’m not sure we want to,” Linst remarked. “She asked that we be gone before she does it, so we can only assume it’s some heathen ritual that she’d rather we didn’t witness.”
“Heathen ritual or not, I can’t say I’ll mind missing it,” Denjon said. Then he reached forward and offered Damin his hand. “I wish you luck, Lord Wolfblade.”
“You’ll need it more than I,” Damin said, accepting the handshake. “With all your troops and the Kariens concentrated in the north, weather permitting I’ll have a clear run down to Hythria. You’re the ones taking the long road.”
“I was thinking more of what happens when you
get
to Hythria,” Denjon said with a grin.
“I’ll worry about that when I get there.”
“Then I’ll look forward to meeting you again on your side of the border. For all our sakes I hope it goes well for you, my Lord. And for you too, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Damin glanced at Adrina curiously. Her thanks sounded genuine. There was no hint of her usual sarcastic tone. Something was seriously wrong with her.
Denjon and Linst wheeled their mounts around and cantered back towards the long line of red-coated Defenders. They watched them leave in silence, watched Denjon ride to the head of the column, and heard the faint sound of the trumpet signalling their advance as it was whipped away on the icy wind.
“So what happens now?” Adrina asked after a while.
Damin shrugged. “We wait for the demon child.”
When R’shiel arrived more than an hour later, she was on foot and the two Karien boys were with her. Damin and Adrina both dismounted when they caught sight of her. She was chatting to Mikel and Jaymes as they walked across the trampled grass towards them, the three of them apparently in a fine mood and the best of friends. When she reached them, she was smiling broadly.
“The Defenders got away all right then?” she asked.
“About an hour ago,” Damin informed her. “Where have you been?”
“Communing with the gods,” she told him with a grin. “Let’s do something about these Kariens, shall we?”
Damin grabbed her arm as she turned towards the prisoners. “What are you going to do, R’shiel?”
“You’ll see.”
Without waiting for his reaction she pulled her arm free and taking Mikel’s hand, walked towards the Kariens. Jaymes followed after them. The lad had filled out since he had been training with the Hythrun. At fifteen he was the size of a full-grown man. Any animosity that had existed between the brothers seemed to have been put to rest. That odd turn of events bothered Damin almost as much as what R’shiel might be planning.
Almodavar turned and dismounted at R’shiel’s approach. Damin and Adrina threw their reins to Tamylan and hurried after her on foot. The Kariens, sensing something was about to happen, began to grow restless. Those who had tired of standing and were sitting on the cold ground climbed to their feet. The priests pushed to the front of the group, tracing the star of the Overlord on their foreheads as they regarded the demon child with intense suspicion.
“Where is Lord Drendyn?” R’shiel called to the Kariens as she stopped before them. The knight in question pushed his way through the crowd and stepped in front of her belligerently. He was sandy haired and sweating, despite the cold, and looked hardly older than Jaymes.
“I demand you release us immediately and hand over the Crown Princess Adrina so that she may be returned to Karien.”
Damin suspected the young knight’s bravado was inspired by fear. His Raiders, with their loaded bows and fearsome reputation, still ringed the
Kariens. He had only to raise his arm and there would be a massacre.
“As you wish,” R’shiel replied. “Lord Wolfblade, be so kind as to ask your men to withdraw. Tell them to muster over that way, upwind from us.”
At a nod from Damin, Almodavar gave the order. The Raiders lowered their weapons, replaced arrows in their quivers and wheeled their mounts around. Drendyn looked stunned by her sudden capitulation.
“Is this some sort of trick?”
“Not at all, my Lord, you are free to go. There is a party of Karien knights headed this way. They should be here in a day or two. The Defenders have confiscated your horses, unfortunately, but they have left you sufficient food and water to last until you’re rescued.”
“And our princess?”
“Ah, now that’s a different matter. She’s not actually your princess any longer. Adrina is now a Princess of Hythria.”
Drendyn’s eyes widened in horror. “Your Highness? Is this true?”
Damin glanced at Adrina, who looked very uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Drendyn…” Adrina said with a helpless shrug. To Damin’s surprise, she appeared genuinely upset that she had hurt the young man.
“And you can give your king a message from me, too,” he added, turning to the distraught young earl. “Any attempt to return the princess to Karien will be taken as an act of war.”
“But they murdered Prince Cratyn!” Drendyn cried to Adrina then turned on Damin furiously,
taking a step towards him, ready to fight for his princess’ honour. “What have you done to her?”
“That’s far enough, my Lord,” Almodavar cut in, his sword pressing into the young earl’s tabard. Drendyn halted abruptly, looked down at the blade aimed squarely at his heart and wisely took a step backward.
“Hythria will pay for the life of my prince. And my princess!” he shouted, albeit from a safer distance.
“Perhaps,” Damin agreed. “But not today, my young friend.”
“Enough of this,” R’shiel declared impatiently. “Damin, I suggest you move back. I have something I wish to do before we leave.”
“Something you don’t want us to see?”
“Not at all. You can watch if you like, but I’d rather you didn’t hear it.”
“The Overlord will protect us from your evil, demon child,” the priest Garanus warned.
Captivity had not been kind to the priest. His shaven head was covered in black stubble and his cassock was rumpled and dusty. The priests who stood behind him had fared no better. Damin considered his threat rather hollow. Without their staves the priests were simply ordinary men.
“The Overlord has abandoned you, Garanus. Why else would he let you fall prisoner?”
“We will not listen to your blasphemy!”
“Suit yourself,” R’shiel said with a shrug. “Damin, you should leave now.”
“What about Mikel and Jaymes?” Adrina asked, almost as wary as Damin about what the demon child was planning.
“They’ll be fine with me.”
Damin still had no idea what she was up to. With some reluctance, he did as she asked. Taking Adrina’s hand he headed back to where Tamylan was waiting with the horses. Almodavar mounted and followed them at a walk. Damin swung into the saddle and turned to watch as R’shiel stood facing the Kariens.
“What is she going to do?” Adrina asked as she settled into her saddle and gathered up her reins.
“You know as much as I do.”
“Drendyn was the only person in Karien who treated me like a human being,” she added, staring at the gathering with concern.
That explained her apology to the young knight.
“If she was planning to kill them, she would have done it by now.” It was a hollow reassurance at best. For all he knew that was exactly what R’shiel was planning.
“Or she would wait until there were no witnesses,” Almodavar pointed out.
“She said something about not listening,” Adrina said. “What could she possibly say to them—”
As if in answer to her question a voice reached them. It was high, pure and perfect and the song it sang touched the very core of Damin’s soul. It took him a moment to realise that it was Mikel singing. He could not hear the words; the wind tore them away before he could make them out, but he sat there, rigid, as the lilting notes washed over him in haunting snatches. The song was both enticing and entrancing. It slithered into his brain like sweet wine being poured into an empty cup. It warmed and chilled him at the same time. Visions of a land he did not know
filled his mind and he found himself yearning for it with a passion that took him by surprise. The song made him want to laugh and cry simultaneously. He wanted to hear more. It was fear and comfort on the same breath. Love and hatred intermingled. He never wanted it to end.
“Damin! We have to move! Now!”
It was Adrina who jerked him back to reality. He glanced at the prisoners and realised that whatever remarkable effect the song had on him, the effect it was having on the Kariens was a hundred times more powerful. As he turned his mount and urged him into a gallop, wisps of the song followed him with tantalising fingers.
Then the tenor of the music changed and no longer did he wish to drown in the beauty of the song. Now it was much more strident, its beauty marred by dark, shadowy images that chased him until they were far enough away that the music no longer reached them.
Once they were safely out of range, they turned and looked back at the Kariens. R’shiel stood before the captive knights, but they could not make out her expression from this distance. Mikel stood beside her, singing to the Kariens in that glorious, unnatural voice that seduced and tormented at once.
Jaymes seemed unaffected, his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder, as if he was holding him down against the wind, but the rest of the Kariens were transfixed. Some men were weeping, some were frozen to the spot. The priest Garanus was on his knees, his hands over his ears. The young knight Drendyn was staring at the boy as if he was
experiencing some sort of religious ecstasy. All around him, his men seemed to be in the throes of either torment or rapture.
“What was that? What is she doing?” Damin asked.
“The Song of Gimlorie,” Adrina told him, her eyes fixed on the Kariens, her voice filled with awe.
“That’s simply a legend,” Almodavar scoffed.
“No. It’s real enough. My father tried to get some of the priestesses to perform it in Talabar once. He thought it would guarantee him a legitimate son. None of the temples would even consider the idea, and he offered them a fortune in gold to do it. They all claimed it was too dangerous.”
“So how did Mikel learn it?”
“R’shiel obviously had a hand in that.” Adrina turned to him then, her expression thoughtful. “You know, if the legends are correct, he who sings the Song of Gimlorie is a channel for the gods.”
“I can well believe it,” Damin agreed, thinking of the effect that even catching part of the song had on him.
They waited in silence after that, until R’shiel ordered Mikel to stop singing. Mikel sagged, as if the song had drained him completely. His brother gently gathered the unconscious child up in his arms and together with R’shiel walked back across the plain towards them.
Despite Adrina’s confident assurance that landing in the main courtyard of the Summer Palace was bound to get Hablet’s attention, Brak chose to make a less dramatic entrance into Talabar. He landed his demon-melded dragon some distance north of the capital on a warm, muggy afternoon three days after he left Medalon, and set out for the city on foot.
He was not well prepared for the journey, though he wasn’t worried about his lack of resources. Once he shed his winter layers of clothing, he turned onto the road and began heading south towards the sprawling pink metropolis, secure in the knowledge that several hundred years of living on his wits left him well equipped to handle anything a Fardohnyan could throw at him.
Brak had eschewed his Harshini heritage for many years, but he wasn’t averse to using a little magic when it was for a good cause. As his
only
cause these days seemed to be aiding the demon child, he felt justified in taking a few liberties with his power that would have horrified his full-blooded cousins.
Since he had no local currency and was not
looking forward to walking all the way to Talabar, he prevailed upon the Lady Elanymire to meld herself into a large uncut ruby. He then traded the ruby to a merchant from a passing caravan, whose eyes lit up with greed when Brak offered him the gem for a horse, a saddle, some basic supplies, and a small bag of coin.
Any guilt Brak may have felt over the transaction vanished when he saw the state of the merchant’s slaves. They were underfed and miserable, their bare feet blistered from trudging the gravelled road in the heat. Even the richly dressed
court’esa
who sat on the seat of the gaily-covered lead wagon wore a look of abject misery.
Brak rode away on his newly purchased horse content the merchant deserved everything that was coming to him. The following morning, Lady Elanymire popped into existence on the pommel of his saddle, laughing delightedly at the expression on the avaricious merchant’s face when he discovered his prized ruby had vanished.
Fardohnya had a timeless quality about it. The people were still dusky, smiling, dark-haired souls who seemed, if not content, then accepting of their lot in life. It always struck him as odd that the Fardohnyans were so cheerful. Perhaps it was because their king, while grasping, devious and deceitful, at least understood that a happy population was a quiet one. Hablet wisely confined his more outrageous excesses to his court and Fardohnya’s neighbours.
Slaves waved to him as he passed them in fields of rich black loam as they planted carefully tended green shoots of altaer and filganar before the onset of the
spring rains. The grains were native to Fardohnya and the staple diet of much of the population. In Brak’s experience, they would grow anywhere there was enough heat and water. Famine was unheard of in Fardohnya; another reason the people didn’t seem to mind what their king was up to. It is easy to be forgiving with a full belly.
Talabar came into sight the third day after Brak had traded his demon-melded ruby. Built from the pale pink stone of the neighbouring cliffs, it glittered in the afternoon sun, hugging the harbour like a woman curled into the back of her sleeping lover. Flat-roofed houses terraced the hills surrounding the bay, interspersed with palm-shaded emerald green parks and the tall edifices of the many temples that dotted the city. It was a beautiful city, not so stark and white as Greenharbour, or so grey and depressing as Yarnarrow. Only the Citadel in its heyday could rival its splendour.
It had been many years since Brak had been here. The last time he’d travelled incognito, another faceless soul in a vast city that thought his race extinct. The time before that was when Hablet’s great-grandfather was king. He had been known as Lord Brakandaran in those days—feared and respected by kings and slaves alike. He hadn’t much liked being known as Brakandaran the Half-Breed, but it was a useful persona at times and, he hoped, in certain circles at least, it had not been forgotten.
Brak rode through the gates of the city without being questioned. The guards were more interested in those bringing wagons, which the soldiers searched with
varying degrees of enthusiasm, depending on the wealth of the merchant and the size of the bribe they would collect to turn a blind eye. Corruption was something of an institution in Fardohnya. No selfrespecting merchant expected to do business without paying somebody something.
He rode through the crowded streets and let the feel of the city wash over him. One could learn much from the atmosphere of a crowded market place, a boisterous tavern or a bustling smithy. He picked his way past the glassworks, where furnaces glowed red in the dark, cavernous workshops; past the noisy meatworks where the butchers sang their thanks to the Goddess of Plenty before slashing the throats of their hapless victims with an expert flick of their wickedly sharp knives.
Talabar felt much the same as it always had. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary.
His horse shied from the smell of fresh blood that drained from the slaughterhouses into Talabar’s complex underground drains. From there it ran into the sea to feed vast schools of fish, who gorged themselves on the unexpected bounty, only to head lazily back out to sea where the fishermen waited with their long hemp nets.
The streets widened as he entered the clothing district, although the traffic didn’t thin noticeably. The clackety-clack of the looms in the busy workhouses filled the air like a pulse. A few streets later he was forced to dismount. He smiled as he led his gelding past a heated argument between a merchant, whose wagonload of baled wool had overturned and spilled across the street, and a very
large, irate seamstress who was denouncing the poor fellow and his drunken habits loud enough to be heard back in Medalon.
Brak swung back into the saddle and soon entered a relatively quiet residential area. The streets were paved and the houses, although built close together, were those of prosperous merchants. They were not quite wealthy enough to own estates close to the harbour, and preferred to live near their places of business in any case. Their houses were in good repair, and many of them had slaves sweeping the pavement in front of the houses, or beating rugs from wide balconies that looked out over the street, and were shaded by potted palms and climbing bougainvillea.
By mid-morning he reached the most salubrious part of Talabar, closest to the harbour and the Summer Palace. A hundred generations of Fardohnyan kings, anxious to curry favour with the gods, had dedicated themselves to building ever more impressive temples in this city. Jelanna was Hablet’s personal favourite, so her temple had received the bulk of the King’s largesse. It had been faced with marble since Brak saw it last and an impressive pair of fluted columns now supported an elaborate portico carved with cavorting demons at the entrance. It had done him little good, Brak knew. Despite almost thirty years of trying, he had yet to produce a legitimate son, although he had sired enough bastards to fill a small town.
Finally, Brak turned into a discreet, single-storey inn that sheltered almost directly under the high pink wall surrounding the Summer Palace. A slave hurried
forward to take his mount in the shaded courtyard and he tipped the lad generously. There were slaves that owned more wealth than their masters in Fardohnya, and one could, if one chose to, purchase one’s freedom. Many did not. There was a degree of job security in being a slave that was hard to beat in the uncertain world of the free man.
The interior of the inn was dim and cool, the entrance separated by a whitewashed trellis from the low hum of conversation emanating from the taproom. The owner hurried forward, took in Brak’s travel-stained appearance, noticed the jingling purse tucked in his belt, did a quick mental calculation, then bowed obsequiously.
“My Lord.”
Brak was quite certain he looked nothing like a nobleman in his current state, but the innkeeper was covering himself against the possibility that this new arrival was a gentleman of means.
“I require rooms,” he announced.
“Certainly, my Lord. I have a vacancy in the north wing. It is closest to the palace walls. One can hear the joyous laughter of the princesses at play, if one listens closely.”
Brak thought that highly unlikely. “I also need to contact someone from the Assassins’ Guild.”
“Did you want anyone in particular?”
“I need to speak with the Raven.”
The little man’s eyes narrowed. “The head of the Assassins’ Guild does not meet with just anybody, my Lord.”
“He’ll meet with me,” Brak assured him confidently.
“You know him then?”
“That’s none of your business.” Actually, Brak had no idea who now held the post, and didn’t particularly care. The Assassins’ Guild was simply the best source of intelligence in Fardohnya.
“Of course not, my Lord!” he gushed, wringing his hands. Only the wealthiest of noblemen could afford to deal with the Assassins’ Guild. Brak had just gone up considerably in the innkeeper’s estimation. “Forgive me for being so forward. I will show you to your rooms at once. If there is anything I can do…”
“You could be quiet, for a start,” Brak remarked coldly, already annoyed by the man.
“Of course, my Lord! What was I thinking? Be quiet…Oh…” The innkeeper clamped his lips together when he noticed the look on Brak’s face.
“That’s better. Now, if you could show me the room? I want a bath too. And some lunch.”
The man nodded, wisely saying nothing further. With a snap of his fingers another slave hurried forward to show Brak to his rooms.
Much to Brak’s surprise, the contact from the Assassins’ Guild was a woman. Fardohnya was notoriously patriarchal and it was rare for a woman to hold any position of note. He was not even aware that they had changed the rules to admit women to the Guild. She was small and slender, the long, palegreen robe she wore concealing what Brak was certain would be a body in superb physical condition. It was hard to judge her age; she might have been twenty, or perhaps forty. Brak suspected the latter. Her eyes were too knowing, too cautious and too world-weary for her to be in the first bloom of youth.
She came to his rooms after dinner, knocking softly on the whitewashed door. He opened it cautiously and looked her up and down. On the middle finger of her left hand she wore the small gold raven ring of the Guild. While he privately considered it the height of arrogant stupidity to announce one’s profession so openly, particularly for an assassin, that he recognised the ring and admitted her without question went a long way to establishing his credentials. He’d had a discussion once, with a previous Raven, about the foolishness of wearing something so obvious, but humans liked their symbols and apparently the custom was as strong as ever.
Foolish humans.
“What do you want with the Raven?” the woman asked, without preamble, looking around the room.
“I wish to speak to him.”
“The Raven doesn’t speak to anyone.”
“He’ll speak to me.”
She finished her inspection of the room and turned to look at him. “So Gernard said.”
“Gernard?”
“The innkeeper.”
“Ah…can I offer you some wine?”
“No.”
She walked across the room and threw open the doors that led to the gardens, taking a deep breath of the fragrant air from the riot of flowering greenery. Brak was sure she was more interested in making certain they were not overheard, than she was in botany.
“So, tell me,” she demanded, turning back to him as she stepped away from the open doorway, “what is
so special about you that the Raven would grant you an audience?”
“I am Brakandaran.”
She studied him for a moment in the twilight then laughed. “Brakandaran the Half-Breed? I doubt that.”
“You require proof?”
“Oh, I’m certain you have proof,” she chuckled. “Some mirrors and wires rigged to convince me of your magical powers. You have, however, neglected one minor point.”
“And what is that?”
“Brakandaran, if he was still alive, would be in his dotage now. It’s been what…fifty years since he was here last? You can’t be more than thirty-five. Forty at the most.”
“I’m half-Harshini,” he pointed out. “I don’t age like a human.”
She smiled. “Very good! You even have an answer for that one. I still don’t believe you, but I do appreciate attention to detail.”
Brak found himself warming to the woman. She was sharp and not at all unattractive. But he was going to have to convince her, and probably the hard way.
“Very well, then,” he shrugged. “You name the proof. Something I cannot possibly have anticipated. We can even go somewhere else, so that you can be assured I’m not using—what did you call them—mirrors and wires?”
“I really don’t see why I should bother.”
“Can you afford to be wrong?”
She thought on that for a moment, then shook her head. She turned away from him, as if in
thought, reaching into her robe. “Proof, you say? Something unexpected?” She spun around, raising her arm. “Try this!”
The quarrel from the small crossbow took Brak by surprise. He had guessed she was up to something, but had no time to react. Elanymire saved him. She popped into existence in front of him and snatched the missile from the air, chittering angrily at the woman.
The assassin dropped the weapon in surprise at the appearance of the little demon. “How…?”
“The demons live to protect the Harshini,” he pointed out with a shrug. He bent down and picked the demon up, stroking her leathery skin, trying to calm her. She took a very dim view of anyone trying to hurt a member of her clan and was all for vaporising the woman where she stood.
The assassin stared at him for a moment, as he stood there soothing the angry demon and then dropped to one knee. “Divine One.”
Brak rolled his eyes. “Oh, get up! I am
not
divine. But I
do
want to see the Raven. Now that we’ve established who I am, do you think we could arrange it?”
She stood up and met his eyes.
“See
her
,” she corrected. “The Raven is a woman. Her name is Teriahna.”