As he wondered what was going on, another man came towards him, walking quickly and purposefully. He looked dully at the man’s tightly stitched soft leather shoes. They must have taken a
lot of work, he thought.
Finally this man got to him, crouched down, pulled his neck back and started pouring some dark liquid down his throat from a large earthenware vessel. He gagged and tried spitting it out but the
man held his nose until he finally relented, feeling a bitter brew slide down his throat. Poison, he thought. He hoped it wouldn’t be too painful; he didn’t think it was hemlock so he
was happy about that. It worked quickly. He felt groggy, went limp in the man’s arms and then lost consciousness, his eyes rolling upwards until only the whites could be seen.
Rain. Warm rain falling on his face like the balmy summers he used to spend with his family in the Marassans. His fevered mind drifted a little back to those days on his uncle’s estate,
happy days, before the plague took most of his family and his father’s gambling debts saw the estate sold.
That was a long time ago. He couldn’t be there now, and the rain, he tasted some of it, it couldn’t be...
He spat and abruptly opened his eyes. He saw a vast grey sky above him, leaden clouds sitting low within it. He couldn’t move his arms or legs; he was still tied then. He turned his neck
as far as he could.
He was inside some sort of structure. There were wooden posts to his left and right, tied together with twine; it was this he was tied to. To his left was a grassy bank studded with bushes and
some bare trees. There were people there, too. A small huddle of men were near by, talking among themselves and pointing at him. And closer to him was someone else. A small boy. Sperrish felt a
rush of anger flood his aching head. For the boy’s breeches were open and he was urinating over Sperrish’s face, a yellow stream plashing over his moustache and mouth until it weakened
and started to dribble into water. Rain, indeed, how could he be so stupid?
Spitting the disgusting liquid out he swore at the child.
‘You little bastard, just wait till I get my hands on you!’
The child giggled, tied his trousers securely and ran off.
He was over water then. Tied within a structure and over water. He felt fear replace his anger. What was happening here? He tried wriggling and pulling at his bonds. No use. He went limp and saw
a couple of marsh flies buzz over his head.
He saw someone else approach him, a man this time, dark and strongly built. It was the translator, he realised; perhaps he could help him.
The man knelt as close to Sperrish’s head as he could without getting into the water, cleared his throat and spoke.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, then fell silent.
Sperrish squirmed against his bonds, his voice was hoarse. ‘Get me out of this! I am not one of you, let Dennick punish me. Get me out!’
‘I cannot. Neither can your commander. We both tried but ultimately we are not of the tribe you have committed crimes against. It is their justice that applies here.’
Sperrish voice became shrill. ‘All I did was take some damned grass!’
The Marsh Man shook his head. ‘No. You stole a sacred plant from which the year’s full quota had already been taken. That is punishable by death. You also violated the sanctity of
the lake, defiling it for this tribe. That is also punishable by death. Finally, and most grievously, you stabbed to death a woman who had come to the lake to pray for her recently deceased
husband. When the moon shines on the lake it is the time to make offerings to it, offerings to the new dead. She was there to pray and you killed her. There are two children now that have no
parents. Unsurprisingly, that, too, is punishable by death.’
Sperrish almost choked. ‘I am sorry for the woman,’ he said. ‘Why do they not just kill me then, rather than tie me here?’
The man shrugged. ‘They are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are woody plants underneath you. They have been sharpened and within a day or so they will start growing through your body. The men over there...’ – he gestured to the
group behind him – ‘...are guessing when and where they will start to grow first.’
At first it did not dawn on him what exactly he was being told. ‘Whitey,’ he said. ‘Did Whitey betray me?’
‘No. We found out about your plot by other means. We did not know of the people praying at the lake until it was too late.’ He then stood in the water and leaned over Sperrish.
‘Open your mouth.’
Sperrish did so and started as the man pushed something inside, next to his cheek. ‘Citrid leaves, all I have. Five of them. When the pain starts chew on them. It will help. You may even
see your gods before you die. As I said, I am sorry. I wish it had not come to this. Those men think it will grow through your heart first, that or your anus. I hope it is the former for, if it is,
it will be over for you in two days.’ With that he stepped back on to the bank turned and walked away, not looking back.
‘Wait! Come back!’ Sperrish tried to call but the leaves in his mouth made it difficult. He tried moving again and for the first time felt something. Something pressing slightly into
his back. He felt the same in his shoulder and leg. The man was right – whatever it was was sharp. There was one pressing against his neck, too. By Artorus what was going to happen to
him?
Two more boys came over to him. He shut his mouth knowing what was coming next. They emptied their bladders over his body this time. He heard the gentle splashing as the urine struck the water
underneath him. More flies flew over him and some landed on him; he had heard the flies here drank blood.
At last Sperrish screamed, leaves in his mouth or no. He emptied his lungs of air he screamed so loudly. He didn’t stop either. The sun went down and came back up again and still he
screamed. He screamed to the lake and to the deserted banks with their dead trees. For three days he did nothing but scream. After that, though, he didn’t scream again.
After seeing Sperrish for the last time, Cygan returned to the village where Whitey was sitting looking morbidly out over the lake.
‘It is done, your friend is as good as dead. I have done what I can for him. I am sorry.’
Whitey nodded and replied without turning his head. ‘The other party are all here now, including the old Wych man. People are saying we will be off to fight the dragon in the
morning.’
‘Yes,’ said Cygan. ‘There is no point waiting. The sooner this is done, the sooner you can go home.’
Whitey did turn to him then. ‘And you can return to your wife and children.’
‘That is right.’
‘They are lovely kids. You are a lucky man.’
Cygan smiled slightly. ‘Thank you. I am sure Emterevuanu will be happy to see you, too.’
Whitey grimaced. ‘Don’t. I know you enjoy seeing my reactions, but just don’t. Not now.’
‘I am sorry, Barriss. I am not teasing, though. She is rather taken with you and, if you get back alive, you will be even more eligible in her eyes. But do not worry, I will tell her to
look elsewhere.’
‘Do that. She is too young and too pretty anyway; even if I wasn’t going back to Sketta.’
Cygan patted Whitey’s back. ‘Surely she should be the judge of that. Anyway, come over to the fire with me and the others. We are all getting drunk while we can. We may never get
another chance after tomorrow.’
Whitey got up and followed; he understood Sperrish’s desire not to fight this terrible battle. He still couldn’t understand why he was still here himself. Getting drunk seemed a fine
idea to him – better to be flat out snoring one’s head off all night rather than sat up thinking. Thinking was not always to be encouraged, he thought, not with what lay ahead. A drink
to Sperrish, too; terror and guilt, hardly an ideal state of mind for a warrior. Maybe he would get so drunk he might end up believing tomorrow would never come. Yes, a drink to limbo and perpetual
ignorance – nothing would make him happier.
Cygan passed him a small cup. He downed it in one. As they drank, more and more new boats arrived; it seemed things had gone well for the other party, too. Things got louder and more raucous as
the day progressed until finally sleep took nearly everyone and, despite Whitey’s ill-founded optimism, tomorrow finally arrived.
The Gorge of Unbearable Sorrow. That was its name in the old tongue. A place where disputes between the high born could be resolved. It was as narrow a cleft in the Earth as
could be found, though it broadened to over thirty feet wide the nearer it got to the sea. Here, the cliffs soared to over two hundred feet high, great bulwarks of black rock against which the sea
had been foundering for millennia. And the gorge split the cliffs in twain, running from the sea towards the forest, a great black chasm disappearing under the angry white foam that surged and
soared high up the fissure every time the waves crashed through it.
Some quarter of a mile from the sea the rock had been worked by ancient craftsmen. A great broad stair had been carved at right angles to the gorge, leading down, down until opening on to a
broad platform spreading out into the chasm itself. A similar stair had been carved into the opposite rock face, the two level surfaces of rock facing each other across the yawning abyss. The spray
from the sea kept the rock wet and glistening, making it look rather like carved obsidian or freshly split coal.
The sheer rock faces abutting the broad shallow steps were carved with images of wolves, bears and soaring eagles, all enfolded within the coils of a great two-headed dragon. They had once been
painted with various exotic colours but the actions of sea, wind and rain had long since worn these away. Now it was just the outlines, deep grooves in the diamond-hard stone that remained.
At the top of the western set of steps stood Itheya. Her hair had grown long again and was tied behind her in bands, just as Morgan had first beheld her all those weeks ago. She wore her golden
torque and the diamond at her brow. The rest of her body was covered in a large green cloak that swathed her from neck to toe. She had replaced the lost ring in her ear and added a further one. She
stared intently ahead of her, her lips thin and bloodless.
Opposite her, standing in the equivalent position the other side of the gorge, was her brother. He wore a similar cloak and his expression was equally strained. Behind them fanned out like the
wings of some great bird were the rest of the tribe. The ground was open here; the forest did not spring up until over half a mile from the sea. The flautists played, the drummers drummed and the
lyre players plucked delicately at their strings, a poignant counterpoint to the thundering sea and the screech of a thousand angry gulls.
She cast her mind back, to her father’s grave, a bare mound of earth covered with the first shoots of new grass and trailing creepers from which vestigial red berries were beginning to
form. It was a strange place the Glade of the Mhezhen. There was always growth here; winter never halted things entirely, so, even as light flurries of snow fell softly on to their hair and
shoulders, brother and sister surveyed a scene of tranquil greenery, the cold air suffused with the scents of dew and damp moss.
‘I don’t want to fight you,’ Itheya had said sadly. ‘What would Father say? How angry would he be?’
‘I don’t want to fight you, sister.’ Dramalliel’s eyes were half closed. ‘But neither can I back down. This is a struggle for the soul of our tribe, it is that
important. You say I am doing this because I cannot fail those that support me, but it does not alter the fact that I think you are wrong.’
She laughed despite everything. ‘I am never wrong. But we are each as stubborn as the other and I see no alternative to the path we are heading down. This duel – I will not be trying
to kill you and if you submit I will recall you from exile after a suitable minimum time has elapsed, maybe even less than a year. Would you be happy with that? Or would your silly pride not take
it?’
‘A moot point, sister, for I will not be losing. Your exile will end when I find a fit husband for you; it may even be a human.’
She looked shocked. ‘You would marry me to a human?’
He smiled. ‘Once they sue for peace, you can marry their baron or whatever he is called – cement our military gains through marriage, that is something the humans
understand.’
She knelt at her father’s grave, gently stroking the loose soil with her fingers. ‘It would be humiliating for me.’
He looked down on her, enjoying the small cruelty he was inflicting. ‘You would do it, though, if it were for the good of the tribe and I were leader and ordered you to do so.’
Her temper flared. She stood again and whirled around to face him. Her eyes were blazing. ‘I am not your chattel, brother, and I will not pollute myself with some human because it pleases
your ego to see me disgraced. Culleneron has a cousin suitable for you; perhaps I could send you off to the Ometahan to spend the rest of your life with them. And now look.’ She turned away
from him again. ‘We are arguing again! How is it possible to love and hate someone so much at the same time? You really are an infuriating man!’
He spoke again, his voice much quieter this time. ‘I am sorry, sister. It is strange that in a few days we may never see each other again. See the snow is getting thicker – do you
wish to leave here for now?’
‘I will stay a little longer, in silence; I just wish to think of Father a while without squabbling and spoiling this place for him.’
And so they stood, watching the grave of their father as the snow fell and clothed the land in a blanket of silence.
Back at the gorge the music changed. The drumming became more frantic, the flutes’ pitch increased into a high wail. It was the signal for both of them. She unfastened her cloak and passed
it to the man next to her, Tetrevenn, head of one of the first families and a loyal supporter of hers. She was wearing full-length leather armour, black in colour that fitted her body tightly while
leaving her arms uncovered. Her golden belt, fashioned in the shape of several intertwined twisting snakes, was at her waist along with her knife, which she would not be using in this duel.