The Jalakh Bow Page 11

  The Lippers were already coming out to meet them at the beach, and Farred wandered over, fascinated. They were tall and broad shouldered, with dark skin just like his own. But if they resembled Middians in appearance, they sounded nothing like them. Farred could hear their strange voices talking to the Caladri traders. It was a series of meaningless noises to him—he couldn’t make out a single word.

  He was surprised that the Caladri traders could talk back in the same language. They laid samples of their goods out on the beach for the Lippers to inspect: worked timber, wool, and iron implements.

  Sebo walked over and stood next to him. Farred looked over to the ship and saw the captain’s men were busy putting up tents for the night.

  ‘What do the Lippers offer in return?’ Farred asked him.

  ‘They have gold, cotton, spices—many things. I am hopeful they will feed us, too. Otherwise it’s salted fish for dinner.’

  ‘You have learned their language?’

  ‘Me personally? I know a few words that come in handy. The traders know their language. The people back home do not.’

  ‘What did you say they call themselves?’

  ‘Avakaba. It means The Ones Who Left.’

  ‘Left where?’

  Sebo shrugged. ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘In Magnia we know nothing of these people. They are our neighbours, but as far as I know we don’t trade or communicate with them at all. Looking at this, that seems very foolish.’

  ‘It is very foolish,’ Sebo agreed. ‘And long may it continue. For the Sea Caladri take goods from the Avakaba, sail north as far as Haskany, even the Jalakh Steppe, and trade with the northerners. It makes us very rich.’

  Farred nodded. He could see how.

  ‘You say you sometimes sail as far north as the Steppe?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I have a friend who needs to travel there. It is connected with this mission your fleet has been given.’

  ‘Then he would have been far better coming with you and taking a ship there. It is very dangerous to reach the Steppe by any other route.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Farred. The overland route involved marching through Haskany, under the noses of the Drobax and the Isharites. ‘Although if I had to trust anyone to do it, I would trust Gyrmund.’

  Manoeuvres

  VIII

  THE DROBAX WAS STANDING a good ten feet lower down the slope from the ledge Gyrmund occupied. He adjusted his body line to the angle of the shot, pulled back the string to his ear, held for a second, then released. The arrow struck, and the beast went down.

  He turned behind him, and waved Moneva and Soren on.

  They didn’t have much time.

  The Drobax were crawling all over the Dardelles mountain range, sent south by their masters in ominously large numbers. Gyrmund spared a brief thought for whoever this army was being sent against. But he had no time for more, because they had been spotted. If they didn’t find a secure place to hide, they were finished.

  He jumped down the rocks, risking injury in exchange for speed. When he reached the Drobax corpse he breathed a sigh of relief. He was right, the monster had been standing outside a cave. This was their best chance of escape.

  He pulled the arrow from the head of the Drobax, fitted it to his bow and peered into the dark cave. He could feel Moneva’s presence behind him and he walked forward carefully. He was wary of marching straight in when his eyes had not adjusted to the darkness, yet fearful of taking too long and being seen entering by the Drobax.

  He was right to be careful. As he inched forwards, a figure ran at him out of the darkness. He released his bow on pure instinct and it took down what he could now see was a Drobax. But a second monster followed close behind and Gyrmund had no time to nock a second arrow or draw his sword, instead holding his bow as a staff.

  Moneva was a blur that came past him. The Drobax adjusted the swing of its weapon from Gyrmund to Moneva, but it was a clumsy move. Moneva avoided the swinging club and stepped in, burying her sword through its neck, then shoved it to the ground, before finishing it off.

  Dropping his bow, Gyrmund drew his sword and stabbed down at the first Drobax, making sure it was dead.

  Once done, he turned back to the entrance of the cave.

  Soren had entered behind them, and, with Onella’s Staff aloft, was concentrating on the cave entrance. The wizard turned to look at Gyrmund.

  ‘I am making the entrance appear like a solid wall of rock. If one of them studies it closely, or leans against it or some such, the illusion will break. That would be unlucky.’

  Gyrmund looked around the cave. That would be the end of them. It was a large space, but there was no other exit. They would be trapped inside.

  He spied something on one of the walls and walked over to investigate.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Moneva, joining him.

  There was a slash mark in the wall of the cave.

  Gyrmund smiled. ‘I’m just wondering. Something very sharp made this mark. And very recently, too. Soren, could you take a look?’ he asked, before looking around the floor of the cave as best he could in the dim light.

  There had been a large group in here. He approached the far end of the cave. The stink was oppressive, for it had been used as a latrine. He could see what looked like dog hairs on the floor. He turned back, to see Soren looking at the mark.

  ‘Clarin?’ asked the wizard.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Gyrmund. ‘It looks just like one I saw him use when we were heading to the Wilderness.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Soren.

  It was only yesterday that Belwynn had contacted Soren to tell them of Clarin’s miraculous re-appearance in Heractus. Many of Gyrmund’s fellow prisoners had escaped with him, including his friend Cyprian. Herin, however, had not been with them.

  ‘Clarin was here?’ Moneva said, incredulous.

  ‘It’s a sign that Clarin left for his brother,’ Soren said. ‘To tell him he was here.’

  Moneva looked at Gyrmund.

  ‘It’s good,’ he said, allowing himself a smile.

  Clarin had made it out of Samir Durg. And if the big man thought there was a chance Herin had too, then Gyrmund had to share the same hope.

  Clarin found it hard to lift the spirits of his men. It was only natural that each one of them had kept close to themselves a dream, private and intimate, of what they were escaping to.

  A reunion with tearful loved ones who had thought them dead? Or at the very least, a bar full of captivated listeners to their heroic stories, while the tankards of frothy beer kept on coming long into the night. But to escape and be immediately impressed into an army in the middle of a civil war? That fell a long way short of the dream.

  It wasn’t as if he was able to fully explain to them why they should care about this war. The enemy was a complicated, nebulous list of names and groups to them.

  The side they were on wasn’t convincing, either. Sebastian, Theron and their Knights had captured the king of Kalinth, and the king’s son was trying to free him. It was hardly a heroic cause—indeed, half the Knights of Kalinth clearly didn’t support Sebastian’s seizure of power, taking the side of the prince. They had also bungled their revolution. Theron had apparently sent the enemy army and royal guard home last summer, only for them to reappear as combatants this year.

  It was hard for Clarin to fully understand Belwynn’s total investment in this conflict. She had stayed in Kalinth for this? While Soren and the others left to continue the quest without her? Something didn’t add up.

  The army left Heractus for the south-west of the country. The Knights had ridden ahead, on their expensive horses, each of them bringing at least one spare, while the infantry had to walk behind, eating their dust. It was a ragbag infantry force Theron had collected, and to give him some credit, at least he knew it.

  Clarin had been put in charge of a division of a hundred soldiers. Apart from his group from Samir Durg,
the rest were Madrians, half of them women—followers of Elana whom the priestess had persuaded to fight for the cause. She had gone up in the world, the leader of a powerful Church now. And he had witnessed her using that power. She had insisted to Sebastian that her religion should now be the only recognised creed in the land. That was her price for recruiting so many men and women into the army. And while the priestess had made her demands, Belwynn had smiled peacefully, as if it was the most wonderful outcome in the world.

  They camped outside the first night, in a rocky landscape that was the southern end of the Dardelles mountains they had traversed on their way through Haskany. It wasn’t a bad spot, with views across the countryside that would afford them early warning of enemy activity.

  Theron also went up in his estimation a little that night. By the time his force trudged into camp, the tents had been put up for them and hot food was being cooked. The Knights also took on lookout duty, leaving the infantry to rest after the march. Clarin did a quick round of his troops, trying to take his new officer role seriously, though his heart wasn’t in it. Eventually he settled down at a fire with Rudy, Jurgen and the two Dog-men, happy to be left alone with his thoughts.

  His thoughts, inevitably, turned to Belwynn. They nagged at him, not letting him relax. Because Clarin was the one who had got his dream. His dream, during the days in the mine, the nights in the pit, was to see Belwynn again. And he had. But it wasn’t how he had imagined it. She was pleased to see him, but she hadn’t thrown her arms around him and kissed him. He hadn’t had a chance to properly speak to her in private, to tell her how much she meant to him. She was always busy, with Elana, or Sebastian, or Theron.

  Theron. The man behind this madness. It was Theron who Belwynn spent her time with. It was Theron who she looked at, the way Clarin wanted her to look at him.

  He looked across the fire at Rudy and lame Jurgen, forced to walk all day again so soon after their escape, in the opposite direction to their homes. They hadn’t got their dreams yet. Clarin had got his, and it had already turned sour. Which of them was the worse off?

  Sebastian, Theron and Belwynn walked up a gravelled pathway to the home of Diodorus, Count of Korenandi. His house was fortified, much the same as Sebastian’s home of Sernea; strong enough to withstand minor attempts at entry rather than whole armies.

  Theron lifted a hand to knock on the front door, but before he got the chance, it had swung open, and a servant was gesturing that they should come in.

  In the hall of his house stood Diodorus, with what Belwynn presumed were his wife and two sons. It was an oddly formal way to greet them, but she supposed this was the traditional way to welcome guests. Once the introductions and pleasantries were over, the family departed. The Count led them into a side room, where he sat them down in comfortable chairs next to a blazing fire. He offered them a drink called arak, perhaps again what tradition demanded. But they weren’t really here for a pleasant fireside chat, and they all declined the offer.

  Diodorus poured himself a drink and took a seat.

  ‘Straton is raising an army against you,’ he said.

  ‘He has asked you to join him?’ said Theron.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I declined. I am not so popular with the royal family after I surrendered their army to you. There is no reason for me to risk my life to see Straton rise to power.’

  ‘You have also declined our summons,’ said Sebastian, sternly.

  ‘I see no reason to risk my life or those of my people for you, either,’ countered the Count.

  He spoke slowly, with little emotion, but Belwynn detected the undertone of melancholia in his voice and face that she had noticed when they had spoken with him last summer. Then, he had made a wise decision not to fight them. She hoped he would do the same again now.

  ‘These are not easy times,’ Sebastian admitted. ‘You may think otherwise, but the last thing I wanted to do was stand against my own king. But the future and the honour of Kalinth was at stake. It still is. Standing on the sidelines isn’t an option, Diodorus.’

  Diodorus took a sip of his drink. ‘My father left this county to me and I would leave it to my sons. I would not see it destroyed. If I side with you there will be reprisals from your enemies. It is not what you want to hear, but I intend to stay out of this conflict.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Theron. ‘We are desperate for infantry. One hundred extra men, well-armed, could make all the difference when we fight Straton. We need you to give us a hundred men. If you refuse we will bring our army onto your lands, take this house, and force you to give us a hundred men. That’s the choice you have. A hundred men now or a hundred men later. Staying out of this isn’t a choice available to you.’

  Diodorus looked at them all in turn, his eyes blinking owlishly. They stopped at Belwynn. There was something about her he didn’t like, she could sense it, but couldn’t put a finger on it. Something more subtle than hatred or fear. He didn’t want her here in his house. She shouldn’t have come.

  ‘Is this what the Knights of Kalinth are now?’ he asked.

  ‘We have no choice either, man!’ said Sebastian, losing his temper. ‘You know we fought with the Isharites last summer! They will be back, they want to see Kalinth burned to the ground, our people enslaved. I can’t afford division, internal conflict. I can’t afford men with the title of count who sit back and do nothing. Give us the men and we’ll let you be. We’ll return them to you once Straton is defeated. I give you my word.’

  ‘You give me no choice,’ retorted Diodorus.

  ‘Now you understand,’ said Theron.

  Diodorus looked in his drink, as if he would find an answer there.

  ‘I’ll give you your men. I’ll lead them myself, and when your war is over I’ll lead them back home. And if you break your word to me, you will have made another enemy. How many more can you make, before you lose your grip on this country?’

  Neither Sebastian nor Theron answered that, though Belwynn was sure they both knew the answer. Their grip on Kalinth was already slipping, and it would take very little for them to lose it completely.

  They left Chobo and shadowed the Lipper coast, using the oars to row farther south. After two days they rounded the southernmost tip of Dalriya, a rocky land where strange animals roamed the shoreline. Great fat creatures that Sebo called suliks lounged on the rocks, then suddenly dived into the sea. Farred saw that underwater they became agile and powerful, and worried that they might attack the ships, before Sebo laughed off his concerns.

  Once Red Serpent turned to the north, Sebo unfurled the sails. Until now the crew deck had had little to do, but now their experience was needed to steer the ship and adjust the sails. Sebo was in his element at the centre of things, shouting out orders. At times orders were relayed to the rowers to row hard to get the ship moving again. At others they could rest, as the sails caught the wind and Red Serpent effortlessly cut through the waves.

  In the afternoon Sebo gave himself a break, relinquishing the helm to his second in command.

  ‘It’s easy to make a mistake when you are tired,’ said Sebo, by way of explanation to Farred.

  ‘We seem to be making good time,’ Farred observed. Indeed, while he could see ships to the rear of Red Serpent, there appeared to be none ahead of them.

  ‘Aye, the wind is on our side now. There are few hazards, save not to stray out too far to sea.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘My charts tell me to stay clear of the Asrai, who dwell out in the Lantinen.’

  ‘The Asrai?’ repeated Farred. This was the name given to a people by the Caladri wise man, Szabolcs, who had said that they took a weapon to the fight with the Isharites. But no-one in that meeting seemed to know who or where they were.

  ‘Before you ask,’ said Sebo, ‘I’ve never seen ‘em, nor has anyone I know who isn’t a drunk or a liar. I just know them from stories and what’s on my charts, drawn up by explorers.’r />
  Despite Sebo’s words of caution, Farred grew excited at the possibility that he had stumbled onto something.

  ‘Could you show me these charts?’ he asked Sebo.

  The captain gave him a look.

  ‘This to do with those weapons?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It could be.’

  Sebo reluctantly set off to grab his charts, coming straight back with them. The parchments he brought back looked new.

  ‘I had them copied,’ said Sebo, as if reading his mind. ‘With the best will in the world, everything gets wet on a sea voyage. I never bring originals with me. Anyhow, I have two maps which reference the area. Here,’ he said, passing Farred the first and pointing to the location.

  The word Asrai was written in an area of sea out to the west of Dalriya and south of Halvia. Next to the text a hand had been drawn, apparently reaching out from the ocean.

  ‘And here,’ he added, passing a second map.

  This time the text spelt ‘Ashray’ rather than Asrai. It was written in a similar location, next to what looked like a collection of small islands.

  ‘And why avoid this area?’ Farred asked.

  ‘All Caladri seamen are told to avoid it because it belongs to the Asrai. Various stories say that the Asrai will pull a ship under the water and drown everyone aboard. Or capture the crew and make them work as slaves, never to return home. Or some other variation. With no reason to sail in that direction, no modern mariner that I know of has taken the risk.’

  ‘And what if there is a reason to go?’ asked Farred.

  ‘Then still, neither I nor anyone I know would do it.’

  With that, Sebo took back his charts.

  The Caladri ships harboured on a beach that Sebo said was in the far northwest of the Lipper peninsula. There was no history of trade here and the local inhabitants, if they knew of their presence at all, stayed away.