The Jalakh Bow Page 17

  He heard a whisper from Moneva and moved over to the blanket that hung over the top of the wall. As he did, he saw Soren’s head emerging on the other side of the wall. Soren kept on rising, revealing his shoulders, chest and legs, all the while maintaining a perfectly straight face. He floated right over the wall and then down next to Gyrmund. Gyrmund shook his head, grabbing his side of the blanket and telling Moneva to climb over. He had seen Soren do many things he had not thought possible, and he had never got used to it.

  ‘Well?’ he asked when Moneva had made her own way over the wall.

  ‘Nothing, really,’ said Soren. ‘Moneva is perfectly correct, it’s not there. Which means it may well not be in Tosongat at all. It could be kept by a particular tribe...We need to think carefully about our next move before we do anything else.’

  Next morning Gyrmund awoke early. He left the yurt he shared with Moneva and Soren. He stretched, wondering what to do with himself.

  Some of the Oligud warriors had allowed him to join in with their archery training yesterday, and he was pleased to have demonstrated enough skill that they had invited him back today. The composite bows, the weapon the Jalakhs were famous for, were not much different to his own longbow to use. However, he would never possess the skill of the Jalakhs, who were taught to ride and shoot from a young age. Gyrmund was content with staying on his feet.

  He spied Bolormaa, sat around a fire with a group of Oligud women. He edged over. He knew that Soren and Moneva were not keen on involving her in the search for the Jalakh Bow. But maybe, if he was careful, he could find something out.

  ‘Come!’ she called over to him.

  He sat down next to her. On the fire was a pot of Jalakh tea and without asking him, Bolormaa scooped a cup into it and handed it to Gyrmund. He thanked her, though that was out of politeness. It was very milky, salty rather than sweet, and Gyrmund had not acquired a taste for it. The women were preparing meat, which would be tossed into the tea later on for the midday meal.

  ‘How long until the Great Contest is done?’ he asked her, sipping at his drink.

  ‘No-one knows for sure. A champion must last for seven days to become khan. If there is no champion, the Contest finishes at the end of this month. That’s in twelve days.’

  Gyrmund thought about this. ‘So, a champion wins a bout. He is then challenged the next day, and the day after, and so on, for seven days? He will get tired, pick up injuries, while each day he faces a fresh warrior?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Then it is almost impossible to become khan. That is why you have told Gansukh to wait until late on to enter the Contest? That is his best chance.’

  ‘Yes. But many will adopt such a strategy. It is still virtually impossible to last for seven days. Then, as I say, the tribes return to their lands until next year.’

  Gyrmund thought some more. ‘When was the last time the Jalakhs had a khan?’

  ‘Over sixty years ago.’

  Sixty years since the Jalakhs had a ruler? This was a strange people. ‘Surely people can’t be happy with this system?’

  Bolormaa turned towards him. ‘I am not very happy, Gyrmund, but some people are. With no khan, the tribal leaders have no authority above themselves. With no khan, there are no wars to fight. Many tribes like things exactly the way they are. And if Gansukh were to win two or three bouts, these tribes will send their best warriors in against him, until one of them cuts him down.’

  ‘Then why is he entering the contest?’

  ‘Because,’ she said fiercely, ‘Gansukh wishes to be khan!’

  Clearly, it wasn’t only Gansukh who wished it. His mother did, too. A thought crossed Gyrmund’s mind.

  ‘Did Gansukh’s father enter the Contest?’ he asked.

  ‘He fell on day five.’ She said it in a matter-of-fact way, but he could feel the pride and fury that she tried to hide.

  Gyrmund sipped on his tea, thinking so hard that he didn’t even notice the taste.

  ‘We could help him,’ Gyrmund suggested, quietening his voice so that only she could hear.

  Bolormaa’s eyes locked on to his with an intense look.

  ‘And what,’ she asked slowly, ‘would you want in return?’

  Here it was. Their opportunity to get help, or the moment the Jalakhs turned on them. Gyrmund looked back to the yurt, but Soren and Moneva were still asleep. It was his call.

  ‘We want the Jalakh Bow.’

  She cackled then, a sound of surprise and genuine mirth.

  ‘You don’t want much, then.’

  ‘Is it here? In Tosongat?’

  ‘Is it here?’ she repeated his question, a sly look on her face. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  ‘Could you get it for us?’

  Bolormaa’s humour faded away, replaced by a deadly serious look. ‘If you help Gansukh to become khan, he will give you the Jalakh Bow. This is the only chance you will have of getting it, I should add. So. Do we have a deal?’

  Bolormaa offered her hand. Hesitating only briefly, Gyrmund reached out and they shook. She broke out into a big smile. ‘Wonderful!’ she cried. She grabbed his head in both hands, pulling him in. At first Gyrmund thought she was going to land a kiss, but instead she pulled his head down and sniffed the top of it, before letting him go.

  ‘You haven’t asked me why we want the bow,’ he noted.

  ‘The Jalakh Steppe is remote, yes,’ Bolormaa said. ‘But remember, we are neighbours of the Isharites. I am not ignorant of what they are. The Jalakhs need a khan now, more than ever. And those who oppose Diis need weapons to do so.’

  Gyrmund nodded. ‘I think I may have underestimated you, Bolormaa.’

  She flashed him a smile. ‘You are very wise, Gyrmund. One thing. You must never speak to Gansukh of our deal. He is a very proud man.’

  Gyrmund nodded. No doubt khans didn’t like it said that their mothers helped them get the job. He looked over at his yurt again. There were a couple of people he should tell about this deal. He just hoped they would understand.

  Soren watched Gansukh ride into the roped off arena. He approached the area where Soren was seated, surrounded by the members of the Oligud tribe, and raised his sword. The Oligud screamed and cheered, banging drums so loudly the noise reverberated around his skull. It hardly made his mood any better, and he stared balefully at Gyrmund, who was clearly responsible for all of this, while Gyrmund studiously avoided making eye contact.

  Gansukh’s opponent was already there, eliciting a similar response from his own supporters, the Yahmet tribe. He had already won two bouts, and was considered to be a tough first opponent for Gansukh.

  The shout went out and the two warriors went for each other, blades whirling at incredible speeds, horses agile and clever, seeming to understand what their riders wanted them to do.

  Soren felt the nudge of power, buffeting Gansukh’s horse, trying to disrupt his sword arm. Soren pressed back, protecting Gansukh from the attacks. The two warriors continued to fight, trying to find an opening in each other’s defences, too focused to be aware of this secondary contest. They were evenly matched. It seemed wrong, somehow, to interfere in this fight. But if this was truly the only way to get the bow, he had to do it.

  Soren went on the offensive, weakening the strength of the other warrior’s blows, reducing their speed. The Yahmet wizard, whoever they were, reacted violently, pushing back with force. But now a third force entered the fray. It began to work with Soren. If Soren defended the Yahmet attack, they went on the offensive. If Soren tried to impair the Yahmet warrior, this third power focused on defending Gansukh.

  Then, suddenly, it was all over. Gansukh launched a flurry of strikes and his opponent was too slow to counter them. The first landed, then a second, then a third rattled through one of the slits in the helmet, the blade crunching through bone into brain, killing the Yahmet warrior almost instantly.

  Gansukh celebrated his victory and the Oliguds cheered wildly for their hero.

&nb
sp; Soren looked about him. Somewhere among this group the Oligud had a magic user of their own.

  Bolormaa approached him, a sly kind of smile on her face.

  And then it clicked.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, as she sat next to him.

  ‘Well done, Soren,’ she replied. ‘I knew your life was worth saving. Now, all we need to do is keep my son alive for seven days.’

  It was a strained journey across the Lantinen Sea. They all wanted to get back as quickly as possible, and fears about what was happening in Dalriya made people anxious and short-tempered. Maragin and Hakonin perhaps felt it the most, since they were absent when their clans needed their leadership.

  Kharovian ships could be seen to the north, tracking their movements, still not making a move of their own. Their presence added to the tension on board, and Rabigar let out a sigh of relief when he saw the Krykker coast come into view.

  When they had docked, they immediately went their separate ways. Farred left for the south, travelling to the lands of men to warn them of the new threat. Hakonin remained, to guard the coast from the Kharovian threat. Maragin and Rabigar took half of Hakonin’s Swarten soldiers and headed east, to the border threatened by the Isharites. They would pick up her soldiers from the Grendal clan on the way. They had to hope that when they got there, the border was still intact.

  Before they reached the border, they met a defeated army coming the other way. The first few soldiers could be seen emerging from the tree-line ahead of them, and the two forces came together in a rock-strewn mountain clearing. The retreat seemed orderly enough, but Rabigar could see the panic in Krykker eyes and the relief at seeing Maragin with her Grendals.

  ‘I need to speak with the leaders. Gather them here!’ she shouted.

  The troops under Maragin’s command were ordered to help carry the supplies and the wounded. Keeping the Krykkers moving was essential, because it wasn’t clear how far behind the enemy were.

  It was a sorry looking group that appeared to speak with Maragin. Jodivig, the new chief of the Dramsens, looked fraught and out of his depth. Kelemen, the Grand Caladri governor, was also there, leading the remnants of his people.

  ‘Where’s Guremar?’ Maragin demanded.

  Guremar’s clan, the Plengas, controlled this area.

  ‘He stayed behind with a group of our soldiers,’ said a Krykker Rabigar didn’t recognise. ‘He said he would hold them off while we escaped, otherwise it would turn into a massacre. I—I don’t think there will be any survivors.’

  ‘Shit,’ Rabigar muttered under his breath. There was no love lost between himself and Guremar, but he was one of the strongest clan leaders. If he was gone, that put even more responsibility onto Maragin’s shoulders.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Maragin.

  ‘A huge Drobax army entered our forest,’ explained Kelemen. ‘There was no stopping them, we were forced to retreat west into Plengas lands. Guremar raised an army and led it to the border. He prepared well enough, using the high ground. I thought the Drobax would give up, our position seemed impregnable. But then the dragon came—’ He stopped, as if unable to continue. But no-one else stepped in. ‘It flew above our position. We fired some missiles, but we didn’t have many. Nothing stopped it. It flew over and blasted fire, again and again. We had no protection, it killed scores each time it passed. That’s when Guremar ordered the retreat.’

  Drobax and a dragon. What could the Krykkers do against such monsters? Rabigar looked at Maragin as she looked at him. They both knew the answer.

  ‘I need to see,’ he said. ‘I need to see them before I leave.’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Maragin.

  It went quiet. Clearly, not a popular request.

  ‘I’ll take you,’ said a voice.

  Rabigar turned. Standing behind Jodivig, so that Rabigar hadn’t even seen him, was Stenk, the young Dramsen Krykker he had befriended. Stenk, after some persuasion, had arrested Rabigar upon his return to his homeland last year. They had fought side by side against the Isharites in Haskany. Rabigar was happy to see him alive.

  ‘You’re the perfect man for the job,’ he said to Stenk. ‘Now, you just need to take us close enough so that we can see them, then you turn around and come back to join this army, understand?’

  ‘Keep moving,’ Maragin said to the rest. ‘We’ll catch up.’

  Rabigar pushed his face through the rock, looking carefully about. There were no Drobax. They were using the path twenty feet away to climb the mountain. It was high up here, high enough to burn the lungs of Krykker folk, never mind creatures such as Drobax, whose bodies weren’t used to it. There was no reason for them to come this way anymore.

  He pushed through, emerging fully from the rock while glancing at the sky above. By the time Stenk had shown them this location, the dragon was gone. It had perhaps found somewhere to rest. Rabigar didn’t know anything about dragons, but he imagined that flying around at this altitude, casting fire, was exhausting.

  Maragin pushed through the same section of rock. Wordlessly, they began to look about. The floor was covered in a grey soot. Charred bodies littered the area where Guremar had made his stand. The place still stank of burned meat, and something about that upset Rabigar’s insides. He tried not to think about the suffering too much. But soldiers clad in metal armour, exposed to fire of these temperatures, would have died in agony. They had come to bear witness, and to check for survivors, however unlikely. Clearly, there were none here. If Guremar had Rock Walkers with him, they may have been able to escape. But there was nothing else they could do now.

  ‘We’d better head back,’ he said to Maragin. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘We have no choice,’ she said, and he already knew that. ‘We must order the tunnels closed and we must evacuate.’

  The underground tunnels and caverns were the last line of defence for the Krykkers. They could explode the tunnel entrances, creating an underground lair that was virtually impregnable. Certainly, not a place a dragon could do any harm. But only a few Krykkers could live in those conditions for long. All the rest would have to leave their homeland.

  ‘I will lead the group who stays,’ he said to Maragin. ‘You will be needed elsewhere.’

  She smiled at him. He had thought he would never see that sight again. He stopped talking, so that her smile stayed on her face for as long as possible.

  ‘We both know that’s not going to happen. The Rock Walkers will follow me; not you. You are the one who claimed Bolivar’s Sword. You must see that through. You need to go back to Halvia to find the Spear.’

  ‘I don’t know that,’ he argued. ‘You can do all that instead of me. Here,’ he said, unbuckling the sword. ‘Take it.’

  The last thing Rabigar wanted was to see Maragin buried alive in the mountain caverns. That wasn’t the last image of her he wanted in his head.

  She snorted disdainfully. ‘Please, no romantic gestures at your age. It’s sad. I am the best person to lead the defence here; you must find the Spear; Hakonin must lead our people in Halvia. We both know those will be our roles, so stop wasting your breath.’

  Rabigar felt he had never loved, never respected her more than in that moment, when the chances of seeing her again suddenly dropped to virtually nil. Not that he had the right to feel sorry for himself. He had killed his chieftain. He had killed Maragin’s father. That act still—would always—stand between them. So Rabigar stopped wasting his breath, and they both returned to the rock.

  Consummatum Est

  XIV

  LYSSA SKIPPED ALONG THE STREET, pleased to have escaped the Temple.

  It wasn’t that she hated it there, exactly. The people were sort of kind. But they were always making her do things. She didn’t mind it so much when Belwynn made her read, because she liked spending time with her. But she hated it when the women kept making her learn to sew. In Korkis, she was used to doing what she wanted, when she wanted. She didn’t want to go back to that life. No way. I
t was just that, now and then, she needed some time to herself.

  Coronos was on guard duty at the castle.

  ‘Welcome back, Your Highness,’ he said to her, bowing deeply, before allowing her to pass through.

  Lyssa giggled at him. Walking into the castle did kind of make her feel like she was a princess, though.

  She went to the Tower where she shared a room with Belwynn, but half way there decided that she wasn’t in the mood to sit around. She’d much rather go exploring around the castle.

  She walked up and down the corridors. As she walked along she saw Queen Irina leaving the castle library and closing the door behind her. Irina turned to walk in her direction, and it was too late for Lyssa to change course, so she kept on walking towards her. When they passed Irina gave her the look of displeasure she always gave her, while Lyssa kept her eyes on her shoes.

  She kept on walking and stopped outside the library. She looked back down the corridor, waiting for Irina to disappear. The Queen was one of the few people who ever used the library, so there was a good chance it was empty now. Nervously, she turned the handle and peeked in.

  Yes! It was empty!

  Lyssa slipped inside. She liked the smell of the room. There were several shelves of books, and comfy chairs to sit on. She didn’t like the room because of the books, though. She liked it because of the secret door she had found.

  She went straight there now, pulling at the door that was painted to look like it contained shelves of books.

  No-one had exactly told Lyssa she wasn’t allowed to go into the secret passage. She knew that Belwynn hadn’t lived in the castle very long, and might not even know about the secret door to tell her not to go in. Queen Irina had lived here a long time. She might know about it. Maybe that was why she was here before? Anyway, whoever knew or didn’t know about it, to Lyssa it felt like a forbidden part of the castle.