The Jalakh Bow Page 27

  Cyprian ran back to their camp from the direction of the farm.

  ‘Soldiers coming!’ he declared, then looked at their faces. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s soldiers coming from every direction,’ Zared said, a sad smile on his face.

  They stood together, weapons drawn. No-one asked Clarin what they should do. They knew there was no answer.

  Clarin pulled the sackcloth off the Shield of Persala, inspecting its decorated leather surface, before putting the strap around his shoulder. If it came to a fight, at least he would get to use the shield once—get to see exactly what it could do.

  The three forces closed in on them, in a perfectly executed trap.

  ‘They must have known we were coming here,’ murmured Tamir, the tall Barbarian chief hefting a long spear.

  The Barbarians were ready to go down. So too were Rudy and Jurgen; the Dog-men; and Zared’s Persaleians. Men who had suffered and weren’t scared of death if it was coming. Duilio’s ten men looked more nervous, but held their weapons at the ready nonetheless.

  The first two divisions stopped some fifty yards away, but the third, from the farm, kept coming closer, until they too came to a halt.

  Four figures detached themselves from the front line and strode farther towards them. They were strange companions, but all Clarin could really focus on was one of the men in the middle of the group.

  Because it was his brother. It was Herin.

  Shock slammed into Clarin at the sight of his brother. Herin caught his eye, smiling sardonically at him. But Clarin pushed the shock away. Maybe it was because he was holding his sword, Cutter, and his new shield, ready for battle, that he was able to do so. Some of the others: Rudy, and Cyprian, called out to Herin in greeting. But Clarin knew better. He knew Herin too well to mistake the look on his face, to mistake what this was.

  ‘Hello brother,’ Herin said.

  ‘I looked for you. For weeks. We all did,’ Clarin said, waving his sword at his friends.

  ‘I knew you would,’ said Herin. ‘I’m sorry. But I knew you would leave me in the end. And you did.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Because while I was stuck in the mines with all of you, I realised a truth. The Isharites are going to win this war. And, so the old saying goes, if you can’t beat them, join them. I knew none of you would be willing to follow where I had to go. You would have tried to stop me, Clarin. You would have come with me, and tried to change my mind. It was better this way.’

  Clarin shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe I would have. I’m glad you’re alive, by the way. But you’re wrong. Very wrong. We’ve already killed Erkindrix. We’re going to destroy the Isharites. And that means we’ll destroy you, too.’

  ‘With that shield?’ Herin asked, a smug look on his face.

  He turned to the creature next to him and nodded. The creature was Drobax-like, but larger. It reached into a bag it was carrying and dragged out a bloody mass, holding it by the hair. It took Clarin a moment to process what he was looking at, before the creature presented it to them, holding it out for them all to see. It was a decapitated head—Mark’s head.

  Zared let out a bellow of rage, but his men acted quickly, grabbing him, pulling him to the ground before he could run at Herin.

  ‘Someone’s upset,’ said the creature.

  Gasps of horror met this statement. Clarin couldn’t help but stare in revulsion, bile rising to his throat. A Drobax that could speak?

  ‘What kind of abomination is that?’ Duilio demanded.

  ‘That’s not very nice,’ said the creature, casually dropping the head onto the ground.

  ‘This is Kull,’ said Herin. ‘Did you ever wonder why there were just men in the mines in Samir Durg? Well, now you know why. Your womenfolk were busy breeding with the Drobax to produce a superior stock. Something Ardashir had been working on apparently—Diis protect his soul. Drobax with the strength of humans, who can talk, and think. The new officer class of the Drobax army.’

  Now it was the turn of the Barbarians to curse and rage, moving forward threateningly. It must have been their tribes who had been used by Ardashir in such a hideous way.

  Herin held a hand up. ‘Please. Gods, I’m not saying I approve. No offence to you, Kull, but the whole thing disgusts me.’

  Kull put on a hurt face, his expression and mannerisms oddly human.

  ‘But it takes me back to my original point,’ Herin continued. ‘The Isharites are going to win. It doesn’t matter what I think about it. They’ve already destroyed the Krykkers, destroyed the fleet of the Sea Caladri. Kalinth is about to fall. There’s really no-one left to stop them. I’m not going to die trying. Neither should you.’

  ‘They should all die,’ said another voice.

  Clarin turned his attention to the other two men standing with Herin. Next to him was a flame haired human. At the end of the line was an Isharite, who stared at them with hatred under the hood of his black cloak. He was the one who had spoken. Neither man wore mail. Both, Clarin suspected, could be wizards. Herin had not just brought an army with him, but magic users too.

  ‘What do you want?’ Clarin asked reluctantly.

  ‘Mark and his men are dead. No-one is coming to help you. All I want is the shield. You can all walk free. Now, I know you’re not going to agree to that. I can see it in your eyes, all of you. This is what will happen. I will send my Haskan soldiers and Drobax against you, Rimmon and Peroz here will use some pretty terrifying magic, too. You’ll fight well. Clarin, we’ll all get to see what that shield does. No doubt it will turn you into an even mightier killing machine than you already are. But you’ll die in the end. And between you, you’ll kill, let’s be generous, a hundred of my soldiers. But I don’t care about them. I don’t even know their names. They won’t be missed. I’ll be more upset about your deaths, to be honest.’

  Clarin glanced at his men, back to Herin and his lieutenants. Nothing Herin had said was untrue. Where was he going with this?

  ‘So, here’s my offer. I swear on our father’s life that it is a faithful one. No-one dies here but you or I. We fight one another for the shield. You don’t get to use it in the fight, of course,’ Herin said with a smile. ‘That would be unfair. The winner gets the shield. The losing army walks away. If I lose, my forces leave and let all of you go free, to fight another day. If I win, I let your men leave Persala in peace.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Peroz, spitting with fury. ‘I order you to kill them all now. You will be punished severely for this.’

  ‘See,’ said Herin, turning to the Isharite, ‘I don’t think so. If I win, I’m giving Siavash the Shield of Persala and the head of King Mark. I don’t think he’s going to care about my methods. If I lose, all he’ll have to punish is a corpse.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Clarin!’ Zared, surrounded by his men, was crouching on the ground, his face raw with anger and grief. He’d only been reunited with his father three days ago. Herin had taken Mark from him. ‘We’re ready to die.’

  ‘How did you know we were here?’ Clarin asked his brother.

  ‘Siavash knew as soon as you left Heractus.’

  All this time? Clarin said to himself. They’d let them get the shield from Baserno, just waiting to take it from them.

  ‘Like I said, Kalinth is about to fall, if it hasn’t already.’

  Clarin looked at Herin, fear and anger boiling inside him. ‘Belwynn is in Heractus,’ he hissed.

  At least Herin had the grace to look apologetic. ‘I’m sorry about that. Then you may still have a chance to save her. Throwing away your life now gets you nothing, save a sense of false heroism.’

  ‘Alright, brother,’ Clarin said, unable to avoid putting heavy sarcasm into the second word. ‘I’ll fight you.’

  ‘No!’ said Zared, storming over, pushing away those who tried to stop him. ‘You think we can trust these bastards!?’

  ‘We’ve agreed to it,’ said the red-haired Haskan, speaking up for the first time.
‘we’ve sworn to respect the outcome of the fight.’

  Clarin held up a hand as Zared reached him. ‘Listen,’ he said quietly, just for the young man to hear. ‘If you’re right, if it’s all a trick, then we all die anyway, the outcome’s exactly the same. If it isn’t, you and your men escape this. Persala gets a new king-in-exile. Your father’s fight carries on. You have to take that chance, Zared.’

  Zared looked at him, pain visible in his features. He didn’t say anything, but he turned and walked away, rejoining his men.

  Clarin pulled the strap over his head and laid the Shield on the floor. Herin drew his own sword, built from dark blue coloured diatine crystal, and walked over to meet him. He saw Clarin looking at his weapon, before smiling.

  ‘So, we both fight with these things now,’ he said.

  ‘I’m stronger than you, brother,’ Clarin warned him. ‘You know I’ll beat you.’

  Herin’s smile disappeared. ‘We’ll see, Clarin.’

  They backed away from each other, preparing to begin. When Clarin looked over at Herin, he couldn’t help but step back in time. As a child he had idolised Herin, desperate to learn sword-craft from his father just like him. When he grew big enough, he had had two teachers, his father and his older brother, and he had loved every minute of it. Loved travelling around Dalriya and working with Herin, content to let his brother make all the decisions for them because he was so happy they were together.

  Well, times had changed. He had to forget the past. Herin had made a decision that he could never follow, and now he had to kill him.

  They closed in on each other, both holding their swords two-handed. Herin was more aggressive than Clarin had expected, trying to land a blow from the outset, and Clarin had to defend and keep moving, before he was able to counter-attack, using his strength to push Herin away.

  Men from both sides shouted encouragement, advice and insults, but the noise soon faded into the background. It became just Herin and Clarin. They had sparred together countless times, knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses intimately. Clarin could never have guessed that he would ever have to use that knowledge to kill his brother.

  Herin came at him fast again, feinting high and then spinning his blade low. Clarin’s attempted block didn’t go low enough and Herin’s blade landed, rasping his ankles. Herin had left himself open, though, and Clarin was able to give him an elbow in the face before he leapt away. Now Herin let Clarin come on to him, moving left to right, forward to back. This was more Herin’s way, using his speed and agility to entice Clarin into making a mistake, or if none came, slowly tiring out his bigger opponent. Clarin gave him nothing. He stuck to his form, not doing anything rash, not wasting energy. But his blows were that bit heavier, that bit more dangerous than Herin’s, and he only needed one to get through.

  Herin advanced again, plunging his sword with incredible accuracy into the gap above Clarin’s right greave. A sharp, burning pain erupted where the crystal blade struck. But again, Herin’s aggression gave Clarin the chance to land a blow of his own. Herin pulled his sword up to block his head and the top of his body, but Clarin put all of his weight into a mighty blow that crunched onto Herin’s thigh, twisting the armour. Herin pulled away, but Clarin was satisfied to see that he was now limping. His brother’s movement was compromised, and Clarin had the advantage.

  Maybe that realisation was what prompted Herin to launch another, reckless attack. He moved inside Clarin’s swing, thrusting his blade up, piercing through chain mail and into Clarin’s armpit. Clarin lurched to the side, delivering a massive two-handed swing that connected square on with Herin’s bicep. Herin pulled away. He still held his sword, but it dangled limply. He could no longer move his arm.

  This was it. His brother could no longer move properly, or swing his sword. Herin transferred the weapon into his left hand, not looking like he was ready to give in. But he couldn’t win from here.

  Clarin was sweating profusely from the fight. He felt his face burning up. He edged towards Herin, who backed off now, wary of getting involved in another exchange after coming off worse each time. Clarin darted forwards in an effort to close the gap, but Herin anticipated it, scurrying away.

  Clarin felt dizzy now. He had to stop to get his breath back.

  Herin waited, watching him closely, not making a move of his own.

  Clarin hefted his sword up, readying himself for a final effort. He tried to wipe away the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. His sword suddenly weighed a ton. Then, it slowly dawned on him, his mind so foggy that his thoughts travelled at a snail’s pace. This wasn’t normal. Herin had only scratched him three times.

  Poison.

  His brother must have put poison on his blade. That was why he had attacked so much, why he had been prepared to take Clarin’s blows. Because each cut Herin had made had put more poison into Clarin’s bloodstream.

  Clarin turned to face his friends. They won’t have realised. He had to warn them. But his throat had constricted and he couldn’t get any words out.

  Now Herin came for him, slowly, stalking like a cat with a baby bird. Clarin could barely focus on Herin’s approach, his eyes watery, his gaze hazy.

  Herin skipped towards him. Clarin tried to swing out, but his legs were jelly and he tottered forwards, dropping to his hands and knees, his sword sliding from his grasp.

  This was unfair. If he was going to be killed by his own brother, at least let it be from a fair fight. Not this way.

  Not like this.

  He looked up, trying to make his eyes focus.

  A blurry black shape came towards him.

  The last thing Clarin saw was the sole of Herin’s boot.

  Rescue

  XXIII

  BELWYNN! WHERE ARE YOU? came a shout. It took her a moment to process it. Part of her mind told her it must be Theron, but it didn’t sound like him.

  Soren!?

  We’re here, he added. Where are you? he repeated.

  I’m with the Madrians. The— she panicked, desperate to get her words out, struggling to describe her situation so that he would understand. The infantry on the battlefield. The ones who are still fighting.

  Right. We’re coming.

  Hold on! she directed her soldiers. Reinforcements are coming.

  Theron? she shouted. Soren is here!

  Seconds passed without a reply, and she feared he was dead, but then she heard his voice.

  Good, he said, no doubt struggling to talk to her while fighting. Stay alive, Belwynn.

  Belwynn was now forced to fight as the Madrians were surrounded and one by one, pulled down and killed. Philon fought by her side, more than once stopping a blow that would likely have killed her. She tried to keep the rhythmic work of the Madrians going—left arm shield, right arm spear—but they were tiring now, and the truth was few of them were soldiers.

  It was hardly noticeable at first, but the pressure on them slowly started to ease. Then, it became clear that the Drobax on the left had started to reduce in number. They began to disappear altogether. Belwynn looked over in that direction and saw three figures walking towards them. Three figures she knew very well.

  Soren held aloft Onella’s Staff, and around him was a large, invisible shield of magic, which the Drobax couldn’t penetrate. It was just the same as the spell he had used in the Wilderness to defend against the vossi, rebuffing all attempts by the Drobax to penetrate it.

  Next to him was Gyrmund, the two men leaning on each other for support as they slowly approached. Gyrmund held a bow, and was loosing arrow after arrow at the Drobax. Each time he released the string, a thrum echoed across the battlefield. It was a sound that Belwynn realised she had been hearing in the background for some time now. Each arrow sped from the bow at a frightening velocity, and each seemed to find its mark, puncturing through flesh and armour alike, embedding in Drobax chests and skulls.

  Ahead of them Moneva led the way, her two short swords drawn. Whenever a Drobax got too close
and was repulsed by Soren’s magic, she was there to strike it down, moving the corpses out of the way so that they didn’t trip the other two.

  They continued to advance, clearing a path through to Belwynn and the Madrians. The ground was littered with Drobax pierced by arrows from Gyrmund’s bow, and yet he still had more to fire.

  ‘The Jalakh Bow,’ Belwynn whispered to herself as she watched them approach.

  The Drobax had had enough. No longer willing to stand and wait for their turn to be killed, they turned and ran away. It turned into a wider rout. On both sides of the battlefield, Belwynn could see the Drobax detaching from the knights and running back the way they had come.

  She walked over to her brother, each collapsing with exhaustion into each other, no need for words. Pulling herself away, she embraced first Moneva, then Gyrmund.

  ‘You got the bow then?’ she asked.

  Gyrmund smiled ruefully. ‘Not a moment too soon.’

  ‘Your fingers!’ said Belwynn, staring where the skin had been rubbed off and was red raw.

  ‘Hmm, don’t think I’ve ever fired that many arrows at once,’ he said, keeping his smile.

  ‘I’m sorry about Elana, Belwynn,’ said Moneva. ‘The creature is here?’

  Belwynn nodded, pointing to the other side of the battlefield, where the enemy was located, still not defeated. ‘The creature is Siavash,’ she told them.

  Soren’s face twisted up, full of hatred.

  ‘Then let’s waste no more time.’

  ‘It isn’t Siavash himself,’ Belwynn tried to explain. ‘He has somehow occupied the body of Prince Dorian. Tycho struck him with a sword before the battle. It didn’t do anything. I think, because the body is already dead.’

  She watched their faces register this: repulsed, fearful, hate-fuelled. They all knew they had to kill the creature.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she asked them.

  They turned around, looking towards the left flank of the army. Two figures were heading in their direction. One was Tycho, hobbling as he walked and grimacing in pain as he leaned on the second man.