SWNOVELS Iceblade: Chapter 18
SOME SOURCES SAY THERE was more to the Shadowblade’s purpose besides merely gaining power from the offerings of aspirant adepts, that he nurtured a thirst for revenge––but against whom is not known.
The story of Maratic, from the Eldaran archives.
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Marin insists our priority now is to prevent the attack on the Northlands. The Eldrin will guard the king until our return. I try not to think about what my fate will be if Sarinder dies before clearing my name.
We leave before dawn and ride hard, with barely enough breaks for the horses to drink from the streams and regain their wind. Lupine alerts us to the sea of armed men and warhorses moving slowly north ahead of us and we detour through the forest to get in front of them. We don’t dare to make camp until there is a good two hours’ distance between us.
Once ahead of the invasion force we slow the pace a little to be sure of reaching the Northlands with enough strength to fight. On the afternoon of the third day the Frostgrim mountain range comes into view above the stunted trees. The icy breath from the snowfields chills my face as we climb slowly towards the pass leading to the high plateau of the Northlands.
Marin signals to slow our pace. Northlander border patrols will be watching. We have to allow them time to report back to the Jarl of Raven Fortress who will decide how to receive us. Rather than risk the Northland scouts putting an arrow into Lupine, he sends her back to Blackthorn to keep watch over Deris.
I have heard that Northland clans can be a bit volatile and unpredictable when it comes to dealing with Southerners. I can’t help wondering whether our reception will involve welcoming banquets or a hail of arrows. I pull Sahan into step with Brac’s heavy gelding. The taciturn Northlander has never spoken voluntarily of his home and I have never previously tried to break through his habitual restraint. Now I feel the need to learn something useful.
“Do you know anything about Raven Fortress, Brac? What the people there are like?”
“Not been back since I left twelve year ago.”
So he would have been only fifteen when he left. I wish he looked more cheerful about the prospect of returning home. The hail of arrows version is starting to look more likely than banquets.
“Why did you leave?”
Silence for a few moments before he allows himself a gruff response.
“I killed the wrong man.”
“You mean, you killed a man you thought was guilty of something but you made a mistake?”
He makes a low growling which I assume is an effort to restrain his anger.
“He was guilty all right.”
“So why was he the wrong man?”
“He was the son of the Jarl of Raven Fortress.”
“Oh.”
As if things really needed to get any worse.
“Brac, that is somewhat inconvenient considering where we are currently heading. Shouldn’t you be disappearing into the hills until Marin has finished his diplomatic alliance-forming mission with Jarl Hagen?”
“Unlikely he’ll know who I am. I’ve changed a lot in twelve years. Marin needs me to interpret the kind of reaction we get. Whether they feel they can trust us. Or if we can trust them.”
I look critically at Brac’s bright russet hair and beard. That and his size and weight makes him stand out in the lands around the capital but I have seen enough Northlanders to know he will blend in fairly well now we are north of the Frostgrim. I hope.
“You going to tell me why you killed this person?”
Brac grunts disparagingly. “Because Skelder Jarlsson was a lying, cheating, thieving rapist––”
“Brac, you can’t go round killing people just because you disapprove of––”
“And he was trying to kidnap my little sister.”
“Oh. I suppose that makes a bit of a difference.”
“If it happened now I would have the skill and control to just damage him enough to bring him to justice. At the time I had neither and he was a lot bigger than me. So there wasn’t much precision involved.”
“And you lost your temper.”
He almost manages a smile. “I suppose that was an easy guess for someone with your kind of flashpoint. Skelder told me to run along home because he would bring her back after a week. When he’d finished with her. That’s when I lost it.”
“Didn’t your sister tell everyone you were defending her virtue and all that?”
He shrugs. “Of course. But Skelder never went anywhere without at least one of his slimy little friends along to back him up. The weasel-faced liar he’d brought with him that time ran for it as soon as I put a blade through his protector, told Hagen I had laid an ambush and my sister was lying to save me. You can imagine which story a bereaved father chooses to believe. My family lives in the next fylke to Raven and the only way to avoid a clan war was to either let Hagen take my head, or run. So I ran.”
I have a feeling Brac chose to answer my question because it delivers a kind of warning tale to show the complications that arise from losing your temper. I am already painfully aware of the principle but at least it feels encouraging to think that if Brac finally got control of his, there may be hope for me yet. I decide not to intrude on his past any further.
The trail is rough and stony. I can see why the Emperor decided to build a proper wagon road to get the gold out more efficiently. I suspect the current lack of a decent surface is not entirely due to Northland neglect. It probably helps to keep the flow of wealth within the limits these wild fiefdoms can handle.
Perhaps the limited transport link was also something that served to reassure Tandarion that his northern semi-independent subjects were not getting too powerful and becoming a threat. All that will be thrown out of balance if every scrap of the wealth gets carted south and shipped to Rapathia.
The snow mountains loom high above us now. The trail runs alongside the river that cuts through the range and steep cliffs rise on either side of the narrow valley. Another hour of climbing and the gaunt grey walls of Raven Fortress tower above the track like buttresses emerging from the crag itself. The perfect place for an ambush. My shoulders prickle in anticipation of flying arrows or falling boulders.
Marin halts at the foot of a narrow switchback leading to the main gate. We don’t have to wait long. A solitary rider spurs his horse from a guardhouse built into a cleft in the rock and confronts us.
“Name your purpose for troubling Jarl Hagen. Eldrin patrols have no call to be here in the Free Lands.”
Marin speaks quietly yet his words carry the weight of a kingdom.
“We bring warning. An invading army is already marching north to attack your lands. If you wish to remain independent and not a slave state of Rapathia, we need to speak with Hagen. Now.”
The guard takes barely a moment to acknowledge that something bigger than the usual internecine clan rivalry is going on here. He raises his arm and I catch several flickers of movement in the rocks above as archers lower their bows. He turns and leads the way up the twisting path and through the solid arch of the main gate.
Dark stone walls rise either side of the steep cobbled approach, casting deep shadows at every turn. The outer guard houses cluster around the foot of the main building that dominates the whole fortress, tight arrow slits the only features on the sheer surface. There is a brooding sense of threat here, as if the bare walls are unwilling to communicate whatever politic awaits us within.
Our escort signals the guards either side of the main entrance to step back and let us pass, and then pushes to open the heavy wood and iron door. It leads into a spacious hall with heavy beams supporting the roof, lit by dozens of torches in iron brackets on either side. No luxuries here. The rough-cut stone of the walls is empty of hangings or paintings.
Every warrior not on lookout detail must be here, gathered on either side of the long hall. All heavily armed. Although they make no move, the torchlight catches on polished breastplates and greaves and gives the impression that the whole garrison is poised, ready to spring into action at the first sign of threat. The hall carries its own message already.
Their scouts have been watching us for a while.
Jarl Hagen occupies the carved oak chair at the head of the room with an arrogant slouch. His long hair and beard remind me of dark straw, anchored in untidy braids. His leather clothing is trimmed with rough bear fur and covered with a heavy steel breastplate. Gold and steel bands circle naked hairy arms corded with more muscle than I have seen even on Brac. I suppose that comes from a life based at the main guard post to a country whose gold has often been the target of would-be raiders.
The Northman guiding us steps aside, beating a mailed fist to his chest.
“Marin al Valaran seeks audience. He brings two other Eldaran knights and a Sylvani warrior.”
The Jarl stares at Marin for a few moments in a way that is not particularly friendly. It occurs to me that the archaic way of describing us reflects an unwillingness to acknowledge the fact that history has moved on. The idea of a unified kingdom to the south is perhaps less comfortable than the scattering of separate petty fiefdoms dominated by the Knights of Eldaran many centuries ago.
Marin starts to speak and his description of the powerful and ruthless Rapathian Empire closing on the Northland borders makes recent history seem positively benign by comparison.
“THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO make their demands and declare war first!” Hagen slams a beefy fist on the arm of his chair. He has been drinking heavily during the whole meeting and it hasn’t done his temper any good at all.
“The Emperor puts expediency and profit before protocol and integrity I’m afraid.” Marin is doing his best to keep the irascible Jarl from summoning every man from guard duty and charging out to meet the intruders before the day is over. I can see why Brac decided not to stick around and risk Hagen’s idea of justice twelve years ago. If only Deris were here with his persuasive talent, but according to Nem there had been no change in his condition by the time she left Blackthorn.
Marin steers the subject back to his main point.
“If the invaders force the Samarians and Northlanders to fight it out until both armies are destroyed, any survivors will be slaves forever. We can replace the traitor generals in the Samarian army, but we need your help to trap the Rapathians in the gorge below this fortress. Even if we regain control of our army, the invaders will outnumber us three to one until Northland reinforcements get here.”
Hagen doesn’t seem convinced. “Why should we trust you? It could just be one of Tandarion’s plans to use our warriors to do his fighting for him. Then he can help himself to a bigger share of our gold.”
I groan inwardly. We have already been round this twice. I can understand the suspicion a scattering of squabbling clans must feel about a more developed and powerful kingdom, but I really hope Hagen doesn’t have to see the kind of devastation the Rapathians can visit on an unsuspecting country before he sees the need to work together.
Then it gets worse. Hagen’s eyes narrow as he watches Marin.
“I heard there are several Northlanders serving with the Eldrin like your lieutenant here.” His eyes roam briefly to Brac and then back to Marin. “I even heard that one of them might be Leif Brantac. Do you really expect us to trust you when you’re shielding wanted criminals from the Free lands? Hand over the murderer as proof of your good faith. Then maybe we can discuss risking our lives together.”
Throughout this discussion I have been checking nervously to see if Hagen already knows or guesses that his quarry is already here with us and I don’t think he does. He must know there isn’t time for Marin to summon anyone from Maratic––and the Rapathians could be here by tomorrow night.
Seems like personal vendettas aren’t just a bad habit of Rapathian aristocrats. Or Blade adepts. I’m not keen on the kind of company my habit associates me with.
Marin waits, maybe hoping Hagen will see that his demand is suicidal and find a way to back off. He doesn’t.
Marin sighs, making a visible effort to remain calm. “Hagen, you know there is no time for this. Can we discuss it after we have defeated the invaders?”
There is a long silence. Then to my horror, Brac steps forward to face the Jarl.
“Hagen, you seem prepared to sacrifice your lands and your people just t’ get revenge for your son. Problem is, my family lives in the next fylke––which will be destroyed the day after the Rapathian hordes sweep through here and kill every one of your warriors. If my life is the price for getting you to act like a true leader and protect your people and your land, then so be it. I’m Leif Brantac. And I am not going to make any apologies for killing Skelder t’ protect my sister.”
I see the moment of shock on Hagen’s face. He really hadn’t figured out Brac’s identity. I shoot a desperate look at Marin. Surely he won’t give up his friend as payment for help? Then I think of the thousands of lives at stake here. I am so glad this is not the sort of decision I have to make.
A murmur of voices and movement runs through the warriors gathered in the room. I can feel the tension building. I don’t understand it but I have an uncomfortable feeling the whole clan may be about to start screaming for Brac’s blood.
I feel Marin’s hand grip my wrist. I am already grasping the handle of the knife at my belt. He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
This place is insane and Marin seems prepared to go along with the insanity––
Hagen clamps his hand on the hilt of his longsword, and then throws back his head to let out a great guffaw of laughter. He looks Brac up and down.
“Well, who’d have thought it? You’ve grown a bit since you ran from my justice. You were just a scrawny little rat back then. Skelder was a thieving bastard and deserved all he got, whatever trick you used to put that blade in him. But it’s my justice to deal out and you denied me that.”
He looks around the faces of the assembled warriors. “Seems these foreigners are willing to pay for our help in blood. So we fight. The murderer can fight with us. I’ll decide what to do with him if he survives the battle. Bring the maps.”
The tension eases as long tables are carried into the middle of the hall and maps of the gorge are unrolled and weighted down with tankards of ale at the corners. I take advantage of the confusion to sidle up to Brac.
“What’s going on with you and Hagen now? Was that a reprieve or a sentencing?”
“Shh. Don’t let anyone overhear you. Could be either.” He moves away from me, staying in the background and letting the others stand at the front and study the maps. He probably already knows every rock and stream in his home country in any case.
I commit the outcrops and paths to memory then move to the back of the hall. I can wait for Marin to explain his plan when it is completed and meanwhile I can keep an eye on Brac in case someone decides to bring his execution forward by a few days.
The cook and his family get turned out of their room to make a space for us to sleep. I hope they find somewhere warm but I’m too tired to worry about it much. I curl up in a corner with my wolf-cloak wrapped tightly around me.
“Brac, this might be your last chance to explain the insanity of this place to the rest of us.” I can tell from their attention that Marin and Nem are not much better informed than I am.
Brac hunches his shoulders the way he always does when put on the spot.
“Hagen made the demand because he wanted t’ be seen driving a hard bargain, not being duped or pushed around by envoys of a powerful king. He wanted to demonstrate the independence of the Free Lands. He’d had a lot to drink and the old vendetta got too close to the surface. And then he didn’t really have a way t’ back down.”
“But to just give yourself up like that!”
He shrugs. “It was a gamble. Protecting people and land is the sacred duty of the Northland Jarls. Putting my own life on the line to protect my family and fylke was the only way I could call him out in front of his warriors for neglecting his sworn duty. He knew they had noticed so he had to find a way t’ back down without appearing to. Let’s face it, if we don’t get his help we’re all dead anyway.”
“Pity he doesn’t seem to see that.”
“He does now. It’s the way Northlanders think.”
I restrain myself from commenting that ‘thinking’ is a rather over-sophisticated description of what Hagen seemed to be doing this evening.
“So he lets you off for a while because he needs every warrior who can fight. Then what happens?”
“Depends on his mood after the battle I suppose.”
I roll my eyes in exasperation. The fate of a nation and the fate of my friend hanging on the mood or more likely the inebriation levels of a half-mad Northern chieftain. Marin comes over and helps himself to his side of the wolfskin.
“Get some sleep. It won’t seem any less mad in the morning but we’ll be too busy to worry about it.”
“I’m not going to let him cut my friend’s head off.” I mutter as I burrow down into the soft fur.
He whispers in my ear. “I know. Neither am I.” His arms encircle me and somehow it sounds and feels reassuring enough that sleep takes over.