Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 6

Rothir was not enjoying himself.

There was nothing wrong with the place. It was a fine enough tiltyard, set against the castle’s western outer wall, with two high towers looming over it and surrounded by a sizeable sailing fleet’s worth of waving flags. As well as the array of Kelvhan lords and ladies on the terraced seating opposite his own, there was a large audience of castle officials standing behind the encircling fence. Rothir got the impression that they were there to cheer; which they all did, frequently and loudly, as if on some secret signal.

Yet despite the spectacle and drama of the tournament – the colourful flags rippling in the breeze, the blaring trumpets, the proud ranks of immaculate Kelvhan horsemen arrayed in bright war-gear, the cheers of the watching dignitaries – it all felt false to him after the dreadful labour and true fear and blood of battle. Many of these Kelvhan knights had been on the battlefield in the north. He wondered that they could take any joy in this pretence of fighting after sampling the real, bloody, brutal thing.

Perhaps the pretence was the point. They could enjoy the skill and excitement of the fight without the danger or the blood. But it was not to Rothir’s taste.

Casting a surreptitious glance to his left, he guessed that it was not much to Huldarion’s taste either. Seated conspicuously on a raised platform between his chosen six Vonn and the Post-Regent and young Prince, Huldarion bore an air of inscrutable patience. While Prince Faldron cheered and clapped with boyish enthusiasm, and the Post-Regent Nerogun occasionally deigned to touch his palms together, Huldarion applauded every parried blow of a mace or toppling of a man from his horse with measured deliberation.

His mind was likely to be on other things. Rothir knew – well, everybody knew – that at the coming evening’s banquet Huldarion was to have the first meeting with his prospective brides. To have to make such a decision so quickly, and above all, so publicly, seemed appalling to Rothir. But his chieftain would neither want nor need his pity.

On the other hand, Parthenal, sitting beside Huldarion, looked as happy as a duck in a millpond – a very tall, good-looking duck. Parthenal was keenly interested in the jousts, for the technical skills of war were bread-and-butter to him, and he didn’t trouble himself about the rest. Rothir allowed himself a smile; it was good to see that his friend was enjoying himself, at least. And Sashel too looked less saddened and more animated than of late, so that was something.

As for himself, though, he’d rather be doing some more useful task than sitting here to watch man after man thundering across the tilting court until one or other of them tumbled off into the sawdust. He had to remind himself that this was being useful. As useful as he could be, at present. Say nothing and look noble. Just relax. Should be easy.

But it stopped being easy when the heralds sounded their trumpets, yet again; when the panting horses were led away, the tilt barrier dismantled, and the four stewards stepped forward into the middle of the arena with a selection of green-painted swords.

The green paint signified the weapons’ bluntness. They would have been made of wood, had that not given them the wrong weight and balance: so they were not wood, but blunted iron. It was evidently time for the hand-to-hand contests on foot, which Rothir disliked even more than the jousting.

And he especially disliked the fact that the Vonn, as guests, were now invited to take part. Was this good etiquette? Maybe it was, in Kelvha. Huldarion showed no surprise – though that in itself should be no surprise, for he never did – but rather, he and his men seemed to have been primed for this event. As the first Kelvhan combatant stepped forward, he turned to the three men on his right.

“Which of you would like the honour of this contest?” he asked in a clear voice, and immediately Aretor stood up.

“I beg that honour, sir,” he said.

“It is granted.”

Saluting him, Aretor walked down the steps to the arena. Well, at least he stood up eagerly, Rothir thought; and he wears the armour well. For as Aretor was helped into the ornate breastplate and arm-guards, he won a murmur of approval from the watching Kelvhan crowd. If the competition were decided by looks alone, then Aretor would win easily over his dour and wiry opponent. Unfortunately looks were irrelevant once they picked up their swords.

“I give Aretor five minutes before he goes down,” muttered Ikelder, who sat next to him, leaning forward intently with his elbows on his knees. Rothir was inclined to agree. As soon as the Kelvhan soldier took up the guard position it was obvious that this was a man who knew what he was about.

Aretor also knew what he was about: but he possessed neither the speed of thought nor the speed of movement of the other. He was inclined to lumber; and as he watched, Rothir found himself inwardly wincing.

“Lunge, man, lunge,” urged Ikelder next to him. “Ouch.” Aretor had taken a heavy blow to the breastplate which made him stagger.

He parried and fought on energetically, however, to general cries of encouragement; for the Kelvhans had the courtesy to cheer both sides. In the end Aretor lasted about six minutes before the other man deftly parried his blow with an upward sweep, which he turned into a flying stroke at Aretor’s neck. He stopped it, the sword quivering, before it touched the skin.

“Nice,” said Ikelder. “I like the look of him.”

“I’d employ him,” said Veron, on Ikelder’s other side: high praise indeed.

Aretor bowed to his victor and let his sword fall towards him hilt first, in the admittance of defeat. The arbiter raised his gilded staff on the Kelvhan side in sign of victory. There was more cheering from the crowd – first from the nobles, then from the lower ranks.

Rothir breathed a little easier. It was never pleasant to him to see men fight even in staged contests, because mistakes could so easily be made. A blunted sword was still a sword.

However, he knew that more contests would inevitably follow. Sure enough, another Kelvhan fighter stepped forward from the ranks, and this time it was Sashel who immediately rose to meet him. So the order must have been pre-arranged with Huldarion’s group. The older men would surely not fight – except perhaps Thoronal – meaning that Parthenal would most likely be up next. Rothir did not envy him; however, he suspected that Parthenal would relish the prospect, even though he professed to prefer real battle to this sort of make-believe combat. Rothir himself didn’t enjoy either, but at least battle had a point.

He eyed Sashel’s opponent with a practised eye: tall and strong, but… “He looks a little heavy on his feet,” he murmured to Ikelder.

“He’s sweating,” Ikelder responded. “He’ll make errors. Sashel should overcome him easily.”

“I hope so.” Partly for Sashel’s own sake, but also for the sake of all the Vonn. To lose one combat could be diplomatic. Lose two, and you began to lose face also. And although Rothir did not doubt Sashel’s ability, he wasn’t sure how strong his will to fight was since his brother Gordal’s death.

As soon as the fight began, though, he relaxed. The Kelvhan warrior was nervous, he could tell, and as Sashel got in blow after blow across his guard Rothir even began to feel a little sorry for him. What would the penalty be for such a loss?

Well, the big Kelvhan would soon find out, because three minutes were more than enough for Sashel to not just defeat but even to disarm him. The man walked away, head bowed, to join the ranks of nobles, which the first man had not. So the first had been a professional, and the second a noble who fancied his own chances.

The third Kelvhan combatant who now came forward was also noble, and higher ranking, judging by the pair of servants and the paraphernalia that accompanied him. He looked livelier than the last man: he also looked familiar. Fierce eyes beneath eyebrows that were too dark for his hair. Rothir thought that he had seen him up at the Outland Forts.

“Ah,” said Ikelder, in some dismay, “it’s him. Dughin.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Veron queried.

“Nothing as far as courage goes. He’s merciless. I trust that he won’t cheat.”

“He won’t cheat,” said Rothir, but he now became anxious for his friend as Parthenal rose from his seat and was helped by a careful equerry into the combat armour. He looked calm, unhurried, and with his height and build was very impressive in his full gear. Rothir heard another murmur of approval from the watchers. Each man chose a sword: Parthenal’s was the longer, for he should have the advantage of a greater reach.

The advantage proved small. That extra inch was counter-balanced by the Kelvhan’s unexpected ferocity. This was a man who fought with intent, as if every stroke from Parthenal were a personal affront: a man determined not to be defeated.

Parthenal had to work hard to parry Dughin’s constant lunges, but work he did. He was swift and sure and focused. There was no let-up. The cheers grew muted as the seriousness of both combatants became evident. Their skills were well-matched.

Parry, thrust, parry, block, swipe… The other man was becoming a little wilder now; if his self-discipline went, that might benefit Parthenal. The swords clashed against each other repeatedly but never against armour.

“Good contest,” said Ikelder; he was on edge.

Rothir did not answer. He was willing Parthenal on, although Parthenal was perfectly capable of doing this without anybody’s will. So cool, so expert, with grace even in combat. What a man, he thought, what a fighter, as Parthenal parried and feinted and thrust all in one swift movement. The sword-point touched his opponent’s chest.

“Hit!” said Ikelder.

But it served only to enrage Dughin, who threw his sword at Parthenal. In his surprise Parthenal did not manage to fully dodge it. The sword spun in the air and the hilt caught him on the side of the head.

“Hit!” shouted the Kelvhan.

Rothir was shocked. Was this allowed in Kelvha? Surely such a move could not be permitted to bring victory. He wanted to jump to his feet in protest. There was a rumbling in the crowd but he could not tell which way their opinion had gone.

Either way, once Dughin had thrown away his sword it had to mean the end of the contest. Parthenal bent to pick it up, but did not offer it back to him.

“I propose a draw,” he said, managing to sound totally unflustered and even unbothered. The speed with which the arbiter agreed – raising his staff with both hands, horizontally – suggested to Rothir that the nobleman’s move should not have been allowed and that a draw was welcome.

And in diplomatic terms a draw was a good outcome, provided there were no more contests to follow. Parthenal passed the sword to one of Dughin’s squires; but when Dughin was offered it, he waved it away contemptuously as if the sword and not its wielder were at fault. After he had retreated, scowling, no other man stepped up to take his place. Parthenal mounted the steps to resume his seat: Rothir had to look hard to notice how carefully he was controlling his breathing, so as not to pant.

It had been well done. Rothir hoped that was the end of it, so that they could now disperse, and he could go back to his quarters for an uneventful evening – for, like most of the Riders, he was not invited to the feast and the presentation of potential brides. That honour was reserved for the chosen few within the castle.

But there was, it seemed, still more combat yet to come. The heralds had raised their trumpets again; and this time a cage was wheeled in by several men. His heart stopped momentarily.

Not the darkburn? he thought. No, surely they would not; and there was no warning heat, no fearful aura, no darkburn stench. There was a certain smell, however…

“What?” said Veron in displeasure – almost anger. As the cage was turned around, Rothir saw why.

Wolves. Three of them. Revolving in the narrow confines of the cage, snarling and snapping at any hand that came too close. Men walked around the tilting ground closing the metal gates at the foot of every stairway. Now Rothir understood the purpose of the fence that encircled the arena: it was not to keep the audience from reaching the combatants, but the other way around.

On the high dais Nerogun got to his feet, a heavy figure in his long embroidered robes. As he looked around, the murmuring crowd fell silent.

“This next affray we have arranged as a treat especially for one of your most noted Riders, my Lord Huldarion,” Nerogun announced. Looking at Huldarion, Rothir was sure this came as an unwelcome surprise to him although there was no more than the tightening of a muscle in his cheek to show it.

“We call on the Rider known as Veron to show his expertise,” the Post-Regent continued, turning to face the seats where Rothir and the other Riders sat. “My lord Veron, your renown as a warrior and a hunter has become great since the battle in the north. We have here for you the weapons you prefer; for our troops are eager – nay, I may say avid – for a demonstration of your extraordinary talents.”

“They can’t do that!” muttered Ikelder.

Veron, saying under his breath, “They have,” stood up and threw off his cloak. He ran down the steps, vaulted over the gate into the tilting ground, and walked across it to stare into the cage. Even without his wolfskin cloak he looked more hunter than Rider of the Vonn. Not a big man, but quick, decisive: everything done with swift consideration, but with no fear.

He turned to the keeper. “Where did you catch them?”

“In the western hills.”

“Show me these weapons that you think I use.”

A box was brought over, along with a selection of spears and swords. Veron waved the sword away, for he carried his own, as all the watching Riders did. He picked out three spears – seemingly at random – and looked more carefully at the weapon he had lifted from the box. It appeared to be a number of chained flying blades, similar to the ones he used in battle. Veron called the thing a morilan: a northern term, no doubt.

Now he inspected this morilan with some disdain. Although Rothir did not know Veron well, the man had an expressive face. And right now he was not afraid. But he was extremely, coldly angry.

Of course, thought Rothir, for him the hunt is sacred. It is not a spectator sport, but a way and means of life itself. Killing caged wolves should have no part in it.

None the less, Veron appeared ready to do what was required. Facing the cage, a spear in his right hand, the morilan in his left, he nodded to the keeper.

“This could be dangerous,” said Ikelder quietly. “In the wild they’d run away, but trapped here they may attack whoever they can reach. Would those gates keep them in?”

Possibly not, thought Rothir, but a line of men in full armour, carrying whips, had also arranged themselves around the perimeter. He hoped they would not prove necessary.

Indeed, as the metal door of the cage was dragged aside, the wolves showed no interest in charging the crowd behind their barriers. Their eyes were fixed upon the man who stood alone before them. One after another they stepped cautiously from the cage and paused in a group, facing Veron.

Rothir jumped – as did everyone around him. For there was a flash and a loud bang from the direction of the cage; a fire-cracker maybe, which spurred the wolves into sudden movement. Another flash and bang sent them running across the sawdust-littered floor. Veron did not move as they encircled him, even though he could surely only see two of them. The biggest was behind him, watching him.

And Veron smiled. That was a smile of love, thought Rothir, even as the morilan was whirled around Veron’s head and flew towards the nearest wolf. The animal was caught by the neck and forelegs, the bladed chains whipping rapidly around it: and while it struggled, its partner fell with a spear in the throat.

The biggest wolf, behind Veron, did not take its chance to pounce. Instead it retreated to the perimeter. There two men with whips beat it back into the centre where it ran to and fro, as if not knowing what to do. Veron barely glanced at it as he bent to the entangled wolf and killed it swiftly with his knife before unwinding the morilan’s chains. The second wolf, that had been speared, was already dead. The third – it was a female – put its head down as it stared at him.

Now he stood up, looked back at it, and smiled again. Picked up a second spear. Then he jerked his head up as if alarmed by something to his right: the nervous wolf did the same, glancing away for an instant.

In that instant the spear entered its chest. The wolf collapsed to the ground, its body heaving only for a few seconds before it lay still. It did not see death coming, Rothir thought. That was all Veron could do for it.

It had been very quick. The crowd was cheering – somewhat half-heartedly, as if the spectacle had disappointed them – but Veron neither raised his arms in triumph nor bowed. He walked over, went down on one knee and laid a hand briefly on the largest wolf – perhaps to check if it were truly dead, perhaps for some other reason. Then he nodded, stood up and turned to face Huldarion

Salute him, Rothir thought, you have to salute him; and at last Veron did so.

That overbearing bull of a man Nerogun was on his feet again.

“A noble fight,” he pronounced sonorously. “You make it look quite easy. No, do not return to your seat just yet, I beg you, Lord Veron. We have another treat in store. I thought the wolves might be no more than mice beneath your hand, and so it proved. Hardly worth your trouble. So we have hunted down and captured something that might whet your appetite for blood a little better.”

The dead wolves were dragged away. The armoured men with whips retreated to stand behind the fence and gates. From the back of the arena another cage was pulled laboriously in by a dozen men.

This was a heavy cage, which snarled and rocked. There was a rush of indrawn gasps, sweeping through the crowd like a sharp breeze. As the cage was turned, Rothir too caught his breath.

“No,” he said. It was a great cat. Striped. White and black, a thing made of midnight shadows, that rippled as it stalked around its cage. It was very large; bigger than the lions he had encountered now and then in the wild – more muscled than them, heavier, much more formidable.

It stopped its pacing to gaze out between the bars with pale golden eyes, unblinking and commanding. Rothir had heard of such creatures but had never seen one until now. It was an animal of extraordinary beauty as well as fearful power.

Veron stood and gazed back at the great cat, very still. There was a silence as eye met eye. Then he raised his hand and let the morilan fall to the ground, a clattering snake that formed a rapid coiling pile of metal. Turning his back on the midnight tiger’s cage, he walked away.

“What’s he planning?” said Ikelder.

“He can’t do this,” said Rothir in sudden realisation.

“He can. He has to,” said Ikelder. “Imagine if that thing got out into the crowd!”

It could easily happen. Once it was released, the cat could leap those barriers in an instant, Rothir thought, and a few men with whips would not deter it long. Although two of the guards held a net it looked flimsy to his eyes. Did they not know how fast a great cat could move – or how powerful it was? How could they hope to hold back a tiger safely? Wizardry?

In growing misgiving he looked around the crowd for Leor, but the familiar red hair with its white streaks was nowhere to be seen. So not Leor. Maybe they were relying on Veron.

But now he was certain that Veron could not do this – or rather, would not. Veron had turned his back on the animal because of his wife. This great cat was too close, too similar to the shape-shifting huntress; it was her kin, and surely it was forbidden for Veron to kill it in this way, for entertainment.

Veron would refuse. And what then?

The cage was slowly opening with a dull creak of iron on iron, its gate being pulled aside on long chains. And Veron still stood with his back to it, facing Huldarion, holding no weapon in his hands. Once it was freed, the cat would most likely pounce and kill him. It would rip his throat out. And then it could go in any direction and kill whoever stood or sat in its way.

Rothir sensed that although he did not show it, Huldarion was stunned, as aghast as he was himself. This could be disastrous. A blood-bath.

Then Rothir was on his feet and running down the steps before he knew what he was going to do. He leapt the gate and raced across the tilting ground to stand beside Veron and face Huldarion.

“My lord Huldarion, I beg the honour of this fight,” he said loudly, while part of his mind said What? How can you fight a tiger?

Be quiet: I will, I have to, or Veron will die, he answered himself. Now, say yes, say yes, say yes.

It seemed a long few seconds before Huldarion made any movement. He had no sooner nodded than Rothir whirled around to face the beast. The cage was still opening, the cat turning round behind the bars. The Kelvhan guards threw a bundle of spears towards him, in a clattering heap, and a metal breastplate. He let them lie. What use was a breastplate against this creature? No time to put it on in any case. He drew his sword, and then his knife.

The cage was half open now. Already the great cat would be able to push its way out. For now, it was watching him with those inhuman golden eyes, considering its first move.

I will probably die here, Rothir realised, at the teeth and claws of this majestic creature. So assured. Magnificent. Three times my weight: five times my power. I came to sit through a tedious tournament and here I am about to die. It’s the same before battle. But in battle I’m prepared. Now I’m not. This is my end. And she doesn’t know.

For some reason Yaret had leapt into his mind: what would she think when he got himself killed like this, without even warning her?

“Tell her I had to,” he said to Veron.

Veron nodded. “Watch the feet,” he said, and withdrew to the perimeter of the arena.

Rothir had no time to consider what he meant. The cage was fully open now; the crowd was gasping audibly, and all he could do was try to be ready. He kicked away the spears lying on the ground. Even if the tiger gave him long enough to reach and aim and hurl a spear, he had not the accuracy to kill it with one throw. He had killed two lions in the past, but with bow and arrows; and then had used his sword to finish one of them off.

This one will finish you off, he told himself bluntly. So die well. Die with honour.

But first, concentrate.

The tiger was sliding out of the cage now, moving entirely silently despite its size. More gasps went round the arena. Watch the feet, he thought, for that is where its weapons are. One mouth, but four armed feet. He stood with his wrists crossed, sword held in his right hand and his knife in the other.

It stalked around the arena’s edge, always watching him. The crowd pulled away with another shuddering gust of gasps: but the animal ignored them. Its attention was all on Rothir. It began to lope towards him, and then, suddenly, to run.

The acceleration was astounding. As it sprang he threw himself to one side, flinging his sword arm out in a scything upstroke that caught the creature’s outstretched foot. He thought the blade might have half-severed the limb but it did not slow the tiger down. Before he had regained his feet amidst the sawdust it had turned – so swift, so supple – and was running at him a second time.

When it leapt, he threw himself the other way, to the right, scything as before but with the knife. The blade caught its left front paw so that now both were dripping blood. The tiger twisted round, more quickly this time, and pounced again from closer to him.

Its swiftness meant that he did not throw himself far enough to the side: claws raked down his shoulder as he swiped his sword, trying to slice the creature’s chest to force it away from him. He thought he had sliced only fur but when the cat recoiled he saw blood on the stripes.

Even so, Rothir knew he could not do this for much longer. It was getting closer to killing him with every attempt. He had no room, no time. Already it had twined round, as if gathering itself, and now it sprang again.

Those teeth – huge, close. He managed to jump aside, yet again, thrusting his sword towards its flank, and losing his grip on the hilt. The sword was lost somewhere on the floor. No way to pick it up. As the tiger squirmed after the blow he threw himself upon its back.

You could not ride a tiger like a horse. But try. All fur and muscle. Gripping the huge writhing body with his legs, he got one arm around its neck. He was in the only place where he could not be bitten. He tried to pull its head back, but it was too strong. The teeth were close. Claws raked his arm, but more weakly – that wounded paw – and then it threw itself onto the ground and rolled over onto its back, pinning him beneath it.

Its weight was crushing him. He could not breathe. Where was his sword? Unreachable. But he still had his knife in his left hand and with that he tried to cut the tiger’s throat. It didn’t seem to be working – nothing was happening except that he was pinned to the floor, being flattened by a ton of muscle and striped fur and a continuous long, husky snarling that rasped right through his head. He needed to breathe.

Moving the knife downward he slashed at the belly and seemed to feel the shock of pain in his own body. He felt himself become half-tiger, wild with the agony and the indignity of being ripped open, his strength being cut away, trying to both lose and destroy the burden laid on him.

The tiger rolled back onto its side, limbs stretching and contorting, and he lost his grip and slid off.

But now he could breathe. At once he was on his feet, panting and grasping for his sword as the animal also seemed to recover. It whirled round to attack again despite its dreadful wounds.

There was no chance to leap aside. He swept the sword with an upward stroke beneath its jaw and in the same instant fell, caught in its claws.

But its limbs lacked their former power. The swiftness clogged, and slowed. As the jaws came towards him he pushed at the sword; harder, do the job, it’s almost done. And then the head fell back and the body fell over, pulsing, writhing, guts spilling from its abdomen where he had slashed it with the knife. Blood soaked into the sawdust. It tried to get up again and could not.

He staggered back a pace or two and waited. Not a good death. A bad death. Messy, bloody, painful, hateful. No way to speed it up without becoming prey to those long claws: even now it could still kill him. He wished he hadn’t done it. But what else could he have done?

And he had paid, in his own blood. He didn’t know how much was his and how much was the tiger’s. All he could do was stand and watch it die.

It flailed a limb, and tried to raise its head, which fell back panting but more slowly now, more slowly. Then it stopped. At last the massive blood-soaked animal was still: as still as the audience around him.

With an effort Rothir walked over to the great body to check that it was fully dead, although he did not think he could have raised his sword to it again if he had needed to. But there was no need. As he knelt down beside it, a strange film seemed to cross the golden eyes.

Then there was a cheer: applause was swelling in the audience, becoming a delighted roar. He didn’t want it. He looked up and saw Veron.

Veron was gazing, not at him, nor at the tiger, but with recognition – and with wonder, almost adoration – at something else a little way beyond the heavy body. Rothir turned to look. A thing that was not there. What was that? He had the feeling of some huge presence, some other eye. Some movement, close beside him: he turned back to the tiger’s corpse, to check again.

The corpse lay still. But with the faintest breath and brush of fur, he felt the movement rake against his head. A claw of ice. A crescent shard of moon. It shut out all sound, and it froze his soul.

So this is death, he thought, after all, how quiet it is, how lonely. The world was turning grey and empty and he fell into the void.