Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (19 page)

Gren glanced at his brother and turned back to his rune stones, casting another spread of three.

Tathrin recalled Branca saying there was some lost link between Artifice and the ancient symbols of the Storm, the Calm, the North Wind from the Mountains and the Zephyr, the Southern Sea breeze.

Thus far, Vanam's scholars had concluded the weather runes distinguished different aetheric enchantments. Some had physical effects just as a storm shook a tree's branches. Calm, serene enchantments rendered an adept immune to physical assault. The cold wind from the Mountains symbolised an adept forcing an unwilling mind, just as Kerith had done to Failla. Subtle southern breezes hinted at aetheric abilities to influence another's behaviour, all unsuspected.

So what exactly could Jettin do? And what had happened to Aremil?

'I don't know what your boy's told you,' Sorgrad told Reniack, 'but Master Aremil has no interest in restoring the old order.'

Tathrin shifted on his stool.

'Need a piss, long lad?' Gren enquired.

Tathrin caught the glint in the Mountain Man's cornflower eyes. 'Yes, as it happens.'

Jettin laughed. 'A tapster's son who can't hold his ale?'

'We'll show you the latrines on your way to the dock.' Reniack got to his feet. 'If I see you in Parnilesse again,' he added, 'I'll have all your throats cut.'

'Not man enough to do it yourself?' Sorgrad rose up and cracked his knuckles. 'How about Duke Orlin and Duchess Sherista?'

'Oh, I had their blood on my hands,' Reniack assured him, 'warm and--'

Sorgrad's punch silenced his brutal boast.

As Reniack stumbled backwards, his nose bleeding, a wiry ally strode forward, his sword half-drawn.

Sorgrad was quicker, already holding the three-legged stool he'd been sitting on. Before the wiry mercenary got his blade clear of its scabbard, Sorgrad clubbed him round the head. The man fell like a poleaxed steer. That gave the man at his shoulder pause for thought, just long enough for Sorgrad to down him with the stool as well.

'Kill them!' Reniack said thickly through his broken nose.

More men were approaching, weapons drawn. Gren was ready, holding a bench to batter anyone fool enough to come within reach.

Tathrin spared a breath to look around the tavern. No one was coming to their aid. Those closest were simply moving away, careful of their ale.

He saw that Jettin looked aghast and recalled what Aremil had said - that Kerith and Branca feared Reniack's villainous character was overwhelming the younger man's will. Drawing a dagger, Tathrin reached for the young adept. Perhaps, if they could get him away from Reniack--

Before Tathrin could grab him, Jettin realised his peril. He stumbled backwards, shoving chairs into Tathrin's path.

He kicked them away, taller and stronger than the young Vanamese. They might just get out of here if he could get his blade to Jettin's throat. Just as long as Reniack valued him as highly as he should.

But where was he? Tathrin blinked. He couldn't see Jettin at all. All the approaching men were now blurred, as though he peered through rain-streaked glass.

Reaching for his sword, he couldn't find the hilt. Tathrin groped frantically at his hip but his numb fingers closed on empty air. Someone shoved hard at his shoulder, sending him staggering backwards. But there was no one there. Even reeling like a drunkard, Tathrin could see that much.

He nearly fell headlong on the sawdusted floor, stomach hollow and mouth dry. Twisted shadows flickered around him. He flailed frantically with his fists, all the while terrified that he would feel a blade biting into his flesh. The steel plates sewn into his jerkin might protect his vitals but his arms and legs were unarmoured. Which phantasm held the sword that could be the death of him?

Whatever was amiss didn't affect his ears. A nervous laugh cut him to the quick. Jettin thought this was funny?

Fury burned through Tathrin's fear. Before he realised he had reached for it, his hand closed on his sword hilt. He ripped the long blade free and swept it around at waist height. That should keep his would-be killers at bay.

Abruptly his vision cleared. Gren had already laid three men on the floor, groaning amid the filth. A fourth, bearded and burly, had grabbed the other end of the bench.

Tathrin winced. Gren was strong but the bearded man could have taken on Reher the blacksmith back in Carluse. The bearded man grinned and hauled, using all his height and weight. Gren simply let go and the man fell back with a crash to stun himself on a table's edge.

Sorgrad was ringed by four murderously intent men. Each had a dagger, as did Sorgrad, though he'd discarded the stool.

Tathrin choked on a warning as the man behind Sorgrad made his move. Distraction could be fatal. But somehow, someone's glance had betrayed that attack to the Mountain Man. As the man lunged, Sorgrad stepped backwards, stooping down. So much taller, the mercenary couldn't curb his rush forward, sprawling helplessly across Sorgrad's back.

With some shift of his weight, Sorgrad used his hips like a wrestler and threw the man into the attacker on his off-hand. They fell hard in a tangle of limbs and furniture.

The remaining pair grabbed Sorgrad's arms. With one on each side as he straightened up, they apparently robbed him of any freedom to move. To Tathrin's horror, Sorgrad seemed to sag with defeat.

Then he saw that all Reniack's men had hold of was Sorgrad's hands. The Mountain Man ducked and twisted completely around, stepping right under his own dagger. Pulled off balance, his startled attackers stumbled into each other as Sorgrad's hands crossed. The mercenaries' heads clashed with a sickening thump. One fell, knocked senseless. The other collapsed with Sorgrad's dagger embedded in his shoulder.

Tathrin saw Ekarre and his long-haired associate had Reniack himself in a painful hold. As the rabble-rouser struggled, he winced and yielded.

Jettin turned to run.

'No you don't, lad.' One of the drinking den's customers blocked the young adept's path. 'You want to play here, you play by our rules. Stand your ground or take your beating.'

The disinterested mercenary shoved the young adept straight into Gren's embrace.

'No, please,' Jettin begged.

Gren's hands were closing around his neck. Jettin could only struggle for a moment before he was strangled into unconsciousness. Gren let him fall to the floor.

'No!' Tathrin shouted, seeing the Mountain Man reach for a dagger.

'Enough!' The tavern-keeper walked out from behind his counter, a heavy cudgel in one hand. 'That'll do,' he warned one of Reniack's men who was trying to rise despite Ekarre's female lieutenant's boot planted on his chest.

'You and yours are fairly beaten.' The tavern-keeper glared at Reniack and around the room at his minions. 'Take yourselves off or that unicorn badge will be shit on across the Carifate. You know the rules.'

'This isn't over.' Reniack spat a fine spray of blood at Sorgrad.

'No indeed.' Sorgrad smiled through the bruises darkening on his face.

'You three have till sunset to conclude your business and be gone.' The tapster jabbed a forefinger at them.

'We welcome your forbearance.' Sorgrad's courteous bow prompted chuckles from the onlookers.

'Get the boy!' Reniack slapped one of his bloodied men and pointed at Jettin, now lying behind a fallen table where Gren had apparently rolled him.

Tathrin moved to bar their way. 'He's--'

Gren laid a firm hand on his arm. 'He's one of their own and they've claimed him. That's the rules.'

Unwilling, Tathrin stepped back as one of Reniack's henchmen hoisted Jettin up, limp as a leaky wineskin.

As the defeated mercenaries filed out, the drinking den's customers began righting the tables and chairs. The tapster returned to his counter and threw a broom to a sullen youth. Another lad appeared to strew more sawdust on the spilled ale. Tathrin coughed on the reek.

'Come on. We're not done here yet.' Gren urged him towards the table where Sorgrad was once again sitting with Ekarre and his companions.

Tathrin dropped onto a stool. 'I never knew there are rules in a tavern brawl.'

'Just to keep it fair.' The long-haired man grinned.

His bearded colleague nodded. 'If you knock one of their lads off the board, we don't let him back into play.'

'Just like a game of white raven?' Tathrin shook his head in disbelief.

'Why else do you think I started a fight?' Sorgrad winced as blood trickled from his split lip.

'If they'd caught us outside, we could have been outnumbered.' Gren ran a hand through his bloodied hair. Fresh bleeding glistened in a gash above his ear.

'I can put a stitch in that,' the woman offered.

'What now?' Tathrin demanded.

'We carry on.' Sorgrad looked surprised that he needed to ask. 'Then we go north to the rampart the day after tomorrow and march with all the mercenaries who've shown the good sense to take up our offer.'

'Reniack won't attack us again or his name really will be shit in the Carifate,' Gren agreed.

'Who does he think died and made him High King?' growled the scarred and bearded man.

Tathrin wondered how far and how fast this tale of Reniack's unguarded arrogance would spread. He caught a glimpse of satisfaction deep in Gren's eyes and wondered if that had also been part of the plan, when he had started the fight. But could such news do Reniack's cause much harm beyond the idiosyncratic confines of the Carifate?

'Will you help us find the sergeants we need,' Sorgrad asked Ekarre bluntly, 'to bring lasting peace to Lescar, who deserve the rewards that will bring?'

'What do you people plan for the Carifate?' the long-haired man asked, more curious than challenging.

Sorgrad shrugged. 'We have no plans for the Carifate. Folk can live here in peace along with the rest of Lescar or they can go to find some fight to earn their coin elsewhere.'

'Reniack can say what he likes about having everyone bow their neck to his yoke,' Gren agreed, 'but that's not going to happen. There won't be another fighting season after this winter, not inside Lescar, and that includes Parnilesse.'

'There's a fair amount we can't tell you,' Sorgrad apologised. 'But you know the quality of Lady Rochiel's word.'

Tathrin watched the mercenaries exchange glances before coming to some unspoken conclusion.

'We'll help you drive those renegades out of Wyril,' Ekarre said finally, 'for a consideration. Then we'll see where that leaves us.'

'For a handsome consideration,' the woman amended.

'You can't say fairer than that.' Sorgrad snapped his fingers at the tapster. 'Ale and white brandy, if you please?'

'
Tathrin?'

He closed his eyes, startled by the unfamiliar voice in his head.

'
What's happened to Aremil?'

Kerith sounded inexplicably afraid. That sent shivers down Tathrin's spine. But he was no adept. He couldn't hold a conversation through the aether without actually speaking aloud and he certainly couldn't talk here.

Tathrin rose to his feet. 'Excuse me, I do need the privy.'

'I'll watch your back.' Gren already had a dagger in one hand. 'In case Reniack's left any scum hiding behind the pisspot.'

Once they were outside, he quickly led Tathrin to a stinking wooden ease-house. 'Keep your voice down,' he warned before closing the door to stand guard.

'
When did you last speak to Aremil?'
Kerith demanded.

'Not since yesterday morning.' Now Tathrin could feel the scholar's fear, not merely hear it in his words. Apprehension gripped him. 'If something's happened, Jettin may well be behind it. He said something about Aremil being overcome. He's mastered some arcane enchantments--'

About to try explaining what had happened in the bar fight, Tathrin found he was alone with his thoughts. The scholar had gone.

Tathrin was even more unnerved. Had something happened to all their adepts? Had Jettin recovered sufficiently to somehow deny them their conduits through the aether?

Could he persuade Sorgrad to scry for Charoleia and Branca? Or would provoking the magewoman Jilseth simply make matters worse?

Chapter Thirteen

Branca

The Rope Walk,

Solland, in the Tormalin Empire,

30th of For-Winter

This dockside district wasn't so very different from Vanam's. The wind carried the taste of salt, unknown in her lakeside home, but the business of maintaining and repairing ships was the same.

Rhythmic sawing drifted from workshops shaping spars and blocks. The tang of hot metal cut through the morning chill along with the stifling reek of molten pitch. Ships' storekeepers hurried from chandlery to grocery while sailmakers carried bolts of canvas as wide as they were tall.

The brick-built warehouses were quieter, waiting to open their wide doors to the bales and boxes unloaded and dragged on broad sledges that skimmed iron rails driven into the dockside.