Talus and the Frozen King (20 page)

'What were you thinking?' said Bran. 'They're ready to kill each other.'

'All the more reason to make haste.'

Talus looked anything but hasty, Bran thought. If anything, the bard looked utterly relaxed.

'You know, don't you?' Bran said. 'I don't know how, but you know. You know who killed the king.'

'Perhaps,' Talus replied. Bran felt Lethriel's hand clutch his arm. 'Yes, I believe I may. But this tree has many roots, and I have yet to expose them all.'

'Tell us!' said Lethriel. 'You must tell us, so that we ...'

A low rumble passed through the crowd. Bran looked back at the boat. Both Tharn and Farrum had shed the furs restricting their upper bodies. Tharn's chest was broad and solid; Farrum's was white and thin, but corded with muscle.

Tharn hefted a stone axe with an ornate carved handle. The head was blue-grey flint. It was much more beautiful than Bran's own, workmanlike weapon. Tharn circled Farrum, his knees bent, sweat steaming from his skin despite the bitter cold of the damp winter air.

Farrum's weapon was strange. He must have been hiding it beneath his long robe. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a sturdy branch. But, as the old man turned it in his hand, a thin black blade was revealed set deep into the wood. The blade was barely the width of a man's thumb, but it ran almost the entire length of the branch. Bran had thought Tharn's axe-head finely wrought—in its own peculiar way this was exquisite.

'What is that?' he said to Talus.

'An obsidian swathe,' Talus replied. 'Obsidian is volcanic glass. Very sharp.'

'You've seen one before?'

'Long ago, in another place. That weapon does not belong here. I would be very interested to know where Farrum got it.'

The two men continued to size each other up. Tharn tossed his axe from hand to hand.

There was a grim smile on his face. Farrum's expression was lost in both the fog and the cloud-like mass of his snowy hair and beard.

The crowd watched in silence. The air tasted of anticipation.

Just when it seemed the adversaries would continue their dance forever, Tharn struck, feinting first left before powering his axe to the right with furious intent. Farrum dodged easily. Bran had already seen how fast the old man could move; did Tharn really know what he was letting himself in for?

The dance resumed. Tongues of fog licked the combatants' legs. Again Tharn attacked; again Farrum slipped aside. A silent shiver shook the crowd. Tharn wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

'Will you run from me all day, old man?' he said.

'I will do what I must,' Farrum replied.

Farrum's arm came round in a blur, swinging his curious weapon straight at Tharn's head.

Tharn ducked. The glossy black cutting edge of the swathe whistled as it sliced through the air ... and cut several hairs from Tharn's head. Farrum laughed.

'One blow is all it'll take, boy. I'd love to see your head roll!'

Tharn bellowed and ran at him, axe whirling. The Creyak king-to-be was quick too, despite his stocky build. Farrum parried. The two weapons clashed. Farrum's obsidian blade struck sparks from Tharn's axe-head. The impact was accompanied by a high melodic ringing. Flint chips showered round the two men.

They parted. Farrum took a step back towards his boat. Tharn followed, sinking to a running crouch that took him under Farrum's swinging arm. He drove the wooden handle of his axe into Farrum's chest. The old man grunted and hammered his swathe down on Tharn's shoulder. In the crowd, someone cried out. Bran waited for Tharn's severed arm to drop to the ground.

But Farrum had struck with the blunt side of the swathe. Cursing, he spun the weapon and brought it down again. Except now Tharn was behind him, having converted the momentum of his turn into a tremendous swing of his axe. Farrum leaped sideways, and the flint axe-head swished past his spine by less than the span of a hand.

Someone shouted Tharn's name. One of the boatmen responded: 'Farrum!'. More cries rose until the whole crowd was roaring. Then the opponents came together again and a hush descended.

This time it was Farrum who attacked first, driving the swathe towards Tharn's face. Tharn blocked it just in time; the lethal glass blade bit deep into the axe handle. The two weapons locked together. Farrum tried to pull the swathe free, but Tharn was stronger. With a great bellow he heaved his arm back and wrested the swathe from Farrum's grip. The peculiar weapon clattered across the shingle to land at the feet of Tharn's watching brothers. Fethan picked it up, regarding it with something approaching awe.

The villagers shouted approval. Farrum's boatmen started backing away. Hands emerged from the crowd to restrain them. Tharn stalked towards Farrum, who was retreating with his hands raised, palms out. When the old man fetched up against the hull of the boat, he let his arms fall to his sides again.

'Make it quick, boy,' he said.

Tharn raised his axe. There was a chunk missing from the handle where the swathe had eaten into it. The blade too was notched, but it still looked deadly sharp.

'This is a mistake,' said Talus. He took a step forward.

The bard had already interrupted Tharn once. Bran tried to imagine what the king-to-be would do to the bard if he tried it again. After seeing the way Tharn fought, he didn't have to try too hard.

But enough blood had been shed on Creyak lately. 'Tharn!' Bran shouted, pushing past Talus. 'Let the old man live!'

The villagers watched, incredulous, as Bran raced across the shingle to where Tharn stood with his axe in the air and Farrum's life laid bare before him. The fog was no longer an ocean but a lake of sticky resin, holding Bran back; surely he'd left it too late.

But Tharn held still. When Bran finally reached him, and clamped his good hand on Tharn's wrist, the king-to-be put up no resistance. Perhaps he'd wanted to be stopped.

'Do not kill this man,' Bran said.

'Who are you to tell me what to do?' Tharn's muscles bunched under Bran's fingers.

'If you won't take the words from me,' said Bran, 'take them from the bard.'

Tharn's eyes looked for—and found—Talus. The bard nodded, clasped his hands together and executed a small bow.

'You've pulled Farrum's claws,' said Bran. 'He's safe now.'

Tharn glared at Farrum. The visiting king's face was as white as his hair, the scars standing out even whiter. He looked very old.

'Not safe enough,' said Tharn. 'Old man, I will put you and your men in a place no man can escape from. You will stay there until I decide what is best.'

'Tharn,' said Bran. 'I don't think Farrum is ...'

'Enough!' Tharn's face turned scarlet. 'I am the son of Hashath! My word is truth! Do you understand?'

He turned to face the crowd. He lifted his axe high above his head.

'Do you all understand?'

As one, the villagers dropped to their knees. So did Farrum and his boatmen. When Bran realised he was the only person left standing, he bent and paid his own respects to Creyak's king-to-be.

He looked round for Talus and Lethriel. They were some distance away, kneeling like the others. They were deep in conversation. As Bran watched, Lethriel nodded twice, then picked herself up and scurried away across the shingle.

What was Talus up to?

'My word is truth,' Tharn said again. 'Get up, old man. Let's see if you are brave enough to face the spirits who have guarded this island since the time of the dreaming past. Let's see if you are brave enough to endure the gaze of the dead men of Creyak.'

He surveyed his people.

'Take them to the totem pit,' he said.

Talus had seen totem pits before, but nothing on this scale. It was so artfully designed, he thought at first that Gantor must have made it. But it was much too old for that.

The pit was hidden behind the cairn in a natural cleft where, years before, the cliff had collapsed. Further excavation had created a deep chasm big enough to hold fifty men. It would swallow Farrum and his little entourage with ease.

The sides of the hole were shaped such that the floor of the pit was much wider than the opening at the top. Anyone who found themselves at the bottom would be surrounded by steeply overhanging walls that were impossible to climb. They would be trapped.

One by one the Sleeth men were lowered into the pit by rope. The first man down was Lath.

He'd recovered from his drinking bout and the bruise on his forehead was beginning to turn yellow.

When his feet reached the pit floor, he shook off the rope, turned and shrieked.

Talus peered down into the pit. Lining the walls leaning in at the same steep angle were dozens of totems. The smallest of them was man-sized; most were much taller. They were carved from the solid rock of the cliff itself; It must have taken colossal effort to hew them out. Their faces were those of anguished souls and malicious spirits, an endless parade of monstrous visages designed to keep prisoners not merely subdued, but terrified out of their wits.

One look at the gibbering, cowering Lath told Talus how effective the totems were.

'Talus!' Bran's hand landed on his shoulder and spun him round. 'I thought I'd never catch up with you.'

'The people of Creyak have an effective prison, do you not think?' Talus replied.

'Never mind that. Where's Lethriel?'

'Lethriel?'

'You sent her somewhere. I saw you. What are you playing at?'

'I am not playing, Bran. It is better you do not know where Lethriel has gone. Just believe me when I say that, when she returns, I may have all the answers I need.'

Bran's hand twitched beside the haft of his axe. His cheeks flushed, proving to Talus he'd made the right decision in keeping his companion and the woman apart.

'Tell me where she is!'

'I will not. To do what she needs to do, Lethriel must move like a mouse. You, Bran, as many people have already remarked, have more of the bear about you.'

'If you've put her in danger ...!'

'Bran—as long as we remain here, we are all in danger.'

One by one, the rest of the boatmen followed Lath into the pit. Last to go was Farrum himself. All the way down he glared up at Tharn, who regarded the old man's descent with angry intensity.

Once all the Sleeth men had been imprisoned, Mishina took over the proceedings. His face still bore the blue-and-black pattern of dots Talus had watched him apply in his house earlier. Had that really been only this morning? It seemed so long ago.

Having cleared a space at the edge of the pit, Mishina stood with his staff raised in both hands above his head. He began the same guttural chanting he'd used inside the cairn. Without echo, in the fog, the chanting sounded ghostly and unreal.

The crowd that had gathered took up the chant. Mishina began to sway. Tremors ran through his shoulders, his hips. The tremors became quakes. The shaman's head snapped back. Soon his entire body was gyrating, almost out of control. The shells on his staff rattled and sang, a strident percussion that cut through the somehow liquid sound of the chanting.

As the noise reached a climax, Mishina's body went rigid and he fell backwards. Nobody moved to catch him. He hit the rough ground and lay there, twitching, foam bubbling from his lips.

The chanting stopped.

Mishina's eyes fluttered in their sockets. The crowd looked on in adoration. Talus wished he could share their awe. As far as the people of Creyak were concerned, their shaman had left his body to fly with the spirits.

If that were true, why could Talus not sense it? He was proud of his ability to observe the world around him. Surely a man of his talents should be able to detect at least something of what a shaman like Mishina claimed he could experience?

But, although Talus looked as acutely as he knew how, the air surrounding Mishina was still.

No rippling, no wraiths, no disturbance of any kind at all. If the spirits existed, they were entirely invisible. Nor did they make any sound, nor smell. When he flicked the end of his tongue through the air, he tasted only the salt from the sea.

Nothing. There was nothing.

Yet everyone believed there was. Bran believed it. Tia had believed it. Shamans the world over traded in those beliefs. But did that mean they believed it themselves.

Did Mishina?

'There's something not right about Mishina,' said Bran.

The words—not to mention the track of Bran's thoughts—startled Talus. 'Why do you say that?'

'I don't know. It's just a feeling. What do you think?'

'I think ... I am coming to believe that Mishina may not be what he seems. He behaves differently to other shaman I have met. Most men like him use drugs to help them enter a trance.

Mishina does not.'

'How do you know?'

'I have observed him.'

'Doesn't he use greycaps? I thought Lethriel collected them for him.'

'She does. But he encourages her to do this because that is what a shaman is expected to do.

I do not believe he actually uses them.'

'What makes you say that?'

'The pit in in his house where he keeps them is thick with dust and fragments of greycap. No true shaman would be so clumsy with such a precious item. I suspect that, after he has received them from Lethriel, he crushes the greycaps and gets rid of the remains. No, the greycaps are simply another part of Mishina's mask.'

'If Mishina isn't a shaman, what is he?' Bran took a step away from Talus, his eyes suddenly wide. 'You think he's the killer, don't you?'

'It is not as simple as that. Do you remember the game of stones and grids Arak spoke of?'

'Yes, but why ...?'

'I believe Mishina plays games as well. Imagine: he takes a stone and he moves it into place.

He moves another, and another. He stands back and considers the field of play. He watches over all that lies before him, decides upon which rules will be followed ... and which will be broken.' Talus paused. 'But it was not Mishina's hand that drove the bonespike into the chest of the king. Nor did he upset the boulders that killed Gantor.'