Talus and the Frozen King (24 page)

But you've found a good friend in Talus. I think the two of you were meant to find each other.'

She was so like Keyli, yet so utterly unlike her too. Her embrace was the first Bran had experienced since Keyli's death, and her kiss too.

'It must have been hard,' he said, 'keeping your love for Tharn a secret.'

'It was. I'm sorry Hashath is dead, but I'm pleased Creyak is no longer crippled by the old bastard's will. Now Tharn is king, and his word will be the law. If that means we can be together at last, I'm glad of it.'

She spoke with a quiet authority that, Bran supposed, was entirely appropriate for a queen.

'I'm glad you have a chance to be happy,' he said. He took her hand and kissed its palm.

'Thank you.'

Bran tried to sit up again. This time he made it all the way. He rubbed the back of his head.

The pain was easing.

He looked past Lethriel to the painting on the cave wall. The fire was dying, its meagre light coming and going in random spurts. Each little flash of orange picked out a different figure in the painted hunt, a different pose of the doomed mammut. The alternating images gave the painting the illusion of movement.

Before Bran's eyes, the ancient hunt came alive.

'So,' said Lethriel, 'what about you?'

'What do you mean?'

'Is there happiness somewhere for you too? You're searching for it, I think.'

'I ... I hope there might be,' said Bran. 'Talus says ...'

'What? What does he say?'

A distant roar sounded somewhere beyond the cave. It didn't sound like the sea.

Lethriel jumped to her feet, suddenly alert. Bran stood too. His head swam a little, but otherwise he felt all right. Better than he could have hoped for, in fact.

'It can wait,' he said. 'I feel better. We should go.'

'Well, if you feel up to it. I have a feeling we're running out of time. Do you think you're well enough to climb?'

'I feel well enough to face an army.' Bran stopped short. 'What do you mean: "climb"?'

Night had fallen. As they climbed the cliff, Bran kept his attention fully on Lethriel's scrambling heels above his head and the dark icy rock before his eyes. He tried not to think about how far it was to the beach below.

The sound of the sea flattened steadily to a distant murmur. The fog thinned and they found themselves ascending into the silver glare of the moon. Soon the air cleared, leaving the fog a billowing grey meadow beneath them. The sky was an upturned bowl, vast and black and flecked with countless stars. The moon blazed.

They still had some distance to climb. But at least now they could see where they were.

Narrow, snow-clogged ledges meandered along the broken cliff face. Hanging off the ledges were scruffy nests of dry weed and twigs, glued in place by years of gull droppings. As for the gulls themselves—there were none; Bran supposed they wintered elsewhere. The entire precipitous wall was deserted but for the two of them, creeping their way up it like tiny insects.

'Are you sure you know what you're doing?' Bran said. A bulbous overhang loomed over him. It looked insurmountable. Lethriel was already halfway up it.

'I used to climb here with Caltie,' she said. 'It's not as bad as it looks.'

Cursing his useless left hand, Bran followed her up and over the overhang. She was right: a series of cracks, deep enough to be free of ice, made it easier to negotiate than he'd thought.

Above this obstacle the terrain levelled out. Bran climb's became first a scramble, then a crawl. Finally he was standing on his feet again.

He looked around for Lethriel; she was already off and running towards a distant snow-covered ridge.

Bran took a last look down past his aching feet to where the cliff fell away and vanished into the ocean of fog. Somewhere down there was the cave, the beach, the cairn, the rest of Creyak. He felt remote from it all, as if he'd climbed into another world altogether. Wind gusted in from the west, disrupting the fog. Bran relished the feel of the breeze on his face. He hadn't realised what a suffocating environment Creyak had become.

The wind strengthened. Near the northern tip of the island a great tear opened in the fog bank. A jumble of gigantic boulders rose from the sea: the remains of a collapsed rock stack.

Half-hidden among them was a smooth, pale form. Caught in a shaft of moonlight, it looked like a beached whale.

It was Farrum's boat.

The fog closed in again. Lethriel was waving to him from the top of the ridge. He hurried to meet her.

'I saw the boat,' he said when he reached her. 'Farrum hasn't left after all.'

Lethriel forced him into a crouch and pressed her fingers to his lips.

'Keep quiet,' she hissed. 'Look there.'

Beyond the ridge rose the twisted wooden pillars of the henge. Rimed with ice, they twinkled in the moonlight. Their shadows were long and blue on the snow. Bran shuddered. They looked like deformed giants gathered for some unimagineable ritual.

Farrum's boatmen were ranged around the great boulder that dominated the middle of the henge. At their head was Farrum himself. A man lay sprawled on the boulder. Farrum's obsidian swathe was at his throat.

The man on the boulder was Mishina.

'What's going on?' said Bran.

'Farrum's been busy,' Lethriel replied. 'He must have repaired the boat and moved it to keep it safe, then brought his men back here.'

'So much for not having any boatbuilders on his crew. How did Mishina get here?'

'I don't know. Maybe Farrum sent men back to fetch him, or left them behind in the first place.'

'It explains why you didn't see him by the totem pit.'

'It doesn't matter. What matters is that.'

She pointed beyond the henge's far perimeter, where a second ridge rose in a row of jagged stone teeth. More men stood there: a long line of them, their white faces floating like pale flames before the starry sky. They carried wooden spears tipped with sharp flint heads. As Bran watched, the line grew longer and deeper. This was Creyak unleashed and ready for battle.

A man forced his way through to the front of the line. It was Tharn. Across his shoulders he wore a huge, black fleece that made him look twice his normal size. He carried an axe so big he needed both hands to hold it. The moon's light sculpted the furious look on his face. Unlike his warriors, he wore no paint at all.

A breath or two later, Tharn was joined by Arak. He held an axe much smaller than Tharn's; he still looked ready to topple under its weight. His furs were caked in Sigathon's blood. He looked terrified.

'A lot happened while I was knocked out,' said Bran.

'I think things have just started to move fast.'

Tharn took a step forward. Now he was balanced on the very edge of the ridge overlooking the henge.

'Let Mishina go!' he boomed. His voice echoed around the guardian wooden pillars. 'Your lives will be spared.'

'You're a worse liar than your father was,' Farrum called back. 'I know you mean to kill me.'

'Tell me why I should not!'

'Because I'm the one who's going to give the commands, and you're the one who's going to obey. If not ... your shaman is dead.'

As far as Bran could determine, Tharn's men outnumbered Farrum's by at least five to one.

They also held the high ground. If Tharn chose to attack now, the battle would be over in just a few brutal breaths.

And Mishina would be the first to die. 'Tharn won't risk Mishina's life,' whispered Lethriel. 'Not if he wants to stay king.'

She was right, of course. The shaman was the spiritual heart of the island village. If Mishina died, Creyak would instantly lose its link to the afterdream. A new shaman would be found eventually, but—with everything that had happened over recent days—Creyak needed Mishina now. Continuity was everything. If Tharn's first act as king was to sacrifice Mishina to a rival warlord, his reign would be over before it had begun.

'What do you want?' said Tharn. His voice was unwavering. The head of his axe was a lethal crescent of light.

'I want you to admit the truth about your father's death,' said Farrum. 'Then I want you to step back and let your people decide what happens next.'

A ripple went through the line of Creyak warriors. Through the unnaturally clear air, Bran heard their feet crunching in the snow.

'You are a spider, Farrum' said Tharn. 'You spin lies and treachery and deceit. Now you try to cast your web as a fisherman casts his net.'

'Clever words. But you're not so clever.'

'Let the shaman go and then go yourself, Farrum. Or I swear my axe will take off your head.'

'Killing talk from a killing son. Better be careful, boy.'

'You speak in riddles.'

'I speak the truth. Killing comes naturally to you, Tharn. Is that why it was so easy for you to kill your father?'

A gasp went up from Tharn's men. Some brandished their weapons at Farrum; others stared unbelieving at their king. Tharn sent a glare that swept from one end of the line to the other. His axe shook in his hand. A few heads lowered in shame, but most remained high and resolute.

'More lies!' Tharn sounded uneasy.

'No!' said Farrum. 'Just the truth.'

'What does Farrum think he's doing?' said Bran. 'What does he really want?'

'Farrum wants what he's always wanted,' said Lethriel.

'And what's that?'

'Everything.'

Opposite Tharn and his warriors, not far from where Bran and Lethriel were crouched, was a prominent outcrop of rock. The rock's strange curves, and its dusting of snow, made it seem to glow with its own internal light. To Bran's eyes it looked a little like a wolf's head, and so it reminded him in turn of the prow of Farrum's boat.

Two figures had climbed up on to the rock; if it really had been a wolf, they would have been standing on the tip of its snout. One was Talus, the other was Alayin.

Noosed around Alayin's neck was a short length of rope. The other end of the rope was in Talus's left hand. In his right hand he held something long and slender: a bonespike. Talus rotated the weapon, allowing a small engraved mark shaped like a gull to flash in the moonlight. This was Gantor's bonespike: the very weapon that had killed the king.

Bran's heart lurched in his chest. 'What in Mir's name is he playing at?' He surged forward, but Lethriel grabbed him, held him back.

'Wait,' she said. 'We have to wait.'

'But what's he doing? Do you know what he's doing?'

'No. But we have to trust him.'

They weren't the only ones looking at Talus. Farrum had turned his head towards the wolf-rock, as had Tharn. Both men looked both furious and confused. Talus, however, looked entirely at peace. For all she was his captive, Alayin too seemed composed: her hands were clasped in front of her and her scarred face was entirely without expression. Her hood was thrown back; under the moonlight, her close-cropped scalp looked as bald as Talus's.

'Bard!' shouted Tharn. It came out as a curse, a plea for help, a cry of anguish, all at the same time.

'I have to agree with Farrum,' said Talus. His voice filled the henge from one side to the other. Tharn's grip tightened on his axe until his knuckles turned white. 'But only when he says that we need to hear the truth,' Talus added. He looked unreasonably relaxed.

'Let my daughter go,' growled Farrum. He buried his fingers deep in Mishina's hair and tipped back his head. The obsidian blade hovered over the shaman's exposed neck.

'I think I will keep Alayin here,' said Talus, 'for a little while at least.'

'What do you want?' said Tharn.

Talus's eyebrows went up. 'Have I not already said? I want the truth. But first ... Farrum, will you please summon the rest of your men, so that everyone can see what they are up against?'

Tharn's men looked at each other, clearly mystified. Farrum's face contracted into a grimace.

'What men?' said Bran. 'What's he talking about?'

'Ssh,' said Lethriel.

'If they do not come out, Farrum,' said Talus, waving the bonespike for all to see, 'your daughter will bleed from her throat until she dies.'

Bran couldn't believe what he was seeing. He'd never known Talus even carry a weapon, let alone brandish one. Yet he saw no fear in Alayin's eyes, nor did she make any attempt to escape.

Had Talus drugged her?

One of Farrum's boatmen muttered something. Farrum elbowed him aside, pursed his lips and gave three clear whistles, two high in pitch, one low. There was a pause. Then, one by one, a troop of men wearing close-fitting sealskin appeared at the henge's northern perimeter. To Bran they appeared to condense out of the night. All bore scars on their faces; all carried clubs and knives.

'Where did they come from?' said Bran.

Tharn's men tightened their line. They, like Farrum's hidden warriors, looked grim and ready to fight. Between them, the two armies now encircled the henge almost completely. Bran was suddenly, acutely aware of how vulnerable he and Lethriel were here. And how exposed Talus had made both himself and Alayin.

'I'm going to put a stop to this,' said Bran, standing. Once more, Lethriel pulled him down. 'No,' she said. 'The bard is about to speak again.'

'And what good will that do?'

Incredibly, she smiled. 'Isn't it what he does best?'

Talus had addressed bigger crowds, but he'd never had an audience so divided, with each half intent on killing the other. Whatever story he chose to tell them, it would have to be a good one.

Except this was more than just a story. It was the solution to the puzzle that had plagued him since his arrival on Creyak just two days before.

It was the truth.

'Once there was a king,' he began. 'This king—whose name was Hashath—loved his people very much. He feared for them too. His fear was so great that he decided that the only way to keep his people safe was to shut out the rest of the world.

'So Hashath made a home for his people on an island, and he called it Creyak. He made them safe there, and he also made rules by which to live. Hashath built Creyak up from nothing and, when his work was done, he stopped. He liked what he'd achieved and wanted it never to change. He fixed Creyak in its place so that nothing would change. He froze it, and its people, and himself at their head.