The Oathbreaker's Shadow (2 page)

‘Oh, old Loni won’t mind. That’s plenty of time,’ said Khareh, with the small half-smile and glint in his eyes that meant he had no concern for Raim’s schedule.

There was no way Raim wouldn’t go with Khareh, however, and Khareh knew it.

With a shrug, Khareh leaped off the branch and Raim followed awkwardly, landing with a thump on the dusty ground. Even he wasn’t dressed for tree climbing today.

They were high up in the Northlands, in a tiny village where the plains of Darhan met the Amarapura mountain range. The only time any of the tribes came to the village was if one of their members was marrying into the Baril, the scholars of Darhan. To Raim and Khareh, being Baril was to live a life of interminable boredom. It was the only class that did not prepare in softened. ‘You should nicCC b any way for warfare, despite danger lurking at almost all of Darhan’s borders – and sometimes within.

As the brother of the Baril entrant, Raim was not only forced to sit through the entire hours-long ceremony, but also to do so wearing the most elaborate (and most uncomfortable) formal clothes he owned. His indigo tunic was as stiff as unboiled rice and reached down to the top of his ankles. It closed across his body, fastening with three clasps at the neck – too close to his face in the sweltering heat – three on his shoulder and three more under his right armpit. A wide belt, dyed in the deep green of the Moloti tribe, wrapped around his waist. He wished he could wear his normal clothes, loose-fitting trousers and a
waist-length tunic made from wool instead of the heavy, poor-quality silk. Unlike Khareh, though, Raim had to take care of his clothing. Any caked-in mud meant an hour of scrubbing for Raim later; every tear meant pricking his fingers with his awkward, fumbling sewing. Not his idea of a fun evening in the yurt.

Worst of all were the shoes. Instead of his normal well-worn, fur-lined, thick-soled boots, he was in delicate slippers with pointed toes that curled backward. On the tip of the curl was a ball that jingled when he walked. By the time they had clambered over a rocky ridge to reach the edge of the glade, the annoying golden bells were crammed deep into his tunic pocket.

They broke into a run, feeling the short mountain grass crunch under their heels. They passed by a herd of goats, their bleating urging them on. Then Khareh stopped. ‘Wait here,’ he said, as he ran on a bit further. He was standing over what looked like a stick beaten into the ground.

‘Ready?’ Khareh yelled. Then he appeared to pull something with all his might. ‘Get down, now!’

Raim fell to the ground and put his hands over his turban, just in time to feel the wind slice overhead. He flipped round and sat up, watching the object as it veered towards the goats, scattering them. It made a sharp U-turn in the air and came straight back at Raim.

‘Vows alive!’ He scrambled to his feet and rushed towards Khareh. By the time he reached his friend, the
object had lost steam and skipped onto the ground, snipping the blades of grass. It was large and round, with tiny spikes that were sawed down almost to the edge.

‘What in Sola was that?’ Raim spluttered, catching his breath.

‘Oh, I stole the disc from one of the workshops back in Kharein. Don’t worry; they were going to throw it away anyway. But this’ – Khareh gestured to the pole in the ground, his eyes sparkling – ‘is my newest invention. Marvel, Raimanan, marvel!’

Khareh was the only person who called Raim by his full name, and only when he was feeling particularly proud of himself. Raim hated it, but was so used to hearing it from Khareh’s mouth that he barely cringed. He only suffered Khareh’s use of the name because, even though he was his best friend, he also had the power – as Crown Prince – to order Raim about as he pleased. Thankfully he didn’t abuse it too often.

Khareh was Crown Prince despite not being the son of the current leader, Batar-Khan. But when the Seer-Queen had not produced an heir after the first five years of marriage, a prince had to be chosen. The council of Darhanian warlords had convened and chosen Khareh, the son of the Khan’s brother, as the official heir. So now, whatever Khareh wanted to do, he did, no matter what the consequences. Raim admired Khareh’s independence, but dI’m so sorrydos didn’t covet it. Khareh was always experimenting, innovating, testing the boundaries of what he could get
away with and questioning the rules if he was told they couldn’t be broken. He had big dreams about how to improve Darhan, to make it a real force to be reckoned with.

Raim recognized the pole – it was identical to the ones used to build the frame of a yurt. He wondered whose yurt was tilted after Khareh had sawed off this piece. When Khareh was inventing, nothing could stop him. Once he had even cut up the Seer-Queen’s prized headscarf in order to get material of the perfect tensile strength for his goat parachute – ‘in case bandits attack and we have to drop the goats off a mountain,’ he’d said. That was the other thing about Khareh’s inventions. They rarely made any sense to Raim.

Khareh picked the disc up off the ground and placed it delicately on top of his contraption. In his hand he held a long, thin metal rod, which had little grooves on it all down the side.

‘Not quite enough nicks,’ Khareh said. ‘Do you have your knife on you?’

‘Here you go.’ Raim lifted the hem of his trouser leg and pulled out a small dagger from the strap around his calf. The blade was pitch-black, matte, and made from ochir, a translucent metal that seared black during the forging process. Owning one marked him as an apprentice of the Yun, Darhan’s elite guard, the sworn protectors of the land and all of its inhabitants. When he received his acceptance, he would be given his own sword, one made
especially for the Yun. They had perfected a method of preserving ochir’s translucent quality and it resulted in a sword that was harder and clearer than diamonds. It was near indestructible. When wielded properly, it dazzled the eyes of opponents, confusing them with tricks of the light. Battles between the Yun of Darhan and their enemies were magnificent to behold, the near-invisible blades striking against ordinary metal.

But before he could even hope to be accepted, he had to pass one final test: a duel against a fellow Yun apprentice. He was to face Lars, the second son of one of the eight noble Darhan warlords – and one of the most fearsome young warriors in Darhan.

Khareh took the blade and scratched more notches into his metal stick. When finished, he threaded the stick through the eye cut into the hollowed-out wood and pulled back with all his strength. For a second, the disc jumped and hovered above the invention as if surprised to be mobile. Then it spun off hastily over the field. This time, it didn’t come back.

Khareh looked delighted. ‘Don’t have to be a sage to make things fly!’ He flipped the blade back to Raim.

‘No, you’d have to exist first. Sages are legend, make-believe.’

‘Gods, your ignorance is really annoying sometimes. Don’t the Yun teach their students anything? Anyone who says sages don’t exist is a fool. I’ve read about them. There were magicians in the past who could command whole
armies with their power, who could self-heal and levitate things, like swords – they could even make themselves fly!’

‘Sounds to me like you’re the fool, for believing in that goat’s dung.’

‘It’s not goat’s dung. Anyway, I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about it. I hear the real sages are south. In Aqben.’

‘Let them rot there, then. Aqben houses only devils,’ Raim said,
}
div.shading-50-whiteor7K‘The repeating the typical adage used whenever the south was mentioned.

Khareh raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. ‘So, you’re not worried about the whole first-chance-to-fight-to-be-Yun thing, are you?’ he asked, changing the subject.

Raim bit his lip. ‘If it was an ordinary fight, I wouldn’t be. But this is
it
. I heard one of the other villagers saying they’d crossed with Lars’s tribe not a month ago. His father was saying he’s really bulked up this year, as big as an ox. And that he’s going to have a Yun for a son, soon.’

Khareh grimaced. ‘What would the warlord know about his son anyway? He’s probably not seen him since we last did. Lars has been off training with his mentor.’

It was Raim’s turn to grimace this time. ‘While I’ve been stuck here herding goats.’ Then he shrugged. ‘But it’s not like I could leave Dharma and my grandfather alone to go off to train, especially with Tarik wrapped up with his studies. And I’m lucky that my mentor has been here, so I have had plenty of practice.’

‘True. Besides, that’s not the real issue, is it? Isn’t this
Lars’s third and final try? It’s not you who should be worried, it’s him. With you as his opponent, it looks like we might be watching heads roll this tournament after all!’

‘No, it’s his second try. It’s Jendo’s final one though.’ Raim frowned. Every Yun apprentice knew that if you didn’t pass the third try, your life was forfeit. It was why he couldn’t joke about it as Khareh did. It could be his reality in another two years, should he fail all three bouts.

Khareh seemed to read his mind and shrugged. ‘You’re the best fighter the Yun has trained in generations and you know it. Well—’ He broke into a maniacal grin. ‘Except they never had me, of course.’

‘Is that a challenge?’ Raim’s eyes darted around and spied a metal pole Khareh had discarded while making his invention. He grabbed it and spun it around in his hands. Khareh was partially right. As a prince, Khareh couldn’t join the Yun, since he needed to study and be trained in his royal duties. But he had studied sword fighting for as long as Raim, and he was the only sparring partner – other than Raim’s own Yun mentor, Mhara – who always gave him a good run. And Mhara was Batar-Khan’s official Protector, and chief of all the Yun.

Lars was older. No one really expected a Yun apprentice to win their first attempt – after all, Lars had a whole year of growth and experience on Raim. But still, he felt confident. His training had settled into his muscles like knots tying everything into its rightful place, joining all the movements together. If he couldn’t trust his body’s
promise to execute the moves his mind asked it to, then what could he trust?

There was a dangerous twinkle in Khareh’s eye, and he snatched up another pole, ready to scuffle. Khareh taunted Raim about his weaker left side. For the most part, Khareh was the aggressor, pushing Raim backward with quick, strong strokes. Raim remained on the defensive, absorbing his opponent’s blows. He tried to focus on anticipating Khareh’s next move, on his footwork or his sword strokes, but still he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to fight with a real Yun blade.
Soon I will be a great warrior, leading the Yun as the Khan’s Protector. I’ll lead the army that will own path to followor7K‘The finally unite all the tribes of Darhan and then maybe I’ll . . .

He blinked. Khareh swung at his pole with all his might and it popped out of Raim’s hand and fell to the ground with a thud. For a second Raim stood in shock, his hands splayed palm out in front of him and his legs bent like a frog. Mhara called this the ‘moving mountain’ position. Winning now was as impossible as shifting a mountain with your bare hands.

The low, clear sound of a bone horn sounded out over the field and snapped Raim back to life.

‘Gods, the wedding!’

The priest’s voice was slow and monotonous as he led Tarik, Raim’s brother, and his young soon-to-be wife, Solongal, through a series of complicated vows and sermons. Raim had never seen his brother’s betrothed before. They were an odd pairing. His brother was tall and as thin as a stick of bamboo. Khareh used to joke that Tarik had too many bones as so many poked out of his skin at odd angles – especially his Adam’s apple, which jutted out of his throat like a second chin. By contrast Solongal was several inches shorter, with a squashed round face and hooded eyes so small they seemed like little black peas in a sea of rice pudding. They both held long pieces of string in their hands, and at the end of each vow the priest signalled for them to tie a knot in the string to form an elaborate pattern. Slowly they were sealing their fate as Baril.

Tarik was tripping over his words, the letters in his mouth tumbling out as cumbersome as an elephant
wading through mud. He wasn’t handling himself well, but anyone would be nervous in the presence of Qatir-bar, the first of all the Baril priests. When Qatir-bar had appeared, Raim had been awed. The man was shaped like a spear, with a gaze that was just as sharp. Around his neck, lying on top of his pristine white robes, was an intricate necklace of knots that represented his Baril vows. But it was his forehead that drew the most attention. It was almost completely flat. Tarik had told him in the past that the Baril spent so much time deep in prayer with their heads on the ground that their foreheads flattened, but Raim hadn’t believed him. He wondered how long it would take for Tarik’s head to get like that. Tarik was so pious, he imagined it wouldn’t be too long.

Raim sat cross-legged on the ground a few rows of people back from where the priest and the couple were standing. Baril marriages were the exception in Darhan. For a man and a woman to promise to remain together and raise a family until death was a foreign concept to most tribespeople. It was a luxury they could not afford. Life on the steppes was hard at the best of times and it was necessary for each person – man or woman – to continue to work for their clans in order for life to continue. When she came of age, a woman would promise herself to her chosen partner and his tribe, and her children would become the tribe’s children, raised by the elders. After the b own path to follows I someoneollowedirth, the parents would return to their clan roles – perhaps as soldiers in the army or as weavers or tenders to
the animals. When they grew too old to perform their role, they would return to their old tribe as elders to raise the tribe’s children, and so it would continue. On the steppes, idleness wasn’t a sin; it simply wasn’t an option.

Loni was one of the Moloti tribe elders, and he had taken in first Tarik, then Raim and then Raim’s sister, Dharma, as his grandchildren. Tarik and Dharma were Raim’s siblings by adoption, not blood. Raim knew almost nothing about his true parents, not even their clan profession. It didn’t matter; he had his own path to follow. His father could be the lowliest dung collector in Darhan and Raim would still aspire to be Chief Yun.