The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (15 page)

There was a silence, Arbak swinging gently in the evening breeze. Narak watched him.

“Why did you decide to talk?”

“You believe me?”

“Yes.”

Arbak shrugged – a difficult thing to do hanging upside down. “My father always told me to die hard, to fight all the way and spit in death’s eye at the end, but I don’t see the point. Besides, I lasted an hour of the worst torture that Wolf Narak could throw at me. I hope you tell people that. And anyway, what use is a mercenary with one hand?”

Narak smiled. “How do you want to die, Arbak?”

“Old age?”

He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. The whole thing suddenly seemed ridiculous. He stood and kicked dirt over the fire. No need for it now. He retrieved his knife and stuck it in the soil to cool. He drew one of his swords.

“Before you go, Arbak, which one of you killed Perlaine?”

“That was her name?” Arbak waggled his head in the direction of the wolves and the mayhem they had caused. “Those two,” he said. “They shot her from behind. I was cooking lunch, and it was a damned good lunch, too. They were supposed to be keeping villagers away. They should have known better when they saw the wolf. Stupid…”

Narak’s blade flashed through the air and Arbak landed on the ground with a thump. He grimaced, tried to get his weight of his burned stump, succeeded and looked up at Narak and then down at his body. The rope that had held him suspended was cut.

“I seem to be alive,” he said.

“If I let you go what will you do?” Narak asked.

“Starve? I’ve got no trade.”

“Ever hold any rank?”

“Officer? No. Squad leader, sergeant, corporal. I usually get a squad of men.”

“Any skills?”

“I was good with a sword…”

“Not really. Average, I would say.” Arbak threw an uncomfortable look in his direction.

“Well, it hardly matters now,” he said. “And no. No other skills.”

“What would you do if you had money?” Narak was packing up his bag, watching the wolves.

“Money? How much?” Arbak was still sitting on the ground. He hadn’t moved since he’d been cut down.

“Enough.”

“Enough is a lot of money.” He thought for a moment. “A tavern. A nice one. Good food, too. Did I mention I was a good cook?”

“In passing.”

“Yes. A tavern. One with a cosy set of rooms over it. Nothing fancy, just a bedroom and a sitting room. And space for guests.” He ran out of words and sat looking at his feet. Narak tied the top of his bag shut and sat opposite him. He saw that Arbak was staring into space, a look of great weariness on his face.

“I know,” he said.

“You know?” Arbak looked at him with wide eyes.

“Yes. Tell me how it happened.”

“I didn’t lie,” Arbak insisted.

“Tell me.”

“Just as I said. Those two, Sigur and Venn, they were cousins, you know. Both good men with a bow, but stupid. They shot her and the wolf, came and told me. I went to look.” He rubbed his face fiercely with his hand. “She was still alive. They’d just left her to die. She was dying. One arrow had pierced a lung, one through the back of …”

Narak cut him off. “I saw the wounds.”

“You did? Of course you did. Sorry. Anyway, there was nothing to be done. She’d crawled to the body of the wolf, was lying against it. She was in a lot of pain and the wolf was dead. She asked me to end it for her.”

“She asked?”

“Well, I asked, she nodded.” Arbak suddenly looked up and met Narak’s gaze. “Pelion’s teeth, but she was a beauty. Even in death.” He shook his head. “What a waste.”

Narak didn’t say anything for a long time. It was Arbak who broke the silence.

“You couldn’t have saved her, could you?”

Narak shook his head. “No.” The mercenary seemed relieved.

“The rest you know. I stripped the body, tried to hide it with the wolf, burned the clothes. I knew you’d come. I hid the boys up on the slope, just a chance we could get an edge that way.” He shook his head again.

Narak sat still for a long time, looking at the ground between them. Now he knew that he had the truth, the full story of what had passed here. Arbak was just a paid blade, a man doing a job. He had done what was, in his own eyes, the decent thing. He’d ended the suffering of a dying woman. There was no malice in him beyond what was necessary for his profession. He was no fool. The simple trap he’d set might have had a chance of killing Narak if he hadn’t been alerted to it by the wolves. It was certain that he was finished as a mercenary, and it was something that the wolf god could turn to his own advantage.

He cut the bonds that held Arbak’s hands and feet and took a pebble out of his pocket. It was white with a vein of red running through it; a worthless piece of rock, but quite distinctive.

“Is there anywhere in Avilian you aren’t welcome?” he asked.

“One or two dwellings,” Arbak looked puzzled. He rubbed his wrist just above the cut. Narak guessed he was expecting some form of retribution, but he had no argument with this man. His enemy was Bel Arac.

“How do you feel about Bas Erinor?”

“Expensive, busy, I liked it last time I was there.”

“I want you to go there. I have work for you.”

Arbak brightened, and life came back into his eyes. “A job?”

“You said you wanted to run a tavern.”

“A tavern?”

“Stop repeating what I say. Take this,” he gave him the stone. “Show it at the house of Jessec Bosso, the money lender. He will give you the funds you need. Buy a tavern. Run it as best you can.”

“You want me to run a tavern for you?”

“For yourself. The tavern will be yours. The deed will be in your name. For me you will gather information, rumour, gossip. You will travel to Wolfguard every year in the summer, tell me what you know, how the city feels. If the arrangement proves satisfactory to me you will enjoy considerable wealth and a very long life.”

“I’m still sworn to Bel Arac,” Arbak said.

“It won’t be a problem, and such an oath is better honoured in the breach than the observance, believe me.” Because he is a traitor who seeks war with Berash, and war with the gods, and he’s going to get it sooner than he thinks.

“I need a surgeon,” Arbak said. Narak had to admit that the man was tough. All this time he hadn’t mentioned the severed and burned wrist, which must have pained him terribly. Many men would have been laid low by such an injury, but Arbak seemed able to ignore it. He tossed a purse of coins to the man. Several gold guineas, he knew, would be plenty.

“Pay for the best,” he said. “Get rid of those clothes. Dress like a prosperous man. It is what you have become.”

Arbak looked inside the purse and then looked up quickly. “My lord…”

“Deus is the proper title,” Narak said. “You are my man now, Arbak. You walk with the wolf. Treachery means death, loyalty is well rewarded, and if you die by another’s hand your death will be avenged.”

Narak translocated, and in an instant was back in the woods outside Wolfguard. Arbak, he knew, would be staring at a wolf. He did not worry too much about his new agent. The man was tough. He had three horses and a purse full of gold. He would survive.

He did wonder that he had not killed the man. By his own admission he had ended Perlaine’s life, but Narak could not help but like him. Arbak had faced his end well, and was clever enough to give himself a chance of avoiding it. He was resourceful, courageous, and cool headed.

He walked towards the gates of Wolfguard. Evening approached, and he needed to listen for news from Tor Silas and Bas Erinor. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the Marquis of Bel Arac.

A few hours ago Narak had been full of grim purpose, all focussed on the Marquis of Bel Arac and his inevitable demise, but now it was scattered, torn between three paths. When he had returned to Wolfguard there had been no doubt. Bel Arac had been mining blood silver. He was responsible for the death of Perlaine. He would pay for that with his life.

Simple.

And yet it was not. No sooner had he settled in to listen to the wolves that he had left at Bas Erinor and Tor Silas than he had heard the most extraordinary news.

Firstly, Prince Havil had been successful. He had ambushed the ambushers, sprung his trap and wiped out the force that had been attacking the Berashi border patrols, and he had prisoners. It was a swift and stunning victory. The message was not from Havil, but from the king, relaying a message brought by a rider. The most enigmatic part of the message, the piece that hooked Narak, was that the prisoners spoke neither Berashi nor Avilian. He wanted to know more, but Havil was not due back in Tor Silas until the evening of the next day, so he must wait.

Secondly, the news from Bas Erinor was even more intriguing. The message was from Quinnial, the duke’s second son, and it was simple. There was a Seth Yarra spy in the city – in the city of the gods, no less, and disguised as a priest. It was the first time the words had been uttered by another. Seth Yarra.

It made sense, of course. If there were any plans laid by the old enemy then they would want better information than last time. They had been surprised by Remard and the Benetheon. They had been beaten. One
spy didn’t make a war, but adding up the three pieces of information that he had: Bel Arac, a Seth Yarra spy and the capture of troops neither Berashi nor Avilian on the border between those two countries – he was beginning to feel certain.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow he must make a choice. Bel Arac could wait. The spy was not caught, nor even proven, and Havil was still somewhere in the forests to the south of Tor Silas.

He had a clear sense that events were beginning to move, and that they would move quickly. And still he knew nothing. If he was lucky the next few days would bring answers to many of his questions, but he expected that ever more questions would be raised, more problems revealed, right to the point where battle would be joined and men died.

Whatever it was that he suspected, there was no apparent threat. Four hundred years ago Seth Yarra had come with an army, thousands upon thousands of men, swords, spears, bows, all marshalled by a ferocious discipline of which he had never seen the like. It was only the poor class of their commanders, their refusal to adapt, that had let the enemy be beaten, or perhaps the genius of Fox Remard. If they came again it would be with an even larger force, but their attention seemed to be focussed on Avilian, on Berash.

The candle on the table in front of him flickered and began to shrink into the last of its wax. He noticed that several of the candles around the room had failed, and he took a handful from the basket beneath the table and set about lighting them, placing them in the appropriate niches. He had one more to place when he heard a noise in the room behind him. It was like a cough, but also quite different. Whatever, it was not an accidental noise, but a signal to attract his attention, and it was not made by the throat of a man. He didn’t turn.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Bren Ashet, Third Rank,” a voice said. The pitch was too high, and the vowels seemed to whistle, but he understood perfectly.

“A messenger?”

“Yes.”

He turned to look at the creature. How it had entered Wolfguard was one more mystery, but that would have to wait. He was sure that it had entered before, that it had left the note. He tested the theory.

“I received your note,” he said.

“I know this,” the Bren said. It stood close to the wall of the lair in a place where he was certain to have seen it just a few moments before. He had walked past the spot where it stood, candle in hand, and there had been nothing. It was shorter than a man, and naked except for a belt about its waist and a length of cloth folded several times and draped over one shoulder. The cloth was held in place by the belt. It was skinny, pale skinned, large eyed. Its eyes were like a man’s only more so. The whites were peripheral, the iris large and the pupils small; a creature of the darkness. It was troubled even by the few candles he had here.

“Who sent it?”

“That is not to be revealed at this time.” It spoke with very little movement of its lips, which was disconcerting, as though the voice came from elsewhere. In a sense this was true. The Ashet were simply messengers. He had seen them before. They had no names, and very little personality, but acted simply as the mouthpiece for the sender.

“Why are you here again?”

“It is thought that you need more help.”

“By whom?”

“The one who sends this message.”

“And what form will the help take?”

“Information.”

“What is the information?”

The Bren closed its eyes and began to recite. They were little more than perfect memories, Narak reflected; machines for remembering and repeating, incapable of aggression or self defence. They were not a threat.

“Dark hulled wind ships, of the type Seth Yarra, have been seen in each of the last fifteen years in increasing numbers. They have been landing on the shores of Terras for the last three years, though the purpose is not known. They have been seen in the waters off all the kingdoms of men. Ships sail singly or in groups of no more than three. More have recently been seen off the coast of Avilian and Berash. They touch land in places where men are scarce, and at night.”

“And nobody thought we needed to know until now?”

The Bren stopped talking at the interruption and opened its eyes for a moment. It said nothing. After a few seconds it closed them again.

“The Bren consider the Seth Yarra to be a threat, and when all is ready the Bren will attack the Seth Yarra. This will not take place before the spring after the one that comes. This message is given in accordance with the laws of Pelion.”

It opened its eyes again and looked at him.

“That’s it?”

“That is the message. However, there are more facts that I am permitted to divulge.”

“And they are?”

“The number of the Seth Yarra, in the place in which they dwell, is believed to be twenty million. The number of Seth Yarra under arms is thought to be over a quarter of a million, and may be rapidly increased. The number of wind ships upon the sea in the service of the Seth Yarra is believed to be three thousand.”

Twenty million? That was more than ten times the number in all of Terras, and the kingdoms could not muster a fifth of Seth Yarra’s armies, even if they could be persuaded to send all their men to the battle.

“How can we prevail against such numbers?”

The messenger looked blank. He did not have an answer to this question.

“How many can the Bren bring to battle against the Seth Yarra?”

“An exact answer is not permitted, but the sender allows that there will be sufficient, but not before the spring after the one that comes.”

So they must last a year and a half until help came from the Bren. He had seen Bren warriors, the Bren Morain, during his time with Pelion. They were the most insect like of the Bren, protected by dark, hard, bony plates – a natural armour – and each limb a weapon liberally supplied with sharp edges and deadly spikes. They were fast, too.

He had been with Pelion for six months, but even in so long a time he had learned very little about the Bren. There were many kinds, and all quite different from each other. He had no idea if there were male and female Bren, how they bred, what drove them. It was certain that Pelion commanded them. They did as he wished without hesitation, but beyond that simple fact he did not understand them at all. This one had mentioned Pelion’s Law, and he had no greater understanding of that than he had of Seth Yarra table etiquette. He didn’t even know what the Bren ate.

“Do you have warriors that you can send to help us if we are attacked before then?” he asked.

“The Bren will attack the Seth Yarra when all is ready,” the messenger said.

“And not before. I have one more question. How did you get into Wolfguard?”

The Ashet blinked at him. He was asking something that was not part of its message, something on which it had no guidance. “The Bren are creatures of the rock,” it said. “We are creatures of below. I came from below.”

“Where did you enter?”

“Here.” It blinked again. Blinking was a sign of discomfort, he remembered that much.

“You came through the floor exactly below the place you are standing?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Blink. “There is no word for it in your tongue. I opened the rock, and then closed it.”

A useful trick. “Is that the way you will depart?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

“It is not time to depart.”

That was interesting, and surprising. The message was delivered. “When will it be time to depart?” he asked.

“I do not know. It has not yet been revealed.”

“You will be staying here?”

“I am to stay within this structure, or by your side. There will be further messages, and I am to say what they are.”

“I do not understand. How will you receive the messages if you are here? Will another come?”

“No. If the sender tells Bren Ashet, third rank, then I will know the message if it is intended for you.”

“There is another Bren Ashet with the sender?”

Blink. Blink. The Bren remained silent. He had said something wrong, something that it did not understand. He had thought for a moment that the Bren could communicate in some way over distance without speaking, but it was more than that, he realised, and his appreciation of the strangeness of the Bren was raised still higher.

“There is only one Bren Ashet,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And you are in many places at the same time.”

“Yes.”

A single creature with many bodies. A single mind. A perfect messenger indeed, and as long as one of them lived no message was ever lost. How old must such a creature be, and how wasted such a surety of immortality on a thing so dull witted?

“You will stay here, in this chamber,” he said. “It is the place where I am most often, and I cannot have one of the night folk trailing me about the kingdoms of men. It would simply distress them too much, and the sunlight, I am sure, would bother you.”

The Bren said nothing. It just stood and accepted his words.

“Tomorrow I must go again to Avilian,” he went on, and then stopped. He was explaining himself to a messenger with the intelligence of a child. Did he really want all his actions and intentions to be common knowledge among the Bren? Tomorrow he would go to Avilian. Tomorrow he would put things right in the city of Bel Arac. The Marquis was not just an enemy to the Benetheon, but in the light of what the Bren had told him he was a traitor to his own people, an ally of the Seth Yarra.

He left the room and made his way to his sleeping chamber. He didn’t use it often, but he was uncomfortable with the idea if sleeping in the lair with a Bren’s strange eyes watching over him.