The Seventh Friend (Book 1) (16 page)

In the
morning he sent Poor to find his armour. It was rare for him to wear it. In fact he could not remember ever having used it in anger. It had been a gift. The finest armourers in Telas Alt and made it for him as a gift, and he had tried it on, worn it until he had felt they had seen enough and were assured that he was suitably grateful, and then he had removed it and told Poor to store it.

Poor knew where it was, of course, and Narak was almost disappointed to discover that his steward had kept it polished and lightly oiled for four hundred years – just in case.

It was beautiful workmanship. Even now it looked sleek and dangerous. He watched as Poor and two others brought it piece by piece into the great hall. He had publicly moved into the great hall because the Bren was still in the lair, even though he was not overly fond of the room. It seemed a little too cold and a little too richly ornamented for his current taste.

It was a broad chamber, laid out as a throne room. At the lower end a pair of double doors gaped wide enough to allow more people to enter than had ever been in Wolfguard. They were eight feet high and twelve wide, panelled in a selection of woods from across the great forest. The pillars and lintel of the doorway were carved in the form of trees and branches, and the pillars that supported the roof continued the theme so that it was like an ordered forest. The ceiling itself was painted in great detail as a canopy of leaves, but the illusion had always failed for Narak, despite the exquisite quality of the workmanship. The light was wrong. There was no way that lamps and candles could adequately capture the dappled daylight. He preferred it poorly lit. It could seem almost like the forest at night with just a few flames to stand in for stars and a lamp for the moon.

He had removed the throne from the dais centuries ago, when its arrogance began to annoy him, and the space was curtained off. Behind those curtains were doors leading to a suite of private rooms, and these, too, were rarely visited.

The armour was red. He had no idea how they had done it, and it was said that the secret had died out among the smithies of Telas Alt over two hundred years ago, because it was not painted; the metal itself was the colour of fresh blood. It was all curves and smooth planes with no place for a point to stick, the joints being the only weak points, engineered for ease of motion more than complete defence.

He needed armour. He was going to confront the lord of Bel Arac in his fortress, and Bel Arac was a man with a lot of blood silver. Narak was all but invincible with a sword, but arrows bothered him. You could not cut ten arrows from the air at the same time, let alone fifty.

He was certain that Bel Arac would have plenty of warning of his arrival. He could attempt to sneak into the building, to avoid being recognised, but the though of that offended him, and if he was discovered in such a low act he would have the same problems to overcome. If he was Bel Arac he would have fifty archers with their arrows tipped in blood silver waiting for the word to shoot. In such a case he would be hit many times, and was loath to rely on a shield for protection. Arrows could come from many directions at once.

It embraced him
like a second skin. The day he had been given it, the armour had been a perfect fit, and nothing had changed
e had no idea how they had done it, and it was said that the secret had died o
. Each piece was carefully placed on his body and strapped into place. It closed about him like some great lobster shell, waiting to be peeled away, and he waited patiently until they were done. He disliked having to rely on others to dress him for battle. It seemed weak, and made him feel somehow incomplete.

When they had finished he shooed them away and drew his swords. The action seemed easy enough. He moved, spinning, cutting, slicing the air to ribbons. His red carapace was surprisingly light. It made him a shade slower than he was without, but he adjusted to it easily, and after a few minutes he was as fluent in his movement as he had dared hope.

“It will do,” he said to Poor.

“It looks very warlike, Deus,” the steward said, and though his tone was neutral Narak knew that Poor was disapproving by his choice of words.
Warlike
was a disparagement in his mouth, just as much as
peaceable
was a blessing.

He did not reply. His business that day would be the killing of men. He did not doubt it. And the armour was surely suited to the business. He hadn’t been sure if the colour of the armour was a joke or a compliment when they had presented it to him, but he decided it was the latter, simply because they would not have dared to offend him. He was the bloodstained god, bathed in the gore of his enemies. It was a name they had given him after Afael when he had indeed been painted red from head to foot in the blood of Seth Yarra.

Wearing the armour brought back the nausea he had felt after the battle, the sudden desire to bathe, to be elsewhere, to forget. He draped a heavy cloak over his shoulders.

“I will go now,” he said.

He ran out of Wolfguard, warming his muscles, driving the unwelcome memories from his head with deep breaths and the clean feeling of power in his body. He had no problem with killing. He’d never had a problem with death. His father had been a hunter, and so had he before Pelion. But there was something wrong about that day in Afael. There had been something wrong with him. His mind had not been clear, and the killing was done badly, without respect; cutting weeds, not corn.

He stopped when he was in the forest and out of sight of the entrances to Wolfguard. He picked up leaves from the forest floor and crumbled them in his hand, inhaling the scent. He let the pieces fall and closed his eyes.

He opened them elsewhere. He was on a slope about a quarter of a mile above the gates of Bel Arac. The forest was thick enough to conceal him from anyone who might glance up this way, and he stood in the shade of a tree for a while and watched the city. There seemed no unusual traffic, no extra guards on the gate. From this point he could see the fortress at the heart of Bel Arac. It was as pretty a piece of architecture that ever rightfully bore the name of castle. Five towers showed the shape of the curtain wall, each able to support the towers on either side so that there was no place that you could assault the walls where you would not be attacked from two directions by numerous bowmen. Within the curtain wall stood the keep, a circular tower. The only entrance was twenty feet up one side, and the wooden stair that led to it was easily burned or broken, making it difficult to assail.

The entire building and the walls were made of a smooth, grey local stone with a crystalline structure, and it caught the morning light, glittered like polished metal, or like a myriad of jewels set in lead. The gap between the city gates and the curtain wall was no more than three hundred yards and from the curtain wall to the keep was another thirty. Not far, but the distances worried him.

There was no point in putting it off. Every moment increased the likelihood of Bel Arac being warned of his presence, of learning that his mining operation had been discovered. Narak strode down the hill. He did not run, but long strides carried him quickly to the gate. The guards, and there were only two of them, seemed startled to see him. One look was enough to tell them that trying to stop him would be a fatally bad idea.

The road between the city gate and the curtain wall was busy with people, but it was straight. He could see the guards there and they could see him. He saw a man run off, probably to the keep to warn the Marquis. It seemed a very short time before he reached the gate and found his way barred by three men. They had not drawn their weapons, which surprised him.

“What business…?” one of them started to say, but Narak didn’t break his stride, burst through them like a tide through a wicker dam. One of them cried out, but he did not look back, and did not hear any of them follow him. He reached the wooden steps to the keep and took them three at a time. At the top his way was barred by an officer of Bel Arac’s guard, sword drawn, face pale.

“Deus,” he said. “You must stop.”

For a moment he did. He had not yet drawn his swords.

“Stand aside,” he said.

“I am bound by my oath to protect my lord the Marquis,” the officer said. It was a brave thing to stand before Wolf Narak, braver still to stand alone.

“Your oath is voided. Your lord is a traitor. If you do not stand aside I shall judge you guilty of taking arms against your king.”

The officer hesitated, but Narak could see the shock in his eyes. This one did not know. What he did know was that the wolf god would not lie about such a thing. If Wolf Narak said that Bel Arac was a traitor… The guard put down his sword and stood aside.

“Good man,” Narak said as he pushed past. He ran up the grand staircase. The plan of this keep was simple enough, and he knew that if the Marquis was here he would be in the great hall, or in the private chambers behind it. He knew the way well enough from other visits, long ago. It was unnervingly similar to the layout of his great hall in Wolfguard.

The door was shut and barred. He kicked it and it burst open, the beam that had held it splintering across the stone flags of the floor. The great hall was much as he remembered it, high, well lit and richly adorned, but he had no time to see it. He counted twelve armoured men, swords drawn, standing between him and the Marquis’ high seat. The Marquis himself sat upon it, and smiled.

Narak studied the rest of the room. He looked for loop holes where a bowman might be concealed, for men hidden in doorways, for tapestries that might conceal an archer of two, but there was nothing. Not one bow was trained on him. He smelled blood silver, and he knew that the swords were all tipped with it, edged with it.

“What is your business here, Wolf Narak?” the Marquis asked. He was not a large man, but dressed like a prince, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair long, dark, brushed back from his forehead and bound in a queue behind his neck. He wore a sword, but had not drawn it.

“You are a traitor, Bel Arac,” he said. “You have made alliance with Seth Yarra, you have broken the terms of the blood silver pact, and you have supplied arms to the enemy of your king.” The last was a guess. The arrows that had been used to kill Berashi border patrols must have come from somewhere, and this was the obvious place.

“And you have rushed here full of indignation to punish me?”

“Your men killed one of my own,” Narak replied. “Such a thing does not go unavenged.”

“Then by all means, do your worst.”

Narak looked around the room again, but he could see no surprises, no hidden traps. There were just twelve men, swords drawn. Could that be it? Bel Arac seemed so confident. He drew his swords and took a step back so that there was not enough room for anyone to get behind him. Fighting with a wall at your back made things simpler.

“I have no wish to kill you,” he said to the men. “Lay down your blades and walk away.”

The Marquis laughed. “Too many for you? So much for the fable of Afael!”

“I’m not speaking to you, Bel Arac,” Narak replied. “Let these men answer for themselves. Will they die for a traitor?”

“If they understood you they would tell you that they do not see it that way.”

Bel Arac’s words caught him off guard. If they understood you? Then understanding came, like a drum roll, into his mind. Of course. Who could Bel Arac trust if he was betraying his own people? Who would insist on being here to mind their investment? When he looked into the eyes of the twelve men he saw nothing but hatred, and he knew why. They were Seth Yarra. Not only that, but they were the black clad monks who had fought so well at Afael, the cleansers, the killer priests of Seth Yarra.

“Then let us begin,” he said.

They were ready for a fight, but none of the Seth Yarra had seen Wolf Narak for four centuries, and they were not ready enough. He thrust with all his speed, flashing past the half raised blade of his nearest foe and put the tip neatly into the man’s neck above the collar of his armour. He turned the blade and stepped back in time to parry two fierce blows from the others.

Eleven.

Now three of them came at him at once. His position by the wall limited it to three, and though they were all skilled with a blade, Narak was better. He was faster, too, and he had thought about fighting in a thousand scenarios over hundreds of years. He had tried out dozens of theories with Caster in their practice hall, and now he would test them.