Part 12 (1/2)

The cynical voice buzzed angrily in the back of Duon's head. Duon ignored it.

'You are a strange colour for a Jasweyan.'

'That I am, Majestic One,' said Duon, thinking quickly; the cynical voice had gone silent. 'My parents came from a land far to the south, or so they said, though I never believed much of what they told me. There all men were dark of skin like me.'

'Enough,' the Neherian said. 'You would have been more convincing had you confined yourself to the truth. Still, all families mask their true origins with deceit. This one, for example,' he said, gesturing towards Noetos, who struggled to rise from the floor, 'claimed to be descended from the most ancient line of southern kings. The only problem was that after his grandsire's traitorous actions, it was a claim best forgotten.' He sighed, as if genuinely regretful. 'And now this man returns to recover the Sword of Roudhos he'd so carelessly left lying on the street. Did he think we would not have noticed it? Or that he could sneak into our city unseen? All we had to do was watch and wait. He would do well to look upon that blade, for it will be by this sword his life ends.'

'And me, Majestic One?' Duon could not help asking. 'How will my life end?'

'Who knows? At the end of a blade like this one perhaps, or lying screaming in bed, the victim of some wh.o.r.e's pox. What I do know is that you have volunteered for the Army of Peace. Neherius thanks you, soldier. Galter here will give you the necessary equipment-though not a blade, not yet.'

With a roar, Noetos exploded into life. Duon had no time to contemplate his intended fate, no time to summon outrage or to generate fear. He turned just in time to see the bear-man break his bonds with a twitch of his wrists-bonds Duon would have sworn were unbreakable. Blood from his wrists spattered the floor.

A blade flashed. It should have taken Noetos's head, but the man darted forward with impossible speed. Behind him the sword bit air. The sound turned Duon's head, an instinctive reaction; he turned back to see Noetos already in possession of his father's sword. He held it to the neck of the man on the throne.

Apart from the one soldier who had loosed his sword, no one else had done more than begin to move. The echoes from the bear's roar still reverberated around the stone chamber.

Duon realised the back of his head was uncannily warm.

A thought came to him: what if the Neherians decided to use him as a bargaining piece, his life to be traded against that of their Majestic One? He tried to move, but his wrists were held firmly by the soldiers behind him. His head grew hotter still, to the point where he wondered if his hair had caught fire.

'Now, Noetos-' the man on the throne began.

'Those were your last words,' the bear growled. 'I grant you no final speeches, no chance to deny what you are or what you have done. I want to hear none of it.'

Before anyone could react he slid his blade across the man's neck.

'Die like a dog,' he said as the man's hands sprang towards his opened throat.

Neherians from all sides leapt at Noetos, but before they could reach him he...wasn't there. Duon had caught a flicker of movement, no more. Shouting erupted across the chamber. Steel clashed with steel. Duon waited to be cut down.

Go!

The pain at the back of his head had become agonising. He raised his hands to his hair, then stopped, frozen with surprise that he had been able to do so. His hands were unbound, though the marks of the rope were visible as he examined them.

Did I do that? he asked stupidly.

The cynical voice sighed, a sound like the collapse of a furnace.

A hand on his shoulder. 'Take this.' The bear stood beside him, pressing a blade into his hand. 'Follow me,' he said. 'I'll protect you.'

Three of the Neherians were down, but the rest-at least twenty, with more coming judging by the shouts and sounds of slapping feet-had them surrounded.

Duon wondered what would kill him first: the blade of a Neherian or the fire in his brain.

Noetos stepped forward, then blurred. A soldier to their right fell, his head exploding with redness. He had not reached the flagstones before two more fell back, clutching at their chests.

He'll not be able to keep this up. Help him!

Duon turned and raised his sword, barely meeting the unseen curved blade descending towards his head. Absurdly, he had time enough to notice the exquisite scroll pattern adorning the leading edge of the man's sword. Were those winged fish flying amongst the scrolls? He knocked the blade out of the way with surprising ease, then stepped sideways and inside the guard of another Neherian.

Too slow. Everyone was too slow! He knew he ought to have been dead by now. Why are they not faster?

He was in and out of the Neherian's guard before the man could react, leaving a deep red rose blooming on the man's chest. He turned to his right, expecting another man to be on top of him, but saw with astonishment that the first man with the curved blade had not yet finished falling. The man's hands had spread out to brace his fall. Yes, those were fish, interwoven with birds in the sort of fanciful design his first commander had loved. If that man wasn't careful, he'd land on top of his beautiful blade.

Sound had a strange broken quality about it. Cries from those wounded and dying came to his ears as small packets of sound interspersed with silence, as though someone had made the sounds visible, diced them up with a carving knife and removed half of the slices.

The cynical voice spoke. How do you ever get anything done? Keep your mind on living.

I'm an explorer, Duon replied tartly. I am expected to observe things closely.

Hurry up; I do not have much more to give you.

The bear had carved a way out for himself, and Duon followed. Ahead was the door through which they had entered the room. Behind lay chaos.

As they reached the door it filled with armour-clad men. And, at that moment, the heat faded from the back of Duon's head.

'Arathe!' the bear-man beside him called. 'Arathe! Where have you gone?'

By the slump of his shoulders, the man had apparently received no answer.

QUEEN.

CHAPTER 6.

THE ETERNAL CITY.

THE LEAGUE-LONG ROAD that led Stella Pellwen and her companions to the eternal city of Dhauria also seemed to lead them back into the distant past. For Stella, Queen of the Falthans-former queen, she reminded herself, and was pleased to note she still cared little for the loss-the calendar seemed to run backwards as the tireless donkey drew their cart forwards past stately poplars and flower-lined verges. So many small things combined to make this so. There were no obvious tools in use by those working the fields either side of the gra.s.sy road, and Stella guessed they would see few mechanical devices in this land. A layer of moss and lichen covered every wooden surface. Fence, barn, bridge, rail-all looked a thousand years old. The stonework of every house, while scrupulously clean, had a patina of age about it, a hint of greyness no amount of scrubbing could erase. She thought she could smell the age of the very air.

Likely her imagination. For seventy years Phemanderac had been telling her of this city, of its legends and place in the lore of Faltha. From here, so Falthans believed, their race had sprung, the First Men who colonised the great lands to the north. A thousand years the Dhaurians had lived in the narrow confines of this valley-of course, it hadn't been flooded then-until their rebellion had seen the Most High drive out everyone but the members of the loyal House of Sthane. An article of faith to ordinary Falthans, and believed with fervour by the Halites, the dispersal into Faltha of those who had once lived in this valley had taken place a full two thousand years ago. Phemanderac had told her that, apart from the rebuilding of the drowned city further up the slope, little had changed in the valley since then.

Looking about her, Stella could believe him.

The lowering sun coated the buildings ahead with a faintly rosy glaze. There it stood: Dhauria, formerly Dona Mihst, City of the Fountain. Stella knew that she and her friends would soon be numbered among the privileged ones who had set foot in a city in which all Falthans believed, but few had ever seen.

It was glorious.

The houses began on the flat, using a small area of what otherwise would have been arable land, then stretched up the side of a hill that became part of the enormous ochre cliffs surrounding this deep valley. Whitewashed, with a faint pink blush from the lowering sun, there was something innocent about the houses, something naive, counterpointed by their ubiquitous red-tile roofs. They seemed to have been built in cl.u.s.ters, a dozen or so buildings to a group, separated by open s.p.a.ces: cobbled courtyards, gra.s.sy lawns, glittering blue pools. Sprinkled between all this stood stately cypresses and spreading oaks, under which a few small white figures sat alone, shaded from the still-fierce sun.

Despite all that had happened to her, of which the death of her husband Leith, King of Faltha, was but the most distressing of many harrowing events, Stella found herself becoming excited.

'Looks dull,' a voice said.

She turned her head to where her guard, Robal, strode beside the cart, one hand resting on Lindha the donkey's neck. He'd become fond of the animal during their desert journey. 'A pale shadow of Instruere,' he added provocatively.

'Dull?' came the expected rejoinder from the other side of the cart. Conal the Halite priest walked there, two steps to every one of the guard's, his round face lit up with antic.i.p.ation. 'You won't find midden heaps to match those in Instruere, nor, I imagine, will you have your pocket picked within minutes of your arrival. This place has much of interest for the scholar.'