The Black Hawks

Chel’s hands went very still on the thin reins. The mule plodded on, making progress into the rough countryside. In Chel’s mind, a second road was unfurling, one that led into a suddenly unconstrained future. For a moment he forgot his fear. ‘Released from my oath?’

‘In a heartbeat.’

‘And what about a pardon for any unwitting offences against the Church?’

‘Of course! My brother is on excellent terms with Primarch Vassad. Just get me to safety. And fast! This whole coast is unsafe. One of my brothers was murdered on the road by brigands, you know.’

Chel’s mind was galloping ahead. The prince slapped at his arm.

‘Do you dare defy a prince of the kingdom in a time of war? I’ll have you e—’

‘I’ll take you, highness. I’ll get you to safety, I swear it.’

‘Well, about bloody time. There you go, you have a new oath already.’

Chel saw no sign of any of Sokol’s band on the road. Images floated in his mind: silken birds pouring fire onto the water beneath, the screaming fireballs ripping across the bay and into the fort, the giant black ship, sitting implacable between frothing plumes. Already the memories were becoming unreal, too much to absorb, greasy moments slipping away into his subconscious.

He still felt a burn of shame at the thought of abandoning his sworn duty, despite the young prince’s commands. He told himself that Sokol would no doubt be on the road east already, and that they’d likely catch him up, whereupon Prince Tarfel could explain the situation. Perhaps they’d all make the journey together, Sokol prideful of his new charge right up to the moment where Crown Prince Mendel dissolved Chel’s oath before his eyes.

Chel and the prince went east, toward Omundi and the army.

***

The port was burning, great gouts of flame pouring from the sky like incandescent pillars. Whole buildings were reduced to rubble, the palace on the bluffs a blackened cadaver, the Academy opposite a scorching glare too bright to regard.

The city walls crumbled to ash as the entire sea lit with alchemical fire, washing like a wave over the port. He watched it rise before him, screaming silently, anchored to the spot in the ruin of the sea-fort. Heali’s voice called to him, exhorting him to flee, but he remained rooted as the curtain of flame rose higher until it consumed the sky. There, at its centre, just before it fell upon him, he saw a tiny figure, dark against the blaze. It wore a snarling mask.

His head knocked against the crate behind him and with a gulp of air Chel woke. The reins were still in his hands, soaked through. Mortified, he tried to wipe away the worst of his slick sheen, while the mule plodded faithfully on. He felt in no hurry to sleep again.

It was a three-day trip to Omundi, rattling along the pitted dirt roads in the mule cart. The makeshift convoy moved as fast as it could, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the invading Norts as conditions allowed, the bulk of their contingent likewise seeking the safety of the League’s armies.

They camped only briefly and stopped at few roadside shrines. Prince Tarfel made for a dreadful travelling companion: he insisted on hiding among the kitchen supplies in the back of the cart, where he alternated between gibbering panic, which was tiresome, and ostentatious boredom, which was worse. He was prone to bursting into song when under-occupied; his reedy tenor could at least carry a tune, but his limited repertoire ground down Chel’s resolve as the journey wore on, to the extent that he considered teaching the prince some of the more rustic ditties favoured by Sokol’s regulars. When not singing, the prince demanded explanations for everything they passed on the road, from the meaning of the plague quarantine markers to the frequency of the smoking char pits. The only sight to hush him was a rack of gibbets strung at a crossroads, the bodies dangling beneath shorn of noses and ears, the signs around their shredded necks clearly reading ‘Rau Rel’. Otherwise, Chel kept his answers short. When a kingdom has been fighting the same war on itself for twenty years, there’s little new to say, he thought to himself.

Chel tried to focus on the immediate future. He would ditch the prince with his brother, hop back on the cart and roll on south, cut east at the Lakes and be home ahead of the news of Denirnas Port’s destruction. Away from the madness, away from murderous confessors and their lingering venom. By the time he arrived, he could shape the story of the Nort invasion to his choosing, his interactions with the prince, how he came to be reprieved from Sokol’s pointless service, assuming Sokol had even survived. Enough remained of the cart’s contents to barter his way all the way back to Barva. He was going far away from all this. He was going home. All he had to worry about was what to say when he arrived. What to say to his sisters, what to say to his step-father. What to say to his mother. Chel bit his lip in contemplation. At least he’d have plenty of time to think.

‘Look, the pennants, the pennants!’

Tarfel had roused himself and was pointing down into the river valley. Ahead of them, down the curve of the dusty road as it wound its way into the river valley, the bright walls of Omundi shone in the evening sun.

Spread like a dark blanket pocked with campfires before the walls, the armies of the Glorious League lay camped, the Church-blessed alliance of great Names and small, the crown-led instrument of divine unification. Siege engines stood idle in their earthworks, just out of bowshot, and Chel noted with distaste the rocky dam that had diverted the river’s flow away from the city and down deep-cut channels in the earth. Little seemed to be happening.

Highest of all the pennants that fluttered at the centre of the camp was the white lion of Merimonsun, and Tarfel squealed with glee at its sight. ‘Go there, go there!’ Chel geed the mule down the slope toward the camp.

***

Whether or not the pickets at the camp’s edge believed that the mule cart was an official royal conveyance, Tarfel’s shrieking, princely entitlement and signet-waving had them escorted to the camp’s centre in short order by nervous men-at-arms. An equally sceptical vizier bade them wait, still guarded, at the edge of a wide earth circle, ringed by the exotic tents of the great and good of the royal forces. Lions, pictorially speaking, were everywhere.

Overhead, a host of messenger-birds, doves and pigeons, seemed in constant circulation, teeming from the cotes stacked beside the grandest pavilion, coming and going in a ceaseless flutter of feathers. Panting foot messengers with grime-streaked faces came pelting past at regular intervals. All activity seemed centred on the pavilion, the hub for messages from hand and wing, a commotion of traffic in each direction at its entrance. Chel guessed that the news from Denirnas must have reached them by now. Beside the pavilion’s flap, watching every item in and out, stood a tall, hooded figure, robed in white and vermilion and dusted with travel-muck.

Chel’s heart thudded once and stopped, his pulse replaced with a sudden flooding lightness that spread over his skin. How had Vashenda got here ahead of them? His mouth was dry, tongue thick. Then his brain registered the difference of stance, of height, the curved sword belted beneath the robes, and he felt his heartbeat restart. It was not Vashenda. Another senior prelate, but not one who’d ordered him adjusted.

‘Bear?’ He was jolted out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. ‘Bear, is that you?’

‘Five bastard hells, it can’t be,’ he whispered.

***

Chel and the prince turned to find a young woman standing behind them, excitement and trepidation surging over her face. Her straight hair was bound and shrouded in the fashion of the Star Court, and she gazed at them with eyes as grey as Chel’s own.

Her face split in a wide grin and she threw her arms around him. ‘I knew it was you!’

‘Sab?’ Chel reeled, carried backward by her momentum. ‘How are you here? What are the chances? You look …’

She released him from her crushing grip. ‘Taller? More dynamic? Matured like fine spiced wine?’

‘Different.’

‘It’s been three years, Bear, near as matters. I wasn’t going to stay small and grotty. You look the same, if dirtier. But what are you doing here?’

‘I should ask likewise. Why aren’t you at home?’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Why’d you think, Bear-of-Mine?’

Tarfel cleared his throat with a frown, and the girl grinned again. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

Chel sighed. ‘May I present Sabina Chel of Barva, my little sister.’

Tarfel inclined his head, looking Sabina up and down. ‘Not so little any more, eh?’

Frowning, Chel continued. ‘Sab, this is His Royal Highness Tarfel Merimonsun, prince of the realm, youngest son of King Lubel.’

She’d already begun a bow of her own and she staggered at his words. ‘You’re friends with a fucking prince?’ she hissed, head bent.

‘Well, not friends exactly,’ he said, experiencing several different flavours of mortification.

‘Your brother was good enough to escort me here from Denirnas,’ Tarfel said haughtily. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ He extended a grubby hand for her to kiss. To Chel, he murmured, ‘Bear? You’re not very bear-like, Chel.’

‘It’s, ah, a family thing.’

The sneering vizier reappeared, informing them that negotiations with the city had paused, if not concluded, and Prince Mendel had a moment for an audience with his brother. Tarfel swanned off after the man and into the grand pavilion. The robed prelate lingered outside, her hooded gaze swinging back across the Chel siblings, black eyes glittering within. Chel felt an unpleasant tingling as it swept over him, then the figure ducked beneath the flaps and was gone.

‘Who is that? That prelate?’

Sab sniffed. ‘Ah, Balise da Loran: “Lo Vassad’s clenched fist”. She’s the Star’s chief minister and a double-bastard.’

‘Chief minister? She’s a Church prelate!’

‘She’s also first sworn to Prince Thick, you know, after he had to start afresh. Many feathers in that cap.’

‘Prince Thick?’

She gestured toward the pavilion. ‘Mendel, the crown prince. Your new chum’s big bro. The man’s a haircut in boots. Pretty, though, even with the scars.’

He shook his head, baffled. ‘So who’s left at home, if you’re here? Has everyone been sent away?’

‘The twins are still there, Bear. They’re too young to go anywhere yet.’ She offered a sad smile. ‘They’ll look after Mum.’

‘But why are you here? I mean, here, at Omundi?’

‘You know, bit of this, bit of that. Making friends, keeping my eyes open.’

‘Sab.’

‘I’m travelling with the court. Can’t you tell?’ She twirled in her formal garb.

‘As what?’

‘As a lady-in-waiting, seconded to the entourage of our crown prince’s intended. The Lady Latifah has about three dozen of us, so I just slot into the mass. Five hells, is that girl stupid: people call her Latifah the Dim, sometimes to her face, poor lamb. That was Prince Dunce’s pick from the nobility’s nubility. Shepherd’s tits, imagine their children! They’ll need breathing lessons!’

‘How long in service? And when did you start cursing like a sergeant?’

‘Are you interrogating me, Bear? Since the spring. Amiran thought it was time I made my way.’

‘Of course he bloody did. You’re far too young to be fending for yourself at court!’

‘I’m not a duckling, Bear. I’m the same age you were when you set off on your travels. Speaking of which, where’s Uncle Hanush? Is he with you?’

‘Don’t call him that. And no, he’s not.’ His cheeks coloured at the thought of Lord Sokol, and his clothes felt suddenly hot.

Sab narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s going on? How did you come to be escorting the little prince? Your last letter said you were spending the year burning farmers up north.’

‘We did. Not burning farmers – well, some of them might have been. We were suppressing insurrections in the northeast all summer. Then Sokol decided we’d be wintering with Grand Duke Reysel at the winter palace in Denirnas, where they don’t so much have winter as a cool spell between summers. Mostly we just seemed to chase people away from places.’

‘And did you do much fighting? Are you a deadly swordsman yet? The finest blade in the provinces, slaying brigands and setting the ladies’ hearts a-flutter?’ She made swooning motions.

He shook his head, smiling. ‘None whatsoever. I’ve been fetch-and-carryman to Sokol’s fetch-and-carrymen since he took me in service. Even the dogsbodies give me errands.’

Sab shrugged. ‘He did promise Mum he’d keep you safe. I bet you’ve learned some salty language from the soldiers, if nothing else.’ She winked, then hugged him again. ‘Oh, Bear, how I’ve missed you. Are you staying long?’

He said nothing for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Is Uncle Hanush still in Denirnas? Did he send you with the prince? We heard whispers, not long before you arrived, something about a fire at the port? I didn’t pay it much heed, you know what expansive gossips the Star viziers can be, but seeing you here …’

Chel felt suddenly cold, his back prickled with sweat. He felt the muscle in his cheek twitch as images flitted through his mind, smoke and flame, half-dream and half-memory. With a scowl he drove the visions aside, rubbing at his temples with grimy knuckles.

‘Something happened,’ he said, teeth gritted. Focus on the future, he told himself. ‘Listen, I’ve got things arranged. In exchange for getting Prince Tarfel here safe, he’s going to have his brother dissolve my oath to Sokol, and then—’

‘What? What did you say?’

‘I’ve made a bargain with the prince.’

‘To escape your oath? Bear!’

‘The crown can supplant or dissolve inferior pledges, Sab, everyone knows that. It’s law.’

‘I don’t care if it’s law, an oath is an oath. It’s your duty. It’s the honour of the name our parents chose for us. That Dad chose.’

‘Then it’s as worthless as the oath! My sacred pledge pissed away on that waste of air? I’ve wasted years bringing him clothes while he hid from battles. I could be …’ He threw up a hand in frustration. ‘If I’m to be sworn into duty, let it at least be meaningful, or let me go home.’

Sab kept her voice low, but her gaze was searing. ‘Does Uncle Hanush even know you’re here?’

‘Will you stop calling him that?’

‘He’s Amiran’s brother.’

‘And Amiran’s our fucking father now? He sent me away, Sab. Now he’s sent you away, too. Soon it’ll just be—’

‘A-hem.’ The vizier was back. ‘His highness the prince commands your attendance.’

‘Which one?’

‘You, boy.’

‘No, which prince?’

If the vizier had been sneering before, now his expression could have curdled milk.

***

‘Vedren Chel of Barva,’ the vizier announced, contempt dripping from his voice, as he ushered Chel into the grand pavilion then withdrew.

‘My brother’s saviour!’ Prince Mendel strode forward, grasping Chel’s unresisting arm and pumping it, a warm smile beaming from his absurdly handsome face. Thick, golden hair like a mane crowned his head, matching a well-groomed beard. Chel found himself gazing into earnest, cornflower-blue eyes, creased with concern.

‘Dear Tarfel was telling me of the horrors you saw at Denirnas when the Norts attacked, how you rescued him and carried him to safety.’ Chel raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly, expression neutral. Tarfel avoided his eye. ‘You must have been terrified. I know something of life and death situations myself,’ the prince went on, one hand straying to a jagged scar that ran down one side of his face. It managed to follow the line of his jaw, if anything augmenting his already exemplary looks. ‘But witchfire! God’s breath …’

It seemed to Chel an ideal time to remind the princes of the agreement, in case such things had somehow slipped Tarfel’s mind. He could stand his sister’s disapproval — in time she would understand.

‘Your highness, I—’

‘I can only apologize that you had to face it alone. It’s no secret that the siege is going badly – we should have broken Omundi long ago, and been with you well before festival week. I’m afraid it’s the same as it was in Father’s day – these wretched so-called “free cities” would rather starve themselves to death than rejoin the kingdom.’ He shook his head, seeming genuinely rueful. ‘We have …’ Mendel went on, then tailed off, his beautiful face shifting to a frown. ‘We have …’

A robed figure came gliding from the shadows of the pavilion’s inner chamber behind the crown prince. Balise da Loran, still hooded, floated to Mendel’s shoulder and bent to murmur into his ear. The light returned instantly to the prince’s eyes.

‘We have received more news from the port,’ Mendel declared, as if the interruption had never occurred. Da Loran slid back into the shadows, to where a trestle stood at the pavilion’s wall, piled with message scrolls and missives. Chel watched as she picked up one of the messages and cracked its seal.

‘Yes, brother?’ Tarfel was leaning forward, pained and anxious. He was awfully pale in the lantern light. ‘Have the Norts laid waste to all Denirnas?’

‘No, dear Tarfel, indeed they have not. It seems Grand Duke Reysel may have overreacted to their initial overtures, and they made their point on the sea-fort in return. We’ll have to add that to the reconstruction tally. For now, however, they seem content to sit in blockade, until their demands are met.’

‘Demands? What are they demanding, brother?’

Behind them hung a giant embroidery of Mendel’s late twin, Corvel, a golden sun framing his golden visage, white lions rampant each side. The embroidery bore the legend ‘The Wise’. The twins had been known as ‘The Wise’ and ‘The Fair’ respectively – there was even a song about them – and from Chel’s current vantage, Mendel was very fair indeed.

Balise da Loran was back at the crown prince’s side, and to Chel’s shock he seemed to be deferring to her. ‘Their demands are unimportant,’ came a gravelly and thickly accented voice from beneath the hood. ‘Acknowledging them would be catastrophic.’ She fixed Tarfel and Chel in turn with her hooded gaze, her face within lost in a void from which no light could escape. Mendel was looking at the floor. Chel kept his own eyes fixed on the crown prince; the prelate made his skin itch.

‘The League’s troops remain mired in the siege,’ da Loran continued. ‘Attempting to march everyone to Denirnas now – this close to the end of the campaigning season, with Omundi on the brink of collapse – risks an uprising in our own ranks. But we cannot show weakness in the face of this foreign provocation. We must hold firm, until we can marshal the forces to expel these godless savages.’

Mendel was nodding along, past the end of her words and into the silence beyond. After a moment, Tarfel said, ‘Meaning what, brother?’ forcing Mendel to look up again.

‘Meaning—’ da Loran began, but Tarfel cleared his throat, spots of colour on his waxy cheeks. Chel realized he was as unnerved by the prelate as he was.

‘I’d say my brother can speak for himself in matters of state, wouldn’t you?’

Da Loran stared very hard at the young prince, who seemed to lose an inch in height beneath her gaze. After a moment, she rumbled, ‘Of course, your highness,’ and turned her gaze to Mendel, who looked momentarily surprised. Da Loran muttered something, and the crown prince’s eyes came alive.

‘Meaning, Tarf my boy,’ the crown prince proclaimed, refocused, ‘that the festival celebrations in Denirnas must go ahead as planned. A symbolic gesture, true, but hugely significant. We will show the north that the crown of Vistirlar does not bow or flee in the face of heathen aggression. We stand tall. We celebrate the festival of our father in defiance of savage alchemy, and we show this fractured kingdom that we are not afraid.’

Chel listened with his brow crunched in rising incredulity. Tarfel seemed no less astonished. ‘We do?’

‘We do. And I can’t think of a better representative of the crown to oversee the festival proceedings at Grand Duke Reysel’s side.’

Nobody spoke for a moment, Tarfel slow to meet his brother’s beaming gaze. A heartbeat later his pallid face became entirely bloodless.

‘Brother! What the fuck?’

‘Tarfel, language. You must be our avatar, little brother. You must bear witness to the splendour of the festival’s events, first-hand.’

Tarfel’s voice was very small. ‘But they have witchfire …’

‘Let them … Let them …’ Mendel wasn’t listening, ‘Let them bob and rot in the harbour-mouth. Our people are resourceful, resilient. We will find ways to cope without sea trade. We can lump supplies over the hills from Sebemir’s river docks, that should prevent total starvation.’

Tarfel looked to be gagging, unable to speak. Eventually he said, ‘But you’ll send reinforcements? The army, the League, some will be coming too? We’re at war …’

Da Loran answered this time. ‘The forces of the League are needed in the east. Omundi must fall.’

Tarfel had visibly slumped, his head slung from the sloping mound of his shoulders. Chel watched with a sort of vicarious horror. This plan seemed ludicrous, and he could not wait to be as far away from these people as possible. ‘For how long?’

‘While the campaigning season lasts, although I suppose at that point the League will be breaking up for winter.’

‘But then you’ll come? To the winter palace? You’re expected …’

‘It wouldn’t be fair to leave Father on his own down south, would it? We’ll send a couple of regiments, maybe a free company or two, but this is a battle the Norts cannot win, and they know it. They’ve spent what threat they have, and now they must sit and wait. They cannot break our resolve, our unity. Take heart, dear brother, they will be slinking back over the sea sooner or later – storm season in the north is but a couple of months away.’

‘A couple of months?’

‘Fear not, you won’t be defenceless. Master Chel, I understand my brother made a promise to you?’

Chel swallowed. This was it.

‘He did, your highness.’

‘Good, very good. And who is your current liege?’

‘Hanush Revazi, Lord Sokol.’

‘Do I know him?’ A quick look toward Balise. ‘Not to worry.’ A warm feeling began to creep over Chel. ‘Would you mind kneeling?’

Chel knelt, almost unsteady, his hands trembling with anticipation. Mendel summoned a flunky with a clap of his hands.

‘Right, you, vizier, get this down. Vedren Chel of Barva, by decree of the crown of Vistirlar, your oath is dissolved. All restitutions and so on through the usual whatsit and so forth – Balise knows this bit.’ Chel bowed his head, a fluttering feeling in his chest. ‘Ready with the next one? Splendid. Master Chel, your hand, please.’

The warm feeling vanished, replaced by a sudden tingling cold.

‘I can’t think of anyone better suited, dear Tarf. Now, Master Chel, if you wouldn’t mind repeating the following …’

A short time later, and with very little fanfare, Chel found himself sworn into the service of Prince Tarfel Merimonsun of Vistirlar, under oath to serve, honour and protect. Especially protect. The whole thing felt oddly close to marriage. As he stood, he exchanged a glance with his new liege. Tarfel looked just as miserable as he felt. Back to Denirnas. Back to the Norts. Back to the Rose. Back to the muscular embrace of Brother Hurkel. Chel was reasonably certain he was going to vomit on the crown prince’s gleaming boots.

Mendel clapped his hands again. ‘There. You two will do wonderful things for the kingdom, I just know it.’ He turned to the vizier, who had done little to mask his disdain during the proceedings. ‘Now, please escort Prince Tarfel to the riders. At least, dear brother, you will have a proper escort for your return to Denirnas.’

Chel found himself marching out beside Tarfel. He swallowed down the rising bile, managing to hiss, ‘You have to do something, highness! I was supposed to be released, not sent back to die!’