Sovereign

CHAPTER 32

Makon kept his breathing as shallow as possible to keep out the stink of the burning bodies. He was crouching behind a low stone wall, and dangling in front of his eyes was the charred arm of an Amanite soldier, the fingers curled into claws. He glanced over his shoulder to find Eynon. The clan chief was still directing fire arrows into the palace to make sure Amanite archers could not see properly to shoot at Makon and his three troops of Red Hands when they made their charge. He risked peeping over the wall. There was an expanse of nearly sixty paces between him and the palace itself; the space was covered in bodies, draped like strange sculptures over hedges and fountains and garden beds. Impossible for cavalry to cross that distance across all the obstructions, which left the only Chett units trained to fight on foot—his command. Smoke drifted in front of the palace like low cloud. Some smoke poured from the palace itself.

If only Ager Parmer could see his Red Hands now, Makon thought. He'd be proud. An enemy arrow thudded into the wall near his head and he ducked down again. And shit scared.

He and his Red Hands had been fighting now for three days, from the end of the pass across the mountains where they defeated the army sent to stop them, and then down to the capital, and then through Pila's streets to the palace itself. And now, after a long and bloody campaign, they had finally reached the end of vengeance. For what must have been the hundredth time, Makon again checked with Eynon. He saw that the archers had switched to normal arrows. Eynon looked at him and gave him the signal. No more waiting.

Makon stood up, raised his short sword above his head and screamed the cry of the White Wolf. He did not wait to see if the other Red Hands were with him, but jumped over the wall and ran as fast as his legs could carry him towards the palace. An Amanite soldier with a spear appeared from behind a hedge. Makon fell on him, plunging his sword into his chest as they hit the ground. He stood up, tugging his sword free, and started running again. Red Hands surged around him. Arrows whistled by his head. He heard screams, choking gurgles, cries, ignored them, barged through a fire-eaten wooden door shoulder first. He fell onto a stone floor and the wind was slammed out of him. Gasping he turned onto his back. A spear point clanged onto the floor between his legs. He swiped at the shaft with his sword and scuttled away, still on his back. The spear drove down again, snagged his poncho. He rolled, snapping the shaft under his weight, and kicked out. His foot connected with something soft and his head hit a wall. He shouted in pain and anger, sat up in time to see his opponent doubled up and holding his balls. Makon swiped at the man's head, slicing through an ear and hitting the skull. The enemy screamed, jumped back into the sword of a Red Hand and collapsed. Makon scrambled to his feet, looked around. He was in a narrow corridor with archways at either end. Red Hands poured through the exits. He heard weapons clashing, men grunting and wailing, bodies falling. He chose the exit on his right and charged through. A large room with bench seats on two sides. Ten of his men were pushing against as many Amanite spearmen, getting under the points of the enemy weapons and using their swords up close. The spearmen died. Two archers behind them fired one arrow each, dropped their bows and ran through another archway. One of the Red Hands fell with an arrow in his chest.

'Come on!' Makon cried and led the way through the second archway. They found themselves in a large hall. Light from windows high in the wall criss-crossed smoke from a fire consuming a wooden staircase that led to a second-floor gallery. Archers were lining the gallery. Makon swore under his breath and made for the staircase, hopping over flames, coughing and choking on the smoke, leaping three stairs at a time. He heard someone give orders to the archers, and they swung their bows around, but too quickly and tangled with each other. Some arrows were loosed from half-drawn strings and looped into the air to fall harmlessly below. Two archers fell with arrows in their backs. The remainder could not see through the smoke clearly to aim but loosed their arrows anyway. They whirred through the air. Then Makon and six Red Hands were upon them. The archers retreated on each other, pushed to get out of the way, fell screaming as they were stabbed in the back and then thrown over the gallery into the fire below.

More Red Hands were pouring into the hall now. 'Put out that fire!' Makon screamed at them, then led his band off the gallery into a corridor. Tapestries hung from stone walls. Diffused light from clerestories showed off their colours. Makon wanted to stop and wonder at them, and could not help thinking that his brother Gudon would love this place, but he pushed on.

There were doorways ahead; each was opened, each room checked for enemies. They started discovering servants and peasants, old people and children; one or two put up a fight and were quickly slain, the rest cowered and pleaded for mercy. Most of the time they got it. The corridor twisted and turned. More rooms, antechambers, libraries and offices. Makon felt he was getting closer to the most important section of the palace, the royal quarters and throne room, something confirmed when enemy soldiers appeared at the other end of the corridor and charged with the cry of the great bear. The Red Hands replied with their own war cry and met them with a bang of steel against steel. The enemy was armed with swords and bucklers and proved as good at fencing as the Red Hands. The battle in the corridor swung one way and then the next as advantage was won in the confined space and then lost again.

There was room for only three to fight shoulder to shoulder in the corridor, and as warriors tired or died they were replaced by those waiting behind them.

Eventually it came to push and shove, and the greater number of Red Hands started to tell. The enemy soldiers tripped or fell from sheer exhaustion and were trampled under foot, row after row. Red Hands bringing up the rear used their daggers to cut throats and stab through eyes. The floor was slick with blood and the stink of it was stronger than the smell of smoke. When the last enemy fell, the Red Hands could do nothing for a while except lean against the wall and regain their breath.

They all looked like bloody wraiths, and they grinned at the sight of each other, their teeth white against the gore.

'They were good,' one of them said, pointing his sword at the train of Amanite corpses behind them.

'Now they're just dead,' said another.

'Enough rest,' Makon gasped, struggling to stand upright. 'We haven't taken the palace yet.'

At the end of the corridor they came to another gallery, this time overlooking another great space. Makon looked down and saw it was the throne room, and that the throne room had become a battlefield. Chetts—Red Hands and clan warriors—led by Eynon, were hacking their way through the last of the Amanite defenders. At the rear, sitting on a great, basalt throne, sat a large, bearded warrior Makon assumed was King Marin himself. Resting under his two huge hands was the biggest battle-axe the Chett had ever seen. As he watched, Marin stood up and roared a command. His warriors retreated from the Chetts and rested their weapons. One or two were cut down by overeager Chetts before Eynon commanded them to halt, then took a step forward.

'Do not ask for mercy, Lord of Aman,' Eynon said fiercely. 'For what you have done against my people, I will grant you none.'

All eyes settled on Marin. 'You are the leader of these barbarian worms?' he demanded.

'Eynon, chief of the Horse Clan, deputy of King Lynan Rosetheme.' Eynon smiled then. 'The same King Lynan who split open your son.'

Marin's face clouded and he roared his defiance. 'Single combat, Chett! You against me!'

'If you win?'

'My warriors live.'

Eynon considered this for a moment. 'And you?'

Marin shrugged. 'What does it matter any more?'

Eynon shrugged in turn. 'Truth. Very well.'

Warriors on both sides fell back to make room for the two leaders. Marin took a step down from the throne, turned to a pale clerk standing by the throne who gamely held a sword that was too big for her, and said: 'Lingdar, whatever happens to me, please record how I gut this Chett.'

The clerk looked at her lord with big eyes and nodded.

Marin leaped towards Eynon, his axe swinging above his head. Eynon dodged to his left and the axe crashed into the granite floor, gouging out chips, sending sparks into the air. Eynon's sabre slashed in reply, but for all its size, Marin could wield the axe as easily as Eynon wielded his sword, and he brought it up in time to block the blow. The weapons clanged, the sound echoing in the throne room. Warriors from both sides cheered.

Marin twisted his wrist and the axe blade turned, jamming Eynon's sabre, then punched with his left fist, catching Eynon just under the ribs. Eynon gasped, turned to his left to free his sabre, but Marin kept up with him, spinning on his heel. He punched again, a glancing blow against the Chett's ear. Eynon shouted, let go of his sabre, jumped forward and used his elbow to land a blow on the king's nose. It was Marin's turn to cry out and he stumbled back, bringing his axe up defensively. The sabre dropped and Eynon caught it midair, twisted on his heel and slashed towards the king's midriff. Marin saw the move and blocked it with the axe handle, changed his grip and let the axe swing down and then up. Eynon danced out of the way, but not quickly enough. The axe blade sliced across his chest.

Makon, with every other Chett in the hall, gasped in horror. For a moment no one moved, not even Marin.

Eynon looked down, blood seeping through his jerkin. He looked up at Marin and said: 'Not deep enough.' He lunged forward with the sabre before Marin could react, and the king's body seemed to swallow half the blade. Marin gasped, doubled over, took Eynon's sword with him. Eynon bent over to pick up Marin's axe, brought it up over his head and swung it down so hard it sheared clean through Marin's bull-like neck and bounced off the stone floor. Blood fountained into the air. Eynon dropped the axe and rolled over the king's body, placed a foot on his chest and tugged free his sabre. He then strode over to Lingdar, casually knocked aside her sword and breathed into the cleric's terrified face: 'Whatever happens, please record how I cut off your master's head.'

Eynon stood up straight, turned to his Chetts. 'If Marin's warriors surrender now, they will be spared.'

Immediately there was the sound of spears, swords, bows and daggers dropping to the floor.

Eynon grinned down at all of them. 'So much for that,' he said. He swayed on his feet, seemed to tip over to one side, and collapsed.

There was light first, and then shade. The light hurt Eynon's eyes, and the shade confused him. And his whole body hurt as if it had been split in two. Then he remembered. He had been split in two, or near enough to still survive the experience. He tried to take a deep breath. The spasm of pain made him moan out loud.

'How do you feel?' asked a voice he recognised.

Eynon licked his lips. He tried a word experimentally, but it came out as a croak.

'If you were going to ask "How long?", the answer is five days.'

The shade solidified into Makon's face. Eynon tried speaking again. 'No.'

Makon grinned at him. 'No, you don't believe it's been five days, or no that wasn't what you were going to ask?'

'Water?'

Makon took a cup from a nearby table, gently eased Eynon's head up and let him take a sip. It was cold and good and made his mouth feel less like a rat's nest. 'I was going to say…' he started, but his mouth gummed up again. He took more water. 'I was going to say that was the most stupid question I have ever heard.'

Makon grunted. 'Well, however you feel, you're confined to bed for some time to come.'

'Bed?' Eynon realised then where he was. He had never lain down on anything quite as comfortable as this before. And the room had real windows, with glass. Sun was pouring in. The air was warm. He glanced down at his body. A long ridge ran from the tip of his ribcage down to his navel, criss-crossed by stitches. The skin around the ridge was yellow and purple, and dried blood encrusted each stitch. 'Beautiful,' he said.

'Wennem did it,' Makon said. 'No one else was game. She said you saved her, and she wasn't going to let you die.'

'It's only a cut.'

'She had to stitch part of your stomach too.'

'Oh.' He frowned. 'I remember being sliced. Not much after.'

'You beheaded King Marin. Aman has fallen. The province is yours.'

'Mine?' Eynon shook his head. 'No. I am a Chett. I don't need a province. It belongs to Lynan, if anyone.'

Makon looked seriously at him. 'You wanted to be king once, did you not?'

'What do you mean?'

'When you opposed Korigan. I thought you were the enemy of my people back then.'

'And what do you think now?'

'Did you want to be king?' Makon persisted.

'Never. I just didn't think we Chetts needed a monarch at all. I admit I was probably wrong, but now we have tied ourselves to Lynan the issue is irrelevant. So tell me, Makon, you have been by my side now for a long time. We have fought together. We have shared food. Did Lynan ask you to watch me?'

'Of course.'

'Did he ask you to kill me?'

Makon pursed his lips.

'You can kill me now and no one would be the wiser,' Eynon said carefully. 'You could just say I never recovered from the wound.'

'I was to use my discretion,' Makon said. 'I have used it. You live.'

'Help me sit up.'

Makon did, with some difficulty. It was hard finding a position for Eynon that did not put too much pressure on the stitches, but he refused to lie down again.

'More water.'

Makon helped him drink some more from the cup.

'What does Lynan really think of me?'

'At first he thought you were a thorn in his side. Then when you came to join him after all, he was not sure what to think of you. Then you helped win Daavis for him, and he thought very highly of you. He likes you.'

'But he still wanted to make sure of my loyalty.'

'He is king. You and Korigan are the keys that determine Lynan's hold over the Chetts. He has Korigan's support. He had to have yours as well.'

'Or be rid of me entirely.'

Makon nodded.

'What will you report to Lynan now?'

'That his loyal servant Eynon has taken Aman for him.'

'And what will you do next, oh faithful servant?'

Makon smiled. 'Return to my clan.' He glanced outside. 'Eventually. The clear sky and shining sun are deceptive. Winter is setting in around the mountains. We are trapped here until spring.' He bounced on the bed, making Eynon groan. 'Still, the palace will make it a warm and comfortable winter.'

'And Wennem? What will you do with her?'

'Take her with me, if I can.'

'Does she know that?'

'I think so,' Makon said, but Eynon heard the uncertainty in his voice.

'There is another way,' Eynon said.

'Oh?'

'It is not unusual for a man to join the clan of his wife.'

Makon's jaw dropped.

Eynon started laughing, but it hurt too much. 'Close your mouth. You look like a fish.'

Makon closed his mouth.

'It isn't something you considered?'

'I am from the White Wolf Clan. We have been enemies of the Horse Clan for… a long time.'

'Only thirty years,' Eynon said.

'Since before I was born.'

'But our clans are not enemies any more.' Eynon looked grim. 'My clan is too small now to threaten anyone.'

'I know. But… to change clans… to leave Gudon and Korigan…'

'You would not be leaving them,' Eynon said. 'Korigan will still be your queen, and joining the Horse Clan does not stop you from seeing your brother.'

'No,' Makon admitted.

'And it would help strengthen the ties between our two clans. Heal the wounds. Convince other clans that were once in opposition to Korigan and her father before her that it is time to put those differences behind us.'

'Truth,' Makon admitted again. Still, his reluctance was obvious.

'There is another reason,' Eynon said. 'In fact, two reasons.'

'Go on.'

'First, Wennem, I think, does not want to leave the clan. She would think it a betrayal of her first husband and child. Second…' Eynon waved at the cup, and Makon helped him have another drink. 'And second, I need an heir.'

Makon heard Eynon's words, but for a long moment they did not mean anything. 'Yes, I can see that,' he started to say, then stopped. He looked at Eynon, saw nothing in his expression that showed he was playing a joke on him. 'Ah,' he said.

'Ah? Is that all you can say?'

Makon stood up, changed his mind and sat down again. 'Ah.'

'It would mean adopting you as my son. But since I have already adopted Wennem as my daughter, that would present no problem if you were to marry her.'

'Marry her.'

'You see,' Eynon said, putting a hand on Makon's shoulder, 'because I have adopted her I could not let her go to the White Wolf Clan.'

'Of course.'

'So you joining the Horse Clan is the best solution all round.'

'Yes.'

'And, as I said, I need an heir. I want you to lead my clan after I am gone.' Eynon ran one hand down his ridge of stitches. 'And for some reason, the need has become more urgent than it once was.'