‘Hirad, enough.’ It was The Unknown’s voice but Hirad ignored it, pushing his face very close to Denser’s.
‘But now, it’s your wife and child. Now, it’s different. And we’re all expected to drop everything and help you, aren’t we? No, more than that. We have to.’ He leaned in until their noses all but touched.
‘Well I’ve got an answer for you, Xetesk man, and it’ll stop bloody magic tearing up my country. Let the Dordovans kill the child. Problem solved. Death sentence carried out. What do you think. Eh? Eh?’ He shook Denser, banging the back of his head against the tree and seeing the mage’s eyes burning hatred into him.
‘Hirad, that’s enough.’ The Unknown’s arm came between them, levering the barbarian away. He fought it.
‘Lost your tongue, Denser, have you? Have you?’
‘I think you spend too much time with reptiles.’
‘Fuck you, Denser!’ He drew back a fist but The Unknown caught his arm and thrust his body in the way, forcing Hirad back.
‘Don’t do it,’ he said, holding his hands out, his massive frame hiding Denser completely. But Hirad was too far gone.
‘Get out of my way, Unknown.’
He came forward again. This time, The Unknown shoved him hard. He stumbled back on to his haunches, feet slipping on the slick ground as the rain beat down with ever increasing force, a net of water obscuring his vision. His hand reached reflexively for his sword but The Unknown stooped to the fire and shook the scabbard from his huge blade in one fluid movement.
‘You aren’t going to hurt him, Hirad. Back off.’ The menace in The Unknown’s voice shocked Hirad who could only stand and stare at what he saw.
‘Unknown, stop this!’ shouted Ilkar. ‘Hirad, you too. We’re The Raven, for Gods’ sake!’ He marched in between them, trying to take them both in, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice or his expression as the rain washed down his face.
Hirad had taken his hand from his sword hilt and was gazing slack-jawed at the blade in The Unknown’s hands.
‘He’d see Lyanna die,’ said The Unknown. ‘And I can’t have that. He’d see her die.’ He didn’t switch his eyes to Ilkar as he addressed him. ‘A feeling you’re familiar with, I believe.’
Ilkar ignored the comment. ‘Put your sword up, Unknown, and do it right now. There will not be any fighting here, understand?’
The Unknown Warrior looked down at Ilkar, rain splattering across his shaven head, his eyes glinting orange in the wind-whipped firelight.
‘I won’t let him harm Denser,’ he said. ‘You know why.’ He threw his sword to the ground.
‘It’s not about that,’ said Ilkar.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Hirad. He wiped a sheen of rain from his face and flicked his hand to disperse it. ‘Trouble is, Unknown, you’re still a Protector in here.’ He tapped his chest above his heart. ‘And you can’t shake it off. And the ridiculous thing is, he’s done the same to your brothers as he’s done to the Kaan. Let you fester and hope you’ll go away.’ Hirad made no attempt to move closer.
‘How little you know, Hirad. I’m a father, that’s what I am. And I won’t see someone else’s child tossed aside.’ The Unknown turned away but swung back. ‘You’re my friend, Hirad. Probably the best I’ve ever had. You brought about my release from Protector thrall. But I won’t see you threaten a man through his child. That’s a bond you won’t understand until you experience it.’
‘Yet you pulled a sword on me,’ said Hirad, his anger gone now, replaced by a feeling of loss. ‘We’re The Raven and what you did doesn’t belong. It was wrong.’
‘Listen to yourself,’ said the big man. ‘It was your actions too, Hirad. Yours too.’
‘Think I’ll make a camp somewhere else,’ said Hirad, and he walked from The Raven’s fire.
Chapter 16
Jasto, twelfth Earl of Arlen, was a proud man who had paid the price of overstretching his resources and who, as a result, was now under the firm, fair but unshakeable grip of Baron Blackthorne.
Even in Blackthorne’s weakened days following the destruction of his town towards the end of the Wesmen wars, Arlen had perceived himself too weak to challenge the younger man with any certainty of success. But that had not made him a weak man, as some of his resident merchant lords had intimated. It had made him wise and, latterly, very wealthy once again.
He recalled his hard-pressed merchant and shipping families coming to him those six years ago and urging him to break free of the bonds Blackthorne had imposed. They were weary of being beneath the Baron’s fist and he, they had said, would never get a better opportunity to demand and achieve his autonomy.
And he had seen their point. There had not been a mercenary to be hired anywhere in Balaia, and Blackthorne’s own men were either dead or tired of fighting. However, to Arlen, an attack would have been like betrayal of a man who had sacrificed so much to keep Balaia free of Wesmen domination. So instead of sending men armed with sword and spear, he had equipped them with pick, shovel, saw and hammer. Instead of riding to demand freedom of movement and impose conditions of their own, they had offered help and comfort.
Arlen had recruited quarrymen and stone masons to replace or reshape what the Wesmen had destroyed, carpenters and joiners to work the wood; and he’d encouraged as many of his people as could be spared to be willing pairs of hands.
The Earl smiled as he thought it all through again, his greying, bushy moustache accentuating the movement of his top lip, his leathery, ocean-toughened skin wrinkling on cheek and forehead. It had been help where help had been needed but Arlen had never been a purely altruistic man. Blackthorne had seen that. It was business.
Craftsmen do not come cheap. Wood, stone, iron and steel all have their prices and in such a sellers’ market, those prices had been high. Food too, can always be managed to be expensive. And every one of Arlen’s merchants, shippers and fisher-fleet owners had seen the profits. Blackthorne had not raised an eyebrow. Indeed he had laughed, shaken the Earl’s hand and fetched a bottle of superb wine from the cellars the Wesmen had found but left intact. Even savages enjoyed fine wine.
Arlen remembered sitting in a marquee, supplied by his town, and clinking glasses with the wily Baron. His words at the time would forever remain simple vindication of Arlen’s decision.
Blackthorne had taken a long swallow, leaned back in his chair, shrugged and had said, ‘It’s what I would have done.’
And he’d still reduced the travel levies across his lands that had squeezed Arlen’s merchants so hard. As a mark of gratitude, he’d said.
Riding away from Blackthorne that day, Arlen had wondered how long the gratitude would last. Almost six years later, he was still expecting the letter of withdrawal. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Blackthorne’s honour was unquestionable.
It had left Arlen in peaceful charge of a burgeoning town, attracting trade from Calaius and Korina to his docks. More and more farmers were attracted to his fertile lands on the town’s northern borders, knowing the price for their produce would not be driven down by traders passing on the burden of Blackthorne’s safe passage levy.
But now something smelled bad in his town. It had blown in on the foul breeze of magic and had taken root to the south along the River Arl. First it had been Dordovans. A few mages and their escorts. Nothing out of the ordinary. But ten days ago, they’d been joined - joined - by forty of the Black Wing filth and since then, the Dordovan military and mage numbers had swelled until over three hundred and fifty camped downstream.
His innkeepers and whores hadn’t complained. Neither had his fresh food market stalls. There’d even been some profit for his fine cloth and silk men but the pilfering had been rather more unwelcome, however well it had been contained.