Bridge of Swords (6 page)

Then a whole crowd was rushing at Sendatsu. If they had all come together, he would have had no chance but these humans fought each other, or got tangled up in chairs and tables. For an instant he thought about drawing his sword and threatening them — but remembered the carnage he had wrought among the Council Guards. He could not risk that again.

But he was not defenceless. He had learned to fight with his hands and feet — against his peers and against his father. In contrast, the humans that attacked him seemed to move so slow, most of them obviously affected by what they had been drinking. As he had been taught, he merely emptied his mind and dealt with anything that came near him. The answers he sought, upsetting the humans, revealing himself — those worries vanished.

Two men converged on him as he waited, completely calm. He saw a punch coming from his left long before it was dangerous. It was just like being back on the training mats. The moves he had practised a thousand times, until they were second nature,
they just flowed now. His left hand curled up, deflecting the punch away, and he stepped smoothly into a second block to avoid a blow from his right, this time catching and holding the man’s arm. His left leg snapped out as he shouted, an explosion of sound to concentrate power and focus himself.

He dropped the first man with a kick to the head, then used a double punch, an uppercut followed by a reverse fist to the nose, to send the second man crashing to the floor.

Another roundhouse punch — how slow did they arrive! — came at his head from the right and it was easy to flick the fist harmlessly over his shoulder and then drive the stiffened fingers of his left hand into the balding man’s gut. As Baldy folded over, groaning, he grabbed Baldy’s shoulders and swung the man into the path of a kick launched by a man whose face was disfigured by huge boils. Baldy went flying, felled by his friend, and before Boils could recover, Sendatsu stepped closer, always in perfect balance, to deliver a punch and a kick in the same instant; the double blow sending Boils reeling away, to where he almost landed in the fire.

A pair of them, son and father, had seized one of the long benches and now ran at Sendatsu, using the bench as a shield, either to strike him or drive him into a corner, where he would be easy prey.

Instead he ran forwards then, at the last moment, slid under the bench, skidding on the damp rushes and deliberately not thinking what he might be sliding through. He reached up as the rough wood scythed over his head and allowed himself to be carried along for an instant, before swinging his legs out to the left, to where the son was carrying the bench.

He trapped one of Son’s ankles between his feet, then jerked it to the right and let go of the bench in the same moment. The son went flying, tumbling over the front of the bench, while the father on the other end was sent cartwheeling across the floor.

As more men converged, he flipped to his feet and grabbed the bench, bringing it up like a shield. A grey-haired man punched it and then howled in pain. He kicked Grey-hair between the legs
and the man’s howl of pain turned into a scream as he folded over.

A man with only one eye dived at him but he shifted his weight and used One-eye’s momentum to hurl him onto the serving table, which went down with a crash, scattering goods, drink and chickens into the confusion.

It was time to go, before someone got really hurt. The path to the door seemed clear and he prepared to make a run for it.

Huw watched the hooded stranger in amazement then glanced at Rhiannon, who was also gazing open-mouthed at the man.

Dropping his lyre, he ran at the man, launching himself from the back. Even as he did so, part of him said this was a big mistake. But he arrived from an unexpected direction, and threw his arms around the man.

Instantly Huw realised the man was hugely muscled. But that was not the only realisation. When he flicked his head around, his cowl slipped back and Huw found himself just a couple of inches away from the man’s ear. Seeing it was such a shock that he almost let go — and then the man simply shrugged Huw off, sending him flying backwards, tumbling across the floor.

Huw lay there for a moment, winded, as well as trying to understand what he had just seen.

‘Are you all right?’ Rhiannon asked, rushing to help him sit up.

Huw turned to her. ‘He’s not a spy for Ward — he’s an elf,’ he managed to say.

‘What? An elf? Are you sure?’

‘I saw his skin, his eyes — and his ears! I have heard enough stories about them to know one when they are right in front of me!’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We have to stop this — we have to help him. Who knows why he is here but an elf! In Vales! He could be the difference if we are to stop Ward. Help me up!’

Sendatsu cursed himself. He had lost focus for but a moment and that stupid bard had grabbed him. It had only slowed him down for a few heartbeats but the clear path to the door was gone. Instead, Two-fingers and three others stood there, looking grim. There was still a chance to escape through the window — but that meant leaving his bowstave behind. And he needed that bow. There might be nothing for it, he would have to draw his sword. Regrets could come later. Then he saw Two-fingers whip out a knife and realised he was out of choices. Next moment they were all charging at him and he tensed himself for an explosion of blood and violence.

With Rhiannon’s help, Huw staggered to his feet and ran at the men rushing the elf. Heedless of their size, numbers and the knife the leader carried, his only thought was to help the elf.

‘Stop this! Leave him alone!’ he bellowed.

But things had gone too far. Desperately, Huw leaped over a table, hurling himself into the four of them, and bringing everyone down in a huge pile.

Gasping, he bounced clear of them and found himself on his back, looking up into the startled face of the elf.

‘Quick! Go! While you can!’ Huw cried.

Sendatsu understood the chance being offered — for the moment nobody was trying to attack him, so he jumped across the fallen bodies, grabbed his bowstave and raced out into the rain. He did not stop until he was clear of the village, and under the poor shelter of some trees. There he paused, panting — but there seemed to be no pursuit.

Sendatsu cursed. Next time he went into a human village, he would have to be more careful. The answers were there. He just had to find them.

The rain slowed, dried to a drizzle and then petered out, although heavy drips still fell from the trees. He could not imagine waiting out here. He had to find somewhere else. Propelled by a sense of looming desperation, he hurried west, hoping to find another village quickly.

I remember what the forefathers told me about how we came to this land. I do not know if it is true but I believe it is more likely than some of the tales I have heard my people tell the humans. We did not arrive on gull-wing ships, nor on strange craft pulled by dragons. We came in old boats, which leaked, and rotted away on the shoreline not long after we landed.

My ancestor and his eleven companions had tried to find a home among the Nipponese. But while they were happy there, for a century, the rulers of Nippon finally drove them out, frightened of these Elfarans, who did not die and instead kept marrying, creating bigger and bigger families, all of them able to do magic. By then there were hundreds of us, and our numbers were growing all the time. Even with the dozens of half-brothers and-sisters among each clan, our Elfaran forefathers were worried about interbreeding and, as leader of each clan, had the final decision on who could marry. Not all were happy with this, but all accepted their judgement. They also created a separate order, the Magic-weavers, the most gifted mages among us. Even then they saw magic could be used as a weapon, and wanted to have it under their control. Although, ironically, they were the only ones among us who couldn’t actually use any magic.

Every decision they made was for the good. Their intentions were always honourable. But they did not see what was coming.

Our arrogance blinded us, we came to believe in our own superiority. Some of us tried to work with the human tribes already here — but not enough, nowhere near enough. The rest despised the humans and used them to make themselves rich. The only solution was to lock ourselves away from them, until the magic within us had faded, until we were like other humans. My forefathers chose me to make this plan happen, and I worked with the Magic-weavers to make it so. I knew there would be danger in this. But I did not realise from which direction it would come.

‘You’ll pay for that, you bastard!’

Huw tried to sit up but the two-fingered man grabbed him and loomed above, knife in hand.

‘Wait! Stop!’ Huw tried to shout — but the man’s face was twisted in anger and the knife began to descend … then his face went blank as a chair smashed across the back of his head and the two-fingered man fell beside the terrified Huw.

Huw — and the man’s three companions — glanced up to see Rhiannon there, looking a little surprised, and holding the remains of a chair.

‘What was that for?’ a man asked.

Rhiannon glared at him. ‘My mother was from Rheged!’ she lied defiantly.

The three men looked at each other, then one shrugged. ‘Fair enough then.’

All around them, the fights were ending and men were helping each other to their feet, comparing wounds and offering to buy each other drinks.

‘Shouldn’t we go after that spy?’ Vernin emerged from under the wreckage of his table.

‘No! Leave him!’ Huw got back to his feet, using his trained voice to drown out any protests. ‘He’s not one of Ward’s men — he’s not even a man at all, he’s an elf!’

That silenced the room — even men who had been lying on the floor rolled over to look at Huw.

‘What?’ Vernin spat.

‘I saw his ears — he’s an elf. I don’t know what he was doing here but …’

‘Never mind him — what have you been doing here? First you tell us Ward and his Forlish are about to descend on us all, then you say there’re spies sitting among us, telling them which houses to rob and which wives to steal, then he starts a fight and you try to stop it!’ Vernin advanced on Huw, his face reddening with anger, an alarming number of other men behind him.

‘Keep back!’ Rhiannon warned them. ‘I have a chair and I’m not afraid to use it!’

The ridiculousness of her threat, as much as the fire in her eyes — and the fact her dress was revealing almost all of one thigh — brought them to a halt.

‘I am sorry,’ Huw apologised. ‘I made a terrible mistake. Please, let me pay for it.’

Vernin paused then. ‘You would have earned a fair bit at Ward’s court then?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Shall we say two gold pieces?’ Huw offered, knowing it would leave him with a much lighter purse. ‘And then drinks for all?’

Vernin beamed, while even those men nursing broken noses or missing teeth brightened considerably. And so they should, Huw reflected bitterly, fearing for his purse’s contents.

It took plenty of ale, as well as more songs and several dances from Rhiannon, before all was forgiven. Even Two-fingers was happy enough, with four more tankards of ale in him, to tell everyone the story of how a beautiful woman had hit him with a chair.

‘Go back to your room — I’ll try and find the elf,’ Huw whispered to Rhiannon.

‘Did he see me dance?’ Rhiannon asked.

That stopped Huw in his tracks. ‘Yes, he did. He couldn’t take his eyes off you,’ he admitted quietly.

Rhiannon’s imagination had also been fired by the thought of an elf. Her dream had been to dance with the elves — if one
had already seen her … perhaps he would ask her to return to mysterious Dokuzen, to perform there!

‘Let’s find him first,’ Huw suggested, not liking this particular development much but the thought of finding an elf wandering around Vales was too exciting to dampen his enthusiasm completely.

‘Of course!’ Rhiannon twirled off towards their room and Huw felt another stirring of unease. He had enjoyed having Rhiannon to himself.

His disquiet grew as he stepped outside. The rain had died and it was not a cold night, but there were plenty of clouds out and almost no light, beyond that thrown from the fires in the village huts. He was also horribly aware he had no tracking skills to speak of, and the chance of finding an elf, in the dark, in the woods, was roughly the same as King Ward giving up the crown and deciding to spend the rest of his life handing out food to the poor. But what an elf could do for his people was too important to just give up.

Beyond the lights of the village it was almost pitch-black, and he edged forwards, tripping and slipping almost every pace, calling out for the elf and knowing he must look like the world’s biggest fool to anyone watching. But he had been called fool before, many times, by his fellow villagers and he refused to let that stop him.

He did not know how long he spent out there, splashing through muddy puddles, searching desperately and calling hopefully. The elf did not answer. He tripped and fell yet again and tiredly got to his feet. The lights of the village were faint behind him and he had to accept he was not going to find the elf. He thumped the trunk of a nearby tree in anger. He had been so close! An elf could have been the answer. Wearily he turned back to the village, feeling the bitter pang of despair more than the aches and pains of stubbed toes and battered elbows and knees.

In the morning they would travel back to his father’s village, as planned. His father would know what to do. It would have been wonderful to get elven help, for Vales really needed a hero. But this was a mystery that would never be answered.

King Ward of Forland looked out across Cridianton and took a breath of sweet morning air. Watching the city come alive in the morning, seeing what he had created, made everything feel right with the world. It was the perfect way to begin the day. The kings of Forland, even his own grandfather, had been happy enough to let things go on as they had for hundreds of years, content to occupy themselves with hunting and whoring and drinking. Ward’s father had disliked hunting and, while drinking had some appeal and whoring was always diverting, needed something more from the crown.

He was a keen student of history and had read every book on the shelf in Cridianton’s library and he encouraged his son, Ward, to do the same. Both came to the same conclusion — men had fallen and needed to rise once more.

The elves had brought civilisation, culture and grace to these human lands but, when they shut themselves away, humans had regressed. Knowledge that had once been commonplace among the human lands was forgotten, or diminished. But there were pockets of learning, places where skills were kept alive, passed down from father to son and guarded jealously. Somehow they needed to bring those together. If men were to rise, they needed to seek out knowledge and learning, needed to pool their ideas.

Ward’s father, Avery, had begun. He hired stonemasons from Balia to build the walls and the castle of Cridianton, invited thinkers and planners and healers from Landia, sent emissaries to all lands with questions about building, medicine, farming and myriad other subjects that could change men’s lives.

But, after early success, he found his approaches rebuffed and other countries refusing to share their nuggets of knowledge. Many feared Forland, the largest country by far, amassing such a treasure-trove of ideas. Avery had died disappointed, his dream unrealised.

Ward had taken the throne determined to see his father’s vision come true — in a different way. If countries would not share their
knowledge in a spirit of brotherhood, he would take it from them. Only together could men rise — under one ruler. It was for their own good — they were just too foolish to see it. All men would thank him, one day.

Besides, history showed him that great advances could be made in war. It brought fresh thinking and new ideas — all the things he wanted. So he trained and worked his armies — and then sent them out to bring the knowledge to him, by force. It was a long process, and the other countries were stubborn. But they could not stand against the Forlish armies.

Breconia, with its skills of woodworking, was his within two years. Nevland, with its farming machines and knowledge of crops and agriculture, was the next to follow. But it was not enough. On he pushed, into Balia and Landia, while already planning for a seaborne invasion of the Skilly Isles to his west.

Of course this did not come without some hardship, and higher taxes at home. Rumblings of dissent at these necessary measures to fund the wars were swiftly stamped out.

But he was not deaf and blind to the unrest. So he decided to show his people the benefits this new enlightenment would provide. He built bathhouses in the city, along the lines of the Balian ones, hosted plays and created statues, like the Landish. The entertainers who kept his court amused were the perfect example of what life would eventually be like. The elves had given mankind a legacy of ideas, but had left them scattered across the continent. He would concentrate them in the one place and then all could benefit. He was sure of it. It would be a better world, under his rule. Certainly there had to be sacrifices made. He had not wanted to enslave other nations but such an ambitious program of empire building needed cheap labour and what was cheaper than slaves? They may not thank him but their sons and daughters would, when they saw what they had built.

He looked down, seeing yet another stone building taking shape in the town below. The walls were covered in a fine tracery of wooden scaffolding, like a spider’s web, and, even at this early hour, men were thick on its walls, carrying stones to raise
the walls. They would die and vanish into history but the stone building they were making would live on. Just like the name of the king who ordered it built, Ward thought with satisfaction.

Nothing great came without effort, without struggle, but he was feeling the size of the problems facing him. He looked north, to an annoyance that was spoiling his grand vision. He had never bothered with Vales before, for it was no threat to him. But his hand was being forced. He would have to deal with the Velsh, for the good of all mankind. They would also thank him for it, one day.

And as for the elves … that was his real dream. He had tried to study the elven histories as best he could. Not the tales that amused the children but the real story of what happened when the elves left the world and withdrew behind their magical barrier. There were few details and surprisingly little he trusted. And certainly no contact since that day. Any humans who had tried to enter the forests around Dokuzen had never returned, until the tales grew to the point where none were willing to take the risk.

Except Ward was not planning to ride there with a few drunken friends. When he rode north it would be at the head of his army, to take for himself what legend said was their greatest secret — immortality. He had read about it in an obscure scroll from Breconia. Elves living an endless life, still young when the grandchildren of the first humans who had met them were bowed with age. That was the real goal. No wonder they had hidden themselves away, rather than risk the humans finding such a prize. But he would not find it — he would take it.

Not only would his name live forever, he would live forever!

It was a seed that had grown within him, was beginning to consume him. He had ruled for many years and could feel the sands running out of his life’s glass. Every night he had to get up every few turns of the hourglass to have a piss. No matter how many young women came to his bed, he could not stop the thought he was somehow becoming less than a man.

And who would carry on his life’s work if he died? His two sons were fools, caring only for conquest and slaughter. They
could not see how he planned to rebuild. They longed only to destroy. Sometimes he feared that only through Dokuzen could his vision come true.

‘Sire?’ A nervous voice interrupted his thoughts.

He turned and his sense of peace and impending triumph faded instantly.

‘Where is she?’ Ward asked softly, ominously.

‘I do not know, sire,’ Hector admitted, trying not to show his fear. ‘The room was locked from the inside and, when we broke the door down, a bag of clothes was missing, as was my ring.’

‘So what are you saying? An elf magically made her disappear?’ Ward asked sardonically.

‘No, sire. Someone has kidnapped her, forced her to go with them …’

‘Who?’

Hector gulped. ‘A search of the castle has revealed one other performer is missing. Hugh of Browns Brook.’

‘So they were having an affair and have disappeared together, eh?’ Ward’s only outward show of emotion was a clenched fist, but Hector could feel cold sweat trickling down his back. Fear and anger were warring within him. He had worked so hard, sacrificed so much, to get himself to this position. Now, at the moment of his triumph, a foolish boy and his idiotic daughter might have ruined everything for him.