Bridge of Swords (8 page)

‘And what of Asami?’ Oroku asked.

‘Leave her to me. She loves that fool Sendatsu and needs to be handled carefully. She could be the final piece of the puzzle for us.’ Sumiko smiled and more plants exploded into flower, red as blood. ‘But her first loyalty is to him, not to me. If we are not careful, she might tear a hole in our plans. We must use them for as long as possible and judge perfectly the time to cut them both loose.’

‘And what of Jaken?’ Jimai asked.

‘We have to act quickly,’ Sumiko admitted, ‘while Jaken is off balance. His standing would have been hurt by his son’s actions. Most clan leaders would resign in disgrace after that. But not him. We will have little time. He is utterly ruthless and we cannot underestimate him. Truly, seeing him grovel at my feet will be a day to remember, as I pay him back for a hundred insults.’

Behind her the plants shuddered, petals flying away.

‘We shall begin immediately,’ Oroku promised.

‘Lord, are we sure he has gone into the human world and the barrier did not kill him?’ Gaibun asked respectfully.

‘I have had it confirmed. I have a spy inside the Magic-weavers,’ Jaken said.

‘So the barrier is really fading?’

‘It has been fading for years. But there is life enough in it for us to complete our plans,’ Jaken dismissed. ‘Of more concern is what he might find out there and who he might be speaking to.’

‘There is nothing to worry about, my lord. Even if he survives there, he cannot do any harm. Nobody cares what those gaijin humans think — if they can even think!’ Gaibun tried a little joke.

Jaken did not smile.

‘He cannot be allowed to escape justice. What he did to me and my soldiers must be punished!’ Hanto snarled. His arm had been healed but his pride was bleeding.

‘Did I ask you to speak?’ Jaken said coldly.

‘My apologies, my lord. I meant no offence.’ Hanto bowed immediately, his face going from flushed to white in an instant.

‘We have two tasks before us. The first is the most pressing. The Magic-weavers were behind much of what went on with Sendatsu. They will seek to exploit the situation. I expect them to make a play for the remaining books in the tombs of the forefathers. We must be ready for that. We have to know what they plan. Gaibun, I need you to gain your wife’s trust and use that for information. Asami will be the key here. The Magic-weavers will try to use her, while she is Sendatsu’s link with Dokuzen. All will revolve around her. Succeed in this and there will be glory aplenty to share around. I shall be the next Elder Elf; Gaibun shall take the position of clan leader for our clan; and Hanto, you shall become commander of the Council Guard.’

‘You honour us, lord.’ Hanto bowed, Gaibun a heartbeat behind him.

‘You shall earn it,’ Jaken warned. ‘Hanto, I need you to take your best two men and go and find Sendatsu, in the human world.’

‘Go … into the human world? Through the barrier?’ Hanto croaked, his face going white again.

‘I told you. I have a spy inside the Magic-weavers. They will send you through. Now the barrier has been breached once, it will be even easier. It is quite safe.’

‘We shall return with his head by the next full moon,’ Hanto promised.

‘Did I say that?’ Jaken hissed. ‘I ordered you to return with Sendatsu! Alive! I do not want him out in the human world and I definitely don’t want him finding anything that can be used against us later. I want him safe, under guard, ready to be produced when necessary as evidence of the Magic-weavers’ treachery. He will be the lever we shall use to overthrow Daichi.’

‘I understand, lord.’

‘No mistakes. He is no good to me dead. I would rather you kept him alive and he returned through Asami than he died out there. His return will be our signal to move. I want him to come back at a time of my choosing, under my control — but at the very least I must know when he is to return.’

‘You can rely on me, lord.’

‘I already am. Your revenge can come afterwards. Fail, and you will beg me to end your suffering.’

‘Your will, lord!’

‘You have your tasks. Go to them.’

This would never have happened had our forefather Elfarans still been alive. They were immortals — or so we thought. While they did not have magic, they had the wisdom of centuries, and the stories of the dragons. They were also, literally, the fathers of us all. We all respected them, would never dream of going against their wishes. We put them on a pedestal, thought they could do no wrong … but, like all fathers, they were flawed.

Once we saw they were only human, we had a choice to make. Some of us, like myself, loved them more for it. Others lost all respect, came to believe that everything about them was a lie, all because of that chink in their armour.

If they could have explained this to us, things might have been different. But that was impossible. For these immortals, these one, unchanging part of our lives, these invincible fathers, were dead.

Sendatsu stumped through the trees miserably. Where was he going to find a place to sleep tonight? Even when he had camped out in the woods with his friends, Jaken had ensured a servant had come along to help them make a shelter and cook food. He was horribly aware he had little idea how to do either, yet his stomach was growling and he felt dizzy with tiredness.

He trudged onwards, wishing he had somewhere warm and comfortable to sleep and wishing with everything he was back
home in Dokuzen with Mai and Cheijun. Then he spotted a light through the trees. It seemed to be coming from a large building, surrounded by a series of low hillocks. It was strange but he went over anyway — anything had to be better than trying to sleep in the open.

To his shock and surprise, this proved not to be a wattle and daub cottage, like he had seen back in that human village, nor the brick homes he was used to in Dokuzen. This was built of stones, shaped and placed together.

Torches burning inside proved someone still lived here, although their light showed some of it had fallen down, littering the ground with its blocks of stone, while the roof, thatch over wooden beams, was half falling in.

‘Hello?’ he called.

A curse from inside the building was followed by the appearance of a pair of scruffy humans, both holding torches in one hand, crude swords in the other.

‘Who are you?’ one grunted.

‘My name is Sendatsu and I am an elf …’

‘And I’m the queen of Forland,’ the man interrupted.

Sendatsu paused. This ugly, smelly man was almost certainly not the queen of anything. It sounded like something his father might say. But everything he had been told about humans said they weren’t capable of such thinking. So why had he said he was? He had no desire to try to work out more of these human eccentricities. Even a warm night was not worth that. Besides, these two were hardly friendly, even if they did claim to be royalty …

‘Apologies for disturbing you. I shall leave you in peace.’ He bowed slightly.

‘Oh, you’re not going anywhere. Not until you hand over your money and your sword,’ the man rasped, the pair of them advancing threateningly, swords pointed at him.

Sendatsu nodded. Whatever they said they were, these two were obviously thieves or bandits. He had no wish for violence but knew it was the only language men such as these spoke.

He dropped his bow and drew his sword.

‘If you want to live, I would advise you not to do this,’ he warned.

‘Oh, we’re going to enjoy this,’ the man declared.

‘No, you’re not,’ Sendatsu told him.

The two bandits raced at him. Sendatsu only hesitated a moment before exploding into movement.

The leader drew his sword back over his right shoulder, ready to bring it around in a huge swing — but Sendatsu was much faster, locking his elbow and wrist and lunging his sword forwards. It sank deep into the man’s chest, exploding out of his back in a bloody spray. He twisted it to break the flesh’s suction and ripped it clear, the man howling as his life was torn away with it. The bandit had not even hit the ground when Sendatsu took one more step and sliced across to his right in the classic thunder-strike stroke, ripping open the second man’s belly as he raised his sword in a hopeless attempt at defending himself. The man blundered on for a few more steps, his intestines spilling out of the massive wound, then Sendatsu took two paces and cut at the back of the neck almost delicately, finishing him before he could barely begin screaming.

Sendatsu wiped his sword clean. The pair of them had no more skill than the average sheep — and smelled even worse. Still, he felt he should offer them some respect.

‘My apologies, your majesty,’ he told the dead leader.

He found himself wishing there were more, that they had been more of a challenge. The power it gave him, the thrill of using his sword on these humans, of putting into reality all the practice … it was dangerously seductive. He never felt more alive than when his life was in the balance. He sheathed his sword determinedly. He must not give in to this strange bloodlust.

He picked up one of their fallen torches and decided to explore the structure. Perhaps he could return the stolen property to its owners. Aroaril knew the humans had little enough anyway.

The pair had been living down one end, where the fire that had attracted him flickered and something simmered in a pot. As to
the rest of it, much was wrecked and, even though it had been a long time ago, he could tell it had been burned from the black marks on the remaining stone walls.

Something caught his eye beneath the dirt of years and he brushed at it to reveal a design etched into a large stone. He stared at it in shock, for it was unmistakeable — the stylised sunburst he instantly recognised as the mark of Aroaril. It made no sense. He had never heard of humans worshipping Aroaril — he remembered his father declaring Aroaril could only reveal himself to the elves. It was another sign of their superiority and, besides, the God Aroaril would never offer his magic power to mere humans. The last village had certainly showed no sign of worshipping Aroaril. So why had this church been built by humans — for it was no elven building — why were only a couple of bandits living here and, more importantly, why had it been burned? From the overgrowth and general state of the old church, this had happened many, many years ago, perhaps even centuries. He pressed on the Aroaril stone — and it grated a little. Curious, he tried again and felt it move, while those surrounding it stayed still. Years of dust and dirt fought him but he eased the stone out, to reveal a dark space behind it. Thinking it might be the bandits’ treasure store, he reached in — to pull out a metal box, again with the mark of Aroaril still visible on the lid. Inside was a strange book, bound in leather but with pages made from animal skin. It was seemingly undamaged by its long storage but he still handled it carefully. There was only one reason a book like this had not rotted away to nothing during the uncounted years it had sat there — it had been preserved through magic. Cautiously he opened it. But the pages he looked at he could not read. The writing was clear but the language was nothing he recognised. It reminded him of the tombs of the forefathers and the books he had found there.

He noticed his hands were shaking a little. Was this the evidence he sought? Did this mean elves had tried to teach humans the worship of Aroaril? And, if so, who had destroyed this place and put a stop to it?

If only he could find a way to read this book! Instinctively he felt this was his way back home. All he needed was to find a human who could read it. It had to be an old human language — there was no other answer. He was not sure if his magic might help but he would do whatever it took to get the answers out of this book.

The fire was warm, while there was food in a pot. But the real warmth came from the book.

Sendatsu sat with his back against a stone wall, the book on his lap, and took out his children’s toys from the pouch. Carefully he kissed each one goodnight, sang Mai her special song and then tucked them tenderly back.

‘I will be home soon,’ he promised them.

Broyle of Readingum was a proud man. He had served his king and country for more than ten years, using ruthlessness and single-minded determination to destroy the enemies of Forland. His one dream was to be rewarded by the king, to be given his own command. And it was coming true!

He basked in the warm glow of that as he rode through Vales at the head of his own miniature army, on a mission from the king himself. He cast his mind back to the beginning of his good fortune.

He had taken command of a company of men after his lieutenant had been killed, driven off a Balian attack and saved a supply column. It had just been another day for him but his captain, Edmund, had brought him back to Cridianton, where he joined a score of other sergeants, as well as their war captains, in kneeling before the king.

‘Welcome, my friends,’ the king had greeted them. ‘Let us begin.’

The captains had sat around a huge table, while Broyle and the other sergeants stood behind, awed, as maps were displayed and weighed down swiftly, small clay and metal markers showing Forlish and enemy forces.

It was a memory Broyle treasured. He could close his eyes and imagine he was back there. One at a time, the war captains leaned forwards and reported villages burned, towns sacked and
cities under siege, casualties inflicted, slaves taken and progress made. Ward listened carefully and often interrupted.

‘I want that city taken. Spare no effort to break those walls, for it is disrupting our supply routes,’ he snarled. ‘What is the problem? Are your men cowards?’

‘They are trying everything, sire,’ the captain, his bald head scarred by a livid cut, ventured nervously.

‘There is no try,’ Ward snapped. ‘There is doing and there is failing. Get me that city by the next full moon or I shall have your head.’

‘Yes, sire.’ The captain bowed.

‘Ostia is the second city of Balia, sire,’ another captain cleared his throat to say. ‘The walls are said to be even stronger there than at the capital.’

‘I am more concerned with its aqueducts and how it has designed a sewer system that is the envy of all others. I want its engineers and its experts. Tell the city fathers to surrender them now, and I shall spare them. But if they continue to defy me I will have every man and every second woman killed, and every child sold into slavery,’ Ward said warningly. ‘I want every city in Forland to have such things and I don’t care about the cost!’

Broyle and the others bowed their heads.

‘This is a world of chaos. Since the elves left us, we men have been divided, ragged, clawing our way from hand to mouth, struggling to survive. My dream is to bring order out of this mess. If these countries will not share with us, we shall take their knowledge. Once we have it, then all shall rise.’

The next captain up, a tall man with a flowing moustache and only one ear, began apprehensively.

‘Some of the men are asking when they can come home. The Landish campaign drags on, sire.’

‘They come home when they cannot fight, or when I say. Tell them to finish those Landish off if they want to see their families again. What is the matter with them? Not taking enough women prisoners?’

‘It has been eight years, sire,’ the captain suggested.

Ward thumped the arm of his chair. ‘The Landish know more about herbs, healing and curing the human body of ailments than anyone else. I want that knowledge. We shall burn their villages and sack their towns until they tell us. This is almost more important than a good sewer system. Imagine being able to live as long as the elves! That is what they are fighting for. Tell them that. If that does not work, find the ringleaders in your regiments and have them impaled. That will stop any muttering.’

Then it was Edmund’s turn, and Broyle listened with pleasure as he recounted their successes, and the king nodded in approval.

Broyle found himself daydreaming he would one day sit around that table, have the king nod in approval at his victories, reward him for expanding the Forlish empire.

‘Thank you, my friends!’

The king’s declaration jerked Broyle’s head up and made him realise the reports were over. Ward even seemed happy with the progress that had been made on the maps, where the Forlish markers had been advanced in all directions.

‘Mostly pleasing. We are progressing well in our great crusade to bring civilisation to an ignorant world. I have brought you all here to discuss our next campaign. But first I have something of the great benefits Forland has to offer for you to see — one of my new performers!’

Broyle watched a young bard begin to play — and then, like every other man, his attention turned to a beautiful dancer in a revealing costume, a confection of silver and green linen that hugged her body and had Broyle staring hungrily. He devoured her with his eyes as she danced for them, spinning and turning, seeming to hang in the air with her every leap. One day he would see all of her, he promised himself.

Finally she slid to a halt, performing a manoeuvre none had seen before, where she had one leg flat on the floor ahead of her, the other flat on the floor behind her, with the splits in her skirt revealing her legs to the upper thighs. Broyle was first to lead the roars of approval. He would never forget that body — or the face. One day she would hail him as a Forlish hero, he swore.

‘Truly, this Forlish maiden is the perfect example of why this is the greatest country in the world!’ Ward declared. ‘That has to be the equal of anything the elves could have accomplished. Now, to the real reason you are here,’ the king boomed and Broyle leaned forwards expectantly.

‘As you know, we have more men under my flag than ever before. And this has meant the countries who resist us are trying to raise larger and larger armies. While they cannot hope to match the Forlish fighting man on the battlefield, they all have deep pockets. It has driven up the price of iron ore three-fold in the past year. And keeping our armies supplied, even with slave labour, has seen food prices double also. It has led to some unrest. While I can, and will crush any dissent, some of my nobles are reporting slaves and serfs are leaving the land, trying to escape — and heading north. That is a bigger concern. Our northern border has always been lightly defended, for there is little up there to concern us — just the elven lands and Vales.’