Angus Wells - Lords of the Sky

I ventured to pluck at his sleeve and ask him what it took to be a warrior and find a place in the warband.

“Well,” he said, and chuckled, “first you must be strong enough to wield a blade and skilled enough in its wielding. Save you prefer to slog out your life as a pyke, you must ride a horse.”

At that, several of his companions laughed and raised their buttocks from Thorym’s crude chairs, moaning and rubbing themselves as if in pain.

“Often for long leagues,” said Andyrt, himself chuckling. “You must be ready to spend long hours bored, and more drinking. To hold your drink. And you must be ready to kill men; and to be yourself killed.”

“I am,” I said, thinking of the beach and the skyboat; and Andyrt said, “It is not so easy to put a blade into a man. Harder still to take his in you.”

“I’d kill Kho’rabi,” I told him firmly. “I’d give my life to defend Kellambek.”

He touched my cheek then, gently, as sometimes my father did, and said, “That’s an easy thing to say, boy. The doing of it is far harder. Better you pray our God grants strength to the Sentinels, and there’s no Coming in your lifetime.”

“I’d slay them,” I answered defiantly, thinking I was patronized. “How dare they come against Kellambek?”

“Readily enough,” he told me, “for they lay claim to this land.”

“You fight them,” I said. “You’re a warrior.”

He nodded at that. A shadow passed across his face, like the cold penumbra of the Sky Lords’ boat. He said, “I’m life-sworn, boy; I know no other way.”

I opened my mouth to question him further, to argue, but just then the commur-mage entered the tavern, our mantis on her heels like a plump and fussing hen, and a silence fell.

Andyrt began to rise, sinking back on the sorcerer’s gesture. The black-clad woman approached our table, and two of the warband sprang to their feet, relinquishing their places. I found myself crouched between Andyrt and the commur-mage, who asked mildly, “Who’s this?”

Andyrt said, grinning, “A young warrior, by all accounts. He stood firm when the skyboat came.”

The mantis said, “His name is Daviot, elder son of Aditus and Donia. I understand he did, indeed, run back to join his father on the beach.”

The commur-mage raised blue-black brows at that, and her fine lips curved in a smile. I stood upright, shoulders squared, and looked her in the eye. Had I not, after all, proved myself? Was I not, after all, intent on becoming a warrior?

“So,” she said, her voice soft and not at all mocking, “Whitefish village breeds its share of men.”

That was fine as Thorus’s praise; as good as my father’s hand on my shoulder. I nodded modestly. The commur-mage continued to study me, not even turning when Thorym passed her a mug of ale and set a fresh plate of fried fish and bread before her, bowing and ducking. She waved regal thanks and Thorym withdrew; her eyes did not leave my face, as if she saw there things I did not know about myself.

“You stood upon the beach?” she said, her voice gentle, speculative as her gaze. “Were you not afraid?”

I began to shake my head, but there was a power in her eyes that compelled truth, that brought back memory. I set Andyrt’s helm carefully down on the cleanest patch of dirt between the chairs and nodded.

“Tell me,” she said.

I looked awhile at her face. It was dark as Andyrt’s, which is to say lighter than any in the village, but unmarked by scars. I thought her beautiful; nor was she very old. Her eyes were green, and as I looked into them, they seemed to obscure the men around her, to send the confines of the tavern into shadow, to absorb the morning light. It was like staring into the sun at its rising, or its setting, when only that utter brilliant absorption-green now, not gold or red-fills up all the world.

I told her everything, and when I was done, she nodded and said, “You saw that the cats and dogs-the gulls, even-were gone?”

“Then,” I told her, and frowned as an unrecognized memory came back. “But this morning the dogs were awake again, and the cats were on the beach. And the gulls”-I pointed seaward, at the shapes wheeling and squalling against the new-formed blue-“they’re back.”

“Think you they fled the Coming?” she asked.

“They were not there then,” I said. “The sky was empty, save for the boat. I think they must have.”

“Why?” she asked me, and I said, “I suppose they were frightened. Or they felt the power of the Sky Lords. But they were gone, then.”

She sipped a mouthful of ale, chewed a mouthful of fish and bread, still staring at me. I watched her face, wondering what she made of me, what she wanted of me. I felt I was tested and judged. I tried to find Andyrt’s eyes, but could not; it was as though the mage’s compelling gaze sunk fishhooks in my mind, in my attention, locking me to her as soundly as the lures of the surf-trollers locked the autumnal grylle to their barbed baits.

“Your father,” she said, surprising me. “What did he hold?”

“A flensing pole,” I answered. “Thorus held a sword. I told you that.”

She nodded, wiped her mouth, and asked, “Who caught the arrow?”

“Vadim,” I said. “But it was an easy catch: it was fired from so high.”

She turned then to the mantis, and my attention was unlocked as if I were a fish burst free of the hook. I looked to Andyrt, who smiled reassuringly and shrugged, motioning for me to be silent and wait. I did, nervous and impatient. The commur-mage said to the mantis, “He’s talents, think you?”

The mantis favored me with a look I could not interpret and ducked his head. “He’s a memory,” he agreed-though then I was unaware of what exactly he meant-and added, “Of all my pupils he’s the best-schooled in the liturgics: he can repeat them back, word for word.”

“As he did this Coming,” said the commur-mage, and turned to me again.

“You brought Andyrt’s horse to stable, no? Tell me about his horse and his kit.”

“It was brown,” I said, confused. “A light brown with golden hair in its mane and tail. Its hooves were black, but the right foreleg was patched with white, and the hoof there was shaded pale. The saddle was dark with sweat and the bucket where the lance rests was stitched with black. The stirrups were leather, with dull metal inside. There were two bags behind the saddle, brown, with golden buckles. When he took it off, the horse’s hide was pale and sweaty. It was glad to be rid of the weight. It was a gelding, and it snorted when he took off the bridle, and flicked its tail as it began to eat the oats I brought it.”

The commur-mage clapped a hand across my eyes then, the other behind my head, so that I could not move, startling me, and said, “What weapons does Andyrt carry?”

“A lance,” I told her, for all I was suddenly terrified. “That he left in Robus’s stable. Twice a man’s height, of black wood, with a long, soft-curved blade. Not like a fishing hook. Also, a sword, an axe, and a small knife.”

“Where, exactly, on his body?” asked the mage.

Her hands were still about my face, blinding me; frightening me, for all they rested gentle there. I said: “His sword is sheathed on his left side, from a wide, brown belt of metal-studded leather with a big, gold buckle that is a little tarnished. The axe is hung to his right, in a bucket of plain leather. The knife is in the small of his back.”

The hands went away from my face and I saw the commur-mage smiling, Andyrt grinning approvingly. The mantis looked nervous. The others seated around the table seemed wonderstruck; I wondered why, for it seemed entirely natural to me to recall such simple things in their entirety.