Stan Nicholls: The Diamond Isle

Darrok nodded.

They listened a little longer, then the singing began to fade. The bustle on the ship resumed.

‘We’ve done our bit here,’ Darrok decided. ‘Get on, I’ll take us home.’ He extended a hand.

The saucer rose and carried them towards the Diamond Isle.

A series of fortifications defended the island. Heavily armed ships were anchored at the entrances to its bays. Its beaches were scattered with stakes, netting, mantraps and spike pits, along with more subtle magical obstructions. Beyond the beaches, patrols roamed the scrublands, and watchtowers dotted the cliffs.

There were a handful of strongholds spread around the island, some purpose-built, most adapted from existing structures. The largest was also the newest: a fortress raised by the rebels during the several months of their occupancy, and still unfinished, its construction was traditional. It comprised a succession of concentric earth mounds, one upon the other, each three times the height of a man. Where one mound plateaued, giving way to the next, there were deep, encircling ditches, filled with combustible material. After the ditches came high walls made from mature tree trunks, dressed with barbs.

The fort proper, at the top of the mounds, consisted of several acres of flat terrain. It hosted a collection of buildings for storing supplies and weapons. Barracks and dormitories were being erected, though the distinction between soldiery and civilians was fine, as everyone was expected to fight. Stone had been carted up and used for battlements that surrounded the perimeter, forming the last line of defence. On a dozen flagstaffs, the scorpion standard fluttered in the blustery air.

A thousand or more islanders crowded the ramparts, watching the course of the battle out at sea. They’d been cheering, but now fell silent.

Two observers stood apart. One was a handsome woman in her prime. She was agile and strapping, though not to the extent that it threatened her femininity. Her long golden hair was tied back, and she dressed in the practical, loose-fitting garb of a fighter. She wore a sword and matching long-bladed knife. Given the prospect of another raid from the sea, she had a longbow slung over her shoulder, with the quiver at her hip.

Her companion wasn’t much more than half her age. His pallid look of youth hadn’t completely shaded into the ruddier complexion of manhood. Nor would it for a while. His hair was ashen blond, making it harder for his attempt at a beard to make much impression. But he had a frame that was toughening under unaccustomed physical exertion, though it hadn’t fully hardened yet. He held a glamoured spy tube to his eye.

‘Come on,’ she complained, ‘you must be able to see something.’

‘It’s obviously gone well for our side.’

‘We knew that. What about that…sound?’

Shrugging, Kutch Pirathon handed her the spy tube. ‘It’s too confused down there. Could have been anything.’

‘No.’ She looked through the tube, scanning the scene below. ‘It was too strange. Too distinctive. And there was something…I don’t know; something familiar about it.’

‘Maybe it was just the wind.’

‘You don’t believe that, Kutch.’ She nodded towards the hushed crowd sharing the battlements. ‘And neither do they.’

‘Some magical pirate trick, then?’

‘Hard to see the point of it.’

‘We had the better of them this time. Perhaps they got desperate and-’

‘And what? Decided to sing at us?’

Kutch looked suitably chastened. Hesitantly, he asked, ‘Is this really about something else?’

‘What do you mean?’

The words tumbled out. ‘He’ll be all right, you know. Reeth can look after himself. He’s got a way with trouble.’ He shot her a sidelong glance, uncertain of her reaction.

Serrah Ardacris gave in to a smile. ‘You are starting to grow up, aren’t you? Of course I’m concerned about Reeth. But it isn’t just that. It’s being stuck here, and everything going wrong, and the raids and the uncertainty.’

The youth nodded sagely.

‘But I still think that whatever we heard was important,’ she repeated.

‘Well, we can’t hear it now.’ Something caught his eye. He turned seaward again, and pointed. ‘Look.’

Darrok’s flying disc was heading for them. From a distance it looked like a huge, black bird, gliding the updraughts. Serrah lifted the spy tube and brought the image closer. She glimpsed fire, wreckage and emerald waves. Then she locked onto the dish, reflecting metallically in the bland sunlight. She made out its two riders, one with flowing hair and cape, and didn’t hide her pleasure.

The people on the ramparts saw the saucer too, and resumed cheering.

‘Let me,’ Kutch said.

She slapped the glamoured tube into his outstretched palm.

He focused on the battle scene. ‘It looks like we did a lot of damage to them. Using that dragon’s blood was a great idea, Serrah. Should make them think twice before they come at us again. Serrah?’

She had a finger to her lips. ‘Sssshh!’

‘What is it?’

‘Use your ears.’

Everybody else was. A chorus of shushing ran through the crowd, and once more they were quietening.

The wind had shifted. It brought the sound they’d heard earlier, but clearer this time. There was no doubt it was a human voice; flawless, lucid, and heartbreakingly poignant. No one spoke or moved, such was the hold it exerted.

At length, Serrah whispered, ‘I’m a fool. Why didn’t I spot it right away?’

Kutch gave her a blank look. ‘What?’

‘Don’t you recognise it?’

‘No.’

‘Concentrate. Doesn’t it sound like something you know?’

‘It’s somebody singing.’

‘ Obviously. Think back, Kutch. Remember when we were at the concert in Bhealfa?’

Realisation dawned. ‘You don’t mean-’

‘Yes. It’s him. Kinsel.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘You’ve heard him sing. How can you doubt it?’

‘It can’t be.’

‘But what if it is?’

‘You must have keener ears than me, Serrah. I couldn’t be so sure from this far.’

‘Trust me, I’m right.’

‘But what’s Kinsel doing out here? If it is him.’

‘I don’t know. Does it matter? He’s alive; that’s all that counts.’

They listened in silence, lost in their thoughts. The flying disc drew nearer, travelling so low it almost skimmed the waves.

‘We have to do something,’ she said.

‘Like what?’

‘Like finding him, of course. And just as important…’

‘Yes?’

‘We have to let Tanalvah know.’

‘Tanalvah?’

‘She has a right. It won’t be easy, I know. But we’ll find a way.’

‘You’re forgetting something.’

She turned to look at him.

‘Tanalvah’s almost certainly dead, Serrah.’

The streets of Valdarr had grown meaner.

Before the Great Betrayal imperial enforcers had shown brutality towards dissenters, while touching only lightly on the lives of most citizens who conformed. Now the gloves were off for everyone. Or practically everyone.

In affluent quarters, where the powerful and well-connected lived, the security forces tended to see their role as protective. In poorer neighbourhoods they were more likely to harass. Emergency laws, curfews, raids and summary arrests beset the powerless but usually left the high-ranking unaffected.

The culling of the Resistance, and the authorities’ continuing search for surviving rebels, had left the city edgy. But it was a curious aspect of the atmosphere in Valdarr, or perhaps of human nature, that straitened times made little difference to the games people played.

Many of the rich persisted in flaunting their status. Their clothes, carriages, fine residences and other trappings were part of it, but principally they advertised their rank through costly magic. Mythical beasts waited on their banquet tables; ghostly mummers performed epic dramas on their immaculate lawns; dry waterfalls cascaded down, and up, the glorious facades of their mansions.