Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

Garvin found the Dragon Hall in darkness. He’d been expecting some gathering, some celebration of the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. Instead the hall was empty and hollow. There was no music, no gathering of friends. In the dim light from the windows, the beams and struts across the high ceiling looked like the inside ribcage of some great beast — perhaps the dragon after which the hall was named. He went to the light switch and flicked it on and off. The electricity was out. It must have tripped.

“Lord Krane? Lord Teoth?” Garvin moved into the pool of light where the moonlight slanted in from the side window, where he could be seen.

“It was good of you to come,” said Krane stepping into the space before the opposite window so that he was outlined against the light.

“And at such short notice,” said Teoth, moving out against the next window. “I appreciate that this is a difficult time for you — things are so… fluid.”

“It is no more difficult than at any other time,” said Garvin. “My loyalty is to the High Court, and always has been. What is this about, my Lords?”

“The High Court, ah yes,” said Krane. “It’s so much easier when we are united in our purpose. At the moment you must feel pulled in all directions.”

“I will not take sides,” my Lords. “If you’re intending to ask me for my support, then you will be disappointed. I serve the whole court.”

“You weren’t always so dispassionate, though, were you Garvin?” said Krane.

“What do you mean?”

“Once you did take sides,” said Teoth. “You stood against the Seventh Court on the side of the mongrel fey. You murdered our brethren while protecting those who are less than fey.”

“I defended the High Court,” said Garvin. “And those whom the High Court sheltered. I would remind you that some of my own Warders were among the gifted, and that they fought and died to protect you and the other Lords and Ladies that night.”

A figure moved across the next window from Teoth. “You weren’t serving the whole court, though, were you Garvin?” said a soft voice.

“Lord Altair,” said Garvin. What an unexpected….”

“Pleasure?” asked the soft voice.

“Indeed,” said Garvin, measuring the distance between the windows and the door. It was a long time since he’d been here. The building had been remodelled several times, extended, then partitioned, and finally restored to something resembling the original. He tried to remember where the exits had been.

“I lost people that night, Garvin,” said Altair. “Good people.”

“As did I,” said Garvin.

“Your divided loyalty cost me greatly,” said Altair.

“It was a night I will not forget,” said Garvin.

“No,” said Altair. “You won’t.”

“What do you want?” asked Garvin. “I take it this is not a social call. My Lords, you keep interesting company on solstice night.”

“Unlike you,” said Altair, “they have chosen the side on which they prefer to be.”

“We’re choosing sides are we?” asked Garvin. Around him he could feel the prickle of power building in the room. His first thought was for escape to warn the others, but the door would be blocked, obviously. The windows, then. Behind him a shadow inserted itself into the space before the window, blocking that exit.

All around the room, ghostly figures flickered into being, first one, then another. They were blacker than the shadows in which they stood, and outlined in numinous fox-fire that flickered like fingers of light. The circle of figures tightened around Garvin and the mouth of the trap closed.

There was a hiss as Garvin’s staff separated into a blade and a silver shod scabbard. “I would remind you, Lord Krane, Lord Teoth, of the duty of protection owed to the Warders. You invited me here.”

“So we did,” said Krane. “Unfortunately, things appear to have changed.”

“The High Court is still the High Court,” said Garvin, warily watching the circling wraithkin. “The Warders are still the Warders.”

“The High Court is one of the things that have changed,” said Altair. “Everything must die, and it has reached the end of its usefulness. It’s been dissolved.”

“You can’t dissolve the High Court,” said Garvin. “You don’t have that authority.”

“Do I not?” said Altair. “Krane? Teoth? What say you?”

“I say aye,” said Teoth.

“As do I,” said Krane.

“You are not quorate,” said Garvin. “It’s a minority decision.”

“No,” said Altair. “Kimlesh was stabbed through the heart with Yonna’s own bone-handled knife. It is a sweet irony, is it not?”

“Yonna and Kimlesh are allies,” said Garvin. “Yonna would never do that.”

“I never said she did it,” said Altair. “Kimlesh was killed by one of her own, though that fact was lost on her court who took their revenge on Yonna and drowned her in her own blood.”

“Impossible,” said Garvin. “No one from Kimlesh’s court could harm her. It would violate the oath of allegiance to their court. It would be suicide.”

“True,” said Altair. “But some debts must be paid. There are many ways to die, and some are worse than others. It is a privilege denied to most to choose the manner of your own death. Some would rather flee, it seems. Mellion is nowhere to be found. The Goblin Court has vanished.”

“Vanished?” said Garvin.

Altair continued. “At their solstice feast, Barthia and many of her court died in a tragic fire — a terrible way to go, especially with the windows and doors all sealed. I’m told that sand turned to glass, the heat was so intense.”

“Why?” asked Garvin. “You’re destroying everything. Why?”

“Sometimes there must be death in order for there to be renewal,” said Altair. “You cannot always succeed with negotiation, and so must turn instead to the sword, speaking of which, it’s time you were finally repaid for the lives you took.”

They moved in as one. Garvin’s sword flashed in the darkness, and blades rang together. A shadow darted in, and the silver end of Garvin’s staff found an eye. There was a scream and a sound of crunching bone. One of the shadows fell back into darkness. Without breaking step his blade swept around, clearing space, opening up the fight as he moved across the circle, forcing his opponents back. If he was going to break out, it had to be quick. He could not win a long fight against so many. The circle of ghostly figures distorted into an oval. He carved diagonal arcs of glinting light as he worked his way towards the door. His sword rang each time he parried a cut, the long staff clattering against steel as he pushed to break the circle, which now tightened and bunched as he neared the door. With blades stabbing in from all sides, he whirled to deflect each attack, but with so many, it was inevitable something would get through. An initial stab drew a gasp of pain, a slice across the arm another. The circle turned with slow menace around him, slicing, stabbing; wearing him down.

In a desperate attempt to break the circle he pushed away from the door. An upward slice produced a satisfying cry and he pressed the advantage into creating an opening, but it was all taking too long. The advantage was short-lived as another moved to take their place, and he was forced back into the ring. Now, one after another beat forwards to cut at him. It was a ring of slicing, cutting blades each falling in different time or stabbing in to catch him out. He cried out in anger as an opponent’s sword found its mark in his side, roaring at them in defiance, finding enough space to whirl around and take the head clean off one of the stabbing shadows. It was a reckless move — others lunged in, piercing his undefended flank. Relentlessly the circle closed, the blades hacking down, until it was a ring of rising and falling steel with only silence at the centre.