‘He gave me a banker’s draft last night – handed it over without a word. I thanked him but he just turned and walked away.’
‘He’s bitter about what happened,’ Deinon commented. ‘Don’t forget, he lost twice over. He had to pay you and, because he didn’t win the tournament, his parents won’t give him the money to buy those boots for Kwin.’
We both stared at the red boots. ‘She’ll get the boots eventually,’ Deinon observed with a smile. ‘She’ll win her father round. She always gets her own way in the end.’
24
Hob
All djinn are the wurde made flesh.
The Manual of Nym
It was the last night of the season. I found it hard to believe that it had passed so quickly.
I was sitting in the Arena 13 gallery. This was a special occasion. Kern had fought a brilliant campaign. If he managed to win tonight’s contest, he’d finish first in the rankings.
So, in expectation of a celebration, Tyron had acquired seats in the front row for himself, Teena, Kwin and his first-year trainees, but as yet he hadn’t arrived.
I was wearing my best clothes, bought for occasions such as this; at my belt hung two Trig blades provided by Tyron. Now that I was on the Lists, it was my right to do so. They were good blades, but I couldn’t help noticing the ones at Palm’s belt. They had handles embellished with silver, each embedded with a large ruby.
I was sitting next to Kwin. We’d hardly spoken since the night I’d fought the tassel. She hadn’t exactly ignored me, but she’d kept her distance, just giving me cursory smiles. I decided to try to break the ice. But when I turned towards her, she spoke first.
‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘You fought really well in the tournament. My father said you were “canny”, and that’s real praise from him. What are you going to do with all that money you won from Palm?’
‘Put it towards the cost of a really good lac, I suppose.’
‘There’ll be no need for that,’ Kwin said with a smile. ‘My father’ll take care of all your needs. I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic about a new trainee.’
‘He doesn’t always show it to me,’ I said, frowning. That was certainly true. On a day-to-day basis Tyron was grudging with his praise. He always seemed more interested in Palm’s welfare.
‘He keeps a lot to himself, but trust me, he thinks a lot of your ability,’ Kwin told me. ‘I could understand it if you’d a rich father like Palm. He must have special plans for you. I can’t believe that he’s even registered you under his own name!’
‘He said that was common practice . . .’
‘That’s true for most artificers, but you’re the first that he’s ever registered in that way.’
This was really good to hear. It made me think that Tyron had faith in me in spite of all the trouble I’d been involved in. Maybe it was more than just trying to keep the identity of my father a secret.
‘How’s Jon?’ I asked.
‘Doing all right, but he’s worried that he might lose his licence. As yet, nobody’s brought any charges against him, but what he did is common knowledge and they might do so at any time. If he has any enemies, he’ll find out soon enough.’
‘What would he do if that happened?’
Kwin shrugged. ‘We haven’t talked about it. I don’t see him now, anyway. We’ve broken up. My father keeps me in the house most of the time – except when I’m working in his office. I’m not allowed out after dark – apart from special occasions like this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
But inside I wasn’t sorry at all. Oh, I knew it was hard for Kwin, not being allowed to leave the house: I knew how much she liked to go and visit the Wheel after dark. But my heart soared at the news that her relationship with Jon was over. Could I dare to hope that I had a chance now?
‘There’s no need to be sorry,’ Kwin told me. ‘It’s not your fault. Jon shouldn’t have got involved like he did. Anyway, things will soon improve. I know my father. He starts off being really strict, but he always relents in the end. I’ll soon wear him down!’ she added with a smile.
A silence descended between us, while I struggled to find something cheerful to say. Down in the arena the two doors were still closed, but it wouldn’t be long before the bout started. Tyron still hadn’t appeared, and I was just starting to worry that he might miss Kern’s contest, which was early on the evening’s Lists.
Suddenly, without warning, the torches flickered, and then we were plunged into total darkness. Cries of dismay and distress went up from the spectators around us.
Another flicker, and the lights – both on the walls and on the candelabrum in the centre – were burning again as if nothing had happened.
I looked up: the torches were now giving out a steady light, but even as I watched, they began to flicker once more, as if fanned by a cold breath – even though the air was absolutely still. There was no obvious explanation for what was happening.
We were plunged again into pitch darkness, and screams and wails rent the air; then, as the lights came back on, spectators began to rise from their seats and scramble into the aisles in their hurry to escape. A sense of panic and terror spread through the gallery as they surged towards the door at the back.
‘What is it?’ I asked Kwin. She didn’t answer. In any case, it was a stupid question. I’d already guessed what it meant – the worst thing that could possibly happen.
Hob had arrived to issue a challenge.
‘Kern! What about Kern?’ Teena asked, leaning across towards us. Her eyes were wide and her mouth had opened in dismay.
‘There are twenty-seven min combatants on the Lists tonight, so the odds are against him being chosen,’ Kwin told her sister. ‘I promise you it won’t be him . . .’
I turned and looked around the gallery. Moments earlier the place had been full to capacity – about two thousand people had been sitting there – but now barely a few score remained.
I didn’t speak. My heart was racing because I knew what was happening. Below the arena, the min combatants would be gathered in the green room. The Chief Marshal would be approaching them with the lottery orb.
The one who must fight Hob was now being chosen.
With a deep rumble the two doors began to open simultaneously, and Hob’s tri-glad entered the arena. The three lacs wore armour as black as ebony, but were neither more nor less human in form than those I was familiar with. Then a fourth combatant followed them in.
For the first time I set eyes on Hob.
I felt a surge of anger and my whole body began to tremble. This was the creature who’d killed my mother and caused the death of my father. To be so close to him, unable to do anything, was almost unbearable.
From the neck down, he looked no different from any other Arena 13 combatant, though he wore the bronze helmet Tyron had told me about. The face-plate had no human features, but there was a wide black slit where eyes would normally be located on a human face.
It was at that moment that the min combatant entered the arena from the door directly beneath us. With a shock I saw the silver emblem of the wolf emblazoned on the back of his leather jerkin.
Teena gave a little cry and buried her face in her hands, bowing down until her head rested on the safety rail.
Against all the odds it had happened: Kern’s straw had been drawn from the lottery orb to fight Hob.
I glanced across at Palm and Deinon; they were both staring down into the arena, shock evident on their faces. Deinon looked at Teena, opening his mouth as if about to say something; then he seemed to think better of it and turned away.
Kwin leaned forward and put her hand on Teena’s shoulder. Deep sobs were shaking her sister’s body.
The rules appeared to have changed. The Chief Marshal entered Arena 13 only briefly to nod to the two combatants, and there was no trumpet blast to mark the precise moment when combat should begin.
The doors closed with a shudder, and there was a de
lay while the combatants prepared for battle, taking up positions and manoeuvring as they gathered themselves for the first attack.
It was about to begin.
Kern was advancing slowly towards his opponents, dancing very close to the back of his lac. His face was rigid with concentration rather than fear. He shuffled left, then right, and began to drum with his heels to signal the pattern of attack.
I couldn’t follow every detail of that sequence of signals, but I’d watched him training often enough to get the general idea. Kern was going on the offensive. It was the way he usually fought. Tyron called it ‘controlled aggression’. There was nothing reckless about it; this was what had got him to the top of the Trig rankings.
It was impossible to judge how Hob felt, for his head was completely covered by the helmet. Was he cold and expressionless? I wondered. Or was he smiling in anticipation of victory?
I didn’t like the idea of him wearing a helmet while Kern had none. My father had been right to wear his wolf helmet. Why hadn’t others challenged by Hob done the same? Was it forbidden now?
Kern’s first attack was skilful, and there was a rasp of metal upon metal as his lac’s blade just failed to locate the throat-socket of the nearest of Hob’s tri-glad; but then, in turn, Kern came under pressure and was forced back against the arena wall, his lac trying desperately to shield him from the blades that arced towards his body.
Using the wooden wall to his advantage, deploying his favourite trick, Kern bounced off it rhythmically, working his way along while his lac, although pressed hard now by the combined power of its adversaries, struggled to shield him.
Once more, Kern moved onto the offensive; for a while he held the centre of the arena. He was good, and that night he fought better than ever, raising himself to new heights. At one point he even drove Hob and his tri-glad back towards the far corner – there seemed a real chance that he might win.
The small crowd began to whoop and cheer, and then drum with their boots on the floor of the gallery in appreciation. Kern was a very poplar combatant. Everyone had expected him to finish the season as champion. They believed in him. He was the best they had, and they willed him on to victory over the hated Hob.
The struggle was fast and furious, but gradually Hob began to dominate until, once more, Kern was forced back.
Then the gong sounded. I couldn’t believe that five minutes had passed already. Now both combatants had to fight in front of their lacs.
They halted, disengaged and took up the new positions.
Now the crowd fell quiet; I could sense their anxiety. Hob was fast and deadly, more formidable than a lac. Kern would face him blade against blade. The long arms of his own lac would reach forward over his shoulders in an attempt to protect him, but would it be enough?
Hob attacked ferociously and Kern retreated.
Teena covered her face with her hands, unable to watch. Deinon was biting his nails.
‘Get away from the wall, you fool. Get away from the wall!’ cried Tyron as he lowered himself into the seat next to Teena. He was breathing hard.
Tyron’s words seemed harsh. It was obvious that Kern was desperately trying to get clear of the wall but was being prevented by the sheer ferocity of Hob’s assault. His back was pressed against the armoured chest of his lac. He had nowhere to go. Hob was right in his face and the tri-glad was pressing in from each side.
But I knew that Tyron loved Kern as his own son – it was simply his fear for him that had forced those words from his mouth.
Teena lifted her head from the rail and leaned towards her father, who held both her hands in his. She was gazing down into the arena as if hypnotized by what was taking place.
Suddenly, horribly, shockingly, it was over.
Kern’s lac went down, a blade hammered into its throat-socket.
Kern staggered sideways, looking dazed. He had already been cut by Hob. There was blood on his face, and a darker stain slowly spread down his right side, leaking from inside the leather jerkin. Even as I watched, another of Hob’s blades buried itself in his flesh.
I felt sick to my stomach. This couldn’t be happening. It was too cruel. He was being slain in front of his wife and there was nothing anybody could do to save him.
He swayed, but he didn’t fall – even though it was clear that he was seriously – probably fatally – wounded. Under the normal rules of engagement, the combatant and his tri-glad would have moved back the moment blood had been drawn. Lacs were designed to do just that – unless that pattern was overridden by the dictates of a grudge match – or the different rules that seemed to apply here. They moved back now, but for Kern it was already too late.
He was defeated and, dead or alive, he belonged to Hob.
We watched in shock as he left Arena 13. The whole gallery was silent. He went bravely, limping ahead of Hob and his lacs, trying to stay on his feet, his face twisted with pain and resignation. There was a trail of blood behind him, and at the entrance to the mag door he paused and staggered.
I thought he was going to collapse, but he turned to the gallery. He was looking up at Teena; seeing the distant face of his wife for the last time.
Teena screamed out his name, the anguish in her voice terrible in the silence. Then Kern went through the door and was lost to our sight.
We left the gallery immediately. Tyron and Kwin gripped Teena’s arms fiercely as they half lifted, half dragged her up the steps. The spectators remained in their seats to allow us through the door. They watched us in silence, their faces showing a whole range of emotions: pity, anger, sorrow, regret and dismay.
Teena’s body was rigid and she was trembling from head to foot. Back at Tyron’s house, his servants, ever swift and efficient, moved to help. A doctor was sent for and Teena was wrapped in blankets and placed close to the fire. She was shivering now; the first wave of hysteria had passed, to leave her lucid and calm.
‘Help him, Father,’ she pleaded quietly. ‘Please help him! I know you can do it.’
Tyron shook his head and paced the room like a caged animal.
‘Buy Kern back. Please . . . if you gave Hob enough money . . .’
Still Tyron paced, and more precious irrecoverable minutes ticked by.
‘Let me offer myself in his place. Please, Father.’
The doctor came in and they had to hold Teena down while he forced the potion he’d brought past her lips. When she was unconscious, two servants carried her up to her bedroom, Kwin following behind. Only then did Tyron cease pacing the room. He became very calm and the decisive look that I knew so well came into his eyes.
‘Go to bed now!’ he snapped, glaring towards the doorway, where I was waiting with Palm and Deinon.
But when I turned to go, Tyron called after me.
‘Not you, Leif! You come with me.’
I followed him through to the back of the house, then down into the cellar. There was a small metal door embedded in the stone. I’d noticed it before but had never thought much about it. When Tyron opened it, I realized that it was a safe.
He took a bag from the vault and handed it to me. It was heavy – far bigger than the one Kwin had given to the tassels.
‘It’s gold,’ Tyron said. ‘The only coin Hob understands.’
We walked out into the cold night air, Tyron leading the way towards a tall wooden wagon; a team of six horses stood before it, already harnessed.
He was going to visit Hob – and he had chosen me to accompany him. I felt honoured, but nervous as well. Why me?
Tyron climbed up and seized the reins. But before we moved off, he turned towards me.
‘Do you know where we’re going?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘You don’t have to come. If you’re afraid, go back into the house.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ I said.
‘That’s because you weren’t born in this city. If you knew more about Hob, then you’d be afraid. You know what he did to your mother, but that’s onl
y a fraction of what he’s capable of. That’s one reason why I’m taking you with me. I want you to understand what you’re up against. And there’s another reason. It’s because you’re here and I trust you. I trust you as I trusted your father. Nobody should go alone into Hob’s citadel. So I want somebody with me whom I can rely on.’
‘Are we in danger up there?’ I asked, pointing up the hill.
‘Not tonight. Not if you keep your head and do exactly what you’re told.’
‘Will he listen? Will he give Kern back?’
‘He might,’ Tyron answered grimly. ‘But I suspect that poor Kern was dying before he even left the arena. No, we’re not going up there in the hope of returning Kern’s body to Teena, although there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t give to be able to do just that. We’re going up there for something else . . .’
‘Something else?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Tyron said grimly. ‘I hope to buy back Kern’s soul.’
25
Whom Do You Love?
To begin a war is easy,
But some wars are without end.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
The moon had already risen and was almost full, though it was still hidden behind the hill, so the sky was very dark, with only a cold and very distant sprinkling of stars.
Images kept running through my mind. Over and over again I saw the dying Kern turning and looking up towards Teena for the last time. At that vivid memory I sobbed deep in my throat. Tyron gave me a quick glance, but said nothing. I struggled to get the picture out of my head and concentrate on the world about me.
Gradually the track between the wooden dwellings grew steeper and the horses began to slow. I knew that Tyron preferred horses to oxen: generally they were faster¸ but when the gradient increased, they began to strain against the harness and the sweat poured off their flanks. There was little doubt that oxen would have been more suited to a task such as this.
As we left Gindeen, the dwellings grew sparser, and those few we passed had an abandoned, dilapidated appearance. Tonight, however, there was no sign of tassels on the bare, dark slope. Somewhere over the next rise stood those thirteen spires, but we were moving towards a citadel whose defences extended far beyond its grey stone walls.