The Sword of Red

By Jackie Marchant

A land of plenty where everyone was happy? Pool couldn't think of anything worse. What this place needed was a famine. Or a war.

For generations Rebels have been risking their lives over treacherous seas, razor sharp rocks and fierce currents to flee from the tyranny of Kamoria and seek refuge in the land they call Langrinia. For generations the descendants of the surviving Rebels have done all they can for those who still struggle over. For generations they have lived in peace with the Forest and its elusive people.

But now a new survivor has washed up, battered and bleeding to death, insisting that he be tended by no one but the apprentice healer, Neekra. But when Neekra discovers that he is none other than Pool, bastard son of Supreme Lawmaker Daner of Kamoria, the most feared High Ruler of all, she needs more than her healer skills to help him lose his violent past and accept their peaceful ways. And why is he so interested in her?

Now a war with Kamoria is brewing and Pool their only hope – but whose side is he really on?

Teach him to love, my Neekra. Do not let him burn us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BLKDOG Publishing
• Release date: Aug 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386796190

Book preview

THE SWORD OF RED

Screen Shot 2019-12-30 at 16

JACKIE MARCHANT

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-913762-26-1

Copyright © 2019 Jackie Marchant.

This edition published in 2019 by BLKDOG Publishing.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

www.blkdogpublishing.com

To Charney, Corinne and the Secret Strawberries

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

WOTW_Sword

‘J

ust look at that.’  Supreme Lawmaker Daner of Kamoria squinted through his eyescope. ‘I told you it existed.’

Pool had never doubted that, but could have done without the journey by rough sea to prove it.  He glanced up.  But a  brief glimpse of his father’s blood-red silk gown flapping about as he tried to keep himself steady was enough for the weight in Pool’s guts to make him look back down.  A warning cry came from the row-deck below, silenced by the crack of a whip. 

‘Langrinia.’  Daner rolled the word around his tongue.  The boat lurched, groaned, creaked.  ‘Feast your eyes on it, my son. It’s going to be mine.’

Only until you’re dead, thought Pool, then I’ll have it, if this blasted sea doesn’t kill us first.  He clung to the rail, knuckles white, while a gust of bitter salty wind whipped his own deep blue High Ruler silk into a load of flapping cloth.

‘The whole lot ripe for the taking.  Mine!’  Daner roared the last word, lashing it with the certainty of endless wealth.  ‘Just look at all that yuke.’

At last, Pool managed to lift his heavy head and look beyond his father’s windswept blood-red silk, beyond the outstretched arm with the nugget of gold gripping his middle finger,  and beyond the greedy leer and glinting eyes.  He raised his own eyescope and finally saw what the man had been on about until Pool was sick of it.

Langrinia.

The groans and gasps of Rebels under torture had spoken the truth.  Langrinia existed – and how.  Pool could forget his privileged hunts in the priceless clump of trees that was all that remained of Kamoria’s Forest. Here was a whole land covered in it.  And the yukes!  Rising over the trees below, they made his father’s two yukes look like pathetic twigs. 

But when Pool brought his eyescope to the edge of the Forest, he saw a different story.  Stark grey against the green, a typical Kamorian fort had been hewn into the rock to rise in a perfect defensive position, complete with a walled city.  Only this city had no walls.  It didn’t need them, thanks to the sheer drop of jagged cliffs plunging into the crashing waves.  Somehow those ancient Rebels had not only survived the crossing, they’d climbed the cliffs and built themselves a fort and city.  And, as if in mockery of this moment, Pool’s eyescope picked up the flap of a white flag on the fort’s tower, a splodge of red as it caught the breeze – the Rebel flag. 

‘Look at it,’ said Daner.  ‘Fort, city and all.  And so much Forest they’ve barely grazed the edge.  All that yuke.  A single ripe twig could buy me a little summer palace where I could stick that meddling life-partner of mine.  I told you Langrinia could be reached.’

It could be reached all right, but it was a one-way journey.  The sea ahead might look calm compared to what they’d just sailed through, but Pool wasn’t fooled.  He could see waves twisting as though struggling against unseen clawing hands, sucked under by fierce currents.  From here, those currents went one way only – to the bottom of Langrinia’s cliffs.  Bad enough without the dagger-sharp rocks lurking under the water, waiting to tear you to shreds.  Pool knew this was the point where fleeing Rebels made their choice – carry on at the mercy of those currents, or scuttle back to wash up half-dead on Kamorian shores to face the consequences of trying to escape. 

‘So, you’ve proved your point,’ snapped Pool.  ‘Now we can turn back.’

‘Turn back?’ His father spat.  ‘If you weren’t my acknowledged bastard and First Successor, I’d have you beaten to death for your cheek.’  His voice rose over the creaking boat.  ‘Do you know how many slaves I had to work to death to build this fine vessel?  Don’t you think I tortured enough Rebels to find out what we’d be up against?’  He flicked his head towards the mast, from which a Rebel hung limp, bony ribcage heaving.

‘He was lying,’ said Pool.  ‘It’s in his eyes.’

Daner laughed.  ‘That’s wilful defiance, the stupidity of youth and  thinking you’re so clever. You used to get that look before I thrashed it out of you.’

And it’s still there, thought Pool, but you’re too smug to see it.  He fingered the hilt of the broadsword in his weapon-belt, made from ash treated with yuke resin, and crafted by the finest swordmaker-slave in Kamoria.  He could almost feel the scrape of bone, the slip of flesh as it went through his father.

‘Bring it here!’  At Daner’s command, three guards rushed to the mast.  One cut the rope holding the Rebel’s bound hands high over his head. The other two made no attempt to catch him as he folded to the deck, before hauling him to his feet and dragging him over. 

He was no more than a stinking, filthy mess of tattered rags barely covering limbs of bruised and flayed flesh—more scabs than skin.  His matted hair hung forwards over his face until the guards used it to yank his head up.  Through the battered mess, the Rebel’s eyes met Pool’s.  Startling green eyes, shining with pride, defiance and scorn.  His father could say what he liked; this Rebel wasn’t broken yet.

Daner drew a narrow sword from his weapon-belt and held it at arm’s length, tip under the Rebel’s chin.  ‘You brought us here as promised.  Good lad.’  He used his kind voice, that came before he did something unpleasant.

‘And my family are thafe.’  The Rebel lisped through swollen lips and smashed teeth. 

‘And now I will have you thrown overboard.’  Daner pushed the sword tip into an oozing scab and twisted.  The green eyes didn’t waver.  Daner let one of his guards clean the tip before sticking the sword back in his weapon-belt.  One nod and they dragged the Rebel away.  ‘That’s how you deal with them, my son. Remind me to execute his family when we get back – or would you like the pleasure?’

If we get back, thought Pool, as he watched the guards drag the Rebel off, forcing him to stagger towards the sharp end of the boat – and death.  But the Rebel suddenly found his legs and with surprising speed, twisted round. 

‘No one will harm my family!’ he screamed.  ‘I brought you too far and you will die with me!’

Daner laughed. ‘And all those slaves you care so much about?  You want them torn and shredded on the rocks?’

‘They will gladly die knowing you die with them.’

They bashed him against the rail, but he held his head up, still screaming.  ‘And my name is Gregor!  Remember that – you were beaten by the Rebel Gregor!  And I beat the Bitch as well!’ 

The guards gave their Supreme Lawmaker a nervous glance, but Daner flicked his hand as if he couldn’t be bothered to watch another slow death because someone had called his life-partner the Bitch.  A flap of rags, a final scream and the Rebel was gone.

‘Turn the boat!’  Daner roared at the row-master.  He grabbed Pool by the shoulders, painfully.  ‘Now we go back.  We’ll have a little word with Beesha about what the Rebel just said. Bring her into line, then build our armies together and raise a fleet able to tackle the seas.  We’ll watch our armies scale the cliffs and bring the Rebels of Langrinia to their knees. Then up we go to let them bow before us – Supreme Lawmaker and First Successor.  We’ll raise the flag of Kamoria and bring the rest of my Rulers over to keep order.’  He shouted over the crack of whips and cries from below.  ‘I said turn her round!’  He glared at the row-Master, who was lashing his slaves with a grimace of determination. 

The slaves weren’t responding.  They sat with arms folded, taking their lashing.  The boat dipped, water poured over the side, pelting Pool in the face, pushing him backwards.  The high-pitched groan of straining wood drowned out his father’s shrieking orders.  The boat wavered, keeled and sent several row-slaves over the side.  Somehow it tore itself back up again, only to veer the other way.  Pool clung on with wet hands as the deck dipped away from him, while his father pinned himself there, screaming unheard orders. 

Pool heard a great crack like overhead lightening, as the boat tore itself apart under a spume of water.  Hands snatched up, trying to grasp the rails but failed and disappeared.  Loose ropes whipped and water flowed over Pool’s feet as the rail tugged itself from his grip.  He saw his father struggling, bloodied hands trying to pull a jagged piece of rail out of his stomach.  Then the water hit.

It was like being pelted to death with wet stones.  It roared around him, whacked him and jostled him. It pulled him down and beat him up.  It turned red, frothed and swallowed him.  He opened his mouth and somehow found himself catching a lungful of salty wet air.  Something gripped his ankle, but he fought it off.  He felt warmth against his leg, stretched down to feel his own hot blood flowing through his fingers, his flesh sliced open by something so sharp he hadn’t felt it. 

A blow to the back of his head made him curse and swallow water.  But it was a piece of wood, big enough to take him.  Somehow, he hauled himself up until he lay panting, his leg pulsing a red stream over the side.  He clung on  as a wave pushed him high until he was looking down at the spewed debris bobbing and tossing around him.  All that was left of his father’s boat, gone in a few grains of a sand-timer.

The wave passed and something caught his eye.  A plank of wood was drifting towards him, its path at odds with the other pieces of flotsam.  Now Pool could see a pair of hands in the middle of it, fingers in shreds.  A head bobbed up and a pair of green eyes looked straight into Pool’s.  The sea had washed away the Rebel’s grime, leaving rivulets of blood running from reopened cuts. 

‘Prefer a slow death, do you?’ spat Pool. 

‘I will die knowing you failed.’  The Rebel struggled with each word, but the sentiment was clear.  ‘And Langrinia is thafe.  From you and from your mother the Bitch – I lied to her too.’ 

‘She’s not my mother,’ snapped Pool.  The wind dropped and the sea became still as death.  The clear water showed Pool that the Rebel’s rags were all gone, replaced by torn and shredded skin.  ‘I could have you flayed alive for your insolence, but I see the rocks have done the job for me.  So, go and die your slow death, knowing we’re coming for Langrinia, whether I’m dead or not.’  He pushed the Rebel’s feeble plank away.

The Rebel drifted off, shredded fingers gripping the wood with uncanny strength.  He took a long, rattling breath, coughed blood and spoke.  ‘I am Gregor, son of Luke.  Proud to be called a Rebel.  Long live Langrinia and no Rulers.’  He gasped the so-called Rebel cry as his hands slipped and his head went under.  Pool didn’t see it come back up. 

A gust of wind and the sea sent a mouthful of water Pool’s way.  He crouched on his piece of wood and saw the cliffs of Langrinia creeping closer.  Another wave caught him.  He flailed helplessly but managed to grab the edge as his board tipped him off.  His other leg took a sharp nick, but he held on, kicking his legs out behind and keeping them high as possible.  Eventually, he managed to clamber on top, panting, opening his eyes wide as he saw what was coming for him. 

This time he fought the wave, struggling for balance, refusing to let it win, until he was riding it like an unbroken horse.  He roared with victory – then saw where it was taking him -  straight at a piece of dagger-sharp rock that had risen from nowhere.  There was nothing he could do to stop the impact.

He felt the damp thud of contact, saw water bubbling around his ears and turning red.  His precious board floated away, leaving no option but to go after it.  He pushed himself off, refusing to think about the slicing his feet were taking, despite their fine deerskin boots.  He had no choice but to steer himself past rocks sharp as swords.

By the time he reached his board, his boots were shreds and his whole body was pouring.  Somehow, he managed to clamber on.  Too exhausted to do anything else, he curled up and let it take him.  His strength seeped out as the great cliffs loomed closer.  How could anyone expect to get up there?  He groaned.  He cursed the Rebel Gregor.

Then cursed himself for remembering the name.

Chapter 1

N

eekra took Garrett’s bloody hand and cradled his head in her lap.  A gust of misty morning air blew over the Cliffs as she brushed his hair away from his face.  She gave him the reassuring smile she’d give to a washed-up Rebel from Kamoria—the smile that said trust me, I’m a healer, you made it to Langrinia and you’re safe now.  But this was Garrett, her kee-partner, her friend and the last person she wanted to see curled up on the sparring yard ground with a yuke sword sticking out of his chest. 

‘Help’s coming,’ Neekra promised, wishing it would hurry up.  ‘The whole City must have heard Lee screaming for help.’ 

Garrett, Garrett, Garrett!

Gullsong floated over the Cliffs.  Not birds, but Foresters calling in song that only Neekra could understand.

Hurt, hurt, hurt!

Neekra heard the message weave into the City, while everyone else stood oblivious.  They’d hear gulls and think nothing of it.  They wouldn’t pause to think the Forest thought Garrett worthy of news.

Garrett hurt!

Gullsong changed to crow as the message went into the Forest.  Now Neekra heard nothing but the breeze, a cough from the fidgeting fighters who stood around and a genuine cry of gull.  Then she heard the scattering of feet as fighters stepped out of the way for the large no-nonsense fully armed woman bursting through – fight-Master Lee, back from yelling for the Master-healers. 

‘Haven’t you got jobs to go to?’  Lee shooed them away, which Neekra thought was unfair. They’d done everything they could—helping her turn Garrett on his side, fetching cloths soaked from the seawater pump and fetching offcuts of wood from the swordmakers to lodge under the blade to take its weight.  And Lee’s agitation wasn’t helping Garrett. 

‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse,’ Lee made a bad attempt at optimism.  ‘And I’ll teach Dennit to be so careless. By the Sword of Red, I will.’

‘Not his fault,’ whispered Garrett.  ‘Accident.’

‘Too keen to prove himself with yuke.’ Lee called across to where Dennit sat with his back against the weapon-room wall, knees up, glaring at Lee.  ‘I don’t know what you were thinking of, letting Dennit have a go with yuke.  Even Neekra’s more ready than him.  Now, hang in there, Garrett.’

‘That bad is it?’  Garrett turned his eyes to Lee, giving Neekra a chance to take another look at the damage. She pushed away her thoughts of how she agreed with Lee – what possessed Garrett to let Dennit fight him with yuke?  Dennit may be a keen and skilled fighter, but he was barely out of pimples.  And, as Lee pointed out, even Neekra was more ready than Dennit. 

She looked down at where she’d cut away Garrett’s deerskin tunic as best she could and padded the wound, sword and all, with seawater cloths.  They were soaked red, but not enough.  With a wound like that, it should be dripping. Garrett was bleeding internally.

‘How’s it looking?’ Garrett whispered.  He sounded casual, but she could see the anxiety in his grey eyes—and the pain.

‘Not bad.’  Neekra forced herself bright.  ‘Fine craftsmanship, lovely piece of yuke.  It’ll survive.’

He tried to smile.  ‘It’ll come up fine with a bit of a clean.’

‘Dennit can do it,’ muttered Lee.  ‘And he can clean every single piece in the weapon-room.  Ah, here’s some help at last.’  She turned to watch Neekra’s cousins Torkin and Elka rush in.  ‘Where’s my sister and Matta?  No offence, but we need Master-healers for this.’

‘Bertha’s on her way with Matta.’  Torkin dropped his laden backpack and unhooked the rolled-up buckskin stretcher from it. Elka knelt by Garrett, appraising his injury with a frown and a chew of her lip. 

‘I’ve done the basics,’ said Neekra.  She brought her head close to her cousin’s.  ‘It’s jammed under his ribs and I dare not touch it.’

‘Wise,’ whispered Elka.

‘What happened?’ Torkin rammed birch-poles down the sides of the stretcher.

‘Dennit got a bit keen to try his death-stroke with a yuke sword and forgot to pull,’ said Lee.  ‘Ah, Friela, see what you’ve done?’  She addressed the slender woman who’d come out of the weapon-room to stand over Garrett.  Neekra could almost see the thoughts behind the Master-swordmaker’s furrowed brow – Friela was going to have to manage without her best swordmaker.

‘Garrett,’ sighed Friela.  ‘I thought you were having a few gentle swings to shut Dennit up, not a full-blown fight.  Dennit’s not ready for yuke.’  She looked at Lee.  ‘I thought you were in charge out here this morning?’ Before Lee could retort, Friela turned her attention to the two Master-healers rushing in.  ‘I need him back as soon as.’  Friela called, before marching back to the weapon-room. 

Neekra looked on with relief as Matta and Bertha arrived to take over.  So different from one another yet working together, they’d saved countless lives.  Matta’s blonde curls bounced as she ran, while Bertha looked like a slightly less imposing version of her sister Lee, with brown hair scraped back into a formidable plait tugging her hairline as she regarded the scene.  Bertha shrugged off a backpack stuffed so full it must contain most of the healing room. Matta knelt by Garrett, pulling her hair from her face and securing it with a leather thong. Ready for business, her delicate fingers worked the knot as she looked at Garrett with appraising blue eyes. Without a word, she placed a gentle hand on his forehead, rubbed his sweat between her fingers and nodded unspoken words at Bertha.  But Neekra understood – Garrett was critical.

Neekra.

Her name floated over, not in the urgent call of gull, but the song of blackbird.  She looked up and saw a slender figure standing on the weapon-room roof, long dark hair waving in the breeze.  Neekra had seen this Forester up there before. In fact, she’d been around a lot recently, watching the fighting in the yard.  But Neekra didn’t tell anyone that – they wouldn’t like to know they were being watched by a Forester. 

We can give him healing.

Words only Neekra could understand, spoken by a Forester only she could see.  She looked down at Garrett – was he so near death that his only chance was Forester healing?

‘Neekra?’ Lee squinted at the roof.  The Forester was absolutely still, but following Neekra’s gaze allowed Lee to spot her, with a sharp breath and eyes widening, before looking away.

‘The Forest has offered healing,’ said Neekra.

‘He’s not bad enough to risk their kill-or-cure,’ snapped Bertha. ‘We can manage, thank you.’  She rose her voice, but Neekra knew the sharp-eared Forester would have heard Bertha’s words, before springing from the roof, a wisp of grace disappearing into the mist.

‘Well, Garrett,’ said Bertha.  ‘This lovely sword’s going to have to come out.’  She pulled a glass vial out of one of the pouches around her weapon-belt and handed it to Neekra.  ‘See he takes the whole lot.’ 

Neekra pulled the stopper and coughed at the stench.  Pure sumproot, unsweetened so it would take action more quickly, freshly made and in need of using before it lost its potency.  That was what had kept Bertha.  Gently, Neekra turned Garrett’s head, bringing the vial to his lips.  ‘Drink up,’ she said.

‘Stinks,’ he groaned.

‘It’s neat sumproot, Bertha’s finest.’

‘It’ll turn me into a gibbering idiot.’

‘And you’ll feel great.  Trust me now, Garrett.’  She spoke softly, held his eyes, just as she would with a survivor from Kamoria.  His responded with absolute trust, while his lips sucked against her fingers, wincing as he forced it down.

‘Well done,’ said Bertha, pulling swathes of linen from her pack.  ‘Now, let’s get to work.  I want him on his back – Torkin, Elka, keep that sword absolutely stable. Lee help me roll him. Neekra watch his head. Matta you know what to do.’

They worked quickly and efficiently, with a string of instructions from Bertha.

A serene smile formed on Garrett’s face.  ‘Must get injured more often,’ he grinned up at Neekra.  ‘This happy juice is great.’

‘I’m not pulling this,’ said Bertha.  ‘It’ll have to be cut out.  Lee, hold it steady. Elka, get my blades lined up. Torkin, ready with the mops. Neekra, keep him soppy.’

‘Have I ever told you what lovely eyes you have?’ Garrett slurred like he’d been at the mead, oblivious to the fact that Bertha was easing her sharpest blade into him, prizing the wound apart with her fingers.  ‘I could look into them all day.’

Neekra smiled back.  Garrett’s grey eyes were flecked with green and brown, dark lashes contrasting with pale skin and dead straight hair the color of almond shells, which swished about when he fought and shone when it caught the sun.  As her parents kept nagging her, she could do a lot worse than Garrett.  He was her kee-partner, her friend and she loved him dearly, but that was all it would ever be. 

‘We’d have lovely children.’ Garrett smiled up at her.

‘Hush,’ she said.  ‘That’s Bertha’s happy juice talking.’

‘Or you’ve caught him like a Forester,’ muttered Bertha.  ‘How are we doing, Matta?’

‘It’s grazed the rib,’ said Matta, fingers inside him like she was delivering a difficult baby.  ‘But it’ll lift out.  Hold it absolutely still.  Now, gently, a grain at a time.’

Neekra held her breath as the healers removed the sword, grain by grain, until at last it came free.  Lee sagged with relief and Garrett sighed happily, while his gaping wound gushed.

‘Now our work really starts,’ said Bertha, calm as Garrett, who was gazing up at Neekra.  His skin paled, highlighting the twinkle of sweat on his face, his little cough producing a spurt of blood that trickled down his fine beard.

‘Bertha,’ warned Neekra.

‘I know, I know,’ said Bertha.  ‘Keep mopping everyone but give Matta some space.’

Neekra glanced at Matta, who appeared even calmer than Bertha. Yet her fingers worked frantically, stitching his glistening flesh while the linen cloths were soaking up as quickly as they could be replaced.  Garrett was bone white now, the light slipping from his eyes.  ‘He’s fading,’ she warned.  ‘Garrett?  Hey, look at me, you owe me a fight, remember?’

‘Dennit.’  He was barely audible.  ‘He won.  You fight him.’

‘I’d rather not,’ she said. 

‘But I gave you the winner.’  Garrett closed his eyes. 

‘He’s out,’ said Neekra.

‘About time too,’ said Bertha.  ‘And he went happy, which always helps.  You can let him go now.’

Neekra wiped the blood away from Garrett’s mouth, shifted from under him and laid his head carefully on a pile of soft linen. 

‘I’m done.’ Matta tied the last knot, holding the fine silk thread taut for Torkin to snip.

‘Neat as ever,’ said Bertha.  ‘Right, let’s get him dressed and loaded.  Neekra, make sure he’s breathing.’

Matta cleaned her fingers with a seawater cloth, while Torkin laid the stretcher alongside Garrett and Elka helped Bertha pad and bind the wound.  Neekra licked her finger and held it close to Garrett’s lips, feeling his breath weak against the wetness, his lips blue against the white of his skin.  She wiped away his sweat, hoping on the Sword of Red he’d make it.

‘Neekra, take his head,’ ordered Bertha.  ‘Elka, get ready to slip the stretcher under him. Lee, take his legs. Torkin, right shoulder, me left shoulder. Matta, you know what to do.’

Neekra placed her hands under Garrett’s head, then lifted when Bertha ordered and placed him gently down once Elka had the stretcher under him.  Torkin took one end of the stretcher, Bertha the other. 

‘Well done everyone,’ said Bertha.  ‘Neekra, I think you saved his life.  Now, if you were planning on going in the Forest, I could do with some more sumproot.’

‘I should stick with Garrett,’ said Neekra. 

‘We can manage,’ said Bertha.  ‘It’s not your day in the infirmary.  I need that sumproot and we all know how you like popping off into the Forest.’  A little raise of eyebrow as she set off, her final word spoken.  Her disapproval echoing the tightened lips of everyone who’d heard Bertha’s barbs about how much time Neekra spent in the Forest – and why. 

She watched them carry Garrett away and sensed Lee shift beside her.  ‘Garrett offered you the winner?’ Lee asked, picking up the bloody yuke sword that had been removed from Garrett.  ‘I’ll take that fight off you now and offer you one with me in return.’

‘When?’  She’d have to get some practice in.  A lot of practice.  Or give the fight to someone else, like lawmaker Willen, that would be a good one to watch.  And she’d get out of fighting Dennit.  ‘I could give it to Willen?’ 

‘Willen already owes me.’  Lee strode to where Dennit was still sitting, ignored him as she yanked the handle of the pump so hard that water bounced off the ground.  ‘Get up.’  She stuck the blade of the yuke sword under, splashing blood and water all over Dennit, who jerked up, glaring.  ‘I’m taking the fight Garrett gave to Neekra.  Now.  And, as it’s my fight, I’ll choose your weapon.’  She stormed into the weapon-room.

‘Go easy on him,’ said Neekra, for what it was worth.

‘I can fight Lee,’ Dennit scowled, letting his tunic drip.

‘Have you ever seen her so mad?  You’re in for a hiding.’

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he snapped.  ‘Why didn’t Garrett move back?  He’s quick enough.’

‘It lodged under his ribs,’ she said.  ‘Any further and we’d be announcing his committal.’

‘Well,’ snapped Dennit.  ‘I pulled in time then, didn’t I?’

For a moment Neekra changed her mind about wanting Lee to go easy on him.  But then Lee burst out of the weapon-room and presented Dennit with the weapon she’d chosen for him.  A broadsword, ash treated with so much yuke resin it was as hard as it was heavy – and deadly sharp.  Lee handed it hilt-first to Dennit, then drew her own weapon, a broadsword even heavier than Dennit’s. 

Dennit threw Neekra a scowl, then followed Lee into the yard.  The tentative fights that had started up after Garrett had been taken away paused briefly, as heads turned to watch Dennit get his thrashing.  Neekra didn’t want to stay, but the moment they’d touched swords and Dennit flew at Lee, she found herself marveling at how he fought with no fear, daring to strike and leave himself exposed, using his nimble footwork to get out of trouble.  His dead straight black hair flew about him, his face set in concentration, making Neekra glad Lee had taken her fight with him.  He might be a couple of cycles younger than Neekra, but she wouldn’t fancy guessing the outcome of a fight with him, apart from the fact she’d end up covered in bruises.  But Lee had chosen Dennit’s weapon well.  Too heavy for him, he began to tire and now she took advantage, dealing him flatsides that sent him sprawling, no matter how much he leapt up and came straight back at her. 

Neekra decided she’d seen enough and left the yard for the Cliffs.  She walked over the dew-soaked grass until she reached the edge and she was peering over the drop.  The mist had cleared enough to give her a view straight down the jagged cliff to the white froth crashing on the rocks far below, the sun now strong enough to shine thought the wisps of vapor that rose from the sea.  The water writhed in a pattern of light and dark blue, as the currents brought the sea in like an unwilling plait.

Currents that brought the Rebels from Kamoria, injured, dying, desperate.  Breathing their last as she held their eyes with all the comfort she could give them.  She’d seen too many wash up dead or die down there.  But the ones that lived told of the horrors that drove them to risk their lives for Langrinia—horrors that hadn’t changed since the first Rebels fled Kamoria in their stolen fleet all those generations ago. 

Those early Rebels had made Langrinia their home. They’d built the Fort and City and waited for the Rulers to come after them.  But the Rulers never came.  For generations the rocks and currents had kept Langrinia safe.  And the Rebel flag would always fly. 

Chapter 2

N

eekra ran into the Forest, letting it close around her like a blanket. She breathed in the sun-kissed foliage and dew-damp bark as she felt the soft moss under her bare feet.  She ran until she reached the ash above which she could see the trailing end of a yuke branch. Then she set off to follow its journey over the Forest to Hunters yuke.  As she ran, the branch widened above the tree-line. When it matched the width of a City street, the trees around it thinned away, disappearing as Neekra reached the clearing formed by Hunters yuke. 

So many times she’d been here, but it still made her pause to take in the sight of the great tree, with its fellow branches reaching out high over the Forest.  Its knotted and gnarled trunk was as wide as a row of dwellings, glistening with fresh resin taps, and roots tumbling into the ground thick as mature ash.  She ran towards the trunk, selecting the root she’d skip along before heading upwards for a climb.  She’d pick a branch high as the Cliffs to run along, then sit with a view over the Forest, and maybe see if a certain person would happen along. 

But there was something leaning against the root, something she was sure hadn’t been there before.  A long narrow package wrapped in raw silk, wider at the top, tapering to a point where it rested on the ground.  She stepped back, craning her neck to see high into the yuke, but there was no sign of whoever left it there.  Her fingers reached for the creamy silk, which slipped away at her touch, revealing a narrow sword so exquisite it made her gasp.  She ran her fingers over the baby smooth blade, then slipped her hand into the intricately carved hilt – a perfect fit.  Dappled sunlight caught the blade as she held it up.  Made from ash hardened with yuke-resin, tough yet flexible, it was the most beautiful weapon she’d ever seen.  Created for her alone, and she knew who by.  If only she had the fighting skills to do it justice.

Neekra.

The soft trill of woodpigeon calling her name from the yuke made her heart leap.  She scanned the tree as far as her eyes could go but saw no one up there running along the branches. No one grinning down at her.  But when she brought her eyes back down, he was standing in front of her.

He wore a fine buckskin tunic with a weapon-belt hanging loosely around his waist.  Impossibly curly black hair tumbled over wiry shoulders, and muscles curved over slender arms.  A bow was slung over his back with a horn of arrows with tips of orange matching the sword and knives in his weapon-belt.  Orange, the color of Forester poison—instant death, unless you had immunity.

He peeled his weapon-belt away, laid it on the ground, swords, knives pouches and all, balancing his bow and arrows on top.  He held his hands out palms up to show he was safe from poison, fixing her with eyes the deep red-brown of ripening yuke kernels.  Sharp cheekbones over smooth skin, strong jaw, with full lips quivering at the corners.  Then he smiled.  It burst out of him, white and beaming, right into his eyes.

My Neekra! 

Her mouth