Chapter Cowards

Kathanhiel turns to her two clueless esquires, who have once again turned into snowmen.

‘That was Talukiel the Blade,’ she says. ‘You should know him, Kastor. He was Champion of the Games eight times.’

That finger wagging – I remember now: the entire arena on its feet, chanting his name as he makes that signature move before breaking tournament rules and taking a limb off his opponent. Being a kid trying his hardest to be a grown-up and pretend to enjoy what everyone else enjoyed, I had chanted with them, and quietly threw up in the rafters afterward. Then his next duel would begin and I would start chanting again.

Haylis stares at me. ’You him?’

‘I have an autograph of his on my wall,’ I reply.

‘Champion of the Games, King’s Marshall, Instructor of the Royal Guard, undisputedly the best duellist in the Realms…except that one time he underestimated me,’ Kathanhiel says. ‘I called him Talu. He was my esquire on the Elisaad campaign.’

Haylis asks, wide-eyed: ‘How did you get someone like that to be your esquire?’

For a moment the room is silent, then Kathanhiel laughs, joyless and bitter.

‘I asked him,’ she says, ‘and he said yes.’

Their history she tells us only in brief, with a voice indifferent and cold as if none of it concerned her.

Talu had catered to her every need, thrice saved her from the cultists’ ambush, and even did mundane chores like cleaning and cooking without complaint. A master fencer, Champion of the Games, wiping someone else’s plate with a half-dirty rag – imagine that.

Throughout their journey he had fought dragons and humans alike with skill and bravery…I guess, since there is little need for courage when with his level of skill he could just win and win and win. Then something happened; Kathanhiel doesn’t specify what exactly, but esquires don’t leave their employer on the eve of the final battle for no reason. Actually, what could there be?

As Kathanhiel speaks of the moment she woke up alone, her voice begins to tremble.

‘His bedroll was cold; he had fled during his watch, hours before. The fool. I was going to tell him that he needn’t fear, that I’m not about to force him into anything. It was his idea in the first place that – that –’ Her eyes lock onto mine; they convey clearer than words that she’ll tear open Talu’s throat the moment their paths cross again. ’Do you understand Kastor? I was going to leave him out of it.

.’

Suddenly I’m shivering. In her eyes there are a thousand unspoken words. Someone’s laughing inside my head, the voice of a cynical old man who looks out a window and sees only ugliness.

The day after our meeting with the refugees (

, I wake up to find Arkai’s bed empty, the sheets neatly folded. He didn’t leave a message, though it’s no mystery why he left; Kathanhiel had laid out in no roundabout terms that he need not be here if Talukiel is still alive.

He has also taken my horse. Poor Killisan, hope you won’t suffer too much; that man will never let you chew on his favourite boot or start a philosophical discourse.

Bringing Kathanhiel her morning sundries has suddenly become difficult. She still looks up from her bed and smiles as I put the basin of water and fresh towels on her table, but meeting her eyes…impossible. That cynical old-man voice wouldn’t go away.

I prepare the last of the camomile tea and lay out the savoury pancakes that took half my left eyebrow to make (cooking on a moving coach with a live fire is not recommended), then ask if there is anything else she needs. Normally it’s a no, but –

‘Kastor, look at me.’

How? How does she know exactly what to say at any given moment?!

‘I-I’m not sure if I…’

She throws the sheets aside and props up on one elbow. Her silky nightgown has ridden up to reveal her stomach. There’s a tattoo there: a circle and a crescent around it. Looks familiar.

‘You’re troubled,’ she states. No argument there. ‘Talk to me.’

‘I…I don’t know what to tell…it’s not as if...I mean, I’ll do my job, and be loyal to you always, so you don’t need to worry about me.’

‘I believe that,’ she says. ‘You, on the other hand, do not.’

She stands, carefully brushing back her hair one strand at a time and collecting them behind her ears. From her bedside table she picks up a hairclip shaped like a flying sparrow and pins back what little fringe she has.

Didn’t know opening my mouth could take so much effort. ‘May…I…ask some questions about…um…?’

She moves to the basin. ‘Of course – if you don’t mind facing the other way as we converse.’

I spin around like a fat ballerina.

‘Was Talu...um…good?’

‘Perfect in every way,’ she replies amidst splashes of water. ‘He bested me in swordsmanship. He ran and climbed faster than I ever could. His ability to haggle was famously unrivalled. He had wealthy friends in every town that provided us with every imaginable luxury. On my birthday he baked the best cake I’ve ever had out of a handful of flour and fruits he had found upon nameless trees. He was also great with his tongue.’

Arkai was so very right; I should just keep my mouth shut. Permanently.

‘But being an esquire is not about such trifling merits,’ she continues. ‘I had liked him a great deal, that is true, but Talu has always been likeable when he wanted to be. The grinning mask he wore had become his face, and those who didn’t know better were fooled into thinking that his insides were just as pretty.’ Something falls softly to the floor. ‘I was young, and didn’t know better.’

‘Did he really try to convince you to…?’

‘To give up on Elisaad? Yes he did. I should’ve known then, but I was blinded by…’ she pauses, and for a moment the room is filled only with the sound of splashing water. ‘…by vengeance. So I ignored my better judgement. Ignored the rat in his eyes.’

‘But…if he was so capable, why did he run away?’

‘Being capable means nothing,’ she says in between rustles of a towel. ‘You face thousands of foes that breathe fire hot enough to melt steel with a pointy toothpick made out of exactly that. The moment you hear their profane cries every fibre of your being will urge you to flee; no amount of reason or skill or courage will stop that.’

I can smell the fragrant oil she’s rubbing onto her skin: chrysanthemum, and extremely distracting.

‘Would you run as well, Kastor?’ she asks quietly.

That was too sudden. Didn’t think she would ask me so soon the most terrifying question of all. Time to be honest and just admit that I can’t do it.

‘I…I’ll do as you do my lady. If you fight I fight, if you run I butter my heels.’

A quiet laugh. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because...uh…it’s my duty?’

’If a sense of duty is what drives us then we’d be much better off standing guard at the King’s palace, looking at clouds all day, for is that not another way – an way – of defending the Realms?’ Her voice softens. ‘Duty is but a glamorous excuse, an armour of righteousness to satisfy the desires that drive us. It is a façade…like putting on the prismatic cuirass.’

‘My lady, I don’t understand...’

‘That is quite alright,’ she laughs a little too quickly. ‘Remember, just as possessing a magical sword doesn’t make one a hero, being dutiful does not keep one from fear. If you’ve the heart to stand and fight you will, and I think you’ll stand just fine, Kastor.’

’But...how do you know?

She hesitates. ‘This might not make sense, but the only thing that could compel anyone to stand against the dragons…is a mirror called love and hate.’

My heart skips three beats. ‘What?’

‘Will you hand me a shirt from my wardrobe? Any one is fine, I don’t really mind.’

Oh, alright.

Her drawers are meticulously arranged, her informal shirts folded and sorted according to colour, freshened by lime. Unlike Haylis, who enjoys having a labyrinth of embroidery closeting her body like a cocoon, none of Kathanhiel’s clothes are particularly fancy. Her shirt – the one I pick out – is plain linen with a low neckline and very short sleeves. It’s slippery to the touch, the material having been treated with some odd substance…ah, the smell – it’s that “tundra essence” stuff.

Should have been more mentally prepared before I turned around. Should have at least drank half the kettle of that camomile tea.

Kathanhiel is standing by the basin wearing nothing but a short towel around her waist. She has folded one arm over her breasts but that doesn’t stop glistening streaks of water from going where they please. Blocks of muscle, which hadn’t been noticeable when she was lying down, stand out in ridges on her stomach, and her legs are simultaneously the most beautiful and the most powerful things to ever exist.

expression is on her face. Last time she looked like that she laughed hard enough to take out a piece of the floor.

‘You look like I’m teasing you.’ She takes the shirt using her unoccupied hand (thank the Maker). ‘Perhaps a little, admittedly. Avert your eyes at your leisure.’

The floor of her room is the most fascinating piece of architecture I have ever laid eyes on. Just look at those beige tiles – they look great, so great in fact, I don’t think I can look up from them ever again.

‘I-I-I-I’ll take my leave if you don’t n-need anything else.’

‘Thank you Kastor.’

As the door eases shut, I suddenly realise there are a hundred things that I had forgotten to ask. Hard to blame myself in this instance – much greater men than I would have done no better, considering the circumstances.

She did that on purpose.

‘You look ill,’ Haylis says.

‘Do I?’

‘Stop thinking about Talukiel, it won’t help.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Come to the front. I’ll help you talk to Oon’Shang for a bit. She’s a funny lady.’

‘Why’re you being so nice?’

‘I’m only trying to be. It’s working isn’t it?’

The moment she opens the front-facing door a violent gust almost breaks it off its hinges. It’s not raining today, but the clouds are racing southward as if the mountains are chasing after them. Oon’Shang’s back blocks the worst of the wind; the carriage chassis sits exactly at her waist, so it doesn’t require more than a tilted head to see her face.

A small platform and a long marble bench runs the width of the coach. Haylis pulls a hidden lever, and a screen folds down on the left side, making a cosy little alcove for all the humans that would for some reason want to sit out here.

The two of us squeeze behind it. Directly in front of my face is Oon’Shang’s left arm – thick as a tree trunk – pulling on a long handlebar protruding from underneath the cabins. It’s incredible, watching the little giant sprinting at full speed while hauling three people, two horses, and a four-room steel-shelled carriage; it doesn’t seem to take her much effort at all.

‘She’s so strong!’

Haylis has taken out her chain of soundless bells; with two mallets in each hand she hits them for about ten seconds. ‘Oon’Shang says her friends can pull twelve-room coaches much faster than she is going now.’

’

That’s amazing!’

‘Move over more, I can’t feel half my face.’

Haylis half-sits onto my lap as if I’m a soft toy stuffed with goose feathers. The act is not so much erotic as annoying…though the leg she’s wrapping around mine does feel comfortably warm.

‘I’m doing you a favour so don’t be a pervert,’ she says.

‘As if I’m…never mind. She has fought a lot dragons, right? Maybe she could tell us about –’

‘Do you want to be here all day? I don’t. It’s freezing and my back hurts.’

‘Fine. Ask her what she thinks our chances are.’

Oon’Shang turns her head slightly as she replies, her orange veil tossed up by the wind. Her eyes look like a pair of those crystal balls fortune tellers use, dark and mysterious and infinitely deep. They are relatively easy to get used to; not so easy is the completely static hole that is her mouth.

‘She says she believes in the heir of the sword of Ush’Ra the Godsmith,’ Haylis says.

‘The heir of…you mean Kathanhiel? So Kaishen gets...passed down?’

Haylis rolls her eyes. ‘From one dragon slayer to the next. I thought you knew all about her, Mister Learned Scholar.’

‘But I’ve never heard a story in which someone else uses Kaishen.’

‘She gave it a new name, dummy! What if the last guy called it something silly like…like Lizardstick? Imagine being stuck with that forever and when you kill a dragon you have to shout “Behold the power of Lizardstick!” How lame would that be?’

Stupid as that sounds, Kathanhiel name her horse Bobby, a far cry from Kaishen, Bane of Dragons. The dichotomy between the two has to be intentional.

‘So what was it called before?’

Haylis hits the bells a few more times, then shrugs. ‘Oon’Shang says she has forgotten. Apparently Ush’Ra the Godsmith made it so that the sword is…’ she scratches her head, ‘…dissolved? Every new dragon slayer…dissolves…the sword. Do you know what she could mean by that?’

Kaishen is right there in the next room, shiny as new. It’ll take a big vat of acid and more than a few decades for that kind of steel to dissolve in anything. ‘Nothing that would make sense. Can she tell us how it’s, you know, spitting fire?’

At that query, Oon’Shang’s shoulders begin heaving back and fro, an easy enough gesture to recognise – laughter.

‘She doesn’t know, and even if she did she wouldn’t tell you, because the little giants never share the secrets of their craft,’ says Haylis. ‘She also says that the true power of the sword will be revealed once we start running into dragons – that is, if you don’t flee at the sight of them.’

That one stings; not the words, but the tone of assumption. ‘Tell her I’m Kathanhiel’s esquire and I’ll fight with her, come what may.’

Haylis relays that on the bells. Oon’Shang takes a while to respond.

‘She asks whether you’re just saying that because it’s what heroes in stories are supposed to say.’

Even if that’s true I’m not about to admit it. ‘What about you? You think you can manage?’

Haylis bites her lips. ‘Before yesterday, sure, that’s what I’m coming along for, but after seeing those people on the road and…Talukiel...I’ll ask Oon’Shang what they’re like.’

If I was a little giant I would be able to recognise the deep, heartrending fear in Oon’Shang’s voice, but through Haylis’ translation most of the emotion is lost, and only the words remain.

Terrifying words.

‘They swarm, like starving wolves that haven’t had a meal in weeks, and they scream as they descend from the sky, rise from the swamps, the gulches, the snow, everywhere, from every direction, for their mouths are on fire, the flames beaten back into their throats by the wind, driving them berserk. Javelins cannot rend their hide, only their wings, but even grounded they can leap over great chasms to lunge at their prey. And prey we are, even to the smallest dragonling, while the ancient ones – the Apex candidates – can easily swallow a little giant from head to toe.’