Marith stared at him for a moment, then slunk off like a boy after a beating, trailing his hand along the wall. Rate followed him, a snigger on his face.
Tobias pushed open his own door. A desperate need to sit down and close his eyes for a while, pretend none of this was happening. Alxine followed him, shutting the door behind him. Oh not now, Tobias thought wearily. Not bloody now. Let me have just a few moments free of the bloody lot of you.
‘So,’ Alxine said slowly, ‘care to tell me what exactly is going on here? The last couple of days have been a nightmare. And don’t tell me you don’t know, because you do.’
‘Don’t speak to your commanding officer like that,’ Tobias growled back.
‘Oh, come on, Tobias.’
Tobias sank down onto his bed in exhaustion. ‘Okay. Okay.’ Things had gone beyond the point he could keep anyone in the dark now. And he probably owed it to Alxine, he’d known him long enough.
He was just finishing when Rate came back.
‘He’s shut in,’ Rate said cheerfully. ‘Windows shuttered, door locked. Just sitting there anyway, staring at the wall, laughs a bit occasionally. You’re quite right, he’s cracked as a smashed pot, that one, divine blood or no.’
Alxine said, ‘Oh, come on. You don’t believe that. How can he possibly be descended from some bogeyman? How can he possibly be related to a dragon? Does he look like a bloody dragon?’
Tobias and Rate exchanged glances. Easy to forget, having known Alxine for so long, that he wasn’t from Irlast. Didn’t know the tales they did, or not as anything more than tales, anyway.
‘Let me tell you a story, then, Alxine,’ Tobias said. ‘A story about Marith’s family. Then maybe you’ll understand a bit.’
Closed his eyes, seeing the wise woman in his village, the memory of her thin fingers like chicken bones moving as she spoke, the click of the bead necklace she wore, the younger children coughing and fidgeting, the smell of smoke from her hearth. Snot and greasy hair and her breath stank, but you forgot all that as she spoke, the magic of her words, the power of them, the images so clear in his mind and behind them the clatter of the loom as a rhythm, part of the story, part of the magic, weaving images like the cloth, so real he could see them. The great sacred stories, the god tales, the history of his world.
‘It begins … It begins with a woman, a princess, a descendant of the old gods, and she lived in a country called Illyr, on the shores of the Bitter Sea, on the edge of the world.
‘The kings of Illyr had been kings and more than kings since the world began. But the Salavene Wars came, the Godkings fighting, the ruin of Tarboran, the drowning of Caltath, and Illyr was brought low. And time passed, and it was a poor place, its land broken, and it was surrounded by enemies, with no strength left in its people to defend their homes. And the line of kings was weakening with the country, until all that was left was an old, sick man, and his young daughter, Serelethe.
‘Now, the Kings of Illyr had been gods, once, and enchanters later, and Serelethe had the power of witchcraft in her. And she resolved to use her power to save Illyr and make it again a rich land, safe and prosperous, with no enemies and no fear. But what could she do, a young woman with a sick father? What could she do?
‘What could she do? She called up the great powers, the dark powers, the things that live in the twilight, between day and night, between living and dying, that are neither alive nor dead.
‘And something heard her, and answered her, and came at her call.
‘Three days and three nights, Serelethe locked herself away in a high tower in her father’s fortress. Three days and three nights, great mists hung around the fortress, so deep no man could see further than his own hand. And nine months later, Serelethe gave birth to three sons.
‘The first to be born was a shadow, a demon, a formless thing of dark. And that had no name and no shape, and did not live. The second to be born was a dragon, red as blood, spouting flame. And that Serelethe locked away. And the last to be born was a man, or the semblance of a man, at least. And that was Amrath.
‘Amrath grew tall and strong and handsome, and by the time He reached manhood, He was the greatest warrior and warleader the world had ever known. He led the armies of Illyr to victory after victory, until He had conquered all of Irlast, save only the city of Sorlost, for that city is unconquerable, and will be till the end of the world. At Amrath’s word, the city of Elarne was burnt, and every man, woman and child within it died. At Amrath’s word, the palaces of Eralad were torn to dust and their lords buried alive in the ruins. At Amrath’s word, the fields of Gallas were sown with corpses, and the grass that grows there is poisoned still. There was not a man living who did not fear Amrath.
‘But at length the men of Illyr grew sated with gold and victory and blood, and they began to wonder what it was that they fought for. And the women of Illyr grew tired of seeing their sons and husbands and lovers go off to war. And the people of Illyr, men and women both, began to see that Amrath was a cruel man, and a bad king. For there was no justice in Illyr, no law and no mercy, only Amrath’s will and Amrath’s sword. So the people rose up and rebelled against Amrath, and sought to overthrow Him.
‘Amrath’s anger was woken, then, and He brought down fire and blood upon His own people, His own great city of Ethalden, whose very walls were built of gold. All of its people, He killed. Every one. And not a stone of its buildings did He leave standing.
‘But the destruction set free the dragon, His brother, which Serelethe had imprisoned beneath the fortress Amrath had built, that had stood at the very heart of the city of Ethalden. Huge, it had grown, in the dark place where Serelethe had chained it. Huge, and wild, and filled with nothing but rage and hate against Serelethe and Amrath and all men. It came down upon the ruins of the city and burnt Amrath’s armies with its breath, and tore them to pieces with its claws, and swallowed them whole in its huge mouth. And when none were left living, it came for Amrath.
‘Amrath fought the dragon for three days and three nights without ceasing. As the sun rose on the morning of the fourth day the dragon fell dying, bleeding from a thousand wounds. And Amrath fell dying also, His body broken in every bone and burnt in every limb. And thus ended His reign, in blood and burning. Thus ended the reign of Amrath, the World Conqueror, the greatest and the most terrible of the Lords of Irlast.