I’m not sure if the other Avareans would have followed through with Morn’s command, or whether tradition bound them to the spirit of their song, but it didn’t matter, because somewhere high above us, a horn blew.
The Avarean warriors, their faces still full of battle-lust and fury, froze, and every single one of them dropped to one knee, leaving only the seven of us standing. We looked at each other, our eyes searching each other for signs of mortal wounds, each praying they would find none. All of us were injured, some worse than others. Quil looked pale, and I could see she’d taken a stab wound to the thigh that she was having to hold closed with her one good hand. Ethalia had a cut on her forehead that was bleeding into her eyes and blinding her; even so, she was hanging on to Valiana, whispering soothing words to her as she fought to bring the adoracia in Valiana’s veins back under control. We needed medical care, all of us, but we looked oddly more alive than we had any right to be.
‘You fools!’ Morn roared, Darriana’s blade still sticking out of his chest. For once, though, he wasn’t yelling at us; he was yelling at the horde on the cliff-top above. ‘I could have given you this damned country. They wouldn’t have lasted even one more day – but you let yourselves be taken in by a stupid fucking song?’
The horde looked down from the cliff-top, silent save for a single word that kept being repeated, over and over. Kujandis, Kujandis, Kujandis. It was the Avarean word for coward.
‘You know what that is?’ Brasti asked, holding his bleeding arm and stumbling over to stand in front of Morn. ‘That’s the audience telling you they didn’t enjoy the performance.’
Kest and I stared at him.
Brasti narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Seriously?’ I asked. ‘“That’s the audience telling you they didn’t enjoy the performance”?’
‘You didn’t like it? I thought it was clever.’
‘It was a bit on the nose,’ Ethalia said, unsteady on her feet as she came towards us, Darriana uncharacteristically rushing to help support her.
‘Your opinion doesn’t count,’ Brasti said. ‘You always side with Falcio; you’re in love with him.’
She smiled at me. ‘Well, maybe just a little.’
I took her from Darriana, deciding that I’d be the one to help her walk back to our camp and somehow forgetting that I could barely stand on my left foot and would likely need someone to support me before long.
‘What now?’ Brasti asked, staring at the Avareans, who still looked like they’d quite like to kill us. A lot. None of them moved to attack, though. They didn’t even rise to their feet. Apparently they were waiting for some kind of signal. I hoped it wasn’t supposed to come from me, because if it was, they’d be waiting a long time.
‘Let’s go home,’ I said. ‘I’ve never much liked Pertine this time of year.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY
The Last Tyrant
Tristian legends abound with tales of brave heroes gone to war, facing insurmountable odds and yet somehow emerging victorious. In none of those stories do those same heroes then have to suffer through negotiating an armistice treaty. Note that I didn’t say ‘peace treaty’, because it turns out the Avareans have no word for peace.
‘Truce,’ repeated the Avarean negotiator, a man named Kugriek, whose command of Tristian was only slightly better than that of my old friend Reyek. ‘We give you good truce.’
We sat on opposite sides of a hastily constructed table set in the middle of the very same field upon which we’d shed each other’s blood only days before. The injured had been taken away and the dead burned or buried as each nation’s customs called for, but there were more than enough remnants of the carnage to make me glad of the cold, for once.
The good truce of which Kugriek spoke promised a cessation of hostilities between our two nations in exchange for what the Avarean negotiator called ‘the rightful return of bludlandeg’, which, Gwyn explained, meant ‘blood lands’ – or in this context, the entire Duchies of Orison and Hervor.
When I realised what was being demanded of us, I suggested they could have Orison and Hervor but only if they agreed to take Pulnam and Domaris as well. No one but me thought that was funny.
‘They will not relent in this, First Cantor,’ Gwyn said. ‘The -Avareans believe it is their duty to take back the bludlandeg – not simply because those lands were part of their territory in the past, but because they would consider it cowardice on their part to abandon the families who live there to the uncaring rule of Tristia.’
When a horde of bloodthirsty barbarians tells you that you haven’t been taking good enough care of your people, it’s hard not to cringe a little.
In the end, it came down to this: we either gave up those two Duchies or we named the date and place where our armies would meet once again to wage war. The best I could do was to negotiate a provision that gave every citizen of Orison and Hervor a year to decide whether to stay as part of Avares or depart for the south, unhindered, with their families and belongings. The Avarean Warlords who stood around Kugriek laughed when this was explained to them, apparently finding the thought of anyone choosing to remain Tristian when they could instead live under Avarean protection as hilarious as it was preposterous. I suspected they might be right.
In exchange for our concessions, we were offered a truce, to be upheld for three generations. I’d never heard of the duration of treaties being described in such terms, but Gwyn explained that blood-feuds were common in Avares, and holding to such a truce ensured the children and grandchildren of those who’d died in the war would not seek vengeance.
‘Very well,’ I told Kugriek, and the agreement was carefully inscribed in both languages on the rounded surfaces of two steel-fronted shields taken from the battlefield: another charming Avarean tradition. ‘I will take this to my King and—’
Kugriek cut me off with a wave of his hand and proceeded to translate for the other Avarean Warlords. A great deal of bellowing followed. Finally, Kugriek pointed a thick finger at me and said, ‘We make truce only with ruler.’
I sighed and turned to Gwyn. ‘Could you please explain to them – again – that I am not the King of Tristia. If they give us two weeks we can get Filian here to—’
‘Speak to me!’ Kugriek demanded, slamming his meaty fist down on the flimsy negotiating table. ‘I speak you language good!’
‘A moment, if you please,’ Valiana told the negotiator before turning to me. The Avareans never seemed to interrupt her. Having seen her fight under the influence of the Adoracia fidelis, they’d promptly named her Bludyirdan, which meant ‘Champion of Blood’ or some such thing. Whenever ‘Bludyirdan’ spoke, they were all remarkably polite. ‘They won’t let us wait for the King, Falcio. I don’t think they’d recognise Filian’s authority even if he were here: he didn’t lead the battle and so he has no standing in their eyes.’
‘Fine, then make Feltock sign the damned thing.’
‘Leave me out of it,’ the General said. ‘I’d as soon not be hanged for a traitor the moment we get home.’