Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) Read Free Page B

him stick fighting had been big, but Gris was like a slab of stone. This man’s chest was clearly in awe of his belly, even though he wasn’t exactly obese. He stood in the light of the lamp inspecting Serhan.
    “I am Colonel Stil,” he announced eventually.
    “Cal Serhan at your service, Colonel,” Serhan said.
    “Ah, but you’re not, are you?” the colonel snapped.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “I know your type, Serhan.” He voiced the name carefully, like an insult. “You’re ambitious. You want power, and you think the Faer Karan are the way to get it.”
    “I only wish to serve.”
    “No you don’t. Nobody wants to serve. We do it because we have to, because it’s better than the alternative. If Captain Grand hadn’t already told the bastards that you were here I’d have you thrown from the walls.”
    Serhan had never seen an adult quite as angry as the colonel. His face was red, his fists were balled. It was like seeing a child in a temper tantrum. But for all that anger, he didn’t move to strike. He was afraid. Not of Serhan himself, but of the Faer Karan. Afraid to do anything that might anger them, and also, perhaps, afraid that someone else might have their ear, might be preferred over him.
    So here was an enemy.
    “Colonel, I think you have mistaken my purpose. If I don’t die in the next few weeks, I hope that we have the chance to work together. I’m sure you can teach me a great deal about the Faer Karan, and the way things work around here.” It was an attempt to mollify, albeit a fairly clumsy one.
    The colonel seemed momentarily taken aback, and paused. There was something like a flicker of hope in his eyes, but his expression quickly hardened again.
    “I shall be recommending that they burn you for sport,” he said, turned on his heel and walked out.
    So yes, an enemy.
    But if the Faer Karan knew their colonel, and he was sure that they did, they would understand and ignore anything he said. The offer of cooperation had been a mistake. Stil was not a man to share power. He was a man clinging to a ledge in a high wind, terrified that anyone up there with him would loosen his grip, and down he would fall.
    He could learn more from the captain, anyway.
    *              *              *              *
    The following day he was visited again.
    Two women stepped through the door. One was about his age, and the other maybe twice that. They studied him for a while, and he studied them back. They were archers, he could see that from the uniforms, the wrist leathers and the quiver straps over their shoulders. The younger of the two could have been good looking, but she had cropped her hair and adopted a fierce expression. The older was clear eyed, neutral. She was trying to learn something from his appearance.
    “Can you use a bow?” she asked eventually.
    “I’ve hunted with one.”
    “And did you hit what you shot at?”
    Serhan laughed. “More often than not.”
    “I am Cora Bantassin, Captain of Archers. This is my lieutenant, Sabra. We have been asked to determine if you have any such skill. Follow us.”
    They went back through the great door, up the stairs and out into the courtyard. Serhan found the sunlight almost painful after a day of nothing but oil lamps, and squinted in the brightness.
    A target had been set up at one end of the courtyard. A bow and a quiver of arrows lay on a table about fifty paces from the target and along the sides of this makeshift target range there sat, stood or lay about sixty men and women. The majority of them were guards of one sort or another, but some others were there also.
    Captain Bantassin indicated the table and he walked slowly to it, letting his eyes adjust. The buzz of conversation that had quietened when he emerged from the stairs picked up again. He could see that some were laying bets. He noticed the smaller of the two guards that he had fought with at the gate, and the man nodded to him. He nodded