Their relationship lasted a few more years. Max became increasingly controlling and possessive of her. But, in a strange way, by making Moneva his lover, he had begun the process of losing her. Their relationship became more equal. Whereas before Moneva had idolised Max, she now started to challenge what he did or said, to stick up for herself. He wanted her to remain unquestioningly loyal and compliant. In the end, she walked out on him and on his business. But she couldn’t entirely regret that part of her life. She had been given the skills to make a living, and to look after herself in a dangerous world.
Alone in Arioc’s bedchamber, Moneva found herself returning again and again to that period of her life. A part of her knew that she was preparing herself for what was to come.
Despite that, when Arioc did arrive she still went into shock. One moment he was not there, the next he was. He was shouting at Babak in the rough language of the Isharites, apparently issuing one angry demand or order after the other. Moneva sat in the bedchamber, looking at the door which stood between her and the King of Haskany, trying to keep calm. Eventually the shouting stopped and was replaced with more subdued murmurs, though she could not make out what was being said.
The door swung open and Arioc was standing there, looking at her. To Moneva, he had the sort of expression someone has when they have put aside a treat for later, forgotten about it, and then rediscovered it. He had a very expressive face, and made no attempt to hide his thoughts, but then, Moneva acknowledged to herself, why would he?
Arioc held out one hand in a formal way, almost like he was asking her to dance. Steeling herself, Moneva stood up and took his hand.
‘Your name?’ he asked.
‘Moneva.’
‘I am Arioc.’
‘I know.’
He smiled briefly at that, and led her into the main room and directed her to sit at the table.
‘I am very hungry, Moneva. You will join me for supper,’ he said, sitting opposite her.
It wasn’t phrased as a request, but then Moneva got the feeling that this was a man who didn’t need to make requests very often. He seemed to be being polite, though, which was something. A small thing ordinarily, but in this situation Moneva took some reassurance from it.
Arioc was an impressive figure, emanating authority more than anyone she had ever met—and Moneva had met a number of Dalriya’s rulers in the last few weeks. His presence filled the room, and Moneva felt like his chambers had reduced in size now that he was here. He had the build and physique of a warrior, and, much like Clarin, didn’t seem to be at ease sitting down, as if his body struggled with the inactivity. But in addition, he had the intellect and aura of a sorcerer: like Soren, but more powerful. His dark eyes seemed to possess the power to see everything. Moneva felt like his gaze was a weapon whose full power she had been spared from for now, but that could be turned on her at any time.
As Babak prepared food for them in the background, Arioc made idle conversation. He asked her where she was born, and into what kind of family. Moneva answered with the truth. Even before Arioc had arrived she had concluded that this was the best strategy; but now, she was even surer that she should be totally honest. Arioc had the ability to find out what he wanted from her, one way or another. If she gave him what he wanted freely, she might live. If she lived, there was a chance that Gyrmund and the others might live too.
Babak served the food and then left the chambers. It was a bird of some kind, heavily spiced, with a range of vegetables. Arioc poured a bottle of Cordentine red into two glasses. Despite her predicament, it was the tastiest meal Moneva had eaten in a long time. Arioc didn’t seem to want to talk much while he ate. The silence might have been unbearable, but Moneva had barely been fed during the last few days, and this made it easier for her to focus on the food.
When they had finished Arioc walked over to his desk and poured out two more glasses of a rich looking, amber coloured liquid. He handed one over to Moneva.
‘Would you like to move into my bedroom, now?’ he asked.
Arioc’s dark eyes focused on her own, studying her reaction. Moneva didn’t trust herself to speak, but nodded her assent.
In the bedroom Arioc gestured for Moneva to sit on the bed before joining her. He took a drink and indicated that she should do the same. Moneva took a sip and rolled her eyes at the strength of it. She swallowed it down and felt it move down her chest into her stomach. Her tongue felt pickled from it. Arioc watched her with some amusement.
‘You’ve never had arak before?’ he asked needlessly.
She shook her head.
Arioc’s face turned more serious. ‘You are not stupid, Moneva, so you must know why you are here. It was a great surprise to find you and your friends in Edeleny. I found you in the Temple. I went there looking for something. A staff. It wasn’t there. I need you to tell me everything you know. Don’t miss anything out.’
There were no threats and, again, Moneva was grateful for that. But that didn’t mean that Moneva was unaware of the consequences if Arioc decided she was lying or holding something back. So she told him everything. She began with the attack on the Temple of Toric in South Magnia, and explained what happened from there. She left out no names or major events along the way. Occasionally Arioc would stop and question her when he wanted more information. When she described the fight between Pentas and Nexodore on the Great Road he got rather childish, and wanted her to recount every tiniest aspect of it. He actually giggled at the ending. When she was trying to explain their run in with Duke Emeric in Coldeberg he grunted and made a face.
‘What did you think of him?’ he asked.
‘I never actually met him, Your Majesty.’
‘Oh,’ he replied, disappointed. ‘Call me Arioc, for fuck’s sake.’
When she recounted her rescue of her friends from Coldeberg prison, he didn’t hide his respect. His expression and manner towards her changed, as if he suddenly realised he was talking to a different person than he had previously thought.
He whistled when she told him about the death of Nexodore in the lands of the Blood Caladri, but let her carry on with her retelling. He listened intently when she described what went on in Edeleny.
‘Well,’ he began when she had finished, ‘that was more than I could have possibly expected. But at the Temple,’ he said, following up on the issue that he most wanted to be solved, ‘your friends disappeared. With the Staff. Teleported away somewhere. Where, and by whom?’
Moneva thought about it. She was worried now, that he would insist she answer a question she couldn’t. ‘Soren was the only sorcerer. He was with us—’
‘It wasn’t him,’ interrupted Arioc. ‘The woman, Elana. She is also a magic user.’
‘Well,’ said Moneva, considering the possibility. ‘I suppose she is, but not in the same way as Soren. Maybe she could have done it.’
‘But highly unlikely,’ conceded Arioc.
He looked at Moneva, measuring her with those dark eyes for a while. He then nodded, as if accepting that she was telling the truth as she knew it.
‘Then the most likely agent of their escape was Pentas. With Nexodore’s death he escaped and made his own way to Edeleny. But why would he do that?’
Arioc was speaking to himself now, lost in his own musings. ‘I have no proof of his involvement,’ he continued, then looked at Moneva. ‘Nor any idea where your friends are. But at least I know exactly who I’m looking for now,’ he added.
The last comment made Moneva feel even worse than she already did. She wondered what the others would think of her, revealing their secrets at the earliest opportunity? What kind of torments were Gyrmund, Soren and the others already suffering now, while she sat on this comfy bed, well fed with a drink in her hand?
She looked up at Arioc to see that he was staring at her now, a new, hungry look on his face. This was the moment, she knew. She had to finish through with her strategy. Give Arioc everything he wanted. He was interested in her more now, she k
new. Interested in her as a person, to some extent. She also knew that he had taken a liking to the Haskan woman, Shira, who, like Moneva, had been taught how to fight. He had even made Shira his queen. Moneva had to make sure that he was interested enough in her to want to keep her alive.
Arioc took Moneva’s drink from her. He reached down to the floor, putting both glasses down with a clink.
‘I’ve never met anyone quite like you before, Moneva,’ he said, moving towards her.
Wanting desperately to recoil away, Moneva instead made up the distance between them. At any moment Arioc could decide he didn’t want her, and might make her a prize for his soldiers to enjoy. She had to be strong. Wanting to hit out and run away, she instead let Arioc put his hands on her body. As he leaned over to kiss her, she wanted to scream out for help, but instead she let him touch his lips to hers. Wanting to cry and to sob and to beg him to stop, Moneva parted her lips and let his tongue into her mouth, let it find her own, as the smell of the arak on his breath filled her nostrils.
10
Atop Burkhard Castle
SITTING BY ASHERE’S BED in his small convalescing room in the Emperor’s Hall, it was almost possible for Farred to forget that there was an army thousands strong on its way to kill them all. For some reason, the myriad sounds of a castle garrison barely penetrated this room: rowdy soldier banter became faint whispers, while the clang and scrape of armour and weaponry might have been a bird walking on the roof.
Instead, the sound that dominated the room was Ashere’s breathing. It was unnaturally loud—the sound you make when you are struggling to suck in air after heavy exercise. Except that Ashere had been laid up in bed since Farred brought him back to the castle two days ago. His face, once a healthy golden brown, now seemed drained of colour. His black hair hung lank at his sides, and sweat gathered on his brow.
But it was the smell that dominated Farred’s senses. Someone had tried their best to mask it by littering the room with rushes, fennel, and other herbs. But the cloying smell of fever, and of the prince’s rotting flesh, would not be denied. Farred had spent as much time in the room as anyone, but it was not a smell that you could get used to. Staying in the room was an ordeal, and everyone, Farred included, would soon find a reason to leave.
It was the wizard, Gustav, who had identified that there was poison in Ashere’s wound. It was, apparently, common practice amongst the Isharites to lace their crystal swords with a poison. Gustav had also declared that there was no cure that he was aware of. The wizard had done his best to treat the Prince. His apprentice, a slight young woman called Inge, had taken on most of the care. She had cleaned the wound and applied a salve of fennel, mugwort, and various other herbs. But both had made it clear that their magic could not help.
There were mutterings from several quarters, North Magnians and Brasingians, about the role played by the two wizards. But when one of Archbishop Godfrey’s priests had barged in to the room insisting that Ashere should be bled, Brock had threatened to gut the man on the spot, and there had been no further attempts to wrest control of the patient away.
‘I thought I would hate you, you know?’ said Ashere, his voice breathy and weak. It was perfectly audible in this room, but would have got lost in the noise of the castle outside it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Before I met you. South Magnians were the enemy as far as I was concerned. How stupid. How stupid that seems now after the horrors that we’ve seen.’
‘Yes, pretty stupid,’ answered Farred, pleased to see that this got a smile out of the Prince, ‘but understandable.’
‘Well, if we’ve done anything, Farred, you and I, we’ve proven what a load of horse shit that is. We’ve proven that North and South can work together. Should work together.’
‘Agreed.’
There was a brief knock at the door before Walter entered.
‘Your Highness,’ he said, nodding at Ashere.
‘Walter. How are the preparations going?’
‘I now have to hope they’ve gone well enough,’ Walter responded.
Farred and Ashere looked at one another and then back to the Marshal.
‘You both asked me to let you know when it happened. Well, the army’s now in sight, heading this way.’
There was a silence for a moment, simply because there was nothing to say. Farred made eye contact with Ashere.
‘Go on, you two,’ said the Prince. ‘Let me know what happens.’
‘You’re not coming to skewer a few more Drobax, Your Highness?’ enquired Walter with mock solemnity.
Ashere smiled at that. ‘I can’t be bothered. Maybe tomorrow.’
Farred turned and left the room, hiding a lump in the throat he didn’t want Ashere to see. He took a few breaths of fresh air to steady himself. Walter joined him.
‘That’s a brave man,’ commented the Marshal.
Farred nodded. He thought of two or three replies but none of them seemed right. Walter sensed his mood and gestured forwards.
‘Come on, there’s a viewpoint along here where some of us will watch what happens. We’ll witness some more bravery.’
Walter led Farred along the flying bridge that connected the Emperor’s Keep on one crag with the Duke’s Keep on the other. While Walter must have crossed this bridge countless times by now, and didn’t give doing so a second thought, Farred still found it daunting, trying to resist looking at the huge drop to the ground below. Once he was safely across, Farred realised that he could hear the thud of the Drobax army marching towards them.
They arrived at the viewing point, which overlooked the winding path leading up the first crag to the Duke’s Keep. A few other spectators had already assembled here. Adalheid, the Duchess of Rotelegen, with a small group from her duchy, peered down with a grim expression. The soldiers who had been asked to defend the path were all in place. Adalheid’s son, Jeremias, was down at the bottom of the crag with the Rotelegen soldiers, awaiting the onslaught. Farred wondered at the decision to send him down there. If he was killed, the last son of Ellard would be dead, and the morale amongst the men of Rotelegen would plummet. But at the same time, he understood why she did it. Her son had escaped the duchy and left it in the hands of the enemy. If he was to keep the support of his people, and ever return, he had to prove himself worthy.
In addition to the Rotelegen group, several other high ranking figures were gathered there, including Godfrey, the Archbishop of Gotbeck, with some of his priests.
‘No Baldwin?’ Farred asked Walter.
The Marshal shook his head. ‘Gustav advised him against it. The Isharites might target him. The Kellish are all on the other side,’ he said, gesturing back towards the Emperor’s Keep. ‘Who knows, they might attack both crags simultaneously.’
It made sense for Baldwin to stay protected. Farred recalled the trap the Isharite wizards had laid for the Magnian forces two days ago, the bank of fog which had hidden their whereabouts. It wouldn’t be a surprise if they had similar plans for taking Burkhard Castle.
Walter walked over to talk with Godfrey, leaving Farred to have a good look down at the forces lined up to receive the initial strike from the Drobax. He could make out the slight figure of Jeremias, still a boy really, surrounded by men, presumably the best warriors the Rotelegen had left, whose job would be to protect him at all costs. The Red Rooster standard of his duchy flew at his side, almost an invitation to the horde heading his way.
Farred looked out into the distance, his eyes straining to detect movement. He could hear the army of Drobax coming, knew well enough what to look for. His brain began to fill the hole, telling him that he could see something when he couldn’t. At some point in time, when exactly he couldn’t be sure, the vision his mind created became reality. He could see them. Farred looked at those around him but no-one else seemed to have noticed. He looked back. Yes, they were definitely in sight.
‘There they are!’ he shouted, pointing into the distance.
; The words seemed to burst from his mouth without being told to, and he had shouted so loud he startled himself. The soldiers on the ramparts looked up at him and then out to where he indicated. Suddenly the whole crag was alive with conversation as the soldiers began to spot the approaching army, or complained that they couldn’t. Weapons and shields were readied, buckles tightened, final prayers or swear words muttered under the breath. The nervous energy seemed to make the crag come alive, the air almost crackling around them.
The movement that Farred had detected on the horizon turned into a full army. The noise of thousands upon thousands of feet, clanking weapons and armour, grunts and shouts, wheeled carts and mules to pull them, all mingled with the steady thud of drums banging out a beat to announce the presence of a fearsome horde; maybe the largest army Dalriya had ever seen. The tactic of hiding their presence, which had worked so effectively against the Magnians two days ago, had now changed. Now the Isharites were intimidating the defenders with the sheer size of their army.
Before long Farred could distinguish individual shapes marching towards them. He was not surprised that he saw no Haskans or Isharites. Instead row upon row of Drobax headed their way, stretching as far along the horizon and as far back as one could see. Still they came, a plague of Drobax, as if there were enough of them to fill the whole of Dalriya. They intended to overcome the defenders by force of numbers.
The first lines of Drobax stormed into the remains of the settlement which Walter had finally cleared out yesterday. He had done a good job but, mused Farred, some people just won’t be helped. Sure enough, a young woman, flushed out by the Drobax, emerged from the jumble of wooden walls and rafters and came running towards the castle. Farred presumed that she was a prostitute, desperate enough and stupid enough to ignore the warnings, and instead staying close by the castle to ply her trade.
The reaction of some of the soldiers seemed to confirm it. Some men cheered her on as if she had entered a bizarre sporting event. Others laughed hysterically, pointing at the sight and gripping their sides.
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 47
