The Haven
Graham Diamond
© Graham Diamond 1977
Graham Diamond has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1977 by Playboy Press.
This edition published in 2015 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.
to my father,
WHO WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD.
Table of Contents
PART ONE
THE COMING OF THE MASTER
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
PART TWO
GAMES OF SKILL AND CUNNING
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
PART THREE
FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PART ONE
THE COMING OF THE MASTER
CHAPTER ONE
The animal moved slowly, cautiously, eyes scanning, fangs ready to strike. The night was moonless and black; he knew he would not be seen. One step at a time, he came out from his hiding place among the trees. All was still. He peered toward the lonely farmhouse atop the hill and gave a low, barely audible snarl. From deep within the thicket his companions raised their heads. Then they, too, made their way, silently, slinking, eyes ablaze. Their task was at hand.
The young farmer woke with a start, glanced to the window. He had heard something: a sound, low and muffled. His ears strained to listen as he sat up on the edge of the bed. But there was nothing now, only complete silence. His wife turned in her sleep and looked up at him through half-opened lids. She reached over and touched his hand.
The farmer put his finger to his lips.
“Something wrong?” she whispered.
He shrugged. “I think I’ll check the barn.”
Before she could answer he was up, putting on his shirt and pants. He looked down at her and smiled. “Keep the bed warm. I’ll be right back.”
He walked quietly into the sitting room, reached atop the brick fireplace and took his hunting knife. The blade glittered as he drew it from the sheath. Then he walked outside. The sharp wind cut him to the bone. He wanted to go back and take his coat, but he heard the sound again. Shivering, he took a few steps to the side of the house. Something was wrong. The mules were restless, too. He could plainly hear the soft shuffle of their hooves against the wooden floor. Beads of sweat dotted his face; he clutched at the knife to stop his hand from trembling. A shadow dashed from behind the barn, and he shuddered. But still he moved forward. Perhaps whatever was lurking had been frightened away by his presence — if he was lucky. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. Whatever was there could also be waiting for him as he stumbled in the dark. With every bit of courage he could muster, he made his way to the barn and slowly opened the door.
*
The five soldiers, riding at an easy pace, wound down the muddy road. Dressed in deep blue tunics, smartly pressed, swords dangling at their sides, they rode with an air of confidence. The one in front wore a silver pendant in the shape of a flying falcon pinned to his left shoulder. This alone told his rank and title: a captain of the Royal Guard, soldier of the Haven. And he wore it proudly.
A burly soldier with a red beard rode beside the captain. “Shall we turn back?” he asked in a deep, gravelly voice. The party was deep in the Westland, and few were willing to risk living so close to the forest.
Captain Desmond shook his head. “Not just yet, Rolf. There’re still a few Outland farms we’ve missed.”
Rolf nodded, and they continued down the slope. Suddenly as they passed an outcropping of rock, Des raised his hand.
From the bottom of the hill they could only see a glimpse of a tiled roof just over the crest, but it was enough to make Des wary. Again he shaded his eyes and stared. Rolf also sensed a hint of apprehension. His dark eyes moved quickly and took in the landscape. He rubbed at his square jaw. “Odd,” he mumbled, “no smoke from the chimney.”
“The morning’s too cold not to have a fire going,” said Des.
“Want me to go have a look?”
Des dismounted and said: “We’d better both have a look.”
They left their horses with the others and made their way to the top of the hill. They glanced at each other. The path to the house was cluttered with dead chickens, feathers torn from their bodies. Rolf pointed to the front door. It was slightly ajar.
Des drew his sword. “You check around the back,” he said. “I’ll look in here.”
Rolf hesitated. “Maybe you shouldn’t go inside alone —”
Des smiled thinly. “I’ll be all right. You look in the barn.”
It was a command, not a request. Rolf nodded, pursed his lips and strode away.
Des stopped a few feet from the door, and with a sudden kick flung it open. A foul smell immediately filled his nostrils. His eyes darted across the room. There were a few chairs, a small wooden table, and curtainless windows tightly shuttered. Cautiously he stepped inside. Then he looked to the fireplace and winced. Stretched out beside the tiles were the limp bodies of two small children, a boy and a girl. Des reached down and lightly touched their skin. It was cold. Whatever had happened had been done days before. Already their young bodies were beginning to decompose.
He kneeled beside the boy. His throat had been cut, the head nearly decapitated. There was a deep gash along his neck running from his left ear across the right side of his jaw. His nightshirt was stiff with blood. Des grimaced, turned his attention to the girl. She was lying face up, staring at the ceiling. But instead of eyes, black hollow sockets gaped. With his kerchief he wiped away a thick smear of dried blood, and sadly shook his head. She couldn’t have been more than ten.
Des stood up, sheathed his sword, and walked to the bedroom. Inside their mother lay sprawled across the bed, hands clutching at the blood-soaked blanket. Her robe had been ripped from her body. Her eyes were wide open, wild with fear. Gently the soldier reached over and closed them. Then he went back outside. Except for burying them, there was nothing more to be done.
Rolf stood waving at him from the door of the barn.
“Better come have a look over here, Captain,” he called.
Des sidestepped about a dozen more dead chickens as Rolf pushed the door open. The stench was nauseating. Both men covered their faces with kerchiefs. In front of them lay the corpse of a cow — at least what had once been a cow. Its belly had been torn open and its guts thrown across the floor. Maggots were on their way through the putrid flesh.
“This is a massacre,” he mumbled, breathless.
Rolf nodded darkly. “And it wasn’t done for food,” he said sourly.
“Then it couldn’t have been wolves?”
His companion shoo
k his head, feeling a shiver go up his spine. “No, not wolves. They would have taken what they wanted and dragged it back to the forest. This — isn’t their way.” He paused, as if groping for the right words, words that never came easily to him. “This — vileness was done as much for sport.”
Des said nothing. He did not have to. He understood. He turned and peered over into the stalls. Two work mules lay dead also. “Any sign of the farmer?”
Rolf pointed to the haystack in the corner. Des froze; his face contorted in disgust. The body lay covered with hay, the limbs torn off and piled beside it in a heap. A pitchfork stood in the center, and firmly affixed atop the prongs was the farmer’s head. The tongue, purpled and bloody, had been cut from the mouth and then stuffed back inside.
Des retched involuntarily. The sight was too horrible, even for him. He went back outside, Rolf at his heels.
“They meant this as a warning to us,” muttered the burly soldier.
Desmond’s eyes flashed angrily; his face grew stern. Deep lines showed along the sides of his mouth. And even as he spoke his eyes squinted out toward the distant, hated forest. Somewhere in there, somewhere close, the murderers would be watching. Even now.
“What happened here must be kept secret, understand?”
Rolf tugged gently at his beard and nodded glumly. “But the Council must be told right away. You know what this could mean —”
Des scowled and bit off the words. “We’ll inform them immediately,” he snapped. “I’ll send Mustapha. But no one else is to know. It could have the whole Westland in a panic. We’ll let the Council decide what must be done.”
Without another word they went back down the hill, mounted their horses and galloped out of sight.
CHAPTER TWO
Shading his eyes from the noon sun, the youthful noble slowly led the mare from the musty stable out into the light. Once outside, the noble stroked her mane gently as she nuzzled a bit of sugar from his palm. Then he checked the mare’s chin strap and muzzle, making sure the bit was firmly in place.
He was a tall man, dark-featured, with thick black hair that curled unevenly at the nape of his neck. He wore a simple brown wool tunic, open at the collar, and scuffed leather riding boots. At first glance he seemed to be a gentleman of sorts, a teacher perhaps. But a round gold pendant dangled from a heavy chain around his neck. There could be no mistake about that — few men possessed one like it. This noble was a Lord of the Haven, a member of the Council. A man to be respected.
“Is everything well, my Lord?”
Nigel’s eyes glanced at the mare’s hind legs. She was no longer limping. “You do fine work, blacksmith,” he said, turning to the craftsman. “That thorn in her hoof could have lamed her. I’m indebted to you.”
He reached into his tunic and handed the man a silver coin.
The blacksmith beamed. He knew he was good at his trade, one of the best. But to be highly praised by a Lord, especially one who paid so well, was gratifying nonetheless. Who could say what future trade might come of it?
“You’re very generous, my Lord,” he said, smiling as he tucked the coin in a pocket beneath his apron. “But remember to be careful. Her leg is still sore. Better to keep off the old road if you can.”
Nigel returned the smile and sighed. “I should’ve known better. It was foolish of me to have taken her on it in the first place. The washes are still dangerous from the last rains. It was lucky for me you were so close by. I’d hate to lose her.”
The smith nodded. He eyed the mare admiringly. “She’s a fine animal, my Lord. If you ever decide to sell her —”
Nigel’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “I could never sell her. She was a gift from a Lady.”
“Ah, I understand,” said the smith, grinning and exposing a mouthful of decaying teeth. “Ride home safely, then, Lord Nigel. And come back whenever you need me.”
“That I will, friend. You can be sure.” As the smith bowed, Nigel nodded his head politely, then mounted and rode off.
Tomorrow the Council would be in session, and he would have to be ready. With a sigh he kicked gently at the mare with his heels and the horse cantered on.
For the next hour he passed only farms, the fields occasionally busy with farmers harnessing plows and urging on their mules. Overhead the clouds rolled swiftly in the wind. They rolled west, across the broad ridges of the Outland, then beyond the frontier, only to disappear from sight somewhere over the forest.
After a while the landscape became flatter, more familiar. He was close to the Plain, close to the Haven. Already the villages had become more clustered. He could see wagons laden with apples rolling down from the orchards, bringing to market the last of the winter crop. The Plain, save for the Haven itself, was the most populated region of the Valley. Here was the breadbasket of the Empire. The soil was rich and fertile, as once the entire Valley had been. Fields of wheat and barley stretched almost as far as the eye could see. And at either side stood tens of silos, packed with grain and feed for the long winter months. They would all be nearly empty now, he knew, as winter was almost over. But by next autumn they would overflow again, to provide enough for everyone through those bleak months. Nigel felt proud as he passed along the road. Despite all, the Valley and the Empire still prospered.
A few leagues ahead, not much more than a half-hour’s ride, stood the walls of the Haven — city of the Empire. Its massive walls were more than twenty meters high, and its tall towers loomed far above them. Solid rock with gates of iron, it was an impressive sight, no matter how many times you saw it. Some claimed it was the finest city ever known, housing up to seven thousand people. Seven thousand! Nigel mused. Well over half the entire population of the Empire. The Haven had stood for more than two thousand years, seen war, seen drought and famine, seen disease. Men lived and died, but the Haven remained. It was from here that civilization flourished, that the Empire was governed, that those of the Valley sought safety in times of hardship. Without this mighty fortress there would be no Empire; it never would have been. It was all that stood between men and the forest and the enemies within it. It was all that saved them from a hostile world bent on their destruction.
The traffic on the road became heavy. Carts and wagons were coming in a steady stream both ways. For a moment Nigel felt puzzled. Then he smiled. Of course. This was market day. The first since before the winter snows. Central Square would be packed with thousands.
It was late afternoon by the time he rode through the Great Gate. He glanced up at the archers and sentries manning the towers and high wall.
CHAPTER THREE
It was well past midnight, and the last embers in the fireplace barely held a glow. The room had grown dark; only a single candle still flickered. The servant, Dalia, gently opened the study door and peeked inside the room. Papers were crumpled and scattered across the floor; the curtains were fluttering in the strong wind. Quietly she tiptoed to the window and reached out to close the shutters.
Nigel picked his head up from the desk and stared bleary-eyed at her. “What time is it, Dalia?”
The woman shrugged. “Past midnight, my Lord. Why don’t you go to bed?”
Nigel rubbed at his bloodshot eyes and shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, clearing his throat and his head. ‘I’ve still got some paperwork to do for the Council meeting tomorrow. And I’m expecting Antonius to come home.”
Dalia grimaced, then reopened the shutters. The parrot would need to come through the window. She glanced at the untouched tray atop the side table near the desk. “You haven’t touched your supper, my Lord,” she said, shuffling her sandals on the stone floor.
Nigel stood up, reached for the poker and tried to rekindle some of the embers. “I guess I wasn’t very hungry. But thank you for bringing it anyway.”
“But you haven’t eaten all day,” she protested in the way she used to scold him when he was a child. “First you go out riding to Fates know
where, then you come home, go right to work and don’t eat a thing. Let me fix you something light, some eggs, perhaps?”
Nigel slumped down into the cushioned chair opposite the fireplace and rubbed at his arms. The night air was chilly again. “I can’t eat now,” he said at length, rubbing at the back of his neck. “There’s too much on my mind. The Council, Antonius —”
Dalia’s eyes flashed with anger. “You waste your time with those old men,” she said bitterly.
Nigel ground his teeth. “Let’s have no more of that kind of talk,” he said, trying to be stern.
Dalia sighed and threw up her hands in exasperation. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you try so hard, and they just sit back and nod their heads, pretending to listen, while all the time they have no intent of carrying out your plans. I stand by what I said. They’re just a bunch of tired old men!”
Being stern was not going to do the trick, Nigel realized. Dalia was a crusty old soul, one who would speak her mind no matter what. And the devil with rank or title. So he changed tactics. “It’s very late,” he said, smiling. “Why don’t you go to bed? Perhaps you can pick a fight with your husband?”
“Hrumph!” Dalia fixed her dress, tossed her gray hair back and strode from the room in a huff. As the door shut he heard her call: “Wake me if you get hungry.”
Nigel shook his head from side to side and smiled. How can one be angry at his second mother?
He got up from the chair and walked back to his desk, where he shuffled a few papers. He glanced at the tray of beef and mutton that Dalia had purposely not removed. He still did not want any food, but the wine beside it looked good. He took his goblet and filled it to the brim. He finished the cup and filled another. Outside, the wind began to blow harder. From his windows he could see the dark earth of the Plain stretching for miles beyond the low eastern wall. Clouds kept the sky dark, the moon hidden, but he could clearly make out a few faint flickers from candles and oil lamps in cottages along the Plain.
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