The Demon World

by Sally Green

  Davyon stuttered, “A-a-and the war? The Brigantines—are they advancing?”

  The soldier shook his head. “There’s a truce, sir. Positions are held. Lord Farrow’s camp is west, half a day’s ride, and our army is huge. The Brigantines fear us.”

  Catherine was sure it wasn’t fear that stopped her father advancing. He’d be plotting something. Taking his time to hold and strengthen his position at the very least.

  The soldier looked around the group. “But I have to ask, general, who is with you? Did you all really make it out of Rossarb? If so, you’re the only ones to have done so.”

  “Yes.” Davyon’s voice was sad, almost despairing. “Then it is true—we are what is left of Rossarb.”

  “And may I ask about these white-hairs? I must report all who I’ve seen to my lord.”

  “I’m sure you must. My comrades with the white hair are men loyal to Princess Catherine, whom I’m honored to escort today.”

  The soldier looked at Catherine and then Tanya, clearly unsure who was the princess.

  “And who’s he?” The soldier pointed into the group.

  “Who?”

  “The one that looks like a Brigantine.”

  “That is Sir Ambrose Norwend, good friend to my master Prince Tzsayn.”

  The soldier said he had to report back and Farrow’s men rode off, but after a short way they split up, two riding fast to the east.

  Davyon said to Catherine, “Typical of Farrow’s men. Bearing bad news and ill will. They offer us no food, no assistance, and there goes the news of our arrival—your arrival—to Farrow.”

  “I’m sorry about the prince. Truly sorry. I fear . . . my father is a cruel man.”

  Davyon nodded and straightened, though she could see there were tears in his eyes. He said, “Thank you for your kind words, Your Highness. I’m sorry if I’m being emotional, but the prince is precious to me.” He wiped his eyes before continuing, “However, I must do my duty, and I think it might be a good idea to speed up and get to Donnafon as quickly as possible.”

  Even going as fast as their weary legs would carry them, it was afternoon when they approached the walled hilltop town of Donnafon. The track they walked on through the fields joined a wider road from the west and it climbed the hill steeply and entered the town through a pair of large wooden gates that were guarded by men with colored hair—but Catherine was relieved to see it was pale pink, not green.

  Davyon spoke with the guards and soon they were being escorted through the narrow cobbled streets to the town hall, a large building forming one side of the market square. Inside, the gray stone walls were high, and stained-glass windows at the top let through a cool blue light. The soldiers told them to wait for the lord to see them. Their leader departed through a huge wooden door that banged shut behind him. The soldiers left behind stood at each doorway, their boots scraping and scratching the flagged floor. Catherine’s group dropped their voices to whispers and Catherine shuddered in the chill air.

  Tanya did what she could to make Catherine presentable. She brushed the mud and dust from Catherine’s dress, then set to work on smoothing and plaiting her hair. “We should have our own room for this. Men oughtn’t to see how these things are done,” Tanya muttered.

  “We’ve not had any privacy for the last week,” Catherine replied. “Do what you can.” And she stood still and watched as Ambrose, Rafyon, and Davyon did similar jobs of tidying each other up. Catherine smiled to herself. Men and women working in the same way to the same end of making themselves look their best—she felt like part of a team, all of whom knew what they had to do.

  “What’s he like, this Lord Donnell?” Tanya asked Ambrose as she pulled at a knot in Catherine’s hair.

  “It’s four or five years since I was here,” Ambrose replied, keeping his voice quiet. “I visited with my sister. She wanted to see the renowned library. We stayed here a few weeks as I recall. Lord Donnell was a generous and amiable host.”

  “‘Generous and amiable’ sounds good. But that was before the war with Brigant. Let’s hope he’s not changed.” But as Tanya spoke, more pink-haired guards arrived, blocking the exit. Catherine’s group was hemmed in.

  Another pink-hair went to Davyon and murmured, “Lord Donnell will see you and the nobles. The others will remain here.”

  Davyon looked to Catherine, who said, “My maid comes with me, as is fitting.” Then she, Tanya, Davyon, and Ambrose followed the pink-haired guard into the grand hall. Catherine held her head high and walked confidently, but out of the corner of her eye she saw something green in the shadows. She faltered. Had Farrow had time to get here with his men ahead of her and win Donnell over? She longed to see blue-hairs, but Davyon was the only one.

  At the head of the long stone room, on a raised carpeted dais, Lord Donnell sat on a large carved wooden thronelike chair. Four other men stood close to him, but she didn’t recognize any of them.

  Lord Donnell stood as Catherine and her group approached. He was older than her father, thin but upright, though his demeanor was far from welcoming. The pink-haired soldier announced their names, though Lord Donnell’s face showed neither surprise, pleasure, nor recognition.

  Ambrose took a step forward to bow. “Lord Donnell, may I properly introduce Her Highness, Princess Catherine.”

  Donnell’s eyes flicked to the side of the room before resting on Catherine. He gave a small bow of his head.

  Catherine acknowledged his action with the very slightest lowering of her head and, as she did so, cast a furtive look to the side of the room where there were deep alcoves and some figures standing in them.

  Ambrose continued, “I fear you have forgotten me, Lord Donnell. I visited Donnafon with my sister, Lady Anne Norwend, four years ago. I was hoping that you would recognize me.”

  Donnell said, “Ah, yes, I remember you, Sir Ambrose. You were not much more than a boy then.” But he added no words of welcome and the room seemed to fill back up with cold silence.

  Then a figure stepped out from the alcove. “And I remember you, Princess Catherine.”

  It was Farrow. As tall and sneering as he’d always been. “After you fled Tornia—after I explicitly forbade you from leaving—after your brother and his assassins attacked, maiming our king and killing many lords, I didn’t expect to see you again. But it’s good that you are here. You and your men are under arrest.”

  EDYON

  BOLLYN, NORTHERN PITORIA

  IT WASN’T far to the village, but the chains were already rubbing Edyon’s wrists. The older sheriff’s man, Hed, had slowed his horse to a walk, which was a relief only for a short time as people were pointing and staring at Edyon, and one woman called out, “What’s his crime, Hed?”

  “Murdered my friend in Dornan.”

  “Doesn’t look like he could murder a cat.”

  Edyon shouted, “I’m innocent. I didn’t do it.” But then something hit him on the side of the face and he yelped in pain. He looked down and saw a turnip. Then something else hit him on the arm to the shout of “Murderer!” Edyon ran close to Hed’s horse for protection. Two boys were laughing and one threw another turnip that flew hard at Edyon’s face, but he ducked and the turnip hit the horse, which reared up.

  Hed cursed Edyon. “Don’t hit my horse, you dog.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Edyon pleaded.

  But Hed spurred his horse, so that Edyon had to run to keep up, the boys chasing after him and now throwing insults. “Murderer! Villain!”

  Edyon shouted, “I’m no murderer. I’m the son of a prince and a friend to Prince Tzsayn.”

  At this the boys called him many insulting words and joked crudely about how friendly he was with Prince Tzsayn. Edyon was relieved when they stopped at a large stone building at the far end of the village, and Hed unhooked Edyon from the horse, then grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him ins
ide and down some steps into a cold cellar. Edyon held his wrists out for them to be unlocked, but Hed merely locked them to a chain that was fixed to the wall.

  “What will happen to me?” Edyon asked.

  Hed raised his eyebrows. “We’ll take you back to Dornan, where you committed your evil crime. You’ll receive a fair trial. My wife’s uncle is the judge there. He’s a good man. He’ll find you guilty and you’ll be hanged from the scaffold on the outskirts of Dornan. The crows will pick your eyes out and your body will rot.” He approached Edyon. “That’s after I’ve kicked the shit out of you.”

  Edyon tried to protect himself as much as he could, bending over then dropping to the ground, curled up into a ball. Hed’s boots were hard but the kicks soon ended—and he didn’t piss on him, so this was at least better than the beating he’d received back at Dornan fair. Edyon stayed where he was on the floor until he heard Hed leave and bolt the cellar door. Death was all around him and was determined to never let him get away.

  Edyon sat on the floor. The only furniture was a bucket to piss in. The cellar was cold and damp, though it wasn’t as dark or cold as the cell in Rossarb. Edyon was slightly disconcerted at being in a position to compare the merits of prison cells. But the worst thing about this cell was being alone. Being without March.

  Edyon felt his bruises. He had a swollen eyebrow, a sore ear, and numerous lumps on his shins and arms, but a lower rib was the most painful to touch. Having found all his wounds and ascertained that none was fatal, Edyon realized that he’d survive—at least until the day he was to be executed.

  He didn’t want to die and certainly not at the end of a rope with people throwing turnips at him. If only he’d not lost the letter from Prince Tzsayn. If only he’d not left his bag of clothes by the dead sheriff’s man in Dornan!

  Edyon wasn’t a murderer. But he knew the law, and the judge in Dornan would want to blame someone. They’d want revenge more than justice. And unless he could think of a way out of this, Edyon would pay the price.

  CATHERINE

  DONNAFON, NORTHERN PITORIA

  If the fight is inevitable, be the first to strike.

  War: The Art of Winning, M. Tatcher

  FARROW STOOD before Catherine, but he had only four men with him, not enough to force Catherine’s arrest without Donnell’s assistance. Ambrose, Rafyon, and Davyon stood close to her.

  “I wondered who it was lurking in the shadows,” Catherine said. “So, you’ve arrived in the north at last, Lord Farrow. A pity you didn’t make it away from the security of Tornia in time to reinforce the prince’s army in Rossarb.”

  Farrow’s face was stony. “The attack by your brother on Tornia delayed us. With the king severely injured and many lords dead, there was much to do—which was, no doubt, as you and your father planned. You attacked us at our heart in Tornia, and then invaded the north at Rossarb and lured Prince Tzsayn there too.”

  “I did no attacking, no invading. And I lured the prince nowhere! He went to Rossarb to defend his country against the Brigantines. And when he was there he needed support and reinforcements, which you failed to provide on time. He risked his own life, and many other Pitorians gave their lives in that fight.”

  “Yes, many Pitorians have died in Rossarb at the hands of our enemy. And I intend to ensure no more die because of Brigantine infiltrators.”

  “Brigantine infiltrators. Spies, you mean? Who?”

  “You, Your Highness, and your man, Sir Ambrose.”

  “As you well know, Lord Farrow, Sir Ambrose and I gave up our Brigantine nationality to be Pitorians. True Pitorians, determined not by place of birth but by loyalty to the king and country. Sir Ambrose proved his loyalty by saving King Arell’s life and I proved mine by warning him of the imminent invasion by Brigant. Remind me again how you have proved your loyalty?”

  “I have no need to prove anything. I’m Pitorian in my blood.”

  “Pitorian, yes. But are you loyal to the king? You certainly took your time to send reinforcements to Rossarb. If they had arrived just a day earlier, just half a day, Rossarb would not have fallen. Prince Tzsayn would not be a prisoner. Many Pitorian lives could have been saved.”

  “Lies. All lies.” He eyed her for a moment before adding more calmly, “We made excellent time with the troops we had. A mere woman cannot possibly understand these issues of war.” Then he paused and smiled at her. “But I forget myself and do you a disservice, Princess Catherine. You are a Brigantine and the daughter of a warmonger. By birth, blood, and upbringing you’re familiar with war and savagery. You came to Pitoria to spy on us, to infiltrate our court and trick Prince Tzsayn into a poisonous fraud of a marriage. It’s you who have much to prove. You are under arrest for collaborating with the invaders.”

  Catherine shook her head, but knew that it would be hard to prove she wasn’t collaborating with her brother. Only Tzsayn believed her, and Arell too. “King Arell was saved by Sir Ambrose—that’s not the action of a collaborator.”

  “King Arell is seriously ill. But you can present your defense at your trial.”

  At this, Davyon stepped forward. “Lord Farrow, I know you are loyal to Pitoria, but let me assure you that Prince Tzsayn supports the princess. Prince Tzsayn was not lured anywhere and he is more than capable of seeing the truth in a person. You know me, Lord Farrow. I’m loyal to the prince; I’m his closest guard, his dresser. I know the prince’s mind and can confirm that he is confident that the princess was cruelly deceived by her father. The princess risked much to warn the prince of the invasion, and Sir Ambrose saved the king’s life. I know you are acting in good faith, but an arrest is against the prince’s wishes.”

  Farrow considered this before replying, “General Davyon, we all respect you and know you are close to the prince. But my duty is to defend our country and I believe you are deceived. We are at war with Brigant, our king is severely wounded and our prince a prisoner. These two Brigantines are involved in the plot—but, as I said before, if not, then they can prove their innocence in court.”

  Catherine knew she’d not be able to prove anything. It would be her word against that of many others who Farrow would bring against her. She couldn’t let Farrow take her, but before she could say or do anything there was a noise from outside—shouting and banging, and three men burst through the doors into the hall. All three were covered in mud and dust from a long hard ride and all three had the purple hair of King Arell.

  “What’s the meaning of this interruption?” Lord Donnell demanded.

  One of the purple-hairs stepped forward and patted himself down, and Catherine saw that he wore a band of black silk round his arm. Donnell saw it too and his face fell. Catherine had read of the custom in Pitoria—on the leader’s death, his men would wear black armbands.

  The man spoke only when he was sure all had seen the band, his voice quiet with emotion. “We bring news for Lord Farrow, leader of the lords. The news is that we purple-hairs wear black armbands from three days ago. King Arell succumbed to the wounds inflicted on him in the attack on Tornia. He heard of Prince Tzsayn’s capture and his final wish is that all efforts are made to release Prince Tzsayn as soon as possible and for the prince to take the throne.”

  The king was dead. Arell had been an intelligent, amusing, and kindly man, a good father to Tzsayn, but a man who struggled to understand his violent neighbors in Brigant. And now he was another man dead because of Catherine’s father.

  Donnell stood. He was clearly shaken as he said, “This is sad and shocking news indeed. Arell was a great man and his death is a huge loss to the country. We assure you that we in Donnafon will support all efforts to have the prince returned to us so that we can honor him as our king.”

  Farrow said, “We are saddened, yes, Lord Donnell, but angered too. Our king has been killed by Brigantines. We will do what we can to ensure the prince is returned to us, but we will also en
sure that those responsible for the king’s death are punished.” He turned to Catherine as he said this. “You and your fellow Brigantine murderer will suffer for this.”

  Catherine was trying to deal with the shock of the news about Arell, but also the precariousness of her own position. Without the king or Prince Tzsayn, Farrow would have even more power; Farrow could even try to take the throne himself. If arrested, she was doomed. She had to counter him, and the only way was to be bold. To be bolder than she’d ever been in her life.

  Shaking inside with fear, Catherine made herself move forward past Farrow on to the dais beside Donnell. Then she turned to the room. She was sick with trepidation but she had to do this. It was her only hope of avoiding Farrow’s arrest. She took a breath and said, “I too am saddened beyond words at the news of King Arell. He was a great man, who showed me personal kindness when I came to this country. I join with all fellow Pitorians in mourning the loss of our king. I too will do all I can to aid the return of Prince Tzsayn to us so that he can assume his rightful role as leader, as king of Pitoria. I do this as a loyal Pitorian, as a lover of what is right and a hater of all things that are evil about Brigant. But I also do this as the wife of Prince Tzsayn.”

  There was a gasp from those around the room.

  “I didn’t declare my marriage to Prince Tzsayn before as it was not the right time, but I declare it now. Prince Tzsayn and I married immediately before the final battle of Rossarb. I am his wife and as such I assume control of Pitoria until my husband is returned to us.”

  Catherine looked across the room. Ambrose was staring at her, white with shock. But she forced her gaze past him to Davyon. She needed his support, but his expression was far harder to read. Would he support her? Would he corroborate her explanation? He made no move to say anything.

  Farrow gave a fake laugh. “Assume control? You? A woman? A Brigantine?”

  “I’m a woman, yes. But I’m Pitorian now and I’m wife to Prince Tzsayn. When the prince is returned to us he will confirm it. I want the prince, my husband, back. I want you to do your duty, Lord Farrow, and find a way to return him to us as our king.”