Druid's Bane

by Phillip Henderson

  “We’re not all cowards, young sir.” The Archbishop turned his back on the activities, giving Kane his full attention. He pursed his lips, considering.

  Kane felt like a fine horse under inspection—and not for the first time since this association had begun.

  “The church does not run at the first hint of adversity. And after all the good work that has got us this far, it would seem such a waste to let it come to nothing. Don’t you agree?”

  Kane was relieved to hear this. “Absolutely.”

  “Good, so only those we wish to know about the misfortune that has befallen the first shipment will hear of it. What people don’t know can’t hurt them. Besides, at least the branding and processing is going as planned,” the Archbishop commented with a chuckle, taking another glance at the activity out in the yard.

  Kane forced a smile that quickly turned to a frown when he spotted the hunched figure of old Lord Roughan Gilmore and his gangly second son, Isaac, inspecting two female slaves in the shade of a storage shed. The mercenaries who had hold of the captives were laughing at what Kane guessed was the old lord’s joking. The old man, a notorious womaniser, was clearly enjoying the opportunity to inspect the merchandise.

  But that was not what bothered Kane. The Gilmores were trusted stalwarts of the High Church of Arkaelyon, and while Kane could tolerate that fact if he must, he considered few men with as much contempt and loathing as Roughan Gilmore, and for good reason.

  “You have a nerve, sir,” he said.

  The Archbishop had been about to say something. Instead, he stopped and followed Kane’s gaze before saying, “Business is business, Kane. Need I remind you that Lord Gilmore produces nearly a fifth of the realm’s grain, or that he has indicated that he could do with more than two thousand slaves to bolster his peasant labour force? I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to turn him away only because you happen to despise the man.”

  “Despise him? The whoring swine as good as murdered my mother, and I suspect he did so on your bidding. Bloody shame the assassin he hired cut his own throat before the palace guard could get to him or we might have had the truth of it, and your friend’s head—yours too for that matter.”

  Kane was referring to the year of the treaty negotiations, a year that had seen Church and monarchy at each others throats over the surrender of Arkaelyon’s sovereign rights to ancient Amthenium. The realm had teetered dangerously close to civil war.

  “It was a difficult and trying time for all involved, Kane.” The Archbishop took a sip of his wine, his pale grey eyes lingering on the compound.

  “Well, you’d best keep him away from me or, Arkaelyon’s pre-eminent grain merchant or not, I’ll gut the dog and strangle his worthless son with the father’s entrails.”

  The corner of the Archbishop’s mouth twitched with mild annoyance. “It was a long time ago, Kane, and if anyone is responsible for the death of your mother, it’s your father.”

  “Why?” Kane scoffed. He knew he was letting his anger get the better of him, risking more than was wise, but this matter ate at his marrow as much as his sister’s good luck. “Because he ended the church’s bid to reclaim Amthenium?”

  “It was a righteous war. Vafusolum had no claim, historical or otherwise, on holy Amthenium. They should have returned the city to Arkaelyon after the fall of Brutarius and the end of the Long Terror. Your father’s decision to defy the gods marked him as a heretic and a traitor, and I assure you, nothing has changed on that account.”

  Kane grinned humourlessly at the suggestion. He had no love for his father, but neither could he stomach religious bigotry. “I think you forget that the church’s summer crusades all but drained the lifeblood from this realm. After nigh on two hundred years of fruitless bloodshed, discontent had grown so rife that the monarchy was facing peasant revolts almost daily. Truth be told, sir, there’s not a man or woman in the realm who doesn’t blame the revolutions in Noren and New Arkaelyon—and the loss of those territories—on the church. And I think you conveniently forget that, since my father came to the throne, Arkaelyon has experienced a decade of peace and prosperity. This, my dear sir, you are hearing from someone who can’t stand the man in the best of times, which should make my point all the more clear.”

  “Yes, but at what cost has your father achieved this prosperity, my dear fellow?” the Archbishop said. “Our colonies in Zemithia, and all the way down the coast of the Dark Continent to Jarkloom, are now independent, and the wealth and resources they once promised this realm are now all but lost to us. Worse still, one of our own dukedoms is an upstart free republic, and holy Amthenium, the very birthplace of our realm and church, is now as much the property of some ignorant dog in an obscure Vafusolum village as it is mine—all thanks to your father’s peace treaty. And as for the Grand Assembly he established there, that paragon of idiocy is a daily abomination to our gods and an affront to our sovereignty.”

  “If I remember correctly, Kathius Arkaelyus was the father of this realm, and he happened to be a Druid-warrior, not some orthodox Goddian, sir. And while Kathius and the other members of the first druid council and tribal elders were establishing the rules of governance and laying the cornerstones of holy Amthenium thirteen hundred years ago, your gods were still the sole property of the Abeians and Themians, were they not?”

  “Oh, I see,” the Archbishop said curtly. “You’re in one of those argumentative moods again, are you? Well, believe it or not, Kane, I do regret the death of your mother. Although I had nothing to do with the incident, I would have much preferred that the arrow had taken your father and not her—I know you don’t begrudge me that.”

  “Really? My mother was from the Lunwraith court and a staunch and vocal reformist Goddian in her own right, and it was she who influenced Father on the matter of forging peace in the first place. But you say you did not want her dead every bit as much as my father? What you wish is that a single arrow could have killed both.”

  The Archbishop sniffed irritably and glanced sideways at him. Under the thick brows that almost touched above his long hooked nose, his grey eyes gleamed cold and hard as the flint shards on Mount Hellion. “I know that you cannot be blind to the danger that the likes of your father and sister pose to our interests. So I suggest, for the sake of this venture and your future, young sir, that you would be wise to let bygones be bygones. For our dear Lord Helidon and his pawns are not as sure footed as the church and, as I understand it, he is about ready to walk from the table—an event that would not bode well for you, I think.”

  Kane stayed his rising anger and nodded grudgingly. He had guessed this would be the case even before arriving to find disaster waiting for him. “Mr. Pelton’s work, no doubt?”

  “Just one of your many critics in the Helidon household, all of whom have the old merchant’s ear more than ever of late.”

  “So what do you mean, exactly, that the old man is ready to walk from the table?”

  “Just that. He wants out of our agreement.”

  “And you have talked to him?”

  The Archbishop calmly adjusted his skullcap. “How Lord Helidon conducts his affairs, young sir, is not my concern. The church agreed to employ its resources in New Arkaelyon in the hiring of slavers to collect our precious cargo in the numbers required, and to mediate with the nobility here. Nothing else. Helidon is your problem.”

  “If he breaks our agreement, you will bear the cost as well as I.”

  “No, Kane, you will bear the cost for both of us. The church will not be drawn into this complication and its reputation sullied. So it would be to your advantage to see to it that he doesn’t renege on his part of the agreement—wouldn’t you agree?”

  “And you will support whatever action I choose to take?”

  “Unequivocally. I have faith in you, my young sir.”

  “Even if that means killing the old toad and commandeering his fleet of ships?”

  Annoyance flashed in those grey eyes again but was quickly reine
d in. “I have absolute faith that you’ll know best how to handle our dear lord Helidon.” The Archbishop drew what looked to be a letter from the pocket of his robe and handed it to Kane. “However, this should help you somewhat in achieving our desired end with as little bloodshed as possible.”

  The letter bore the Helidon seal, a stag and oak tree pressed into red wax, and was addressed to the Lord Protector. To see Joseph named as the recipient hastened Kane’s pulse and fingers as he unfolded it to read.

  “Let’s just say that my spies intercepted that as it was on its way to Illandia. I suggest you use it to your advantage. I also suggest you go prepared. We don’t want our dear friend Helidon killed, but nor do I want a dead prince on my hands. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have company to entertain.”

  When the Archbishop reached the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and glanced back. “It’s a shame you were born after Eden, young sir. You would have made a good high king someday.”

  Kane acknowledged the unexpected compliment with a wry grin, his thoughts on the content of the letter and how to handle Helidon. The betraying bastard was obviously waiting for him.

  “Surely you wouldn’t prefer an atheist to a reformist.”

  “I’d prefer a witch doctor from Vafusolum to a reformist. Oh, and while I am thinking of it, tell our dear Lord Helidon once you have set his feet back on the straight and narrow that, if he is willing to absorb half the twenty percent loss your negotiations have cost us, the church will absorb the rest. He was in too much of a temper to hear me earlier. Oh and Kane, I’m serious about going prepared. I would say at least twenty good swords to be safe.”

  As the Archbishop strode off, his personal guards falling in around him, Orson came bounding up the stairs.

  “In my land it is said that a man resembles the animal he is most like in character,” Orson said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “Your Archbishop has the look of a particularly vile and hungry Surlemian vulture.”

  Kane had seen the resemblance himself some time ago. “Yes, well, the old bastard has some agenda.”

  “Made you his lackey again, then, has he?”

  “He wants me to put Helidon in his place.”

  “A promotion? From messenger boy to henchman—he must be pleased with you.”

  “Yes, well, as long as we have a monopoly on the flow of slaves into Arkaelyon in the coming months, and as long as I get my share of the gold it will earn us, I frankly don’t care what he’s up to. Now gather twenty or so of your best swords. I’m going to deal with Helidon before the fat toad can raise any more trouble.”

  ***

  “Conniving bastard. He meant to extort you to get out of his obligations,” Orson said, handing Lord Helidon’s letter back to Kane.

  “So it would seem.” Kane slipped the piece of parchment back into the pocket of his riding coat as they rode out through the open gates of the Keep, a sizable company of black clad mercenaries following dutifully behind. Kane knew every man present, and was sure that they could hold their own against Helidon’s retainer of sword hands and old knights if things happen to turn nasty.

  “He hasn’t paid the men their wages for a month, and he complains at every opportunity about the venture, but I wasn’t aware things were so grave,” Orson said.

  “Well, he’s about to learn the cost of betrayal.”

  Orson had that concerned look on his face he often got when Kane was in one of these moods. “Mind telling me what you intend?”

  Kane kept his eye on the track ahead. “That the old toad remembers his place and remains there.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Just be ready to draw that sword of yours.” At that he spurred his horse to a gallop.

  The track forked after a short distance and the company of riders headed up through the woods to Helidon’s hunting lodge. The smell of smoke followed them on the soft breeze that rustled through the leaves above their heads. Even with a clear blue sky above the forest canopy, and the flickering sunlight around them, Kane watched the shadows, half expecting an ambush, for Helidon was almost that stupid. However, as it happened such caution was unnecessary and it wasn’t long before they emerged out of the woods and trotted into the sun-drenched stabling yard at the rear of the large log and stone structure that served as the hunting lodge. A hairy, sweat-stained, bear of a man—one of Helidon’s blacksmiths—straightened up at his anvil, and after casting a suspicious eye over the Surlemian mercenaries, he spat on the ground and glanced back at the entry to the stable, bellowing at those inside that there were horses to see to. There was a thump of footfalls and five stable hands emerged and entered the yard. Kane dismounted, handed over his reins without a word, and made for the stairs to the lodge. Orson took long strides to catch up, and Kane acknowledged the look of caution his friend flashed at him with a small nod. There had never been any love lost between the servants of the Helidon household and the Surlemian mercenaries who had made the estate home for the last couple of months, but the tension in the air was more than just the usual racial prejudice—Helidon was expecting them just as the Archbishop had suggested. What that might actually mean, Kane wasn’t yet sure, but he was certainly going to heed the Archbishop’s warning to be prepared.

  He pushed in through the door to the large timber beamed tavern inside. The roomy chamber and its comforts were usually reserved for Helidon’s lordly hunting companions and their kin, yet, today, Kane was not surprised to find it crowded with men of Helidon’s retainer, most of whom were common born and likely never enjoyed this honour before now. A quick estimate suggested that there were at least fifty men seated at the beautifully crafted tables, every one of them armed.

  The chatter quickly hushed as men came to their feet, respectful of the fact that a member of the Arkaelyon royal family had entered the room. Despite the formality, Kane smirked at the tension in the faces fixed on him and the hands holding the handles of scabbard weapons too tightly. The smell of fear and anticipation was almost as over powering as the ale. He also noted that not a single man resumed his seat once the courteous was given.

  Sir Lynton, sword master to the Helidon household, was blessed with the raw boned looks of a hunter’s son and a mane of grey hair any old woman would have been proud of. He turned and straightened up at the bar, a mug of ale in his hand and his lieutenant, the short and balding Sir Tywin, at his shoulder.

  “Lord Kane, you are expected,” Lynton said, offering a slight bow. His wide grin was bereft of any warmth.

  The man was an oaf, and even at the best of times, Kane preferred to ignore such fellows as he.

  “Where is your master?”

  “Lord Helidon is presently in conference with Captains Brooke, Haylock and Chambers…”

  “His trophy room, I suspect?”

  “He is.” Lynton’s telling grin grew, and it was obvious that he wasn’t going to order the men standing between Kane and the wide panelled hallway that led to the rest of the lodge to make way.

  Kane let his annoyance show. “I believe he is expecting me?”

  “Oh, yes, he is. However, instructions have been left that you should enjoy yourself here, until he is ready to see you. I’m sure he won’t be long, milord. Now, if it isn’t too much bother, your lordship, why not have your men return outdoors and then do me and Sir Tywin here the honour of joining us for a mug of Lord Helidon’s finest ale. No insult intended, of course, but our lord doesn’t like their kind in here. I’m sure you understand?”

  Kane laughed. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  Lynton attempted to look bewildered by the allegation. “Of course not.”

  “Then I have a better idea, knight. Why don’t you put off whatever foolery your master has set you to, have your fellows place their swords on the floor, and leave, before my patience is tested more severely than is already the case? That way I might let you live.” Kane cast an eye over the men in company, adding with a firmness he knew would not be lost on thi
s rabble, “For any man here who stands by his master will know a traitor’s death. Am I understood?”

  Lynton smirked at the suggestion even if the men he commanded did not. “Brave words. But we have the numbers in here. Lord Helidon means you no harm; he simply wants to ensure that he has surroundings that are conducive to you understanding his position clearly. So you can make an informed decision.”

  Then the guileless Lord Tywin added, “And you shouldn’t think that our resolve in this matter is at all affected by the numbers you command outside these walls. For I’m sure your Surlemian friends will not dare enter if we have you prisoner, as is presently the case if you look about you. And it isn’t as if you can expect your father’s aid under the present circumstances. I mean, what would he say if he knew his second son was a slave trafficker?”

  The muted laughter was more than Kane would tolerate. “Prisoner you say?” He merely smiled calmly at the suggestion. From where he stood the situation looked oddly contrary to that. Then, without giving warning of his intent, Kane bolted forward into the throng of retainers. He moved so quickly that his sword was free of its scabbard and he had killed two of Helidon’s men before the laughter in the chamber was replaced with ringing steel, and the fray was joined on all sides. Kane ducked as a retainer tried to take his head off, then parried a blade before running another man through. Orson joined him, grinning like a madman as he took a fellow’s sword arm off at the wrist and then opened his guts. The wall of black clad mercenaries hacked into Lynton’s men with the same ferocity and skill as their leader, and the air filled with screams and the smell of death and blood. It was clear that Lynton and his men had expected that their number would be sufficient to prevent bloodshed, now being butchered like cattle, they quickly broke, some escaping from windows, others throwing down their swords and yielding. Only a small group of retainers offered any real resistance, centring themselves around their knightly commanders and standing at the head of the hallway. But when Kane killed Sir Tywin, and then put his sword blade through Sir Lynton’s shoulder, disarming the man and driving him to his knees, the rest gave up the fight, begging for mercy.