by Wilf Jones
It was a brutal thing, a physical trauma that gripped him. Convulsions racked his body. He was in pain from trying to hold it back, each sob preceded by a battle within; he fought but failed and the tears won out, to his complete humiliation.
And what a thing to cry over! He should be proud of his sons. Happy for them. They had the chance to prove themselves, for the honour of the family. But it wasn’t the thought of them going to war that had him skriking like a child. Men can die a thousand ways and there was little use in wailing over that, but that little devil on his shoulder, that nasty grinning voice murmuring filthy secrets, it threatened a fate much worse than easy death. ‘Dishonour! Disgrace!’ it cried; ‘Damnation! Destruction!’ it promised. There was no detail involved, but the knowledge was undeniable, the premonition was real. Disaster had come upon them, and he cried and he cried because there was absolutely nothing they could do to avoid it. This room, his world, the history of everything they were, was awash with his despair.
Eventually though, as is the way with tears, the sobbing subsided, because eventually there was nothing left in him. His thoughts became a little clearer now even though that terrible understanding remained. He began to wonder how long he had been sitting there. A long time. Everyone would be waiting for him. So he pushed himself up, dried his eyes and stepped over to a long thin box that lay alone in the middle of the floor, to the thing that had drawn him to this place. The box was padlocked but the key was in the lock and Owen didn’t hesitate to turn it. Inside were two swords, one on top of the other. The topmost was an unusual weapon. It was very long and the metal was black and hard. The hilt was fashioned of the same black metal as the blade but it was decorated with a single blood red ruby. The ruby was nearly two inches wide.
Was he false-hearted? The thought that he should take the sword for himself, and take his place at Seth’s side in battle, excited only his fear.
‘The sword is for Seth,’ he said aloud as though repeating an instruction. It was meant for Seth – how could he interfere? The idea that all of this was preordained dominated his thoughts. Cowardice, honour, shame, glory, they were all irrelevant.
And the sword? It was cold and lifeless and yet it spoke to him. It desired battle, demanding Seth’s hand, requiring Owen’s complicity.
‘Don’t be stupid!’ he shouted, as if his words could deny the truth. ‘It’s all fancy. All of it! I’ve come for a sword to give my son. And that’s all.’
He straightened, stood erect, lifting both the bloodstone sword and also the lesser blade that shared the box; he picked up the belts and scabbards, swagged them all in old sheet, and left the room.
He found the others where he had left them. As he approached they all stopped talking and Owen realized that the talk had been about him. His behaviour must have seemed strange. Seth stepped forward to meet him.
‘It’s for the best, dad,’ he said, ‘Can’t you see?’
‘It’s all we can do.’
Seth grimaced at the reply. Owen was pained to see the dismay in his son’s eyes. It wasn’t right. That was no way to speak to him. He tried to sound more business-like. ‘Look at what I’ve brought you both,’ he said, dropping his swag to the floor, “something to trouble your enemies.’
First he took out the minor sword and gave it to Cal. ‘Here’s the blade your Grandfather carried. Fought for Rearden for five years and never took a wound. Let’s hope it keeps you as safe. I’ve spent many an evening whetting it, so it’s good and sharp. I kept it proper for my father’s sake, and I hope you will too.’
And then he crouched to pick up the other.
‘Something a bit weightier for you, Seth. Here, see what you think of this.’ He passed over the sword casually, as though it was of less worth than the other, but as Seth took the hilt the sun caught suddenly in the bloodstone, flickering off its edges, enflaming its depths. Everyone saw it. It was as though the gem had come to life.
‘Dad, what are you giving me?’
Death! It’s Death. The noise of the thought rang in Owen’s head. He struggled to not say it out loud. He pretended to cough, but Seth neither saw nor heard. His eyes were fixed on the ruby, and the sun’s light poured through it, and the bloody rays bathed his face.
‘That’s a seemly blade, Mr. Cookson,’ said Temor, and Owen heard envy in his voice, ‘How did you come by it?’
Owen hadn’t even considered that someone might ask or he’d have had a good lie to hand. He floundered for a few seconds before blurting out that, like the other, it was an heirloom.
‘But older, much older. I don’t really know how it came to us but we’ve had it as long as my father could remember.’
Temor’s frown said he didn’t believe a word of it. The Lord looked at the wizard. The wizard raised eyebrows but said nothing. Owen was afraid Tregar would interfere. He was a wizard after all, and wizards have strange powers. What if Tregar could read his mind?
Seth was still deep in his adoration of the weapon and so it was to Cal that Temor looked for confirmation of Owen’s story. The farmer couldn’t bring himself to look at his dark haired son, frightened of what he might say.
‘Is that what you’ve been hiding in that trunk, Dad? All these years. You could’ve shown us. We guessed it were a sword, but I never thought it’d be as good as that.’
Good lad Cal! Owen could have kissed him. Honest Cal telling a lie, to save his father’s honour. Again he felt ashamed.
Tregar found this whole affair disturbing. Standing aside in the present discussion he found himself contemplating the motives of their host: he was lying, surely, but why?
Temor was unwilling to let the matter go and looked all set to interrogate Owen’s son until Lomal stepped in:
‘Seth. May you use the sword well,’ he said, ‘Your father has given you a splendid gift. You should thank him.’
Seth shuddered as he drew his eyes from the sword. ‘It’s a mighty gift. I’ll wield it for you and for the family, father, and we’ll be remembered forever.’
‘Aye you will, if only ye can get it out the scabbard afore you’re clobbered.’
‘It is a big’un and no mistake,’ the lad replied with a grin. ‘Look at it, Tregar. Have you ever seen anything like?’ Seth held out the sword to the wizard’s reaching hand.
‘I haven’t. I wonder if—’
But before he could grasp the hilt a clattering of hooves on cobbles distracted them. It was one of Cookson’s men, on a horse ridden very hard. He almost fell out of the saddle he was so weary. The Master of Small Cuttings, looking pale and shaken for reasons Tregar could not even begin to guess, went over to his man and said:
‘Now then, Len, what’s up? You look like you’ve been chased by demons. Sit down there and catch your breath; I’m sure the good Lords don’t need any bowing.’
Len really did need to catch his breath but he began to tell his tale at once.
‘You… You’d sent us to find th’Hannayers,’ he gasped, ‘so we went… we went down t’ Semner as you said, being t’ quickest road, but we’ve come across sommat queer. Proper queer. And horrible. The way he were laughing…’ Len’s words petered out, for a moment he was lost in the memory.
‘Who was laughing?’ Seth demanded, ‘What’re you talking about, Len?’
‘Just hold hard, young Seth Cookson,’ said Lomal. ‘This man has had a strange experience, it seems. Just give him a minute to get it straight in his head. Now then, Len is it? Good. Tell us, Len, what you found, starting with where you found it, and take your time.’
Len gulped a breath. ‘As I said, we were riding along t’ Semner – the river – and about thirty mile down, just on t’ plain, we saw this tent, a red un’, but a bit like yon,’ he said pointing at a blue tent that belonged to Anparas riders.
‘A staging tent?’
�
��Whatever. Like that except red.’
‘Red’ll be for Sands,’ Tregar observed.
‘We reckoned they were Sands. There were… I still can’t believe it. There were seven dead men inside the tent. They were stinking and there was blood everywhere. And their faces, Gods above! I’ve never seen a face as scared looking as that. Well, there were seven dead men and there was one other still alive: a great big man, sitting on his bunk, just rocking himself. He kept like giggling and shouting, and crying and laughing. I was for running. He had a bloody sword in one hand and this scroll in t’other. Look, it’s got Sands’ emblem on t’ seal.’ Len was about to hand the scroll to Owen but Anparas said ‘I’ll take that!’
‘What have ye done with the man?’ Tregar asked, ‘I’d like to question him.’
Len turned red and stammered, ‘I’m… we’re sorry, your worships, but I’ve to tell you he’s dead. We couldn’t help it.’
‘What happened, Len?’
‘He came at us, Owen, with that great bloody sword of his; and he got Arnold knocked on his back, an’ he would’ve killed him if Bill hadn’t bashed him wi’ a log. Bill must’ve caught him wrong, a bit hard maybe, and, well, he didn’t move again. Bill’s right upset. We’re not soldiers, we’re not used to killing. I sent the lads on wi’ Bill, but I thought it best to bring the letter back here.’
‘A good thing you did,’ said the wizard. ‘Will ye not open the letter, Lord Anparas?’
‘It’s addressed to the King but I’m sure he’ll forgive me.’ Lomal broke the seal, ‘Jaspar’s own hand. You’ll understand if I don’t read it out. It is, after all, the King’s mail.’
Tregar understood well enough but he was itching to get at the letter. Hurry up old man, he thought, and he tried to gain some idea of its contents from Lomal’s expression. The Lord Anparas, however, was a past master at keeping his feelings hidden. Eventually he said: ‘I think you should read this Tregar, and you Shaf. It informs our expedition. Meanwhile, Mr. Cookson, could you or your sons find Marshals Amnal and Senca, and ask them to meet me in your parlour? If you could arrange some food and drink we’d be grateful. Before anything else though, please see to Len’s comfort. He has done us all a great service.’
Tregar had only half an ear on what Lomal was saying but even so he admired the man’s tact. They’d need to discuss this right away, but without too many present. Jaspar’s letter began on a despairing note and got worse.
My King,
Our greetings would seem inappropriate in our present situation: this is a letter of appeal. I have this past five weeks sent out epistles telling of our progress into the North, and your replies were encouraging. For a month now that encouragement has been sorely missed. I must presume that the leaguer is complete.
It is with a heavy heart that I send you this last brief news of our position because I fear for the life of the messenger. When he is gone I shall send nothing more until there is some change.
This is how it is with us today. We are at Greteth. The fog that denies us our eyes stands unassailable, as it has stood for half a month. Deep in the mists, above in the cwm and down in the Francon, the sound of infernal drums beat on and on through the days. We are not attacked; we have had no sight of the enemy and yet we are under siege so grim that history would not comprehend it.
Each night visions come. Spectres, ghosts walk the battlements taunting us. They are not real, not unreal, their presence ineffable. My soldiers are unmanned: they fear these shades. We can do nothing to them.
But I will not move from this place: It is in my mind that I cannot. Eventually they will have done with their game and the fighting will begin. Until then we sit and wait.
I mentioned an appeal, My King, and it is necessary, as sure as I sit here. This is magic, Majesty, the fog, the ghosts, the drums. Magic, and I understand nothing of it. We need Tregar. How he will come to us I do not know, but we need him all the same.
Majesty, we await your reply,
Sands.
Tregar passed the letter to Lord Temor as they walked back to the house, anticipating his response. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Good Gods. What’s the man talking about? More damn fairy tales!”
Temor, it seemed, didn’t believe in ghosts. Tregar was not so sceptical. He held to the common ideas that ghosts were the bodiless souls of people who had just died, or they were memories of events long past caught in the fabric of the earth. As far as Tregar knew, there was nothing to them, whatever their origin. A shade could not cut your throat. Like a projected image from a Pedersen Light-box, they existed only in dimensions of sight and sound. What perturbed Tregar most about Jaspar’s letter was that it seemed to indicate the presence of many ghosts. He’d never heard of ghosts congregating before.
And what about this fog? Temor probably didn’t believe that part of the letter either. It did seem unlikely. Tregar knew many wizards who could alter the weather to their own designs, but to do it for so long? Tregar wasn’t particularly adept: one or two hours was all he could manage before the rule of nature regained control. Keeping the forces of the world at bay for two weeks and more would be an incredible feat. This was clearly something like the Word of Dissolution spoken on Ayer, that amazing displacement of the common order. Someone somewhere had tapped into a power far beyond the means or indeed bravery of any practitioner Tregar knew. And how could it not be the same someone in both cases? And in that case, both must be an expression of the same strategy.
Tregar had the uncomfortable feeling that they were walking into a trap.
As the Lords walked away, Seth sheathed his sword and the light that burned in its red eye was hidden. Cal laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
‘We should talk to Mum.’
‘Tell her we’re off to war.’
Cal nodded. ‘There is that, but I was more thinking we should tell her about Dad.’
One evening during early April, when pockets of snow still lingered on the high moor, and when Owen’s mind was on the lambing, he had ridden out on a two year old called Singer to inspect the flocks. He rode alone as he often did when anything troubled him, and as he climbed out of the home valley he wondered what it was that made him feel so gloomy. The sheep had no answers for him and the ride made him tired but solved nothing. A cold wind burned his ears and the dampness in the air gave him a fit of shivers. He turned for home as the sun was going down and he reached the head of the valley again in the early twilight. His mind was far away when he was hailed by a man who sat on a bank by the path.
‘Your help, sir, if you please, sir.’
‘What!’
‘Your help. I am an old man and have walked far today. Did I startle you?’
‘You did,’ Owen looked the fellow up and down. He was indeed quite old, with a wizened face and a long, bright silver beard. Age had not shrunken his belly though, and his dress, outlandish to say the least, seemed to emphasize his pumpkin shape. Instead of trousers and jacket he wore a long split smock that reached nearly to his ankles, covered all over with exotic designs of animals on a bed of deep, dark blue, dotted with stars. He wore a length of black cloth wrapped intricately about his head, and on his feet he had a pair of light shoes that curled up at the toes. By his side lay a sheathed sword with a covered hilt.
‘It is so cold,’ he said pathetically.
‘Yes. The weather could be better,’ Owen agreed, but feeling that talk of the weather was somehow inappropriate. ‘How can I help? If you are looking for shelter tonight you’re welcome to stay at my house. It’s not far.’
‘So kind, dear sir, but no. No. A fair offer, very fair, but my journey is urgent and I cannot afford to stop this night.’
‘Then what is it you want?’
‘I was wondering, as you are so close to home, whether you would sell me your horse?’ The old
man’s voice, behind the odd accent that made Owen think he might be from Masachea, had a wheedling tone to it. ‘You see, my horse was stolen earlier this week, out in the wilds, and I have had to walk since then.’
‘Stolen?’
‘Yes, you know how it is these days.’
Owen had never heard of such a thing. Not in these parts, at least. But why would the old man lie?
“I can pay you well for the horse.”
Owen shook his head. ‘I see your need, sir,’ he said. ‘but I can’t sell you this particular horse. Why not come down the valley with me? I’ve a couple of good mares you could look at.’
‘But this young fellow is a very fine horse. Just exactly the horse I need, sir.’
‘As I said, I cannot sell you this horse. It doesn’t belong to me; I’m just borrowing it for the day.’ Owen was beginning to dislike the man.
