by P D Ceanneir
Molna smiled up at him and gave him a loving look, ‘do you plan to get me drunk, your majesty?’
‘Ah…well, I have asked the Royal Bed Warmer to warm our bed tonight,’ he grinned, ‘and the wine is very strong.’
Molna kissed him, ‘well then, let us not waste any more time.’ She raised her arm to signal one of the servants. He walked towards them with a tray of wine, but another, older servant stepped in front of him, spoke in his ear and took the try sending him on his way.
The older servant approached the royal couple. Molna smiled at him as she reached for one of the tall crystal glasses. King Vanduke allowed her to take the first glass as he nodded towards another reveller.
There was a loud clatter and shattering of glass as the servant dropped the tray. Molna yelped in shock. The king swung his head around in time to see the servant pull a dagger from the folds of his tabard. The man jabbed the knifepoint towards the queen’s chest and…
Something black and silver twirled through the air and struck the right-hand side of the assailant’s neck. Vanduke pushed Molna behind him and summoned a large Fireball in his hand, but the assassin dropped his dagger and began pawing at the hilt of the one in his neck. Blood pulsed and drenched his hands and he began to work his mouth, making frantic choking sounds. Both the king and queen looked to their left and saw a panting Shank in mid crouch with his right arm poised after throwing the dagger now embedded in the assassin’s neck. The assassin took two steps backward and then fell onto his back to splatter the ballroom floor with his blood.
Shanks nodded in self-satisfaction. ‘Still got it,’ he smiled and then wobbled slightly.
‘Shanks?’ asked Molna in a shaky voice. She realised she was very close to dying this night.
‘Your Majesties, due to the very stressful evening I have had, I think it prudent for me to shut myself inside my room and try out some emergency meditation.’
Vanduke approached him, ‘are you alright?’ He was genuinely concerned. Shanks did not know if the concern was for him or for the people around him. Palace Guards were now running into the ballroom with unsheathed swords. It was starting to get crowded and this made Shanks even more anxious.
‘When I say emergency, your majesty, I mean emergency,’ said Shanks in a strained voice. The Pyromantic Surge he could feel building was controllable, if he could just get away to deal with it.
Vanduke understood with a slight widening of his eyes and then he waved him away, ‘yes, yes, of course, go now!’
An hour later, Shanks was in another crowded room, this time it was the palace dungeons. He stood next to the king, who seemed assured that Shanks was not going to explode into a burst of superheat. Two of the Palace Guards were outside the cell. Sir Cort, the High Steward, an old and frail man with intelligent eyes and a commanding bearing, stood next to Jorge as the boy recounted the events of the night. The newly rescued Baron of Mutresi, Langstroum De Barrette, now appointed as one of the king’s aides and Commander of the Temperance League Army, leant up against one of the dank walls with his arms folded and staring at the prisoner with hate. Langstroum was a middle-aged man with much military expertise and a friendly manner. Shanks liked him the moment he met him several months ago when Lord Elkin brought him to the citadel.
The other man in the room was the baron of the South Alani Isle of Ternac, a distant cousin to Queen Molna, called Andric. Andric was an ambitious man in the political sense and not much of a soldier. He was, however an accomplished Rawn and an officer of the Carras Knights. Dark haired, slim, with young good looks, Andric was a Rawn barely out of the academy. He was pacing the room behind the prisoner who was sitting at a table with a bright oil lantern at one end and a cup of water at the other. The prisoner still had crusted blood from the scalp wound that Shanks had given him inside the tavern stables.
‘He’s an officer,’ added Shanks as Jorge finished talking, ‘I don’t know what rank.’ The prisoner looked too young to be a senior officer, but the battles of the Raider Campaign had seen the soldiers of the junior ranks rise quickly to fill the gaps in command. The Watch had searched the man and apart from another boot knife with a pearl handle depicting a checked shield and spear inlaid in gold, they found no other forms of identification. The group of men passed around for scrutiny and then the king it placed on the table, not far from the prisoner’s hands, whose dark eyes stared at the weapon intently.
‘Unduli,’ said Langstroum, voicing the knowledge that everyone already knew from the crest on the knife. ‘That bastard runt Creed’s arrogance knows no bounds!’
The prisoner rounded on him and glared, ‘Prince Creed may be a boy, but he is a better man than you’ll ever be, coward!’
‘He does have a tongue,’ said Sir Cort who had a reassuring hand on Jorge’s shoulder. The boy looked a little frightened at being in the cell with all of these powerful nobles and the king, yet he had managed to finish his account of events without stuttering.
‘You can go now, Jorge,’ said Cort.
‘He can stay,’ said Shanks quietly, and everyone looked at him, including Vanduke. Shanks smiled at the boy, ‘that’s if you want to? No one can harm you now, I promise.’
Jorge hesitated and then nodded. Cort looked at the king who nodded his own agreement.
Shanks approached the table and placed his hands palm down. He spoke to the prisoner, ‘who were the other targets?’
The prisoner just scowled up at him and remained silent.
Shanks stood up straight and adjusted his grey cloak. ‘It seemed like good plan to infiltrate the palace while the festival was keeping the Palace Guards and the City Watch busy. Kidnap a few of the High Steward’s lads and take their place. Who really pays attention to the servants? No offence meant, Jorge.’
Jorge shrugged, ‘none taken, sir.’
Andric stepped forward. ‘Sire, do we really have to listen to this?’ he indicated Shanks, whom he obviously felt was some lowly peasant, judging by his scruffy clothes. ‘A Thought Link will extract the information we need.’
Vanduke sighed, ‘it could also kill him if he resists, which he will,’ he said, ‘and I want to know as much as possible before his brain runs out of his ears.’
Langstroum clapped his hands together and rubbed them with obvious glee, ‘then we use traditional torture techniques. I’ll go and get the hot irons and the nail extractors.’
The prisoner began to chuckle, ‘fools, every one of you, fools. I can throw up a mental wall to stop your Rawn probing and pain means nothing to me. I will gladly die for the cause!’
‘What cause would that be?’ asked Andric.
The prisoner glared at him and became silent.
‘Mental walls are no barrier to a Rawn Thought Link,’ informed Shanks, ‘but we already know about your cause anyway…’
Andric cut in, ‘sire, I must protest to this…!’ he waved a hand towards Shanks, clearly implying that the older man was not worthy of asking the questions.
‘Protest in silence, Andric,’ snapped the king and he nodded towards Shanks to carry on. Andric’s face became flushed with embarrassment and anger.
Shanks inclined his head and smiled at the prisoner, ‘we already know about the Brethac Ziggurat.’
The prisoner flinched slightly and regarded Shanks with a little bit less venom. ‘You know nothing!’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I can be quite forgetful at times. Yet I know about the Waternymph and the personal machinations of Lord Sernac. I know that the parliament of your people is now under the control of the Brethac Order, your king has been a member for a number of years and that the War of the Wildlands was a fabrication.’
Throughout all of this, the prisoner’s face softened and his frown deepened. He was looking at Shanks with some trepidation.
‘How did you…how?’
‘How did I know?’ Shanks approached the table again and leant down towards the prisoner. ‘I’ve been a member of the Brethac Ziggurat for a long, long time.
’
The prisoner’s face reddened in anger, ‘traitor!’ he hissed.
‘Sire,’ said Langstroum to the king, ‘it would help if I knew what Shanks is talking about?’
‘I agree,’ added Andric.
Vanduke raised a hand to silence them both. The prisoner’s hands curled into a fist and his anger towards Shanks was obvious.
‘Traitor, filthy traitor!’ he hissed.
‘And you are an incompetent assassin, your plan foiled by an old man…pathetic!’ Shanks said in disgust.
The prisoner stood and reached for the knife, but it flew from the table and landed in Andric’s outstretched hand. ‘Too much blood spilt for one day, I think.’
The king grabbed the prisoner’s shoulders and forced him to sit. He could feel the tense muscles under the shirt.
‘He’s ready,’ nodded Shanks to Vanduke, ‘the adrenalin levels are now high. He would not be able to raise a mental wall even if he tried.’
Vanduke clamped both hands on the man’s head and the prisoner stiffened. His jaw fell open and his eyes glazed over in agony.
‘A deep probing is usually painful,’ Shanks informed the prisoner, ‘if you resist it will only get worse.’
Vanduke closed his eyes and frowned, ‘Molna was the main target and so was Langstroum…’
‘Nice to feel loved,’ Langstroum quipped.
‘…and Shanks.’
Everyone apart from the king looked at Shanks who ignored their confused stares.
‘Why him?’ asked Andric, but he got no answer. The prisoner started to shake and blood trickled down from his nose and drip on the table.
‘Creed picked him to lead the assassination attempt,’ continued Vanduke, ‘he’s an Unduli captain. There is something…’
The prisoner seemed to have found his voice and started making high-pitched keening sounds. Blood trickled from his ears and his lips were going purple.
‘…there are definitely military movements of various regiments and divisions within the Brethac Order. He thinks that they are preparing for invasion…there is...there...huh?’
The prisoner’s pale opaque eyes were now looking towards the corner of the room, beyond Shanks, into the shadow where the lantern light could not reach. He actually managed to lift one hand and pointed with his fist. The look of fear in his eyes was very evident. Vanduke’s own eyes snapped open and he looked past Shanks into the shadows.
‘What?’ he said in a strained voice.
Shanks turned and gasped, as a very tall figure seemed to ooze out of the darkness. No, it was as if the shadows formed into the being wearing a dark hooded cloak.
‘What is it?’ said Andric, ‘what do you see?’
Shanks quickly glanced at the others. They all looked into the corner but only with questioning looks. They could not see it.
‘It’s…it’s…’ Vanduke was doing his best to hold onto the shaking prisoner, but the vision he was seeing in the man’s mind was fading due to the blood gushing out of the tear ducts and veins rupturing throughout the eyeballs. He reluctantly let go and the prisoner flopped forward, splashing the table with blood as his head bounced on the surface.
‘It’s the Blacksword,’ he said, and everyone apart from Shanks stepped back from the shadows as they edged closer to the open cell door.
Vanduke was frowning as he stared, ‘he’s gone. I saw him in the prisoners mind, and now he’s gone.’
‘No he isn’t,’ whispered Shanks, ‘I can still see him.’
‘What…what is he doing?’ asked Langstroum.
Shanks watched as the Blacksword lifted his arm. One long white finger extended from his fist. ‘He’s pointing,’ answered Shanks.
The arm remained steady, the finger stiff, the vision was surreal and yet obvious in intent.
‘Who’s he pointing at?’ asked Sir Cort with trepidation.
Shanks looked around at Vanduke, his face a mask of sadness. ‘The king,’ he said.
Chapter Seventeen
The Four Messengers
The Seventeenth day of Oplacus 3039 YOA
B
leudwed slammed the palm of her hand down on the table in frustration, disturbing the heap of parchments there, which scattered on the varnished oak surface. She sighed and shook her head. The heat of the day was making her forehead bead with sweat.
‘No mention of the supplies from the Wyani farms under my ownership or updates from the leaders of the Traders Guild in Dulan-Tiss. It seems this blackout scenario we spoke about has come to pass,’ she said as she pinched the bridge of her nose and leant back in her soft chair.
The man she spoke to was pacing the room. He was tall and handsome with light brown hair and a penchant for stylish, even garish, clothing. He wore a silk shirt with a wide collar in the Keveni style and red linen breaches. The Atyd Morden glanced over to the countess and then shook his head. As the countess’s Regent in her town of Caphun he was her confidant in all matters military, political and trade that affected life within the Haplann borders.
‘That scenario was only a short term assumption based on Vallkyte mobilisation, my lady. There are so many various paths that King Kasan and Cinnibar could use. Applying a Trade Blackout would only alert our informants quickly and spread concern further afield, it makes no sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense if they have confidence of any victory their campaign produces,’ said the countess in a weary voice.
Morden shrugged, ‘what news of Klingspur?’
Bleudwed looked up and saw the anticipation in her regent’s face. Being an Atyd, or a princeling, of the Eternal Forest, meant he worried for the safety of his people there, although he never voiced those fears to the countess.
She shuffled a few papers on her desk and pulled out one sheaf with the hallmark of the Sonoran Trade Alliance above the main script. It detailed the usual correspondence between her and her trade partners in Sonora outlining the monthly transfers of trade from food and wine to bolts of linen and jewellery. These letters back and forth were harmless enough, but one could glean valuable information if one knew how to read between the lines. Besides, her correspondent was one of her best spies in the city and his working of their personal code inside the writing was exceptional.
‘Our trade caravan had to detour on the Old Road due to a cavalry force of Ethicon Light Horse patrolling the area close to the south eastern edge of the Eternal Forest,’ she informed him, ‘further scrutiny revealed Nethroin is holed up in Aquen.’
Lord Nethroin, of the House of Ethicon in the lands of Dutrisi, was a distant cousin of Lord Yaquis of Wyani who fell at the Battle of the Fess. Nethroin was an able cavalry commander and noted tactician, but no great strategist. Still, it did not stop him reaching the Knight Marshal rank of Klingspur within the Vallkyte kings retinue. He was also a cousin of Taren, the Baron of Aquen, who Bleudwed knew was also a member of the Brethac Order. Giving Klingspur the safety to house his host in the canal town of Aquen meant he had a strategic platform to mount snap attacks on the eastern domains of the Eternal Forest.
Morden grunted, ‘then we can assume he means to make a move on the Eternal Forest. A foolish plan, because no one has ever broken through the defences of our borders. However, this blackout from Dulan-Tiss means military mobilisation. But to where, who knows?’
The countess nodded, ‘that was my assumption also.’
‘And what about these reports of dragons. Surely, these can’t be taken seriously; there have been no dragon sightings on Tattoium-Tarridun since the Dragor-rix?’
‘What about the Prophet?’
Morden glared at her. Many regarded Bleudwed of Haplann as one of the cleverest women on the continent. She liked to hold an intellectual debate using clear facts and had an annoying ability to explain these facts as well known folklore.
‘Ciriana is…!’ began Morden.
‘The last remaining dragon of the Dragor-rix.’
‘So where did these others come from?’
<
br /> ‘Possibly eggs,’ smiled Bleudwed.
Morden sighed, ‘I am being serious, Bleudwed, this could be a problem if Kasan has dragons under his control!’ He only ever called her by her name if he was annoyed.
‘Calm yourself, Morden, these reports could well be propaganda to strike fear into people.’
‘And if they aren’t?’
‘Then we shall have to face that possibility when it arrives. Now, sit down, you’re giving me a headache.’
Morden did so, sitting in the soft armchair in front of her desk with a deep sigh.
‘How is Imogen?’ Bleudwed asked and smiled when the mention of Morden’s young wife made his eyes light up.
‘She fares well. Pregnancy suits her. Young Triel is running rings around her, though. He is so hyperactive. He reminds me of Whyteman when he was that age.’
He had met Imogen, the youngest daughter of a Caphun’s major, when she was the countess’s Keeper of the Household’s assistant. They fell in love, married only two years ago and she was now expecting their second child.
Bleudwed chuckled, ‘if it’s a boy what would you call him?’
‘Morden, after me, or Imogen if it is a girl,’ said Morden.
‘Both are proud names to have,’ said Bleudwed with sincerity.
Morden raised his eyebrows questionably, but smiled, ‘thank you.’
They sat in silence for a while. Morden lost in the thoughts of his wife and Bleudwed pondering on motherhood, something she always assumed she never had time for, but knew that one day she would need an heir to the Haplann Mormaerdom. Those thoughts brought her to Prince Havoc.
Morden must have guessed what was on her mind, ‘have you heard from the De Proteous?’
She flinched with a slight blush and had the good sense to look away from her regent, ‘erm…no…not for four months now since our last correspondence. There is some interference affecting the Lobe Stones, could be due to the mountainous region he was travelling towards at the time.’
