by Duncan Lay
Sacrax smiled broadly. ‘Tell your people we mean no harm. They have been running away from us for days!’
‘Perhaps it’s just that Father Quiller looks scary,’ Gratt grinned awkardly.
The Derthal chief stared at him, and the silence grew.
Gratt gulped, wondering how he might be able to retrieve this situation, when Sacrax threw back his head and laughed.
‘You Norstalines! You say strange things!’ He turned to Quiller. ‘The people run because the priest looks scary!’
Still chuckling, he slapped Gratt on the shoulder.
‘Will there be food waiting for us at the passes?’
‘I shall see to it,’ Gratt declared, weak with relief, and vowing never to joke again.
‘We’re almost there!’ Kesbury roared.
But most of the people were too tired to do more than raise their heads. There was certainly no energy to raise a cheer. The horses had begun to falter and many of the men were walking alongside now, the horses unable to bear more than the weight of a child or two, as well as the food.
A company of Rallorans had found them as the dawn lightened the sky—and that had nearly triggered a panic, only Kesbury’s calm voice and certainty that these were friends had stopped half of them running in all directions.
The villagers, who would have crossed the road to spit on the Rallorans just days ago, had embraced them like long-lost brothers when they arrived, some people openly crying.
And now Wells was in sight. Sprawled across both sides of the wide River Brack, it was one of the most important trading towns in southern Norstalos, although it stood empty, its residents gone. At its centre was a wide stone bridge, broad enough for two carts to pass side by side. All they had to do was walk out of this small wood, across a pasture and go about a mile down the road to the outskirts of the town, then through the deserted buildings on this side of the river until they reached the bridge.
‘There’s Berellians around. I know it,’ Dunner muttered to Kesbury as they peered across the peaceful countryside.
Kesbury had mixed feelings that his old friend had led the Rallorans; he was delighted to see him, and afraid he would have to watch his friend die.
‘And Captain Martil has a plan?’
‘He and the Queen,’ Dunner agreed.
‘Well, what are we waiting for then?’ After a short delay, when everyone got back onto the horses, the group spurred their tired mounts out of the illusory shelter of the trees, across a field and onto the main road.
Almost immediately trumpets sounded. From a pair of farmhouses on their left, and a copse on the right, Berellians galloped to the attack. Scores of them. And more were appearing out of the deserted buildings ahead.
Barrett was exhausted—but exhilarated at the progress his Magicians’ Guild was making.
‘I think this is going to work!’ he told Tiera happily.
‘It’s amazing to watch,’ Tiera nodded. ‘Every argument they have, you have an answer for them!’
It had become their custom to drink a cup of tea together and share stories of the day. Barrett found himself listening to her calm, quiet good sense. He was too quick to anger, too quick to insult those who did not agree with him. He could not suffer fools—it was a fault of his, he knew. But where he could have destroyed any hopes of co-operation, she often saw a way through that provided a clever compromise.
‘It is a special skill you have,’ he told her.
‘Aye, well, when you’re a servant, you have to think fast to get those who think themselves your betters to do what you want.’ She grinned.
He looked at her and felt his heart beating faster. Where he had spent his time daydreaming of Merren, now Tiera occupied his thoughts. At his suggestion, she had let her short hair grow out, while some of the female wizards had showed her how to add colour to her eyes, lips and face, to add depth and allure. The advice had been to help her look more like a wizard, less like a servant girl—but the effect on Barrett had been dramatic. And he would not fall into the same trap of waiting too long again. He had to say something now. For many reasons.
‘You know, one good thing about this guild will be the training of apprentices,’ he said casually, although his stomach was trying to force its way out of his throat and the tea tasted like ashes.
‘Yes! There must be so many children of the poor who never get to find their talent, as I have!’ she exclaimed.
Barrett smiled, although he could feel his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. ‘I meant, it will be good when you are no longer my pupil, for then we can be something else.’
‘What’s that?’ She smiled.
Barrett gulped. ‘I have feelings for you. I would like the opportunity to show you I am not just a teacher, but a man as well. Of course I would not dream of acting on those unless it was something you wanted…’
He looked up from the table to see her ashen face staring at him.
Tiera did not know what to say. She was comfortable with Barrett, as she was with no other man. His kindness, his patience had brought her back from a dark place. But his words brought into her mind the image of Prent’s leering face, as he forced her to his bed. She had thought herself beyond him but, of late, it had seemed to get worse, not better.
‘I…I cannot…’ she said shakily, then ran, because she could not stand to see what the expression on his face would be like.
‘Wait! Don’t leave!’ Barrett cried, but she had already gone.
Before he could chase after her, a tide of laughing, chattering wizards swept into his large kitchen and bore him back to the table.
‘Here he is! The champion of wizards. My boy, I think we have agreement on everything. Your idea will become a reality!’ one roared, to cheers from the others.
Barrett forced a smile onto his face, and wished he did not feel dead inside.
‘Keep riding!’ Dunner encouraged the column of villagers—but Kesbury felt sick. How would they escape this?
Then the dragon struck.
It swooped down gracefully to their right, roaring a challenge so fearsome that many of the children cried out in fear. But it had the desired effect—the Berellian riders on that side lost control of their horses, which were rearing and plunging. Some even galloped away in the opposite direction, while others were thrown to the ground. In an instant the charge was turned into chaos.
Soaring back upwards again, the dragon turned lazily in front of them, as villagers and Rallorans alike cheered hoarsely, before it raced at the Berellians to their left, sending them running in all directions. One more time and it had scattered the company of Berellians in front of them as well. Kesbury saw, with mounting joy, the way ahead was clear. The dragon, and its riders, seemed to think the same, because it swooped down over them once more, protectively, then flew away back over Wells.
‘Rallorans to the front! We don’t stop until we hit the bridge!’ Dunner roared.
The Berellians in front of them had not reformed their line, but Kesbury could see some of them were lurking to the side, ready to attack any stragglers. He was about to call for everyone to stay together when scores of men in blue surcoats appeared out of the buildings on this side of the river. Men with bows. Volleys of arrows struck the Berellians and the survivors ran for their lives.
The Ralloran archers gave a cheer and ran back into the town. Kesbury wondered why they did not wait. Looking over his shoulder, he could see why. It seemed like the entire Berellian army had appeared out of the countryside and was chasing them.
‘Come on!’ he urged them but the tired horses flagged as they began to ride through the town. Dunner’s Rallorans were well in front of them, while the archers were already at the bridge. This was directly ahead, no more than a hundred yards. The Berellians, on the other hand, were half a mile behind. Kesbury was just beginning to relax when a figure in a rust-red robe stepped out of a side alley and blocked his path.
Kettering surveyed the pile of dumped goods wi
th satisfaction. The carriages had been searched for hidden money and treasure with a criminal’s eye, which of course many of his men had. All of these riches had been discarded—although he strongly suspected more than a few coins had found their way into men’s pockets—and people loaded instead. Dozens of these carriages, all of them crammed with people and food, were now rolling slowly along the road north, escorted by his men. Behind him, Cessor was ablaze.
Some of the rich carriage owners had wanted to protest at the way their treasures were being treated—and particularly about having to carry servants and wounded soldiers on their leather seats. But one look at Kettering’s grim face had ensured any complaints dried up swiftly.
The Tenoch fleet had still not docked and, in fact, the ships they’d had at the jetties had loaded their surviving men back aboard and moved out into the harbour to avoid the fires they had started. It would be several turns of the hourglass before they began landing men again and it would be tomorrow before they could begin a pursuit. By then, thanks to the carriages, Kettering planned to have a big enough lead to stay ahead of them all the way to the north.
The only fly in the wine was, of course, the losses they had suffered. A score of archers, as well as a dozen of his own men were still back in the town, while another twenty or so were lying atop the carriages and might well die unless they found a priest or priestess soon. He had sent off the last magicked bird he had, asking for help. In the meantime, he had ordered the rich ladies to rip up silk dresses for bandages. None had dared question him.
He turned away from the piles of goods and climbed onto his horse, held in place by Leigh.
‘Let’s catch up to those carriages,’ he told the slim ex-thief. ‘I’ll get those bastards to safety, even if they hate my guts!’
‘If only we could have got the gold to safety as well,’ Leigh sighed.
Kesbury stared in surprise at the single figure, who had walked out in the gap between the Rallorans and the villagers, and now stood, arms outstretched.
But he did not have the time to do more than take a look, for his horse, indeed every horse stopped, refusing to go near the figure.
‘Bow down before me! Bow down if you want to live!’ the figure cried, in a voice that was strangely familiar.
Kesbury did not bother trying to think who it might be. His course at the seminary might have been short but it had still been enough for him to instantly recognise a Fearpriest. He had not been afraid for many years—but he rediscovered the sensation now. Not so much for himself, but for the people.
‘Off! Go around! I’ll take care of him!’ Kesbury roared, leaping to the ground.
From behind the figure, Rallorans turned, Dunner spurring his horse forwards to try and rescue the villagers. But the Fearpriest just raised his hand and the Ralloran horses stopped, as if they too had run into some sort of wall.
Kesbury raced forwards. His lessons had been clear on Fearpriests. Priests received their powers in exchange for prayer and good works, as long as the cause was just. Fearpriests received theirs in exchange for death and pain. He wanted to destroy this evil thing but, if that were not possible, then he had to distract it long enough to allow the others to escape. That this might cost his life did not slow him in the slightest.
Kesbury knew, vaguely, that there were ways of fighting a Fearpriest, but his lessons had not got that far. He just had to get close and trust Aroaril would protect him long enough to use his staff. As he ran forwards, he was aware the villagers were slipping away to either side, circling around the pair of them to where Rallorans waited to carry them to safety. He was also aware that the Berellian pursuit was getting closer but he put both things out of his mind. Instead he charged at the Fearpriest, wanting only to get close enough to smash his staff into that darkened cowl.
The Fearpriest let him get ten paces away, then held up a hand. Kesbury felt his legs go from beneath him and he was sent sprawling onto the ground.
‘Weakling! Snivelling fool!’ the Fearpriest taunted.
Kesbury dragged himself to his feet, using his staff. But it was whipped out of his hand, dragged away by an unseen force, although he used all his strength to try to hold on. The staff flew to the Fearpriest’s hand, where he inspected it contemptuously.
‘And you thought to defeat me with this? Did they teach you nothing?’ he said disdainfully. ‘But then again, you are Ralloran scum, which means your brain is not capable of absorbing wisdom.’
Something in the man’s voice struck a note in Kesbury.
‘Chanlon?’ he asked, in wonder.
In response, the Fearpriest yanked back the cowl of his robe.
Kesbury gasped. For it was Chanlon, but not as he remembered. The ex-priest’s face had new lines carved deep into it, transforming it into a visage of hatred.
‘That’s right! And now these people shall watch you die screaming!’
Instantly Kesbury fell to the ground, crying out in pain, despite himself.
Every wound he had taken in the Ralloran wars, every scar he wore with either pride or sorrow had suddenly opened up. Blood spurted, while the Berellian spear he had taken to the calf at the battle of Mount Shadar brought him down as effectively now as it had back then.
‘You fool! You have allied yourself to the wrong God, and you picked the wrong man to insult and humiliate,’ Chanlon sneered. ‘I shall pay you back a thousand-fold for what you did to me!’
‘You’re good at talking.’ Kesbury spat blood, as he prayed for the strength to get to his feet.
‘I’m better at action,’ Chanlon told him, striding over, a long dagger in his hand. ‘I shall take your eyes first, then your manhood. But I shall leave the tongue, so you can scream.’
Kesbury tried to surge to his feet, to smash the man down, but an invisible hand held him down. And the knife was already swinging towards his left eye.
There were thousands of people now camped north of the passes, in relative safety although not in comfort. They had arrived in hope but now they waited in terror. And it was causing Quiller and Gratt all sorts of problems.
‘They are here to help you!’ the old priest tried to appeal to the people.
‘But they’re goblins! They’ll kill us all and eat the children!’ a woman cried.
‘They’re foul creatures of Zorva, abominations of nature!’ another yelled.
‘Stop that! They are our allies, and they are prepared to die to keep you safe!’ Quiller thundered.
‘I don’t want any part of them!’ the first woman declared defiantly. ‘I won’t stay here, it’s not safe!’
Gratt pushed past a couple of other women to reach her. ‘Would you prefer we gave you to the Berellians and your children to the Fearpriests? Open your eyes! This is the only safe place in the country. Cessor and Worick are in flames, no Norstaline remains alive south of the River Brack and you would ignore those who are here to help?’
The woman looked around for support but none seemed willing to step forwards in the face of Gratt’s anger.
‘We are the ones who stole their land. We broke our promises and lied, telling everyone that these Derthals were going to kill a dragon, inviting everyone to kill them and drive them out, just so we could dig up the gold and silver they had!’ Quiller bellowed, using his years of training in the pulpit to reach them. ‘And yet the Derthals are still here to help you! They are standing beside you now, and you are quite safe, are you not? Has anyone had their child eaten yet?’
There was a nervous chuckle at this, but Quiller could see they were far from convinced. The open opposition might have finished, but there would be much muttering in the shelters. So be it. ‘Go back to work. Get things ready for all the others, and let the Derthals do their job of protecting you.’ Gratt added his voice to Quiller’s and the crowd slowly dispersed.
‘The people do not like it,’ Gratt told Quiller quietly. ‘There is much talk back in Sendric.’
‘It will continue, until the Fearpriests are on the ot
her side of those hills. Then they will learn quickly who is really on their side. Until then, we will do what we can to keep them apart,’ Quiller sighed.
‘And when the people learn the Derthals will be living here, among us, in the northern forest, as the price for their help?’
‘One problem at a time,’ Quiller said grimly.
The knife stopped before it penetrated the eye. Kesbury stared at Chanlon, wondering if the man was tormenting him, but the Fearpriest looked just as surprised. Muscles writhed in his arm as he tried to drive the knife home—but it would not move.
‘Step away, Fearpriest!’ a woman commanded.
Both Kesbury and Chanlon looked around to see Bishop Milly striding towards them.
Chanlon’s face twisted into a grin.
‘That’s the last mistake you’ll ever make, bitch!’ he warned.
In response, Milly held up her hand, her mouth moving silently.
Kesbury wondered what prayer she was reciting—and hoped she had learned more about fighting Fearpriests than he had. He wanted to get up, to help her, but the pain and blood loss, coming after the exertions of the last few days, had left him weak as a kitten.
Chanlon turned towards her, knife held high, but found it seemed to be moving of its own volition, down towards his throat. Grunting with the effort, he tried to direct it back towards her, but it refused to obey him. Desperately he closed his eyes, muttering in a strange language, but the knife continued its inexorable progress towards his throat. Sweating now, Chanlon used his free hand to try and drag the knife hand away—but nothing seemed to stop it.
‘Wait! Wait! This is all a mistake! They forced me to do this, forced me! Let me free and we can talk about it!’ Chanlon cried desperately, as the sharpened tip grew ever closer to him.
‘There’s nothing I want to say to you, Fearpriest,’ Milly snapped and closed her fist.
