“What did you do?” he asked as they quickened their pace on the dusty, rocky road south of the village.
“Agar passed away last night. I gave him a warrior’s farewell.”
He knew what that meant, a funeral pyre, she had set the house alight. That was why the villagers were angry. They would be even more so if the fire spread to the other houses nearby.
“I suggest we put as much distance as possible between us and the village,” said Mica, striding ahead of Elijah.
For the next four hours they walked along the uneven rocky trail in silence, the stream that flowed down from the plateau where the village was sited bubbled beside them.
They met no one, saw no one. Mica never said a word. They paused for a drink at a tiny rivulet that crossed the road where the trail was hemmed in by steep cliffs.
“Where are we going?” enquired Elijah, wiping the refreshing water from his chin.
Mica had no idea where she was going. The answer she gave him came from the back of her mind, from that part of her that was instinctive. She could think of no reason why she gave him the answer she did.
“We are going to the fields of Tursy.”
“Tursy!” exclaimed Elijah as Mica walked off.
They paused many times for a drink as the heat of the sun beat down on them. They never stopped for long. They ate dried meat that she had packed as they walked, which only increased their thirst. When the evening came Elijah suggested they find a campsite. He was bushed. He wasn’t used to moving at the pace Mica was keeping. He usually set his own speed, which was much slower and steadier.
The campsite they selected was sheltered by huge limbs from some pine trees and was bordered and partially ringed by large round boulders. They were high above the road and they had a clear view through the gap in front of them.
“Is it safe to have a fire?” asked Mica, as she slipped her pack off, immediately showing some relief on her face.
“Yes, but once we hit the main road it would be wise not to light a fire as there are bandits and Lothian soldiers patrolling the road.”
“How do you normally avoid them?”
“Sometimes I travel with caravans, sometimes with the soldiers themselves, they like to hear stories as well. If I’m on my own I avoid the roads.”
They began gathering some wood, lit the fire, and then ate some goat cheese and dry bread washed down with a pot of hot tea.
“How far is it to Tursy?” asked Mica, leaning back against her pack and peering up into the starlit sky.
“Two weeks if we walk all the way, quicker if we can talk someone into giving us a ride. Why do you want to go to Tursy?”
“To find the Shadow Walker,” she replied, without even thinking about why she had said it.
“You jest of course.”
“Of course,” she replied as she retrieved her blanket and spread it over herself and snuggled down as best she could on the hard ground with her head resting on her pack.
“Goodnight, Elijah.”
Mica was tired as she had driven herself today. She had wanted to be far away from the village, far away from the memories, both good and bad. This was a new chapter in her life and she was keen to seek out her past, and most of all, to seek revenge on those who had slain her parents.
Though it was so many years ago now, that day was still vividly imprinted in her mind. Her father had been defending himself against two opponents. One of them was enraged when her father chopped the tip of his nose off with his sword. This man was marked and would be easily found.
The second man she remembered was their leader. He had a long, thin, cruel face that was pockmarked. She recalled his grey eyes, riveting and glaring; there was no compassion in them, only a glazed madness. She would know him instantly if ever she saw him again. In a matter of minutes she was sound asleep.
Elijah sat in front of the fire enjoying its warmth. There was a chill in the air. He peered across at Mica. This morning when she had approached him he hadn’t faltered, hadn’t paused to think about what he was doing, he had just picked up his gear and left with her.
The previous day when he met Agar he had sensed that the old warrior wanted something from him. Even though he never asked for anything Elijah knew he had told him Mica’s story for a reason. Storytellers have one weakness. They always want another tale to tell. It is like a never ending competition, each trying to out do the other, each trying to come up with a better, more compelling tale to tell.
To have an audience spellbound by some true and daring tale was the pinnacle of the storyteller’s art. It also gained them better food and lodgings. This was why he would accompany her, why they would take this journey together. He would live this story and be able to retell it in every detail.
* * *
Thomas Letcher, King of Islabad, king of the seven provinces that made up the continent, stood stiffly and arrogantly on the stone steps of the courtyard. He was tall and well built, but rounding slightly from too much of the good life. He wore a tunic of fine red silk. He very rarely wore the old clothes and armour of his soldiering days.
Brown eyes beneath bushy eyebrows stared angrily at the scene before him. Six men, six traitors knelt with their hands bound. A soldier stood beside each of them with a heavy sword. His thin lips curled beneath the goatee beard. As he nodded the soldiers raised their swords and brought them down on the necks of the men. Heads rolled onto the yellow sand of the courtyard, blood spurted from the severed necks as each of the men slowly rolled sideways onto the ground.
The king turned and walked back into the palace, past the huge marble columns followed by one of his ministers dressed in black. Abraham, a small chubby, round-faced man who walked with a sideways scuff of one leg, courtesy of a battlefield injury on the fields of Tursy, was his minister for finance. All the king’s ministers were identified by their black clothing. They were his old friends; those who had stood beside him from the very beginning. Goran Keech, the huge broad shouldered general who saw to the king’s law in his kingdom also followed.
Very rarely did Thomas venture into the field now, it was beneath him, and besides, they were not really battles anymore. These insurrections, these small defiant rumblings could be handled by his generals. He had defeated all those who had risen against him some fifteen years ago, well, maybe not everyone. The Manutes still held their lands in the mountains.
“Tell me, Abraham, how are our finances.”
“Very good, Your Majesty, since raising the taxes we have been able to virtually fill the coffers.”
“That is excellent news,” replied Thomas.
“What about the fleet?”
“The hulls are being prepared and we have gathered slaves from all the provinces to complete the work.”
Thomas intended to raise a fleet of merchant ships to further his trade with nations on the other side of the sea. On these ships would be spies whose task it would be to assess the military capabilities of those new trading nations.
At the same time he was going to build a navy and troop ships that could carry his armies across the sea. He intended to enlarge his kingdom and gain more riches for himself. He would be the greatest king to have ever existed in Islabad and beyond.
“You may leave us, Abraham,” said Thomas as he and Goran approached a set of intricately carved arch-shaped wooden doors. Two broad shouldered guards with sharpened spears stood either side of the doors.
Abraham bowed and scuffed off back down the corridor.
“Goran, what is going on in the provinces?” he inquired, stepping through the doors into a sumptuous room with huge floral carpets on the floor, with tapestries and paintings adorning the walls. A mural of a battle scene was painted on the arched ceiling. It depicted Thomas in the heat of battle with frenzied eyes and a sword dripping with blood.
Thomas sat down on the soft, deer-hide lounge while Goran remained standing.
Goran waited until the king was comfortable before he spoke. “Naturally t
hey are grumbling about the new taxes, we have had to make some examples, some small adjustments and changes in leaders in some of the cities, towns and villages.”
Thomas waved his hand, summoning the petite young woman with long dark hair who stood in the background.
“Some wine for myself and the general.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied the young woman.
She turned and left the room. He watched her leave, admiring her tiny buttocks beneath the tight fitting blue dress, at the same time he felt a stirring in his loins. When the general left he would have his way with her.
“Sit down, General, make yourself at home.”
Goran sat down. Most of his time was spent in the field, the sky was his roof, the dirt and grime beneath his feet the floor, and his horse his only means of travel. The king always had him on the move, travelling from province to province. There was always someone to kill, someone to reprimand and bandits to chase.
“Everything is under control in the provinces then?”
Goran sensed the underlying aspect of the king’s inquiry. Nothing had changed in the last fifteen years; there were just as many bandits, just as many dissidents and traitors. It was never ending and would probably be that way for ever. His reply was guarded.
“Sire, we have it under control.”
“That is good to hear.”
The young woman returned with a decanter of wine and two fine, gold embossed wine glasses. She poured out the wine and then stood back behind Thomas. What would Goran give to have this woman, to have but a mere fraction of the king’s wealth and luxury? His life more than likely, for the king allowed no one else to accumulate great wealth; his spies were numerous and virtually everywhere. Anyone found cheating the king or aspiring to live as he did was instantly stripped of everything and thrown into the streets to live as a beggar, if they were lucky. He waited for the king to take his drink first as it was considered bad manners to eat or drink before the king, as some had found out by losing their heads.
“To your health, Goran, may you always be around to slaughter my enemies.” Thomas raised his glass and sipped at his wine, Goran followed.
“Now, there is a matter we need to discuss, the pilgrimages to Tursy. In three weeks it will be the anniversary of the Tursy battle. So far I have been lenient with these pilgrims. I want them harassed, turned away. If you have to slay a few of them, so be it. This has gone on too long.”
“There will be many thousands of them, Sire, and the priests will not be happy.”
“For fifteen years we have been living under the apparition of the events at Tursy. In fifteen years nothing has eventuated. It is time to end it, time to slay the mythical dragon, Goran. I want the priests of Tursy turned out, the flag they keep in their archives destroyed, burned in front of their very eyes. If they resist, kill them.”
Goran could envisage no problems dealing with the pilgrims, or turning the priests out and destroying the flag, but he did have a problem with slaying the priests. He knew they would resist. To them the fields of Tursy and the flag were as sacred as to the pilgrims, to the peasants. This could spark a major uprising.
“Sire, we have never killed priests before.”
“There is always a first time for everything. I would suggest that you take plenty of men. You might take Captain Penner with you as well.”
It was framed as suggestion but Goran knew it was an order. Stag Penner was a ruthless individual who killed for pleasure. He was almost uncontrollable when he went into one of his rages. Goran hated him. It was also the king’s way of informing him that he was keeping an eye on him, sending someone with him to make sure the job was done properly.
“It will be a pleasure to have him with us, Your Majesty.”
The king sipped his wine. “Let’s talk no more of work, how is your family?”
“Fine, Sire, my two boys are garrisoned in the province of Treeland. I receive messages from them regularly. The wife is happy with her daughter by her side. She is some comfort to her while I’m away.”
For the next hour they talked of family, friends, of the local gossip and emptied the decanter of wine. By then the king’s mind had strayed as well as his hands whenever the young maiden came near him. It didn’t matter to the king that he was married. The queen was very rarely at the palace. She preferred to stay at their residence closer to the coast with the children, a boy and girl in their early teens. The king obviously preferred it that way too. The king finally dismissed him. Goran left to prepare his troops for the journey and the inevitable slaughter at Tursy.
Thomas stood up and removed his clothes. He beckoned the young woman to the lounge and made her bend over with her upper body resting on the rear of the couch. She knew what to expect, knew what to do. He lifted her dress and guided himself to her. Then he curled her long dark hair in his hands as if he was holding the reins of a horse.
“You are my horse. I’m riding you, neigh bitch!”
* * *
The robed and hooded figure stood back in the shadows beneath the balcony of the palace. He waited patiently. He knew that the king would keep him waiting, he always did. It was his way of saying that he was in charge and that he had control of the situation, but in reality, he did not.
Many times over the years the king’s men had followed him in the hope that they could find out his identity, but they were no match for his skill. He either lost them through the narrow streets, or if they came too close, he killed them. His identity was his secret, his security, his means of escaping from the grasp of the king if he ever needed to. Also, if the king ever fell from power he would be safe as no one would be able to find him and to take revenge for those he had sent to their death.
He was the king’s spy, a sleuth of many disguises who mingled with the population and reported on those who would plot against him. For this he was paid well and in gold. One day he would take his gold and disappear and no one would ever be able to find him. There were other continents and other places in the world. He had heard of them, heard the sailors talking in the taverns and inns of lands across the sea with temperate climates and beautiful women.
The only problem with working in disguise was the risk he took in being taken, tortured, or killed by the king’s men, as he would not be able to reveal who he was, would have no proof as such. But it was a risk he was willing to take.
He was dragged from his thoughts as he detected movement on the balcony, saw the king lean over and throw the leather pouch of gold into the shadows at his feet. This was the one time when he was most vulnerable. If Thomas chose to he could lay a trap and have him arrested. As a matter of fact, he had tried this some years ago, but as it happened, as he often did, he used a messenger, a young lad among several he had in his employ in one of his alternative identities. Thomas was wise enough not to try that again as he now realised the value of this independent source of information. He did not want to lose it.
He picked up the pouch and quickly made his way back into the city, not opening it until he was back in his room. He took the gold coins from the pouch and hid them in his cache beneath the floorboards then he read the note.
The list of traitors you sent me, have been slain. I want you to go to Tursy and stay there until after the pilgrimage.
His letter was short and to the point as always. Every year he went to Tursy but once the pilgrimage was over he usually left with his list of suspects, but this year the king wanted him to stay on. Why? What was going to happen in Tursy this year that demanded his attention past the event?
* * *
Mica dragged herself from her sleep. She had slept well apart from the fact that she had tossed and turned somewhat on the hard ground, but now she was reluctant to wake up, reluctant to move from beneath the warmth of her blanket.
Her body was stiff and sore from the previous day’s hiking and from sleeping on the hard ground. She could smell the smoke from the fire. Opening her eyes, she saw Elijah sitting in front of a sma
ll fire boiling some tea.
This had been her first night away from the village, the first time in fifteen years that she had woken without Agar. She would miss him dearly. Even though she mourned his loss there was an element of excitement within her. What lay ahead? The one thing she needed, the one thing she yearned for was to learn of her family, to know where they had come from and to find any living relatives, if there were any.
Also, there was the other path that she had to follow, the path of revenge. Where would that lead her? For some reason she had wanted to go to the fields of Tursy. Why, she was unsure, but she knew that it was imperative that she follow her feelings, follow her instincts.
The sun, bright and golden, was just broaching the hill and sending warm rays of light into the forest, but the morning still had a chill, a refreshing crispiness to it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was going to be another fine day.
“Good morning, Elijah.”
Elijah noticed the familiarity in Mica’s use of his name. She had used it last night before going to sleep. This was something he hadn’t been prepared for and it brought back memories of another time, a time that had been buried deep in the recesses of his mind. He drove the memories from his thoughts. There was no use in dwelling on the past.
“And good morning to you, Mica, the tea is ready.”
Mica threw off her blanket, stood up and stretched the stiffness from her body and made her way to the fire. Elijah handed her a hot mug of tea.
“How far is it to the main road?”
“We will reach it about mid morning and then we’ll wait for a caravan. It’s too risky travelling on our own, there are bandits about; they seem to be everywhere at the moment.”
“Can’t the Lothian soldiers keep them under control?”
The Orphan and the Shadow Walker Page 4
