Toric's Dagger: Book One of The Weapon Takers Saga

by Jamie Edmundson

  Harbyrt looked around the tent again, but found that he had no overwhelming support as he had hoped. On all previous occasions when Edgar had tried to corner his marshal like this, Harbyrt had simply walked away, retreating to his northern power base and daring Edgar to do something about it—which, of course, he couldn’t. Now, however, as much as he no doubt wanted to walk out, Edgar had an army with him. That changed the dynamics more than a little.

  Wilchard, then, could continue. ‘Four days ago Prince Edgar sent out orders that every magnate should raise his quota of troops because the kingdom’s most precious treasure, the Dagger of Toric, had been stolen, and it was feared that an invasion would follow,’ began Wilchard. ‘Since that time, we have heard nothing from Harbyrt, despite two further attempts at communication. We have all done our best to keep this army going, and when we approached the Magnian border the least I expected was information on the situation in the borderlands and confirmation that your forces and strongholds were ready. I would have expected you to join up with the royal army long before now.’

  Wilchard’s words were greeted with the odd murmur of approval from around the Council, but Harbyrt was ready with his comeback.

  ‘Your words display a totally unjustified lack of faith in me, steward. My soldiers have been working for days on preparing the kingdom’s northern defences for sieges, a task which may prove to be vitally important. I have sent scouts across the border to keep an eye on enemy activity to make sure that the royal army could approach in complete safety. Why would I join up with you when we need a force here on the border, ready to react to the enemy should they make an incursion before the royal army approaches? While you have been camped out in Halsham, it is my forces who have been working tirelessly for the kingdom. I didn’t expect gratitude, but all I have found is accusation!’

  ‘Nobody is accusing you of anything less than total commitment to the kingdom, Harbyrt,’ began Otha of Rystham, slithering into the argument. ‘We are all grateful to have you working so tirelessly for us all. Perhaps all this boils down to is the lack of...communication on your part, simply to reassure us that all was well in the north.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I could have spared some time to keep you better informed,’ Harbyrt conceded gruffly. ‘If you all feel that I have failed in that regard, please accept my apologies.’

  Otha had succeeded in taking the fire out of a confrontation which Edgar had hoped to stoke up. He was not going to let his chance slip away, however.

  ‘Apologies are all very well, Harbyrt, but I need to be totally confident that the administration of my northern provinces is being handled correctly. Your recent conduct has only added to feelings of unease which I already held. It is my opinion that authority in the northern marches needs to be re-organised.’

  ‘What do you mean, re-organised?’ barked Harbyrt, as the red blotches returned to ruin his complexion.

  ‘Since my father’s time, responsibilities in the north have been shouldered by just one man. I think that after this campaign is over it will be the perfect opportunity for me to take a fresh look at arrangements here and share out some of this responsibility.’

  Harbyrt’s temper boiled over again. ‘You can’t get rid of me, Edgar. I have rights in this kingdom. My lands aren’t yours to give away.’

  Edgar quickly responded before Otha of Rystham gave a sermon on the laws of the kingdom. ‘Harbyrt, I do not intend to take any of your own lands from you, and I still intend for you to be one of my leading magnates in the region. I simply require other leaders as well. Yesterday I was gravely ill, and that led me to think about what the consequences would be if you were to take ill in a similar way. If I had other lieutenants in the region, my peace of mind would be far greater. As for lands, a large proportion of those which you control are royal lands, given to you by virtue of your title as marshal. I intend to redistribute some of those...perhaps amongst some of your fellow councillors here.’

  That was the clincher. Several of Edgar’s magnates had looked unhappy about this public curtailment of Harbyrt the Fat’s power, even though it was generally understood to be in the kingdom’s interests, simply because, if he could do it to Harbyrt, what was to stop him from doing it to them? The possibility of some of the lands being shared out now meant that many in the room seemed to be on board with the idea of re-organising things in the north.

  Harbyrt was ordered to stay with the army. The Council agreed that the army’s current position, just a few miles from the border, was basically sound. The camp was now to be fortified with a ditch and wall of stakes.

  Edgar took personal control over Granstow Castle. Ealdnoth’s suggestion that they should send a messenger to Cerdda of North Magnia was unanimously agreed with. After all, if they could get to the bottom of this conflict and end it without going to war, it really would be much better. Edgar knew that the thought of all those lucrative northern estates being pillaged by North Magnians had nothing whatsoever to do with this sudden desire for peace. A messenger was sent immediately, and Edgar’s army entrenched its position while it waited for a reply.

  The South Magnian request for peace talks was answered promptly. Ten North Magnians, including Prince Cerdda himself, were making their way to the giant ash tree in Adingley, a well-known meeting place for the people of the area, and now conveniently located near the Magnian border. Edgar decided that he too would travel there himself. As well as Leofwin and Brictwin, he chose as his companions Ealdnoth, as Chancellor; Farred, who had already met with Cerdda, though that meeting was always to be kept a secret; Wulfgar, as the leading prelate of the kingdom, and the high-ranking noblemen Otha of Rystham and Aescmar. Finally, Edgar thought it might be wise to take Harbyrt the Fat and Kenward his sheriff, just to make sure that no mischief was caused while he was away.

  Wilchard was left in charge of the army and Edgar’s party made their way to the prearranged spot.

  Harbyrt seemed to have been struck dumb by the sudden turn of events he had experienced this day, but Edgar hoped that he wasn’t plotting his revenge. It seemed that the Marshal had not yet heard about the arrest of Earl Sherlin in North Magnia, and Edgar had chosen not to mention it. If revenge was on his mind, he would soon find out that he no longer had the resources at his disposal to mount a challenge to Edgar’s authority.

  They arrived at Adingley in good time and Edgar was relieved to see that Cerdda was already there with nine companions, waiting by the ash tree. While the hostilities between the two kingdoms had been a pretence, meetings such as these were always dangerous, since it was the perfect opportunity to isolate an enemy with a few followers and ambush them.

  Cerdda, however, had come in good faith. This was the first time that the two princes had met. Cerdda, unlike most Magnians, was dark-haired with amber-coloured skin. Edgar remembered his father telling him that all three of Bradda’s children had got their dark looks from their mother, Mette, whom Edric used to say was the most beautiful woman of her generation.

  The two clasped hands and introduced each other to their companions. Cerdda’s brother Ashere had come as well. He was almost a mirror image of his older brother, except for his more youthful looks, and the fact that he smiled a lot less.

  Edgar suggested that the two of them talk alone for a while, leaving their followers to enjoy a few bottles of wine which Otha of Rystham had provided.

  ‘I see you’ve brought Harbyrt with you,’ began Cerdda once they were out of earshot.

  ‘Yes. I have reduced his power in the north, but he will still have a significant estate. I did not want to totally humiliate him and force him into a rebellion.’

  Cerdda pursed his lips. ‘Edgar...yesterday Ashere intercepted a letter which was intended to reach Earl Sherlin.’ Cerdda produced a piece of parchment from inside his tunic and handed it over to Edgar. ‘The bearer of the letter was captured: one of Harbyrt’s men, name
d Torlin.’

  Edgar shrugged to indicate that he did not know the man.

  ‘Sherlin admitted to the conspiracy, admittedly under some duress.’

  Edgar scanned the few lines of scrawled writing.

  ‘Greetings, brother. The time may be at hand to bring our plans to fruition. The fox cub has fallen seriously ill. Prepare and wait for further news. Patience now may soon be rewarded.’

  Edgar had no doubt that he was the fox cub referred to, a choice of words which galled him. Harbyrt’s seal was not on the letter, so there was no definite proof that it was his. It was quite possible that Cerdda’s zealous brother, Ashere, had composed it himself. Edgar, however, had no doubts that Harbyrt and Sherlin had conspired along those lines, and he was quite prepared to use the letter as evidence.

  ‘Where is Sherlin now?’ he asked the Prince of North Magnia.

  ‘Dead. He was executed this morning. The man was too dangerous to leave alive. It is difficult to say how many people in my kingdom were embroiled in his treacheries. Suffice to say that my enquiries have suggested more names than I had expected.’

  Cerdda spoke with some bitterness, for which Edgar did not blame him. ‘You had no choice, Cerdda, and from this letter it seems that I have none either. Know that you have my support should anyone try to avenge Sherlin’s death.’

  Cerdda nodded in thanks. ‘I do not pretend that I have received no positives from these events—an important one being your friendship, Edgar. I had a grin on my face for hours after Farred left. I have enjoyed our little intrigue. Your father was always honourable towards me, and you have been, too. Magnia has spent a generation embroiled in internal jealousies...it is high time we took steps to retrieve our standing in Dalriya.’

  Edgar smiled. ‘Your feelings match with my own, Cerdda. Farred told you of the theft of Toric’s Dagger?’

  Cerdda nodded gravely. ‘He did. Is there any more news?’

  Edgar shrugged. ‘I sent a group to follow the Brasingian robbers. At the least I hope they will be able to tell me where it is and who has it. I have heard nothing so far, however.’

  Cerdda gestured towards Ealdnoth. ‘Is that man your wizard?’

  Edgar nodded. He knew that Cerdda did not have a wizard himself; many rulers of Dalriya considered them to be a dangerous, untrustworthy sect, and had anyone who possessed such skills killed. ‘He is one of my most trusted advisers, Cerdda. And very useful. You should get yourself one.’

  Cerdda smiled. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well...perhaps we should join the rest of them...we have agreed to peace, haven’t we?’

  Cerdda grinned. ‘I suppose so. I must admit, however, that the first war of my reign has not been quite how I imagined it would be.’

  ‘Mmm... you expected more fighting, perhaps?’

  ‘A bit more, yes.’

  The two princes strolled over to their followers and announced that peace had indeed been agreed. Both sides showed genuine relief and felt able to relax into some more unrestrained drinking.

  Edgar took an opportunity to pull Otha of Rystham to one side.

  ‘What do you make of the peace, Otha?’

  ‘Good news, of course. It would appear that the North Magnians were not involved in the theft of Toric’s Dagger, then?’ enquired the magnate pointedly. Otha wasn’t stupid. No doubt he had suspicions about the game Edgar had been playing. But Edgar was still one step ahead.

  ‘Not entirely. We may never know, but it is quite possible that Earl Sherlin of North Magnia was involved.’

  ‘Sherlin? Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure it won’t have escaped your attention, Otha, that Harbyrt and Sherlin have grown close recently.’

  ‘Well...Harbyrt’s son married Sherlin’s daughter...’

  ‘Without my permission. I have long had suspicions, Otha, and it seems that Prince Cerdda has, too. Sherlin was executed this morning.’

  ‘What!?’ gasped Otha.

  Edgar put a finger to his lips. ‘For treason,’ he murmured. Now Edgar produced the piece of parchment from his tunic. ‘This was picked up by the North Magnians, apparently in the possession of one of Harbyrt’s men, on the way to be delivered to Sherlin.’

  Otha perused the document. His expression was grim. ‘There’s no evidence that Harbyrt issued this.’ The words were Otha’s, but they lacked his usual conviction.

  ‘No conclusive evidence, perhaps. I cannot claim to be surprised by its contents, however. Harbyrt has shown a total absence of loyalty since I came to the throne. I cannot tolerate the situation any longer. I need your support, Otha. Emotions will run high if I execute my own marshal. I need you and Wulfgar to publicly support my decision, and, united, we can stifle any opposition.’

  Otha looked as if he were in physical pain. ‘This is a difficult situation, Edgar. We cannot legally deprive Harbyrt of life or land without a fair trial. I cannot be seen to endorse the denial of a lord his rights.’

  ‘He cannot be allowed to live, Otha. As for his lands, however, there is no evidence of his son’s participation in the plot, and I intend to let him inherit his father’s estate when he comes of age. In the meantime, the estate must be administered on his behalf, and I see you as the perfect choice for this. You can fill the vacuum of power in the north caused by Harbyrt’s removal and lend some stability to the region. What do you say?’

  Otha was being offered a fortune. For the next few years he would have control of the resources, revenues and men from Harbyrt’s lands. With this addition to the lands he already held, it would make him unquestionably the greatest noble of Magnia.

  Otha looked over to where Harbyrt was standing uncomfortably with Kenward, the sheriff. ‘He has to go. I will support you, Edgar.’

  Edgar had judged correctly. Harbyrt’s fate was now sealed. He was just about to offer Otha his thanks when the sound of a horse riding at full gallop caught his attention.

  It was a single rider, who pulled up by the ash tree where everyone was congregating. Edgar and Otha walked over to see what was happening.

  The rider jumped off his horse and bowed to Cerdda. ‘Your Highness, I bring news from the north. Her Royal Highness your mother instructed that I should find you and relay it immediately.’

  ‘Of course. You can tell us all unless it is of a private nature.’

  ‘My lords, there are early reports of an invasion of Persala by King Arioc of Haskany. It took place yesterday and it would appear that the capital, Baserno, has fallen to him.’

  There were gasps all round and Cerdda let out a whistle. ‘If Baserno has fallen then the whole kingdom may be lost. What of Mark?’

  ‘It is unclear whether the king is dead or alive, captured or escaped. I believe there have been conflicting reports.’

  Edgar felt like he was in shock. Persala was the great founding state of mankind; history had begun with its rise to greatness. Magnians defined themselves in relation to Persala, being the only people of Dalriya to successfully resist the Empire at its height. In more recent times, Persala had lost its dominance to Brasingia, and was not even the strongest power in the north any more, as province after province had been torn away. But for it to be conquered in one day? It was difficult to come to terms with.

  Cerdda caught Edgar’s eye and interrupted his thinking.

  ‘Well, my friend, it looks like we may have a busy time ahead of us.’

  Edgar could only nod in agreement.

  XIII

  The Boar Strikes

  ‘Two thalers per arrow!’ exclaimed Gyrmund, genuinely shocked at the charge.

  The fletcher, on the other hand, maintained his disturbingly cool composure and smiled back. Gyrmund was sure that he could even detect a hint of pity in the man’s face. He turned around to Moneva for support, but his companion did not seem partic
ularly interested in the price of arrows.

  ‘Seventy-five marks for forty,’ stated Gyrmund, in a voice that suggested he would not take no for an answer.

  The fletcher let out a puff of air and then screwed up his nose as he considered the offer. Eventually, he nodded his consent, and Gyrmund left the man having spent twice as much as he had planned.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ began Gyrmund as he and Moneva made their way back to The Boot and Saddle. ‘Duke Emeric’s army seems to be swallowing everything up. Arrows I can just about understand, but how much did we have to pay out for a bit of bread and cheese?’ Gyrmund could feel himself getting hot.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Gyrmund? I haven’t seen you get this stressed before, and I think we’ve been through some worse experiences recently than getting overcharged! There’s nothing we can do about it, so just forget it.’

  ‘Well, it’s this city. There’s too many people milling around. I’ll be glad when we get out of here.’

  Moneva laughed. Gyrmund couldn’t remember hearing her laugh before.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘We’re like chalk and cheese, you and I. I spent three miserable days in the Wilderness, sleeping on the forest floor, being permanently uncomfortable, getting chased by those creatures, seeing nothing but trees all day...while you seemed to be having a great time. Now, I’m back in Coldeberg, looking at the stores, looking at all the people and what they’re up to, enjoying a bit of city life, and you’re moaning about it and can’t wait to leave!’

  Gyrmund smiled. ‘I didn’t realise you had such a bad time back there.’

  The conversation paused as they briefly separated to either side of the road to allow a horse and cart to pass by.

  ‘So, you’ve been to Coldeberg before?’

  ‘Yes. I spent some time here a few years ago. How about you?’